Áesta is the one to retrieve the Lay Tablet from the earth.
He rests it in his lap as its owner paces back and forth at a distance. Manus is still irritated, cursing quietly at himself, and Jarl is… at a loss for what to do, honestly. He understands the ire at being lied to—he does—but he also understands the position the Elders must be in: if they have to lie to protect the people…
Well, Jarl, himself, has done that.
He’s lied to his parishioners about the severeness of blites when they attack and blacken their crops to husks. He’s lied to his parishioners about the realities of Manus and his magic and even his whole magical world, refusing, in fact, to allow the mage the chance to fix Jasey with said magic so he can finally have a voice.
He’s lied to his parishioners about the daemon currently attached to him and the powers he’s given him.
Speaking of: Áesta’s attachment to him is quite literal at this point because the little daemon is at his side, practically fused with it, as he comfortably waits for Manus to calm down and return to them (if he WILL). The frigid waters that still cling to his somehow not-shivering form seep into Jarl’s clothing like mold, creeping into his jacket fibers and chilling the air around his slowly cooling body.
How is Áesta not cold?/“How are you not cold?”
Not realizing that he did, in fact, say that out loud, Jarl is startled by Áesta’s giggle. “Daemon,” he reminds, and the priest has to wonder if all creatures of Hell are as impervious to the cold as he.
In fact… “So, Red isn’t the only one not bothered by the cold?”
Áesta sits up, not at all away from Jarl but definitely straighter, and stares at him surprisingly seriously—as if he’s more than aware of the danger of being similar to the monster that took Jarl’s baby brother. “‘E ain’t. We’re all unbot’ered by it; it’s jus’ t’at it’s fer diff’rent reasons.”
“Like the flame getting bigger or brighter?”
“Yes!” The tiny evil grins up at him as he pries some hair from his face. Snowflakes and ice crystals fall away, looking a lot like those stories of winter fairies and snow spirits Jarl used to read to Jasey. (He loved them.) “We daemons are never bot’ered by cold—or heat—unless it’s unnatural. Ones like Red’re jus’ too hot f’r it—but t’en t’ere’s daemons t’at’re too cold and daemons t’at’re jus’… unaffected.”
“… And which are you?” Jarl asks, gazing pointedly at the daemon’s ice blanket.
Áesta laughs, “Ah’m as affected as an evergreen tree.”
~
Jarl accepts Áesta’s answer.
But he also wonders if that means he’s flammable/vulnerable to fire.
He also wonders if that means he’s earth (in turns of elements).
And if going up against Red might be dangerous for him…?
~
“We might have to make a deal with the trees.”
Manus is a lot calmer when he finally comes back to them. He’s still irritated—they can see it on his face—but he no longer looks like he’s ready to tear the nearest person apart or start throwing hexes everywhere.
“Because they’re not going to just assume we’re heading somewhere else, now.”
“… Sorry.” Jarl’s aware he’s already been forgiven—by both of them for both lying and informing the trees—but he still feels it necessary to say this: he’s made things a lot harder and it’s HIS brother they’re saving.
And neither of them have to do this—have to go through all this trouble.
It’s just him.
~
“It’s fine; I never should have let it get to this point.”
Manus sighs and Jarl watches him be wary for a moment. It’s a rare sight to see.
“We’re not allowed to scry for people without permission or consent but Jasey always told me I have it—from him. It’s you I didn’t have it from and it’s you I didn’t actually have to wait for.”
(“… Then… why did you?”)
“… I don’t like you being angry with me… Jasey loves you.”
~
“… ‘R’ye two done bein’ all… cute?”
Jarl blinks and stares incredulously at Áesta as Manus finally giggles a little at him. “This… from YOU?”
“Hwat? If it ain’t feedin’ me, it’s gross!”
Jarl sighs disbelievingly into his hand.
~
“Do you need a meal, before we go?”
Manus settles down beside Áesta after he rummages around in his own bag from Sunder Inn for a coffee. One of the thermos caps finds its way into Jarl’s hands, filled to the top, while Manus downs the rest of it.
“Ah ate t’is morn’; Ah should be fine til Bailenac’ringy.”
The mage nods, mostly to himself as he actually seems rather lost in thought, before reaching out and holding Áesta’s hand. The daemon accepts the touch, wrapping his slender digits around Manus' palm, and Jarl ends up watching in surprise as a glow envelops Áesta, appearing to melt away the ice clinging to him.
Some kind of magic, the priest assumes.
He wonders if it’s love.
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