Whispers slithered around the room. Between the bookshelves, the paper-covered workstations and the groupings of Javhir as they carved pottery, sharpened swords or flipped pages. Each worked at a rather slower pace than usual, heads shifting as the towering presence of Celine of Dumar swirled through the massive library.  

The storm had subsided just as Ymos had awoken at his workspace, the imprint of his writing utensils and a small leaf left behind on the dark skin of his forehead.  

The two swam through the altitudinous bookshelves, winding past the fellow Javhir until Ymos latched onto an area sequestered in the back.  

He patted the cedar workstation; the legs of the table were carved with bulbs. Ymos wore his typical garment of a white outfit, patterned with gold swirling down his arms like roots. “This is my workstation; I've been cataloguing various flora and their interactions with the blood we have sampled from those inflicted.”  

She nodded, saying nothing in return. Her arms were held behind her back. 

He pulled at a nearby drawer; glass capsules carved at the top with white abbreviations. They clinked as the concluded the action. His nimble fingers twiddled with the capsules before plucking one.  

As he placed it on the desk and reached for another, Celine of Dumar stood grimly at the other side, eyes pressed into the abbreviations. She stood so still gazing down before her head clicked to the side.  

Ymos' heart hammered strangely in his chest; he wasn't sure why he was inexplicably anxious. The other javhir rarely ventured into the depths of his work, he was the main botanist of the monastery and to have another, much less the Heir of Dumar silently critiquing his inventory had his hands feel as though they were resting over a curling fire.  

She spoke, ripping him from the private stress whirling in his chest, her voice was soft but focused, “You have graelsbane?” 

“Yes, of course.” He answered, not quite picking up her tone and instead answering matter-of-factly, “I also catalogue the plants of Dumar. Though I've tried to focus on local herbs in this inquiry. There is also a garden of my own design on the west side of the monastery, we carry many plants there as well.”  

She studied the seeds and leaf in the sunlight as it streamed through a nearby stained-glass window. It steadied her in this poppy red, “I was unaware graelsbane extended this far from Tyria. You brought these with you?”. The bulbous seeds clinked against the glass.  

“Yes,” he smiled, “Long ago. They hold up surprising well in this salty air, my foraver seeds crinkled into ash not a week after I brought them here.”  

“You had foraver seed as wells?” She slipped the capsule back into its spot, much like a library book back between the other tipped books on the shelf. “I had read once that under the blue moons they sprouted flames to melt the nearby ice.” Her voice was steady, her hands returning to the curve of her spine although now she shifted from one foot to another.  

“Yes! It’s true, and I have seen it! A delight to behold, the flames unfurl like gentle branches, it pulses a warm heat through the chilled ice. The knowledge keeper Wailks once wrote about it. I still an early copy of the book.”  

His smile shone with this unmistakable glee. Ymos could almost jump for joy, Olson loathed his conversations about botany, Aelina gruntingly tolerated them, rare was it for someone to take even a minutes held interest in his work.  

Her head shot forward, “You do!”. Then in a sudden sobering tone, she repeated yourself, “You do?” 

“If you desire to read it, of course just let me know.” She gave a non-committal nod.  

It seemed the minutes of interest had passed, and moments of silence turned into shifts upon the sundial, Ymos' steady hands worked, sparsely intertwining explanations to her silent figure. His voice however kept catching on the awkward stammering in his chest. She did not waver in her place.  

A bell reverberated around the stone walls of the monastery, and in a flash it was as though the Javhir hopped from their workstations and began to filter out of the library. Ymos' head cracked up, he gave a gentle smile which crinkled at the edges of his wonderfully maroon eyes, “It is time for the weekly tournament! Come! It is such a sight!” 

✴✴ 

The All-Father rose from the crowd, his hefty size and booming voice commanding attention even over the salty breeze from the nearby cliff side. Swallows warbling from tree-branches in the mid-afternoon sun.  

Ymos fiddled with the herbs placed in stitched pockets of his bag. The group of Javhir were growing with each new body stepping onto the pavilion, eager faces all around.  

Despite how he had placed her among the stone benches which rounded their makeshift arena, Celine of Dumar was now among the overhanging shade, frozen still in place alongside the shadows of the monastery. She watched from afar through the small wooden slits of her terrifying mask.  

Next to him, Olson stood clad in his usual tournament gear and twisted his spear from the tips of his fingertips and up his outstretched arm till about half-way up his bicep before the spear switched directions and came back down his arm like veins. “Did she say anything?” 

“Not so far.” He responded lightly, “I showed her the work and what we intend to do. In all honesty she seems quite bored, or perhaps just quite quiet.”  

Olson bit his lip in disagreement. His stark white eyebrows almost touching his icy white eyelashes in suspicion, “Why is she here? We can and are attending to the spread of this sickness. Should she not be out setting the kings enemies alight on a pyre, or filling their lungs with bugs and bone needles?”  

Shrugging, Ymos did not respond. Mostly because he was not sure what to say, why was she here? Did the king not trust the javhir in handling it? Celine of Dumar was no healer, quite the opposite in fact. In any case, the sickness had not spread too far yet, it was still under control in the affected regions. Was it an implicit threat? He surmised as long as she only seemed to be supervising then they were free to work as usual. Though the omission of stress in the statement still had his fingertips feeling alight like flames.  

Stepping into the small sand circle, Ymos questioned, “Why do I always have to begin?”  

Olson’s eyes all but told him with the deadpan expression. 

Then, a heavy, gong-like sound bellowed over the crowd, shushing their murmurs and forcing the two cousins to focus on each other.  

“I'll even give you the first punch. Come on.” He tapped his cheek with a devious glare in his eyes.  

Ymos steadied himself for the first punch, trying to focus on a calm breath and an engaged stomach. Instead, however he grabbed two small seeds from his satchel and tossed them at the tips of his opponents' feet.  

In a moment they sprouted upwards like a magnificent beanstalk and all but punched Olson into the air from the soles of his feet. He splattered back down, landing with a thud onto the sand. The crowd exhaled a wave of wincing.  

Slowly, he rose to his feet, determination grinding between his joints. The two locked eyes, Ymos could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He was also suddenly very aware of the Heir standing a few feet from them. He could see her, only from the corner of his eye and still obscured in the shadows elongated by the Monastery's columns. He thought of the blood which soaked her hands, the actions of her father, King Johann of Dumar. But she stood so silent and so still the Javhir placed before her seemed to have all but forgotten of her presence, why was she truly here? He found it difficult to believe the King had sent her aid out of the goodness of his own heart. 

Olson dropped down in a flash, sweeping his leg out and cracking it against Ymos’ ankles. He pulled up a thin curtain of dirt with the action.  

Ymos’ shawl fluttered in the wind as he fell backwards his hands reaching to catch himself against with the wind. Reaching his arms backwards he folded into a back bend and threw his legs over himself and landing back on his feet in a dance of embroidered textiles 

Just as he was recovering, Olson threw a heavy-handed right hook which just grazed against the man’s skin as he doged at the last possible second.  

Ymos' fingers uncoiled another bottle; a navy powder was tossed against the other man.  

“What was that?!” Olson bellowed.  

His skin grew red and splotchy his eyes beginning to puff up like a reaction to an allergen. It took him off pattern for a moment, bringing him to his knees and allowing Ymos to begin grabbing his next vial.   

As he rounded his shoulders and rifled through the bag, Olson’s spear folded out and shoved Ymos’ stomach. He fell onto his back with a cracking thud. His lungs wheezed for a few seconds, black dots crackling across his perspective. The world whirled around him.  

Olson's reddened face slipped into frame, “Catch your breath. Breathe.”  

Grabbing him by his wrist, Olson swatted the dirt from Ymos' white garments. Olson continued, “Lasted longer than usual.” 

The All-Father threw him a disappointed glare.  

Ymos turned to him and slipped a small bottle from his pocket, handing it to the splotchy-skinned man, “If you put a bit of aloe salve on the area, the redness should subside by dinner.” He clapped his hands together, wiping the dirt from his palms.  

Aelina joined them as the two stepped from the makeshift arena, “You are a joy Ymos but you are so missing the warrior part of warrior-monk.” 

“I am an academic, a peaceful man, a-" 

“A-nnoying.” Olson interrupted before cackling to himself.  

“I heard you were working as a political aid to the Heir today. Joining the court of Dumar for some espionage?” Her black hair was in two long braids passing her shoulders, which mirrored the large bladelet earrings descending from her ear lobes and had been carved with an intense amount of cream detailing. A line of wine-coloured gems acted like buttons which held her cerise-detailed iron armour together before breaking and lining the edges of her hips. She held her immense scythe in her right hand, the sun glinted against the glorious metal.  

“Watch your tongue,” Olson added cheekily, waving a finger in front of her face that she shortly swatted, “Or she might rip it out.” 

Aelina gave a tittering chuckle before stepping into the ring with Olson once more. It seemed he never turned down a good fight. With puffed chests like peacocks the two circled each other before launching into a haze of clashing staff, eventually sword against scythe.  

Soon, the evening glided into place, with many more sparring bouts following. Aelina, as usual took her place among the champions of the night. The clinking of ceramics and the soft hazy scent of dinner wafted through the monastery – warm aromas of rosemary, garlic and retur – fiery a spice. Ymos aided in setting out the plates of roasted vegetables, chicken and potatoes steamed in a herb sauce as the Javhir found their places in the courtyard.  

Lemon trees dotted the four corners of the courtyard and shifted in the soft wind. Coloured tiles chimed below his soft but quick footsteps. The columns were painted with depictions of the four elements; earth, wind, fire and water. Below, gentile and calligraphic inscriptions twisted around the ridges of the columns.  

Above, as could be seen from the bright and clear sky, silver stars twinkled. The soft brushing of waves against the cliffside could be heard in those sparse moments of silence as the Javhir shoveled down their food.  

“Ymos!” Olson demanded above the small crowd, “Come sit! Let everyone else tend to their meals!” The reddened and puffed skin had waned. He had donned sky blue draperies which fell from one shoulder to just beneath his collarbone and seemed to complement his short platinum hair.  

He nodded, seemingly remembering his own food sitting next to another Javhir Brutus as well as across from Olson and Aelina.  

Slinking into his spot, Ymos gave a smile and nod to Brutus whose giant frame tugged shadows across the table. His eyes were closed, his slightly pink lips twisting together in a short prayer before he straightened up, returning a bright, pink gummed smile.  

“Evening Ymos. Tea?” He held up a yellowing pot, which appeared miniscule within his gargantuan palm. The man's purple rings which enveloped his ring, thumb and index fingers glinted in the lazy sunlight. Their audacious nature was in stark contrast to the large scar across his left hand which arised from a blacksmithing accident as a child.  

“It's peppermint.” Aelina chimed in cheerily, and with no sign of exhaustion despite fighting through the tournament earlier today.  

“That's alright. Thank you, though.” Brutus simply passed the tea across the table and into Aelina's palms. She promptly poured a small amount into a pattern less teacup.  

“It seems the guest of honour has decided not to grace us with her presence this evening.”  

“Perhaps she is tired.” Brutus said.  

With full bellies, the Javhir soon retired to their chambers with the wind breathing through their windows.