Chapter 12 #2
“No,” Bastion said. He fought to keep the vitriol out of his voice.
“Kinra, Visara, Nammu, Death… whatever forgotten goddess Bart invoked. They may as well not exist for all the good they’ve done me.
People use them to justify their actions or things they can’t explain.
I believed I would meet a god on the island, because I was told that's what would happen. Looking back, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen the hand of the divine in anything. ”
Ulla didn’t move. She merely watched him, as if she knew he had more to say.
“I met no god on that island,” Bastion insisted. “Only an imp.”
He sneered the word, continuing to pace with all the vehemence of a caged animal. He didn’t realize what he’d said until he came face-to-face with her next question.
An imp?
He lifted his eyes from the book, muscles tense.
Ulla must have seen his trepidation, because she wrote the next line more slowly.
Tell me about your Trial.
Something about the quality of her handwriting had changed. The letters were softer, wider, giving each the feel of an invitation.
He wanted to refuse her, but he could see the door open before him and the path that lay at his feet. The idea of divulging everything he knew and speculated about the anomaly of his Trial felt like reaching the peak of a mountain he’d been climbing for the last ten years.
Ulla waited, the picture of patience.
Shutting the door was safer, but that safety meant nothing if it never opened again.
So, he took a leap of faith.
“I should have met a god and left a knight,” he said, watching her eyes as they tracked his lips. “But I had only the imp for company. All he did was wreak havoc. I failed to capture him, so for all I know, he’s a hallucination. I don’t know what to do now.”
The admission lifted something old and heavy inside him that he hadn’t known he was carrying. He took what felt like the first truly free breath since leaving the island.
She handed him the book and charcoal with two words.
Show me.
That surprised him. He hesitated, only because drawing the imp felt like admitting he was wildly superstitious after just denouncing the existence of the divine. He turned to a new page and paused. Then, he turned to the front of the book, contemplating the words there.
The Account of Sir Bastion.
He may not have found the words to explain his Trial, but he felt compelled to leave some grain of truth for those who would come after him.
He sat on the stool and flattened the book over his knee, sketching a crude figure. The irony of the decision wasn’t lost on him. All the other Accounts had a Godmark sketched in the back, but here he was, drawing the source of all his woe right under his name.
The imp had a head like a carved turnip with deep, eyeless sockets and a skeletal grin that nearly split his face in half.
Overlong arms dragged on the ground, and his bare feet looked like bundles of sticks.
A threadbare sack covered his torso, and vines sprang from his skull, tapering to a point like a long cap.
“He’s not tall,” Bastion said, passing the drawing to her. “He doesn’t even come up to my waist. But he’s sneaky. And he’s strong.”
Ulla studied the figure. On the page, the imp appeared almost comical. After a moment, she turned to the back and wrote, How do you know he isn’t a god?
“If he were, I would have a Godsmark somewhere on my body.”
Ulla arched an eyebrow. The charcoal hovered over the page for a moment. Then, she scrawled something, and a mischievous glint flashed in her eyes. She showed him the page, and Bastion stared, not comprehending at first.
I haven’t fully examined you.
A rush of blood hit his face and his groin. He leaned forwards on his knees, eyes firmly fixed on the floor, and cleared his throat. Heat coursed over his exposed skin, like he’d stepped from shade into the blazing summer sun.
He was extremely grateful that some sort of physical contact was needed for an Yvri to read a human’s thoughts. If she knew what had just run through his mind, she might not think so highly of him.
She shoved the book back under his face, a new line beneath the last.
You cannot control your first thought–only the second and your actions.
Mortified that she had picked up some of those less chivalrous thoughts, he cleared his throat and cast around for a change of subject.
“How are you? You used a lot of energy yesterday.”
I’m fine. The words were sharp and short.
“Is that all?”
She considered him, the book pressed to her chest while her claws tapped a rhythm against the cover. Then she sighed and began to write, not bothering to hide her exasperation.
Bastion placed a hand over the pages. The tempo of his heart shifted to a nervous tremolo.
“If it’s easier, you can just…” He touched his temple.
Ulla studied his face, her eyes racing across his features. Bastion understood what the invitation meant. It terrified and thrilled him in equal parts, like a bubble about to burst.
She swallowed and shook her head.
I know your offer comes from a place of sincerity, but I only communicate that way when it’s absolutely necessary.
Disappointment crumbled within him. “May I ask the reason? For my own understanding?”
Ulla cocked her head, regarding him with quiet surprise. Suddenly, he became aware of a question racing through his mind over and over.
Can I trust you? Can I trust you? Can I trust you?
Bastion didn’t know if the thought was his or hers, but her pupils dilated, and she walked away, taking his breath with her.
Ulla wrote at length. From the way she paused, frowned, and continued, Bastion could tell she was choosing her words carefully. He waited, working to tamp down the anxious fluttering in his throat.
When she finally handed him the book, he almost didn’t want to read it.
I was eight years old when I realized the cacophony of voices in my head wasn’t normal.
That my family, my pod, anyone who cared to listen, was privy to my every thought.
It took me years to learn how to shut them out because no one would teach me.
“What’s the point when our telepathy solves the problem?
” my father said. When I finally did master the skill, I vowed that no one but my mate would know my thoughts so intimately again.
By the time Bastion finished reading, he understood.
“That’s why you’re alone.”
Ulla took the book, a bitter frown creasing her face.
If you don’t know the sound of your own voice, it’s difficult to distinguish which thoughts are yours and which aren’t. I wanted to find out who I was without the input of so many others.
“And your pod thought that was unnecessary?”
Ulla added a line and showed him the page.
Bart is the only one who would help me.
Bastion laced his fingers together, scraping his thumbs against his palms. For a moment, he was back at the inn, dancing with her, shocked to learn that the burden of her loneliness matched his own.
Finally, he said, “You’re very brave. I don’t know if I could do what you’ve done.
I think, maybe, training to be a knight was always about being accepted.
I had no one and didn’t belong anywhere, but if I passed, it wouldn’t matter because that’s something no one could take from me.
But now…” He shrugged. “I’m a ship with no wind in my sail. ”
Bastion looked down at his empty hands, covered in rough calluses, the physical testimony of his diligence and determination. Why did he need someone else to proclaim his worth when he had proof right here?
The book disrupted those thoughts as Ulla laid it in his palms.
Do not betray yourself to be understood or accepted. Make your own wind.
The words were large and bold, mirroring the expression she now wore. The intensity of her gaze and the determined set of her mouth bolstered him, and for just a moment, Bastion saw himself as she did.
Strong. Capable. Brave.