[Infinity's End] The Break of Day 01-05
Mar. 18th, 2011 12:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
n_wilkinsona/n: Man, I woke up this morning and didn't even realize it was Friday. Life has been that crazy. Wow.
October 31st, 1978 (continued)
“Master Kieran, welcome home.”
Kassar, their butler, bowed as Kieran moved past him into the foyer of the Azura manor. The teen gave a nod, barely fighting back a yawn. Kassar simply closed the door and took Kieran's bag, giving him room to stretch his arms over his head.
“Where's my mother?” the boy asked with the hopes he could avoid his father at all costs.
“In the kitchens,” Kassar answered, also taking Kieran's overrobe as he pulled it off. “Master Marduk was looking for you earlier. May I suggest that you find him?”
“Maybe later,” Kieran said with a dismissing shrug and grinned at Kassar. “So let's not tell him I'm home, shall we?”
The butler merely inclined his head. “As you wish.”
That settled, Kassar bowed and took off with Kieran's things, taking one to be cleaned and the other to his room. Kieran, however, made a beeline for the kitchen, one of the few places he knew his father wouldn't try looking for him. Besides, if he was with his mother, Marduk couldn't and wouldn't complain.
Kieran hurried to the kitchens, passing first through the huge foyer with the double staircase leading upstairs and then the spacious dining room with a table too large for a family of three. He pushed open the swinging door, expecting to find himself swept away by the hustle and bustle of a kitchen in hurried preparation for the evening meal.
Instead, he found a relatively low key atmosphere where Iris was stirring a pot over an open fire – stew tonight perhaps. His mother stood at another counter, pouring ingredients into a large mixing bowl. She had an apron on over her expensive dress, and her long blonde hair was pulled into many twists and knots then piled on top of her head.
She looked up at the sound of the door swinging shut behind him, and her lips pulled into a smile. “And why were you out so late, young man?” she asked, the words chastising but her tone a teasing lilt. His mother wasn't honestly angry with him.
“I was with a friend,” Kieran answered as he strode further into the kitchen and pulled a stool up to the long counter. “I told you that I’d be out until late,” he reminded her and swung himself up, tossing a wave to Iris.
Aislin cracked a few eggs as she thought. “Miss Dryden? Or that common boy?” She paused. “What was his name? Toran? Tegan?”
“Nope.” Kieran grinned and watched as his mother also added sugar and flour to the bowl. “I was with Azriel.”
She tilted her head to the side, a stray curl falling across her forehead. “Yes, you've mentioned him once or twice,” she said, flicking her spoon around. “Your father was looking for you.”
Kieran wrinkled his nose, frantically changing the subject. The last thing he wanted to have was a conversation with his father.
“What are you making? Can I help?”
“You can watch,” Aislin said with a gentle smile. She was well aware of her son's lack of ability in the kitchen. “And I'll let you have the bowl when I'm done.”
He leaned over the counter and peered hopefully into the bowl. “Are they snickerdoodles?” he asked, even drooling a little in anticipation.
Aislin chuckled. “Yes, dear.” She leaned over to grab a long, flat plan from a shelf and pull a spoon out of a drawer. “And what exactly have you been up to? You're filthy.”
Kieran looked down at himself, for the first time noticing the leaf bits that clung to his uniform. “Raking leaves,” he answered absently, though Azriel had done all the work and all Kieran had done was help him destroy it.
Aislin arched a brow, confused. But that was until understanding cascaded over her delicate features.
“Ah. For Samhain.”
He blinked in surprise. “You know what it is?”
“Of course, I do.” Aislin reached for a bowl and dropped bits of her dough into it, rolling them through a mix of cinnamon and sugar. “Just because His Lordship no longer recognizes the end of harvest doesn't mean we have lost the knowledge of it,” she replied, but her voice was much quieter, as though she didn't even want Iris to hear her.
Luckily, their chef was distracted by her bubbling stew pot. She hadn’t even looked up since Kieran had waved.
Kieran's lips formed into a moue that was decidedly not a pout. It wasn’t!
“How come I never heard about it before then?” he demanded, disappointed that he hadn't been allowed to take part in the festivities that sounded like such fun.
“They still celebrate it in Moriarty,” Aislin answered, carefully lining her cinnamon-rolled cookies onto the pan. “It's considered a commoner holiday, Kieran. But they've since removed the traditional aspects of it. Especially those who honor the spirits of the forest, their heathen gods.”
“You mean the old gods?” Kieran remembered Azriel talking about them briefly and then quickly changing the subject as though afraid of the consequences.
Eyes turned thoughtfully toward him, and his mother's hands paused in the midst of rolling more dough. There was something to her face. Something hidden and shade and just a bit frightening.
“I do,” she allowed. “But, Kieran, it is better not to speak of them. We are Azura, and certain things can be ignored due to our eccentricities, but we still cannot treat the spirits as anything more than the demons His Lordship has claimed them to be. After all, if He says so, it must be true.”
But the last part echoed especially hollowed. Just lip service like it’d always been. Aislin wasn’t an Azura by birth, but she was by mindset.
Kieran leaned closer, elbows on the counter. “You don't believe that. Do you, Mama?” he asked, voice as soft as he could manage.
She gave him a searching look. “What I believe and what I am told to know are two different things, my dear.” Aislin patted his cheek with a sugar and flour dusted hand. “You'll come to learn this yourself.”
He sat back with a sulk. And no, he still wasn’t pouting damn it!
“It's still not fair.”
Nimble hands returned to deftly rolling the cookies. “What isn't?” she asked like she hadn’t a clue.
“Commoner holiday or not, I think it’d be fun to dress up as some scary creature and wander door to door,” he informed, as if it were her fault he’d never been able to go.
Her laugh was like little bells. Too clear and musical to be real. But it was.
“I think your interest is in the copious amounts of sweets, yes?”
“Maybe,” Kieran hedged. “But that's only one aspect of it Azriel said. There are other ways to celebrate, too.” One hand lifted, scrubbing the flour from his cheek that she’d left behind.
“Which is where the raking leaves come in.” Only she didn’t say it as a question.
Kieran grinned. “That and the yams!”
Aislin inclined her head. She scraped the last out of the dough out of the bowl and formed a neat ball with it.
“Ah.” She made a noncommittal noise. “Baked under burning leaves, yes?”
He smacked his lips, recalling the taste. They'd been a little burnt by the time Azriel had extracted himself from Kieran's pathetic attempts at wrestling and gathered the scattered leaves back into a neat pile. They'd still tasted good though, warm and fresh, unlike anything Kieran could remember eating. It’d been an experience, tossing the hot sweet potato between his hands while waiting for it to cool enough to eat.
He leaned his elbow on the counter, propping his chin on his palm in happy remembrance. His stomach growled as it remembered, too.
“I never even thought of that before.”
Aislin smiled. She turned to place the finished cookies in the oven – an Azura designed structure crafted entirely of stone with a banked flame at the bottom.
“This Azriel...” she began with a vague hint of hesitation, “is he a commoner, son?”
“No.” Kieran shifted on the stool. “He's... uh...” He racked his brain for an explanation better than the crude one that Lyra and Yonah had given him, which even now sounded vulgar to him. “His mother is Neorah Hadley.”
Understanding lit blue eyes as Aislin waved a hand. Her fingers encouraged the flames in the oven to burn steadily and evenly. Fire always listened to whatever she asked of it.
“I know Neorah very well,” his mother said then. “Yet, I didn't even realize her son was old enough to attend Conservatory.”
“He's graduating this year,” Kieran informed as he processed that revelation.
“I suppose that does make sense. Your late uncle went to school with Neorah.” Aislin wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the mostly empty bowl, pushing it his direction alongside the spoon. Her voice turned thoughtful then. “I haven't spoken to her in many years though.”
“Oh?” Kieran eagerly licked the spoon, loving the taste of unbaked dough even more than the finished product. “Were you friends?”
“She was there to help me deliver you,” Aislin answered, lifting the apron from her neck and folding it into a neat pile. Their servants would clean the dishes later. “I remember her specifically because she was the only one who dared order Marduk from the room.”
Kieran nearly choked on a piece of sugary dough. “Father? Really? Why?”
“He was being a nuisance,” Aislin said mischievously, nose scrunching in the way it always did when she was truly amused, but even with that and the stray streaks of flour, she still looked perfectly put-together. “Constantly underfoot.”
He tried to picture his father acting aflutter, and Kieran's brain died by just a fraction. Perhaps it was more that Marduk was interested in the scientific process? Or maybe the blood made him nervous?
Kieran shook his head. “I'll bet he didn't like that.”
“Not one bit. Yet, after one solid look from Neorah, he beat a hasty retreat.” Aislin chuckled, watching fondly as her son scraped out the last of the dough and handed her back the empty bowl. “I think that is the only time I can recall Marduk backing down.”
“I wish I could’ve seen it,” Kieran said wistfully.
It was hard for him to imagine Marduk bending to anything, much less obeying someone other than High Lord Wyndham or His Kingship. His father was like a chunk of glacial rock, impenetrable and frozen. He couldn’t even remember seeing the man truly smile before.
Sometimes, he wondered how someone as bright as his mother could agree to marry Marduk; they seemed like such opposites. But then, most matches with the nobles were arranged by their families, so he shouldn’t be too surprised.
“It was a rare sight,” Aislin agreed and rounded the counter, choosing the seat next to Kieran and pulling herself into it gracefully.
She was looking tired again, Kieran noticed now. Her proximity brought to light the pinching around her eyes and the pale cast to her skin. His mother was always pale, but some days were worse than others. Aislin had never been in the best of health, and that worried Kieran often.
“Mama, could I bring Azriel here?” Kieran asked.
He'd met Neorah, after all, and now, he wanted his friend to meet Aislin. He had the feeling they'd get along famously. They seemed well-matched. Quiet but so very bright underneath.
And he didn't particularly care what Marduk thought about that matter. Surely, his father would be impressed by Azriel's intelligence and marks in Conservatory though. Still, it was better to ask first. Kieran didn't want Azriel to end up in an uncomfortable situation, no matter how much the other boy was used to it.
“If you'd like.” Aislin reached out, taking his hand. “Your friends are welcome here at any time. Just be prepared for the possible backlash.”
Kieran frowned. “Backlash?”
The smell of warm cinnamon filled the air as Aislin smiled at him, a gentle curve of her lips. She never grinned outright; it just wasn’t her nature. But that didn’t mean she felt it any less.
“You should know by now his background,” she reminded him gently. “If others see that you are friendly with him, they may start ostracizing you as well.”
“May?” Kieran snorted, but it was directed toward others and not his mother. “They already have, but I don't care.” His jaw set stubbornly. “I'm not going to abandon Azriel or even Souya because a couple of nobles don't like them.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
Aislin patted his hand again and slipped out of her stool as smoothly as a wisp of cloud. She moved around the counter to cheek on her cookies, which were already browning perfectly. Kieran's mouth watered at the delicious smell. He could hardly wait to taste one and bring some for Azriel to have during lunch tomorrow. Maybe, if Kieran was feeling charitable, he'd even share with the others. They’d have to be extra nice to him though. Not just anyone got some of his mama’s treats.
“Now then, how about some cookies?” Aislin asked, deftly canceling the fire with a flick of her fingers.
Kieran cheered.
o0o0o
“Why did you bring up Samhain?”
Neorah's brow crinkled as she handed her son another dish to be dried and put away. It was an innocent look, one that she had perfected. One that she seemed to share with Kieran.
“What do you mean?” she asked like she hadn’t a clue what he meant.
Azriel sighed. “You knew Kieran is an Azura – is a high noble in fact. And yet, you said it anyway.”
Water splashed as Neorah paused in the middle of scrubbing a plate. “Kieran is the first friend you’ve ever brought home. He’s your first friend, Azriel.” Her eyes were too shrewd and knowing as she looked at him. “As much as it pains me to admit, you can't deny it. I trust him.”
He swiped a towel over the mug she’d handed him. The gnawing uncertainty in his belly was desperate to be assuaged.
“It was a risk,” he insisted. “It was dangerous.”
Neorah smiled softly. “It turned out for the better, didn't it?” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you saying you don't trust him?”
Frustration sat heavily on Azriel's shoulders as he glanced away. “I don't know,” he confessed.
His mother patted him on the cheek, leaving a soapy residue behind. “That's something you need to sort out for yourself then. All I know, dear heart, is that boy doesn't treat you like everyone else. I don't believe he would betray you. I rather think he likes you. Though I can’t imagine why.”
Azriel frowned, scrubbing his sleeve over his cheek to remove the bubbles tickling at his skin. But he didn’t rise to the bait of her teasing.
“What if you're wrong?” he questioned.
“What if I'm right?” she countered.
Azriel fought not to make a face. Sometimes, his mother could be quite infuriating. So could both his uncles for that matter.
He felt his eye twitch.
Neorah picked up the last few of the dirty dishes and started to scrub. She was still smiling, too.
“Tell me this, dear,” she began a moment later. “Would you have invited him over here if you thought he’d turn on you at a moment's notice?”
Azriel chewed the inside of his cheek. “...No,” he admitted.
She hummed and handed him a clean pan. “Then what are you so worried about? Or is it that you don't trust your own judgment?”
Azriel's shoulders slumped. His increasingly damp towel wiped away all traces of moisture before he crouched to place the pan in a cabinet with the others.
“I don't know how to react around him.” He purposefully kept his face hidden. “Kieran is... different.”
“That's the way it is with the Azura,” Neorah said with a chuckle, handing him the last plate as he straightened. “Even so, Kieran does strike me as unique in his own right.”
Recalling the unsettling dive Azriel had taken into the pile of leaves, he had to agree. He probably still had bits of leaves in her hair.
“You're telling me,” he muttered. “I can't tell what he's thinking half the time,” Azriel added, gaze shifting to the side. “Oh, sure. It seems obvious, but I know there's more beneath the surface. He's always scheming.”
Neorah made an amused noise in her throat. “He probably says the same thing about you, dearest.” She grabbed a towel to dry off her hands. “You're not exactly an open book.”
Azriel's gaze fell away. Open books were too easily read, too easily torn apart, ripped to shreds, and abandoned. Azriel much preferred to be an old and locked tome hidden away in the dusty forgotten floor of a library. One that fell behind the bookshelf and hadn't been viewed in decades. It was safer that way.
Until Kieran came along, that was.
Kieran was the sort who searched the damn library top to bottom, tidying up as he went or making an even bigger mess at times. He lifted tables, righted chairs, restored books to shelves and dutifully opened each and every one, no key required. As if the lock had never existed in the first place. The poor book never had a chance.
It was as frustrating as it was relieving. Azriel still didn't know what to do with that.
“There are reasons for that,” he finally said, voice very quiet. He dutifully hung his towel back on the rack, stretched out so that it’d completely dry by the next time it needed to be used.
“I know.” His mother's voice was equally soft, and he could hear the regret as clearly as he could her sorrow. “And if I could change things, I would. In a heartbeat.”
If she could make Asher Celestine acknowledge them. If she could make the gossipmongers keep their tongues still. If she could make the anguish and heartache and years of torment from other children evaporate away. Neorah would do all of that. The only thing she wouldn’t do was change her mind about having him. As much as it hurt, she’d always made it known that he was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
However, there was nothing Neorah could do. Nothing she could change. Nothing save be a strong and silent support.
Azriel knew that. Knew that it’d been equally as hard on her as on him. That was why he tried to lighten the burden as much as possible. Of course, he hadn't made it easy on her by insisting on attending Conservatory and seeking a future position in the Skyla. It would’ve perhaps been better if they’d just packed up and moved to Moriarty. If they’d found work there. But for better or worse, Grayshire was their home.
“I don't want things to change,” Azriel said, and if it was a bit of a white lie, no one needed to know. “We are fine as we are.”
Sure, Azriel wouldn't mind losing the stares and the rumors and the higher tuition. But if it meant crawling to his so-called father or surrendering their pride, Azriel would rather stab himself in the eye. He’d rather be poor and in the streets than ever go begging to that man.
They didn't need Asher Celestine. They didn’t need him or his money. They hadn't in the past. They didn't now. They wouldn't in the future. Azriel was certain of that.
Neorah's eyes brightened. “Of course, we are.”
She drew him into an embrace, one that was growing more awkward at the same rate as Azriel's increase in height. But he wouldn’t have it any other way, embarrassing or not.
Neorah stepped back a minute later. “Now,” she inserted, “why don't you go visit Manah before it gets too late, hmm?”
Azriel glanced toward the window. The haze of twilight was just visible beyond the sheer curtains. But it was the perfect time to slip out and away.
“Do we have any more of the honey oats left?” he asked, moving to search the cabinet above the sink.
“We should,” his mother answered absently, flicking her fingers through her hair as she quickly twisted it up and out of the way. “Don't be too late, Azriel. You don't need to give anyone a reason to be suspicious.”
Azriel had to fight to conceal his smirk. “Yes, mother. I know,” he said and then spotted the small wicker basket that served as storage for the special sweet treats he knew Manah loved.
He selected a few of the small rolls of mixed oats and honey and wrapped them carefully in cloth. After bidding his mother goodbye and again agreeing to return at a decent hour, Azriel slipped out of his house and into the dimly lit streets. The moon was already half-risen in the sky, battling with the lingering sun for the chance to provide illumination. A chill had settled in the air, and Azriel pulled his long coat tighter around himself, glad that he'd thought enough to bring it.
‘Manah will be angry with me,’ Azriel thought.
It had been almost two weeks since he'd had opportunity to sneak out of Meropis and into the forest. Leaving the city wasn't against the rules by any means, but Azriel knew that rules for him weren't necessarily the same. There were many who'd use any excuse to expel him from the Conservatory, Holmes included. The grizzled teacher had always acted as if Azriel's very existence offended him. It probably did.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Azriel made no eye contact as he moved through the rapidly emptying streets, heading for the west gate out of the city. Luckily, no one paid him any attention, and Azriel slipped into the cool confines of the blackwood trees without any fuss. He didn't breathe a sigh of relief until he was out of sight of the gates and felt a weight lift from his shoulders.
There was an unexpected freedom here in the forest, surrounded by the trees, crickets, and the rustle of leaves beneath his feet. Azriel followed a nonexistent path that he’d long since committed to memory from the moment he first met Manah two years ago. This knowledge demanded secrecy. For while leaving Meropis broke no rules, conversing and making friends with a forest spirit was certainly punishable by imprisonment or death. Whichever the Dryden decided suited the crime best. Neorah's warning to be careful was not just a mother's worry for her son's safety; it was a legitimate risk.
Despite the darkness, Azriel easily found the enclosed marsh, completely surrounded by blackwoods and the thick scent of wet vegetation. The subtle trickle of the river floated to Azriel's ears, but more than that was the quiet splashing and the soft pulse of familiar aether. He felt his lips widen into a grin as he ducked under an overhang of drooping moss and wet ground squelched beneath his boots.
“Manah?”
A gleam of white appeared in the corner of his sight, and Azriel turned to see Manah approaching gracefully through the ankle-high still water. The paleness of her feathers was unmistakable, as was the mask of crimson that stretched from her bill and behind her yellow eyes. She was one of the most beautiful and graceful creatures Azriel had the pleasure of meeting. No human woman, save perhaps his mother, could even think to compare.
“I am here, dear heart,” Manah said softly, voice a flute-like and musical trill. Aether rose and fell around them, enveloping Azriel like a familiar blanket. “And I must say, it has taken you long enough.”
Azriel ducked his head. “My apologies,” he said and scooped the barley-honey rolls from his pocket, holding them out to her as she came closer. “But perhaps these may serve to assuage your anger?”
Her feathers ruffled as she dipped her head to take the first treat. “Only a smidgeon,” she allowed and delicately ate a roll. “You do spoil me, my dearest.”
“If that were true, then I would’ve found time to visit sooner,” Azriel corrected and dared stroke a hand over her head.
A lovely gold eye swiveled toward him, filled with a gleam of intelligence. “You’ve an excuse, I wager?”
“Merely an explanation.” Azriel folded his arms into his sleeves, the chill of the dark marsh nipping at him. “Both Conservatory and a new... acquaintance have been occupying my attention.”
“Acquaintance?” Manah cocked her head in a very bird-like fashion. “Is this the Kieran that you spoke of?”
Had Azriel really been talking about Kieran that much?
Heat threatened to steal into his cheeks, but Azriel pushed it down. There was nothing to be so embarrassed about.
“He's quite firmly refused to take no for an answer.”
Manah laughed, a melodic sound that echoed softly in the quiet. “You say that as if his determination to become your friend is a punishment and not a gift.” She nudged him and wrapped a wing over his shoulder like a feathery cloak. “I should one day like to meet this Kieran. He sounds like quite the charmer.”
“The chances of that are slim,” Azriel put in, but it wasn’t snide. Merely a statement of fact. “He's noble. A high one.”
“And?”
Manah's head tilted to the side quizzically. She, like many others of her kind, didn’t understand the human eccentricities that were divisions of class. She was aware that Azriel's tie with her was rare. Every spirit knew the stories, knew that humans had abandoned their alliance centuries, maybe even millennia, past. Manah even understood that Azriel's presence in this marsh, at her side, was a risk to his life for every visit.
But she couldn't comprehend why the humans would dismiss the spirits in the first place. Just like she couldn't understand why Azriel was treated the way he was. Spirits didn’t get married; they didn’t have illegitimate children. They hardly had children at all, and each one was celebrated by the entire group.
Azriel sighed, giving his familiar a fond smile. “And I can't be certain he’ll understand.” He paused, contemplating. “He took honoring Samhain well enough, but this is several steps closer to treason than playing at a commoner holiday. This is… It’s taboo. Forbidden. He didn’t have someone like my mother raise him. He didn’t have someone who taught him to question everything and search for his own answers.”
Manah’s feathers ruffled against his shirt. She was warm beside him. Warm and real and so very beautiful in the moonlight. His mother might’ve said that Kieran was his first friend, but that wasn’t quite true. Manah had been there long before Kieran had even thought to show up, and she deserved to have that truth acknowledged. Kieran might be his first human friend, but Manah was altogether something more. She knew that, but somehow, it seemed like she was a bit too eager to make room for another.
“Perhaps if you gave him the chance...” she began.
“Small steps, my dear. Small steps,” Azriel replied.
But he did wonder why both females in his life seemed eager to thrust him into a deeper friendship with Kieran. By the gods, if his uncles started encouraging things as well, Azriel feared he would’ve to admit that the fates were indeed against him.
And really, did he seem that lonely? He had his studies. He had his mother and Manah and his uncles. Why did he need anyone else?
Manah chuckled and shifted in the water with hardly a splash. “I understand, dear heart. I will not press.” Her bill rubbed against his free shoulder. “Shall we move on then?”
He was ridiculously grateful for the reprieve. “Have you more stories for me?” he posed.
“Not quite.” An interesting gleam rose in yellow irises then. “Your aether manipulation is progressing well, but a little more practice never hurt anyone.”
No, it didn't. Azriel tried in vain to quell his excitement. This was something the Conservatory would never teach him. It touched too closely to natural magic, to that which the spirits embraced. It was too close to real, if such a description even made sense, and Azriel could only practice it here. In the forest. With no one around to read his aether.
Besides, he was sorely out of practice.
He unfolded his arms, flexing his fingers in the damp chill of the marsh. “You'll see no argument from me.”
He was convinced that if a bird's bill could form a smile, Manah would be grinning at him. Her mirth was limited only by what her avian body allowed.
“I thought so,” she murmured in his ear then. “Close your eyes.”
Azriel obeyed, knowing well enough that it was easier to concentrate if he focused. He let his arms dangle at his sides, let his breathing become slow and even. His senses expanded, the details coming into sharp clarity.
The trickles of the river, a quiet but continuous burble. The flow of wind through the trees, branches swaying and creaking. The earthy smell of damp vegetation and nutrient-rich soil. The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, slow and steady. Manah’s warmth still pressed against him, each feather like a caress of heat. A breath of air puffed across his cheeks, slightly chilled, but no longer enough to make him uncomfortable. Azriel could feel it, the potential in the atmosphere, coiling at the tips of his fingers.
There was a reason his chosen element was air. Not just because it seemed to respond well to him. Not quite as stubborn as fire or as contrary as earth. But because it was Manah's element, and her gift to him was a stronger affinity. She was the reason he was so very good at barriers, and there were many times Azriel wished he could tell the world his secret. Manah certainly deserved the praise.
“Breathe, love. Breathe.”
Manah's voice was soft but commanding, a quiet lilt on the edge of Azriel's senses. She was circling him now, but he could make out her footfalls as shifts in the air. Miniscule adjustments that made the water ripple before each leg even moved and tugged his clothes around him.
His fingers twitched again.
Air, to him, always felt like tiny waves of motion. As though it were invisible, intangible water. It flowed, always forward, unlike a tide which had a retreat. Air didn’t back away or recede. It pressed on, carrying the past and urging toward the future.
Manah said that the elements were different for each person. It all depended on personality. For someone else, air might feel more like strings stretching in all directions, bending to a magic-user's will with a single tug on invisible threads. She’d said that centuries ago, her human had described air to her like that.
“How does it move, Azriel?”
She wasn't seeking a verbal answer; Azriel knew that much. He lifted his hands, moving them smoothly, mimicking the currents he could feel dancing at his fingertips. His feet slid across the murky-ground carefully, turning his body to follow the motion of the wind.
Manah's approval seemed to radiate in waves around them both. He didn’t need to see her to know that she was happy.
“Very good,” she murmured, and he could feel her aether surrounding her body like a summer cloak.
Azriel's own was much the same, and he gradually let it uncoil. Let it join the flow of the breeze around him, until it felt as if air and mana were joined. He didn't open his eyes, unwilling to break the bond, and a small thrill grew in his belly. This was much better than the command they tried to shove into the minds of the students at the Conservatory.
This was working with the element, as opposed to demanding from it. This was the way magic was meant to be.
It felt like a dance. His boots easily glided over the water-soaked soil. His hands swept through the air, following the currents, and he guided himself around obstacles even without seeing them. He didn't need his eyes; he could feel the flow of the wind, how it changed when it approached a bush or a log or even Manah herself. The crane was just behind him at an angle, and she moved to stay in his blind spot no matter which turn he took.
“Now open your eyes.”
Azriel braced himself. This was always the hardest part.
He could see the flow of the wind so clearly in his mind’s eye. He could touch it with his fingers and feel it blending with his aether. He could coax the air so gently, so easily.
But carrying that over into something visible was a technique Azriel hadn’t yet mastered. He knew that if could manage such a thing, no human would be able to rival him in control of his element. Not even one of the high lords in their lofty towers.
He licked his lips, resisting the urge to hold his breath in anticipation. A steady calm was needed, and Azriel kept moving, kept his hands gliding along with the flows. His fingers were starting to feel chilly, but he ignored that. He could do this; he was certain of it.
Azriel opened his eyes slowly, clinging to the mental image of the wind in motion, of the constantly flowing airstream. Hopefulness coiled in his belly, and his mana trembled inside of him.
It was dark, save for the streams of moonlight filtering through the canopy, but that shouldn't have meant anything. He still should have been able to see the currents, overlying the physical world.
He didn’t.
Disappointment surged to the forefront, and Azriel stilled, losing his grasp on his element. It was like stirring something in a bowl and suddenly withdrawing the spoon. For a short moment, the liquid continued to swirl on its own before losing its momentum and coming to a halt.
His aether snapped back into himself as Azriel's arms lowered.
“Do not look so defeated, dear heart,” Manah murmured then as she came into view. She ruffled her feathers, highlighting the black on her wing tips. “You are progressing so nicely.”
“I should be able to see them by now,” Azriel replied, frustrated with himself. “It's been a year.”
Manah brushed against him. A soft chuckle trilled from her throat. She always found him so funny.
“And you think you only need that long?” she questioned with amusement. “My dear one, you are quite optimistic.”
She was teasing him. Something that Azriel noticed as he lifted a hand to brush down the crown of her head just the way she liked best.
“Are you saying it's impossible?” he countered, but it wasn’t bitter. Just disappointed.
He should be better than this. Manah wasn’t a poor teacher. He was just a terrible student.
“No.” She shook her impressive head. “Just improbable. It took my last student a decade, though you are progressing much faster than she.”
That was both promising and disheartening. Azriel didn’t intend to spend a decade mastering this. He would learn it by graduation, so help him Diana. He would not accept anything less.
He owed Manah that much. He owed her everything.
****
a/n: More bonding, more cuteness, slowly a friendship is born. *grins* As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. See you April 1st when we have the next update!
Title: The Break of Day
Series: Infinity's End, Prequel
Summary: A friendship that takes everyone by surprise slowly evolves into a deeper bond as Azriel, illegitimate son of the house Celestine, and Kieran, heir to the house Azura, throw themselves into the heart of a building altercation that explodes into an all out revolution.
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20)
Series: Infinity's End, Prequel
Summary: A friendship that takes everyone by surprise slowly evolves into a deeper bond as Azriel, illegitimate son of the house Celestine, and Kieran, heir to the house Azura, throw themselves into the heart of a building altercation that explodes into an all out revolution.
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20)
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Part One: Chapter Five
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Part One: Chapter Five
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October 31st, 1978 (continued)
“Master Kieran, welcome home.”
Kassar, their butler, bowed as Kieran moved past him into the foyer of the Azura manor. The teen gave a nod, barely fighting back a yawn. Kassar simply closed the door and took Kieran's bag, giving him room to stretch his arms over his head.
“Where's my mother?” the boy asked with the hopes he could avoid his father at all costs.
“In the kitchens,” Kassar answered, also taking Kieran's overrobe as he pulled it off. “Master Marduk was looking for you earlier. May I suggest that you find him?”
“Maybe later,” Kieran said with a dismissing shrug and grinned at Kassar. “So let's not tell him I'm home, shall we?”
The butler merely inclined his head. “As you wish.”
That settled, Kassar bowed and took off with Kieran's things, taking one to be cleaned and the other to his room. Kieran, however, made a beeline for the kitchen, one of the few places he knew his father wouldn't try looking for him. Besides, if he was with his mother, Marduk couldn't and wouldn't complain.
Kieran hurried to the kitchens, passing first through the huge foyer with the double staircase leading upstairs and then the spacious dining room with a table too large for a family of three. He pushed open the swinging door, expecting to find himself swept away by the hustle and bustle of a kitchen in hurried preparation for the evening meal.
Instead, he found a relatively low key atmosphere where Iris was stirring a pot over an open fire – stew tonight perhaps. His mother stood at another counter, pouring ingredients into a large mixing bowl. She had an apron on over her expensive dress, and her long blonde hair was pulled into many twists and knots then piled on top of her head.
She looked up at the sound of the door swinging shut behind him, and her lips pulled into a smile. “And why were you out so late, young man?” she asked, the words chastising but her tone a teasing lilt. His mother wasn't honestly angry with him.
“I was with a friend,” Kieran answered as he strode further into the kitchen and pulled a stool up to the long counter. “I told you that I’d be out until late,” he reminded her and swung himself up, tossing a wave to Iris.
Aislin cracked a few eggs as she thought. “Miss Dryden? Or that common boy?” She paused. “What was his name? Toran? Tegan?”
“Nope.” Kieran grinned and watched as his mother also added sugar and flour to the bowl. “I was with Azriel.”
She tilted her head to the side, a stray curl falling across her forehead. “Yes, you've mentioned him once or twice,” she said, flicking her spoon around. “Your father was looking for you.”
Kieran wrinkled his nose, frantically changing the subject. The last thing he wanted to have was a conversation with his father.
“What are you making? Can I help?”
“You can watch,” Aislin said with a gentle smile. She was well aware of her son's lack of ability in the kitchen. “And I'll let you have the bowl when I'm done.”
He leaned over the counter and peered hopefully into the bowl. “Are they snickerdoodles?” he asked, even drooling a little in anticipation.
Aislin chuckled. “Yes, dear.” She leaned over to grab a long, flat plan from a shelf and pull a spoon out of a drawer. “And what exactly have you been up to? You're filthy.”
Kieran looked down at himself, for the first time noticing the leaf bits that clung to his uniform. “Raking leaves,” he answered absently, though Azriel had done all the work and all Kieran had done was help him destroy it.
Aislin arched a brow, confused. But that was until understanding cascaded over her delicate features.
“Ah. For Samhain.”
He blinked in surprise. “You know what it is?”
“Of course, I do.” Aislin reached for a bowl and dropped bits of her dough into it, rolling them through a mix of cinnamon and sugar. “Just because His Lordship no longer recognizes the end of harvest doesn't mean we have lost the knowledge of it,” she replied, but her voice was much quieter, as though she didn't even want Iris to hear her.
Luckily, their chef was distracted by her bubbling stew pot. She hadn’t even looked up since Kieran had waved.
Kieran's lips formed into a moue that was decidedly not a pout. It wasn’t!
“How come I never heard about it before then?” he demanded, disappointed that he hadn't been allowed to take part in the festivities that sounded like such fun.
“They still celebrate it in Moriarty,” Aislin answered, carefully lining her cinnamon-rolled cookies onto the pan. “It's considered a commoner holiday, Kieran. But they've since removed the traditional aspects of it. Especially those who honor the spirits of the forest, their heathen gods.”
“You mean the old gods?” Kieran remembered Azriel talking about them briefly and then quickly changing the subject as though afraid of the consequences.
Eyes turned thoughtfully toward him, and his mother's hands paused in the midst of rolling more dough. There was something to her face. Something hidden and shade and just a bit frightening.
“I do,” she allowed. “But, Kieran, it is better not to speak of them. We are Azura, and certain things can be ignored due to our eccentricities, but we still cannot treat the spirits as anything more than the demons His Lordship has claimed them to be. After all, if He says so, it must be true.”
But the last part echoed especially hollowed. Just lip service like it’d always been. Aislin wasn’t an Azura by birth, but she was by mindset.
Kieran leaned closer, elbows on the counter. “You don't believe that. Do you, Mama?” he asked, voice as soft as he could manage.
She gave him a searching look. “What I believe and what I am told to know are two different things, my dear.” Aislin patted his cheek with a sugar and flour dusted hand. “You'll come to learn this yourself.”
He sat back with a sulk. And no, he still wasn’t pouting damn it!
“It's still not fair.”
Nimble hands returned to deftly rolling the cookies. “What isn't?” she asked like she hadn’t a clue.
“Commoner holiday or not, I think it’d be fun to dress up as some scary creature and wander door to door,” he informed, as if it were her fault he’d never been able to go.
Her laugh was like little bells. Too clear and musical to be real. But it was.
“I think your interest is in the copious amounts of sweets, yes?”
“Maybe,” Kieran hedged. “But that's only one aspect of it Azriel said. There are other ways to celebrate, too.” One hand lifted, scrubbing the flour from his cheek that she’d left behind.
“Which is where the raking leaves come in.” Only she didn’t say it as a question.
Kieran grinned. “That and the yams!”
Aislin inclined her head. She scraped the last out of the dough out of the bowl and formed a neat ball with it.
“Ah.” She made a noncommittal noise. “Baked under burning leaves, yes?”
He smacked his lips, recalling the taste. They'd been a little burnt by the time Azriel had extracted himself from Kieran's pathetic attempts at wrestling and gathered the scattered leaves back into a neat pile. They'd still tasted good though, warm and fresh, unlike anything Kieran could remember eating. It’d been an experience, tossing the hot sweet potato between his hands while waiting for it to cool enough to eat.
He leaned his elbow on the counter, propping his chin on his palm in happy remembrance. His stomach growled as it remembered, too.
“I never even thought of that before.”
Aislin smiled. She turned to place the finished cookies in the oven – an Azura designed structure crafted entirely of stone with a banked flame at the bottom.
“This Azriel...” she began with a vague hint of hesitation, “is he a commoner, son?”
“No.” Kieran shifted on the stool. “He's... uh...” He racked his brain for an explanation better than the crude one that Lyra and Yonah had given him, which even now sounded vulgar to him. “His mother is Neorah Hadley.”
Understanding lit blue eyes as Aislin waved a hand. Her fingers encouraged the flames in the oven to burn steadily and evenly. Fire always listened to whatever she asked of it.
“I know Neorah very well,” his mother said then. “Yet, I didn't even realize her son was old enough to attend Conservatory.”
“He's graduating this year,” Kieran informed as he processed that revelation.
“I suppose that does make sense. Your late uncle went to school with Neorah.” Aislin wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the mostly empty bowl, pushing it his direction alongside the spoon. Her voice turned thoughtful then. “I haven't spoken to her in many years though.”
“Oh?” Kieran eagerly licked the spoon, loving the taste of unbaked dough even more than the finished product. “Were you friends?”
“She was there to help me deliver you,” Aislin answered, lifting the apron from her neck and folding it into a neat pile. Their servants would clean the dishes later. “I remember her specifically because she was the only one who dared order Marduk from the room.”
Kieran nearly choked on a piece of sugary dough. “Father? Really? Why?”
“He was being a nuisance,” Aislin said mischievously, nose scrunching in the way it always did when she was truly amused, but even with that and the stray streaks of flour, she still looked perfectly put-together. “Constantly underfoot.”
He tried to picture his father acting aflutter, and Kieran's brain died by just a fraction. Perhaps it was more that Marduk was interested in the scientific process? Or maybe the blood made him nervous?
Kieran shook his head. “I'll bet he didn't like that.”
“Not one bit. Yet, after one solid look from Neorah, he beat a hasty retreat.” Aislin chuckled, watching fondly as her son scraped out the last of the dough and handed her back the empty bowl. “I think that is the only time I can recall Marduk backing down.”
“I wish I could’ve seen it,” Kieran said wistfully.
It was hard for him to imagine Marduk bending to anything, much less obeying someone other than High Lord Wyndham or His Kingship. His father was like a chunk of glacial rock, impenetrable and frozen. He couldn’t even remember seeing the man truly smile before.
Sometimes, he wondered how someone as bright as his mother could agree to marry Marduk; they seemed like such opposites. But then, most matches with the nobles were arranged by their families, so he shouldn’t be too surprised.
“It was a rare sight,” Aislin agreed and rounded the counter, choosing the seat next to Kieran and pulling herself into it gracefully.
She was looking tired again, Kieran noticed now. Her proximity brought to light the pinching around her eyes and the pale cast to her skin. His mother was always pale, but some days were worse than others. Aislin had never been in the best of health, and that worried Kieran often.
“Mama, could I bring Azriel here?” Kieran asked.
He'd met Neorah, after all, and now, he wanted his friend to meet Aislin. He had the feeling they'd get along famously. They seemed well-matched. Quiet but so very bright underneath.
And he didn't particularly care what Marduk thought about that matter. Surely, his father would be impressed by Azriel's intelligence and marks in Conservatory though. Still, it was better to ask first. Kieran didn't want Azriel to end up in an uncomfortable situation, no matter how much the other boy was used to it.
“If you'd like.” Aislin reached out, taking his hand. “Your friends are welcome here at any time. Just be prepared for the possible backlash.”
Kieran frowned. “Backlash?”
The smell of warm cinnamon filled the air as Aislin smiled at him, a gentle curve of her lips. She never grinned outright; it just wasn’t her nature. But that didn’t mean she felt it any less.
“You should know by now his background,” she reminded him gently. “If others see that you are friendly with him, they may start ostracizing you as well.”
“May?” Kieran snorted, but it was directed toward others and not his mother. “They already have, but I don't care.” His jaw set stubbornly. “I'm not going to abandon Azriel or even Souya because a couple of nobles don't like them.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
Aislin patted his hand again and slipped out of her stool as smoothly as a wisp of cloud. She moved around the counter to cheek on her cookies, which were already browning perfectly. Kieran's mouth watered at the delicious smell. He could hardly wait to taste one and bring some for Azriel to have during lunch tomorrow. Maybe, if Kieran was feeling charitable, he'd even share with the others. They’d have to be extra nice to him though. Not just anyone got some of his mama’s treats.
“Now then, how about some cookies?” Aislin asked, deftly canceling the fire with a flick of her fingers.
Kieran cheered.
“Why did you bring up Samhain?”
Neorah's brow crinkled as she handed her son another dish to be dried and put away. It was an innocent look, one that she had perfected. One that she seemed to share with Kieran.
“What do you mean?” she asked like she hadn’t a clue what he meant.
Azriel sighed. “You knew Kieran is an Azura – is a high noble in fact. And yet, you said it anyway.”
Water splashed as Neorah paused in the middle of scrubbing a plate. “Kieran is the first friend you’ve ever brought home. He’s your first friend, Azriel.” Her eyes were too shrewd and knowing as she looked at him. “As much as it pains me to admit, you can't deny it. I trust him.”
He swiped a towel over the mug she’d handed him. The gnawing uncertainty in his belly was desperate to be assuaged.
“It was a risk,” he insisted. “It was dangerous.”
Neorah smiled softly. “It turned out for the better, didn't it?” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you saying you don't trust him?”
Frustration sat heavily on Azriel's shoulders as he glanced away. “I don't know,” he confessed.
His mother patted him on the cheek, leaving a soapy residue behind. “That's something you need to sort out for yourself then. All I know, dear heart, is that boy doesn't treat you like everyone else. I don't believe he would betray you. I rather think he likes you. Though I can’t imagine why.”
Azriel frowned, scrubbing his sleeve over his cheek to remove the bubbles tickling at his skin. But he didn’t rise to the bait of her teasing.
“What if you're wrong?” he questioned.
“What if I'm right?” she countered.
Azriel fought not to make a face. Sometimes, his mother could be quite infuriating. So could both his uncles for that matter.
He felt his eye twitch.
Neorah picked up the last few of the dirty dishes and started to scrub. She was still smiling, too.
“Tell me this, dear,” she began a moment later. “Would you have invited him over here if you thought he’d turn on you at a moment's notice?”
Azriel chewed the inside of his cheek. “...No,” he admitted.
She hummed and handed him a clean pan. “Then what are you so worried about? Or is it that you don't trust your own judgment?”
Azriel's shoulders slumped. His increasingly damp towel wiped away all traces of moisture before he crouched to place the pan in a cabinet with the others.
“I don't know how to react around him.” He purposefully kept his face hidden. “Kieran is... different.”
“That's the way it is with the Azura,” Neorah said with a chuckle, handing him the last plate as he straightened. “Even so, Kieran does strike me as unique in his own right.”
Recalling the unsettling dive Azriel had taken into the pile of leaves, he had to agree. He probably still had bits of leaves in her hair.
“You're telling me,” he muttered. “I can't tell what he's thinking half the time,” Azriel added, gaze shifting to the side. “Oh, sure. It seems obvious, but I know there's more beneath the surface. He's always scheming.”
Neorah made an amused noise in her throat. “He probably says the same thing about you, dearest.” She grabbed a towel to dry off her hands. “You're not exactly an open book.”
Azriel's gaze fell away. Open books were too easily read, too easily torn apart, ripped to shreds, and abandoned. Azriel much preferred to be an old and locked tome hidden away in the dusty forgotten floor of a library. One that fell behind the bookshelf and hadn't been viewed in decades. It was safer that way.
Until Kieran came along, that was.
Kieran was the sort who searched the damn library top to bottom, tidying up as he went or making an even bigger mess at times. He lifted tables, righted chairs, restored books to shelves and dutifully opened each and every one, no key required. As if the lock had never existed in the first place. The poor book never had a chance.
It was as frustrating as it was relieving. Azriel still didn't know what to do with that.
“There are reasons for that,” he finally said, voice very quiet. He dutifully hung his towel back on the rack, stretched out so that it’d completely dry by the next time it needed to be used.
“I know.” His mother's voice was equally soft, and he could hear the regret as clearly as he could her sorrow. “And if I could change things, I would. In a heartbeat.”
If she could make Asher Celestine acknowledge them. If she could make the gossipmongers keep their tongues still. If she could make the anguish and heartache and years of torment from other children evaporate away. Neorah would do all of that. The only thing she wouldn’t do was change her mind about having him. As much as it hurt, she’d always made it known that he was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
However, there was nothing Neorah could do. Nothing she could change. Nothing save be a strong and silent support.
Azriel knew that. Knew that it’d been equally as hard on her as on him. That was why he tried to lighten the burden as much as possible. Of course, he hadn't made it easy on her by insisting on attending Conservatory and seeking a future position in the Skyla. It would’ve perhaps been better if they’d just packed up and moved to Moriarty. If they’d found work there. But for better or worse, Grayshire was their home.
“I don't want things to change,” Azriel said, and if it was a bit of a white lie, no one needed to know. “We are fine as we are.”
Sure, Azriel wouldn't mind losing the stares and the rumors and the higher tuition. But if it meant crawling to his so-called father or surrendering their pride, Azriel would rather stab himself in the eye. He’d rather be poor and in the streets than ever go begging to that man.
They didn't need Asher Celestine. They didn’t need him or his money. They hadn't in the past. They didn't now. They wouldn't in the future. Azriel was certain of that.
Neorah's eyes brightened. “Of course, we are.”
She drew him into an embrace, one that was growing more awkward at the same rate as Azriel's increase in height. But he wouldn’t have it any other way, embarrassing or not.
Neorah stepped back a minute later. “Now,” she inserted, “why don't you go visit Manah before it gets too late, hmm?”
Azriel glanced toward the window. The haze of twilight was just visible beyond the sheer curtains. But it was the perfect time to slip out and away.
“Do we have any more of the honey oats left?” he asked, moving to search the cabinet above the sink.
“We should,” his mother answered absently, flicking her fingers through her hair as she quickly twisted it up and out of the way. “Don't be too late, Azriel. You don't need to give anyone a reason to be suspicious.”
Azriel had to fight to conceal his smirk. “Yes, mother. I know,” he said and then spotted the small wicker basket that served as storage for the special sweet treats he knew Manah loved.
He selected a few of the small rolls of mixed oats and honey and wrapped them carefully in cloth. After bidding his mother goodbye and again agreeing to return at a decent hour, Azriel slipped out of his house and into the dimly lit streets. The moon was already half-risen in the sky, battling with the lingering sun for the chance to provide illumination. A chill had settled in the air, and Azriel pulled his long coat tighter around himself, glad that he'd thought enough to bring it.
‘Manah will be angry with me,’ Azriel thought.
It had been almost two weeks since he'd had opportunity to sneak out of Meropis and into the forest. Leaving the city wasn't against the rules by any means, but Azriel knew that rules for him weren't necessarily the same. There were many who'd use any excuse to expel him from the Conservatory, Holmes included. The grizzled teacher had always acted as if Azriel's very existence offended him. It probably did.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Azriel made no eye contact as he moved through the rapidly emptying streets, heading for the west gate out of the city. Luckily, no one paid him any attention, and Azriel slipped into the cool confines of the blackwood trees without any fuss. He didn't breathe a sigh of relief until he was out of sight of the gates and felt a weight lift from his shoulders.
There was an unexpected freedom here in the forest, surrounded by the trees, crickets, and the rustle of leaves beneath his feet. Azriel followed a nonexistent path that he’d long since committed to memory from the moment he first met Manah two years ago. This knowledge demanded secrecy. For while leaving Meropis broke no rules, conversing and making friends with a forest spirit was certainly punishable by imprisonment or death. Whichever the Dryden decided suited the crime best. Neorah's warning to be careful was not just a mother's worry for her son's safety; it was a legitimate risk.
Despite the darkness, Azriel easily found the enclosed marsh, completely surrounded by blackwoods and the thick scent of wet vegetation. The subtle trickle of the river floated to Azriel's ears, but more than that was the quiet splashing and the soft pulse of familiar aether. He felt his lips widen into a grin as he ducked under an overhang of drooping moss and wet ground squelched beneath his boots.
“Manah?”
A gleam of white appeared in the corner of his sight, and Azriel turned to see Manah approaching gracefully through the ankle-high still water. The paleness of her feathers was unmistakable, as was the mask of crimson that stretched from her bill and behind her yellow eyes. She was one of the most beautiful and graceful creatures Azriel had the pleasure of meeting. No human woman, save perhaps his mother, could even think to compare.
“I am here, dear heart,” Manah said softly, voice a flute-like and musical trill. Aether rose and fell around them, enveloping Azriel like a familiar blanket. “And I must say, it has taken you long enough.”
Azriel ducked his head. “My apologies,” he said and scooped the barley-honey rolls from his pocket, holding them out to her as she came closer. “But perhaps these may serve to assuage your anger?”
Her feathers ruffled as she dipped her head to take the first treat. “Only a smidgeon,” she allowed and delicately ate a roll. “You do spoil me, my dearest.”
“If that were true, then I would’ve found time to visit sooner,” Azriel corrected and dared stroke a hand over her head.
A lovely gold eye swiveled toward him, filled with a gleam of intelligence. “You’ve an excuse, I wager?”
“Merely an explanation.” Azriel folded his arms into his sleeves, the chill of the dark marsh nipping at him. “Both Conservatory and a new... acquaintance have been occupying my attention.”
“Acquaintance?” Manah cocked her head in a very bird-like fashion. “Is this the Kieran that you spoke of?”
Had Azriel really been talking about Kieran that much?
Heat threatened to steal into his cheeks, but Azriel pushed it down. There was nothing to be so embarrassed about.
“He's quite firmly refused to take no for an answer.”
Manah laughed, a melodic sound that echoed softly in the quiet. “You say that as if his determination to become your friend is a punishment and not a gift.” She nudged him and wrapped a wing over his shoulder like a feathery cloak. “I should one day like to meet this Kieran. He sounds like quite the charmer.”
“The chances of that are slim,” Azriel put in, but it wasn’t snide. Merely a statement of fact. “He's noble. A high one.”
“And?”
Manah's head tilted to the side quizzically. She, like many others of her kind, didn’t understand the human eccentricities that were divisions of class. She was aware that Azriel's tie with her was rare. Every spirit knew the stories, knew that humans had abandoned their alliance centuries, maybe even millennia, past. Manah even understood that Azriel's presence in this marsh, at her side, was a risk to his life for every visit.
But she couldn't comprehend why the humans would dismiss the spirits in the first place. Just like she couldn't understand why Azriel was treated the way he was. Spirits didn’t get married; they didn’t have illegitimate children. They hardly had children at all, and each one was celebrated by the entire group.
Azriel sighed, giving his familiar a fond smile. “And I can't be certain he’ll understand.” He paused, contemplating. “He took honoring Samhain well enough, but this is several steps closer to treason than playing at a commoner holiday. This is… It’s taboo. Forbidden. He didn’t have someone like my mother raise him. He didn’t have someone who taught him to question everything and search for his own answers.”
Manah’s feathers ruffled against his shirt. She was warm beside him. Warm and real and so very beautiful in the moonlight. His mother might’ve said that Kieran was his first friend, but that wasn’t quite true. Manah had been there long before Kieran had even thought to show up, and she deserved to have that truth acknowledged. Kieran might be his first human friend, but Manah was altogether something more. She knew that, but somehow, it seemed like she was a bit too eager to make room for another.
“Perhaps if you gave him the chance...” she began.
“Small steps, my dear. Small steps,” Azriel replied.
But he did wonder why both females in his life seemed eager to thrust him into a deeper friendship with Kieran. By the gods, if his uncles started encouraging things as well, Azriel feared he would’ve to admit that the fates were indeed against him.
And really, did he seem that lonely? He had his studies. He had his mother and Manah and his uncles. Why did he need anyone else?
Manah chuckled and shifted in the water with hardly a splash. “I understand, dear heart. I will not press.” Her bill rubbed against his free shoulder. “Shall we move on then?”
He was ridiculously grateful for the reprieve. “Have you more stories for me?” he posed.
“Not quite.” An interesting gleam rose in yellow irises then. “Your aether manipulation is progressing well, but a little more practice never hurt anyone.”
No, it didn't. Azriel tried in vain to quell his excitement. This was something the Conservatory would never teach him. It touched too closely to natural magic, to that which the spirits embraced. It was too close to real, if such a description even made sense, and Azriel could only practice it here. In the forest. With no one around to read his aether.
Besides, he was sorely out of practice.
He unfolded his arms, flexing his fingers in the damp chill of the marsh. “You'll see no argument from me.”
He was convinced that if a bird's bill could form a smile, Manah would be grinning at him. Her mirth was limited only by what her avian body allowed.
“I thought so,” she murmured in his ear then. “Close your eyes.”
Azriel obeyed, knowing well enough that it was easier to concentrate if he focused. He let his arms dangle at his sides, let his breathing become slow and even. His senses expanded, the details coming into sharp clarity.
The trickles of the river, a quiet but continuous burble. The flow of wind through the trees, branches swaying and creaking. The earthy smell of damp vegetation and nutrient-rich soil. The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, slow and steady. Manah’s warmth still pressed against him, each feather like a caress of heat. A breath of air puffed across his cheeks, slightly chilled, but no longer enough to make him uncomfortable. Azriel could feel it, the potential in the atmosphere, coiling at the tips of his fingers.
There was a reason his chosen element was air. Not just because it seemed to respond well to him. Not quite as stubborn as fire or as contrary as earth. But because it was Manah's element, and her gift to him was a stronger affinity. She was the reason he was so very good at barriers, and there were many times Azriel wished he could tell the world his secret. Manah certainly deserved the praise.
“Breathe, love. Breathe.”
Manah's voice was soft but commanding, a quiet lilt on the edge of Azriel's senses. She was circling him now, but he could make out her footfalls as shifts in the air. Miniscule adjustments that made the water ripple before each leg even moved and tugged his clothes around him.
His fingers twitched again.
Air, to him, always felt like tiny waves of motion. As though it were invisible, intangible water. It flowed, always forward, unlike a tide which had a retreat. Air didn’t back away or recede. It pressed on, carrying the past and urging toward the future.
Manah said that the elements were different for each person. It all depended on personality. For someone else, air might feel more like strings stretching in all directions, bending to a magic-user's will with a single tug on invisible threads. She’d said that centuries ago, her human had described air to her like that.
“How does it move, Azriel?”
She wasn't seeking a verbal answer; Azriel knew that much. He lifted his hands, moving them smoothly, mimicking the currents he could feel dancing at his fingertips. His feet slid across the murky-ground carefully, turning his body to follow the motion of the wind.
Manah's approval seemed to radiate in waves around them both. He didn’t need to see her to know that she was happy.
“Very good,” she murmured, and he could feel her aether surrounding her body like a summer cloak.
Azriel's own was much the same, and he gradually let it uncoil. Let it join the flow of the breeze around him, until it felt as if air and mana were joined. He didn't open his eyes, unwilling to break the bond, and a small thrill grew in his belly. This was much better than the command they tried to shove into the minds of the students at the Conservatory.
This was working with the element, as opposed to demanding from it. This was the way magic was meant to be.
It felt like a dance. His boots easily glided over the water-soaked soil. His hands swept through the air, following the currents, and he guided himself around obstacles even without seeing them. He didn't need his eyes; he could feel the flow of the wind, how it changed when it approached a bush or a log or even Manah herself. The crane was just behind him at an angle, and she moved to stay in his blind spot no matter which turn he took.
“Now open your eyes.”
Azriel braced himself. This was always the hardest part.
He could see the flow of the wind so clearly in his mind’s eye. He could touch it with his fingers and feel it blending with his aether. He could coax the air so gently, so easily.
But carrying that over into something visible was a technique Azriel hadn’t yet mastered. He knew that if could manage such a thing, no human would be able to rival him in control of his element. Not even one of the high lords in their lofty towers.
He licked his lips, resisting the urge to hold his breath in anticipation. A steady calm was needed, and Azriel kept moving, kept his hands gliding along with the flows. His fingers were starting to feel chilly, but he ignored that. He could do this; he was certain of it.
Azriel opened his eyes slowly, clinging to the mental image of the wind in motion, of the constantly flowing airstream. Hopefulness coiled in his belly, and his mana trembled inside of him.
It was dark, save for the streams of moonlight filtering through the canopy, but that shouldn't have meant anything. He still should have been able to see the currents, overlying the physical world.
He didn’t.
Disappointment surged to the forefront, and Azriel stilled, losing his grasp on his element. It was like stirring something in a bowl and suddenly withdrawing the spoon. For a short moment, the liquid continued to swirl on its own before losing its momentum and coming to a halt.
His aether snapped back into himself as Azriel's arms lowered.
“Do not look so defeated, dear heart,” Manah murmured then as she came into view. She ruffled her feathers, highlighting the black on her wing tips. “You are progressing so nicely.”
“I should be able to see them by now,” Azriel replied, frustrated with himself. “It's been a year.”
Manah brushed against him. A soft chuckle trilled from her throat. She always found him so funny.
“And you think you only need that long?” she questioned with amusement. “My dear one, you are quite optimistic.”
She was teasing him. Something that Azriel noticed as he lifted a hand to brush down the crown of her head just the way she liked best.
“Are you saying it's impossible?” he countered, but it wasn’t bitter. Just disappointed.
He should be better than this. Manah wasn’t a poor teacher. He was just a terrible student.
“No.” She shook her impressive head. “Just improbable. It took my last student a decade, though you are progressing much faster than she.”
That was both promising and disheartening. Azriel didn’t intend to spend a decade mastering this. He would learn it by graduation, so help him Diana. He would not accept anything less.
He owed Manah that much. He owed her everything.
a/n: More bonding, more cuteness, slowly a friendship is born. *grins* As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. See you April 1st when we have the next update!
