“Someone… paid for…”
Jarl leans back in his seat, lungs rattling uncomfortably loud in his chest as he exhales deeply and heavily while gripping his hair with shaking hands. He’s deathly pale—almost (as) sickly (as Manus had been)—and there’s pure terror haunting his eyes. It's an expression equalled only by his confusion and hopelessness which causes their normally clear blue skies to darken with stormy tears.
They had known, already, that someone was working with Red—someone
that can use magic but, unlike Red, needs the Axis to move around the Mundi—but
to know that this person has actually HIRED a DAEMON…
Jarl can’t really tell if that’s better or worse (Is it good they didn’t do it themselves? Does that mean they care too much to do it themselves or that they don’t care enough? Is this why Red seems to be caring for Jasey? Did they ensure Red would? Or is this something they didn’t plan for? Did they intend for Red to hurt—???); he just fears for his brother’s safety.
~
Across the room, despite having heard the same information (and having FEELINGS for the kidnappee), Manus seems rather unperturbed by any of this: “Yes, yes; clearly; but what can you tell us about HIM?”
This dissociation doesn’t sit well with Jarl, though. “W-wha—‽ How can you be so blasé about this‽‽‽”
Calm, almost frozen, golden eyes glare up at Jarl after he stands in an explosion of terror, anxiety, and fury; “Because being afraid or angry isn’t going to save Jasey.”
Jarl inhales sharply and immediately shuts his mouth, red face flushing all over again but now with chagrin. The mix of embarrassment, enragement, and entrapment clashes horribly (and sickly) with his earlier pallor, causing an unnatural blotchiness to overtake his entire countenance. From the position of her three seater, Gina glances between the two of them almost amusedly, as though she’s entertained by their exchange, before turning her attention back to Manus; for a moment, however, she looks meaningfully at Áesta.
Aforementioned daemon only clutches his cup of sugar closer,
mouth closed tight around the distracting cubes.
“And~” Castlegodry’s resident witch practically purrs as she prods her younger mirror to continue explaining. There’s much more to his viewpoint than mere logic, she knows; but his holy friend can’t hear the trees.
Or the Mundi.
Manus knows, of course. All of them do: magicians and daemons and angels and gods and fairies and dragons and so on literally hide behind this fact—always have—as though it somehow protects them.
(It never does, though; if anything, it only causes them more pain.)
(And the child needs to learn this.)
“… And… what?” Jarl asks, confused and concerned and curious and just a tad bit cold.
Perhaps too cold. Manus seems to shrink in on himself as his priest’s eyes attempt to be as icy as Jasey’s—more so in temperature than in color—and spur him into talking. (It would be cute if it weren’t so cutting: the cold shoulder used to be Jasey’s go-to when angry—somehow extremely effective even though he’s mute.)
It works, surprisingly.
“… You asked me earlier to find out who was working with Red… Who had access to the Axis Mundi…”
From across the room, in his uncomfortably unupholstered
commandeered chair, Jarl nods slowly, “Yes…?”
“I did.”
~
There’s something unholy that happens to Jarl’s face when he’s
REALLY angry.
Not just concerned angry or tired angry or scared angry—not even embarrassed angry or holier-than angry.
Áesta had only glimpsed it a few times—even after the atrocity
that was their first meeting, their first meal (or some of their following ones…),
their conflicting ideals/beliefs/faiths (if you could call it that for Áesta), and
all the times Áesta’s purposefully pushed/prodded at him (waiting for him to be
like every other priest): the twitch of his brow as they headed west to Bailenac’ringy instead
of east to The Devil’s Cavern/Bailecastle; the twitch of his lip when they were at Bailenac’ring’s
park and Áesta refused to go into the Native Church—to Mariti’s church;
and, finally, the true tell—the one that can’t be bested by Jarl’s deep
breathing exercises (which that daemon now fully understands): the raging thunder
and riotous darkening of bright blue eyes—as though Þórr,
himself, suddenly lived within Jarl’s stars—that happened the moment Father Gianni
Mariti pushed/prodded Jarl too far—farther
than even the daemon they were fighting over ever managed—and ended up getting
a ferocious serving of hot smiting straight to his clerical collar-covered
throat.
… It’s happening again.
(But with Manus…)
~
“SO, WHO DID IT‽‽‽”
Even Gina jolts back, frightened by Jarl’s outburst, as the wrathful priest storms his way over to his friend. Manus shrinks back even farther than he did earlier, genuine terror in his eyes. This isn’t like before—like their fight in Jarl’s home—when the angry one was the mage and the most he could do was blow hot air: even before the deal he made with Áesta, Jarl was more powerful/physically stronger than his witch.
And Manus has never actually wanted to hurt him, even when angered and defending a loved one.
(The proof is in the fact that Jarl was still the one to punch Manus in that same exchange.)
“WHO PAID THE DAEMON, MANUS‽‽‽ WHO‽‽‽”
“STAD!”
The whole room stops as Áesta drops his half full cup of sugar onto the loveseat and gets between them, using his body—tiny as it is—to shield and protect Manus. Gina stands as well, a ball of nervous energy despite her wisened age, as the evil twig shoves both of his hands against Jarl’s chest to push him back, prevent him from advancing, and put him in his place:
where he is everyone’s healer, helper, hero, and hand.
And—to their collective astonishment—it actually works.
Jarl stops and takes stock of the monster he’d just
become.
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