Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 10, Pt. 2

 Notes: Let's finish our little tea party, hmm?

Title:  Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 10, Pt. 2

***

Chapter Ten, Part Two

 

Delicate Subjects

 

“So,” Hiram said after a moment. “Now that you’ve experienced some of my tragic past, tell me some of yours.”

Avery quirked a smile. “What makes you think I’ve got a tragic past?”

“Oh, I can tell that sort of thing from the first second,” Hiram assured him. “Very insightful, me.”

“Indeed?”

“Absolutely.”

The smile only got broader, and Hiram was delighted to realize he’d found someone who was willing to play a bit—to indulge his silly side, as it were. Phlox had no time for that sort of thing, and Esme often confused silly with simple, which led to numerous her attempting to bat him about the head and “knock some sense into him” with her rather dangerous paws. There was hope for Tilda, but still. He was used to being part of a group of people who could joke with each other, poke and prod and jest without getting too personal about it. He missed his friends. He missed Misha. Hells, he even missed Andy sometimes—no one could quite muster up an “I’m not going to let on how impressed I am” face like his former lover.

Sure enough, Avery arched one eyebrow. “And what does a tragic past look like, exactly?”

Hiram took advantage of the implicit invitation to look the other man up and down in a measuring manner. Avery Surrus had been attractive at first glance—now he was downright captivating.

That said…

“It’s something in the face,” Hiram mused. “A certain twist of the brow, an expression on the edge of either a glower or a good cry, if there’s a sheen to the eyes. You can see it in the posture, too—slightly stooped, like the world is just a bit too heavy for those shoulders. It’s evident in the color palette as well—blacks and grays and dark browns, perhaps the occasional blue if the person is feeling particularly splashy on that day. Just one of these things would be inconclusive, but put them all together and you get…well.” He gestured at Avery. “Yourself.”

“Or you could have simply talked to Mistress Tate.”

“Oh, I absolutely did that as well,” Hiram said, and Avery actually laughed.

“And yet,” Avery said after a moment, “you yourself don’t fit the pattern you just described, and yet you can’t deny that you have something terribly tragic in your past.”

Hiram shrugged. “I live to defy expectation, and don’t think you can change the subject so easily, young man.”

“Avery.” His blue eyes were very bright and very intent on Hiram’s face. “I want you to call me Avery.”

For the first time in a long time, Hiram felt rather…well, enthralled wouldn’t be too strong a word. He’d felt desire for plenty of people, before and even after Andy had become his world, but desire was a fairly cheap commodity. This, now? This was downright intriguing. “Avery.” He took a sip of tea to avoid having to clear his throat. “Go on, then.”

“My story isn’t very exciting,” Avery said after a moment. “I never knew my father, my mother died when I was young, I left town via an apprenticeship and finally fell in with a group who had use for my skills.”

“Mm. Thievery, I assume.”

The teasing light left Avery’s face. “Excuse me?”

Shit. “I don’t mean to accuse you of anything specific,” Hiram said quickly. “Only—I know what children who are experts at shimmying down chimneys often become, in cities at least. And I have no particular animus against thieves or rogues, either; everyone has to make a living, after all, and they tend to target people who have more than enough to live on. So…” He shrugged. “It’s just a guess. Feel free to tell me how wrong I am.”

Avery stared at him in silence before abruptly sighing. “You know, you’re the first person in my experience to just outright say it like that. I think a few others in town have wondered, maybe even suspected over the years, but no one’s ever even implied such a thing before, much less said it straight to my face.”

“Ah.” It was rather rude of Hiram, in that light.

“But you’re not wrong,” Avery went on, the stiffness leaving his back as he relaxed once more. “I did learn the trade of a rogue, for a time.”

Hiram could picture it perfectly. Avery had a certain sinuousness about him, a confidence and steadiness that was both highly attractive and indicative of strenuous training. “I bet you were good at it.”

He smiled. This was different from his earlier smile; there was a challenge in it, a cheeky hint of wickedness that was utterly alluring. “I was,” he said before hiding his smile behind his teacup. “But I eventually decided to give it up and return home. And before you ask, Master Spindlestep is an old friend I originally made during my earliest wanderings, but the fact that he settled here after an accident stole his vision seemed like fate calling me home after I decided to retire.”

“And you went into teaching.” Hiram whistled admiringly. “Not exactly a profession that travels lock-step with the path of the rogue, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Avery demurred. “After all, being able to keep track of dozens of noisy, potentially dangerous individuals at once while maintaining your own internal quietude and focus is certainly shared between them. And I can’t say I’ve never had call to pin a child’s sleeve to the desk using their own quill, but I try not to trot that little trick out unless someone’s really acting up.”

Hiram laughed as he pictured such a thing in his mind. “I daresay they love you.”

Avery’s face softened. “I think some of them do. I certainly didn’t expect to enjoy teaching as much as I do, but it’s…it’s a good fit for me. A path I’m grateful to be able to walk down, given…everything.”

Everything being his tragic past, but Hiram had already concluded that he wasn’t going to get any more details from Avery about that today. It was fine. He’d pushed his luck as far as it could go, and he wouldn’t make his host uncomfortable. “We should all be so lucky.”

“You are, aren’t you?” Avery countered. “No matter what you were doing before—and as long as we’re being honest, Hiram, I don’t believe for a second that you’ve spent decades of your life as a simple herbalist—you’ve settled into this role with great success, I’d say. Almost everyone in town speaks well of you, particularly after last Market Day.”

Hiram scratched his jaw for a moment, needing the distraction as he pictured the absolute scene he’d made in the temple. “We’ll see what they have to say after today’s fiasco,” he muttered.

“Who could speak ill of you after knowing what they now do about your past?”

“To some, pain is nothing more than a doorway to manipulation,” Hiram said.

Avery stared at him steadily. “Indeed,” he agreed. “But you’re clearly already on your guard. You won’t let them corner you any more than I would.”

There was  a vagueness to that phrasing that made Hiram wonder how Avery meant it. He chided himself for his hopeful heart. You’ve had your great love; all your adventures are in the past. You’re meant to live a quiet and peaceful life now, and that doesn’t include brewing up a romance. Especially not with a man like this. A man with secrets. A man who was far more dangerous than he looked.

A man who saw through Hiram like crystal and pushed, ever so gently, against the façade until he was tempted to let it start falling away.

But he couldn’t. This was important, damn it. Hiram needed to lay low if he wanted to survive, if he wanted to be there for Misha someday. He smiled affably. “Thank you for the tea.”

Avery paused, then nodded, as though acknowledging that certain subjects had been taken off the table. “You’re welcome. Would you like me to run you back to town?” Not back to Hiram’s house, but back to town. Hmm, perhaps Avery was just as reticent to allow himself the opportunity for romance as Hiram was. Naturally, that made Hiram want to push.

Stop it. Take the out. “Thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He took both their cups and set them on the scarred wooden counter by the washbasin, then headed for the door. “It will only take me a moment to saddle Buttercup.”

Hiram grinned. “You named your mare Buttercup?”

“She came with the name,” Avery informed him airily. “And I think it suits her very well. She’s as sweet and delicate as a flower.”

“You’d expect a horse named Buttercup to be yellow, or at least light tan. She’s uniformly brown.”

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to your imprecations about my horse’s name,” Avery said warningly, but he was smiling again. “She’s a perfect Buttercup.”

Hiram held up his hands in an assuaging manner. “Of course she is. I never said otherwise.”

“Nor should you.” Avery stepped outside and Hiram followed, moving away from the door as the other man locked it, then headed for the little stable. It was warmer now that it was later in the morning, and he shed his cloak with a sense of mild relief. The sun soaked through the thin fabric of his shirt, a lovely rich red color that Master Spindlestep had assured him would look well with his complexion, and Hiram closed his eyes and stretched his arms over his head for a moment, then gently rolled his neck from side to side until it cracked satisfyingly.

Thus relieved, he ambled a little farther down the path until he had a clearer look at Gemmel’s Tower. The entire thing, transubstantiated…what a miraculous wonder. What a terrifying horror. Gemmel must have been exceedingly assured of himself, and the fallout must have been exceedingly final for Hiram to have never heard of such a place before. Perhaps he could ask some of the local dwarves about it, dig a bit deeper into the legend. Not that he intended to go to such a place, but it wasn’t impossible that the tower could be a source of illness, and if it were close to a waterway…hmm. He might have to do some further investigation.

He absently smoothed his free hand over the small of his back and down his hip, tapping at the side of his thigh with his fingers in an errant rhythm as he considered his options. Dum-dum-dah-dahdahdahdah-dum-dum-dah—

“Hiram?”

He turned back to Avery, who was holding Buttercup’s lead and looking a bit poleaxed. “Ready to go, then?”

“Um, yes.”

“Wonderful.” He gestured to the horse. “After you, darling.”

Darling? Where did that come from? Better knock it off, he won’t—

Avery recovered his aplomb enough to wink. “Of course, dearest.”

Oh, Gods. This man was dangerous in more ways than one. Hiram wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to resist such charms.

He wasn’t even entirely sure he wanted to.

 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 10 Pt. 1

 Notes: On we go! Let's have some tea and backstory, shall we?

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 10 Pt. 1 

 

***

 

Chapter Ten, Part One

 

Photo by Juho Luomala

A 360º View

 

They rode for long enough that Hiram wasn’t even really sure they were still in “town” when they finally stopped. The horse had confidently made its way through the heart of Lollop and out a smaller street, past several tanneries from the smell of it, then a few farms—one rabbit, one pig—and finally up a trail that climbed a sweet, round little hill to a cottage at the top of it. The hill really wasn’t that high, but Hiram found he could see for miles in every direction up there. “What a lovely spot,” he said as Avery finally reined his mare in.

Avery smiled. “Thank you. I find I like the solitude of it.” He dismounted and patted his horse on the nose, then gestured toward the small building at the back of the cottage that must be his barn. “I’m going to put her away, but you’re welcome to go in—”

“No, no.” Hiram held up his hands, smiling to take the sting out of his refusal of hospitality. He did want to go in, but he wasn’t going to take that step without his host’s presence. It just seemed rude to do otherwise, and he knew he’d made the right choice when Avery’s shoulders relaxed. “I prefer to take in the view.”

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Avery left with the mare, and Hiram looked back down the way they’d come. The trail led westward, back toward Lollop and his own home on the far side of it. A day’s ride beyond that was the imperial highway, where his doom would come from if it ever caught up to him.

He grimaced and looked south, where he could see the cut in the fields that indicated the main road into and out of Lollop. That road stretched across the entirety of Oribel, connecting it from north to south and running right through Orivode, the capital, some hundred miles hence. The next closest towns were around the size of Lollop, though, small country villages. East was more farmland, forest, and the sluggishly winding Plunkett River that fed most of the streams and fields nearby, and north…

Hmm. Hiram squinted into the distance at the stick-like speck on the horizon. It was too slender to be a mountain, too dark to be a temple—at least a temple of Melemor—and too straight to be anything but purposeful.

“That’s Gemmel’s Tower.”

Hiram didn’t jump, but it was a near thing. He turned to face Avery, who walked up beside him with a pensive expression. “Who was Gemmel that they built such a tower?”

Avery raised one eyebrow. “You’ve never heard of him before?”

Should I have? Hiram had come across a lot of towers in his day, most of them built either by overly arrogant wizards, dark lords looking for trouble, or the occasional dwarven magnate who decided to built up instead of down. “I’m afraid I haven’t.” He glanced out at it again. “It must be immense, though.”

“It is,” Avery confirmed. “It’s almost three hundred feet high.”

Damn. That was tall even for a wizard. “What’s it made of?”

“Blackstone.”

Holy hell. Blackstone was the hardest rock in the world, one that could only be worked by dwarves or trolls. Actually, there was a higher proportion of dwarves in Lollop than Hiram had expected, given that Oribel’s population largely consisted of humans and gnomes. “Who in the hells could afford to bring in that much blackstone?”

Avery nodded toward the house. “I’ll tell you about it over a cup of tea.”

Hiram wasn’t about to refuse hospitality a second time. “Thank you.” He followed his host to the front door of the cottage, which bore a rather thick lock, and then inside. It was a small building, a single story tall, and with three rooms to it—a good place for a bachelor. The front room was large enough for a table and two chairs, a rather roomy fireplace, and a food cabinet. Two windows were enough to let a good amount of light in, and it was surprisingly warm.

Avery stoked the embers in the fireplace until he had flames going, added a few logs, then hung a kettle on the hob. “My tea selection is rather poor compared to yours,” he said in apology as he got down a teapot, two small ceramic cups, and a jar of honey. “All I can offer is raspberry or lemonmint.”

“Lemonmint would be welcome.” Something to soothe the senses after the morning he’d had. “Thank you.”

“The kettle should be boiling soon,” Avery assured him, then sat down and gestured to the other chair. “Please, sit.”

Hiram joined him at the table, the floor creaking rather noticeable with every step. The chair was comfortable, though, and when Avery uncovered a bowl of roasted nuts and offered them to him, he accepted. “It was kind of you to help me back there,” he said before popping a hazelnut into his mouth.

“It was the least I could do, after giving you such poor advice,” Avery replied.

Hiram frowned. “What do you mean? Your advice was perfectly sound.”

“But it clearly didn’t work for you, since you had to relive such a tragic moment in your life in order to satisfy Melemor.”

Ah.  “Don’t worry,” Hiram said. “That was far from the worst thing I’ve been through. I do hope the High Priest recovers soon, though.”

Avery’s eyes were wide. “Are you being—are you serious?”

“Yeeees,” Hiram said cautiously. “Why is that a problem?”

“Because that was—Hiram, cleansings, even for people who’ve suffered the loss of a loved one or who’ve been badly hurt, never feel like that. Not in Lollop, at least. Nor in Orivash, from what I remember of services there, or in—other places.”

There was little Hiram could say to that except shrug. “I’ve lived an eventful life,” he said.

“You say that like you’re an old man.”

“I am an old man.”

“Please.” Avery scoffed. “You can’t be more than fifty.”

Hiram smiled. “Forty-eight.”

“Barely into your middle years, then. You’ve got a lot of life left ahead of you.”

“And I hope it will be much less eventful than the life I left behind,” he said in a tone of finality.

Avery, thankfully, took the hint. “I think the water is beginning to boil, give me a moment.” He got up and fussed with the kettle and the teapot for a bit, then set down their mugs, two small plates, and tiny, delicate spoons for the tea. They were slightly tarnished, but…

“Silver?” Hiram asked.

Avery smiled tightly. “A gift from a friend.”

Either his friend was very wealthy, compared to the area, or they had a fear of being poisoned. Spelled silver spoons were commonplace among the powerful, one more way to evade assassins, but Hiram would never have expected to see something like that here. He spooned a little honey into his cup, then poured the tea. The smell of lemonmint rose up in a cloud, wreathing his face in comforting warmth, and Hiram closed his eyes and sighed with satisfaction at the scent of it. When he opened his eyes, he saw Avery looking at him like he was trying to decipher a forgotten language.

“The tower,” he said after a moment. “It belonged to a dwarven wizard named Gemmel. He fought in the Deyrian heights during their war with the serpentkin for decades, apparently, but eventually he was driven out of their homelands. He, and many other dwarves, settled into these lands about a century ago. Oribel was a new member of the Vordurian Empire at the time, and that made resettling easier than it might have been otherwise.”

Because so many people were lost to the ambitions of Andurion’s great-grandfather. “I see.”

“Gemmel’s magic was unique,” Avery went on, “in that it was almost entirely limited to transubstantiation.”

Hiram blinked. “That’s an unusual specialty—from what I understand,” he tacked on to the end.

“I wouldn’t know,” Avery said with a shrug. “But I do know that’s how he got the blackstone. It was originally built out of wood, I think, and he changed it layer after layer after layer.”

Oh hells. Wood to blackstone? Hiram wasn’t an expert in transubstantiation, but even he knew that wood to blackstone was a bad idea. The two substances were different in every way—most successful transformations happened between two things that had similar origins, like granite to marble, or carrots to turnips. Wood to blackstone…what was that tower truly made of?

“Gemmel began a magic academy, but it only lasted a few years. Written sources reference him as a dwarf who seemed to be slowly going mad—perfectly sane one day, confused the next, frothing with rage a third.” Avery swirled the tea in his cup. “He drove everyone who ever tried to help him away, but several of them reported that his tower was full of treasures he’d created—mostly gold, but also magical items, gems, and some heritage pieces from his clan as well.”

Hiram saw where this was going. “He was targeted for his wealth, I suppose?”

Avery nodded. “Imperial troops, led by their own powerful wizard, laid siege to the tower. They weren’t able to make a dent in the blackstone, but the wizard managed to do something to get them a way inside. They attacked during the night, but none of them ever emerged from the tower again, and neither did Gemmel. He laid some sort of spell on it to keep anyone from being able to get inside, whether they’re trying to go through a door, a window, or even all the way to the top and going through the roof. After a few decades, people stopped trying.”

“Fascinating,” Hiram said. “And tragic for everyone involved.”

“It is.” They sat in silence for a moment, then Avery nudged Hiram’s foot under the table. “Drink your tea.”

Hiram drank. It tasted like sunshine.

 

 

Our Next Story...And A Slight Rant.

 Hi darlins,

 So, I need a mental break before diving back into the Alliance sci-fi universe (they're so fun, and so much sometimes) and therefore, we're doing a novella. I'll probably have it started next week, but in the meantime, let me just share the cover with you so you get the vibe I'm going for.

 

Also, Quaint Escapes shall continue as well, that one's sunshine and roses as far as I'm concerned. I need sunshine and roses right now, given that my spouse is furloughed with no end in sight and--look, we're good overall, we save as much as we can and that's fortunate, because it fucking SUCKS to miss paychecks. I hate that so many of his colleagues and friends are having to go without. I hope you hate it too, and if you're able, consider sending a letter, signing a petition, taking a moment to do something to let the people in DC know that hurting people deliberately like this is fucked up, and worse for those who are also losing healthcare.

All right, stepping off my soapbox now. 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Chapter 9, Part 2

 Notes: Let's go figure out what the deal is at Melemor's Temple, huh? Should be easy peasy...

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Chapter 9, Part 2 

 

***

 

Chapter Nine, Part Two

Photo by Anne Laure
 

I Think That Went Well, Don’t You?

 

Two cups of tea, a quick bath, and a fresh pair of clothes later and Hiram was on his way to the Temple of Melemor. He could have taken Mule—it would have made the journey faster—but he was in a contemplative place after the memories he’d been assailed with last night, and decided it would be nicer to walk. It hadn’t been all that long since he’d left Galenish and Andurion behind, and yet…he’d forgotten. He’d genuinely forgotten how bad it had been before he finally walked away.

The mind is a surprisingly resilient organ.

It was an unfortunately tenacious one, too. He felt it, over and over again, as he walked—the blow that had knocked him down, the blow that was the true end of the relationship that has defined his life. It wasn’t even the first time Andy had ever hit him, was the thing. They’d trained together for decades, which inevitably led to bumps and lumps. The first time he’d started learning staff work, he’d managed to split Andy’s lip so badly there was still a faded scar there, and Andy had broken not one, but two bones in his foot once when he’d moved unexpectedly and put his armored boot on Hiram’s slipper. Those had been painful, but understandable—accidents happened. It was inevitable, they’d laughed about it even as they’d bled.

That hit, though…that hadn’t been inevitable. That had been a choice, a deliberate choice to assert dominance in the coarsest way possible. As soon as Hiram had realized that, once he’d assured himself there was nothing at work on his lover except Andy’s own greed and impatience, that had been that.

He’d been gone before the month was out.

If Phlox knew where Hiram’s mind had taken him, he didn’t say anything about it. He only sat there in his ear, inert but for the faint glow of his spirit and a trickle of heat that was a comfort on a chilly morning. Hiram smiled as he walked, melancholy but grateful, so grateful, for what he still had. Before long, his strides had brought him to the western edge of Lollop, and as he turned north he was joined by more townspeople on the road, all headed to the temple for Lares services. He nodded to several whom he recognized and eventually struck up a conversation with a cheesemaker that lasted until they got to the temple, which…

That was a big temple for such a modest town. Melemor was a major god of the pantheon, yes, and his temples were also often used as clinics and infirmaries, but heavens, this was as tall as two barns stacked on top of each other. It was made of stone, too—not marble, of course, but smooth river rock bound with cement and stacked toward the sky in the immense arch that was said to resemble Melemor’s prayerful hands. The stones were multicolored, and many of them had veins of quartz and mica that shone in the morning sunlight. It was…quite beautiful, Hiram thought to himself. Even compared to the cathedral back home, this was quite beautiful.

“I’m sorry about this rubbish decree of the High Priest’s, Hiram.”

He turned with a smile to look at Tilda. “It’s quite all right, my dear.”

“It’s not,” she said sourly, her lovely face stiff with resentment. “And I told him and Uriel as much, but—”

“No, truly.” He shrugged. “If knowing a bit more about me will solidify my welcome in Lollop, I’m happy to participate in a cleansing.”

“Cleansings are meant to be voluntary, not compelled,” she said with a sigh. “Especially when they’re for public consumption. It’s nonsensical—no one has brought any kind of complaint about you, they have no good reason to doubt your character.”

Hiram just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. “Let’s go see if we can get ourselves a good seat, hmm?”

The temple was already two-thirds full by the time they got in, the pews filled with families trying to occupy their children as everyone waited for the light to be right. Melemor’s services only started, by tradition, when the focused rays of morning light began to directly illuminate the altar at the front of the temple, and they ended once the beam of light had moved on. It made for a relatively short service, which was pleasant for most involved.

Today, it was clear that the priests were impatient to get started. High Priest Velagros stood, tall and ascetic, right behind the altar, his hands clasped in a position of prayer even as his glittering eyes roved the room. When they landed on Hiram, they narrowed sharply even as the corners of his lips perked up.

Well, at least Hiram couldn’t be accused of shirking his responsibility. Nor could anyone else, it seemed—he and Tilda had to squish in with their neighbors as more and more people entered the temple.

I wonder… Hiram sat a bit straighter and looked around, but he couldn’t see Avery in the crowd. Surely he was here somewhere, though. Perhaps he liked to sit in the back.

There was a sudden, sonorous sounding of the gong, calling all worshippers to attention. The High Priest stepped forward, hands aloft, and as he spread them apart, sunshine seemed to gather in them for a moment. “All praise to the god of healing love and the light of truth,” he intoned in a voice that didn’t sound very loving at all. “Sing the song of solace.”

Hiram murmured along with the song as best he could. It really had been a long time since he’d prayed to Melemor, and he wasn’t surprised that his devotions were a bit sloppy. Eh, Melemor wouldn’t care.

They got through two more songs, several incantations for minor healing that left numerous people in the crowd smiling, and one dirge for the death of a gnomish family patriarch at the ripe old age of a hundred and eighty-seven. That was fairly involved, and by the time the last of the great-great-great-great-grandchildren had been named, the light was well past the midpoint of the altar. Hiram actually worried for a moment that he wouldn’t be called up, which after the psybane would truly be a waste, until—

“And finally,” the High Priest said, gaze unerringly finding Hiram, “we have a ritual cleansing to welcome the newest member of our society to Lollop. Hiram Emblic, step forward so that ye may be freed of your sins in the light of Melemor and your neighbors.”

There was a massive rustling as everyone in the entire temple turned to stare at Hiram. Fortunately, he was immune to embarrassment and only smiled as he stood and eased his way past the other people in the pew and made his way to the front of the vast room. An acolyte had already laid out a kneeling pillow for him, and he settled himself on it as Velagros came to stand in front of him. He held a bronze bowl in one hand and a silver-bladed knife in the other.

“Open your heart and soul to the love of Melemor, Master Emblic,” he said, then held out the knife.

Nice of him to let me do the cutting. This was all part of the ritual—a symbolic cut that would be healed along with whatever “bedeviled” him inside thanks to Melemor’s grace. It was also a test in and of itself; if you only gave yourself the tiniest prick, you might be seen as lacking faith. Hiram scraped the length of his index finger down the blade, and blood immediately began to drip.

High Priest Velagros captured some of it in the bowl, frowning, then set the blade on the altar behind them. He then dipped his fingers into the blood and closed his eyes. “The spirit of our god binds and sanctifies our connection,” he said. “Let it show me, and all of those present, your true heart.” He pressed his fingertips to his own forehead, then reached for Hiram’s. Hiram closed his eyes and focused on the past that had sent him to Lollop, hoping that Melemor would understand. The fingers touched his head, and then…

Feelings of harshness, hatred, and abandonment echoed throughout the temple. No specific words, no pointed visions, but a wretchedness and sense of loss that it was Velagros’s job to contain. Right on its heels was the pain of walking away from Misha, leaving his family behind, his baby, and there was no way back and he knew it, he would never see her again… Hiram had lived all this last night, and while it wasn’t pleasant to experience it again, it wasn’t enough to hurt him. He heard Velagros gasping his way through the cleansing prayer and hoped the other man was able to protect the rest of the townspeople.

Gradually, the feelings of despair gave way to something sweet and soft. The light shining down at the altar was warm, like a blanket resting on Hiram’s shoulders as he sat before a toasty fire. It soothed the aches and twinges that had seemed like his constant companion since leaving Galenish, and he smiled as he felt the cut on his finger knit. As the heat finally faded, Hiram opened his eyes once more and looked up at the High Priest, who was staring down at him with a blank expression on his face.

“Thank you,” Hiram said wholeheartedly.

To his shock, Velagros suddenly burst into tears. Not just tears but sobs, wrenching and awful, that sounded as though they were being forcibly pried out of him for all the shuddering and shivering he did. Hiram was mystified until he realized that he’d just shared one of the most traumatic experiences of his life with a man who knew his townspeople inside and out. Velagros wasn’t the type to be overcome by emotion; he could distance himself from the familiar trials of his flock. Hiram was…a bit of an outlier, there.

An acolyte quickly stepped up and finished the ceremony, wiping Hiram’s forehead and hand clean with a white cloth as another acolyte took the High Priest by the shoulders and drew him away from the wide-eyes townsfolk witnessing his breakdown. “Blessings of love and light upon you all,” the acolyte who’d tidied up Hiram said loudly, and then, “We’re done, thanks.” The light hadn’t even fully passed the altar.

Hiram sighed as he got to his feet. Instead of getting through things with minimal fuss like he’d intended, now he was sure to be even more the talk of the town. That was the last bloody thing he needed, and despite the energy that the healing had left him with, he felt rather tempestuous as he strode down the center aisle faster than anyone could reach out to him. He didn’t want to field nosy questions and suspicious glances, didn’t want to talk at all, really, he just wanted to be left in peace, was that so much to bloody ask? He heard the stirring of hundreds of bodies behind him, ready to move out, and it took all he had to resist the urge to run. He couldn’t—

“Master Emblic,” someone called from his left, low and steady. Hiram turned and saw Avery Surrus a dozen feet away holding the reins of a chestnut mare. He must have exited the temple even faster than Hiram. “Might I help you make your escape?” he offered with a little smile on his face.

Hiram didn’t care in the moment whether it was a ruse, a joke, or a taunt. He practically ran to Avery’s side and didn’t hesitate as the man, with deceptive ease, handed him up into the saddle. Avery followed right after, and Hiram settled in the center of his loose embrace as he clicked the reins and tapped the mare with his heels. They set off at a trot, and were gone from sight before more than a score of people had even made it outside, much less started over toward him.

“My hero,” he murmured, and felt the vibration of Avery’s laugh against his back.

“My pleasure.”