Chapter 5 #2
He's so absorbed in the work—in maintaining the over-under pattern and keeping the tension even—that he doesn't notice Aether watching him until he completes another full circle and looks up to find her regarding him with an unmistakably smug expression.
"I think maybe you're pulling our leg about being noble born," she says with a knowing glance that makes him flush.
She's pulled her loom closer to where he's sitting, angling it so she can see him while she works without straining her neck.
"You seem to be finding your place here just fine.
Heard you've been working the land with Eira, and now look at you—picked up basket weaving like you've been doing it for years. "
Evran looks down at his hands, at the dirt that still stubbornly clings beneath his fingernails despite his vigorous scrubbing.
Even though he'd used the short bristle brush Eira had given him and scraped until his fingers were raw and pink, there's still earth underneath his nails that seems like a permanent resident now.
He tries not to feel self-conscious about it as he continues working the willow strands around the basket.
"I've been working with Eira," he confirms, though Aether probably already guessed as much if she's heard the gossip. "She's very patient with me. More patient than I probably deserve, given how little I knew when I started."
"You seem like a quick study," Aether observes, her fingers never stopping their complex dance through the loom's threads.
"The girls who work the terraces on the other side of the stronghold have had each other for company all season, working in teams. But Eira's been managing her section alone since spring—it's a lot of ground for one person to cover.
I'm sure she's happy to have your help, even if you're still learning. "
Eira does seem to enjoy his company, their conversations flowing easily during their work.
But it's hard to say for certain when it's been such a short time.
He hopes things continue to stay so comfortable between them—he can't imagine conflict growing with someone as even-tempered as Eira seems to be, and he's never been one to start fights or create unnecessary friction.
Still, he's learned the hard way that his presence can be unwelcome even when he tries his best. Best not to assume anything.
The tapestry half-completed in Aether's loom catches his eye properly for the first time as he watches her fingers move with hypnotic precision, working the shuttle through the vertical threads with practiced ease.
It appears to be the beginnings of a great elk standing in a snow-covered forest, its antlers rising majestically against what will become a backdrop of mountain peaks.
The detail is remarkable even in its unfinished state—individual trees visible in the background, the texture of the elk's fur suggested through subtle variations in thread color, the way light seems to fall across the snow.
It's clearly the work of a master craftswoman, someone who's spent years—probably decades—perfecting their art.
"That's gorgeous," he tells her honestly, leaning over his basket to get a better look at the emerging scene. "How long have you been working on it?"
"Too long," she tells him with a sharp laugh that carries both frustration and affection.
"It was supposed to be done ages ago, but things keep coming up.
Other projects with tighter deadlines, apprentices needing help, equipment breaking and needing repairs.
The usual chaos of running a workshop." She shakes her head ruefully.
"He insists there's no rush, that he's in no hurry and I should take whatever time I need.
But I know he's staring up at that bare spot on the wall in his chamber and wondering what's taking me so long. "
It could be for anyone—any of the clan leaders or wealthy members who might commission such work. But somehow the way she says 'he' sounds weighted with familiarity and respect, and Evran's curiosity gets the better of him.
"It's for the Warlord then?" he asks, trying to keep his tone casual even as something in his chest tightens at the mention.
Aether nods, reaching up to pull the reed—a long flat piece that packs the threads tight—toward her with a practiced motion. "Unless I finish it and he hates it on sight, which would be a first. Then who knows where it'll end up? Maybe decorating some storage room where no one has to look at it."
She laughs when she sees the surprised, almost scandalized expression on his face at the idea of insulting the Warlord's taste.
"I'm only joking, Evran. Vaike has never had a bad word to say about my work, not even when it takes twice as long as intended and I know he's been patient beyond reason.
He's always gracious about it, even when I'm sure he's frustrated. "
The way she talks about him so casually—using his name without title, discussing him like he's just another member of the Drakarri clan rather than their absolute ruler—makes Vaike sound almost..
. normal. Like just another man rather than the imposing figure who had sat on that throne and looked at Evran with such cold displeasure.
She sounds like she's known him for a long time, since before he became Warlord perhaps. Maybe she sees a different side of him, the person behind the position. Maybe the clansfolk of the Drakarri get to see aspects of their leader that outsiders who cause offense never glimpse.
Evran leans back in his rocking chair, the wood creaking slightly under his shifting weight, and looks down at the basket in his hands.
He's made good progress—several more rows completed, the basket taking proper shape now.
Slowly, carefully, he begins weaving the willows through again, focusing on maintaining the pattern.
He keeps his gaze studiously focused on his work when he asks, trying desperately to sound nonchalant despite the way his pulse has picked up. "What is he like? The Warlord?"
"What, Vaike?" Aether's hands don't pause in their work, but he can feel her attention shift to him more fully. Instead of answering his question directly, she fixes him with a knowing look that makes him want to squirm and asks one of her own. "What do you think of him?"
Evran swallows, suddenly very interested in a particularly tricky section of the basket where two strands need to cross.
"He's very intense," he says carefully, which feels like the understatement of the century.
"Commanding. Every time he looks at me I feel like he's seeing straight through to every weakness I'm trying to hide. "
"Mmm, it's those eyes, I think," Aether agrees with a thoughtful nod, still working her loom with steady rhythm.
"Steel-gray and sharp as winter ice. He looks like a snow leopard spying prey when he's up on that throne looking down at you, doesn't he?
All that focused intensity concentrated on whatever's in front of him. "
She doesn't look up from her work when she makes a contemplative sound and continues in a different tone, something softer and more serious.
"But I've seen those same eyes weighed down by the burden of rule.
By the loneliness that consumed his father after his mother passed—Vaike was just a boy then, watching his father fade away from grief while trying to hold the clan together.
I've seen him sit up through the night making decisions that will affect hundreds of lives, agonizing over which choice will cause the least harm when there are no good options. "
Evran finds himself staring at her now, the basket forgotten in his lap. This isn't what he expected to hear—not this glimpse of vulnerability, of humanity behind the intimidating exterior.
Aether looks over at him and her expression is serious, perhaps even a little stern. "At the end of the day he's just a man, Evran. He bleeds when he's cut, he worries about his people, he mourns when someone dies. He's no different than you or I in the ways that matter most."
Evran wants to protest that statement because he simply can't believe it.
There's nothing resembling any man he's ever met in the Warlord he's come face-to-face with.
There's definitely nothing that might come even close to being the same as Evran himself—a failure who couldn't even stand up to his own father, who let himself be shipped north like unwanted cargo.
There is a gaping chasm of differences between the two of them, one that he doesn't think he could cross if given all the time and materials in the world.
The Warlord is the embodiment of strength and iron will and decisive action.
He rules hundreds of people who would die for him without question.
He broke precedent to allow Evran sanctuary, made a decision that has the whole clan talking because he chose to show mercy.
Meanwhile, Evran couldn't even stand up for himself when his father sent him away. He fled rather than face Lord Galen. He's spent his whole life bending to others' wills, too weak or too afraid to assert his own wants.
How could someone like that be anything like someone like Vaike?
Maybe Aether has seen a softer side of the Warlord that he reserves for people like her—people who have been with him since childhood, who have seen him through losses and triumphs, who have earned his trust through years of loyalty.
But Evran is not one of those people. He's barely been here two days.
He's an outsider who arrived as an insult, someone whose very presence represented his father's contempt for the Drakarri.
"I can see you don't believe me," Aether says with a knowing smile, reading his skepticism easily in his expression. "You're thinking that I've known him since we were children, so of course I see him differently. That he shows me a side of himself that he'd never show to someone like you."