Chapter Text
Virgil didn’t have a jacket.
Of course, he had a jacket in the sense that he owned one. It was thick and warm, and even practically intact. Virgil loved his jacket. But right now, he didn't have it.
He usually put it on his blanket at night, in the hope of improving its heat retention a bit. But when he got up this morning, just before sunrise, it was with cold feet. It had disappeared, and after a brief search (between the smallness of his room and the box spring on the floor that served as his bed, the hiding places where not plenty) he had resigned himself to do without. Which is why he had been all the more distraught when his parents had locked him outside the house, a few hours later.
Because, you see, Virgil was going to get married.
It was imminent, and he would have done anything to avoid having to think about it. But he had been freed from his chores this week, and since his parents didn't trust him to stay alone at home (we wouldn't want you to loot the pantry, would we?) and since he didn’t – wasn’t allowed to – go to school, here he was.
While wandering between the trees, the damp dead leaves on the ground making a squish sound as he progressed, he weighed the pros and cons of the sudden disappearance of his chores. The official reason was that it would give time (a week) for his hands, covered with calluses, blisters, burns and other inevitable consequences of manual labor, a chance to mellow before the wedding. And given (from what the tailor's daughter had told him with a smug satisfaction) that in his wedding tunic, hardly more than his hands would be visible, it mattered. There had to be a more practical reason, but no one had seen fit to let the most concerned person know.
Virgil had finally decided that taking a walk in the woods was well worth the loss of the endless work that came with autumn harvesting, mending, cooking and cleaning, not to mention the scolding, when it started to rain.
With a barely audible sigh, he chose the thickest balsam fir and crept as close to the trunk as he could without covering himself in pine gum. He wouldn't be able to remove it from his clothes (or even his skin) on his own, and such a blunder would certainly earn him a nasty beating. After all, the bruises would have time to fade before the wedding.
With a groan, Virgil let his head fall into his hands. The more he tried to ignore the thought of the marriage, the more it tormented him.
One would have thought that with all that his life currently involved, few prospects could worry him. In this case, it was the unknown that frightened him. Because not only was he being married against his will, it was with a complete stranger.
A stranger he really knew nothing about, he thought bitterly. In love, he didn’t care about gender, but they could’ve asked him for his preferences, or at least inform him of the choice that had been made for him.
And the icing on the (wedding) cake was that this mysterious person lived on a distant floating island, a quarter-globe from the spruce forest that was his home.
As if summoned by his concerns, Virgil's only true friends invaded his makeshift shelter in a rustle of black feathers. The young man smiled for the first time that day when the crows landed around and on top of him. The Stars knew his need for comfort was great.
It wouldn’t have been an overstatement to say that this whole arranged marriage affair had completely destroyed Virgil's life. In fact, it was the reason his only friends were a flock of birds, not even magical (but no less intelligent or caring).
The 200 or so nations residing on the floating islands that made up the Earth had set complicated systems in place to keep the peace. These measures were responsible for the dreaded armored airships not leaving their hangar for nearly 150 years. But they unfortunately included the practice of arranged marriage between nations.
Virgil had been a normal child until the age of six, when it had been decided that the Borealis Island should send a representative to live in Sylve-Terre, twelve years from now. Much to his misfortune, he had been chosen by the Elders, who had been "preparing" him for this great responsibility ever since.
In this case, "preparing" meant "learning to work, to obey and to be silent." And, even if no one had articulated it clearly (at least in his presence), it meant that no one would waste anything on him, only to see him go away a few years later. Which included, but was not limited to: an education, attachments, new clothes and, more recently, full meals.
"I can't really blame them," he said to the crow who was busy smoothing his hair with pecks of his long beak. “They all knew I was going to go away forever at 18. It would've simply been more painful if they'd gotten attached to me. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing, after all. Oh shit. I’ll miss you all.”
The crows stirred a bit at his distress, and Virgil gently picked up the elder, a crow older than Virgil himself, and one of the first generation of crows who had taken Virgil under their wing.
Smoothing her feathers with his least dirty hand, he wondered vaguely if there was any way to hide young crows in his luggage. The adults were as tall as the distance between his elbow and the tips of his fingers, and it would be cruel to separate chicks from their parents, but young, barely independent one that didn’t have a nest yet...
By this time, the water had finally dripped, from branch to needle, to the foot of the tree. But the downpour had also calmed down, so Virgil slipped from under his hiding place and resumed his walk, surrounded by a procession of birds, his hands slipped under his armpits to protect them from the cold.
Between the endless chores that awaited him at “home” and the kids his age who ignored him at best, the forest had soon become his sanctuary. He knew every nook and cranny of it, and it didn't take him long to reach the Big Birch. This gigantic tree grew right next to the crow's nests, and its broad horizontal branches (and the absence of sticky sap and needles) made it the perfect perch for a nimble young man. A tree of this size didn’t have any low branches, a problem Virgil had long since solved with the help of a makeshift ladder, a long stick marked with grips for the feet and hands, which he hid between the bright red branches of the dogwood. He grabbed a handful of white, sour and almost overripe berries, stuffed it into his mouth, and began to position his ladder, spitting out pits every now and then. With a few quick movements, he climbed onto a first branch, his ladder falling perfectly into its hiding place behind him. He didn't need it to come back down.
With well-practised movements, despite his hands being stiff with cold, he climbed between the yellow-green leaves, up to the nest of Soot and Snitch, whose tiny baby crows had just hatched. There, he let the waxy softness of the bark and the enthusiasm of the chicks distract him from his woes.
***
“It seems to me, my dear, that the word you are looking for is ‘lost’.”
Virgil froze.
The inhabitants of the village sometimes passed in this area, coming back from the river, though never so close. And anyway, even when they risked it, none had ever noticed Virgil in the summer, with the triangular leaves of the birch hiding him. No, what made his heartbeat faster was that he didn't recognize that voice.
"We make a great team of spies," replied a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Also, I am frozen solid.”
“You want a hug!” deduced a nasally voice.
“No! Argh. Let go of me.”
Virgil curled up more on his branch. They were coming from the direction of the Creek, a secluded enclave where you could land a small airship, if you were skilled enough and wanted to avoid the port.
“Not spies!” a thundering voice exclaimed. “We are scouts. The wedding is in a week, we need to have an idea what to expect!”
“Or who,” added the first voice, poise.
Virgil didn't know if he should’ve been reassured that they weren't invaders, worried that they were coming for him, or curious. When in doubt, he chooses to worry and do nothing.
But when had he ever had a choice?
It only took a few words, an "oh, berries!" form a cheerful voice, and the crows lashed out. They didn’t tolerate anyone approaching their nests (or their Virgil), and these people had apparently crossed the subjective line of "too close."
“Oh, calm down! Peace, my friends!” the same voice exclaimed. “We mean no harm; we are merely passing by.” Virgil nearly fell from his branch when the crows instantly calmed down, some climbing back up to their nests, others approaching the strangers curiously. How had he done that?
"Their nests must be up there," the cheerful voice assumed.
"They are," the sarcastic voice confirmed. “They’re protecting their babies. And a human, it looks like.”
Silence in the forest.
Sensing his anxiety, a crow landed next to him, his head tilted to the side in curiosity. Virgil put his finger to his lips.
“Hey,” a voice called. “Could you come down, please? We are a little lost.”
At least now the matter was settled. Virgil swung a leg over his branch and started to climb down. He was still scared, but after years of conditioning he was almost unable to ignore a direct order, even framed as a question. Besides, these people had talked about the wedding. Maybe they had information?
Or they were bandits, or Faes (even if there wasn't supposed to be any in Borealis) and they were going to kill him or kidnap him, and then he wouldn't have to worry anymore about the official abduction planned for the following week.
Sometimes Virgil hated his own mind.
Even when the shapes of five humanoids replaced the leaves in his peripheral vision, he kept his eyes fixed on the branches. Now was not the time to fall and break something.
At the last branch, he placed his feet on the two almost polished marks and jumped. A neat roll brought him back to his feet in one piece, covered in pine needles but unharmed. Well, for now.
“Wow!”
The man who had calmed the crows gazed at him in awe through thick, round glasses. He didn't look very threatening, with his freckles and short gray cape, but he was accompanied by four other humanoids, all those (handsome) young people standing in a semi-circle around Virgil, and the village was far. He backed up until his back hit the birch trunk.
“No need to worry, dear damsel!” the one with the loud voice called out. “We are humble travelers...”
" ’Humble’…”
“... Looking for information. O raven friend, would you be so kind as to...”
The man on the far left sighed. “May I suggest we introduce ourselves first?”
Eyes wide, Virgil mobilized all his brain activity to try and remember the names of the strangers. As much as possible, he gave himself mnemonic tricks.
The man in the cape was named Patton. He showed his serrated-shaped iris as he explained that he was an Empath. Watching him (trying to) control the others, Virgil decided he was a fatherly figure. Pat-ernal. But unlike his own father, he didn't seem able to hurt a black fly. In fact, with his halo of golden curls, he looked almost like an angel.
The sarcastic voice and thermal vision that had cost Virgil his hiding place belonged to a Naga who introduced himself as J, refusing to give the rest of his name despite Patton's protests. These two were the only ones to have a pale complexion similar to his. J like jasmine or jonquil, like the yellow scales that covered his tail and half his body, and like his slitted left eye. The sharp contrast to his black clothes (a capelet that fell to where his hips would be if he had some) reminded Virgil of the warning coloration of wasps. He resolved to stay away from him.
Next was Roman. Not only did he spoke louder than the others (and than strictly necessary), he was also taller and broader. The sword at his side didn't fail to spike Virgil’s anxiety, but he had charming manners (and a charming face) (thank you brain, that's the kind of feedback I need right now) and there was nothing but playfulness in his hazel eyes. Roman like romantic, in his richly embroidered red clothes.
The next character looked both exactly and not at all like Roman. Their identical features were marred (probably on purpose) by the mustache Remus wore, and the white streak in his hair, which identified him as a Changeling. He wore ragged, mismatched, messy clothes that would have earned Virgil a day of forced fasting, but their shades of green and brown camouflaged him very effectively, while Roman stood out in the forest like a raspberry against the foliage. R like Roman, and like Remus, who… Virgil wrinkled his nose. Who smelled of musk. Very strongly. Re-musk.
The reasonable person presented himself last. Logan, for lo-gic (because he was clearly in charge of most of the group’s braincells) was dressed formally and soberly, and spoke in a very neutral voice. His black hair contrasted nicely with very dark blue eyes, like Virgil had never seen. He, Roman and Remus had copper-coloured skin, which, with their dark hair, clearly identified them as islanders of one or another of the Equator’s nation. The short, ringed horns on top of their heads might have clarified this analysis, but Virgil knew very little about the people of the other Isles.
“And my name is, it's V- Virgil,” he finally introduced himself.
With his "growth rings," these semi-circular gray marks that decorated the underside of Borealian’s eyes, no need to indicate his origin.
“Pleased to meet you!” Patton exclaimed. “We're looking for the city, will you help us?”
"No" was not part of Virgil's vocabulary. He accepted.