Chapter IX
IX.
She called herself every name she could remember and some invented just for the occasion because she could not think of a word in any language descriptive of her absurd foolishness.
With the Fir’Darl’s acceptance to break their fasts together, she fretted as if her parents announced their invitation to her contracted husband.
This was the Fir’Darl, not a contracted husband but a Rivan god, only a contracted companion for a year so far as the similarities went.
How was someone supposed to behave when dining with a god anyway?
Maybe she was not overreacting. Maybe she demonstrated the appropriate level of panic and stress.
Maybe, once you invited a god to a meal and they accepted, that was enough.
Didn’t the Fir’Darl require blood sacrifice though?
That would have been fitting for the kind of god the Fir’Darl was supposed to be, but she now questioned those long-held beliefs.
With the accommodations in the solar surpassing those of the kitchens, she rearranged the furniture, struggling to anticipate how much space the Fir’Darl might need if he chose to sit on the chaise or join her on the floor.
The low table that held the platter offered inadequate dining space for a god and only one goblet had been delivered.
If the Magic was averse to assisting him, she could not ask for a second.
Instead, she procured one of the larger jars from her own supply and brought it in as a second drinking vessel.
She may have offered her meals to share but she did not think she could bring herself to drink out of the same cup he did.
She jumped when his hooves struck the stone floor of the great hall.
Although unnerving, her heart raced not out of terror, but anticipation.
When he stood in the doorway and waited for her to acknowledge him, her throat tightened.
He kept his hands folded in front of him, assuming a non-threatening attitude, a conscious gesture she guessed by way of his deliberateness.
It was almost gentlemanly the way he waited upon her.
“Good morrow,” she said before he did, using the words he had days before.
“And goode morrow to thee,” he replied. “May Y?” He gestured to the room as if asking for admittance. She did not think she blocked his way but moved aside, pressing her hip against the chaise.
“Yes, of course. This is your home.”
He entered at her permission.
“Nay, ‘tis thine for thy stay. Thou art mystress here.”
She rolled her eyes. Pretty words, doubtless designed to put her at ease.
Was the Fir’Darl supposed to be disarmingly polite?
She could not remember if he tempted, which would have been valuable information to have.
The stories said he fed off of cruelty and suffering, that he sometimes perpetuated it, but if man did such things, it had already been in his heart — it could not be blamed on the Fir’Darl.
“Then,” she said, playing his game, whatever it was, instead of arguing the point, “this mistress says be welcome.” She gestured over to the platter. “I had just enough time to begin worrying that I had not specified when and where we would eat.”
He moved around the chaise in her direction, keeping distance from her. “The fact mayeth not be reassuryng and Y apologise for yt,” he continued to stand as he waited for her to join him on his side of the chaise, “but thy movements and locationnes art known to me at all tymes.”
She had been about to make her way over to the platter when his apology and following admission made her stop. She stared at him.
“No, that is not reassuring.”
“Yf yt be any comfortte, Y do not follow thee. Yt ys for thy safety and thy servyce sholde thou needest me.”
“But you can follow me throughout the day. Do you do that with all the animals in the forest too? Or just people?”
“Thou art from wythout the forest. Whan thou dydst cross ynto yt, Y knew.” His words faltered, struggling to verbalize a concept as nebulous as scent.
“Whan thou dydst agree to lyve here and let me keep thy companie, thy agreement bound me to thee.
Whan thy wanderyngs take thee from room to room, Y knowe yf Y chews to pay attentionne.
Yf thou callest me, Y wolde knowe where to fynd thee. ‘Tis no more than that.”
“That would be all? You won’t torment me or stalk me, knowing my whereabouts?”
“Nay,” he said, an edge of horror in his voice.
“Y wolde not torment or stalk. Yf thou wyshest me away, Y wyll complie.” His brows pulled together.
His shoulders dropped. His snout twitched.
“Forgyve me. Y sholde never have accepted thy ynvytationne. Thy gesture ys moost appreciated, but Y recognyse now that yt came from a place of dutie and oblygationne.” He lowered his eyes and spoke as if from a painful catechism.
“Thou owest me naught. Y know better than to abuse thy good graces. Y thank thee for thy offer and shall leave thee to thy meal yn peace.” He turned to depart, taking a path to the door that avoided her.
Her first thought was, Shit. Her second thought was to call him back.
“Fir’Darl, wait.”
At her command, he transformed. An air of cold collectedness settled over him, back straightened, posture perfect, eyes glazed and distant, face serene.
“What woldest thou have of me?”
“You have no need to ask for forgiveness.” She kept her distance and she kept her voice light.
“I asked you to share my food out of selfish desire of companionship, not of duty or obligation.” She tried to think of how best to pull him from this detached, servile mode.
“I did not mean to imply that you would stalk or torment me, but words are important. Sometimes things need to be spoken and confirmed aloud, right?”
He blinked at her.
“I needed to verbalize a fear,” she tried again, “and I needed you to assure me that I had nothing to fear.”
“Nay,” he said. “Nay, naught to affrayen thee.”
“Would you reconsider joining me?”
He blinked as if he did not recognize how he ended up at the doorway but he nodded.
“Yf thou art certeyn.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please.” She gathered her skirts and moved to her side of the table, sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. She did not look back at him, hoping that he would decide to join her and thereby break whatever gripped him.
“Would you like the goblet or the jar?”
“Pardonne?” He picked his way back to her.
“For your drink — the goblet or the jar?” She poured the juice into both vessels.
“Ah.” He sat on the floor as well, taking up all the space she had allotted to him. “Thy jar, yf thy wilt, pray.”
“Unexpected.” She moved the jar to his side of the table. “I thought you were more of a goblet drinker.”
“And thy afsumptionne woldeth be correct, but the jar ys thine and the goblet ys mine. Y wolde regrette to see thy mete stoppeth due to chewsyng a vessel Y was ne’er meant to use.”
So he did not exaggerate when he said that the Magic could not be used for him if he took pains to be so careful.
“Wise choice then.” She picked the goblet up to take her first sip. “Either way, they’re both large in my hands and small in yours.”
He followed her lead and drank. She stole glances at him over the rim of her goblet, curious about how he maneuvered the jar with his snout. Although he leaned his head back more than a man might, the Fir’Darl managed rather well.
She took tomato and cheese as he impaled food with a claw, never touching anything but what he intended to eat.
Somewhere in his Fir’Darlish life he must have had cause to practice manners.
She did not expect them to come naturally to a creature who lived such an isolated life and was ill-formed for delicacy.
“Thou art studying me.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “After I offered you the jar, I realized that you may have difficulty with it. I can see that I need not have worried.”
“Y have not oft dyned yn companie. ‘Tis unsyghtlie, Y am certeyn.”
She laughed.“If you chewed with your mouth open or tried to converse with the food spraying out, then perhaps, I might take exception. You’ve been genteel in your manners compared to what I have seen.”
“Thanne Y dread to thynk,” he responded, a smile in his voice. He licked his bottom lip in the absence of a ready napkin.
She almost missed it. Almost.
“Is that what you meant when you said that you change in appearance?”
“Hath somethyng changed?” He cast a cursory glance over his anatomy.
“Your tongue.” She took a sizeable drink from the goblet. He ran his tongue over the inside of his mouth.
“Yt doth not feel changed.”
“The color,” she said. “Two days ago it was pink. Today it is black. How long do these changes last?”
“Pardonne?”
“When does it go back to being pink?” She popped a radish in her mouth and took another drink.
“My tongue stayeth lyke thys.”
She clenched her hand around the goblet, determined not to betray how strange that idea made her feel. When he said he changed, she assumed he morphed or shape-shifted or had fluctuating magical cycles. She did not realize he meant permanent physical changes.
“It is not a bad change,” she assured him, although it was not a good one. “The stories always speak of the Fir’Darl going from idea to physical being because of the cruelties of the world. But I cannot imagine that you had time between two days ago and today to commit many cruelties.”
“Y will tell thee oon day of my manie mysdeeds,” he assured her, “but Y have not knowynglie commytted cruelties yn recent memorie.”
“Are you the Fir’Darl?”
This creature fit the physical description of the god, but for all his brutish ugliness, he did not fit the character.
“Wolde the Fir’Darl knoweth yf he beeth the Fir’Darl?”
“I have never had cause to question that,” she shrugged. “You use magic and look like the Fir’Darl.”
“Y do not know,” he said. “Perhaps I am then. Thou mayest have cause yet to ask me to cloak myself, for gyfts serveth only to further hamper my functionyng or to worsen my aspect.”
“Gifts,” she repeated. Gifts were considered pleasant things. These changes did not sound like pleasant things. Not if they stayed and not if they harmed.
“Gyfts,” he confirmed, this time with a tone that was insistent they be called nothing else. He had the look of one who had been corrected for calling it something else and did not want to see her make the same mistake.
She nodded, assuring him that she got the message. She did not know what game they were playing, but she had seen his glazed-over eyes before and read the fearful insistence in his face now. Whatever game it was, she could guess the stakes were high.
“Speaking of gifts,” she offered, trying to lighten the moment of tension, “I would like to bestow my own gift, although not one like that. I have been calling you Fir’Darl.
Since you do not know if you are he, among the Rivani it is,” she blushed, “extremely insulting to call someone the Fir’Darl. ”
“I knowe.”
“And you said nothing?!” She threw a radish at him because his quiet, patient acceptance of such a rude gesture on her part made her feel worse. “You’re awful. That ruined all the fun of it.”
“Y apologyse.” He cleared his throat and started anew with a dramatic show of ignorance. “Beeth yt truly? Y had no ydea that thy name for me woldest be anythyng but sweetness and... sunshyne!”
She almost choked on her food.
“Do you have a name you prefer?”
“Nay. Thou sholdest call me what thou wylt and Y wyll answer to yt.”
“Anything?” She laughed. “What if I called you Mouse or Cottingsley or Blight?”
“Anythyng, provideth that thou mooste obvious refferest to me.”
She considered him for a long moment, certain his passivity did not come naturally. Maybe he was just too tired to care. If he was the Fir’Darl, that made him old. Maybe his original name had been lost to time.
“If you think of something you would like, then I will oblige. Until you tell me otherwise, I should like to call you ‘Baró.’”
“Very well thanne. Ys there a reasonne?”
“It’s nicer than Fir’Darl,” she admitted, “and you deserve a better appellation. You have never insulted me or my people, never disparaged us or used slurs for us...” A lump lodged in her throat. “I did not think I would ever know a non-Rivani who did not think of us like dirt.”
“Thou hast shown symylar courtesie.” He spread his clawed hand out on the table for them both to see.
“Y am too grotesque for thy world of men that Y must be shut away yn forest prysonne wyth only an occasionnal wanderer to gyve varyationne to my days. Yet the worst thou hast seen fyt to call me ys ‘Fir’Darl.’ ‘Tis mooste fortunate for me.”
She clung to the word “prison,” but she could not dwell on it, not now, not in the midst of their conversation. It would throw their comfortable rhythm off.
“‘Baró’ does not mean anything derogatory,” she assured him. “And it’s appropriate. It means ‘impressive,’ and you are that indeed.”
“Wouldst thou styll have me call thee Rivani? Or woldest thou prefer thine own name?”
“Names are power, Baró, and you have all the power here.”
“Nay,” he said, “what thou seest as power ys naught but mine abylytie to be useful.”