Wēs Hāl

"Wēs Hāl," Silovar says, "Did you miss me?

Osthryn starts to nod, but then her better nature catches up to her. In all her relief and excitement of seeing him again, she nearly forgot to be angered at the smug nonchalance with which he dismissed his untoward absence.

"Why on this green Petra were you gone for so long?"  Osthryn bites out before she could stop herself, "I had begun to worry the witch-takers had caught you, and then I wished they had!"

"Luckily for both our sakes, there are no witch-takers here," Silovar winks at her, "It seems you will soon no longer need my wisps after all."

Osthryn sighs with a half-smile, "I would like to know why you had gone. Two compass-rounds is quite a while to leave, especially after what happened."

Silovar extends his hand to her, pulling her up the steps and into the kitchen. He does not let go as she stumbles forward, bracing herself with a hand against his chest. She retracts it as if the contact burns her, smiling apologetically as she meets his laughing eyes. His hand still clasped around hers makes its presence keenly known in her awareness.

"I was hunting for a means to obtain my forgiveness," Silovar responds, squeezing her hand once before letting it fall to her side. He does not step aside nor leave any more space between them. Osthryn does not either. "And what means would those be?"  she teases.

Silovar leans in close, and Osthryn's breath hitches. She squeezes her eyes shut instinctively - this type of interaction is not one she is used to having. His breath tickles her ear, and a small shiver runs down her spine. "I found a fairy hill. It was not easily won, you see. I had to fight a terribly ugly Baobhan Sith for the right to claim it as a picnic spot," Silovar whispers.

Osthryn opens her eyes. “You are full of it," she says, smiling.

 Silovar pulls back. “That may be,” he croons, “but, if you will forgive me for that night and my tardiness,” Silovar turns his palm up, a red flower blooming from his wrist. He plucks the flower, leaving not a mark from where it came, and tucks it into Osthryn’s hair behind her ear. His hand lingers a moment before he continues, "I would like to invite you, little crow, to this hard-won fairy hill of mine."

Osthryn touches the flower. Its petals are like velvet.

“What is this?” she asks.

“A flower,” Silovar smiles simply.

Osthryn raises her brow.

“Show me something,” Silovar asks. Osthryn thinks for a moment, then she runs her finger across her neckline. One of the many bronze-threaded flowers that she began embroidering piece-meal since she came here unravelled into a suspended spool of thread at her fingertip. She steps closer to him, the thread following her. She looks up at him. Silovar merely cocks his head and smiles at her. Osthryn turns out the lapel of his coat, the thread burrowing into it, leaving a bronze embroidered flower in its wake.

“You didn’t really answer me, about why you were gone so long," Osthryn pushes, her eyes fixed on the flower she just put in his coat.

Silovar hums. "I had to think, after that night. Long and hard. I do not share my identity openly either, Osthryn, but that is a matter of practicality rather than fear. You are not in Bettramon. You have nothing to fear here, they can do nothing to you. Being a Dragon this cut off from yourself is no way to live."

Osthryn shakes her head. "Silovar, you have no idea what you are talking about."

Silovar puts both hands on her shoulders, squeezing lightly. She looks up from the flower, meeting the steel-blue that has taken to examining her so thoroughly since he me met her. "You don’t know, and that is the fault of your elders. They shrunk you down to an inferior form in some misguided attempt to preserve what the Dragons in Bettramon had before."

“Well, you’ve clearly had time to stew on the complexities of my past the last week between fighting Baobhan Sith and claiming fairy hills," Osthryn quips.

Silovar’s gaze softens, “Come with me this Norostag to my ‘fairy hill’. I will show you what your elders dared not."

Osthryn’s posture droops as she considers what he could mean by that. “I don’t know if that is the best idea. You don’t fear the humans, but I do. They will send their prayers to you today, and tomorrow they will come for you with silver spears when you are at your most vulnerable."

“That’s the wonderful thing about my ‘fairy hill’," Silovar explains, taking Osthryn’s hand and closing it over the flower she had just embroidered. A sheen of silver scales slowly creeps over the back of it. “It is far removed from the sight of any silver-tipped spears, however unlikely they are."

A smile twitches at Osthryn’s lips. "Besides," Silovar continues, leaning over to whisper in her ear again, "you are already Dragon enough to put you in Bettramon’s crosshairs as we speak."

"What do you mean?" Osthryn stands bewildered as Silovar gives her hand one more squeeze, stepping around her to leave.

Silovar closes his coat around his chest, adjusting the lapel so that Osthryn’s bronze flower is visible. He looks at her from the front doorway, a lopsided grin forming slowly. "I am sure you will hear it in a moment." He nods and waves behind Osthryn at Martina who has just entered the kitchen. "Meet me at the Western Gate on Norostag morning. At sunsrise. Do not be late." Silovar winks, and then disappears down the street.

"Do not be late," Osthryn sounds the words under her breath, trying to work out what sounds uncanny in them now that Silovar pointed it out to her. "Don’t be late," she tastes the words, as they form on her tongue. They feel new, but not strange. "þē þú ne langsum."

Oh. She hears it.

Osthryn’s mind tumbles through how it could have happened. No amount of searching for the language in the library, repeating Silovar’s phrases, or running through possible patterns in her mind unlocked the language for her. And now she just speaks it? Without realising it?

"Pretty flower, darling," Martina comments from across the room, slightly startling Osthryn from her dumbfounded state.

"Oh," Osthryn remembers, removing the flower from her hair to look at it. It is bright red, with a velvety texture to its petals. She turns it over in her hands, investigating it thoroughly. It is no different from any natural flower Silovar could have picked from a meadow, yet it grew from his wrist.

"I meant the one that has suspiciously appeared embroidered on Silovar’s coat," Martina winks, setting her own embroidery hoop and threads on the kitchen table. Osthryn feels her cheeks warm in response to the woman’s teasing. Her forwardness surprised her too.

"What are you working on?" Osthryn asks, sidling closer to the kitchen table. She sits across from Martina, who arranges her threads by colour in front of her. "Wouldn’t you like to know?" Martina smiles. "Just some trim. In case I ever need it."

"No needles?" Osthryn notes.

Martina smiles at her, "As you well know, a good mage will require no such thing."