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It is always a lucky night in the Angel of Irons’ camp when Her followers can light the campfire early.
It’s barely sunset when Obann catches the attention of his two most favored companions. “There is no more for us to do right now. Excellent work.” His expression curls into a smile. “Please, be at ease for the night.”
These are the most peaceful moments of their work together, a blessed sort of reprieve. There is still responsibility – they cannot speak, and they are to remain within the camp, but save for those simple boundaries, they are free. They can rest.
These are the sort of evenings the Inevitable End has always valued.
She returns to her tent to meditate, just as she does every time. As always, her roommate-of-sorts is already inside. She would have an easier time of it in solitude – anyone would – but all things considered, the Orphanmaker is not the worst person to live with. For her size, she takes up remarkably little space. Even now, she is lying still on her bedroll when the Inevitable End enters – not even trying to sleep, merely staring into space with an empty look in her eyes. They do not acknowledge each other. They rarely do.
The sun begins to dip below the horizon. The Inevitable End sits down and allows herself to breathe.
It has been centuries upon centuries since she last walked Exandria, but her task has always been the same. The work is simple and perfectly tailored. It is rewarding enough. She is designed to carry out the will of gods, and that is precisely what Obann has restored her for. Really… the Laughing Hand is creepily into this job, and she is fairly certain he would continue the work on his own, but Obann wields the Orphanmaker and the Inevitable End like weapons. She supposes it’s fitting. They are weapons, in their own way.
Across the room, the Orphanmaker continues her uneasy rest. The Inevitable End is surprised she isn’t asleep by now. She’s watched her take some heavy hits today, even the same ones that she herself managed to shake off. Maybe that’s what Obann has chosen the Orphanmaker for – her resilience. Her ability to withstand a barrage of attacks and not flinch about it. The fact that she can keep getting back up, never truly harmed.
She is harmed, though. That’s why she’s resting. No explanation quite makes sense.
The Inevitable End pushes away the thought. No matter. Obann has chosen them both for a reason, and as long as they are both under his command, she supposes it is not her place to question it. She tries to return to her meditation, but her focus wanes. Something is off. It takes her a moment to recognize the sensation as hunger. It’s lucky, then, that they are at ease for the night.
Yesterday was lucky, too. Obann stopped the party to commune with a vendor just long enough for the Inevitable End to pocket some dried meat from a market stall. It’s a meager portion, but it’ll sustain her for a few days until the next Emptying. The starvation rituals are getting easier, but some extra preparation might be nice. Even when they do allow themselves to eat, Obann never seems to give them enough food anymore.
The Inevitable End is half-tempted to offer a bite to the Orphanmaker. She studies the expression of her unfortunate roommate, still staring at the wall with those blank, empty eyes. She hasn’t moved in some time. Definitely not hungry, then. Instead, the Inevitable End drifts to the corner of the tent, where the two of them have haphazardly tossed whatever personal effects they still own.
The Orphanmaker’s bag has spilled open, the Inevitable End notices. She can’t resist a glance at its contents as she reaches for her own satchel. She expects the usual – water, potions, a knife of some sort – but it’s different. There’s some paper and writing implements. There’s a single ball bearing – has the Orphanmaker used all the rest? There’s one wilted flower, preserved with surprising care. Strangest of all, though, is a drawing depicting her. It’s more of a doodle, really – scribbled from a third-person perspective, smiling and weaving a flower crown as a few bugs buzz overhead. There’s a signature in the bottom left corner. It’s a name the Inevitable End does not recognize.
Which means that someone else drew this picture for her.
Fuck.
The Inevitable End hadn’t considered that to be a possibility. She has never known alliances herself, even before the centuries she spent severed in two, but she is relatively certain mere allies do not draw each other and sign their art with hearts. Whose drawing is this? Does the Orphanmaker miss them? The thought makes something in her stomach twist oddly. She wishes for a moment that she could ask.
It’s strange that she can’t, actually.
She is a weapon, and a weapon is meant to be wielded, so she has always followed the orders she’s been given. For the first time, it occurs to her that she has never tried to disobey them. She has no idea what would happen if she did. Her stomach twists again – that isn’t a pleasant thought. She tries to push it away once more. She is the Inevitable End, after all. It’s in her name. Or at least her title.
The thoughts keep breaking through. She has a given name. Does Obann know it? He must. It must have been somewhere in his research. He has not addressed her by it yet – to him, she is the Inevitable End, or the Caedogeist when they can drop the formalities. It makes sense that he identifies her by her title to the others; it sounds far more threatening. But he knows her name when he speaks to her, and he does not use it.
He has only ever identified the woman in front of her as the Orphanmaker. For the first time, a new thought pierces the Caedogeist’s mind, sharp as a dagger: the Orphanmaker must have a name, too.
And they cannot share them with each other.
Across the tent, the Orphanmaker lies still and small and silent. She has never smiled the way she does in this drawing. For once, it does not take violence for her presence to be haunting. They are free for the night. She will suffer if she fails to take advantage of it. She almost seems to welcome that suffering.
It is unwise for a weapon to dull itself. The Inevitable End– no, the Caedogeist–
No. Jourrael. Jourrael cannot let that stand.
They step across the tent and kick the Orphanmaker’s shoulder, gentle but firm. The Orphanmaker blinks and looks up at them.
Jourrael gestures towards the tent flap.
The Orphanmaker obeys without hesitation, standing and walking slowly outside. The immediacy of it is unsettling. She has the same empty look in her eyes as she does when Obann praises her. The twisted feeling strikes Jourrael again at the thought of wielding that same control.
They walk together to the boundary of the camp. It’s bordered by a small, clear stream here, perfect to replenish their water supply. That will not be its purpose now – tonight, it, too, is free. It flows ahead of them, loud enough to drown out their silence.
Jourrael steps into the stream and lets it rush past. Their companion follows – cautious at first, then slowly allowing her body to relax. She doesn’t make eye contact, not that Jourrael cares. There wouldn’t be any sympathy in their eyes to meet her. That fact feels… oddly unimportant right now. There are no other eyes to meet theirs.
Whoever the Orphanmaker is, she tips her head back and lets her hair drift out into the water, its pale white tips guiding her as she floats in the stream. Jourrael moves to follow her, then dips their entire head underwater instead, just to feel the chill and the clarity. It’s cool against the back of their neck. They open their eyes and take in their body – tall and lithe and reassembled with a ghastly scar. The bloodstains are rinsing away. They roll their wrists in circles and lift their feet from the riverbed in conscious, chosen movement. Next to them, their companion drifts by, gazing at the sky. Her eyes reflect the clouds above them, just beginning to crackle with distant lightning.
The sun is long gone now, and it’s getting colder. Jourrael slowly forces themself to climb out of the water. Their ally – fuck, that’s so strange to think – follows close behind. Jourrael nods back towards their shared tent, and they walk together, matching sigils glowing behind them. They cannot share words between them, not that Jourrael would wish to try. Not that they would know what to say.
Their ally suddenly stops, hesitates, and then kneels down to the grass. Jourrael raises an eyebrow.
She stands again. She holds out a small purple flower.
Jourrael puts a hand to their chest – for me?
The almost-angel nods – please, take it.
Without a single spoken word, it is a greater gesture of gratitude than Jourrael has managed to give in all their centuries of life. It may be the only one they have ever received.
They return to the tent side by side. Jourrael returns to their satchel and takes out their secret stash of food, exchanging it for the wildflower with uncharacteristic gentleness. They stand to leave, then kneel back down. They pick up the drawing again.
Beneath the unfamiliar signature, there is a small line of text that they missed before, punctuated with a heart. Welcome back, Yasha!
Yasha, Jourrael commits to memory. Her name is Yasha.
Obann does not know that on that quiet night, Jourrael secretly tears off a small piece of dried meat and sets it down in front of Yasha. He does not know that Yasha smiles – honestly, truly smiles – for the first time in weeks. He does not know that when she falls asleep, Yasha dreams of wandering a field of clovers in a storm. He certainly does not know that in a peaceful night’s trance, Jourrael briefly hears a rumble of thunder and feels cool rain wash over her. He does not know these things, and he never will, and there is more strength in that fact than they know he could ever envision. For the moment, his living weapons are allowed their own intent.
In storms and dreams and the quiet safety of night, a pair of chains begin to give.