Chapter Three
The arena hummed with activity. Surprise etched across Elise’s face. She didn’t know what to expect with such an event. Located in the basement of the mansion, it stretched across hundreds of yards, with spectator seats running along the sides. In the center lay a kind of fighting ring – designed in a square shape, with mesh wiring on all sides, extending up to the ceiling. A cage for fighters. Somewhere for people to hurt one another, maybe even kill. Certainly wouldn't put it past the wyrms to do something like that.
The arena could likely host several events at once, and Elise flinched as wyrms walked past her, talking to one another. Brann stood by her side, amused at her skittishness.
“You’re with me. They won’t hurt you. Not unless you give them reason to.” He lightly tapped her on the shoulder, probably meant as a reassuring gesture.
“Since when do I need to give a wyrm reason to hurt me?” Elise hissed, still flinching when others passed.
“True.” Brann shrugged. Come to think of it, he had an impressive physique and towered above most other wyrms there. Elise wasn’t exactly small herself. In fact, she stood quite tall for a woman, but Brann dwarfed everyone. Seriously – he resembled a hunk of muscle with a scowling, scarred face. Those eyes went hot and cold within one breath, making her think of warm days and cold, shivering nights. He carried himself as if he knew how to use every inch of his strength, as if his awareness pumped through his blood, making his arms and legs think. Such a powerful presence. The kind that filled up a room and buffeted people away just by existing.
Some people really did seem larger than life.
By his side, people had a higher tendency to ignore Elise. What a relief, in a way. Getting used to her new surroundings threatened to overwhelm her at every second. None of the familiar clank and thuds of the axes in the background existed, or the rumbling grind of wheelbarrows, the huffs of breath, the occasional high tweet of a canary. The conversation here came rowdy, bold, unafraid of being caught. In the mines, it came hushed, as if every word had the potential to get you killed.
Which was also why Elise tended to hum under her breath for tunes, or in the quiet of her tiny hut, clutching Ratty.
The main attraction of the arena, the cage, seemed to jut out ominously. Some parts of the mesh wiring were colored darker than others. Blood stains? It did have the taint of rust, the splatter of despair about it. She shivered. Yes. Death must happen here.
Brann gave her a nudge. For some reason, that elbow of his jabbed at her painfully. She expected it to be softened because of the muscles. Not the case at all. “So, here's what's up. You’ll be seated next to Tarken. He'll announce when it’s time for you to sing. I can’t be with you, since I’m in the cage. Looking for some extra money,” he said, with a hard, flinty set to his lips. Elise blinked rapidly as she processed the information.
“You fight in that thing?” She scrutinized the ruined flesh upon his chin. It looked like someone made a good attempt at ripping the skin from his jaw. The flesh had healed in uneven patches, leaving swathes of white-pink scars. “Is that how you got your scars?”
He didn’t answer that one. Perhaps too invasive. He did, however, give her a wan smile before he nudged her over to Lord Tarken. The wyrm curtly bowed to Brann.
“Best of luck, Brann. I’ve bet a lot on you.”
“You know me. I don’t need luck.”
They both gave thin, venomous smiles at one another. Did they not like each other? Or did they know of no other way to interact? Now Tarken turned his yellow eyes upon Elise. “Hello, little songbird. You’re singing in twenty. Do you have three songs prepared?” A distinct hint of you better have them ready lingered in his deep tone. Brann had a lower voice, somehow. More rumbly, as if a fire burned in his throat.
Elise nodded. “Yes, sir.” She figured to keep it respectful, like how she heard the servants address the wyrms. Tarken didn’t seem inclined to impulsive, radical beatings, but Elise knew not to expect anything. Not to trust any glimmers of kindness she saw. Wyrms hated humans. Always.
It was about the only reliable thing she knew.
“Good. There can be a regular spot for you if you play it right. Better than the mines, right?” His yellow eyes turned into slits. His daughter sat down, fanning her cheeks theatrically. She looked uncomfortable in the wooden seat, and shot Elise jealous glares.
She might be trouble for me later.
“Daddy, do we have to let her sing? I can sing instead, I’m much better.”
“No, petal. I've already told you why. This is for your own good.” Tarken shook his head. “Now, my advice, human. Be quiet. And only answer when you’re spoken to. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” God, Elise wanted to hurt him. The impulse flashed in her mind, visceral and strong. She shrugged it off and sat next to him, stiff and nervous.
She’d practised her songs in the bath. She knew all of them from before, including the sad one. However, knowing the songs wasn't enough. You needed to know your audience as well. If you gave them the wrong song that didn't reflect their mood, or attacked it too fast, it grated against the soul. Gauging the crowd, Elise sensed that ending her set with a rousing, soul-stirring tune would be the best way for it. Especially if the fights didn’t start until after her.
It needed to be last. She twiddled her thumbs, and the tips of them tickled. Meaning she’d better drop Fallen from the list.
This was her chance to not work in the mines, to not feel her lungs slowly dissolve into nothing. The fresher air did wonders for her breathing – already her capacity had strengthened. Making her more capable.
I can do this. Three tunes. Just Breathe. Holding the Rhythm. And Warrior, instead of Falling. She hadn’t practised Warrior, and now started humming it quietly under her breath. Reminding herself of the words, the beat. Elise had once sung this one in front of Isera. Not so long before her friend disappeared, actually, so it remained a sore point. Elise remembered the fire burning in Isera’s eyes after she’d finished.
Yes. This one would work. Just thinking about it stirred her blood up. Thinking of Isera's reaction reminded her of its power.
Tarken didn’t seem to notice her growing excitement as he stood up to greet some noblewyrm. Soon, the gathering had reached a good size and an announcer from outside the cage, by the single door there, bellowed through a kind of trumpet device which magnified his voice over the arena.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, we have four things for you. We have, of course, our prize fighters, all competing in matchups in the hope of earning themselves some gold. We have five matches tonight, and we have an old favorite returning – the indestructible Ozun!” The announcer, a plump, wobbly male wyrm with a double chin indicated a beast of a fighter, who must have been twice as wide as he was tall, all decked out with muscles.
I hope Brann's not against that monster.
Ozun’s yellow eyes flickered over the crowd as he bowed and accepted their cheers. His olive skin suggested he came from a distant city, further than the pale-skinned wyrms Elise had seen, and the pale people she was used to, gaunt and white because of their time spent in the mines. She examined her hands for a second.
Under the lighting from the gas lamps, they appeared even more pale. Even with the hardened tissue and rough cracks where dirt sometimes seeped in. She missed some of the announcer's babble, and tuned back in to listen.
“... But before the fighting, we have three singing acts for you! One of them is a new one – a human discovered in the mines, a diamond in the rough!”
There were boos from the crowd.
“Yes, yes,” the commentator said, “we all know what humans are like. Lord Tarken assures me, though, that we’ll be surprised. But we’ll have to wait! First up, the vivacious… Madam Songe!” He flicked a gesture with his wrists, indicating a new singer.
An obvious pseudonym. A busty, thick-lipped wyrm singer, probably hitting her middle years, stepped up to a small wooden platform just behind the cage. Just behind the possible blood stains, which had a way of tugging at Elise's attention. Making her wonder what tale lay behind them.
A strange device lay upon the stage, and Elise noticed how Madam Songe gripped the device, not unlike a metal rod, and held it close to her lips. Also upon the stage was another drake – one who sat in front of a piano. Songe began crooning into the device, possessing a rough, husky voice. Sometimes the notes sounded off, but overall, Elise’s finely attuned ears appreciated the music.
Elise noticed and understood that the pianist improvised upon the song. He followed the tune and added a melody that suited it. That there was talent. Elise found herself nodding, admiring the drake’s playing more than Songe’s voice. Would that drake be there for Elise, too? Would he pick the perfect sadness and vigor for her songs, or would he butcher them?
It did seem that the device Madam Songe held enhanced her voice, in the same manner as for the commentator. It reverberated off the walls of the basement, more like a vast cavern than anything else. The walls were black and red and gold, the floor gray stone. Elise bit her lip, watching. Now would not be the time to flake out at the thought of performing in front of a large, reluctant crowd.
The first singer finished. Now one stepped up called Lord Ikken.
He had a low, growling voice, and sang in the style of a ballad, strumming a lyre as he did so. Elise had never mastered any instrument other than her voice, and she wondered if her words would be too weak. Not able to carry around the basement and for all those who listened.
When Ikken finished, Tarken prodded her to go, since the announcer simply referred to her as “The human.” It prompted some jeering, and she saw Tarken examine the crowd in contempt.
She tried not to let her legs give way as she went to the tiny stage to sing. She presumed the singers were distractions before the events as the last of the bets on the fighters rattled out – she spotted people crowding around a circular counter, some of them waving cash in the air, clutched in pudgy fists. Others took themselves up in a storm of last-minute betting.
She started off with Holding the Rhythm, a perfect test song for the amplifier, so she could see how it affected her voice. The jolly, jaunty tune rang out loud, high and clear. She didn’t focus on anyone in the stands, concentrating instead on surviving the first song. Some of the crowd started clapping, which meant they liked it. Good. The lack of jeering encouraged her to put more spirit into it.
She finished, and went with the sad tune. The one designed to pull down everyone’s mood. Then to finish off with Warrior. Hoping she had gauged the atmosphere right.
Again, Just Breathe had a strange effect on the audience, like the pain in her heart had found a way to transfer itself over. The room, which had filled with conversation, again fell into silence.
Maybe I should rename the tune The Silence.
After finishing Just Breathe, allowing the last note to linger, she closed her eyes for a moment.
“One more song,” she said, and her announcement shattered the bubble of quiet.
Her heart pounded faster with the new tune, from the fire it lit inside.
There is blood in the water
And on the fields
It’ll be washed away by the rain –
By slaughter, a lingering stain
These warriors
They fought, they lived, they died
With cold steel in their hearts
And their fierce, burning eyes
That become glass upon the hills
Under an anvil sky
Swords in their hands and death on their lips
There’s a dark river under
Slipping them down
Only the brave have this fate
Those who don’t hesitate
Who throw away their desperate life
For something more
Through a field of death
An impossible war
Through adversary
Such misery...
March on, brave ones!
Falter and you’re nothing
Or live like a legend
Falter and be nothing
Or live like a legend
You’re a warrior
A fighter
Not another ghost in the background
And though the dust will become you
The grass grow over you
A legend never dies
A warrior thrives
March on, brave ones!
Falter and you’re nothing
Or live like a legend
Falter and be nothing
Or live like a legend
You will be remembered...
By the end, the crowd stomped their feet and roared, many of them clapping their hands in thunderous ovation. Elise’s eyes settled on Brann, who looked fired up, energized, ready to fight, to kill.
Good. The concept of war always fascinated Elise, because she wanted to know how they happened. What drove people into them, to be slaughtered in the thousands. The concept of mass death terrified her as much as fascinated.
The song, of course, was meant for the human rebellions that had cropped up over the centuries, taught to her by the few elders who knew how to read, and also by Isera. Isera knew how to read.
Not that the wyrms needed to know that.
She left the stage to tumultuous cheers, and sat again next to Tarken, who leaned to say with a low, rustling voice, “Nicely done, human. It’s a shame you are human, really, you have a talent. A glorious one. Ah. Well, you can be sure these peasants will think twice about mocking you again.”
That was probably the closest thing she could ever expect as a compliment.
She thanked him with that cautious politeness, and then followed the fights that went down in the cage.
The first fight was between a youthful, skinny wyrm who was tall and gangly and looked as if he didn’t know what do to with himself. His opponent: an older wyrm who must have been in his fifties. Elise noticed that the fighters went for a precise style. They wore elbow and knee protection, and also a type of metal glove upon their hands. Elbow guard, shin guard, hand guard.
The fight didn’t take long. The youth mostly fought on the defensive, whilst the wily older wyrm used his experience to constantly gain the upper hand. It ended with the youth forfeiting, having taken too many blows on his body.
“A straightforward match,” Tarken informed her. “No one is seriously hurt, and we have someone forfeit because they're too far behind in points and too outclassed. We'll see another one of these, I should imagine.”
Tarken proved himself correct. The second fight was the same setup – a veteran versus a newcomer. Then two newcomers. Then two veterans. Elise knew by the fourth fight that Brann would be fighting the meat mountain of a champion, and wasn’t sure what to think about that. Perhaps some anxiety, because he had treated her nicely in their brief interactions together. Brann, with his scar, his tall and compacted body, versus a boulder of a wyrm. The kind of beast who might withstand any kind of blow without budging.
“Brann’s a relatively new fighter in this world,” Tarken said to her, still mining his information vein. Probably because he wanted to explain, and his daughter acted disinterested, aside from the evil stares she occasionally gave Elise. That girl could cause a winter by herself. “He’s been in it for two years. There’s many fighters, and if Brann beats this champion, he’ll end up having more fights.” He examined Elise's reaction.
“Right. So this is his big chance,” Elise said.
“Rather like yours.” Apart from the whole being executed issue if she failed her singing, obviously. “Eventually, he might compete in the city tournament against world-class fighters. And I’ll be his patron.”
Tarken paused, watching as Elise examined Brann. “Yes, he’s one to watch, isn’t he?”
“Yes sir,” Elise said, answering the question. She risked adding more. “He looks as though he has fought before, sir. Before doing this. He has eyes that have seen death.”
Was that too much information? Would Tarken snarl at her for such audacity? Karris certainly glared at them both, angry at Elise for daring to speak to her father. Even the other wyrms seemed mildly curious at the fact Tarken spoke so openly to Elise.
Elise processed all the information, considering what it meant.
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right,” Tarken said, nodding thoughtfully. “And he has been near death, too. It was what drew me to him. I saw him in the fight that gave him that wound, in a tiny, nameless pit. What resilience.” He sounded admiring of Brann.
Yes. That scar covers a wound that must have almost killed him.
She couldn't help but notice how unusually receptive the lord was to her. Honestly, Elise had never gone longer than five seconds with a wyrm without getting some scathing, awful remark about her or the people she worked with. Yet Tarken actually spoke to her, conveyed information. And seemed perfectly happy to do so.
Had she misjudged him?
The fight began. Brann prowled around the champion, and the crowd openly cheered for Ozun, who bathed in their adoration with smiles and lifted his hand. Brann didn’t take the opportunity. Elise suspected he was right to not do so, since Ozun’s body remained as taut as a wire. Prepared for ambush.
Likely it would be considered dishonorable or something if Brann launched himself before his opponent anticipated it. Elise didn’t know much about fighting, but saw that both fighters clearly held experience, because they both stalked around each other with power and respect.
They did nothing else for a few moments, sizing one another up. Feet tapping the cage floor. The audience began baying for action, for them to stop their little dance and head straight for first blood.
Ozun made his move. A feint, a step forward. The fighting sport focused on blocking blows with the knees and elbows and hands. Full contact with the body meant points for the assailant. Elise learned that from the short time she spent watching it. Every move had a pattern to it, and she saw patterns repeated in matches, like the fighters only had a select sequence of moves to perform from.
Elise wanted to ask if the sport had a name, but refrained. It likely did, with such an art form to it. Something about the thirst for blood, the crescendo for action and reaction. Tarken utterly focused on Brann's movements. Any breaking of that focus would risk his displeasure. No. She was best silent.
Watching Brann fight helped draw her closer to him, admiring the power contained in his limbs. She even visualized being down there, taking and receiving the blows. Dancing in that mesmerizing rhythm, reading her opponent's moves. He conducted himself with energy, determination and diligence. Ozun might be stronger, but Brann moved fluidly. Bobbing and weaving around the giant wyrm.
Clack! Their hands smacked together. Brann’s other fist sank into Ozun’s flesh. A point for him. The crowd understood the fight more than Elise. Jeers and shouts of support rang through the stands. More jeered against Brann, because most had bet against him.
She heard Tarken laugh beside her. As if he knew Brann was winning.
Was he? The fight still looked even, with neither side gaining an advantage. She assumed points had to do with contact against flesh, but they might be rated on other means as well. She scrunched her brow, trying to see what Tarken did.
A few blows later, it became obvious. Ozun flagged in his movements, his swings becoming wilder. Brann ducked, avoiding a punch, before rolling out of a kick and deflecting it with his shin guard. Ozun tottered off balance, and Brann swept his legs out from under him, landing a flurry of blows in succession. Not going for damage. Just points. A less honorable person might have inflicted serious damage, crippling or killing their opponent. Brann tapped for points like a buzzing fly against the skin of a bull.
Ozun yielded, and the crowd started booing.
“What a pity,” Tarken said, smirking. He clapped his hands together in delight. Elise didn’t understand the boos. Brann had won that fair and square. He did nothing wrong. Yet the crowd, upset that their champion had lost, no matter how good the opponent was, acted bitterly disappointed, choosing instead to belittle the winner.
The ones who bet on Brann winning, however, left the stands with big smiles.
“He had eight to one odds. Ozun was two to one,” Tarken informed Elise, noting how her gaze followed the cheerful members of the crowd. She nodded, though she didn't respond with words. Best not to sour Tarken's mood with a human voice. After that, Tarken left to collect his winnings. Brann went over to Elise, sweat pouring down his muscular, bulked-out body. He looked every inch a warrior.
“Well? What did you think?” He moved to the side to avoid Karris as she walked past, not bothering to look in Elise's direction. “Did you like the fight?” His gray eyes locked with hers as if her opinion mattered. Elise's cheeks flushed slightly, and she began to scratch at her wrist. Her current servant clothes itched her skin and fit too tight.
“You fought beautifully!” Elise then shrugged. “Not that I fully understand the rules. You just seemed... graceful, somehow.” Graceful for someone of his stature, tall and fleshed out. Sure, he wasn't built like a hunk of meat and muscle like Ozun, but he still towered above most other people. Ozun just made everyone tiny in comparison.
“Interesting. You'll find the others here will think I won by trickery and luck. For them, a true victory is beating someone black and blue, maybe crushing a bone or three. They won't like that I won technically. It's what they call cowardly.”
“It's what I call smart,” Elise said, matching his little smile. “Though I think it's a shame others don't see that. You deserve the win.”
He preened himself slightly. Smokes, he did look endearing with that kind of expression. Not cute, not handsome, exactly... but it gave a beatific shine to his features. It made him stand out in a sea of faces. Even the mangled scar on his chin became softer, somehow. Just a pattern etched into his beard, bumps of flesh that spoke of past battles.
A servant came rushing back to Elise to tell her that Tarken would likely be a while. She should make her way out with Brann. Elise thanked him and he darted back to Tarken, desperate to get back and not crash into anyone.
“Well, milady. Your abode awaits. And I could sleep for a week right now. After bathing all night.”
He held out an arm to her and they interlinked elbows together. He escorted her back to her chambers. All the events of the evening left Elise a little disjointed. So much had happened. Leaving the mines. Singing. Watching people fight, learning snippets about the new world she found herself in. How bizarre, when she used to live two hundred meters away, to know the vast difference in their lives. A life dying of lungdust in the mines, or a life of Lastday entertainment in the basement, and the pressure of being a good servant.
Isera used to visit her three, four times a week. Sometimes the servant worked in the mines to avoid suspicion, since she wasn't supposed to leave the estate. Isera described the mines as a pit of horror, where people went to die.
Elise agreed. The mines did have that oppressive despair to them. Past the canaries and the banging of axes and the creak of wheelbarrows, she imagined monsters lurking in the shadows, ready to grab unsuspecting workers.
Why worry about monsters in the caves when the wyrms helped fuel nightmares with their actions anyway?
Both of them saw once a man have the life beaten from him when he dropped a candle onto the floor. The wyrm even thought the man faked his comatose state, and kicked him while he lay still.
Fortunately for humans, the wyrms hadn't yet figured out a way to flog a corpse back to life. Eternal suffering – not something anyone wanted. Not something anyone deserved.
Brann came with her into the room and shut the door. Fear stabbed through Elise. She thought he planned to leave her alone, go back to his quarters. What if he expected sex from her? To use her in the equally heinous way the wyrms did when they sentenced her to slave labor in the mines? A sense of disappointment tangled with the fear. Somehow, a part of her hoped him to be different. Someone who didn't intend to inflict suffering upon another. She squeezed her eyes shut as he reached for something by his side. A weapon? Not that he needed one. With those muscles, that strength packed inside his body, he could knock her out in an eye blink.
A finger tapped her shoulder. “You okay? I have a drink here. I suspect you're dehydrated.”
She cracked her eyelids open to see him holding a flask. She stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending. He waved it in front of her face. “If you don't want it, I'm finishing it off.” When she didn't move, he then sighed. “It’s not poison. It’s something that helps relax. I have no interest in poisoning such a delightful singer…”
Finally, Elise took the flask. He watched as she drank from it. The flavor burned her throat. Alcohol? Really? She coughed and he grinned.
“You could have told me that was alcohol beforehand!”
“Well, best I leave that a happy surprise.”
“You know alcohol might be classed as poison, right?” Elise wanted to swallow her words the second she said them, stuff them somewhere where they could be forgotten. Back-talking a wyrm was suicide.
Brann, a drake, didn't seem to mind.
“Also as a relaxant,” he pointed out. “So, tell me, little one. How did you have such a good singing voice?”
Elise shrugged, taking another gulp. She didn’t know herself. It just happened for her, without ever needing to think about it. Like magic.
“I’ve always been able to sing.” She left it at that. It was true. It didn't require great thinking on her part. She didn't train for hours and hours until her throat bled and her lungs expired desperate gasps of breath. It just happened.
“And how does it make you feel, little one? How does the singing feel to you?” He folded his arms. Despite the ugly scar, he seemed kind. Warm. Elise felt her interest lean into him, wanting to bathe in more of his presence. With his height, he might be scary, but with his manner, he invoked an air of protectiveness. Not that she needed protecting. No one could protect her. Not really.
How did it make her feel? Happy. Sad. Powerful. It started as a feeling in her chest which spread to her voice-box. It made her blood tingle, and sometimes, if she felt a strong emotion, she could push it out of her. Or bring it back inside, if she was empty and hungry.
Was there an ulterior motive to his questions? It did feel like he was probing around at something, but Elise didn't understand what.
“Like I can do anything,” Elise eventually said. She didn’t know Brann’s motives. The drake seemed to be Tarken’s pet in a way, his special sponsor – except the drake didn’t act like a pet. Elise’s eyes glanced over to where Isera’s name was burnt. Isera had been forced to work in the mines a few times when visiting Elise, to avoid getting into trouble with the guards, who thankfully couldn’t tell the difference between the humans that worked there before and the ones in the mansion.
Isera never mentioned the basement. Was that new? Or did she never get to see what happened under there?
Elise suspected it was more to do with the fact that Isera didn't think it important to mention to a mine dweller. What use did someone like Elise have for something like that anyway?
“I advise you to be careful, Elise,” Brann said. He took the flask from her after she gulped down some more, and finished it off himself. “Don’t sing unless you have permission to. Don’t entertain servants. You probably shouldn’t sing in front of Karris alone, either; she’s a jealous soul. The reason for this is that some malcontent wyrms might think your singing is magical.”
Elise gaped. Her mouth became dry. “It’s just singing.”
Brann regarded her for a long moment before he stepped forward and whispered in her ear, “No, it isn’t. Elise. Be careful. You have a power in that voice. True power.”
“I don’t understand?” Elise’s heart thumped painfully. Her blood zinged through every limb like scattered cave dust. She had heard of magic existing before. Especially when she had that talk with Isera, who said she believed magic was returning to the world. Isera held some fantastical ideas, including that the lost powers which had made humans fall from grace now circulated, finding a way back into their population.
In no uncertain terms, Isera hinted that it would be cool if Elise had magic powers. If her blood held a part of magic's revival in it. Isera had been holding something back then. Something that made Elise wonder how she knew for certain that magic was coming back.
It left her imagination wild, searching for signs of power, in herself and in Isera. She thought... maybe sometimes she wondered if her singing had something more, but she also considered it as wishful thinking on her part.
All she did was sing.
Elise’s brain spun, dizzy from remembering that conversation.
Brann took the near empty flask from her. “I think you know what I mean. Perhaps you wonder if your voice has a touch of magic or not, Elise,” Brann said, briefly stroking a hand through her blonde hair, nails brushing her scalp. “And I'm inclined to think it might.”
Elise backed away from him, removing his fingers from her hair. “I, I don't know what you're talking about. M–magic?”
“Oh, please. I don’t think it’s something to kill you over. We all need a little song to lift our moods. And perhaps that is your talent. To make us feel what you feel.”
Elise crinkled her lips. “It's not magic. It's just singing.” She doubted her own words. The hope blossomed within her again, wanting it to be possible. Wanting magic to exist in her. Brann persisted in this vein as well, believing the same suspicion Isera once voiced. Elise didn’t sense that Brann intended to use his suspicion as blackmail, however. On the contrary, he seemed… concerned.
Elise liked the idea of being able to let people feel what she felt. That was the mark of good music. Any decent musician conveyed such emotion. But to have it as magic? Nonsensical and pointless. It might as well not be a power at all, but still better than nothing. Though Elise suspected it did hold a touch of something more. In the way her veins vibrated. In the way she tangled her blood and soul into the words, and felt empty or full afterwards. And in the way people never seemed to… hate her.
As if her voice calmed them.
Maybe to be a good singer, you needed magic. That made more sense to Elise.
She kept that idea inside, though it exploded over her brain in cold realization, leaving fragments of hope lodged in her brain.
Just imagine if that was the truth. What if she had never experienced wyrm violence personally because her voice soothed them?
She couldn’t prove that. She might just be lucky instead. She did notice that wyrms were softer with her than with any other human. Not once had Elise been whipped, been raped, been truly hurt.
No one could be that lucky, surely?
“Good night, Elise. Tomorrow, if you’re interested, I can train you a little in the art of Makido. That’s the fighting style the matches use,” he supplied. Not knowing what else to say, Elise nodded, a lump in her throat. Brann patted her on the shoulder, his scarred face kind. Elise traveled past the scars and saw an inner beauty there. He wasn’t breathtakingly handsome. But he had a twinkle to those gray eyes, a nice jaw structure, high cheekbones and symmetrical features, aside from the ruined flesh that split his red beard in two. The kind that made you stop and look again, and wonder how he managed to occupy more space than what his body occupied, as if an aura around him swelled up and consumed the atmosphere in a room.
He left and Elise stared at the door for a few moments, biting her lip. Chewing the flesh there. Wondering why Brann acted so kind.
She concluded one thing from her interactions. Drakes were completely different. Not just with their dragon forms – but with their personalities. Their souls. They knew how to be kind, to treat her like an equal, instead of a slave to be ground into dirt.
Now alone, she got herself ready for bed, anticipating sleeping in covers thicker than her fingernails. Her last covers barely kept out the chill.
Then her eyes settled upon the pillows. A surge of loneliness hit her, knowing this would be the first night in years without Ratty. Of course, it was ridiculous to put that much attachment in an object, but Ratty had comforted her through many nights, many times when her heart pinched with sorrow. Sometimes for the parents she would never know, sometimes for the pain she saw every day or felt in her bones.
Sometimes thinking about the friends she had lost.
She undressed and pulled back the bedcovers.
Wait. The pillows had a kind of bump to them. She pulled them apart and saw Ratty there, wedged underneath.
Instantly her hands reached for the little sack of fabric. Eighteen years old, and she was delighted to see a ragged strip of a toy.
A smile played upon her lips. She knew without a doubt that Brann had put it there. When had he found the time?
She didn’t know, but she fell asleep with a smile on her soul.