No place like home
The tourist
Creak
As the heavens spit cold, damp breath in their faces, the foreigner and the student hasten from the commercial districts, still brightly lit and bustling with activity behind them, despite the winds and departure of a midday rush, led by the hand into the more chaotic streets of residential neighborhoods.
In this part of the roads and avenues of Cascade, Emil was mostly unfamiliar, preferring the blurry transitional space where modest houses meet modest shops. With a crowd of people around them, there’s a crushing, helpless feeling that takes them over; but at the other extreme, alone on a quiet street, the residents would quickly take notice. Whether in a horde or a suburb, their instincts are the same: a stranger is sighted, identified discreetly by the eyes of a scout in the corner of a tent, or a window. A social quarantine.
But things are fine right now. Ahlrik-Svan is with them. It’s a stroke of luck to have come across her, after all the others, Emil considers.
Don’t worry, we’re not far now, Etrika shouts behind her, through the whistling of the wind. We’ll be safe soon.
They nod, forgetting that her gaze is elsewhere, before turning their gaze back on the houses around them.
These places may be completely banal to Etrika’s eyes, but Emil considers them with a special sort of reverence. Their walls are covered with plants that climb them and deeply root, forming arabesques around their shuttered windows. Their well-maintained sloped roofs with those healthy red tiles, proclaim loud and proud that nothing will disturb those who live beneath them.
Most of these houses have a small garden, combined with some low walls or wooden fences, that appear not to enclose homes but to politely dictate where the property starts and stops; sometimes these barriers are in the front and sometimes they’re in the back, following some logic lost entirely on Emil. Each house looks like it wants to both fit into a mold and stand apart from its neighbors: an extruded entrance here, sometimes an extra floor below or above, a more or less imposing hedge or tree standing tall out in the yard, but not much more than these touches.
Combined with being indifferent to the elements, they give Emil the impression of each being small fortresses. They’re just missing some banners, flapping in the wind…
Lost in these considerations, an unexpectedly-rough gust of wind tosses hair over their new eye-patch, which they have to brush out of the way as quickly. This one’s certainly more comfortable, but it’ll take some breaking in. Their good eye refocuses on Etrika’s back, her dress billowing in the wind.
Next right! she warns them, briefly turning her head, while raising an arm to keep her braids from attacking her glasses.
They follow her without another word. As the pair of them round the corner, the wind is mitigated by a whole city block in its way, and their clothes are suddenly a lot less fluttery, in the warm-colored light of the street lamps.
Etrika finally stops about a third of the way down the street, which ends in a cul-de-sac, both walled off and wooded in equal measure.
There! We’re here.
As Etrika walks towards a door she’s indicated, Emil remains silent, at the threshold of the property.
Emil?
They don’t answer.
The home of Etrika’s family easily clears 10 meters in height. Across three stories, with no courtyard on the street, and a slightly raised ground floor, it is by far the most imposing building, if not in the entire neighborhood, then certainly on the entire street. Emil does not need Etrika to open the door to guess that its wood, carved in square patterns, is even thicker than others.
When Emil takes in the windows – the rectangular flower pots, the curved bricks, and the gray shutters that are powerless to contain all the warm light in the house – they understand why this place intimidates them so much.
It’s intact. It’s a house teeming – no, overflowing with life.
Emil! What’s the holdup?
Ah! Excuse me.
Etrika sighs to herself. Gods, please let them behave.
Alright. Let’s keep this simple, she begins, searching for the house keys in her belongings. You’re a foreign student, exchanged with one of ours. You’ve just arrived, and you don’t know your way around Cascade yet. That’s the truth, anyway.
Before she could go on, Emil interrupts her with a serious look.
You want I lie.
A brief but uncomfortable silence would’ve followed, if not for the loud whistling of the wind above them.
It’s not willingly, but…
No. That is – I understand. It is disagreeable, but necessary.
She lowered her eyes, not sure how to respond.
...I don’t make the rules. Presquile has a history of hard times with… travelers like yourself. They’re… “rowdy”.
Rao-dy...? Ah, too bad, they stop themself. Continue, please.
Etrika glances back to them, pushing discomfort aside. For later.
You come from a tiny remote island near the South Pole. You’re here only for a short while, but there’s a chance your stay could be extended. Short on time, the University hasn’t yet set up a dormitory for you, so I offered to let you stay. As for what you’re studying… hm.
Etrika hesitates. Saying that they’re in her class would let her take over if the conversation became difficult, but at the same time, it was a verifiable lie, and Emil’s status could be more at risk that way. Etrika’s parents were always paying attention to everything that affects her, directly or indirectly. And not just a little bit, she grumbles.
...The replikae?
Replikae? she echoes back.
They are everywhere here… not so many in my land, they admit with difficulty. Is this studied in your school?
Etrika raises her eyebrows, almost impressed. She was not expecting them to so readily contribute to the charade.
Yes, that makes sense. You came from a rural island undergoing industrialization, and they sent you to study what they’re missing. Not bad.
I can show this? they ask, indicating the translator.
Yeah, that shouldn’t pose a problem. We can always just say Oskobel lent it to you, if anyone asks.
Now it was their turn to raise an eyebrow.
Oskobel?
Ah! The professor; the one I told you about, who can help you.
Os-ko-bel. Oskobel, they repeat several times, frowning, obviously attempting to remember the name and the way it’s pronounced.
As they practice, Etrika finds the small, scratched-up bronze key to the house (obviously, in the last place she had to check), and turned towards the door. I’ve not forgotten anything, I thi–
Oh, I forgot, she adds, holding a finger up with one hand on the doorknob without turning it. Don’t call me ‘Ahlrik-Svan’ in there, it might be a little weird. Just ‘Etrika’ in there.
Ah, I understand—
Unless my parents decide to be formal with names. In any case, you’ll have to call them Ahlrik, and my brothers and sister too...
Wait, Emil stops. Multiple siblings…?!
...at least until they use their own names. Uh. Okay, just remember that my older brother’s Ahlrik-Kern, the one my age is -Svan, and our little sister is -Vati. Got all that?
They mutually stare at each other.
I thought you are Ahlrik-Svan? they ask, clearly confused.
Etrika begins to open her mouth, but quickly abandons the idea of explaining all the nuance of Presquile’s cultural name-based courtesy system. This is neither the time, nor the place. She could’ve taken the time to give such a lesson earlier, regrettably.
...Forget all that. I’ll try to introduce you soon as I can, and then you can call everyone… well, ‘normally’.
They nod uncertainly. Etrika will have to settle for ‘uncertainly’. She opens the door and steps into the dark entrance hall, followed closely by her ‘colleague’.
The incessant strong winds fade into a gentle breeze, and altogether vanish when Etrika shuts the door behind them.
Don’t move, I’ll get the lights.
Emil remains still, perfectly so, aware that moving at all risks a collision into what could be anything of any kind. In this sort of… house (yes, not a tent), every room must be so lovingly full of stuff.
Yet, when a harsh, warm light suddenly floods into their eyes, they are greeted not by abundance, but by an elegant, controlled emptiness. The wealth of Etrika and her family, at least within this entryway, is more clear in the architecture itself.
The ceiling is crisscrossed with rigid, squared-off wooden beams, and accented by four equally-spaced brass lamps on sturdy thin chains: a tiny brown cable twists around these chains and vanishes into the fixtures somewhere. The filaments within, sheltered within bulbs, emit both light and slight warmth; Emil, standing just beneath them, feels its comfort caressing their scalp.
Covered in bronze-colored wallpaper, the walls might make them dizzy if its designer has not chosen shades that complement one another in a chaotic but careful tandem, difficult to notice without trying to.
And finally, there is the floor. Beneath Emil’s new boots, the tiles alternate between tarnished gold and verdigris. Beyond the immediate space, the remainder of the hallway has an impeccable varnished parquet floor, adorned with a rug in the same color as the tiles, woven with thousands of tiny, flawless diamonds.
Emil has not even noticed the furniture by the time Etrika removes her hand from the switch on the wall, and hangs her key on a small hook, part of a set. Four of the six spaces are now occupied with keys, each with an engraved wooden label, and sometimes a decorative leather or metal trinket; Etrika’s is adorned with a small bronze magpie, that begs to be polished.
Kenna and Rieli must be upstairs, she continues, hanging her student gown on a dark coat rack with large, engraved legs. I’ll go get them, and – oh! You can leave your stuff here, for now.
She shows them a small space against the other wall, at the foot of a chest of drawers that reminds Emil of a terribly-ugly creature with scraggly legs. Carefully, almost reluctantly, Emil places their backpack and the bags with their old clothes between the small piece of furniture, and an army of boots of various colors and sizes.
Is everything alright?
Etrika’s question takes them a little by surprise. They stand.
No. Well, yes. It’s all quite beautiful, they stammer, turning their head.
Etrika raises an eyebrow, but smiles.
Thanks?
It is just that, in my home, we lived… humbly, they explain, consulting on the translation for that last word.
Etrika nods, attentive, though without insistence. After swapping her shoes for soft slippers, she walks beyond the two openings and three doors on either side of the hallway to take a staircase up.
While waiting to meet their hosts, Emil’s gaze again cannot help but wander the luxuriously constructed house.
They pace the length of the hallway, ignoring the open but still darkened rooms. They have a strong urge to find the light switches and investigate further, but they are already captivated by another sight.
On the wall to their left, a gigantic painting, as wide as it is tall, offers an artist’s rendition of an island. The canvas, illustrated in long, fine brushstrokes, depicts a pastoral scene, where there is no trace of society. On these flying lands, there are only trees, rivers, flowers, and birds. Delicate clouds envelop the land in the foreground in a fine mist, turning into a wooly haze as they pass through the background. Drowned in an almost (but not entirely) uniform azure shade, those clouds sketch out summer skies, with pleasant temperatures clearly celebrated by birds, drawn in small V’s with careful curves.
The scene brings Emil’s distant memories to the surface, in the form of a long, long sigh.
They think to Sonya.
To Ojzin.
To Gerfo.
To all the others that were left behind.
What would they say, were they to see such an image? Would they even have had the words? Emil, who has only been in Presquile for some weeks, still cannot find them.
What am I doing here?
A stupid question. They know very well what they’re doing here. They wouldn’t have abandoned them — no, that’s not the right word — they wouldn’t have traveled here without a very clear goal and an unwavering determination. They think about it now. They haven’t stopped thinking about it, since stepping foot on this island.
But, alas. For the time being, they cannot help but be plainly fascinated by their surroundings. For them, their goal is held back only by their contemplative nature.
That is, until excited little footsteps come hammering down the stairs.
Rieli! Don’t run down the–! Etrika’s voice shouts from the upper floor.
From the end of the hall, a small creature no more than 10 years old comes tumbling toward Emil. Startled, they quickly pull the poncho tightly around themself, as the child stops just a meter away from them.
Hello, hello, hello! she exclaims in a high-pitched voice, an energetic smile wide on her face, before bowing a slight distance to greet the evening’s guest. I’m Rieli Ahlrik! You can call me Rieli! My home welcomes you, your joys and your sorrows!
Emil sees the youngest of the family, struggling to contain herself as she waits for them to respond. They can see the resemblance to Etrika in her small round face; the cheekbones, shape of the nose, and eyebrows are basically perfect copies. It’s clear that she’s tied it into a small, low bun herself, and equally clear that she’s not yet mastered doing so.
Her large, nettle-green eyes are constantly blinking, as though she could spur Emil into faster action simply by blinking faster. Her hands are fidgeting behind her back as she leans her slender frame from side to side, dressed in a cream, long-sleeved, buttoned-hastily corduroy dress.
…Hello, Emil murmurs, unsure what an abundance of words might provoke in a girl wound up like a clock.
Where ya from?
Damn. Not a second to breathe.
Etrika came down the stairs in the nick of time, immediately placing a hand on Rieli’s shoulder, who jumped and spun around. Etrika knelt down and pointed an accusing finger at her sister.
First you say ‘my house’, then you give your name, she reminds her in a glacial tone, though really she’s just lukewarm.
Yes, Etrika.
And don’t ask where a guest comes from, like that.
Yes, Etrika.
With a nod of her head, Etrika points towards Emil, who has not moved a single inch since this lecture began. Rieli glances away, looking down, with an embarrassed pout.
I’m sorry.
And it’s not, ‘I’m sorry’. You say, ‘please excuse me’, Etrika raises her voice saying.
Her little sister grumbles.
…Please excuse me, she mumbles, without a hint of remorse.
It is fine, Emil articulates, with a hint of a smile. I forgive you.
Meanwhile, other footsteps, more heavy, more measured, resonated down the stairs.
Emil turns from the sisters to observe the newcomer. He must be slightly taller than Etrika, but only just. Perhaps that impression comes from his incredibly upright, haughty posture.
His features are both the same as his sister’s in so many ways, but there is something about him, maybe his attitude, that make these features seem harder, though not severe. His long black hair, smooth and greasy, flows gracefully to the middle of his back. His brown eyes were clearly discerning, inquisitive, bearing a strong self-confidence.
He approaches the guest dressed in an almost-new white shirt, some dark green pants, and a polite expression. He’s slightly surprised by the presence of a visitor, though not taken aback. His left hand is relaxedly tucked inside a pocket, a book tucked under his arm, as he extends his right hand to Emil.
Nice to meet you. Kenna Ahlrik, Walbravir. “Kenna” is fine.
Emil seems to hesitate, then shakes Kenna’s hand in turn. He inclines his head briefly, and they return the gesture.
It is nice to meet you, also. I am Emil.
Etrika, one hand on Rieli’s shoulder to keep her from fidgeting, is initially a bit nervous when she sees Kenna surveying Emil carefully; but he manages a smile, and she is relieved that that new clothes are making a good first impression.
Just Emil? asks Kenna, before chuckling. Not even a branch name?
They’re a foreign student, Etrika interjects.
I get that, he replies after glancing to his sister, then turning back to Emil. But surely you have a name for your family? Or for your house? Or village?
Emil’s muscles tense up and their gaze darkens, searching for an adequate response to Kenna’s intense curiosity. Etrika feels a bit sorry for them.
But they do raise their head and reply curtly:
Subarin.
Etrika’s shock is barely suppressed. Why did they omit part of their name when they introduced themself?
A beautiful name, continues Kenna, putting his other hand in his other pocket. Any particular meaning?
Without a word, Emil produces the lab-slab and holds one end out towards Kenna. He seems confused for a moment, before a small ‘oh!’, tapping his temple lightly. Kenna repeats himself into the device, the button held down. Emil, aided by the impersonal interpretation of the replika, replies:
Su-Barin. Green-Tree. That’s the name I shared with everyone in my… village.
Emil Green-Tree! exclaims Kenna. In Presquilian, that’d be pronounced… Gerintri.
Emil Gerintri, they murmur, trying the syllables out for themself.
But surely, you still prefer Subarin.
A new land. New clothes. New people. And now… a new name?
Yes, I prefer I am called Emil Subarin.
Excellent. And where are you from, Emil Subarin, if I may ask?
What a pain, groans Etrika to herself. She intervenes again.
Kenna, dad and mom will be home pretty soon. Emil’s had a long day. Let’s give them some rest, and save the big questions for dinner, alright?
This time, Kenna deigns to turn his entire head towards his sister, stepping aside as though Emil had passed a test.
Of course. Are you showing them around?
Etrika nods, so Kenna takes Rieli’s little hand.
We’re gonna leave your... sister and our guest be. Why don’t you take me to the living room, and show me what you’ve been drawing? he asks rhetorically, leading her there.
Emil, closely watching their departure, doesn’t see Etrika pursing her lips.
This is hot water, and the other one’s cold, she demonstrates, quickly turning each tap.
The showerhead is holstered safely away. Emil is silent, but is clearly attentive and listening closely. As usual.
The truth is, Etrika, too, is focused, but not on the bathroom. As she explains the details with the withdrawn, automatic affect of a vespen, she turns those syllables over and over in her head.
Subarin. Subarin…
The intonations are meaningless to her, at least in relation to what few non-Ireul words she knows. Tomorrow, she’s going to visit the university library, and we’ll see if Emil comes from the Polar Empires or–
Etrika?
Ugh. She pulls herself together. How long has she been ignoring them, lost in her thoughts or her rote presentation?
Please excuse me. You were saying?
How many liters?
She cocks an eyebrow, her face painted the shade of perplexity. Emil indicates the shower.
How many liters can I use, please?
Uh. All of it? Etrika ventures. The supply’s not limited, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Take as much time as you need.
And even if the Walbravirs didn’t have running water, Etrika would gladly offer Emil all the water in Cascade. Their new clothes mask it relatively well, but honestly, seriously… Emil smells like a wild animal.
Thank you very much! they replied with sincerity.
Really, it’s no problem.
Etrika begins to feel embarrassed by Emil’s persistent profound wonder. What kind of conditions have they endured until now, to thank her formally for a shower? You can’t live on an island without a portaqueous source. That would just be insane.
Her expression falters.
I’m sorry, she mutters, almost without realizing it.
Huh? Sorry for what?
You don’t seem to come from a land that’s very... charitable.
Emil is quiet for a moment, then translates ‘charitable’. Then, they’re quiet again. Etrika elaborates. She has to get her thoughts and feelings out of her mind.
I’m just sorry for what’s happened to you… well, for everything that you must’ve gone through until today. You don’t always need to thank people, all the time, for all the little things I’ve done for you. Or that others will do for you.
Emil twiddles their thumbs, a morose and distant look on their face, even under their eye patch.
Do not be sorry. You not at fault.
She places a hand on their shoulder. Their eyes meet.
What I’m trying to say is… we have everything you need, and enough to spare. Please don’t hesitate to ask, and don’t hesitate to receive, either.
She taps Emil’s shoulder twice warmly. The girl’s gesture is familiar to the stranger.
She begins to leave the bathroom, glancing at Emil’s old garb, which they insisted on washing themself.
You’re sure you want to take care of this on your own? We can take them to the laundromat tomorrow.
I have done it before, they reply abruptly. I know how to wash them quickly. I have all the experience I need.
Fine, fine, she says, raising her palms. Well, you know which room’s the laundry, anyway. Just, don’t take too long.
They cross their arms, a little visibly annoyed.
You said I could take as long as necessary?
Y-Yes, well – just be reasonable! she tried to make them understand, waving a hand about.
What duration of time is “reasonable”?
I. Just, do as you will.
She crosses the threshold before losing her patience. Just breathe, girl. They need clear explanations, and gods know you need those too.
She exhales her growing frustration before turning back to them one last time.
Apologies. You really can take however much time you want, don’t worry. And, oh, don’t forget the latch, she reminded them, tapping it twice.
She shuts the door.
Emil asks the translator to enlighten them, trying a handful of words until they stumble upon the one Etrika used.
[Θ>Δ]{ REASONABLE. }
Take your time. But within reason.
There’s the rub, isn’t it?
Emil takes a more considered view of the bathroom. The glass-walled shower, its sink, the toilet. The soaps, brushes, combs, towels, and gods-know-what else, all labeled with what Emil can guess are the personal names of each of the Walbravirs.
They pick up one of the soaps: a sulfur-yellow block with a lemony scent. Emil has no idea what a lemon is. The leather reads [ANNAHLIS], but they cannot read it. Where they come from, soap is a shared thing, whether there’s more or less than enough.
They decide to pluck out the small label, if only for the length of the wash. This thing has no power over a guest, but it has power over them.
Amid hundreds of reflections of themself on the tile, muffled only by the patterns upon them, they…
They walk to the latch and close it with a sharp snap. They did almost forget. They return to the center of the space, weary beyond reproach, and sigh.
Once more.
In the middle of the room, they close their eyes, and begin to disrobe.
And there you see, I made the wings.
They’re pretty big, aren't they!
My teacher told me. I’ll need really big wings to fly; like… at least twice as big as a vespen.
Rieli spreads her arms triumphantly, as if to prove to her big brother that, yes, one day she will indeed have these wings, and that she’s already practicing, because she’s very very serious and has thought everything through very carefully.
Kenna picks up her drawing from the floor, before comfortably resting an arm on the edge of the couch, smiling at his little sister and her cheerful scribbles.
Green, like your eyes. Pretty.
Yep.
And where are you going to find these wings? he asks her, bemusedly.
That makes Rieli stop posing, and scratch her head.
Dunno. They should grow if I try really hard.
Rieli, he retorts with a diplomatic smile. Uumans don’t just transform at the snap of their fingers, and wings don’t just grow on their own.
The young girl crosses her arm. A sulky determination, familiar to Kenna, takes hold of her features.
You only say that ‘cause you haven’t tried! Grown-ups say lotsa things without trying. You’re silly!
Before Kenna can place an appropriate retort, Etrika enters the living room, and Rieli jumps at a chance to drive the point home.
Etrika, she tries all sorts of things, y’know?
Kenna turns to Etrika, clearly trying to change the subject.
Ah, back so soon? Is our guest doing alright?
Better than you with the little one, she says with a serious look.
Rieli raises her arms in victory, her small fists squeezing her crayons in half.
I’m! Always! Right! she shouts as she dances.
Etrika kneels down and lovingly pats her kid sister, gradually calming her down.
But, if you get wings, you’ll have to plan for lots of stuff, she adds conspiratorially.
Like what?
Like a really nice bed. And some new clothes.
Etrika can see the gears turning in Rieli’s head.
I didn’t think of all that! You’re right.
And your clothes will have to go with the green of the wings, adds Kenna, almost a good loser.
Rieli, without another word, gathers up her papers and pencils, quickly returning to her activity. Now that Etrika’s given her a new direction for her thoughts to go, she’s set to dress winged stick figures with scientific rigor, until dinner.
As a result, she is oblivious to the conversation that follows.
Can I talk to you for a second, Kenna? In the study? she adds, lowering her voice.
Of course, he sighs. After you.
Kenna shuts the walnut door as Etrika ignites the lamp on the desk, in the center of the room.
The study’s walls are adorned with that same wood, exuding an energy very different from the rest of the house. The shelves are filled with books and heavy trinkets, sometimes serving as decoration, sometimes as paperweights. The room has a calm, caring atmosphere, quite conducive to concentration. Its desaturated palette, already striking during the day, becomes only more austere once night falls.
It’s therefore natural that the Walbravirs, almost on a genetic instinct, associate this room with tense discussions.
Alright, go on, Kenna resumed before settling into an armchair. Although I think I already know where this is going.
Etrika prefers to remain standing.
Emil.
Not just a student, huh, he replies immediately.
She bites her lip. Behind her back, her fingers tighten. Course he already guessed.
Well. How did you know?
The uniform. And by that, I mean, the lack thereof.
Anything else? she insists.
Since you asked; the name. Since when does the University invite students here without giving them some identification? I would not be surprised if he made up ‘Saburin’ on the spot.
Beyond her twin’s perception, Etrika’s concerned about this as well. Emil easily used Etrika’s cover story; no reason to believe they wouldn’t also lie of their own volition.
But the way they revealed their name…
She chose to believe in what Emil had said up til now, so she sets aside her brother’s worry for the time being.
In any case, she lays her cards on the table.
They’re a political refugee.
Kenna runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. This is beyond anything he expected from his sister.
Okay. Alright.
It’s already a social miracle that she’s invited anyone over. But this is one hell of a leap.
They’ll only stay here for the night. I’ll take them to see Professor Oskobel tomorrow, and then they can get in touch with relevant authorities. Done and dusted.
Wait, they’re staying the night?! Kenna just about jumps out of his chair.
Fortunately, the room is soundproof.
They don’t have anywhere else. I’m not gonna let them freeze to death outside, Kenna! she replies, hoping that a rise in emotional temperature might mask her other concerns.
Etrika, do you realize just how many steps you skipped to bring this… this random person here? I don’t wanna lecture you like a child, but you can’t just do whatever the hell you want!
She is entirely aware of that. And she still does not know what exactly prompted her to take such a leap. This direct conversation with Kenna is the first obstacle that’s prompted her to rethink that split second decision.
For now, he’s a bit more indignant towards her than towards Emil. As long as he doesn’t start–
What’s so special about them that you’re offering them room and board? How long have you known them? Kenna asks, trying his best to calm down.
Shit. Shit.
You’re a terrible liar, Etrika. But if you answer all of that question, it’s most likely all over. Make do with what you can say.
They’ve come from away, that part is true. From the Polar Empires, or somewhere nearby. They’ve escaped massacres, a war– some kind of fighting.
I noticed that eye patch, yeah. Not the kind of thing you see with reparative surgeries these days. They must come from the deep countryside, to see our hallway rug as if it were made of solid gold, he adds with a wry laugh.
And they’ve got some kind of information about what happened to them – exactly what, I’m not sure, but they want to share it with someone who can actually help them. I told them about Oskobel, and from there, it’ll be out of our hands. We’ll have done our civic duty, and we can feel good about it.
Kenna leans forward, chin resting on steepled fingers. His calculating expression makes Etrika’s knuckles tense up again.
“Our” hands. “Our” duty. When you took me aside, I thought you just wanted to give me a heads up and avoid a scene, but you’re not telling me everything.
In the relative silence of the shower, Emil draws the soap along their skin.
The hot steam washes away not only the grime, but also an ever-present tension in their muscles.
As the soap works its magic on their scalp and its fruity scent fills their nostrils, memories of other times when they washed at a comforting temperature like this—which they can count on one hand—float to the front of their mind.
The nomadic hordes live in a humble fashion. Showers were rare, and always cold. One could get used to the temperature, if they weren’t so infrequent, since all members of the horde needed to get a turn.
But occasionally, moments of misfortune hide happiness, and a detour guided the steps of the Green-Tree horde to hot springs. Emil remembers, especially, the largest one, where they were able to bathe more than once with all the other children. A rare moment when… yes, everyone in Green-Tree was serene.
They also remember the last hot spring. The one where they bathed alone, because Ojzin and Sonya were standing guard, waiting for their turn to do the same. And when Gerfo was, after weeks of exhaustion, able to rest both of his heads.
I’m doing this for them. For all of my people, but especially them. Everyone else might be gone, but not them. I will do this in time, they reassure themself, their eyes closed.
...Their eyes have been closed since they undressed, actually. And they’ve turned the bathroom mirror towards the wall.
They’re not yet used to the marks left by their adventure.
That’s out of the question, he replies incredulously. Why can’t you do it?
Flattery never seemed to work with Kenna, and groveling like this hurt her almost on a physical level, but it was worth a try.
You’re a lot more social than I am. No one will bug you with questions, and you won’t… y’know, collapse in front of the first shopkeeper you talk to.
Still looking serious, Kenna dissects his sister’s words without missing a beat, barely more than ten seconds to connect the dots.
They can change their damn gems into vars themself. They have that translator, clean clothes, and by the time Dad and Mom get back, they’ll have cleaned up themself, too.
Etrika doesn’t respond. She cannot respond. She sits on the corner of the desk, just to keep from collapsing to the floor.
The ball’s in Kenna’s court, and he knows it.
Yeah, Etrika, I can see you need my help. But you can forget about this confidence between us if you keep treating me like I’m an imbecile.
Etrika lowers her head. She wants to cry, but manages not to. Not in front of Kenna. He might not enjoy that, but he’d remember that sorry showing for the rest of his life.
What have I gotten myself into, godssakes.
I just wanted to give some passerby a hand.
She wipes away tears forming at the corners of her eyes, by pretending to adjust her glasses.
I went with them to buy clothes at Finciseau’s. That’s where I watched him pay with those gems th–
Kenna rises from the chair and interrupts her.
You think someone saw them, he says in an icy tone. You want to help them, but you cannot be seen with them anymore as long as they have those gems on their person… no, it’s worse, isn’t it?
A silence permeates the space.
You think someone might be hunting them using those stones.
Etrika no longer has the strength to stay quiet.
…Yes.
She starts to tremble, but her brother is unmoved.
Remind me to scold you later; we don’t have time to waste. You’ve not touched any of them? And neither have they since leaving Finciseau’s?
No! she cries, panicked. They haven’t put their hands back in their pockets; they’ve been carrying their bags all the way here.
Though she’s not entirely sure on that. She’s lost sight of them for brief intervals. With her mouth and eyes closed, she implores the Observer to have watched over them when she couldn’t.
Kenna moves to the door with haste, and orders Etrika before turning the handle:
Go ensure they haven’t done anything stupid, and take their stuff right away. I’ll go get a box and a pair of gloves from my room.
Emil jumps when there’s a knock at the bathroom door, having just stepped out of the shower.
Emil? Emil! Etrika calls out, her voice clearly worried and somewhat deeper than usual, clumsily.
They inhale without exhaling. Quick. Cover up. No time to get dressed. Their eyes case the room at lightning speed, before grabbing a huge white-gray bathrobe from a hook, one that covers them down to their feet, and slips it on, tucking their eyepatch beneath their wet hair.
Emil! Open up! It’s important!
Etrika hears the latch click. Emil, wet as a dog in rain, gently opens the door, before being shoved violently aside as their host enters the steam-filled bathroom.
You arrive why? they stammer, intimidated.
The gems, Emil. You haven’t touched those gems since we bought your clothes, right?
I, uh… no? I have not touched stones. Why? they ask in a fearful, high-pitched voice.
I’ll explain later. I’ll give ‘em back to you, but we’ve got to put them somewhere secure, and fast. Where are they?
I–in the poncho of spare.
Etrika locates it and immediately grabs it, rushing out of the room. Emil, stunned, protests loudly:
Hey! Leave that with me…!
At the same time, Kenna’s almost done sorting through his own stuff.
In the light of a lamp almost too dim to see under, he empties an old leather satchel onto the clean surface of his bed. He’s mentally making a list of grievances with Etrika, to be neatly presented when all’s said and done; besmirching his organizational standards is definitely making that list.
Covering the green-checkered comforter are sentimental pens, a small library of notebooks filled with neat handwriting, and all kinds of other assorted school supplies. Most were Rodrik’s at one point, because the Walbravir household is nothing if not resourceful. The smell of ink and well-loved paper fills the room as Kenna goes through pocket after pocket of this satchel, with increasing anxiety.
His fingers finally stop when they find a familiar rough texture.
There! At last.
Out of a compartment comes a pair of navy-blue, thickly-lined gloves, covered in a strange shiny varnish, which gives them a unique texture and satin-like appearance. Decorated with a scrawl of intimidating pictograms, the cuffs go halfway up his forearms.
Etrika’s footsteps echo as she descends the stairs two at a time, followed by a very angry houseguest. She soon reaches Kenna’s bedroom door, holding the brand new poncho by its collar.
It’s alright. They didn’t touch anything, she confirms.
Some of Kenna’s tension is released.
Good. Set it down there, he orders, pushing aside the scattered items with an arm.
Etrika lays it on the bed, while Emil appears in the doorway, still in the giant bathrobe.
What are you doing?!
Etrika, shut the door, please.
Emil tries to stop her, but is too busy holding the bathrobe tightly with their hands; she easily keeps them from interfering.
Emil? Kenna asks in a tone tinged with patient urgency. Which pockets do you keep the gemstones in, and are they the only ones you have? Answer honestly and without delay. Your safety and ours may depend on it.
Without their translator, Emil doesn’t quite get all of what Kenna’s saying, but eventually gets the basics. Confused, though understanding how serious this must be, they comply.
I have only these lone stones and a… a… an object that says directions. Here, and here.
They point to two inside pockets, and it’s hard to tell if they’re shivering because of fear or leaving the warmth of the bathroom.
They move closer to the bed, but Kenna keeps them back with one hand without even looking. Etrika slowly takes one of the sleeves of the bathrobe in her hand, so as not to scare Emil.
He’s not going to steal anything from you. We’re just looking.
Underneath the robe, their muscles relax imperceptibly.
Kenna reaches into the first pocket with a glove and retrieves a small, square-framed compass with multiple needles. One is larger, and decorated with a small, sparkling crystal. Etrika holds her breath.
After carefully observing it from dozens of angles to ensure that it works as expected, Kenna exhales with some relief.
A perfectly normal compass. Nothing to worry about.
You’re sure? Etrika asks.
I’m sure. You know why, well as I do.
He returns the compass to the first pocket, then finds the other. A series of clinks confirms that therein lies the source of concern.
In small handfuls, then one by one, Kenna lays out the gems on his bed in spaced rows. Emeralds, rubies, beryls, sapphires, amethysts… all quite large, and unquestionably authentic, despite scratches that slightly tarnish their beauty.
How many necklaces and rings did they take apart to obtain a haul like this…? Kenna wonders, a new fear manifesting in his mind.
He takes a sapphire, walks over to the bedside table, and picks up a steel box he’s placed there, varnished with the same substance as the gloves and similarly engraved, along with a forked object. A familiar object to Emil. Kenna takes the latter and taps it gently against the small stone.
What is th–
Silence, Kenna interrupts.
The twins and the stranger listen intently.
The tuning fork shudders, but no sound resounds from it.
Alright. There’s nothing on them, sighs Etrika.
Let’s listen to the others before we claim victory, her brother replies.
The sound of each gem is examined in turn. Emil’s skin is starting to feel seriously cold, totally naked beneath the bathrobe. They consider going back to dress themself, but the tension in the room is imprisoning, until someone deigns to explain just what is going on.
After a final silent vibration, Kenna has come to a verdict:
...No magic.
And all’s well! exclaims Etrika.
You’d think so. A triangulation spell is meant to be discreet. Unless the work is amateurish, I won’t really be detecting anything with an instrument as simple as this, he explains, waving the tuning fork.
Etrika frowns. Emil’s still silent, struggling to understand what complicated words Kenna’s using.
It’s fine, he continues. To stay hidden, the magic must be weak, so simple insulation will suffice.
He takes the small, varnished metal box, and unlocks the lid with a tiny key, with complex hills and valleys of teeth. The gems are neatly placed inside before the box closes and is locked with a couple of sharp clicks.
He turns to Emil as his adrenaline subsides. A wave of fatigue weakens his features in his voice as he returns the poncho.
You can get dressed again. Sorry for embarrassing you.
Sure enough, once back in their old gear Emil feels much better. They're still eager to wash their old clothes, but their need to understand the commotion they've been subjected to is a bit more pressing.
And so they ask Etrika as soon as they leave the bathroom:
I can put this where?
Oh. I'll show you to your room. C’mon.
Emil takes a final longing look at the green plants in the vases decorating the landing, before following her quietly.
Returning to the first floor, she points to the nearest door on their right, turning the handle with a sickening creak that makes their hair stand on end.
This is Rodrik's old room. He might stop by for dinner, but he never stays. You can make yourself comfortable in there.
Etrika flips a switch, which reveals a room that's similar to Kenna's quarters, but with fewer personal effects and more dust. The bed, a wardrobe with a mirror, a chair, and a desk with a chest at its foot make up the entire furnishings; and they are no longer in mint condition, though the wood remains in remarkable shape. Each item in the room is empty, and smells slightly musty; the bed has no mattress to its name.
Ah, we'll get the bedding from the attic later.
Emil hands her the translator. Their face is neutral. Etrika taps it with a finger and snorts. Just be patient.
Bedding? Attic?
Both words get translated. The second one has a sort of strange effect on Emil, which Etrika finds difficult to interpret. A kind of shiver..? No, they seem more shocked than scared. Another strange detail to note, one of a growing pile.
...Thank you, they reply, stowing the replika, a little shaken.
She watches them as they place their bags on one of the highest shelves in the closet.
Just what really happened to them?
Nobody will touch that here?
No. Don’t worry. Rieli may be a walking battery, but she doesn’t come in this room to play. Not enough furniture to knock over while sprinting, she adds with a wry smile.
Rieli.
If Emil had made a mistake with their gems, this house would have become a target to their pursuers. And she and all her family would be in danger.
The weight of Etrika’s choices begins to hurt her; and so she thinks she might share that burden with her brother.
In simple terms, each time you touched those gemstones, a signal could have been sent, relaying your position. That’s why we need to get rid of them, as soon as can be done.
Emil, standing in the study next to Etrika, solemnly takes in Kenna’s words.
…It works only with stones?
Kenna smiles. This one’s head is in the right place.
Anything other than gemstones is by far and large unfit, he replies in a professorial tone. This type of magic is useless at short range, or with distortions in the signal; only crystalline structures offer satisfactory resonance. That’s why this sort of material is used in the receivers for radietheric stations, as one example.
Even though many of these terms go over their head, they seem to get the gist of it. They quickly tack on another question:
And my, uhm. ([Δ>Θ]{ COMPASS. }) My compass. Why is it not dangerous? It has a stone too, though.
Kenna and Etrika look to Emil, then exchange glances. They’re not feigning curiosity; they genuinely have no knowledge of magic.
Emil doesn’t fail to notice this silent moment of judgment, but, in hostile territory, and as a polite house-guest, they ignore it best they can.
That’s… quite a subject, Kenna abridges. The professor you’re going to meet soon will almost certainly be better at explaining this to… a beginner. Let’s get back to what’s important.
He casts a defeated glance at his sister, then turns back to Emil.
I’ll go exchange these gems for vars tomorrow. I don’t care to know how you got them. Or, rather, I can only congratulate you for putting me in a situation where I don’t want to know more.
A long, awkward silence follows. Emil finally breaks it, lowering their eyes, thinking back to Etrika talking to Rieli.
Please excuse me.
They have the siblings’ attention.
I have dangerous mission, against people who do great magic. I do not know danger could be in the stones, but I was careless. I wanted to endanger nobody, but I know this is not excuse. I ask for forgiveness. If wanted, I will leave now.
They don’t move. They don’t want to move. They make themself small in their large poncho. Flickers of expeditions that nearly ended in disaster with a moment’s inattention, on their part or another’s, come flooding back.
An imprudent scavenger can serve no purpose to a horde.
Kenna ends up pinching his forehead, exhaling the remainder of his frustration.
Be silent.
Emil lifts their head, a tear forming in the corner of their eye.
The Observer as my witness, Kenna continues, I am too rational to blame you. If you know nothing of magic, you could not have foreseen this kind of threat.
He glances to Etrika.
Unlike… her.
There it is again. The pause in his sentence. The tightening of Etrika’s lips. Emil had overlooked that before, but now can see the pain in her features. Kenna, for his part, hasn’t remarked on it.
He stands up, extending his hand to Emil again, with equal measure seriousness and sincerity.
My home welcomes you, your joys and your sorrows.
Seeing as Etrika’s twin brother is notoriously generous with the truth, convincing him to cover for Emil (or, failing that, to stay quiet) was not an easy feat. But with his and Etrika’s honor at stake, he had to face facts.
Rieli, though, is completely innocent by comparison.
Emil is currently in her room, sitting as best they can on a chair that’s clearly not meant for an adult. It’s not easy to write in the small, blank (if you ignore the random patterns in the margins) notebook she gave them.
Standing nearby, the girl shows them a picture book, with letters as big as her pinky finger facing colorful illustrations.
T for “train”, she dictates to them in front of a gathering of stuffed animals and dolls at the foot of her bed, emphasizing each syllable.
Emil’s got no idea what a “train” is, so they write down a word from their native language, underlining the grapheme.
It was Etrika who’d had the idea for the lesson, when her little sister showed them drawings covered in notes, remembering that Emil couldn’t read any of the symbols. “You might as well keep yourself busy while we wait for Mom and Dad, she suggested.
U for “urn”.
As Emil continues to copy that down, Rieli suddenly asks them:
Why can’tcha write?
Emil’s face fills with noted embarrassment.
A friend helped me understand your language. He wrote much how to speak and write, but I had not learned lot yet, and when I arrived here, I lost his writing.
You lost his notes? Awwh, that’s bad, she replied, with the detached emotion typical of young children.
Too bad, yes, they sighed.
Rieli thinks for a moment, scratching her head as usual, before jumping to her feet.
I got it!
She rushes to a chest made out of a light wood, at the other end of the room. After rummaging around for a while, she finally takes out some books, yellowed and creased in some places. Other objects that each of the Ahlrik children had used in turn.
Here, take ‘em.
She forks over a grammar book, a dictionary, and a math book, each at the elementary level. Emil flips through them for half a minute, easily surmising their purpose.
A doubly precious thing, this gift. Where they come from, books are rare; moreso educational, useful ones.
With great emotion in their eye, they ask Rieli:
I can have them? You want what in exchange?
Nothing! Don’t need ‘em. And Dad and Mom don’t wanna have any more kids, so I don’t have anyone else to give ‘em to. And, I already know how to read and write better than anyone else in my class! she explains, not concealing her pride.
Emil clutches the books to their chest.
Thank you so much.
Before they can express their gratitude in a thousand more ways, Rieli concludes mischievously:
Well, if you really wanna trade… you got any toys?
The clock in the dining room has already struck 18:30. They’ll be here any minute now, Kenna thinks to himself. Given the delay, his parents have probably taken Rodrik back with them.
Normally, that’d be wonderful news. He and his older brother get along really well. But tonight, that’s just one more person to deceive.
A few minutes later, there’s that familiar knock on the door. He stands and heads toward the laughter in the entryway, hiding his anxiety behind his best smile.
Dad, mom, Rodrik! How was your day?
Shedding their coats, the Ahlriks’ parents reveal their slender figures. Their mother, Annahlis, runs a pale hand through her brownish hair, recovering from the frizz onset by the wind outside. She turns her freckled face to her son, now a little taller than she is, before pulling him into a hug.
Not too bad, honey, not too bad. We had to shut the telphers down early because of the weather, so we took the opportunity to go pick up your brother…
She releases Kenna and gestures to Rodrik, inviting him to take over. He takes Kenna in his arms.
You missed me, huh?
Rodrik, a mountain of muscle and kindness, gives a warm embrace to his little brother. Save his ebony eyes and large, titanium-hard chin, things he got from his father, he’s the spitting image of his mother. His skin is as pale as hers, while Etrika, Kenna, and Rieli don’t have a trace of it: it’s as if, after their first son, their parents ran dry of a very meager supply of beautifully sparkly light-colored paint.
Of course I missed you, Rod. Would it kill you to come see us more often, take some time off?
Well, it would certainly kill me if he neglected his studies! exclaims Rikard, giving his son a pat on the back that must feel like a flick.
Rikard turns his lively brown face towards Kenna, adopting a conspiratorial tone with a toothy smile.
Right, Kenna? You can be a bad influence on him all you like, just not for the next few months!
Ah, don’t tell him that, dad, Rodrik replies with a slightly embarassed look. Just look at him. He works so hard.
Enough, Rodrik, Kenna defuses with a wave of his hand.
Speaking of hard workers, where’s Etrika? asks his mother, removing her shoes.
Ah, actually...
On cue, her slippers appear at the top of the stairs, followed by Emil’s cleaned boots and Rieli’s colorful socks.
Mom, dad, Rodrik, Etrika greets, nodding to each.
Well, now! Who is this charming man? asks Rodrik, looking at Emil.
Not a m–
A student! Rieli interrupts, circling her parents. They’re a student! They study like Etrika. But they can’t write.
The Walbravir parents looked to Emil with curiosity, which, even without disdain, was intensely uncomfortable.
He’s a foreign student, Etrika adds, uncomfortable but doing her best to conceal it. He’s still learning Ireul.
Emil throws a brief glance at Etrika. Why is she… playing along?
Their mind puts this worry aside to revisit the lines the twins taught them before going to study with Rieli. They bow gently, hands clasped at waist level.
Enchanté! My name is Emil Subarin, of Verl.
Verl – a tiny island far to the south. When they had refused to specify exactly where they came from, for the safety of their hosts, the siblings had dug out a world map from Kenna’s belongings and assigned them a tiny islet; the kind one forgets the location or even existence of during a geography exam.
Verl? Where is that?
Almost on the border of the Polar Empires, mom. He comes from very far away.
My gods! I hope the war does not spread that far.
No, no. Don’t worry.
The Walbravirs’ father steps forward and shakes Emil’s hand.
Welcome, Emil. I imagine you’ve already gone through the rituals and formalities.
A firm handshake, a frank smile beneath his glasses. Emil likes him. He certainly looks the part of an atriarch, they think.
Rikard Koriol, Kaskadyn.
Lord Ahlrik, they reply politely.
He seems to appreciate the turn of phrase. His wife comes over to shake Emil’s hand in turn.
Annahlis Venjir, Walbravir.
Lady Ahlrik. Thank you for welcoming me.
Etrika and Kenna, who’d remained mostly in the background, breathe a sight of relief in unison. So far, all is going smoothly.
So, you’re going to the University! To study… what exactly?
Replikae, Emil responds, a little too instantly. At my island, I only hear people speak about this; I have not seen, myself.
Annahlis takes a few seconds to understand Emil’s meaning through their accent and less-than-perfect grammar, now that the conversation’s taking a different turn.
Never? It must be rough, living without any magical industry.
Emil hesitates on that last word.
In-dus-tree?
They mechanically hand the translator to Etrika’s mother.
Oh! she exclaims, recognizing the object. One of Etrika’s teachers has one of these. How’s it work, again? I put one finger here and say the word, right? she asks with a delighted little laugh.
Her daughter nods in confirmation. Annahlis repeats:
Industry!
[Θ][!]{ ERROR. NO EQUIVALENT OBJECT. }
Her smile fades, as she looks to Emil. Everyone looks to Emil. They freeze, no idea what’s going on, slightly terrified.
Etrika’s fingers clench up. Kenna’s heart skips a beat.
Sitting at the large table in the Walbravirs’ dining room, Emil struggles to track the course of conversation. They guess that they’re probably talking about them, the bad weather, Rikard’s work, Rodrik’s “mar-sholl” studies, and quite a few other things. But distinguishing the details is beyond their ability, when everyone’s talking at once.
So they look past the people, to a room that, in their eyes, is lavish to a degree that borders on a moral decadence.
Near the entrance hall, a clock as big as Rodrik ticks with harmonious, soothing regularity. Every half-second, they catch a yellowish reflection of their face in the pendulum: clean as clean gets. The body of the clock, carved from large pieces of walnut wood, is chiseled with floral motifs of exquisite precision.
Nearby the clock are monochrome photographs, with a cool palette that imperceptibly leans towards a green tint.
In them, they recognize a younger Rikard and Annahlis, probably just before they had their first child. Then, there’s one of Rodrik still to grow, perhaps… no, wait. They don’t have cycles here. How many years would that be? They abandon the calculation as quickly as it was begun. ‘A teenage Rodrik’ will do just fine.
Next to that is one of an adult Rodrik, carrying heavy armor, a helmet under his arm. Below, a whole album of Rielis; the only photo that isn’t blurred is one where, perhaps ten cycles ago, she was already drawing in the living room (no sofa yet).
And finally, Kenna and Etrika. Pictured here with their hands on one another’s shoulders; probably when they entered university, judging by the background. Emil is reminded of the park. And–
Careful! It’s hot! warns Annahlis from the kitchen.
The chatter stops as the smell of richly spiced vegetables finds its way to Emil’s nose, as it does to the rest of the Walbravirs.
They salivate. They recognize what is being served at the table. After all sorts of foreign foods, at last, a dish from their homeland.
Annahlis places a pot of soup twice the size of her head in the middle of the table, on a pretty, worn metal trivet. A velvety sea of yellow and brown, with bay leaves and powdered herbs floating on top.
It’s a bit humble for a starter, but… it should please our guest! she says with an embarrassed smile that said guest does not clock at all. Rodrik, would you mind terribly serving it?
The giant seated to their right grabs the large ladle sticking out from the mixture, stirring it gently while Rieli sets the table with bowls and spoons, caring not for how much noise it makes. Then, with unexpected dexterity for someone his size, he pours thrice in the bowl in front of Emil.
Thank you!
As soon as the steaming bowl is filled, they put their hands on it to bring it to their mouth. The Walbravirs’ eyes collectively widen.
Emil! exclaims Etrika on their left. You’ll burn yourself!
And by the time they hear that, oh boy have they; a searing pain spreads through their fingertips. They lean back in their chair, bumping the table with their knees. The equivalent of a large spoonful of soup splatters onto the tablecloth, while they let out a hissing curse, almost a whisper, in their native tongue.
Ah! Don’t put your fingers on it, you gotta wait for it to cool! Rieli advises them, a moment too late.
While Rikard whispers to the youngest to be quiet, Emil groans as they blow on their fingers.
That was hot! I never ate a so hot soup!
What a wild idea to want to swallow it so fast, Kenna grumbles, embarrassed.
At my… At my island, we eat soon as when food is in the plate, to not wait it becomes cold. Why is food given when it is still so hot, here?
Kenna blushes, almost hissing back, annoyed at not being able to find a good answer to such a question.
Because that’s the way it is, godsakes– wait a little, and you’ll eat at the same time as everyone else.
After several minutes of awkward conversation, during which Emil continues to stare unbidden at their sore fingers, the soup finally cools to a tolerable temperature. Seeing Rodrik, then Etrika, taste it, they venture to try it themself.
Using a spoon for soup that can easily be brought directly to the lips is a practice that baffles them, but they feel they’ve already blundered more than once, and cautiously imitate the Walbravir siblings by taking a small sip.
They pause, spoon still in mouth.
A rich sensation blooms on their tongue for the first time. It’s not just a soup made from unfamiliar vegetables, but a truly transcendental dish fit for an atriarch – no, even more than that! A delicacy enhanced by so much good broth, salt, pepper, cream, garlic, and other things Emil could neither imagine nor name: how many ingredients just that one spoonful contained escapes them. An entire harvest’s-worth of harmonic flavors across their palate.
They’ve never tasted anything so delicious in all their life.
Even restricted by the spoon, Emil sets out to finish well ahead of everyone else, until a snippet of conversation addresses them.
…Don’t you, Emil?
Hm?
They look up to Annahlis, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand. Kenna, who’s been watching all of this, seems to stifle a fit every time they break etiquette. Etrika does not know how to discreetly convey that by reacting that way, he’s the one who’s going to get everyone into trouble.
I was saying, Annahlis continues, enunciating each word. It must be very boring to live without replikae. You do have mages where you come from, don’t you?
Emil, thoughtful, consults the translator before giving an answer.
We have people born with presents, they explain. Some presents are more useful than others.
Gifts, you mean?
Ah, traditional sorcerers, then! exclaims Rikard between spoonfuls of soup. And you studied magic?
Um. No. At my island–
On my island, Etrika whispers.
On my island, we do not learn magic. We are either born with it, or we are not.
Rikard sighs.
That’s a shame. Even so far away, traditional sorcery’s a dying art.
Etrika glances away. Rodrik, considerate, replies gently.
You’re exaggerating, Pa… those two work hard, without using gadgets, he emphasizes with a gesture towards the twins at the end of the table.
Emil raises an eyebrow.
Etrika and Kenna… mages?
But they don’t look kayal. All people with magic are at least a little kayal. That’s just how it is.
Unless they’re concealing their marks, like Emil does?
Speaking of hard work, their father continues. How are your last few homework assignments going, Etrika?
Oh. Um.
A generic response leaves her lips.
…Uh, fine. Getting by.
Rikard’s response is similarly generic.
Good. That’s great.
Emil feels a sort of incomprehensible unease at such a scene. As if these two desire to talk, without anything to say. Or as if being father and daughter was some kind of chore for them. Perhaps another strange custom.
Having finished their soup after Rieli, Emil turns their attention back to the conversation, as Annahlis fills a silence that’s starting to become awkward.
Then, what about you, Emil? Are you planning to become a mage, too?
Uh, yes! Yes. It is because magic is rare on my island that I come to study to… They search for the word. Transmit… the knowledge. And make in-du-stries.
She smiles broadly, staring to them. Emil forces themself not to look away with their one eye.
That’s very noble of you.
Th... thank you, Lady Ahlrik.
Your family must be very proud! adds Rodrik, patting them on the back (almost knocking the wind out of them in the process).
Emil coughs a few moments before responding with… what Etrika understands is a facade: words and a face whose true meaning appear indecipherable.
Yes. They are. Proud.
Annahlis silently collects the bowls from the table, now all empty.
What’s after the soup, mom? asks Rieli.
Chicken and beans. You’ll eat it all, won’t you, sweetie?
Rieli grumbles, knowing she’ll have to force herself to finish her plate in front of a guest. Emil snaps out of their melancholy, unsure if they heard correctly.
After the soup?
Kenna looks at them sideways, embarrassed.
The… main dish?
The Walbravirs’ guest looks back at him, incredulously.
There is more than one dish?
The rest of the dinner unfolds in a similar fashion. Emil blunders occasionally in ways that make their accomplices flinch, while the parents attribute their behavior to a culture “so different” from their own, whose exoticism inspires either good-natured amusement or polite pity. They hardly need to lie about being a student; others are almost exclusively interested in their origins, always in vague terms, full of assumptions.
Do you have any brothers or sisters? No? Then it must seem impressive to you, for Etrika to have three of those.
It’s not very urbanized, Verl? Ah, yes, communities of barely a hundred people? Probably knew everyone by name, I imagine!
Do you like the chicken? ...Please excuse me. You say this is your first chicken?
Whatever their answer, and whatever the twins think, it seems impossible for them to answer wrong. But they quickly tire of such a game; eventually, they only answer with simple yes’s, no’s, or I don’t know’s, and sometimes resorts to simple motions of the head. None of this discourages Rikard or Annahlis, of course.
Emil prefers to turn to the younger members of the family. That’s how they learn that Rodrik is a security officer at an… “aerodrome”? He’s very proud of this, and his parents even more so. Indicating the photo Emil saw earlier, he explains that that’s his ceremonial uniform: his actual work attire isn’t so flamboyant.
Kenna is actually (unlike Emil) studying relikae, and magic. He explains at some length that with advances in science and ether theory, magical engineering is a hot topic in this century. But he doesn’t yet know whether he’ll specialize in design and practical study, or in law and theory. A doer or a leader. An artisan or an atriarch, thinks Emil. Whatever his choice, his ambition is clear.
Rieli, meanwhile, is still in elementary school. Right now, she’s learning division and the history of Presquile, but she quickly changes subjects to show off the bone figurines Emil gave her in exchange for the books: three for three. Her parents, no doubt out of concern for another esoteric custom, scold her slightly for giving away old, useless books to a stranger, but her good deed is quickly forgiven.
Each of the figurines, no bigger than a thumb, represent hunters with their own weapon. They are passed from person to person, eliciting murmurs of admiration. They’re beautifully engraved, but why does this one have a tail? Isn’t he an uuman? The person who asks this has the figurine taken from their hands by their neighbor, and their curiosity remains unanswered.
As for Etrika… Emil realizes that her aspirations are unknown to them. But they guess that it might be risky to ask questions of the person who invited them into her home, and about whom they should already know certain things.
And she seems, above all, reluctant to talk about herself.
Emil continues to marvel at the food. The meat, even spicier than the soup, seems to awaken a dormant taste bud in them, and same goes for the beans.
For dessert, Rikard brings a basket of many-colored fruit from the kitchen. Emil picks out a yellow one, curved like a boomerang, with tough skin and a soft center. Luckily, Rieli showed how to peel it without them knowing: a warning, as otherwise they would have bitten into it.
Soon, the question of allowing Emil to sleep there is raised.
The university didn’t get a room prepared for you? exclaims Rikard. That’s a shame.
They are very busy, Emil replies.
Still, though! Must’ve known you were coming, right? Can’t expect me to believe that our taxes can’t help a brave young man who’s come so far rest his head?
Not a m– ow!
A kick from Etrika interrupts their protests. She doesn’t allow a beat to pass, nor for another word.
Of course it’s a mistake, Emil! We’ll report it to management tomorrow. But tonight, she insists, turning to her parents. He can stay here, can’t he?
Rikard and Annahlis exchange a glance. Annahlis shrugs with a small smile.
Of course. It’s only a night, after all.
The guest bows with a solemnity that surprises their hosts.
Thank you very much, Lady Ahlrik! they exclaim loudly.
Back in Rodrik’s old room, Emil closes the door behind Etrika, then gives an annoyed look.
Why you hit me, before? And called me like you did?
Because you were about to make a scene, and that’s the last thing we need! she replies, agitated, her words dripping with venomous stress.
Emil grabs their translator to try and translate ‘scene’, but Etrika slaps their hand away.
An argument! A godsdamn awkward moment! she exclaims, gesticulating wildly.
Having to spend twice as much time explaining as expressing herself is really starting to tick her off. Stupid translator.
I am fruit of wind, they say, crossing their arms. Not a man.
What do you mean?! What’s a fruit of the wind?
The four fruits. Light, mountain, lake, and wind.
Etrika sits down on the only chair in the room, a hand on her forehead.
Emil, I’m not the fucking Witch– I mean, I can’t even guess what you’re talking about.
I am not fruit of light. I do not want be called ‘man’, or talked with ‘he’. This is not complicated.
Of course it’s– Damn it, listen to me! It’s already a miracle, you hear me, a bloody miracle that they respect Rieli’s gender, so–
She, too, changed her fruit?
In response to this innocent curiosity, she explodes, her cheeks flushed with anger.
Emil! Do NOT ask that kind of thing about my little sister, is that clear?!
You say it first! they reply, outraged.
As they step back, they almost bump into the door, which Kenna opens abruptly.
Are you quite finished, you two? he whispers to them, closing the door behind himself. I thought the word of the night was discretion!
Oh, like you can talk! With the look on your mug that whole time! she retorts, immediately redirecting her frustration towards her brother. They could practically read their entire story on your face!
Kenna raises a finger and opens his mouth, but stops himself from replying at the last moment.
Instead, he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, and after that, seems to have expelled all the violence and vitriol from his body in a single moment. Emptied his hourglass. Like Ojzin.
Come with me, Emil, he says softly, placing a hand on their shoulder. Let’s get you your mattress and some blankets.
The pair of them leave the room. Emil almost looks back, but changes their mind when the hand on their shoulder subtly advises not to.
*KA-THUNK.*
Etrika is left with a nasty headache, and wondering if she did the right thing, after all. She offered them room and board, and then…
She just had to yell at them when all they wanted was to be respected. What must they think of her now…?
A moron. I’m a damned moron.
She catches herself staring at the door a while, as if it were about to open at any moment, and they would come back to her, all smiles. The argument evaporated, forgotten, forgiven.
…Please…?
When reason convinces her to give up such hopes, she rests her arms on the dusty desk and buries her head in them.
The wind howls, beyond the window shutters.
The tourist
Creak