Airlean Tales

Wes was silent as he and Azalea walked back to the workshop. With every step away from the Hunter’s Guild, he slowly loosened: a slouch of his shoulders, a slack of his jaw, a crease of his jacket. Bit by bit, like settling into a new skin.

They were at Gallows Square when the Geppett heir returned to being Wes.

The workshop was pitch-black by the time they arrived, the orange sun fading to a dull pinprick that vanished behind the curtains. Outside, the cold evening breeze rattled at the window. Wes shrugged off his coat and lit the distant hearth with a spark of fire mana, letting the warmth soak the room.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said, finally allowing a grimace to cross his face.

The workshop was, indeed, on the disorderly end. Wes’s cramped accommodations already offered little in terms of space, and the thoughtlessly scattered cups, scraps of paper, and reference books only compounded the problem. Even his tool rack—which he was very particular about keeping in good condition—was hanging askew.

Azalea surveyed the mess, biting her lip. “I should have come to see you first.”

“No,” said Wes. “It’s always more important to get a check-up as soon as possible. Even if you feel alright, there could be an imbalance in your plait. Better to be safe.”

He was rambling a little, as was his tendency whenever he was nervous or agitated. Azalea swallowed and reached for his hand. She cupped his fingers in hers, letting him feel the warmth of her skin, the dull beat of her pulse.

“I’m alright,” she said. “I’m sorry to have worried you.”

Wes breathed out, growing very still.

“That slip of paper was the nastiest scare I’d gotten in years,” he said hoarsely. “I was already on edge, but reading those words…Myths. It felt like a nightmare.”

A stone plummeted in Azalea’s gut. She could picture it all in her mind’s eye—a disgruntled Wes attempting to distract himself in work, toiling over the table. She could hear the knock on the door, see him accept the letter. She could watch him slot it open with his thumb and scan the page. She could see his face whiten and the paper stumble out of his hands, fluttering to the ground like a dying butterfly.

Wounded following an encounter with a Class Four corruption, the notice had said. Nothing about the severity of her condition. It left all to the imagination.

An imagination that had been building for an entire week.

Azalea squeezed Wes’s hand, and he jolted a little, torn out of wherever his thoughts had taken him. Wordlessly, she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug.

His breath left his lungs in a whoosh, and he sank into her, cradling his arms around her waist.

“Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his nose into her neck. His breath warmed her. “For coming back.”

She brushed a hand down his hair. It pulled apart some of the tidy styling, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I’ll be more careful.”

Wes laughed a little. “Careful? ’Zalie, you’re the craziest person I’ve met.”

That surprised her. “What? I’m very timid.”

“Yeah, until you have something to fight for.” He pulled back, and—thank the Myths, he was grinning. “The kitten stuck on the Academy parapet? It was your second day on windsoles and you jumped right for it.”

She flushed a little. “Well, the instructor was around.”

“What about that time when July was being harassed? Some prick hung her undergarments on a flagpole and you jumped out the window to retrieve them. Nearly gave the dormitory supervisor a heart attack, dangling from the flagpole, no windsoles or instructors in sight.”

That had been particularly reckless. Azalea didn’t know what had come over her. All she remembered was looking at the humiliated tears on her classmate’s face, and before she knew it, she was leaping out the window and swinging from the flagpole, clothes in hand. She could have easily died that day—or been expelled. Thankfully, she’d gotten off with detention.

“Well,” she fumbled, “I never made that mistake again.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” said Wes, still smiling. “I’d call it the opposite, in fact. That’s when I fell—uh, felt that you had the soul of a Hunter.”

Azalea thought of the ruthless Hunters and their dangerous card games, their affinity for strong drink, their limitless courage and insatiable thirst for blood.

Coward.

“I do?” she said quietly.

“You sure do.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You’re all protectors. Fiercely loyal. Unstoppable.”

Protector. It was a kind word, a valiant word. It bore less weight than the title of hero, warrior, conqueror. A mother was a protector, as was a knight, as was a tender of vineyards and orchards. Azalea could do that. She could be a protector, watching over whatever was entrusted to her, no matter how small.

Her mouth lifted in a smile. “Thank you.”

Wes stared at her face for a moment, looking stunned. Then he shook himself and cleared his throat.

“Some tea?” he offered. “I’ve got your favorite. Rose vanilla.”

She brightened. “I’d love some.”

Wes untangled their limbs and filled a metal pitcher with water from the workshop spigot, then hung it over the hearth to boil. Azalea pulled her plushy chair next to the fire and tucked her legs under her. She patted the space next to her, but Wes only dragged up his own stool, a faint blush crawling up his neck. She decided not to push the matter, even if it was nice to feel his solid warmth after a week of the chilly north.

“Did you come straight from your father’s?” she asked curiously.

“No,” he admitted.

“But…your suit.”

He yanked out his cravat, grimacing like it was a noose. “Yeah, well…I figured a noble would have a better chance of getting through the door than some ragtag ingeniator.”

“You’re a Support. They’d have to let you in.”

“Maybe, but the guild attendant took one look at me and stepped aside. I wouldn’t have gotten that as anyone else.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling out the perfect, orderly locks. “That’s how it is, I guess. My ancestors made the Geppett name known, and my father made it something to fear.”

Azalea flinched. She’d only met Lord Roland Geppett once, and she had no desire to repeat the experience. He had towered above the students with the bulk of a hardy fighter, his demeanor cold and imperious, his crowning cloak lined with the furs of fallen beasts and embroidered with exquisite golden vines. She had nearly fainted on the spot, terrified by the weight of his power.

Wes leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the fire. “I always feel a little bit…tainted, you know. After putting on the suit. The act.” He exhaled. “Like it’ll make me turn into him.”

“It wouldn’t,” Azalea said firmly.

“It might.” He slid a hand down his face, brows knitted in disgust. “I…I like it sometimes. Feeling powerful. I wanted to…I don’t know, show the guildmaster. Remind her who she was provoking. Just like Father. Why? Why did I do that?”

“Because she was—wait, she was provoking you?”

“She doesn’t want me to be your Support.”

The words hit Azalea like a cold brick in the gut.

“What?” she whispered.

“As the physician said, your state of mild injury doesn’t usually call for a notice.” Wes reached into his pocket, crumpled the notice, and flung it into the low-burning hearth. “Guildmaster Cotton had it delivered anyway. To send me a message.”

“What message?” Azalea’s voice was barely audible.

Wes was quiet for a long moment. Red firelight traced his jaw like a gentle hand.

“That one day, you’ll die in battle,” he said quietly, “and if I can’t handle that burden, I’d better quit.”

The words were chased away from Azalea’s mind, replaced by nothing but the gentle crackle of simmering wood.

Wes sat up and breathed in, like he was summoning courage. “The day we turned in the Support contract, she told me that I should burn it and pretend it never happened. To protect me, or something. Spare my feelings of guilt if you die.”

Azalea had never considered that—and with a jolt down her spine, now she could recall whispered rumors from the Hunter’s Guild, the Academy. How some Supports had blamed themselves for the deaths, grieved themselves to insanity. She’d heard of an old weaver who’d shut herself up in her cottage and refused to come out, and a Garrison captain who’d retired as a faraway fisherman. They hadn’t been able to live with the weight of their own survival.

Azalea didn’t mean to be cruel. She didn’t mean to do that to Wes.

But before she could say anything, Wes was continuing on, his voice soft yet unshakable.

“The guildmaster’s wrong.” His eyes turned to Azalea, molten amber, decadent orange. “It doesn’t matter if I’m your Support or not. It doesn’t matter if you fly off to the opposite side of the world and never speak to me again. I will always, always care for you. So much that it’ll hurt anyway. And if it does, then I’d rather be at your side.”

How eloquent he was with words, how grand. Every bit of breath had been stolen from Azalea’s lungs. Her heart fluttered rapidly in her chest as she struggled to piece together something, anything—a fraction of the gratitude owed for his declaration.

“Thank you,” she managed. She held his gaze, even though her insides were squirming and she wanted to look away. She tried to make out words. Her mouth opened. “Thank you. I…thank you.”

She was still trying to figure out what to say, other than simply repeating herself to death, when the water in the pitcher above the hearth began to rattle.

Before Wes could move, Azalea nervously jumped to her feet and seized the boiling pitcher. She poured out two cups to steep. Then she avoided his watchful gaze as she retrieved the sugar bowl and a cup of cream.

Not looking at him and giving her hands something to do made it easier to talk. “You’re the most wonderful person anybody could ask for,” she said quietly, watching the leaves twirl slowly in the water. “The greatest Support. The greatest friend. I…I wouldn’t want anyone other than you.”

There was a moment of silence. “You won’t need one. I’m here to stay,” said Wes’s voice. It turned upward with a hint of amusement. “No matter how much Guildmaster Cotton tries to kick me out.”

“Just see if she tries again,” Azalea said snappishly. “She’d better stay away from you, or I’ll be very—very—cross.”

“Cross,” Wes repeated. His tone was shaking in thinly veiled laughter.

“Yes, I’ll…I’ll…”

Well, it was hard to think of ways to exact retribution, given that the guildmaster was her superior in every way.

“I’ll do something awful and give her lots of paperwork,” Azalea said firmly. “Just like the rest of the Guild.”

Wes placed a hand over his heart. “Her only obedient charge, turned deviant. It’d be heartbreaking.”

“Exactly.” Smiling, Azalea returned to her plushy chair, letting the tea steep.

Wes urged her to talk about her expedition, which she did. Northelm, the children, the serpent. The power of the Whisperer, and the cruelty. Wes kept quiet even when she tripped over her sentences, struggling for words. At some point, she rose to check on the tea, stirring in cream and a spoonful of honey until it turned into a frothy, mellow pink.

“I think I’m not ready,” she mumbled to the tea. “For any of this. It’s, it’s so very different from the Academy. I don’t…I don’t think I’m quite right for it.”

“But they lived,” Wes said gently. “Northelm lived, because you heard the rumors and answered the call. Isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes, but…it wasn’t me. The Whisperer was the one who saved them. He could have saved them without me.”

“Could he? He would have brought the whole cave down, and he couldn’t have sensed the serpent when it cloaked.” Wes was quiet for a moment. “When will you see your gifts for what they are, ’Zalie?”

She couldn’t answer him. As long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be somebody different. Brave as Azure, strong as Da, wise as her instructors, assured as Karis. She knew her Stabilizing was far from useless; it could power some of the greatest magitech ever invented. But it hadn’t felt like enough. Nothing was, not in the face of those massive, sprawling armies of rabid beasts waiting to tear her country apart.

Azalea sipped shakily at her tea. The rose vanilla was soft and sweet, rich and milky. She sipped again.

“If it’s a gift,” she murmured, “I would have liked a different one.”

Wes’s gaze flickered, but he didn’t chide her. He’d thought the same thing once. Perhaps everyone did at some point.

Azalea set down her cup, feeling drowsiness pressing at her eyelids. She’d had a long day of travel from Northelm, and now, in this sleepy, warm little room she called home, the exhaustion was finally hitting.

She sank deeper into her chair and closed her eyes. “Would you mind if I…rested a little? Just for a minute, and then I’ll go back to my room.”

There was a shuffle of fabric, and then she felt the soft weight of a blanket pulled up to her shoulders.

“As long as you like,” Wes said. “I’ll be here.”

He was always there. Always. She never thanked him enough for it. She would one day.

Azalea drifted off to the faint sound of turning pages and a light knife whittling into wood.

 

NOTES:

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