“… his NAME: it’s… it’s Kane…”
Áesta freezes in his window seat, wide eyes staring in chilled shock at Jarl as everyone else gapes pleasantly.
Cheerfully.
HAPPILY.
(Foc)
~
It’s like he’s been dunked in ice water.
Or, at least, what he thinks that feels like (he can swim in freezing lakes, after all). He can’t feel his body (which he’s certain is still fully formed: he can feel eyes on him and no one’s acting like he disappeared) but he can see that his hands are shaking beneath the table, like leaves trapped in the winter winds.
He can’t breathe.
HE THEY KNOW.
~
The rest of the conversation with the apothecary is a blur.
Most of it is enthused praise for Jarl’s brilliant idea (asking Oak about Red—no: KANE; because they KNOW) and a review of plans for the immediate future (Jarl wants to go to Olecastle’s local church, St. Bree’s, after they check out the hotel’s attached bar [it serves all meals; at a discount to the hotel’s guests, no less]).
As for the far future…
“I’ll look up Kane.”
~
Manus’ promise to Jarl is both a blessing and curse (and, no, Áesta’s not sure how that works for daemons).
On one hand: it seems like the mage doesn’t recognize the
other daemon’s name (which makes sense as, really, Áesta rarely talks about the
Underworld and the Void and his lives in either one—never mind people); this
means that, at the very least, Áesta has some more time before the truth hits
the fan and Jarl hates him wholly and completely again. On the other
hand: Manus is no stranger to the knowledgeable in the universe; if there’s
something he doesn’t know (as there is now), there is no limit to the people he
can ask about it.
Which means—Áesta’s blessing and curse—there’s only one thing for him to do.
(Other than call it all quits NOW and just TELL JARL EVERYTHING…)
(But that would cost him; way too much. Áesta LIKES Jarl.)
(He doesn’t want to loose him…)
(Or his comforting smile…)
He has to stall Manus.
~
Doing this is relatively simple.
Since they brought him back from his sickness, Manus has been acting strangely: distracted, distant, disinterested; he wouldn’t even tease him about flirting with Cael as they left Gina’s—which he DID notice because he called Áesta Áine—OR Jarl as they walked to the hotel with the daemon on the priest’s arm.
Something is bothering his magician.
And dealing with it is the best staller.
~
So, Áesta corners the mage after Hagen hangs up.
He manages to convince Jarl to head out immediately, pointing out that the local priest will feed him anyway, and then corrals his magic man to the hotel’s attached bar (the outside of which they passed on their way in). It’s dimly lit with warm golden candles on floating cloud white tables and frozen in time water-like blue chairs falling onto the equally water-like blue floors until the room probably feels like a dream when you’re drunk and the dark gray ceiling probably looks like the sky’s about to fall on you with the wrath of God.
Jarl would love it.
Pushing that thought away (he doesn’t need to please that man right now—he’s not even here, danong!), Áesta purposefully flirts heavily with their waiter until he teeters off with a bright blush and shy smile. Then, he rounds on the not flirting, not teasing, not INTERESTED mage: “T’e foc is wit’ ye?”
“Qué?”
“Ye’ve been ac’ing strange since ye came back frem yer ill,” the daemon clarifies, looking Manus in the eyes. The light-eating pits of the mage’s golden orbs contract like a weakened black hole and Áesta pounces on it, “Talk, Handsy.”
“…” Manus sighs, “… I… also did not fully disclose my conversations with you all…”
“hWat?” The ancient one blinks, having not expected that. The magic user before him is young and foolish (slightly) but he has always been utterly respectful (reverent, even) of daemons like Áesta and their needs: loyalty and honesty are MANDATORY; betrayal might not be a sin but it IS punishable by unpleasant death—and Manus KNOWS all of this: he KNOWS how important loyalty and honesty are to Áesta, especially (powerful as he is: he gets called upon for the biggest and most costly tasks; and, thus, he HAS been focáladh by immortals and mortals alike) and he KNOWS how devastated and wrecked Áesta’d be if it’s his FRIEND.
Mariti’s eternal torment would look like nothing to a FRIEND who betrays Áesta.
And Manus KNOWS.
~
“I… was too scared to.”
Manus swallows and subtly curls in on himself. His dim golden eyes drift from Áesta’s in seeming shame before settling on a nearby flickering flame. The light of the candle reflects eerily in the mage’s orbs.
They’re too dark, to Áesta; too lost.
“… Por qué?” he eventually asks, Old Irish accenting the magician’s mother tongue. He’s rewarded, though, with a slight upturn of surprisingly chapped lips—Manus doesn’t take as good care of himself when stressed, Áesta’s learned over the past century, so the daemon makes a note to force him to drink more water. Soon.
“Because… Emem’s words… just made everything fall into place… and I didn’t like what I see…”
Áesta frowns, disguised ears twitching with alertness. Manus’ English only ever falters when he’s stressed and nearing his breaking point: something is really and truly WRONG. “hWy? hWat did ye see?”
“… I think Jasey orchestrated it.”
“… Céard?”
~
“Why else would it seem like he’s just on vacation???
“Why else would the daemon that kidnapped him feed and house him and take him on BOAT RIDES???
“Why else would the summons happen in Shantown—at the hands of a non-magic user, no less—and then continue on in Bailecastle, causing the ENTIRE ELDER FACTION to think I AM THE ONE RESPONSIBLE???
“Why else would this be happening if I didn’t somehow IMBUE Jasey’s mind with this INSANITY‽‽‽”
~
“… Dún do chlab mór.”
Manus finally glances back at his friend, distressed tears pricking at the corners of his tarnished eyes. Trembling hands match dry lips as they tug desperately at his disheveled gray hair. He’s guilty. SO guilty.
“Ye’re an eejit.”
“Qu-qué?” Wetness rolls down the human’s face as he blinks and shivers under the daemon’s sneering gaze.
“All ye’ve talked about t’e last few years is t’is brat: Jasey t’is and Jasey t’at—but ne’er ONCE ‘ave ye said BAD about ‘im: ‘e’s always been good and kind and sweet; a gentle soul, too precious fer t’is world, too lovin’.
“So, ‘ow can ye sit t’ere, now, and say ‘e’d e’er do som’in’ like T’AT—HURT EARL like t’at‽‽‽”
~
The waiter returned soon after that, arms full of tea with extra sugar and toast with sugar on the side.
He looks worriedly at the two of them the entire time, probably having heard Áesta yelling at the mage and also seen the Spaniard’s puffy red eyes. But he’s a smart lad: he doesn’t really comment or ask any questions.
He just reminds them of his name and emphasizes anything as he leaves.
Manus sniffles as he contemplates Áesta’s words, mouth half stuffed with toasted Irish Soda Bread, bananas, whipped cream, and whiskey syrup. He’s mindful of the extra helping of powdered sugar that came with it, passing it to Áesta as he always does without bothering to really think about it—he’s too occupied already.
Because the daemon’s right.
Jasey WOULDN’T do this.
(He wouldn’t hurt a fly.)
~
Manus passes out as soon as he finds his pillow.
Returning from an illness, transporting three people through the Axis Mundi, and then walking hundreds of kilometers with hardly any rest in the span of ten hours is a lot to ask of anyone, even one as powerful as him. (That’s not even including the Lay Tablet usage, protection spells, readying for a battle with Tan, OR stressing out over this STUPID idea he got in his head.) Áesta recognizes this—and how horrible he’s being—as he settles the magician fully under the covers and layers his pillow with glowing green rhombuses.
They’re him—or pieces of him—filled with the relaxing scent of lavender.
To help Manus sleep. And do nothing BUT sleep.
Can’t have him talking to anyone just yet.
Not until ÁESTA’S talked to them first.
~
The human mind cannot comprehend what the gods are.
Capital G god has actually shown himself to his followers many times—but most of them cannot see it, cannot comprehend it, because their minds are too weak: they aren’t yet SMART enough.
But they will be.
One day.
~
Oak’s real name is Duir.
She is the god of the tree she is named after, known for her strength and longevity and ability to flip off thunderous gods like Þórr, Zeus, and Ireland’s own Tanarus. She’s a sturdy ethereal, lively, and treeishly tall.
Áesta’s tiny next to her; and he likened humans to ants compared to her for a reason.
Her hair is a collection of various oak species’ leaves, from
white to black to willow to shumard, long and crowned with a twisting and
twining braid of branches adorned with acorns of the same various oak species. Bark
covers her tall, slender body like a prelude to cloths and Yggdrasil/the realm
of the gods hangs as a mist about her trunk as though to protect her from the abject
disgusting vile wretched invading daemon.
Her roots, however, reach out to greet him: “Hello, Honored Friend of Ashwattha.”
Áesta swallows his pride as a villain of gods and bows respectfully to her, “Duir, Grand Sibling o’ me friend.” The god of oaks’ smile is kind and kindred as he stumbles over his words. Grand should really be Great but he’s an Irish Ancient and can’t really help how he talks and ticks.
Luckily, Duir seems to like both: “It is lovely to finally meet you; I have heard a many great things.”
“An’ Ah of ye.” Wrapped in the realm’s judging mist and the reality of his situation, the daemon—powerful, respected, loved, and worthy in Its own rights—struggles to admit why he’s risked coming here to the lion’s den.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to: “You are here about your priest and friend.”
Burning orange suns ringed in krypton green flares amidst a pitch black sky widen in surprise at Duir’s wisdom. He chatters for a second, Manus-and-Jarl-given form wavering slightly beneath her gaze.
He hadn’t been expecting that: her gentle help, her kind hand, her understanding nature.
Shiva had told him about it, mentioned that if Ancient ever needed anything, and he somehow couldn’t help, she’s the one he should go to: because she’s the one that would take care of him the way the Ashwattha do. He listened but didn’t believe.
Until now.
“A-Ah… P-please… Ah can’t…” Áesta swallows bitter tears, chilling tears, and all his pride to beg this god: “Don’ t-tell ‘im ‘bout Kane an’ Ah…”
“Do you really like him that much?”
The daemon tenses, Void pounding inside of him like all of existence wanting to BE at once; then, he nods: “Please; Ah can’t stand it if he hates me…”
(Duir stares down at this powerful, petrified being—capable of so much more than her and her fellow gods but too loving to ever actually DO any of it—and sighs motheringly: “I will say naught, My Honorable Friend; but I must caution you: he WILL find out eventually, on his own or through another, and it will be unpretty; I will spread this word to those your mage knows, as a favor to My Honorable Friend, but please be warned: you MUST tell him before he learns on his own; if he hears it first from you, he will more easily forgive you.”)
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