A hand fell upon Aamon's head, it was far more familiar then he wanted. Their long, cold fingers found the sensitive place just behind the base of his horns. There was no malice in their touch, they only rubbed slow and possessive circles into his skin. He remembered the gesture from what felt like an eon ago, when his mother's love was the only thing that could soothe lonely time. It was the first comfort he had ever known, and it remained the deepest chain he had ever worn.
Her voice when it came, was beautiful. It wove through the air, a lullaby spun from love and longing. She sang her lullaby to Aamon, her beloved son. For her restless child to finally come home.
"They found me alive when I should have been ash,
Pulled from the wreckage with a funeral gash
Split through the middle where she used to lie~
And the gods leaned in with their glittering eye."
"'Rise up,' they whispered. 'We have need of your hands.
Go strangle the shadow that poisons our lands.'
We'll dress you in glory, we'll bury your pain~
Just kill in our name and you'll dance in our rain."
"But I told them no, in the tongue of the grave,
In the silence she left me, the only thing she gave:
'I should be beside her, in the cold and the rot,
With worms for my council and moss for my lot.'"
"You want me to breathe for your quarrel, your spite?
To stand in the sun and pretend it is light?
My lungs are her coffin, my blood is her shroud~
I will not be your hero. I will not be loud."
"Take back your purpose, your righteous demand,
I've already died by a different hand.
She waits in the dark where the roots all entwine~
And I am hers only. Not yours. Not mine."
"Sleep, little ghost of the man I was then,
You'll never be woken to kill again.
The evil they fear can rot where it stands~
I'm busy holding the warmth of her hands."
At that moment, he wasn't a demon or a knight. He was her child again, and the most terrifying thing was not her sorrow, but the overwhelming weight of her love.
Aamon reaches up as a blinding light drowns his vision, forcing him back. He wakes to the scent of burning wood, lying in a soft bed. His mother was gone.
He turned his head to find Ciel laying beside him. She wasn't sleeping. Her eyes were wide open staring at the beams of the ceiling. The beautiful, maid outfit looked absurdly out of place against the bed's quilt.
Aamon pushed himself up on his elbows. The sheets pooled around his waist. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Ciel"
Ciel flinched at the sound of his voice. "Ciel is fine, friend." Slowly she turned her head on the pillow. "She's just hungry, if its alright?"
Aamon shot up with her words "Oh yeah!! We can get some food!" He loomed over her. his demonic form blocking the light as grabbed both her hands. "I say meat! It was so delicious in that stew. Come on!"
Oblivious to her terror, his face was lit with excitement. His tail wagged like an eager puppy's, pulling the white haired elf from the bed. "Yes… friend, She will go… Ciel know a butcher shop."
"Wait, really?" Aamon stopped abruptly, giving Ciel no room to adjust. She bumped into him, stumbling forward as they nearly collapsed against the floor.
"Ouch." Ciel put her hand on his shoulder to push herself up, steadying them both.
"Yes, Ciel knows of a butcher shop." She smoothed her sleeve, beginning to scan the room out of habit. "She has seen it many times. While working."
Aamon's tail gave an excited flick. "Then let's go! I wanna try something new." He patted her arm, brushing off stray cat hairs, remnants of the kittens' earlier ambush. "Also, those three are gonna be a hassle if we stay much longer."
Ciel looked up from her arm, then toward the woodpile where three small heads were definitely watching them. Millow's eyes gleamed. Marlow was trying to look casual, but sadly failing. Willow just waved.
"They can be good for you, friend." Ciel's voice was quiet, but she was sure of herself. "Friend could use more in his life."
Aamon blinked at her. "More... what?" Ciel didn't answer him. She just grabbed his hand and led him slowly down the stairs, past Betty's smile, and toward the front door.
When the door to Hearth's Respite opened, the first sounds that reached Ciel's ears were the heavy boots of Day Inquisitors. They moved in pairs down the avenue, with polished adamantine armor gleaming in the foggy streets. Their eyes, visible only through the slits of their helms, scanned everything and everyone.
Aamon flinched slightly. His wings pulled in tighter against his back.
Ciel squeezed his hand. "Keep walking, friend. Don't stop."
They moved into the life of the morning city. Blacksmiths hammered cold Mithral into enhanced blades, their forges glowing like eyes in the otherwise dark workshops. Alchemists distilled witchpowder and grave sap into weird smelling purgatives. The stench makes Aamon's nose wrinkle with each step closer. Scribes knelt at doorframes, hammering tiny sigils into stone, over cobblestone arches, across the handles of tools. Protective runes against evil.
A child ran past clutching a wooden toy. It's a little horse, roughly carved from a hurried father. Even it wasn't complete without a faint glyph burned into its flank.
Nothing here was without purpose.
And that purpose was always tied to the Long War.
Aamon watched a scribe finish a doorframe, then glance up at him. The man's hand moved toward in a quick, warding gesture. But he turned before getting too close.
Soon they approached the shop, nestled in a narrow, damp alley where the tall buildings blotted out the light. A shallow, slimy gutter ran down the center of the cobblestones, carrying a trickle of murky water.
"Wow… a meat shop." Aamon whispered, his voice full of innocent awe. He could hear the muffled din of voices from within. "It's loud in there. There must be a lot of people… so it has to be delicious! right, friend?"
Ciel stepped close behind him, her posture tense. "Ciel doesn't know." She pulls him away slightly. "She just saw sometimes when working. But it is loud. Ciel doesn't know why."
Her sharp ears twitched, parsing the sounds. It didn't sound like the cheerful noise of a market.
The bell above the door gave a single, cheerful ting that was instantly greeted by a thick silence. Aamon had barely crossed the threshold when every conversation died. Every eye in the room pried into him. A grizzled man with a scar across his lip paused mid sip of his drink. A hulking figure sharpening a cleaver on a whetstone stilled his arm, the grating sound cutting off abruptly.
In the corner, a sharp dressed woman with eyes like striked flint. slowly lowered a deck of cards. Her hand drifted toward her back. As soon as Aamon took another step, she moved forward. In a blur she was before him, not with a dagger. She bore a massive greatsword of a purple steel, which she shoved hard against his chest.
She looked like a shoddy noble in a gaudy orange and black dress, all ruffles and cheap showmanship. A sharp contrast to the room's grim practicality. Yet her hair was black as the night, tied into a perfect crown braid.
"You!" She spat, her voice sounding like a hiss. "Filthy demon. You're here now, too? Can't get enough, having our queen pardon you?" She pushes his sword closer to his neck. "Mark my words, that damn succubus will devour you to the bone!"
"Sephidra! Leave him be." The command came from behind the bar. A hulky man with a cleaver scar on his forearm wiped his hands on a rag. "I recognize that stray behind him." He turns his focus to ciel. "She would stare at the meat in the front window for hours. Never had a coin to her name."
Sephidra let out a loud scoff that made Ciel flinch back a step. With a fluid flick of her wrist, she sheathed the greatsword on her back, where it settled next to an identical one, forming a stark X across her back.
"Fine, Al. Just do your damn job well." Sephidra looks the up and down "And watch what creatures you converse with. This one stinks of the Pit." She shoved past Aamon and Ciel with a dismissive huff, flinging the creaking door open and vanishing into the gloomy alley.
Aamon blinked, straightening his pendent. He didn't dwell on her anger, his focus already shifting back to the primary objective. He stepped past the other rough looking patrons, who were now pointedly trying to look busy. and approached the shopkeeper, Al. Ciel followed like a little shadow.
"Al? Hi, I'm Aamon, and this is Ciel. We come for meat!" He announces bluntly, lifting a heavy, jingling pouch. "My friend says you sell it here. I have coins from the kindest innkeeper herself." His gauze drops to the bag. "Or… well… from the kitten who dropped it off to me in her stead."
Al's eyebrows shot up. "Well, my boy… you have a hefty sum" He took the pouch, hefting its considerable weight with a low whistle. "You can get more than just meat." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "This isn't a butcher shop for you, demon... It's a thieves' guild." the man grins. "We can get you spies, plant things on folks, or the obvious… stealing."
Aamon's eyes widened in genuine confusion. He looked around the room again, seeing the hardened faces, the hidden weapons, the positioning of the patrons in a new light.
Ciel, peaked from behind him at the pelts on the wall. Something seemed to click in her head. She hadn't known. She had only seen the meat.
Before either could fully process the revelation… Al laughed waving a hand. "Ha~! Don't worry my boy, I've got a hookup for a… unique client like you." he put down a bloody rag, reaching for a recently skinned carcass hanging from a hook. "Come, what would you want? We have a fresh rabbit here. Or are you more of a beef person?"
As the last of the other patrons left, Aamon stepped up. As he drew a breath to speak, a flicker of movement caught his eye: Ciel's long elven ears tipped downwards. She was instinctively extending a finger toward the rabbit, a flicker of want in her eyes.
"We will take the rabbit!" Aamon declared before her hand could drop. He turned to Al, his ruby eyes earnest. "My mother loved rabbits."
Ciel flinched from the sheer contrast between the mother Aamon remembered, and the Tyrant the world feared.
"Do you cook them?" Aamon asked, looking back at the rabbit with hopeful curiosity.
"No… we don't cook it here. Does this look like a place we cook shit?"
He expected the strange pair to recoil in embarrassment, but Aamon's face lit up with understanding.
"Oh! You don't cook it here. That makes sense. It is too small… We will take it to cook somewhere else." Aamon just nodded, grappling Ciel's hand. "Come on, Ciel!"
Before Al could form words, Aamon had already taken the rabbit from its hook, marching back into the city.
Their path ran through a tapestry of the extraordinary and the mundane. They passed The Old Man's Tailor, where a wizened gnome stood on a stool, his tongue peeking out in concentration as he stitched a live glowworm into a mage's cloak. The sizzling meats wafted from a stall called Demon Head's Deli, where a bored looking hobgoblin was skewering what looked disturbingly like tiny drakes on a stick. A moment later, this was washed away by the calming aroma of exotic herbs drifting from Echidna's Esotearica, its doorway woven of live vines that parted for customers with a mind of their own.
Ciel flinched as a shadow fell over them. She glanced up, her eyes catching at the huge pair of gold scissors, each blade taller than a man, that served as the sign for a hair salon called The Gilded Shears. Her mind immediately conjured images of what manner of colossal clientele would require tools of that terrifying size.
"Wow, did you know all this was here?" Aamon's eyes blew wide with childlike wonder. "Like look at those scissors!! Why didn't you say anything about those?"
Before Ciel could form an answer Aamon grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the salon's gilded entrance. "Ciel didn't know…. She hasn't been over here before." She muttered, her voice barely noticeable over the street noise as he tugged her through the door. "She spent more time in… in bad places."
The air inside was cloying, saturated with the scent of perfumed oils and magical straighteners. The interior was a display of lavish polished dark wood, plush velvet chairs, and floor to ceiling golden mirrors. A scene set, placed for the pretenders of life.
Behind the styling chairs, formed to be small thrones, was a tall woman. Her hair appears to be as thin and elegant as gold thread, carefully trimmed at the ends. She moved with the precise movements of a master stylist. When she looked up from her client to check her work in the mirror, the stylist's smile froze and then shattered. Her eyes had landed on Aamon's and Ciel's reflection. The well dressed client followed her horrified gaze to the mirror and let out a small, gasp, her composed face crumbling into disgust.
The stylist slowly lowered her shears, placing them on her counter with a deliberate… final click. She didn't reach for a weapon, her disdain was a weapon in itself… sharp and polished, meant to draw blood.
"A demon? And an abyssal elf?" Her voice was cold, each word cutting into the silence of the salon like glass. "That isn't a duo you expect to see grace a civilized establishment."
Her eyes swept over Ciel's beautiful, but out of place maid outfit and then over Aamon's suit with the bone rings that declared his heritage.
"You two are going to have a very hard time getting anyone in this city to take you in." The stylist crossed her arms. "Now, I can't help either of you." She lifts a pair of smaller golden scissors, pointing it at the duo. "My craft is for those who appreciate refinement, not… whatever you are. Leave. I won't ever touch an abyssal elf or a demon, even if the queen herself demanded."
Aamon's ruby eyes shimmered with hurt. He didn't cry, just stood there, another weight of rejection crushing his cheerful curiosity. His hand found Ciel's, gripping it tightly.
"Come, friend." She pulled him gently toward The Gilded Shear's door, away from the perfumed toxicity. "Ciel thinks we should leave. Back to the inn." Back to where it was safe. She lifted her chin, a rare defiance flashed in her sapphire eyes. "People like her barely deserve life. We'll outlive her by-"
"Don't say that, Ciel!" Aamon tugged her hand, pulling her past the threshold and into the foggy Varnmoor light. "We are going to the inn. Now!"
The door to the Hearth's Respite swung shut behind them with a thud, sealing out the cruel city's voice. Aamon and Ciel stood on the welcome mat, enveloped by comforting smells. Roasting meat mingled with woodsmoke from the stove, the week's special stew bubbling away in its pot.
Aamon's ruby eyes as he took a deep breath of the comforting smells. A soft, delighted sound, almost a purr escaped him. "It smells like bread, right?" He whispered to Ciel, his vocabulary for scents still so limited.
Ciel nodded instead of using her words.
Aamon stepped off the mat.
The crackle of the fire continued. The clatter of pots from the kitchen didn't stop. But the talks of early evening patrons shifted… A man near the window set his mug down with a loud thunk. He stared at Aamon, then at Ciel, his lip curling. Without a single word, he stood, tossed a few coins on the table, and walked out.
A woman at the bar pulled her shawl tighter. She whispered to her companion, far too loud to be private, but still too soft to be a challenge. "Can't believe Betty lets them stay here. Demons and... that white haired thing."
Her companion nodded, drained his ale, and followed her out of the inn.
Two more patrons near the fireplace exchanged glances. One shook his head. The other made a sign with his fingers before they both rose and left their half finished meals behind. The room felt emptier..
Aamon's wings drooped slightly. He'd heard them.
"There you are! I was starting to wonder if the city had decided to keep you two."
Behind the worn down bar, Betty looked up from her ledger. If she noticed the departing patrons, if she noticed the sudden emptiness of her common room, she gave no sign. Her face gifted them a warm smile.
She came around the bar and crossed to them, her apron dusted with flour, and stained from ale. She reached out and simply began brushing dirt from Aamon's shoulder. She was gentle with him, like he was any child who'd been playing outside.
"Oh, a good-sized one! Plump little thing." Betty looked over at Ciel, approval clearing her slight wrinkles at the edges of her eyes. "Well done, my dears. Bring it here to the kitchen. I'll stew it with some roots from the cellar, and I know the perfect spell. It'll put some color on your cheeks."
Aamon's tail wagged at her praise.
All the hurt from The Gilded Shears, all the sting of the departing patrons was pushed back by Betty's praise. He held up the rabbit they'd bought, presenting it like a trophy. "We found it in a shop, Betty!" His voice was cheerful, bright as a bell. "It was in a very loud place with lots of serious people." He put his finger to his lip, considering. "A nice man named Al helped us."
He told her with an earnest pride, carefully editing out the drawn sword and venomous scissors. Focusing only on the successful completion of their mission. "He had many of them, but we chose this one."
Betty's expression softened even further. A genuine care shone in her eyes as she looked between them. She saw the faint weariness in Ciel's poster, the way Aamon's wings drooped despite his cheerful voice.
"You both work too hard." She chided, no scolding in it, only affection. "Supper will be ready soon. Go on, get warmed up by the fire. I'll have this prepared and in the pot before you can count to ten."
She reached for the rabbit. Her eyes caught on Aamon's bone rings.
For a split second, something flickered in her gaze. Not fear, but a sorrowful understanding. She knew the rings were all he had left of his mother. Her hand covered his hand, a silent gesture of empathy, before she took the rabbit.
"Go on." She shooed them further into the room, then turned toward her kitchen. Betty was already muttering about what stew pot to use, and what spell she needed for a pinch of pepper.
Ciel led them to the back of Hearth's Respite. She chose two chairs slightly away from the remaining patrons, both positioned so she could watch both the door and the staircase. Old habits.
Just as Aamon was about to sink into the welcoming embrace of a worn armchair- A sudden chorus of high pitched whispers erupted from behind a large woodpile next to the fireplace.
"He did! I saw his tail wiggle!"
"It did not wiggle, it swished! There's a difference, Marlow!"
"Doesn't matter! He looks happy! Do you think he'll show us his wings?"
Three small heads popped up from behind the logs. Behind them, three little tails swayed, long and fluffy, the color of embers. The triplets.
Marlow, the boy with tabby ears and an insatiable curiosity, crouched lowest. Millow and Willow, the identical fiery haired girls, flanked him like bookends. All three wore their little maid outfits. Shin length dresses for the girls, puffy shorts and an apron for Marlow, already smudged with something from their daily adventures.
Aamon's face lit up with immediate joy. He dropped to his knees to be closer to their level, his large wings folding neatly against his back. "Hello, Millow, Willow, and Marlow! Were you hiding?"
"We're practicing our ambush skills!" Marlow declared, puffing out his small chest. His tabby tail gave a proud little jerk.
"For the mice." Millow added, her voice a frayed whisper.
"But they're very sneaky mice." Willow finished, nodding so vigorously her kitten ears wobbled.
Ciel watched from her chair. A broken sense of normality crossed her mind. The kittens' eyes held trust, they didn't see a demon, or the son of the Tyrant. They saw Aamon… the one with big wings they loved, who spoke to them with a child's patience, who never laughed at their stupid questions.
"Did you really predict the rabbit's pattern?" Marlow asked, his slit eyed gaze full of awe. "That's so wizardly!"
"Was it very fast? Faster than us?" Millow chirped, already crouching as if ready to race a rabbit across the flagstones.
"Will Betty put the carrots on the side?" Willow asked, her small nose wrinkling. "I don't like it when they get all stewy."
Aamon answered each question with grave seriousness. "It was very fast. But you three are faster, I think." He paused, giving a huff. "I didn't actually catch it, though. I bought it!"
He glanced back at Ciel, including her into the conversation. Three sets of slit eyes turned to her with identical expressions.
Ciel found herself the subject of their unwavering attention. She gave a single, slow nod. a gesture that felt clumsy to her, but the kittens accepted it as supreme wisdom.
"Will you tell us a story?" Marlow stepped out from behind the woodpile to cling to Aamon's leg. "A story about the... the place with the shiny crystals!"
"Oh, yes! Yes!" Millow followed, latching onto Aamon's other leg.
"We like that story!" Willow added before reluctantly following her siblings into the pile.
"The enchanted forest where the great wolf lives?" Aamon's voice was low. To him, it was just a story his mother used to tell.
They all nodded eagerly, their tails forming hopeful question marks behind them. Aamon looked to Ciel. He knew he shouldn't tell a story from his mother. Knew what she was, he shouldn't share that with anyone, especially not with kittens who deserved only good things.
Ciel held his eye contact for a long moment. "You should tell them." Ciel stood up, moving her chair closer to their pile.
Aamon settled himself crosslegged on the rug in front of the fire. The three kittens instantly piled into his lap and leaned against his wings. He began to speak, his voice dropping into a storytelling tone. "Long ago, in the deepest, darkest caves where the sun never goes... there grows a forest of crystals that weep glowing tears…"
Ciel watched the firelight dance across Aamon's horns and the kittens' fuzzy ears. She heard Betty humming from the kitchen, and the rhythm of a knife chopping herbs for the stew.
The smells of roasting meat, smoke, and baking bread wrapped around them like a blanket. Aamon's voice. The kittens' giggles. To the kittens, it was a fantastical place of adventure.
It was a hope for a future with the smell of want, and the sound of need. For the first time that day, Ciel allowed herself to believe for a moment that the quiet door of the Hearth's Respite might truly be one they could trust.
She leaned back in her chair, but the tight musales of her shoulders softened just a little.
They were home.