Chapter Text
“I’ll be fine, Elias,” Chise says easily. Elias’ bodily expression is that one that begs to differ, with his skull tilted and his arms crossed over critically.
“I’m starting to worry that this particular reassurance is, in fact, a curse of reversal.” Wisely, he refrains from an outright forbiddance, expressing his discomfort with a harrumph instead. In the cool early morning air, his breath comes out steaming like the originator of the mist that the sun is just beginning to sweep off the surrounding landscape.
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Ruth offers by way of assurance. For this time, he is a Grim and a Black Dog – curiously, a form that Elias is seemingly more at ease when it comes to defending his master.
“I know. I would have been less inclined to agree if you are not with her.” This is simultaneously an affirmation and a complement in Eliasese.
Truth to be told, there is not much defending that Ruth is reasonably capable of where they’re going – or rather, where they are going through. A combination of careful planning, magical contract and one resourceful, diligent centaur is making this possible, yet it is still reasonably a do it at your own risk arrangement.
“You do remember that the wool does not need to be personally delivered, do you? Hazel has been doing the delivery year after year to Angelica without a problem.”
Saying this, he eyes the considerably hefty bag full of wooly bugs’ magically-inclined fleece, awaiting only the hands of the Artificer to be put to use. The rain has only stopped a couple of days ago, allowing for the delayed shearing to commence. The upside of this is the weather allows for more luxurious feeding on the coolness in the air, hence more quality wools to harvest. Silver Lady has been particularly delighted with the resultant pillows; no doubt Angelica will be too.
“I know, Elias. But I’ve been planning to meet Alice anyways. The back roads are less time-consuming than taking the train or have her drive all the way down from London. Why not kill two birds with one stone?”
As always with Elias and which Chise suspects he may never truly be free of, he is wary about things that pose bodily and spiritual harm to her. Unfortunately, it is more or less all in a day’s works for anyone dabbling in the arcane forces, be it a magus or a wizard or even an intermediary. His worry is reasonable but he also displays enough trust in Chise’s learning and experiences to utilize said back path – in reality, one of the planes of existence similar to the witch’s place of gathering or the faery land, only wilder. Neglected. Abandoned.
Avoided.
Like a house long forsaken by its owners, adopted by denizens of other natures so that it becomes a new shelter that no longer owes allegiance to its once human residents.
Elias knows the risk but convenience often is an effective spark to unconventional creativity. While the Thorn Mage lives alone, there is scarcely any need to venture far from home that doesn’t permit his teleportation spell; with Chise and her frequent contacts with her friends, acquaintances, even the College, the need for a new and less time-consuming mode of travel becomes a viable investment. That said, normal people with non-Elias’s common sense – like Angelica or Mr. Renfred – will still consider it unnecessarily complicated for what amounts to a shortcut.
Chise is too used to complications to expect otherwise.
Elias’ subtly uneasy tone breaks her reverie: “Will you be away for long?”
“A few days at most.”
Another not-so-subtly dissatisfied harrumph. “You do realize I am not stopping you from having sleepovers with your friends here, in this house.”
“I know, I know. But I’ve haven’t visited her for a while. Plus, Alice is busy with her classes and she’s been wanting to practice her wizardry with someone outside of the College.”
“She can do that with Renfred. He has many skills that can be to her benefits. And I could use some help preparing for Midsummer.”
Oh, there it is again: The faintly sulky tone that is rather effective at tugging at Chise’s heart-strings. With Elias, it frequently comes down to the strength of her willpower no matter how many years have passed since the day she walked out of the auction behind her then-unexpected future husband. She has to be adamant or everything she’s been planning for will be for naught, starting with a deep, steadying breath. She has done so before and succeeds when Elias has asked if he ought to accompany her for this outing.
“I’ll be here to help you in time, Elias. I promise.” She reaches out for Elias’ skull-head with both of her hands, coaxing him closer so that she can rest her forehead against his snout. He lets it happen, resting his skull into her palms, where his deep rumbles course out of his throat and into her bones.
“I know. I just prefer you to be here.”
“Of course you do,” Chise giggles and pushes in for a kiss on the centre of his snout, just above the hole of his nostril, “but I am going and it won’t be for long. Our rings connect us no matter the distance.”
“I know,” he repeats simply. Unspoken is his understanding that this is her freedom and her choice, one of the things he has learnt to impede at his own, very hefty cost.
Still, she recognizes his desire and the admirable development for Elias’ control over it, for what constitutes a common sense in the average people is so often a puzzle to the Thorn Mage. That alone makes her hear flutters with pride.
“Since I’m going to Angelica’s, should I send your regards to her?”
“That would be sensible.”
“What about Mr. Renfred? I’ll be spending time with Alice –”
“No,” he replies a tad too quickly than what is comfortable for him. “It will only make him suspicious. I do not fancy dealing with a suspicious wizard anytime soon.”
“Honestly, Elias. You’re looking too deep into things,” but she does not press forward with the suggestion. Though Elias and Mr. Renfred are charitably acquaintances now with genuine regards for each other, they are not yet at the point of comfort with each other. Camaraderie comes slowly with either of them.
“I am being practical,” he counters with a dignified sniff. “It is sufficient to know that I can trust you with his apprentice; and that he can trust his charge with mine.”
“Fair enough.” As always, Chise keeps her opinion on their emotional constipation to herself…
…and Ruth, apparently, for he intrudes into her thoughts with a drought-like remark: You’re no less guilty, Chise.
Let me have this one, Ruth.
The Grim commences with a huge yawn in the physical world though graciously does not pursue the subject.
The waiting is not long until the beats of equid hooves, first muffled as though on grasses, become more evident as they transition into a trotting pace on hard surfaces – like the cobblestones that decorate the frontyard. She turns around and, sure enough, a tall dark bay centaur is coming through the gate with a huge, teeth-showing smile on the elfin face.
“Hullo there, Mr. Ainsworth, little missus! Sorry I was running a bit late!”
“No need to apologize, Hazel,” Elias says as he straightens up from his stoop, brushing his robe back into immaculate flow as he does so.
Hazel comes to a clattering stop in front of them, his grin as wide and cheerful as ever, tail swishing from side to side like a wind-blown banner. “I see, I see! Need more time for goodbyes?”
“It’s fine. We’re all set,” Chise answers, secretly pleased with herself for her steady voice despite the blush that lurks just underneath her calm.
Silky emerges from inside the house, clued in on Chise’s imminent departure by Hazel’s arrival. The centaur tips his cap gallantly towards the house-fae who in turn graces him with a curtsy. She hands over a neat lunch box that feels warm through the brown paper bag it is held in.
Honey cakes, Ruth mentally whispers, explaining the waft of sweetness which momentarily teases her nose. Chise smiles and thanks the house-fae for her gift which would last well throughout her time away from Ainworth Residence. Her treats and sweets are exceptionally delicious and long-lasting to boot.
Hazel, meanwhile, is inspecting the bags that lay on the floor, looking suspiciously like they would contain an astounding amount of marshmallows.
“That’s my package, isn’t it? I reckon there’s some fine wool in there, what with the rain we’ve been having.”
“Indeed. Have you needs for it? We can set some aside for you. Silver Lady has had some to make into pillows,” Elias says, indicating the round bags that looks heavy but is in fact not, especially with a centaur’s strength handling them.
“Ach, no. Give me an open meadow to lay down and watch the stars, yes; and logs of fallen pines to lay my wary head on! Although… Hmm, they say it makes for comfy pillow and helps with sleeping troubles.”
“It helps with mine,” Chise offers helpfully and is agreed enthusiastically by the Silver Lady.
“That’s good to hear! Yes, I’ll have a pillow, please. I’ll come for it before I have to run back to my herd in the North.”
“That shall be done. Will this be counted as the price for Chise’s travel, or would you prefer a separate pay?”
“Just lump it in, Mr. Ainsworth. Oh, would you mind sprinkle it with the centaur potpourris? You still got that recipes right?”
Elias nods. Hazel is preparing the bags as best as he can which, as it turns out, consists of shrinking down said bags into head-sized package each. Chise can feel the prickle of magical energies on the nape of her neck though not one she is familiar with – this must be one of the specially inherent magic of the centaurs, just as dragons and cats and leanan sídhe have their own. What is interesting is how Hazel molds it to achieve his purposes, packing his delivery into convenient storage in the satchel hanging from his side.
“All done now. Shall we, missus?” Hazel pats said satchel which now sports two indistinct humps and tilts his cap for emphasis.
As if cued by this, Elias sweeps to Chise’s level and pulls her in for a hug, followed by a quick hair-ruffling with the end of his muzzle. A gloved hand touches her on the cheek. “Have a safe travel, Chise. Remember – Stay true to your path. Stay calm. Respect the shadows and those who make their home of it. Take not for granted their generosity.”
Chise lays her hand atop that of her magus as an affirmative, brushing gentle kisses along the length of his skull. “I understand, Elias.”
“Good. Off you go now.”
And so, they set off.
Hazel is humming a little tune to himself that sounds vaguely like a folk song or a lullaby, complemented with the harmony of his hoofbeats. It has no power other than the wonder of simple pleasures, reminiscent of Chise’s as she looks out into the world and beholds the sprawling green meadows and the horizon of blue above them. Long strides from long legs cause Chise to speed-walk simply to match what is actually Hazel’s leisured pace. Four-legged Ruth is having a much easier time to keep up with his loping gait.
Chise glances back on impulse at the house she is leaving behind, if only temporarily. The roof reaches above the background of trees of the forest. In front of the main door, Elias’ tall black figure stands beside the lady like a pink rose, waving their hands still. She waves back.
“Very careful, that Mr. Ainsworth,” Hazel says out of the blue, “though I get it. The backroads. Not the sort of place folks want to traipse into, even back in the old days.”
“He is that. I’m glad that Silver Lady will look after him well.”
“…He reminds me a little of my auntie. Lives by herself too. Makes great apple pies.”
Lindel’s tidbit by the campfire comes to memories. “Maybe not. Elias can’t cook instant noodles to save himself,” Chise smirks, followed by Hazel’s own boisterous mirth. His hooves are as steady as his laughter.
“Well, except that.”
It is fascinating to Chise for she knows very little about the centaur-folks and even less about Hazel’s family – or herd, as it seems to be the correct term. Elias says that they live in Britain’s far North, as far as the wilds of Scotland highlands where people as resilient as the lands which borne them have made mankind’s explorations remarkably challenging.
Chise’s mind comes up with an illustration first seen in the ‘textbooks’ Elias has imparted for her magical studies, of towering snowcapped mountains and wide, rolling plains on the front. Her imagination gives colours and movements to the scene: Granite-black for the exposed rocks of the mountains and emerald meadows with tiny colourful flowers like little gems, where centaurs of every equine coats thunder past on hooves like war-drums. How would it feel to possess the strength and freedom to move like them?
Perhaps she has had a taste of it after all, when the fox she has transformed into begins to yearns for the grasses and the moon and the sweet scents of dewdrops. Very briefly, she wonders what and how a centaur may have use for a wooly bug-filling pillow.
“Hazel?”
“Missus?”
“You said you go back to your… herd?”
“Yep. Every year, at least for the Winter Solstice. On Summer Festival too if situations permitting.”
“…It must be nice.” It comes out of her without thinking – the family that she used to envy, all together in the plains and running under a free sky. Her own childhood has neither.
“Nothing beats having the whole herd galloping around you a-hollering the Songs of the Stones, though I could really do with less nagging from the elders. And I love my job too much to give it up – Ah, we’re here.”
Here is actually in front of a dilapidated phone box well-concealed behind the lush foliage of an oak tree. Its fire-engine’s red paint is time-faded to rust’s orange – by all means, an unremarkable-looking landmark. This, Chise knows, is the entrance to the backroad for which she has made a contract for, just as Elias and Ruth have done also. The door opens on creaky hinges that make Chise grits her teeth as the darkness within is revealed, deeper and colder than Elias’ shadows.
“After you, missus,” Hazel says, holding the door open for Chise and Ruth to slip inside.
The darkness is almost absolute once Hazel shuts the door behind them, save only for the struggling shafts of sunlight that penetrates no deeper than a few steps beyond the threshold. This is not the first time she walks these hidden paths though she doubts the fear will ever truly abate. Here is truly the reign of the dreaded long before its inhabitants make themselves known.
“Stay close, you two. They’ve sensed us.”
Chise hurries to his side, shivering in the gloom despite her dragon-honed instinct – or perhaps, because of it. The they whom Hazel are referring to are well within their might to do harm to the uninitiated and with a reputations well-earned to act in that vein.
Eyes, each pale like a full moon, blink into existence all around them. Staring blindly, yet seeing further and clearer than eyes of humans and faeries alike. A strong animal stench permeates the air, sweaty, sticky and somewhat nauseating. These things are old and nameless, known only by their deeds and the fidelity of their vicious resolve.
These are the Hunting Hounds.
Ruth pants, licking his lips nervously and struggling his hardest not to succumb to the animalistic defensiveness when faced with their overwhelming numbers. For these hounds are only dogs in the manner of their hunts and demons in all else.
Surface-walkers.
The voice is cold, quiet and deep, heard not through her ears but in her mind. Unlike the comforting murmurs of her connection to Ruth, these things speak from the outside and penetrate beyond her veil to be heard.
…Trespassers?
Without meaning to, Chise sinks her fingers into the fur at Ruth’s nape.
“Hullo there, friends. We’re just passing through like usual – same entrance, same exit. We aren’t bringing trouble, promise,” Hazel calls out to the glaring shadows around them. His voice is the only other warmth that Chise can grasp onto beside Ruth, so she does.
They have the scent.
They have the contract.
They walk these paths justly.
We do not hunt those who have paid.
“Right you are. We’ll be on our way now.”
A creature stalks out from the darkness before vanishing back among its lantern-eyed brethren. It is only a second’s glimpse but Chise manages to make out a long, red tongue coming out of a head shaped like an eagle’s beak. Sharp scales gleam around its neck, shimmering with the iridescence of rainbow on the black of oil-puddle.
Walk on, scent-bearers.
Hazel tips his mailman’s hat more out of habit than any belief that these ancient creatures understand – or care – about the courtesy in the gesture. The rest of their journey is thankfully unimpeded. They return to the mundane world through a curtain-like tear, blinking in the harsh sunlight after the dreary murk of the backroads to a London sidewalk that is slightly hidden in an alley.
Hazel’s hooves stomp onto reality behind them, sounding much like the landing after a horse’s jump. “Whew, that’s that.”
“The Hunting Hounds… they seem a little edgy compared to previous times I’ve used the backroad,” Chise says. The coldness of their den still clings to her skin.
The centaur’s horse-tail swishes around though there are no bothersome flies to speak of anywhere near him. He cranes his neck around, each angle producing a wince-worthy crack. “They do that, sometimes. They won’t hurt the ones they have contracts with, so long we stay in the lines.”
Dog-Ruth melts for a second into an amorphous lump of shadow before reconstructing himself into his young man’s disguise. “They are hungry. Only old blood lingers around them.”
“They don’t make habits out of breaking contracts,” Hazel says and somehow, Chise’s dragon-sense knows that this is true of the backroad’s sentinels. “Still, might be a good idea to give them some meal next time we pass through. Appeal to their good side and all that. They’ll be more forgiving in case we happen to stray a little in the future.”
It is the Hounds’ favoured form of toll: meats of every kind to feast on. They all have paid theirs at the beginning of their contracts, a sheep’s worth of muttons each for herself, Ruth and Elias. Hazel has made his long before any of them and is in fact their intermediaries for the contracts. She should have no problem bringing some more to them.
“Come on. Mrs. Barley’s is just around the corner,” Hazel says cheerfully and the last bit of coldness from the encounters evaporate into the warmth of London air.
Angelica’s ‘bookstore’ is indeed nearby, nestled inconspicuously in a building of stone blocks and looking little different than the other stores flanking it. There are more traffics here, both of pedestrians and vehicles but Hazel is unperturbed – it has been a long time that people have lost the Sights to see people like him. Upon the old oak door, Hazel raps his knuckles.
“Coming,” come the voice from inside. The door opens and said voice’s source stands in the doorway, blinking only for a second at the entirety of a centaur in front of her before breaking into a pleased smile. “Well, hello there, Hazel. You too, Chise; Ruth.”
“Hullo, Mrs. Barley.”
“Hello, Angelica.”
Ruth is about to make the greeting himself when the artificer’s vodyanoi Familiar flits past his master’s shoulder and settles himself on Ruth’s.
“I won’t be long, ma’am, just dropping off Mr. Ainsworth’s package here,” the centaur remarks and indicates the bulging satchel he has on his side.
“‘bout time too. One of the College professors have been nagging me for his order,” Angelica replies and looks inordinately pleased at the bundles that Hazel is just returning to their original size. “Thanks. You’ve been hard at works, Hazel.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” He tips his hat with a grin, once for each in his presence. “I’ve got to go now. These mails won’t deliver themselves. Good day to you all, m’ladies!”
Chise watches as Hazel’s outline mingles into the crowds of mundane humans who are none the wiser of the centaur-mailman among them. She catches herself in the midst of lifting her hand to bid farewells, lest the passers-by are bound to suspect her being a little not right in the head.
“Help me get these bags inside, Chise. Then you can join Alice in the living room.”
Chise needs no prompting; she is in the middle of doing just that when the artificer tells her so and Ruth dutifully taking the other. The difficulty is in its awkward bulk rather than its weight as they navigate through the shop’s rather narrow door and scarcely bigger hallways lined with bookshelves. “She’s already here? Alice?”
“Hmm. About an hour ago, I’d say. Just put them here. I can take them back into my workshop.”
So saying, Angelica disappears into the back of the shop with her two hauls where her real business of magecrafts are located. Chise and Ruth head for the living room where Alice is indeed there and entertaining herself with a magazine whose title Chise doesn’t recognize. A cup of tea is already served in front of her, half-drunk; the other remains untouched.
“Yo, Chise,” Alice says, straightening herself out of her reading’s slump and setting the magazine aside carelessly, so it lays half-opened on the coffee table.
Blue Flame, the will-o’-the-wisp contracted to her side and acts more or less like her Familiar, appears out of thin air above Alice’s head. Chise leaves her own Familiar to do their Familiars’ greetings as she herself takes a seat beside her friend. It seems that Alice is back in the habits of growing her hair long, pinning the blonde curls back with a set of hairpins seemingly too small for her unruly hair.
“Hi, Alice. Sorry for the bother.”
The wizard-apprentice waves her hand dismissively. A lopsided grin sets her tone to one of cheerfulness, amazement and mischief. “Don’t mention it. Seriously, I’d thought the world’s gone mad when you called me asking for help.”
Chise decides to hang her head and endure the accusing glare from her friends – Even Blue Flame with his silent his head-shaking, reminiscent of a particularly displeased grandmother when the children are being stubborn, not the least because most of the fair folks will be all too happy to lend their hands. It’s no secret that she has a deep-seated tendency to run into trouble and being clueless in requesting help despite the slew of advices she frequently receives.
Even now, it’s theoretically possible to do this all on her own with the downside of tricky accommodation and transport – hence, Alice’s help. It’s about time she allows herself to feel comfortable to receive it.
“…So. A witch, huh?”
“…Yeah. She said that she’ll be waiting here.” Chise rummages through her jeans’ pocket, retrieving a crumpled piece of paper bearing the address of her destination. Alice takes it from her, squinting at the address jotted down in Chise’s hasty scrawls.
“Yeah, I can drive you there. Car’s been parked on the curb.” She folds the paper into a neat square and shoves it into her jacket. “So, did that Bonehead know you’re here?”
“He did, but not about the witch. I told him that I’ll be staying at yours for a few nights…”
“And he actually agrees. Wow.”
“…and that I’ll be helping you study your magic.”
Alice’s booming laughter sets her shoulders shaking that she has to pause her attempt to pour Chise’s tea into the remaining cup. “You’re a sneaky one, Chise.”
Chise’s face starts to feel like a kettle on a stove and on its way to a boil. “Look, I’m not sure what else to do…”
“Uh-huh, yeah. I don’t envy you. The Bonehead can fill a textbook all by himself. Even Master Renfred has troubles understanding him beyond the whole Pilum Murialis stuffs.”
Chise accepts the tea-filled cup from Alice gratefully, noting that the tea is pleasantly warm and well at her ideal temperature. The sip warms her throat and belly like Silky’s tea. She takes her time with it and uses the opportunity to watch her friend from above the edge of her cup. There is the faintest blush on Alice’s cheeks there which may or may not be because of the tea’s warmth.
“At least somebody’s moving forward…”
It is a very low whisper followed immediately by Alice’s aggressive breathing into her cup as though catching herself off-guard with the admission. It would have remained unheard if not for Chise’s dragon-enhanced senses. Chise internally debates whether this calls for encouragement or a masquerade of blissful ignorance.
Knowing Alice though, she decides for the former. “You and Mr. Renfred…”
She doesn’t manage to finish herself before a severe bouts of coughing wracks through Alice. Her cup only just survives the urgent return to its saucer.
“So… not yet?”
“Goddamnit, Chise!” It sounds muffled for being spoken through her sleeves. Alice’s normally piercing glare doesn’t do an anything to lessen her awkward blush. “I’m not like you, okay? I’m working on it!”
Despite her best efforts, Alice still takes quite a while to compose herself and not look like a ruffled puppy by the time Angelica returns from the back of her shop, who can only guess what Chise has said that has such profound effect on the normally self-possessed wizard-apprentice.