(TL;DR: Gwilym reconciles with his lack of care towards his superiors, learns Chem Bang, and struggles with his emotions. As usual.)
"..I don't want this mission, Seras." the Wydd-Knight stated, almost as soon as the brief was given. The Fawr-Knights before him were quick to retort.
The tree they stood beneath swayed, as if recoiling from the disciplinary blunder that Gwilym had just made. The disapproval of the third Fawr-Knight was clear in the grunt he gave, and the increased intensity with which he thumped the cracked granite wall beside him. The man hadn't spoken a word since the briefing had begun, keeping to a dark corner in his azure robes and leaving it to his two partners.
"This is not one of your countryside contracts that you can refuse, Wydd-Knight. This is an order from your superiors." spoke the first Fawr-Knight, his chain-mitted hands looped firmly in his belt.
The man was exactly the way Gwilym pictured a Fawr-Knight to be- close-cropped hair, well-kept beard, with flawlessly kept mail that glowed an ominous blue in the moonlight. Incidentally, it was the Fawr-Knight he was growing to like the least amongst their troupe. The man's hazel eyes bore evenly into the purple of Gwilym's, as he continued.
"I was warned once that the Aelrrigans in this city were all mad. And here you stand. Barbarian axe on your belt, ridiculous scabbard on your back, and a vagabond's hair. And now insubordination."
The Fawr-Knight's tone invited no response from Gwilym. His lack of response seemed to calm the Fawr-Knight's anger. Somewhat. Mitted hands lifted as the man rubbed at his eyes, at the prompting of a side-glance by the second Fawr-Knight. A 7-foot tall, silent man in armour more fitting for a Blackmark to wear. Reminded him of Signe.
"..Alas. This is not a disciplinary hearing. Beyond your drinking and lusting, you may yet be of use, Wydd-Knight. Your tracking abilities are of some repute. And you have experience with fighting Demons that cannot be seen."
"That was as part of a unit, with special magic. I am unsure that I can face them alone."
"You expressed a desire by letter to the Fawr-Knights of your chapter some months back to face these Demons, did you not? A shift away from the Mage-hunting and Vault-defending that you have engaged in until now."
"I did."
"And you are not eager now to prove yourself in this domain?"
"...I am. Just less eager to be killed whilst doing it, Sera."
"Do you truly think so little of us to assume that we would give you a mission that would get you killed?" asked the mitted man, legitimately confused as much as he was angered. For the second time in this conversation, Gwilym had no response, ears flushing red in a tell-tale sign of a man caught saying something stupid. The mitted man let him stew in his silence for a long few moments, but it was clear he wasn't going to allow a lack of response a second time.
"I'm–. I am not sure why I said that. Forgive me."
The Fawr-Knights anger was quelled once more. For now. The tall one broke the silence, speaking uncomfortably and with haste.
"..This Demon is an ambusher. Calon Werdd doctrine of sending a squad in pursuit has been pointless. In other words, it will flee from a group, but prey upon an individual, if it believes it can overpower them. Track it. Kill it. Kill it quickly. We will banish it for good, once it returns to its summoner. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Better. Read the briefing, and start your search to the west of the city, in the mountains by the coast."
Gwilym offered a small nod as the three moved to leave, mounting their horses. It was his fault the conversation had turned sour, but the feeling of bitterness and resentment was growing all the same.
Four hours later, six years in the past.
A lone rider plodded along before him as the Wydd-Knight escaped the thicket of blackberry and hawthorn. Under different circumstances, an armoured man charging through the shrubbery might have invited alarm, but the deep blue cloak and the sigil upon his pauldron was enough to dissuade the tired rider from such notions.
The displacement had placed him more than two miles away from his intended destination. A result he'd expected, given how few times he had performed it on his own. Perhaps it was better this way. Canolbarth in spring was warmer than he remembered. Greener. Mountains loomed to the west, while ravens circled the fields to the east. Between them both, his path snaked into the hills, where a stoney fortress-turned-township had formed. The mountains kept his gaze, and the sounds of birdsong kept his ears.
The town had formed around the Archwilio fortress, before his time. A point of irony for a chapter that praised the virtues of being on the move and out in the world, he mused, but even vagabonds needed a hearth to warm their feet and a thatch roof over their heads. At least, every once in a while. The gates of the stone wall were raised, as was standard for midday. A procession of farmers guided cattle to the gates, and down the western path that led to the markets. Gwilym did his best to keep out of their way, though the dopey creatures were in no hurry to move swiftly in the first place.
A sideward glance toward a mirror in a market stall confirmed the effects of the spell he'd requested. A simple incantation from a cooperating Ward-Knight to change his features, and his voice. Ginger took the place of black, cropped short to frame a squared-off face riddled with scars. Cornflower blue replaced flaring violet.
Knights and their squires making their way to the market was an increasingly common sight as his path continued deeper into the town. He had forgotten this day was an Eisteddfod- the perfect time for farmers to sell their produce, for graduated Knights to take a rest from teaching, and for squires to take a rest from learning. There'd be no time for him to stay to hear the poetry and the music, Gwilym realised with a hint of sadness.
A squire boy no older than thirteen broke his musings with the sound of an amused giggle, bumping against him in his rush to get to the market, his mentor following close behind. Her surly Teledden expression did nothing to dampen the boy's spirits, nor did her huffed words of discipline.
"Watch your footing, child. My apologies, Sera."
"The eager squires make the best knights, as they say." Gwilym muttered in reply, in a voice that was not his. Smooth and vaguely tenor, thick with Anglian influence.
"I'm sorry, Sera– We'll be late, mentor!" yelped the boy. The Teledden's cloudy eyes expressed another apology as she followed after the child. Even she had the faintest hint of excitement, though she was doing her best to hide it.
The Wydd-Knight was wont to tell people who asked that homesickness never affected him. Walking these familiar streets was challenging that conviction. To see Aelrrigans running to a poetry battle, instead of a battle against masked gunmen, or Voidborn cultists. Excitement hidden beneath a surly expression, instead of trauma and doubt. His head turned to watch the mentor-teacher pair disappear into the crowd, for a little while.
His path came to an end to the west of the market's start, away from the farmers' partition and the the endless stalls of seamstresses, painters, and weavers. The Archwilio fortress loomed high in the distance, at the crest of the hill with the mountain to its back. More ravens circled overhead. Homesickness only grew as Gwilym turned his gaze to the left, vials upon vials of labelled concoctions lining a neatly put-together shelf. He knew the handwriting of the labels. The smell of pine needles and vanilla. He could turn back. He could leave. Those twin thoughts drowned the sounds of the trees and the birds and the Breizh that he had passed on his way to the stall, while his latent anxiety committed a similar murder upon the homesickness he had felt moments prior. He could turn back. He could leave.
"Two bath brews for two little knights!" chirped a lilting tone from inside the stall. He had forgotten that voice. His heartbeat grew louder, at that fact. The stall's side concealed him in a mosaic of vials, jars, philters, and elixirs, rays of light dancing in patterns across the stranger's armour he wore. Any hopes of a reprieve while he thought on his entrance were dashed as the two 'knights' came out of the entrance of the stall, defending the wares as if they were freshly cloaked Aelrrigans. Neither of them were old enough to even be a squire, and yet their dreams were out in the open for the whole world to see. A wooden sword in the loop of a belt. A tunic with the same cartwheel carved into Gwilym's pauldron sewn into the fabric. The boy was the first to notice him, a chubby child with hair the colour of coal who stopped in his tracks at the sight of the Wydd-Knight.
The squire-to-be took one look at the armour and the sigil emblazoned upon it before jabbing the girl beside him, pointing excitedly toward Gwilym with the hand holding the pink vial of bath brew.
"Gwenyth–. Look! The Knight!" he muttered, with the same air of excitement. Gwilym couldn't help but snap his vision over toward them, upon hearing that name. The girl looked over, and the boy's excitement soon spread. They were siblings, he wagered, judging by the hair and the face. Their excitement did little but unease him, and stoke the flames of the anxiety that were already present. Why did he feel such resentment toward their enthusiasm? Toward their dreams of knighthood? Those twin thoughts filled him with further anxiety still. Now they were both staring. Footfalls approached the entrance to the stall. It was all happening too soon. What was he supposed to say?
"I do hope these two are not in your way, Sera." came that voice again. He needed to say something. Now.
"I–. They are fine. Not to worry. Not to worry. -Your name was Gwenyth, yes? I knew a Gwenyth." he stammered, saying the first words that came to mind as he stepped to the left, facing away from the front of the stall to kneel in front of the two. The girl nodded slowly, hands set behind her back.
"Is she an Alriggian, like you?" the girl mumbled, struggling with the name.
"No, but she… ah. I suppose she helped me be a better one. It's a good name for an Alriggian. But you don't need to be one–"
'And– What about Iestyn?" interrupted the boy. Perhaps it was better that Gwilym hadn't been allowed to finish his verbal thought toward the girl.
"..Plenty of Aelrrigans called Iestyn, yes. There's one up in that fortress, over there."
"Does he have a sword?"
"No, he–." Gwilym grumbled, halting his words as he looked toward the wooden sword, and the wonder on the boy's face. "..Yes. He has a sword."
A reply would have come from the boy, had that voice from the stall not made itself known once more.
"He has monsters to slay, little knights! Run along to the markets. Those Dragons you wished for may yet show." the woman spoke, tapping knuckles once, then twice against the wood of the stall. A voice thick with the influence of Nordskag- melodic, rolling, but careful with their words. Gwilym took his time to rise, as the children vanished down the bustle of the cobbled street behind him. He would have to face her, eventually. And so he did, as she spoke once more.
"You're the second Aelrrigan they have done that to today, Sera. But I presume there are far less busy Knights at the stalls for them to question." she explained, stepping forward. She was dressed as any Breizh might have been on such a festival day- a dress-like long cotte secured with a leather belt, high of neckline and carefully embroidered with the colours and sigils of the family to which the wearer belonged. In this case, a varied azure and cobalt blue, upon which sat the imagery of silver wings upon the shoulders, and a tri-leaf flower above the sternum. Upon the sleeves sat embroidered links of silver chain. Arnyn colours, and Arnyn sigils.
His gaze shifted up, as her words broke his focus. "Did you like something on the shelf? You were staring." she continued, tone careful but inquiring as she stepped out of the shade of the stall. Striking blue eyes beset on a triangular face. He remembered those eyes.
"I– euh. My apologies. I should introduce myself. Sera–." Shit. "..Gerwin. Gerwin van–. Meere."
"It is well-met, Sera van Meere. Eira Arnyn. Were you on-duty, or shopping for alchemy?"
"Shopping, but shopping for duty. I was informed that you arm Aelrrigans with alchemy? I– ah. I assume you are busy. I can return later, after the festival." No I can't.
Her gloved right hand was raised as she took a step back toward the side of the entrance, gesturing inside. She replied at first with a polite smile that scarcely reached her eyes.
"It grows tedious to sell bath brews all day, Sera. You would be kind to give me a challenge." she explained. The smile grew to something more genuine in the corner of his eye at the idea of it as he entered, the pine-vanilla perfume lingering on his senses. Gwilym wagered it would be better for his anxiety if he kept talking.
"Well–. It's.. it's a demon that can conceal itself from sight. Fast and durable. Supposedly, it is vulnerable to flashes of light."
"Any samples?" she inquired, stepping after him as she tightened the glove on her left hand, before closing the stall with the curtain in front of the entrance. The inside of the stall was larger than he thought, with enough space for a state-of-the-art- albeit slimmed down- Eotranna alchemy lab. The careful construction of mechanical widgets and glass tubing hissed almost imperceptibly as he spoke.
"No. I am yet to face it."
Eira released a sound somewhere between a huff and a chuckle, gesturing him toward the seat in the corner, well away from the expensive glassware of the lab.
"Ask for a challenge, and Thirun will provide. Is this your first time on one of these missions, Sera?"
The second half of her words were idly spoken and trailed off as she pulled an apron from the bench beside the distillery. He could have not been there at all, Gwilym knew, with her mind already set to work on the alchemy.
"The first time in an official capacity. I've fought them before during the Cl–" he cut himself short with an abrupt cough, realising that the events he would have spoken of were not to occur for another four years. "..There was an incident in Anglia. Invisible, fast, and clawed."
The hisses of the machine grew in intensity as Eira listened, a steady bubbling from the distiller joined in chorus with the sound. He now knew why she insisted on the perfume smell outside of the stall- the inside was heavy with the smell of ammonia as the machine worked away. Rhythmic thumping joined the bubbling and hissing, and the smell of saltpeter joined the fumes. Gloved hands lifted after turning a valve, tying back braided blonde hair and lifting a face-mask. A white scarf was offered out over her shoulder, taken quickly by the Wydd-Knight and tied about his face.
"For the fumes. You must be quite proud that they have tasked you, yes? To trust in your skills."
Gwilym's feelings on the matter were betrayed to her by the tone in his reply.
"More nervous, than anything else. ..I fear I will fail." It was easier to admit that when wearing a stranger's face.
"A feeling you have often?" she replied slowly, reaching over to trim something from a jar filled with herbs. Her attention was piqued, now, jumping at the chance for a new patient in terms only he knew. An errant smile. A hasty glance over her shoulder.
"Yes. Quite often."
"It would be bravery to admit that." She began, her thought paused by the swift and sudden crushing of an iridescent dried beetle the size of his thumb. Leif's name was invoked in whispers as she scooped its remains into a boiling vial.
"Were these fears known to the ones that gave you the mission?"
"No. I–... I suppose you could say I tried to tell it. But in doing so I was insubordinate and callous. I told them I didn't want the mission."
"And yet, you travel far from home for alchemy. Not the acts of an unwilling Knight. I imagine they had nothing kind to say to you after that."
His ears were already flaring red, just at the memory. He rubbed at them with a gloved hand.
"No. They were harsh. Felt bitter and angry and stupid, after the whole ordeal."
To voice such things aloud to another soul only stoked the flames of the bitterness and the sadness and the self-pity that had grown since that meeting. Feelings that perhaps a small part of him knew had been born long before his stupid words beneath that stupid tree. Feelings that few things in the world could quell, the melodrama savant that he was. Eira turned as he spoke, and offered two of them freely. A careful smile, and a quiet laugh free of malice.
"I mean not to laugh at your story. You remind me of someone, you see. We have a saying in Nordskag, for bitterness and anger about such stories. It is… Ah. Det er aldri så galt at det ikke er godt for noe."
Gwilym knew perfectly well what that meant, though he furrowed his brows all the same.
"Finding the good, hidden in all the bad, is what it teaches us. They sound as equally as upset with you, as you are with them. Perhaps they saw this as an opportunity for you, and saw your refusal as a spit in their hand, so to say. Trust is a good thing."
Embarrassment was better than bitterness, he wagered. He accepted the feeling with open arms.
"I–. I hadn't thought of it like that. I owe them a lengthy apology."
"Sooner is better than later. Time is never something to be wasted. Had we more of it, we might explore why you had failed to see it in that way. But the alchemy is finished."
He was quick to move to a stand at that, even if he didn't want to. She was more right than she knew- his time here was running out. Colour faded from the sky and the trees. The details of her face would soon follow. Each of the six vials presented themselves in front of the machine, the first four presenting as narrow-necked cylinders with flat bottoms. He recognised those ones- vibrant purple for healing, turquoise for reflexes, ink-black for night vision, and ugly green for halting bleeding. The fifth was a spherical shape not unlike one of Wulf's grenades, with a shimmering and unstable golden liquid caught within the thick glass. Clearly a bomb of some kind. His gaze lingered on the sixth, unwavering, and unable to discern what its purpose was. It was cast of clay and secured with a metal stopper, in departure from the glass of the others.
"Use the sixth one after your mission is done." She began, setting it slowly away in a small woven bag, as her other hand pulled down her mask. The fifth she handled even more carefully, raising the glass ball of light aloft. "For creating the light you asked for. Leif's heat and a loud noise will follow, when it shatters. Do not drop."
The next four disappeared into the bag in quick succession. She gave no explanation of their use. He moved forth to offer her scarf back, which was met by the dismissing wave of a hand.
"Too many scarfs. Too many. Keep that one." she assured, eyeing him properly now. He could scarcely make out the details of her face. "Would there be anything else?"
"Do you sell that perfume I smelt at the entrance? And– euh. Do you sell anything for wrinkles?"
The smile returned as she stepped toward a cabinet of rose-coloured vials, scanning their labels before setting one down on the countertop. A plain-looking brown circular tub the size of his palm was set beside it soon after. Hopefully Bethan could make some use of it.
"Twenty for each. It is just perfume, and the cream will tighten the skin. It does not take much." she explained, setting them away into that same bag. "Knights get their mission alchemy free."
"Thank you, Mrs Arnyn." he murmured, setting out four tenpieces on the countertop. He watched as she counted them. Watched as she set the coins away, and offered the bag forward. For but a moment, the dangers of time displacement meant nothing to him. If he could make himself known to her, perhaps the risk would be worth it. Perhaps it would make things better. Such insane thoughts were put to rest by birdsong, and the afternoon light of Kintyr shining upon his face as he exited the tent. She followed after to mutter a goodbye, and a parting word.
"Elkonur fights with you, Sera van Meere. I will hear of the battle, one day."
Just like that, she disappeared into the tent. Just like that, her light left his life once more. He awoke in the grove he had chosen to make camp in with knees too sore from too much time sitting upon them, and the pangs of sickness that followed any venture through time. All that remained of that day in Kintyr was the distant sound of birdsong, and that faint air of vanilla and pine that was quick to be smothered by the sickly smell of a dead campfire's smoke.
The Wydd-Knight was alone once more. And there were miles of ground yet to scout.
"..I don't want this mission, Seras." the Wydd-Knight stated, almost as soon as the brief was given. The Fawr-Knights before him were quick to retort.
The tree they stood beneath swayed, as if recoiling from the disciplinary blunder that Gwilym had just made. The disapproval of the third Fawr-Knight was clear in the grunt he gave, and the increased intensity with which he thumped the cracked granite wall beside him. The man hadn't spoken a word since the briefing had begun, keeping to a dark corner in his azure robes and leaving it to his two partners.
"This is not one of your countryside contracts that you can refuse, Wydd-Knight. This is an order from your superiors." spoke the first Fawr-Knight, his chain-mitted hands looped firmly in his belt.
The man was exactly the way Gwilym pictured a Fawr-Knight to be- close-cropped hair, well-kept beard, with flawlessly kept mail that glowed an ominous blue in the moonlight. Incidentally, it was the Fawr-Knight he was growing to like the least amongst their troupe. The man's hazel eyes bore evenly into the purple of Gwilym's, as he continued.
"I was warned once that the Aelrrigans in this city were all mad. And here you stand. Barbarian axe on your belt, ridiculous scabbard on your back, and a vagabond's hair. And now insubordination."
The Fawr-Knight's tone invited no response from Gwilym. His lack of response seemed to calm the Fawr-Knight's anger. Somewhat. Mitted hands lifted as the man rubbed at his eyes, at the prompting of a side-glance by the second Fawr-Knight. A 7-foot tall, silent man in armour more fitting for a Blackmark to wear. Reminded him of Signe.
"..Alas. This is not a disciplinary hearing. Beyond your drinking and lusting, you may yet be of use, Wydd-Knight. Your tracking abilities are of some repute. And you have experience with fighting Demons that cannot be seen."
"That was as part of a unit, with special magic. I am unsure that I can face them alone."
"You expressed a desire by letter to the Fawr-Knights of your chapter some months back to face these Demons, did you not? A shift away from the Mage-hunting and Vault-defending that you have engaged in until now."
"I did."
"And you are not eager now to prove yourself in this domain?"
"...I am. Just less eager to be killed whilst doing it, Sera."
"Do you truly think so little of us to assume that we would give you a mission that would get you killed?" asked the mitted man, legitimately confused as much as he was angered. For the second time in this conversation, Gwilym had no response, ears flushing red in a tell-tale sign of a man caught saying something stupid. The mitted man let him stew in his silence for a long few moments, but it was clear he wasn't going to allow a lack of response a second time.
"I'm–. I am not sure why I said that. Forgive me."
The Fawr-Knights anger was quelled once more. For now. The tall one broke the silence, speaking uncomfortably and with haste.
"..This Demon is an ambusher. Calon Werdd doctrine of sending a squad in pursuit has been pointless. In other words, it will flee from a group, but prey upon an individual, if it believes it can overpower them. Track it. Kill it. Kill it quickly. We will banish it for good, once it returns to its summoner. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Better. Read the briefing, and start your search to the west of the city, in the mountains by the coast."
Gwilym offered a small nod as the three moved to leave, mounting their horses. It was his fault the conversation had turned sour, but the feeling of bitterness and resentment was growing all the same.
Four hours later, six years in the past.
A lone rider plodded along before him as the Wydd-Knight escaped the thicket of blackberry and hawthorn. Under different circumstances, an armoured man charging through the shrubbery might have invited alarm, but the deep blue cloak and the sigil upon his pauldron was enough to dissuade the tired rider from such notions.
The displacement had placed him more than two miles away from his intended destination. A result he'd expected, given how few times he had performed it on his own. Perhaps it was better this way. Canolbarth in spring was warmer than he remembered. Greener. Mountains loomed to the west, while ravens circled the fields to the east. Between them both, his path snaked into the hills, where a stoney fortress-turned-township had formed. The mountains kept his gaze, and the sounds of birdsong kept his ears.
The town had formed around the Archwilio fortress, before his time. A point of irony for a chapter that praised the virtues of being on the move and out in the world, he mused, but even vagabonds needed a hearth to warm their feet and a thatch roof over their heads. At least, every once in a while. The gates of the stone wall were raised, as was standard for midday. A procession of farmers guided cattle to the gates, and down the western path that led to the markets. Gwilym did his best to keep out of their way, though the dopey creatures were in no hurry to move swiftly in the first place.
A sideward glance toward a mirror in a market stall confirmed the effects of the spell he'd requested. A simple incantation from a cooperating Ward-Knight to change his features, and his voice. Ginger took the place of black, cropped short to frame a squared-off face riddled with scars. Cornflower blue replaced flaring violet.
Knights and their squires making their way to the market was an increasingly common sight as his path continued deeper into the town. He had forgotten this day was an Eisteddfod- the perfect time for farmers to sell their produce, for graduated Knights to take a rest from teaching, and for squires to take a rest from learning. There'd be no time for him to stay to hear the poetry and the music, Gwilym realised with a hint of sadness.
A squire boy no older than thirteen broke his musings with the sound of an amused giggle, bumping against him in his rush to get to the market, his mentor following close behind. Her surly Teledden expression did nothing to dampen the boy's spirits, nor did her huffed words of discipline.
"Watch your footing, child. My apologies, Sera."
"The eager squires make the best knights, as they say." Gwilym muttered in reply, in a voice that was not his. Smooth and vaguely tenor, thick with Anglian influence.
"I'm sorry, Sera– We'll be late, mentor!" yelped the boy. The Teledden's cloudy eyes expressed another apology as she followed after the child. Even she had the faintest hint of excitement, though she was doing her best to hide it.
The Wydd-Knight was wont to tell people who asked that homesickness never affected him. Walking these familiar streets was challenging that conviction. To see Aelrrigans running to a poetry battle, instead of a battle against masked gunmen, or Voidborn cultists. Excitement hidden beneath a surly expression, instead of trauma and doubt. His head turned to watch the mentor-teacher pair disappear into the crowd, for a little while.
His path came to an end to the west of the market's start, away from the farmers' partition and the the endless stalls of seamstresses, painters, and weavers. The Archwilio fortress loomed high in the distance, at the crest of the hill with the mountain to its back. More ravens circled overhead. Homesickness only grew as Gwilym turned his gaze to the left, vials upon vials of labelled concoctions lining a neatly put-together shelf. He knew the handwriting of the labels. The smell of pine needles and vanilla. He could turn back. He could leave. Those twin thoughts drowned the sounds of the trees and the birds and the Breizh that he had passed on his way to the stall, while his latent anxiety committed a similar murder upon the homesickness he had felt moments prior. He could turn back. He could leave.
"Two bath brews for two little knights!" chirped a lilting tone from inside the stall. He had forgotten that voice. His heartbeat grew louder, at that fact. The stall's side concealed him in a mosaic of vials, jars, philters, and elixirs, rays of light dancing in patterns across the stranger's armour he wore. Any hopes of a reprieve while he thought on his entrance were dashed as the two 'knights' came out of the entrance of the stall, defending the wares as if they were freshly cloaked Aelrrigans. Neither of them were old enough to even be a squire, and yet their dreams were out in the open for the whole world to see. A wooden sword in the loop of a belt. A tunic with the same cartwheel carved into Gwilym's pauldron sewn into the fabric. The boy was the first to notice him, a chubby child with hair the colour of coal who stopped in his tracks at the sight of the Wydd-Knight.
The squire-to-be took one look at the armour and the sigil emblazoned upon it before jabbing the girl beside him, pointing excitedly toward Gwilym with the hand holding the pink vial of bath brew.
"Gwenyth–. Look! The Knight!" he muttered, with the same air of excitement. Gwilym couldn't help but snap his vision over toward them, upon hearing that name. The girl looked over, and the boy's excitement soon spread. They were siblings, he wagered, judging by the hair and the face. Their excitement did little but unease him, and stoke the flames of the anxiety that were already present. Why did he feel such resentment toward their enthusiasm? Toward their dreams of knighthood? Those twin thoughts filled him with further anxiety still. Now they were both staring. Footfalls approached the entrance to the stall. It was all happening too soon. What was he supposed to say?
"I do hope these two are not in your way, Sera." came that voice again. He needed to say something. Now.
"I–. They are fine. Not to worry. Not to worry. -Your name was Gwenyth, yes? I knew a Gwenyth." he stammered, saying the first words that came to mind as he stepped to the left, facing away from the front of the stall to kneel in front of the two. The girl nodded slowly, hands set behind her back.
"Is she an Alriggian, like you?" the girl mumbled, struggling with the name.
"No, but she… ah. I suppose she helped me be a better one. It's a good name for an Alriggian. But you don't need to be one–"
'And– What about Iestyn?" interrupted the boy. Perhaps it was better that Gwilym hadn't been allowed to finish his verbal thought toward the girl.
"..Plenty of Aelrrigans called Iestyn, yes. There's one up in that fortress, over there."
"Does he have a sword?"
"No, he–." Gwilym grumbled, halting his words as he looked toward the wooden sword, and the wonder on the boy's face. "..Yes. He has a sword."
A reply would have come from the boy, had that voice from the stall not made itself known once more.
"He has monsters to slay, little knights! Run along to the markets. Those Dragons you wished for may yet show." the woman spoke, tapping knuckles once, then twice against the wood of the stall. A voice thick with the influence of Nordskag- melodic, rolling, but careful with their words. Gwilym took his time to rise, as the children vanished down the bustle of the cobbled street behind him. He would have to face her, eventually. And so he did, as she spoke once more.
"You're the second Aelrrigan they have done that to today, Sera. But I presume there are far less busy Knights at the stalls for them to question." she explained, stepping forward. She was dressed as any Breizh might have been on such a festival day- a dress-like long cotte secured with a leather belt, high of neckline and carefully embroidered with the colours and sigils of the family to which the wearer belonged. In this case, a varied azure and cobalt blue, upon which sat the imagery of silver wings upon the shoulders, and a tri-leaf flower above the sternum. Upon the sleeves sat embroidered links of silver chain. Arnyn colours, and Arnyn sigils.
His gaze shifted up, as her words broke his focus. "Did you like something on the shelf? You were staring." she continued, tone careful but inquiring as she stepped out of the shade of the stall. Striking blue eyes beset on a triangular face. He remembered those eyes.
"I– euh. My apologies. I should introduce myself. Sera–." Shit. "..Gerwin. Gerwin van–. Meere."
"It is well-met, Sera van Meere. Eira Arnyn. Were you on-duty, or shopping for alchemy?"
"Shopping, but shopping for duty. I was informed that you arm Aelrrigans with alchemy? I– ah. I assume you are busy. I can return later, after the festival." No I can't.
Her gloved right hand was raised as she took a step back toward the side of the entrance, gesturing inside. She replied at first with a polite smile that scarcely reached her eyes.
"It grows tedious to sell bath brews all day, Sera. You would be kind to give me a challenge." she explained. The smile grew to something more genuine in the corner of his eye at the idea of it as he entered, the pine-vanilla perfume lingering on his senses. Gwilym wagered it would be better for his anxiety if he kept talking.
"Well–. It's.. it's a demon that can conceal itself from sight. Fast and durable. Supposedly, it is vulnerable to flashes of light."
"Any samples?" she inquired, stepping after him as she tightened the glove on her left hand, before closing the stall with the curtain in front of the entrance. The inside of the stall was larger than he thought, with enough space for a state-of-the-art- albeit slimmed down- Eotranna alchemy lab. The careful construction of mechanical widgets and glass tubing hissed almost imperceptibly as he spoke.
"No. I am yet to face it."
Eira released a sound somewhere between a huff and a chuckle, gesturing him toward the seat in the corner, well away from the expensive glassware of the lab.
"Ask for a challenge, and Thirun will provide. Is this your first time on one of these missions, Sera?"
The second half of her words were idly spoken and trailed off as she pulled an apron from the bench beside the distillery. He could have not been there at all, Gwilym knew, with her mind already set to work on the alchemy.
"The first time in an official capacity. I've fought them before during the Cl–" he cut himself short with an abrupt cough, realising that the events he would have spoken of were not to occur for another four years. "..There was an incident in Anglia. Invisible, fast, and clawed."
The hisses of the machine grew in intensity as Eira listened, a steady bubbling from the distiller joined in chorus with the sound. He now knew why she insisted on the perfume smell outside of the stall- the inside was heavy with the smell of ammonia as the machine worked away. Rhythmic thumping joined the bubbling and hissing, and the smell of saltpeter joined the fumes. Gloved hands lifted after turning a valve, tying back braided blonde hair and lifting a face-mask. A white scarf was offered out over her shoulder, taken quickly by the Wydd-Knight and tied about his face.
"For the fumes. You must be quite proud that they have tasked you, yes? To trust in your skills."
Gwilym's feelings on the matter were betrayed to her by the tone in his reply.
"More nervous, than anything else. ..I fear I will fail." It was easier to admit that when wearing a stranger's face.
"A feeling you have often?" she replied slowly, reaching over to trim something from a jar filled with herbs. Her attention was piqued, now, jumping at the chance for a new patient in terms only he knew. An errant smile. A hasty glance over her shoulder.
"Yes. Quite often."
"It would be bravery to admit that." She began, her thought paused by the swift and sudden crushing of an iridescent dried beetle the size of his thumb. Leif's name was invoked in whispers as she scooped its remains into a boiling vial.
"Were these fears known to the ones that gave you the mission?"
"No. I–... I suppose you could say I tried to tell it. But in doing so I was insubordinate and callous. I told them I didn't want the mission."
"And yet, you travel far from home for alchemy. Not the acts of an unwilling Knight. I imagine they had nothing kind to say to you after that."
His ears were already flaring red, just at the memory. He rubbed at them with a gloved hand.
"No. They were harsh. Felt bitter and angry and stupid, after the whole ordeal."
To voice such things aloud to another soul only stoked the flames of the bitterness and the sadness and the self-pity that had grown since that meeting. Feelings that perhaps a small part of him knew had been born long before his stupid words beneath that stupid tree. Feelings that few things in the world could quell, the melodrama savant that he was. Eira turned as he spoke, and offered two of them freely. A careful smile, and a quiet laugh free of malice.
"I mean not to laugh at your story. You remind me of someone, you see. We have a saying in Nordskag, for bitterness and anger about such stories. It is… Ah. Det er aldri så galt at det ikke er godt for noe."
Gwilym knew perfectly well what that meant, though he furrowed his brows all the same.
"Finding the good, hidden in all the bad, is what it teaches us. They sound as equally as upset with you, as you are with them. Perhaps they saw this as an opportunity for you, and saw your refusal as a spit in their hand, so to say. Trust is a good thing."
Embarrassment was better than bitterness, he wagered. He accepted the feeling with open arms.
"I–. I hadn't thought of it like that. I owe them a lengthy apology."
"Sooner is better than later. Time is never something to be wasted. Had we more of it, we might explore why you had failed to see it in that way. But the alchemy is finished."
He was quick to move to a stand at that, even if he didn't want to. She was more right than she knew- his time here was running out. Colour faded from the sky and the trees. The details of her face would soon follow. Each of the six vials presented themselves in front of the machine, the first four presenting as narrow-necked cylinders with flat bottoms. He recognised those ones- vibrant purple for healing, turquoise for reflexes, ink-black for night vision, and ugly green for halting bleeding. The fifth was a spherical shape not unlike one of Wulf's grenades, with a shimmering and unstable golden liquid caught within the thick glass. Clearly a bomb of some kind. His gaze lingered on the sixth, unwavering, and unable to discern what its purpose was. It was cast of clay and secured with a metal stopper, in departure from the glass of the others.
"Use the sixth one after your mission is done." She began, setting it slowly away in a small woven bag, as her other hand pulled down her mask. The fifth she handled even more carefully, raising the glass ball of light aloft. "For creating the light you asked for. Leif's heat and a loud noise will follow, when it shatters. Do not drop."
The next four disappeared into the bag in quick succession. She gave no explanation of their use. He moved forth to offer her scarf back, which was met by the dismissing wave of a hand.
"Too many scarfs. Too many. Keep that one." she assured, eyeing him properly now. He could scarcely make out the details of her face. "Would there be anything else?"
"Do you sell that perfume I smelt at the entrance? And– euh. Do you sell anything for wrinkles?"
The smile returned as she stepped toward a cabinet of rose-coloured vials, scanning their labels before setting one down on the countertop. A plain-looking brown circular tub the size of his palm was set beside it soon after. Hopefully Bethan could make some use of it.
"Twenty for each. It is just perfume, and the cream will tighten the skin. It does not take much." she explained, setting them away into that same bag. "Knights get their mission alchemy free."
"Thank you, Mrs Arnyn." he murmured, setting out four tenpieces on the countertop. He watched as she counted them. Watched as she set the coins away, and offered the bag forward. For but a moment, the dangers of time displacement meant nothing to him. If he could make himself known to her, perhaps the risk would be worth it. Perhaps it would make things better. Such insane thoughts were put to rest by birdsong, and the afternoon light of Kintyr shining upon his face as he exited the tent. She followed after to mutter a goodbye, and a parting word.
"Elkonur fights with you, Sera van Meere. I will hear of the battle, one day."
Just like that, she disappeared into the tent. Just like that, her light left his life once more. He awoke in the grove he had chosen to make camp in with knees too sore from too much time sitting upon them, and the pangs of sickness that followed any venture through time. All that remained of that day in Kintyr was the distant sound of birdsong, and that faint air of vanilla and pine that was quick to be smothered by the sickly smell of a dead campfire's smoke.
The Wydd-Knight was alone once more. And there were miles of ground yet to scout.
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