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This Used to be About Dungeons, ch 125, Putting Up
🕑 Added 2022-08-03 15:10:42 +0000 UTCI'm streaming on twitch all this week, usually an hour or two, usually not long after chapters get put up, working on the long-promised exclusions doc for WtC. If you have interest in seeing the writing process, come check it out!
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They had three undone dungeons in a row.
Verity was feeling awful about it, and there was no other way to feel.
“It seems you shouldn’t feel awful about it,” said Hannah. “Because that makes the next dungeon all the harder, doesn’t it, if they are affected by all the stress you’re feelin’.”
“I can’t just change how I feel,” said Verity. “That’s not a thing that people can do.”
They were sitting in Hannah’s bedroom, with Verity laying on the bed and Hannah sitting in a chair by her desk. Verity felt mildly uncomfortable laying down there, but Hannah had said that it might help to talk to the ceiling instead of having to track another person’s face and mood, and Verity did seem to find it helpful.
“It’s somethin’ done with difficulty,” said Hannah. “But I can tell you with certainty that changin’ how we feel about things absolutely can be accomplished.”
“How?” asked Verity. It came out slightly angry and a bit indignant. She held up a hand, took a breath, and tried again. “How?” This time it came out better, as a serious question.
“Exactly like that,” said Hannah. “We feel somethin’, we pause, we reorient, we cool, and then we plow on ahead.”
“That sounds far easier said than done,” said Verity. “Am I to feel this tension in my chest over the dungeon deaths, guilt over the fact that I caused it, hopelessness because I can’t control it, and to then say ‘oh, well, time to be happy instead’?”
“Yes,” said Hannah. The answer came readily.
“And you think that this can be taught?” asked Verity. “Because I do want the dungeons to go well, and I do want to be … happy.”
“I think it’s a hard skill to master, happiness,” said Hannah. “And I don’t like to say it, but it’s a skill you’ll likely have to put to use through the whole rest of your life. You’ve got that disposition, I think, toward rumination, toward anxiety, and I put some of that down on your mother’s shoulders.”
“Okay,” said Verity. “So … you know all the things that I’ve been thinking about, that have been weighing on me. I’ve tried my best to be clear, so that clerical consultation can actually work.” That’s what this was, though from a friend, in her bedroom, and quite different from what Verity normally thought of. “How do I actually do it?”
Hannah straightened her back. “It’s the rumination first of all, for you, I think,” said Hannah. “You spend time thinkin’ about your mother, which makes the problem seem bigger, which makes the blows land harder. Sometimes, seems to me, you think yourself into a rut like that. You think of the worst thing your mother could say to you, and it’s as though she said it. You think about the things she’s said to you, and that lets them grow outsized in your mind. Imagine your mind is a garden, and you’re plantin’ seeds in it. What thoughts are you watering? What are you lettin’ grow?”
“So,” said Verity after giving this a moment’s thought. “You’re saying it’s just a matter of stopping myself? Trying to divert the thoughts, when they come?”
“Ay,” said Hannah. “That’s the startin’ point, anyhow.”
“You keep talking about my mother,” said Verity. “She’s … not really someone I’m concerned with anymore. She got told off, ties have been severed, and it’s a done deal.”
Hannah rolled her eyes, which was a very unclerical thing to do. “That sort of thing sticks,” said Hannah. “You don’t just tell someone off and then have that not impact you. Come now, you worry about it, I know you well enough to know that, even if you’re not talkin’ about it.”
“I — only a bit,” said Verity.
“There’s other stuff goin’ on, I know,” said Hannah. “I just don’t want you sayin’ that somethin’ is fine just because you feel like it should be fine, not here.” She probably wasn’t talking about her bedroom. “What you’re presentin’ to the outside world, that’s somethin’, but what’s goin’ on inside, that’s what we want to get at, where I want to help you. And the outside is a reflection of the inside, so it is said, so we help both halves that way.”
“You think I should just not think about my mother,” said Verity. “Or about the dungeons, or about Isra, or about the screaming machine, or anything else. You think that will help me be less … me?”
“Ay, well,” said Hannah. “To tell someone not to think of somethin’ is a lost cause. I just don’t want you to imagine the worst all the time. Recognize when that’s what you’re doin’, recognize when you’re makin’ up a conversation in your head, and when you have that recognition, take some time to be deliberate in your thinkin’ and either move on to some other thoughts, or make an effort to break down all the built up stuff. We can do an example, if you’d like, if that would make it easier to understand.”
“Alright,” said Verity.
“Would you like to pick?” asked Hannah. “I wouldn’t want to presume, and if you’d not like to talk about your mother anymore, I can respect that.”
“The dungeons,” said Verity. “The fear that there’s something in me causing these problems.”
“Well, let’s start with you talkin’ about the fear then,” said Hannah. “What runs through your head at night, keepin’ you up? Death?”
“No,” said Verity. “Not death, just …” She trailed off.
“I’d prefer you be honest,” said Hannah. “I’m actin’ as a cleric here, there’s no need to hold back. There’s nothin’ — nothin’ — you could say that would make me love you less.”
Verity felt a burning sense of self-worth from the word ‘love’. It was insane how good it felt to be told that she was loved. The feeling flowed through her like honey, treacle-thick and warm. What was the point in all this talking if being assured she was loved felt so good? Why not just have Hannah creep into her cabin every morning and murmur in her ear, ‘you are loved’? It felt embarrassing to have such a reaction to the words, but the reaction was there. Verity had momentarily forgotten the question.
“I worry that we won’t be able to do dungeons,” said Verity. “And if we can’t do dungeons, then we’re not a dungeoneering party, and if we’re not that, then I’m just a bard without a steady gig, without a house, without friends. When I was at the Fig and Gristle, I felt like I belonged, like I could have sat and done that for years, and then I started to feel that way about this house, and this team, and now …” She trailed off again. Hannah waited. “It’s not about Isra.”
“Do you think it might be more correct to say it’s not only about Isra?” asked Hannah.
“That’s fair,” said Verity. “It’s a bit about her. Knowing that she would slip away, that we wouldn’t even be friends anymore, that we might meet by chance a decade later and wonder at what might have been. For her to feel a vague sense of disappointment about the dungeon party that fell apart, or for her to think, when she uses the bow, of how she got it with bitterness or —”
“Just a moment,” said Hannah. “Do you think you’re being realistic?”
“I — I don’t know,” said Verity. “I don’t think it’s unrealistic. It’s the sort of thing that I’ve heard about. My mother — I don’t want to talk about my mother — but my mother would talk about minor slights from five years ago. If someone had actually wronged her, she’d carry it to the grave.”
“And you think that Isra is like that?” asked Hannah.
“I don’t,” said Verity. “No, I don’t. I think she’ll remember me, five years from now, ten years, and I hope that it will be fondly, but I don’t know, do I?”
“We could ask her,” said Hannah. “Or you could ask her. Do you think that she would say that you’re a disappointment? Do you think that any of us would?”
“Alfric might,” said Verity.
“Did he say that he was?” asked Hannah.
She shifted on the bed. “I think you know that he didn’t. But he wouldn’t, would he? He would keep it to himself.”
“He blames himself for the dungeons,” said Hannah. “As far as you or whatever force you’re exerting on the dungeons, he feels some excitement at the prospect that it might be brought to heel. He hadn’t picked you because you were Chosen of Xuphin, but you had best believe that Alfric Overguard would love his name to be a footnote in some revolutionary new way of doin’ dungeons.”
“If you say so,” said Verity.
“I’ve talked to him about it. And as for your own satisfaction, well, you ask him, and tell him to be honest with you, which I don’t think you need to tell that boy,” said Hannah. “Let him know you’re worried, he’ll comfort you. I think mostly he hasn’t already done that because you’ve made it clear that you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I guess,” said Verity. She stared up at the ceiling. “I think I might be done here.”
“So soon?” asked Hannah. “I was hopin’ to break down the idea that we’d leave just because the goin’ is tough. I think there’s a root of somethin’ there that needs to be pulled out.”
“I’m just,” said Verity. She shook her head. “Buzzing.” She gestured at her head. “I know it’s not sensible.”
“Well, that’s fine,” said Hannah. “You want to be done, we can be done. But I do want to help to stop the buzz. There’s precious few things that can reach inside a person’s head to stop a thing like that, and talkin’ is the only one we have available.”
“Alright,” said Verity. “Just a bit more?”
Hannah nodded. “You’re not worried you’ll die in the dungeons, you’re worried that you’ll lose the party somehow. That’s a good step, to understand where the bad feelin’ is comin’ from. So we step back, and we ask questions, like whether what we’re worried about is realistic, like whether there’s somethin’ we can do to reorient, like whether there are steps we can take to assure ourselves that no, the world won’t come crumblin’ down. You can work to soften the blow for yourself. We could make a plan for what do to if the next dungeon is a failure, we could talk, in these post mortems Alfric has been givin’, about how we feel. All that stuff we can do, probably should do, if it’s trouble for you to not. But the biggest thing I want you to take away, I hope, is that maybe it’s just a thing you think on too much.”
“Alright,” said Verity. “I guess.”
“It’s a lot,” said Hannah. “Do you want to step through? I’ve the sense that you’re eager to go, and if this takes some time, that’s fine.”
“You’ve told me how to do what I want to do,” said Verity. “No rumination. Now I need to practice for eight hours a day. That’s how you get good at something.”
Hannah laughed. “You let me know how it goes, what was easy, what was hard. We’ve a dungeon scheduled for tomorrow, which is soon, but I want you to talk about what you feel, whatever the outcome.”
“I’ll try,” said Verity.
“Good, now get up, you’re on my bed,” said Hannah.
Verity got up, and got an unexpected hug from Hannah. Hannah hugged like a bear, wrapping muscular arms around Verity. It was comfortable and snug, like being rolled up in a blanket, and when it was over, Verity felt suddenly cold.
“Thank you for doin’ this,” said Hannah. “And I hope it’ll help. You just keep in mind what I’ve said about where your focus is, where you’re seein’ the worst possible doom.”
“I will,” said Verity.
She made her way from the Hannah’s room and down into the living room. She really didn’t have anything lined up for the rest of the day, and knew that she would feel restless. Restlessness would lead to sitting in her room, thinking too many thoughts, and if Hannah was right, that was at the core of her problems. Verity wasn’t sure what she was supposed to divert her thoughts to, when they turned sour, and almost went back up to ask Hannah. She had limits though, and one of those limits was being told what to think. She would simply think happy things. Without enough determination and practice, it was bound to come easily, and with time, Verity would be an expert.
Isra was working in the garden, and for a moment, Verity just watched her. The work was druid’s work, done with eyes closed and senses outstretched, compelling the plants to grow firm and tall, to put down deep roots, to spread out wide flowers, commanding bees to come in and pollinate, pests to stay away, diverting resources.
The time when Isra would speak directly to the plants and animals had passed. It made Verity sad, in a way. She had liked the way that Isra would coo to the plants or whisper to the birds, the way she gave a firm word to Tabbins to stop him from scratching at the couch. Now she only did it when she wanted to be certain, and though they hadn’t discussed it, Verity had the distinct impression that Isra thought talking to the wildlife was a crutch. Isra was, after all, in a guild of other druids, and while messages within a guild were slow, they did seem to be helping her understand what it meant to be a druid.
Verity slowly rose from the couch and moved toward the back door. She opened it slowly and stepped out, then went out to stand near Isra.
“Can I help?” asked Verity. It was a stupid question. The garden didn’t really need them, and even the work that Isra was doing wasn’t going to make a huge difference. They had a ridiculous abundance of crops already.
“There are vegetables to pick,” said Isra. “We have more than we’ll know what to do with.”
So they picked vegetables together, heaping them up into a handful of baskets brought in from the house. There were cucumbers, beans, tomatoes, peppers, squash, leafy greens, and others, all in abundance, and the raspberry canes were fruiting too, though they got picked clean often enough that there was just a handful for each of them. The garden had been well and truly brought back to life, more than any gardener could have hoped for, especially given most of their work had been done later into spring.
It was good to spend time with Isra, even if it was largely wordless, or filled only with innocuous garden chatter where they talked about the ripeness of the plants, the strength of the roots, the fertility of the soil, and how hot the summer had been.
It was hard to pretend that they hadn’t slept together. That, for Verity, was the most difficult thing. There had been, once, a comfortable familiarity between the two of them, and if they were to be friends, that familiarity would have to be relearned in a different way, like teaching yourself to hold a different instrument. When Isra was eating her handful of berries, there was juice left on her fingertips staining them red, and Verity nearly leaned over to take those fingers into her mouth before remembering that no, those times were behind them. They were friends, only friends, as much as they knew each other’s bodies, as much as the scent of Isra brought back intoxicating memories, as much as Verity felt like it would be so easy for both of them to slip back into the way things were.
It was good that they were mostly wordless, or Verity might have stumbled over her words.
When they were finished, they brought the food into the house, what felt like piles of it, and laid everything out in the kitchen. Mizuki was there, and she stared at the bounty.
“Well, I guess it’s that time of year that we start putting things up,” she said with a sigh.
Verity looked to the ceiling and frowned. “Putting things up?” she asked.
Mizuki laughed. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot, you rich people wouldn’t put food up, would you? You’d just have endless chillers and greenhouses and entads and all kinds of other things.”
Verity frowned at Mizuki. “I just don’t know the term.”
“To put things up,” said Mizuki. “To bottle them, can them, put them in crocks, all so we have something to eat in winter.”
“Ah,” said Verity. “Well, no, I’ve never done that.” She felt somewhat abashed. “We had a cook to handle most of the food. And yes, we had a greenroom, but that was — it was different.”
Mizuki shook her head. “Well I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just the sort of thing that of course you don’t know. But that’s good, it means that you’ve got something to learn, and I’ve got something to teach. Now, I’ve got a bunch of crocks down in the basement, including a crock full of vinegar, so I think we should get cracking on this. Cucumbers get made into pickles, leafy greens get made into sobyu, tomatoes get diced and heated and then submerged beneath a layer of oil, honestly there’s a ton of work that needs to be done with all of this, so it’s good that I have the day free. I will say that neither of you is going to abandon me here to do this.”
“I was going to see the children at the school,” said Isra. “I’ve been getting along with them.”
“You can see them four hours from now,” said Mizuki. “All this stuff is ripe, it’s been picked, and it needs to get put up now. Waiting a day will mean that in the winter, when we’re actually eating it, it won’t taste nearly as fresh, not that it ever tastes fresh.”
Isra sighed and looked at the window. “I suppose you need your helper.”
“I need two helpers,” said Mizuki. “I’m not going to be dragging crocks up from the basement on my own. In fact, where’s Alfric? Moving crocks seems like Alfric work.”
What followed was, for Verity, an education. The ‘crocks’ were large earthenware vessels, most of them with a special lip that could be filled with water to create an airtight seal, and with weights inside to keep food below the level of the liquid. The goal of everything they were doing was to prevent spoilage, it seemed, from the vinegar that was added to the crocks, to the salt that was poured in, to the cooking that they did on certain foods. It was a long process, and they sampled from the foods liberally as they went. Herbs were brought in from the garden to complement each of the foods, as apparently the flavors would soak in over the long months that the crocks would sit and bubble.
“This is so much work,” said Verity. “I don’t mean that as a complaint, I had just never realized how much was involved in it. I was so insulted from it all.”
“Insulated?” asked Alfric.
“We just never did this when I was growing up,” said Verity.
“It’s part of the rhythm of the seasons,” said Mizuki. She looked at Isra. “You did this too, right?”
“My father taught me, yes,” she said. “Otherwise we’d have eaten nothing but meat in the winters.”
“See, that’s the thing,” said Alfric. He looked at Verity. “We don’t have proper winters in Dondrian. The growing season lasts all year. People do put things up, but it’s not a matter of starvation if they don’t, so no one makes a big deal about it.”
“Ah,” said Verity. That made her feel quite foolish, and she could feel herself blushing.
Isra started giggling, and excused herself for a moment, but the giggling could still be heard from the other room.
Verity followed, somewhat despite herself. “I didn’t think it was that funny.”
“I’ve just never been on the other end of it,” said Isra. Her smile was bright. “You did things one way your whole life and thought that was just how it was done, and when Mizuki said it was because you were rich you just accepted it, and Alfric had to remind you that seasons weren’t really something that happened in Dondrian — it was funny. How have all of you not spent the entire time we’re together laughing at me?”
“We laugh in private!” Mizuki called from the kitchen.
“We don’t laugh in private,” said Verity. She shrugged. “I think we were more concerned for you.”
“Well, that’s sweet, but I can laugh about it now, and you should too,” said Isra.
“Laugh?” asked Verity. “About not knowing about putting things up? No no, it’s too soon.” She grinned, and Isra grinned back.
Verity thought, in that moment, that one of them might mention that things had been distant between them, that it was good to talk and smile with each other again. But before Verity could say anything — she didn’t know what she would have said — Isra moved back into the kitchen. As she passed, she gave Verity a squeeze of the arm, and as with the hug from Hannah, it felt like it had an exaggerated warmth and affection. It was affectionate, a wordless gesture, the heat of her palm and fingers, the pressure of her grip. Verity sat, there, stunned for a moment, then began working on a song, because that was all she knew how to do with her energy.
The touch of your hand,
Placed on my arm,
The warmth of your skin,
Your grace and your charm
They weren’t quite done putting things up, but Verity went to her bag and pulled out the small notebook that she’d taken to carrying around. She jotted the lines down, then some more, and before she knew it, Mizuki had come looking for her.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” said Verity. Her face was flushed. It was a love song, and she placed her hand over it.
“Uh huh,” said Mizuki. “Alright, well you’ve been gone fifteen minutes, so … most of the work is just moving the crocks back into the basement, but Alfric is going to be doing most of the heavy lifting because I don’t think I could lift a ten gallon crock. And I also think we’re going to have to pick up some more crocks from somewhere, because there’s too much dang food coming in from this garden. Not that we’re going to be able to eat it all anyway, so the crocks would be full by this time next summer.”
“Is that something you need help with?” asked Verity. She folded up her notebook.
“I don’t know,” said Mizuki. “Too much food isn’t a problem I’ve had all that much before.”
“I could eat more,” said Verity. “And extra bite every meal and we’ll have the whole thing taken care of.”
“You’re in a better mood today?” asked Mizuki.
“I am,” said Verity. “I talked with Hannah.” She stood from where she’d been sitting with her notebook and slipped it into the bag. She was praying that Mizuki wouldn’t needle her about it, because some of the lyrics were quite private.
“Do,” said Mizuki, taking the word slowly, “You think we’re good for the dungeon tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” said Verity. “I’m not really in control.”
“Right, right,” said Mizuki. “Is there anything that I can do in order to make it easy on you?”
“Um,” said Verity. “I was going to say that the pressure and questions and even the awareness that you’re watching me doesn’t help anything, but — I think if we don’t talk about it then I’m going to worry about it, so — you know what, just a hug, tell me I’m good, tell me that you’re not going to be mad at me if Alfric comes down the stairs tomorrow morning and says that we failed.”
“Aw,” said Mizuki. “Aw.” She moved forward with surprising speed and hugged Verity. It was Verity’s second hug of the day, or third, if she counted Isra squeezing her arm. Mizuki was small and slender, less able to properly envelop a person, but she made up for that with energy and enthusiasm, and there was something nice about the smallness. They held the hug for a moment. Mizuki smelled strongly of garlic and vinegar, a result of all the pickling she’d done, but it was nice all the same. “You’re a good girl. We love you. No one is going to be mad at you.” Her lips were close to Verity’s collarbone, the words felt in the bones.
It was a bizarre feeling, to simply ask for support and get it in return. That had never been how it was when she was growing up. It had taken her far too long, but she was realizing that the people in this house actually did care about her, and they cared in a way that she’d never experienced before. If she asked for affirmation, she wouldn’t be chided or made to feel small, she wouldn’t be dismissed.
When the hug was concluded, Mizuki drifted off to oversee the moving of the crocks, and Verity was once again left to her own devices.
She spent two hours straight practicing, and by then they were getting ready for a late dinner. Having already spent an inordinate amount of time putting things up, dinner was a relatively lazy affair by Mizuki’s standards, with two of the ‘dishes’ being leftovers from what they’d put into the crock earlier in the day. For meat, they had honey-glazed chicken with a nice crisp to it, and Verity would never have dreamed of complaining, but Mizuki seemed intent on talking about the meal.
“This kind of laziness is traditional, by the way,” she said. “It’s not sobyu until it’s fermented, but you save some of the unfermented stuff and with all the spices and sauces that go into it, it’s still a pretty good semi-salad. Sliced cucumbers with onion, garlic, other stuff, vinegar? Also kind of a salad. Lots of ferments, before they ferment, are basically salads, so we spent a lot of today making salads, if you think about it. Hopefully the chicken makes up for the lack of effort on all the other stuff, which was an effort, just not, ah, really how it’s supposed to be eaten.”
“You could have skipped the chicken entirely and it would still be great,” said Alfric.
“There’s somethin’ about fresh veggies,” said Hannah.
“We’re not even halfway through the summer,” said Isra. “There’s going to be a lot more. We can probably eat out of the garden for the entire rest of the year.”
“Well, good,” said Mizuki. “But we should think about using the bounty to feed the community. We could volunteer for temple day food? We wouldn’t have meat, but —”
“I think, somehow, I might be able to get some meat,” said Isra. She smiled.
“Right,” said Mizuki. “Why do I buy meat?”
“I actually don’t know,” said Isra. “I could start raising some chickens, if that would help, or buy a piglet from the Pedders.”
“An adorable pig pet?” asked Mizuki. “I don’t think I could kill one that we’d raised.”
“We actually do need to talk about the herb dragons,” said Alfric. He looked at Isra. “Have you settled on a price you think would be fair?”
“I have spoken to three bastlekeepers,” said Isra. “The dragons are still small enough to make good pets, but there’s some question about whether they’re going to grow much larger, which wouldn’t make them as attractive. They also eat a lot, though that might be because they’re growing. Perrin thinks ten thousand rings for the set, if we don’t want to keep them ourselves, but it would almost certainly be to someone who wanted to breed them. As pets, maybe as little as a thousand each.”
“I don’t know whether that seems high or low,” said Mizuki. “Low, I guess?”
“If we want to keep them, we’re going to need to start stockpiling herbs in the stone garden right now,” said Isra.
“Growthstones could work in the winter,” said Verity. “But we don’t have a greenhouse, I would worry about temperature and sunlight, and … it would probably be best to just sell them.”
“I’m taking them to a field after we do the dungeon tomorrow,” said Isra. “There’s one a large stretch of garlic mustard that they can gorge themselves on. But in the winter … I don’t think they’re meant to be indoors, or out in the cold. It’s hard to tell whether they hibernate, but I’m thinking not.”
“I’m going to miss them,” said Mizuki, and that seemed to be that, because as a collective they moved on without someone saying that the dragons should stay long term.
Verity was going to miss them, but more because of sentimental attachment to them than because they were good pets. Isra influenced them, and set them out flying at certain times of day, but they weren’t cuddly like cats, nor faithful like dogs. It was good to watch them eating their herbs — they were cute — but they couldn’t stay around forever.
After dinner they went their separate ways, and Verity found herself in the living room, staring at the fireplace, which didn’t have a fire in it. She had a book beside her, an epistolary romance, but she wasn’t reading from it, even though she was at one of the good parts.
“Are you doing okay?” asked Alfric as he sat down next to her.
“Hrm?” she asked. “Oh, fine. Just thinking about thinking.”
“Ah,” said Alfric, as though what she’d said had made any sense.
“You wanted to make sure that I was good to go for the dungeon?” asked Verity.
“If you’re not, I would want to know that,” said Alfric. “But no, I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you. Mizuki said that I should.”
“Mmm,” said Verity. She wished she had some wine, but she had no one to drink with. “I feel like the dungeons being as bad as they are is all my fault. I feel like there’s an enormous burden on you that we can’t ever repay, and aren’t even really trying to repay. I’m sorry for being selfish the first time, sorry for not being the best teammate, sorry for so many things that it’s hard to think of them all.”
Alfric looked at her. “That’s nice to hear, but … I’ve been disappointed with you exactly twice in the time we’ve known each other, and I’ve always understood. I never felt like you needed to twist yourself up over it. People make mistakes. People need to learn and grow. When we find an area we’re weak, that’s when we shore up. And sometimes we’re just different people, who will clash because of those differences, and that’s no one’s fault, it’s just how it is.”
Verity considered this. “Twice?” she asked. “Once would have been when you watched me jump off a cliff, but the second would be … agreeing to go play for my mother? Or something else?”
“Er,” said Alfric. “Dating Isra.”
“Oh,” said Verity. “I can see where that would have been quite annoying for you, especially with how things turned out. I’m sorry.”
“We’re getting past it,” said Alfric. “As a party, I mean. I was worried that we would collapse and I would be back to trying to build a team from scratch. Personally … I understand it better now, I think, how it felt like you couldn’t keep yourself distant — what felt like distant — purely out of a sense of professionalism, especially for a career where you don’t feel like a professional. I’m not sure I’d realized how much the connection meant to you.”
“We never really talked about it, did we?” asked Verity.
“Not really,” said Alfric. “And we should have. Once I knew it was happening, we should have sat and actually discussed what it meant as a party.”
Verity laughed. “That would have been terrible, frankly,” she said. “I can’t imagine that Hannah would have let you. Mizuki might have liked to see the trainwreck.”
“Well, maybe not the best idea,” said Alfric. “And I’m happy you and Isra seem to be getting along again?”
“I think we can make it, as friends,” said Verity. It hurt to say though. A part of Verity’s mind went back to the hand on her arm, the way that it had felt meaningful and portentous, almost an invitation into bed. It wasn’t that, obviously, that would have been ridiculous after they both agreed that they needed some time and space, it would be extra ridiculous the night before a dungeon … but Verity had felt it all the same. Whatever Hannah had said, there were some feelings that you didn’t need to voice.
“I hope you do,” said Alfric. “And as for the next dungeon … don’t worry about it. I can handle it, if it’s a failure again. We’re not burning resources. We’re not strapped for cash. We’ll have a nice breakfast in the morning, a quiet trip to the dungeon, and from there we’ll see. I want to be ready to retreat, if we need to, but the bad run has to end sometime. If it doesn’t end tomorrow, then we’ll keep plugging away, closing up the gaps that I can see, hoping for good variance. I don’t want you to put this all on your own shoulders, alright?”
“Alright,” said Verity, nodding. She felt, just a bit, as though he was talking too much, saying too much, trying to sooth her more than he was trying to communicate information. Usually Alfric was straight to the point. She shook it off though, and eventually headed back home, to the cabin.
Sleep came slowly, and Verity’s thoughts turned sour as she went over everything that had happened during the day. She caught herself though, as it happened, and did her best to turn her thoughts away. She imagined a field in high summer, filled with flowers of crimson and gold, walking idly down a dirt path as she hummed to herself. Conversations, those that she ran over in her head, seemed to be the biggest problem, the place where she would imagine people saying hurtful things or reacting poorly to her own words.
She imagined herself alone though, and that helped. She imagined worlds, and fell asleep within them.
Comments
fbt
yes, good job here, a nice little emotional journey. Not huge, just well portrayed.
This was the most emotional chapter for me personally, almost cried but then I laughed. Well done mister writer
