Nighttimes

The sky deepened into evening, a vast expanse of darkness that Jere liked. Dinner - prepared by him - had come and gone, and now a familiar telepathic skirmish flared between Ylfa and Eny.

He couldn’t hear their words - Eny could only speak to one mind at a time - but he already knew the topic. It had become a nightly ritual over the past few weeks: the bedtime argument.

Ylfa, her motherly instincts newly awakened, was stubborn. Eny, being a child, wanted to stay up later.

Jere sat quietly, a bystander. He used the lull to divert some of his spare processors - those not already occupied with the thousands of tasks always running in the background - to analyse the magical signals flashing back and forth.

He’d been making progress.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to decrypt transmissions. On Earth he had intercepted enemy radio chatter, broken their codes, mapped their patterns. On the battlefield, information was king. In most cases, the side that knew won. Only the most foolish errors in planning could undo the advantage of superior intelligence.

But magic was different.

He would never wield it himself; he hadn’t been born in this world - in fact, he hadn’t been born at all. He was the product of science, the offspring of research and experiment.

He wasn’t complaining. He was grateful for his body - for skin tough enough to shrug off autocannon fire, for wings capable of deflecting tank shells. He could see targets kilometers away, his hearing exceeded that of a dog, and his strength was enough to move a tank even without his wings.

And that was just the physical.

Lining his spine was an armada of ultra-dense capacitors, each capable of dumping enough power to accelerate him close to the speed of light for half a second. In that state he was invulnerable, unstoppable. The energy his fusion reactor produced in a few seconds could supply a city for a year.

He knew, theoretically, it could go further. But he would never test it again. The guilt from the one time he’d gone “all the way” still echoed through him.

He shook his head. He was getting distracted. Emotions, he thought grimly, were both gift and flaw; they made him hesitate, lose focus.

But he would not slip back into his old ways.

He leaned forward, analysing the invisible currents of power passing between Ylfa and Eny. Already he had isolated common vowels in the magic’s pattern, identified rhythms and pulses like a language of light. It was harder than intercepting radio, but not impossible.

Fragments reached him: Ylfa’s words of persuasion, inexperienced but determined. Eny’s petulant rebuttals.

Part of him hoped the argument would last longer. It was good for his research. Anything that brought him closer to understanding magic - not to destroy with it, but to protect.

Yes, he thought. Power to protect.

A few moments later, the battle ended as it always did - with Ylfa victorious. Eny slumped forward in defeat, a small huff of breath leaving her, and Ylfa scooped her up easily, carrying her off to bed.

Jere remained alone in the living room, but not for long.

Soon Ylfa returned, free of Eny, her footsteps louder than she realized. Again it pained him - she had once been a fearsome warrior, one of the most powerful in the world. Now, without her tall, proud ears, she was diminished.

She crossed the room and sat beside him. For a moment she stayed still, her thoughts catching up, and then she twisted slightly and began to sign, a small smile on her face.

How are you, darling?

He signed back, his understanding of the language built almost entirely on watching her hands once, learning the meaning, and committing it to memory.

I’m alright. How are you?

They could have spoken through Eny, but both preferred sign. It felt more intimate. Talking through Eny felt like everything was overheard - and it was.

But there was another reason, one that worried him more.

Recently, Eny had begun to show signs of strain after long periods of telepathy - tiredness, sweat, a rising surge of energy output that Jere’s sensors could track in real time. He didn’t know why it happened or what the long-term effects might be. Exhaustion was the only visible symptom so far.

Ylfa signed back, her fingers fluid in the lamplight.
I’m doing fine, thank you.

Jere liked these quiet conversations after Eny went to bed. Even knowing she was probably still listening, it felt different when it was just the two of them.

Ylfa’s hands moved again.

I love you.

His heart beat a little harder.

It was a simple message, but to Jere it meant more than anything else. It meant more than even his wings - the wings that had given him freedom, that had made his very existence possible. The reason he was here, now, sitting beside Ylfa.
He signed back.

I love you too.

He longed to say it aloud. To hold her close and whisper the words into her ears. But, of course, he couldn’t.

She signed again.
Can I lie down?

He nodded, and she did what she did every night - twisting gently until her head came to rest on his lap. She looked up at him, her lips curved in a quiet smile as her hands moved.

Made any progress on translating magic?

He nodded. Little, but progress nonetheless. The percentage counter in his mind had ticked forward a few points.
I’ve got all the vowels down, he signed.

She grinned.
That’s amazing. I still don’t understand how you do it.

Neither do I, to be honest.

He wasn’t lying. He had no real explanation for how he could understand something that hadn’t existed in his world at all. But then her smile faded.

I don’t know if they actually have a healer for me. Or at least, one who can heal someone like me.

He nodded slowly. He’d been suspecting the same since their arrival - but he had no way to confirm it.
What will we do if they don’t?

He already knew his path of action. Every villager would become an enemy, and he would slaughter them all for what they’d done - or failed to do - to the woman he loved most. But Ylfa read his mind before he could speak.

Not kill them all, if that’s what you were thinking.

Guilt prickled at his cheeks. Her grin widened.
I guessed perfectly, didn’t I?

He nodded, embarrassment washing through his circuits.
Sorry, he signed.

It’s fine.

She smiled faintly, her hands moving again above her chest - he suspected, deliberately, to make him look there.
I just don’t know what we’ll do. I want Eny to be happy.
A pause.
And of course, I want us to be happy too.

He nodded.
So do I.

His signs were precise, efficient - replicas of hers, saved and replayed from memory.
We can always fly away?

She nodded, sadness returning.
But where to?

Immediately, his processors generated four thousand, one hundred and two options - filtered down to five that met every specification he could think of. Yet all five shared a fatal flaw: isolation. No connections. No community. He could build a house, yes - but a home was another thing.

He shrugged.
I don’t know.

His internal map was complete, constantly updated. But it was blind to places like this - villages that weren’t supposed to exist. There could be more like Woodrow hidden out there, but the idea didn’t comfort him. Still, he would follow wherever Ylfa wished to go. She was, in essence, his superior. For a fleeting second, a system query suggested she call him “J-1” - and he instantly silenced it.

She signed back.
I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, then.

He nodded. That was the best course of action - patience, observation. When she saw he had nothing more to add, she smiled warmly.

Goodnight, darling.

She rolled onto her side, facing the fire, and closed her eyes. Jere waited until her breathing steadied, his hand brushing through her hair.

He never slept. He wasn’t sure he even could. The nights were for thought - his processors freed from movement, devoted instead to philosophy. Questions without answers. Distractions from the hunger to kill.

But ever since Ylfa had chosen to sleep here on the couch with him instead of in the bed, he’d taken up a new task - hair maintenance.

He had never needed such care himself, but Ylfa did. Shampoo didn’t exist here; she had once relied on streams to wash her hair. When she slept, he would quietly tend to it - his fingers moving carefully through the strands, removing every trace of dirt, every fleck of dust or dandruff.

In only a few nights, her dull, tangled hair had become soft and lustrous, light as silk. He took pride in this small ritual. Ylfa had yet to say aloud what she truly thought of it, but she had signed once that she was grateful.

So he continued - his fingers moving in rhythm with her breathing, her hair sliding through them like water - as his enhanced vision saw every detail the designers had never imagined he’d care to see.