Fable

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You are not the First to Know, though that title remains heavily disputed. Elzabier was the one who spotted the shadow in the distance, but it was Keven who //confirmed// the sighting. You imagine him seizing the binoculars from Elzabier's slack grip, imagine the crimson sun turning his gray hair ghostly, imagine the breath leaving his lungs in the barest of whispers: "It's him... Dear gods, the bastard's fucking done it." But neither commanded the gates open—only Alistair keeps his wits about him long enough to send his voice careening like a bugle call through the setting dusk: "Raise the gates! Raise the gates, godsdammit!" You are not the First to Know. But you know it all the same: Ronan Fairchild has returned. [[***|Part 1: Kel]]

Stone erodes slowly. Sometimes, it takes centuries. You know this from your studies. The same cannot be said of hope. You know this in your bones. Outside, a hundred torches light up the night. In the shadows between, you see one bearded man thrusting a stained pouch into the hands of another. "Didn't I tell you he'd be back?" "Just take the fucking gold." You feel your lips curl—into a snarl or a sneer or a smile, it's hard to say. There's a good chance it's all three. A swarm of children races past, dragging in its wake a harried-looking man. News travels fast in the great town of Melcroft. Everyone has come out of their homes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ronan. Prodigal Son. Hero of all Eshnaer. "He belongs to the world now," Mother Fairchild once sighed. You do not believe she meant for you to hear her. You do not believe she meant to utter the thought aloud at all. You move in the opposite direction of the gathering crowd. [[***|Chapter 2: Kel]]

There's a passageway you and Ronan discovered as children—a vine-draped, quasi-subterranean shortcut between the Fairchild and Canto residences. Canto. That's you, by the way. You can tell when someone shares your blood. It's in the softness of the jaw, the slim arch of the nose. But most of all, it's in the hair, the eyes—both slick black as ink. Distant torchlights greet you the moment you emerge from the passageway and into the small, stone courtyard. Mother Fairchild is already there. And so, somehow, is he—dirty, smelly, feather-light-bright hair cascading in a tangle of vines straight past his shoulders. Prodigal Son. Hero of all Eshnaer. Ronan. Ronan Fairchild. Fartchild. Childprodigy. He turns. He stares. And you... [[Wait.|Chapter 2a: Kel]] [[Charge forward.|Chapter 2b: Kel]]

Watch his eyes narrow as he surges forward, wrapping you in his embrace. "You bastard," he whispers into your ear. And then he pulls away, abruptly enough to leave your eyes stinging from whiplash. Or maybe it's something else entirely. It takes you a moment to register his thumb on your cheek, and then a moment longer to realize it's come away wet. A peculiar expression overtakes the crooked smile on Ronan's lips, and you let out a brittle sort of laugh. Well, that's embarrassing. You hadn't counted on this, hadn't even realized you were— "Crying? Now, now, Kel—pull yourself together, will you?" You turn, feeling the muscles in Ronan's body go tense. And there she is: willow of a girl, a woman, ink-black hair slipping from its braid. She must have come the same way you had, her footsteps fitting cleanly between yours in that secret passageway known only to two. Well, three, it seems. There are no tears on //her// cheeks. Letta has always been the braver of the Canto twins. "He's all yours," you say. But no one's listening. In the space between two heartbeats, their eyes meet. And it's like you're no longer there. But you are. You are, <<linkappend "aren't you?">> You pinch yourself. Touch a finger to your face, your cheek, still warm with memory.<</linkappend>> <<linkappend "You are.">> You are. You are.<</linkappend>> [[***|Chapter 3: Kel]]

Laughing, you wrestle him into your embrace. "You bastard," you whisper into his ear. He pulls away, abruptly enough to leave your eyes stinging from whiplash. Or maybe it's something else entirely. It takes you a moment to register his thumb on your cheek, and then a moment longer to realize it's come away wet. A peculiar expression overtakes the crooked smile on Ronan's lips, and this time, the laugh that escapes from your throat chafes on its way out. Well, that's embarrassing. You hadn't counted on this, hadn't even realized you were— "Crying? Now, now, Kel—pull yourself together, will you?" You turn, feeling the muscles in Ronan's body go tense. And there she is: willow of a girl, a woman, ink-black hair slipping from its braid. She must have come the same way you had, her footsteps fitting cleanly between yours in that secret passageway known only to two. Well, three, it seems. There are no tears on //her// cheeks. Letta has always been the braver of the Canto twins. "He's all yours," you say. But no one's listening. In the space between two heartbeats, their eyes meet. And it's like you're no longer there. But you are. You are, <<linkappend "aren't you?">> You pinch yourself. Touch a finger to your face, your cheek, still warm with memory.<</linkappend>> <<linkappend "//You are.//">> //You are. You are.//<</linkappend>> [[***|Chapter 3: Kel]]

<span class = pastfont> Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful young woman named Irea. She was adored by all, but by her parents, Their Majesties, the King and Queen of Eshnaer, most of all. She was freshly eighteen, en route to her cousin the Archduke's wedding, when a great, winged beast laid waste to the entire procession. Years passed. Heroes left, never to return. And then, one summer afternoon, as Prophet Jureen lay, fevered, on their deathbed, they declared that your best friend was destined to avenge the passing of Crown Princess Irea. "Why are you acting so shocked?" you remember asking Ronan. Night had long since fallen. He'd just returned from the castle, and you were sitting beside him on the Canto side of the passageway with your knees drawn up, as though you were cold, as though the back of your shirt was not already damp with sweat. <div id="think">\ And all you could think about was <<link "the sword of black steel lying next to Ronan.">> <<replace "#think">>And all you could think about was <<link "the baskets of bread and meat that littered the courtyard on the other side of the passageway.">> <<replace "#think">>And all you could think about was <<linkappend "the girls—blushing, whispering, behind cupped hands.">> Because it was always "Ronan this, Ronan that." Because his mother was wrong: Ronan Fairchild has always belonged to the world. It was the wrong thing to say, what you said. You knew, even as the words formed on your tongue—even before you looked over and found Ronan's blue eyes gleaming wetly in the night. It was the wrong thing to say. But you're probably the only one still obsessing about it; //he// probably went to bed an hour later, chalked it up to the passing jealousy of a teenage boy, and woke with no memory of the incident. But you remember. You were sixteen the day Ronan left to fulfill his destiny, and those six words were all you could think about. [[***|Chapter 4: Kel]]<</linkappend>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>> \</div> </span>

The beetles have started wreaking havoc on the garden again, so your mother tasks you with retrieving a freshly-brewed tincture. "Mother Aligore will know the one," is all she says before shooing you out the house. The door swings shut in your face; you frown for no one to see. Your father set off a week ago on the Beymulth trade route. Six moons from now, you will be the one riding into the sunset with a wagon of bundled goods in tow. Until then, you have no choice but to endure the role of Mother Canto's Errand Boy. It's a straight shot down the main, cobblestone road to the Aligores' shop. Just as your mother promised, seconds after you utter the word //beetles//, Mother Aligore puts a lid on her brew and whips out a vial of green-tinted liquid. "Your mother will know what to do with this," is all she says before returning to her tonic. You take your leave. That was a clear enough dismissal. And besides, someone is waiting for you outside. It has been days since you last saw Ronan. News of his return must have traveled quickly across the kingdom; the very next afternoon, a retinue of knights and minor lords swept Ronan all the way to Their Majesties' court, where he was, presumably, stuffed silly with suckling pigs and peafowl. There were rumors of a knighthood, even a lordship, though neither came to pass. "Have you heard of anything more outrageous?" you overheard your mother hissing to Mother Hollow. "A warm meal and a couple pounds of gold in exchange for everything that poor boy has endured? Where is the justice in such a thing?" "At least he has returned," Mother Hollow whispered back. "And in one piece, too. Isn't that all that really matters?" Even without the beard, that wild tangle of sun, Ronan looks older than you remember, and it leaves you wondering whether you look just as changed. But this is nothing you can bring yourself to ask; perhaps it is nothing you can bring yourself to know. Ronan is the first to speak: "My mother's tasked me with fetching some fresh bolts of wool." And the tension is just leaving your shoulders when the full weight of his proclamation sinks in. You raise an eyebrow, sidestepping, as you do, a flock of children who immediately go silent at the sight of your best friend. "From the Hollows?" you ask. "That's right." "But the Hollows live on the other side of town..." You trail off, a frown tugging on your lips as realization suddenly hits you from behind. "Ronan, are you... lost?" He holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then, a huge grin breaks upon his face, and Ronan laughs, "It's been a while, hasn't it?" "Right." You match his smile, breathe out a chuckle of your own. "It... it has been." You fall into step beside him, and, really—it's just like <<linkappend "old times.">> Except you can already feel the smile slipping from your lips, and it's all you can do to keep your attention firmly planted on the path ahead, rather than <<linkappend "the smell of cloves.">> He still smells the same. He still smells like Ronan, and— <div id="think1">\ //I thought//<<link " //I lost you.//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<link " //you were gone.//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<link " //I'd never be able to breathe right again.//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<link "//—I thought—//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<linkappend "//—I thought—//">> "How are things with Marieyn?" The question freezes you in your tracks. And though the muscles in your legs thaw quickly enough, the same can't be said for the rest of you. "That bad?" Ronan continues. Then, softly: "I thought I'd come back to her hand firmly in yours." [["''Well, you thought right.''"|Chapter 4a: Kel]] [["''Well, clearly, you thought wrong.''"|Chapter 4b: Kel]] <</linkappend>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>> \</div><</linkappend>><</linkappend>>

He looks at you, a peculiar expression limning the blue of his eyes, and your hands tighten into fists by your sides. "We're happier than ever." At last, the Hollows' cottage draws into view. Ronan slows to a stop before the first of the pastures. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I shouldn't have assumed otherwise." "Yes. You shouldn't have." Your voice comes out gruff—all wrong, not yours. "You remember which house is theirs, don't you?" "The one with the trellises out front. Kel—" You leave before you can hear the end of that sentence, before that ache in your chest can bloom into something more. [[***|Chapter 5: Kel]]

And it's a clear enough end to the conversation, too. Except... "Did she end things?" You can't do this anymore. The gods must know, must have heard your prayer, for, at last, the pastures and the cottages scattered between draw into view. "You remember which house is theirs, don't you?" Your voice comes out gruff—all wrong, not yours. "The one with the trellises out front. Kel—" You leave before you can hear the end of that sentence, before that ache in your chest can bloom into something more. [[***|Chapter 5: Kel]]

There is nothing wrong with Marieyn Sunstone. Your sister likes to joke and tease, likes to remind you that she can do //much// better than Kaskel Canto. You roll your eyes each time, but Letta is probably not wrong. In fact, you've given it a lot of thought, and you simply can't see what Marieyn sees in you. "Does it matter?" Letta once asked. "Isn't it enough that she's head over heels for you?" There is nothing wrong with Marieyn Sunstone. After all, it's not her fault you will never love her back. [[***|Chapter 6: Kel]]

At home, you give your mother the vial of liquid green and head upstairs before she can send you back out again. The last thing you want to do is plaster a smile on your face for someone else's benefit. Turns out, your mother is not the one you should be worried about. You've got one hand on your bedroom door when a voice hails you from behind: "Kel?" You bite back a curse. "What, Letta?" "Were you with him just now?" "Not intentionally." You push open the door. You'll have to grease the hinges soon. "But yes." "Kel?" You take a deep, fortifying breath. "What, Letta?" "Do I look all right?" <div id="think2">\ And you roll your eyes and turn around and look and<<link "—">> <<replace "#think2">>And you roll your eyes and turn around and look and<<link " the breath rattles out of your lungs.">> <<replace "#think2">>And you roll your eyes and turn around and look and<<link " your heart sinks.">> <<replace "#think2">>And you roll your eyes and turn around and look and<<linkappend " your vision blurs.">> Because this much is clear: your sister wants to know whether the sleeves of her sky blue dress still flare the way they should. Your sister wants to know whether her oil-slick braid's catching the light at just the right angle. She does not want to know that her cheeks have gone all flushed. She does not want to know that you have gleaned, in the depths of her eyes—the ones that look so much like yours—that unguarded sort of fragility she has always considered beneath her— Well, almost always. [[***|Chapter 7: Kel]]<</linkappend>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>> \</div>

<span class = pastfont> The Doves chose autumn for their wedding. You were nearly sixteen, then, and old hat, at that point. So there you were, lounging with the other boys, when the feasting gave way to dancing, and, without much warning, Ronan stiffened beside you. "Someone catch your eye, Fairchild?" drawled Tristen. And in another universe, Mother Aligore's snickering wretch of a son might have kept his lips sealed. And in that other universe, you would not have followed Ronan's gaze to that girl in the sky blue dress, an oil-slick braid piled atop her head. It was evening, two months after Ronan set off to avenge Princess Irea, when a voice hailed you from behind. "Tell me again," Letta breathed. "Tell me again what you saw." You'd seen her wail as a child, of course. But she had hardened over the years, and this was the first time in a long, long time you'd seen your sister come close to tears. So you did what you had to do, said what she needed to hear: "As if he'd lived his whole life in black and white..." You breathed past the ache in your chest. Let your eyes fall shut. "... and was only now seeing in color." [[***|Chapter 8: Kel]] </span>

"You look lovely, Letta." [[***|Chapter 9: Kel]]

It takes you three whole days to work up an apology, and when you finally cross paths with Ronan, as he steps out of the butcher's shop, your tongue feels too heavy to move. "I'm sorry," you finally mutter—not to Ronan, but to the cobblestones beneath your feet. (Though you won the battle with your tongue, you can barely look Ronan in the eye.) "I don't know what I was thinking... But I want you to know: I'm glad you're finally home. I really am." Rain falls in a fine mist, bruises the leather of his boots, and— <div id="think1">\ //I thought//<<link "// I lost you.//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<link "// you were gone.//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<link "// I'd never be able to breathe right again.//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<link "//—I thought—//">> <<replace "#think1">>//I thought//<<linkappend "//—I thought—//">> "You know what she's like, Ronan. She won't ever admit it. But she missed you." At last, you lift your gaze, and between one heartbeat and the next, you think you catch a look of utter devastation in the eyes of your best friend. But then he blinks, the moment has passed, and Ronan grins and flings a heavy arm over your shoulders and says, "Come on, Canto. I'm starving, and you're being ridiculous." [[***|Chapter 10: Kel]] <</linkappend>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>> \</div>

Mother Fairchild has cooked up a feast fit for a king and all his lords. But you can tell, by the way Letta's smile edges into a scowl, that you are not supposed to be there. Ronan must not notice; how can he when he's so busy eating, no—//gorging//? You can't help but laugh. "Slow down," Letta chides as Ronan moves onto the fruits laid out before him. "You're going to be sick." "You sound just like my mother," he remarks, biting into his second apricot. "Maybe she has a point, Ro—" "I thought you hated them," you murmur. "Apricots, I mean." In the sudden hush that follows, Ronan picks up a stone pit, turns it end over end between two fingers. "I don't know," Ronan whispers, and at last, his gaze lands on you. "They taste better than I remember." [[***|Chapter 11: Kel]]

Letta is quiet on the short walk home. But you can tell that there are words on her tongue, words that will, sooner or later, take flight. Turns out, it's only three words, and they emerge just as she walks through the front door: "He seems... different." "Does he?" Letta stares at you, her expression inscrutable. Sighing, you step into the house. "If you're talking about the apricots—" "I'm not talking about the apricots." You fall silent, her words, the force of them, like a slap across the face. "I knew it, too, you know?" Letta whispers. "I knew he hated apricots." And in those five words, you hear six others: //If only you hadn't been there.// "Letta—" "I'm going to Alivia's." And your sister brushes past before you can utter another word. [[***|Chapter 12: Kel]]

<span class = pastfont> And he was looking at your sister as though he'd never seen her before, and you laughed and said, "You can't be serious, Ronan." But then he rose and asked your sister if she'd like to dance, and their hands nearly touched, and he was looking at her as though he'd just realized that she was a girl and he was a boy. As though, for the first time in a long, long time, he was seeing with perfect clarity. That night, as the two of you sat on the Fairchild side of the passageway between your homes, his breath left him in a sigh. "It's funny, isn't it," he said, "how people can just hide in plain sight?" It was an unseasonably warm night. The moon had yet to shed its cloak. Good. There was no need for Ronan to catch the tears he left on your cheeks. [[***|Chapter 13: Kel]] </span>

It's Tristen's idea to bring back the biannual hunt. "Make sure you leave some for the rest of us, Fairchild," he says, playfully jabbing Ronan in the side. But there's nothing playful about the look in Tristen's violet-rimmed eyes. No one—not even the men who bet gold on Ronan's journey down the literal gullet of the beast—benefited more from his absence than the youngest Aligore. After all, Ronan was the only one who could knock a sword out of his grasp, the only one who could divert the attention of a young woman simply by existing. "He was insufferable while you were gone," you tell Ronan. A week has passed since you crashed Mother Fairchild's feast. This is the longest you have gone without speaking to Ronan. Well, the second longest. You wonder if Ronan has seen Letta since then. Probably not, given the peculiar expression that spasmed across her face just moments before, when she saw the two of you off. "Ah," Ronan sighs, twirling a three-pronged leaf between two fingers. "So that's why you wanted me back. The truth finally comes out." Laughing, you follow him farther into the trees. This is how you like the two of you best, trading jabs, grinning stupidly for <<linkappend "no one else to see.">> No one, that is, save the spotted deer peeking out from between two branches. "Ronan!" you hiss, fumbling for the crossbow slung over your shoulder, which, of course, sends the deer bounding straight into the undergrowth. You leap into action, tearing after the creature. But a deer is a deer, and you are Kel; five minutes in, your legs give out, and there you are—sagging against the trunk of a wizened oak. "Not my finest moment." Your laughter emerges between one gasping breath and the next, emerges for <<linkappend "no one else to hear.">> Because you are alone; Ronan Fairchild is nowhere to be found. [[***|Chapter 14: Kel]]<</linkappend>><</linkappend>>

You panic. Of course you do. You are Kel, and this is who you are. But then you remind yourself that your best friend can't have gone far—in fact, he's probably exactly where you left him—and what was it he did just months ago? Oh, right—slayed the unslayable beast. "Ronan? Ronan?" Turns out, he is not where you left him, but it's true: he did not go far. "Ronan!" Your voice has gone all hoarse from calling out his name. You can't care less—not when your best friend's curled up on the ground, his skin gone deathly pale. You rush forward and grab him by a shaking arm. Or maybe //you// are the one trembling as though a leaf in the wind. "Gods... Ronan." "I'm—I'm all right," Ronan whispers as he struggles to his feet. Thinking immediately of Tristen and his wicked smile, your voice goes ugly. "Did someone attack you?" "No—No, I—" "Then, what...?" You shake your head, swallow down the sour taste that has come rushing up your throat. "Come on, we need to get you back—" "No!" He grabs your wrist, knocking you off balance. "What do you think you're—?" And the words go tumbling back down your throat. For you have been here countless times—//here// meaning on the ground, a tangle of limbs, and Ronan's breath warm on your skin (he has always been stronger than you, after all). But Ronan has never looked at you this way before, and it leaves you wondering whether he has mistaken you for a certain someone who shares your ink-black eyes. You are the first to look away. It buoys him into motion, sends the two of you staggering back to your feet. "I'm sorry," murmurs Ronan. "It's fine." "Do you think...?" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Can we just sit for a while?" Ronan's hand is still on your wrist, and you can't help but wonder whether he knows, whether he can feel your runaway pulse. "She's waiting," you say. "I know." You are quiet for a spell. Then, in the space between two heartbeats, your eyes flick to his, and you come to a decision: [["''We should go back.''"|Chapter 14a: Kel]] [["''Okay.''"|Chapter 14b: Kel]]

You think Ronan might argue. But then he nods, says, "You're right. We should," and lets go of your wrist. In the hush that follows, you find your gaze traveling over to the gurgling brook. You never even noticed it until now, glimmering like hundreds of diamonds beneath the autumn sun. It stays with you, tattoos itself on the underside of your eyelids as, all around you, the trees begin to thin. "What was it like," you hear yourself whisper, "slaying the beast?" The sound of distant laughter fills the air. Before the final line of oaks, Ronan closes his eyes. "Like everything I imagined it would be." [[***|Chapter 15: Kel]]

Winter lies just on the horizon; you can feel it in the air, hear it in the wind that gusts past your window. Your father has finally returned, and the house floods, once more, with the warmth of his deep-bellied laughter. Good; the house has never needed it more. Your father spends his first day back catching up on sleep, then the next evening plying Ronan with wine and questions about great, winged beasts until your mother finally intervenes. You could feel Letta's eyes on you the whole time, sharp as a needle to the throat. You pretended not to notice, pretended, too, that you could not feel Ronan's knee brushing against your own each time he raised his mug to his lips. Later that night, you (grudgingly) assume the role of Mother Canto's Twine Bearer. So there you are, untangling a spool of knotted thread, as your mother deals out gossip (//I hear one of Rafe's flock is still unaccounted for, I hear Soris has been watering down his dyes and charging double, I hear Tristen Aligore's fallen terribly ill//). But then your mother's eyes suddenly go distant, and, smiling one of her rare smiles, she murmurs, "Ronan's a fine, young man, isn't he, Kaskel?" You think about saying nothing. Instead, you say what that shadow, hovering by the foot of the stairwell, needs to hear: [["''Letta could do much worse.''"|Chapter 15a: Kel]] [["''He's perfect.''"|Chapter 15b: Kel]]

Relief glimmers in Ronan's eyes as, wordlessly, his hand falls from your wrist, and the two of you take a seat by the gurgling brook. You never even noticed it until now, glimmering like hundreds of diamonds beneath the autumn sun. Next to you, Ronan draws up his knees, and it is all you can do to keep your hand from shooting out, from taking hold of his chin, and— Ronan reaches into his pocket, draws out the wooden statue of what seems to be a horse in miniature. "You made this?" You blink away your surprise, let out a soft, breathless sort of laugh. "Since when did you get into whittling?" "I had to occupy myself somehow for a year." "Right." Ronan must notice the smile sliding from your face, for he flings an arm around your shoulders and says, "Oh, cheer up, Canto. I'm here, aren't I? Just like I promised I'd be." "And what kind of friend would go back on their word?" "Now you're getting it." A smile tugs on the corners of your lips. "You know what they say: become the subject of a life-ending prophecy; it's the ultimate test of friendship." "Should've gambled your father's horses, Canto." "Gods, I'd be a rich, rich man if I had." Ronan laughs softly, under his breath. In the lull that follows, you find your gaze crawling back to the miniature horse in his hand. "It's perfect for her," you remark. "You think so?" "Yeah." "Well, I suppose it's just too bad it isn't for her." And he holds the figurine out upon the palm of his hand, and you take it, and your hands nearly touch, and then they actually touch, and he is looking at you as though he has never seen you before. But of course he has; why else would he murmur, "It's funny, isn't it, how people can just hide in plain sight?" The sun is beginning its descent when the two of you finally decide to head back. "What was it like," you hear yourself whisper, "slaying the beast?" The sound of distant laughter fills the air. Before the final line of oaks, Ronan closes his eyes. "Like everything I imagined it would be." [[***|Chapter 15: Kel]]

Because you have never needed any reminding: Ronan Fairchild does not belong to you, no—he never has. An eternity seems to elapse before Ronan steps out of the way. When he does, you walk right past him, a straight shot over to the young woman whose bright, brown eyes keep trying to hold yours. Marieyn greets you with a smile. She has always been quiet, soft, the pale gray of daybreak. "How are you doing, Marieyn?" "Good. And you?" "Good." The hem of her long, green skirt brushes over the leaf-strewn ground. You force yourself to meet Marieyn's gaze, force your tongue to uncurl. "Is your brother liking Andoria?" you ask. "Yes. He just wrote a couple days ago, actually. The winters are supposedly far milder there." "If only he could see us now." You share a laugh, one that quickly peters into silence. "Did you hear about Tristen?" Marieyn asks. "Yes. It's terrible." "Isn't it?" When Marieyn isn't looking, you risk a glance over your shoulder. Lanterns stand sentinel in the woods beyond. But there is no sight of Ronan or his shadow. "It's a miracle he's returned." You whip back around, hoping it's dark enough that Marieyn cannot see the heat bleeding into your cheeks. Had it been so obvious? A thorn of guilt buries itself deep into your side. "It is." "I've seen the way he looks at her." Marieyn plays with the lace cuff of her sleeve. "Ronan and your sister will be married by the spring. I just know it." There's an invitation behind her words. And maybe, in another life, you heed it; maybe, in another life, you say what she needs to hear. But in this life, you are tired of caring; in this life, you turn on your heel and stride into the woods. [[***|Chapter 17a: Kel]]

The people of Melcroft have a tradition, one that finds you donning a gray tunic at dusk the next day. Once a year for over two hundred years, you and your ancestors have ventured into the woods to light fires on the doorstep of winter. The flames will melt its cold heart, soften the snows when they come—or so the legend goes. You are too old to believe in such superstitions, but you arrive, anyway, to that clearing in the woods—late, as it turns out, with the flames of three bonfires already licking greedily at the night. And he is already <<linkappend "here.">> You know even before he draws into view, garbed all in white, because it's like this: like you can feel him in the air, on your tongue, through your skin, that last, sweet breath of autumnal <<linkappend "wind—">> Funny you mention it. Because here's the thing about wind: It always has another destination in mind. "Come to grace us with your presence, Canto?" Light snags on the ends of his hair, haloed in flame. You push away the dull ache in your chest, then glance pointedly at the flock of young women gathered mere feet away. "Look who's talking." Ronan follows the direction of your gaze. As soon as his eyes land on the women, they scatter like dandelions on a breeze. You expect Ronan to grin, to laugh, to shrug it all off. You do not expect a shadow to race across his brow or the words //can't fucking lose them// to roll off his tongue. But it does, and they do, and you blame it on the bonfires, the smoke, the silkvine someone must have slipped into the dancing flames—that heady rush of blood to all the wrong places. So perhaps this is why you say what you have never been able to utter aloud: "I didn't think it would be so hard." Ronan looks at you, his expression suddenly impenetrable. "I didn't think it would be so hard to be you." And his eyes are wet, but then the ghost of a smile flickers across Ronan's face, so you must have imagined it—//yes//, you decide, //it's the silkvine again//, when he says, at last, "You're telling me Kaskel Canto isn't dodging admirers left and right?" You snort out a laugh, but before you can conjure up a retort of equal wit, Ronan whispers a single word. A name: "Marieyn." At once, ice settles in your veins; when you find your voice again, it's deathly quiet. "What about her?" "She keeps trying to catch your eye." "And you're blocking my view." Ronan tilts his head to one side. "Would you like me to move?" Your answer comes quickly, swiftly, as though it required no thought at all: [["Yes."|Chapter 16a: Kel]] [["No."|Chapter 16b: Kel]] <</linkappend>><</linkappend>>

He steps closer, close enough that a mere breath might traverse what remains of the distance between you. Then, wordlessly, Ronan takes the nearest lantern and strides off into the trees. Now if there is one thing you know, it's that you are meant to [[follow.|Chapter 17b: Kel]]

The people of Melcroft have a tradition, one that finds you donning a gray tunic at dusk the next day. Once a year for over two hundred years, you and your ancestors have ventured into the woods to light fires on the doorstep of winter. The flames will melt its cold heart, soften the snows when they come—or so the legend goes. You are too old to believe in such superstitions, but you arrive, anyway, to that clearing in the woods—late, as it turns out, with the flames of three bonfires already licking greedily at the night. And he is already <<linkappend "here.">> You know even before he draws into view, garbed all in white, because it's like this: like you can feel him in the air, on your tongue, through your skin, that last, sweet breath of autumnal wind. "Come to grace us with your presence, Canto?" Light snags on the ends of his hair, haloed in flame. There is no use trying to quiet your pulse. You glance pointedly at the flock of young women gathered mere feet away. "Look who's talking." Ronan follows the direction of your gaze. As soon as his eyes land on the women, they scatter like dandelions on a breeze. You expect Ronan to grin, to laugh, to shrug it all off. You do not expect a shadow to race across his brow or the words //can't fucking lose them// to roll off his tongue. But it does, and they do, and you blame it on the bonfires, the smoke, the silkvine someone must have slipped into the dancing flames—that heady rush of blood to all the wrong places. So perhaps this is why you say what you have never been able to utter aloud: "I didn't think it would be so hard." Ronan looks at you, his expression suddenly impenetrable. "I didn't think it would be so hard to be you." And his eyes are wet, but then the ghost of a smile flickers across Ronan's face, so you must have imagined it—//yes//, you decide, //it's the silkvine again//, when he says, at last, "You're telling me Kaskel Canto isn't dodging admirers left and right?" You snort out a laugh, but before you can conjure up a retort of equal wit, Ronan whispers a single word. A name: "Marieyn." At once, ice settles in your veins; when you find your voice again, it's deathly quiet. "What about her?" "She keeps trying to catch your eye." "And you're blocking my view." Ronan tilts his head to one side. "Would you like me to move?" Your answer comes quickly, swiftly, as though it required no thought at all: [["Yes."|Chapter 16c: Kel]] [["No."|Chapter 16b: Kel]] <</linkappend>>

Because sometimes you need reminding: Ronan Fairchild does not belong to you, no—he never has. An eternity seems to elapse before Ronan steps out of the way. When he does, you walk right past him, a straight shot over to the young woman whose bright, brown eyes keep trying to hold yours. Marieyn greets you with a smile. She has always been quiet, soft, the pale gray of daybreak. "How are you doing, Marieyn?" "Good. And you?" "Good." The hem of her long, green skirt brushes over the leaf-strewn ground. You force yourself to meet Marieyn's gaze, force your tongue to uncurl. "Is your brother liking Andoria?" you ask. "Yes. He just wrote a couple days ago, actually. The winters are supposedly far milder there." "If only he could see us now." You share a laugh, one that quickly peters into silence. "Did you hear about Tristen?" Marieyn asks. "Yes. It's terrible." "Isn't it?" When Marieyn isn't looking, you risk a glance over your shoulder. Lanterns stand sentinel in the woods beyond. But there is no sight of Ronan or his shadow. "It's a miracle he's returned." You whip back around, hoping it's dark enough that Marieyn cannot see the heat bleeding into your cheeks. Had it been so obvious? A thorn of guilt buries itself deep into your side. "It is." "I've seen the way he looks at her." Marieyn plays with the lace cuff of her sleeve. "Ronan and your sister will be married by the spring. I just know it." There's an invitation behind her words. And maybe, in another life, you heed it. But in this life, you turn on your heel and stride into the woods. [[***|Chapter 17a: Kel]]

You hear the sound of rushing water before the brook itself draws into view. Somehow, you knew Ronan was taking you here. Somehow, you knew you would turn and find his eyes little more than a wet blur. Or is your vision the one that's begun fuzzing at the edges? And the words come spilling off your tongue: "Do you know what it's like to love you?" At once, Ronan falls still. "It's finally understanding that this is what the bards sing about." You squeeze your eyes shut. "So this is how I bleed." In the silence that follows, you blink back open your eyes, only to find a peculiar expression spasming across Ronan's face. "I never wanted you to bleed for me," he whispers. "Then what is it you want?" His lips part, but all he does is draw a deep, shuddering breath. You understand. You never really expected an answer from him. And besides, you know better, at this point, than to ask questions when you aren't fully prepared to be destroyed by the answers. Or lack thereof. "It used to be easy," you say. "I became so good at pushing away that ache in my chest. Each time I laid eyes on you, it was like cutting myself open. But at least I could sew myself back together. At least I could keep telling myself that you will never belong to me. That Ronan Fairchild has always belonged to the world. "So then you left, and you didn't come back, and every single bet was called in, and—" You bark out a humorless laugh "—there was Kel, worrying he'd never be able to breathe right again." Now it's your turn to draw a deep, shuddering breath. "Of course, we were wrong to ever doubt Ronan Fairchild. If anyone could slay the beast and return to tell the tale, it was you. My best friend. And I saw you, and I laughed with you, and I told myself that //this is just like old times//. "Except it wasn't. It isn't. Because I can't stop thinking about the day I found you alone out here, or the night you returned—that tear you caught before it could fall. Or that look in your eyes when you saw Letta. Because now you're really going to go and marry her. Because I was wrong, wasn't I? Ronan Fairchild can belong to someone. It just isn't me." A gust of wind sweeps through the trees, sets their leaves dancing. Slowly, you turn, retreat from the lamp's golden halo. "You should wait until the spring," you murmur. "Just as the seasons turn." So there you are, trudging back the way you came, when Ronan takes you by the wrist and kisses you. [[***|Chapter 18: Kel]]

You hear the sound of rushing water before you glimpse the lamp's glow between the trees. "Have I really become so predictable?" Standing just beyond the circle of light, Ronan is little more than a silhouette—the phantom echo of something that once drew breath. You take a step forward. Then another and another, until all you can see is the wet blur of his eyes. Or is your vision the one that's begun fuzzing at the edges? <div id="think3">\ And <<link "there's smoke in your eyes.">> <<replace "#think3">>And <<link "you can barely breathe.">> <<replace "#think3">>And <<link "there's a gash in your heart.">> <<replace "#think3">>And <<linkappend "you think—">> "How's Marieyn?" "I don't want to talk about Marieyn." Because that thorn in your side? The guilt? Well, let's just say it wiggled its way out the second you caught sight of that phantom by the brook. "Do you know what it's like to love you?" At once, Ronan falls still. "It's finally understanding that this is what the bards sing about." You squeeze your eyes shut. "So this is how I bleed." In the silence that follows, you blink back open your eyes, only to find a peculiar expression spasming across Ronan's face. "I never wanted you to bleed for me," he whispers. "Then what is it you want?" His lips part, but all he does is draw a deep, shuddering breath. You understand. You never really expected an answer from him. And besides, you know better, at this point, than to ask questions when you aren't fully prepared to be destroyed by the answers. Or lack thereof. "It used to be easy," you say. "I became so good at pushing away that ache in my chest. Each time I laid eyes on you, it was like cutting myself open. But at least I could sew myself back together. At least I could keep telling myself that you will never belong to me. That Ronan Fairchild has always belonged to the world. "So then you left, and you didn't come back, and every single bet was called in, and—" You bark out a humorless laugh "—there was Kel, worrying he'd never be able to breathe right again." Now it's your turn to draw a deep, shuddering breath. "Of course, we were wrong to ever doubt Ronan Fairchild. If anyone could slay the beast and return to tell the tale, it was you. My best friend. And I saw you, and I laughed with you, and I told myself that //this is just like old times//. "Except it wasn't. It isn't. Because I can't stop thinking about the day I found you alone out here, or the night you returned—that tear you caught before it could fall. Or that look in your eyes when you saw Letta. Because now you're really going to go and marry her. Because I was wrong, wasn't I? Ronan Fairchild can belong to someone. It just isn't me." A gust of wind sweeps through the trees, sets their leaves dancing. Slowly, you turn, retreat from the lamp's golden halo. "You should wait until the spring," you murmur. "Just as the seasons turn." So there you are, trudging back the way you came, when Ronan takes you by the wrist and kisses you. [[***|Chapter 18: Kel]] <</linkappend>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>> \</div>

Gently, at first—and then you're the one pulling him in. "She's waiting," you whisper, and he whispers back, "She can wait a little longer." And your hands are beneath his tunic, and his are pressing against your bare skin, and you <<linkappend "think:">> //So you never needed water to drown.// //Only him//<<linkappend ".">> And then, of course, your world comes crashing to the ground. A gasp—one that doesn't belong to you or Ronan—yanks you out of his arms. You'd know it anywhere, that sharp, little intake of breath. So you don't have to turn, don't have to watch the devastation unfurl across her face. But you do, and there she is, a light wavering in her ink-black eyes, one that shatters the moment they slide from his to yours. She doesn't speak a word. She only turns. She only flees. So what do you do, Kaskel? [[You go after her.|Chapter 18a: Kel]] [[You remain firmly rooted in place.|Chapter 18b: Kel]] <</linkappend>><</linkappend>>

Of course you do. This is your sister you're talking about—what other choice was there? "Come on, Letta," you say. "Please, slow down. I just want to talk. I—" All at once, Letta skids to a stop, lilac skirts snagging, and you nearly collide into her. She stares at you, and it takes you a moment to realize that your tunic is still undone. You seize it by the laces, watch as her whole body trembles—with rage, adrenaline—both, you think, are equally likely. "How could you do this?" your sister cries. "Letta—" "You know what he means to me!" [["I'm sorry. It won't happen again."|Chapter 19a: Kel]] [["And what he means to me?"|Chapter 19b: Kel]]

So there you are, watching the trees swallow your sister whole, when he reaches for you. And though there is nothing you'd rather do than fall, once more, into his arms, you step out of reach. "Kel?" "Do you remember what I said? About how I keep telling myself that //this is just like old times//?" In the quiet that follows, you stare at the ground beneath your feet. "Something's changed. Some//one//... And it isn't me. It isn't my sister." Slowly, you lift your gaze. "Where is Ronan?" He is quiet for a spell. Then, the young man who is not Ronan shuts his eyes. "Closer than you think." [[***|Part 2: Ronan]]

"That's not the point, Kaskel!" "Then what do you want me to say?" She falls silent, shock untwisting the sharp curl of her lips. "Tell me, Letta. What do you want me to do?" "He's not himself, Kaskel." "I don't know what you're talking about." And she looks at you. She looks at you with such sorrow that gash in your heart starts to bleed again. "You know, Kaskel," she says, brushing aside the stray tear on her cheek. "You just have to want to see it." [[***|Chapter 20: Kel]]

She falls silent, shock untwisting the sharp curl of her lips. "Don't I deserve happiness just as much as you do?" "Of course you do, Kel. But—" "But //what//, Letta?" "He's not himself, Kaskel!" "I don't know what you're talking about." And she looks at you. She looks at you with such sorrow that gash in your heart starts to bleed again. "You know, Kaskel," she says, brushing aside the stray tear on her cheek. "You just have to want to see it." [[***|Chapter 20: Kel]]

Back by the brook, he is exactly where you left him. Well, not quite. You know he followed you. You know he heard every single word that passed between you and your sister. "I thought you'd've made a run for it," you murmur. "I thought you'd be long gone." Some part of you wishes he would take you by the arms, grin, laugh, say, "What in the world are you going on about?" But he doesn't. So there's nothing you can do except watch the glimmer fade from his eyes. "Where is Ronan?" you whisper. He is quiet for a little longer. Then, the young man who is not Ronan shuts his eyes. "Closer than you think." [[***|Part 2: Ronan]]

<span class = "sectionfontRONAN">RONAN</span> <<timed 3s>><<goto "Chapter 21: Ronan">><</timed>>

<span class = pastfont> You managed to catch a rabbit two days ago. At night, you swallowed down the rest of it and, holding an image of Letta in your mind, dug a shallow grave in the sand to bury the bones. Today, you thought of Letta in her sky blue dress. Tomorrow, you would find a different memory of her. When morning arrived, you etched a line into the sand at your feet, only to watch it dissolve beneath an errant gust of wind. It was Day 173. For a while, keeping track of time had been quite easy. But when the land began to level out, and nothing but sand and dust met your raw, wind-whipped eye, the days began bleeding together. So who could blame you for missing the change in the terrain? You chalked it up to your boots, at first—worn so thin it was a miracle they still clung to the chafed skin of your ankles. But when the sun began its descent and you came across a valley shrouded in mist impossibly dense, there was no denying that you had stumbled upon a different part of the world. Or a different world, altogether. The thought sent shivers racing down the length of your spine. Something was not right here—you could feel it in your bones. But circling around the valley would cost you days, and time was the last thing you could spare. You stared at the horizon, at the unspooling sun. "It's like an egg with the insides running out," your best friend once said. You thought you might have been eight, at the time—maybe even pushing ten. Either way, there was no prophecy looming over your head; your mother's indigo eyes didn't turn bright with tears each time her gaze fell on you. So you'd laughed, then. But why the hells were you laughing now? It was a strange enough thought to take with you into the mist. Like the leather around your ankles, how strange it is the things we cling to. [[***|Chapter 22: Ronan]] </span>

<span class = pastfont> You weren't entirely sure what you expected from the mist, but you certainly expected to feel </span>something. <span class = pastfont>Truth be told, you would almost have preferred a chill wrack your body from head to toe than this peculiar sort of nothingness that seemed to pass right through you. But then a voice whispered in your ear, followed by another, and another, and you suddenly had more pressing matters to consider. In the few seconds it took for you to whip around, sword held at the ready, at least ten other voices had joined the chorus. Your voice trembled, betrayed the cold tendrils of fear coursing through your blood, as you whispered into the impenetrable mist, "Who's there?" At once, the murmuring came to a stop. You tried to swallow, but your heart was in the way, lodged between the walls of your throat like the bone of a small creature. "Bury the bones," Letta once told you. "Return them to the land." But this wasn't a bone. This was your heart. You shook your head, but it did nothing to extinguish the soft whine between your temples. "What's happening?" you cried. The sword dropped from your gasp and went tumbling into the mist. "Gods, make it stop, make it—get out of my head... Get out of my head, get out, get out, get—!" Your vision flickered once, twice, then— Nothing. [[***|Chapter 23: Ronan]] </span>

<span class = pastfont> You came awake slowly, on the floor of a chamber you had never seen before. The walls were a strange, fuzzing sort of blue, warm beneath your touch. There was no door; there were no windows. Well, not unless you counted that hole in the wall, only a finger's joint-length in diameter. Slowly, you paced toward the wall and, keeping one eye tightly shut, pressed the other against the peephole. It was a reckless thing to do. But you wouldn't have found out that you were no longer in the mist, otherwise. In fact, you wouldn't have found out that you were going back the way you came. "No," you muttered. "No, no, no, no, no." Then, slamming your fist against the fuzzing wall, you bellowed, "Let me out! For gods' sake, can anyone hear me?" You were preparing to relaunch your offensive against the wall when, out of nowhere, a door appeared, just long enough to admit a silver-haired young man you didn't recognize. For a moment, he said nothing, only looked at you with one eye green, the other gray. Then: "Would you mind keeping it down in here?" You untangled your tongue just enough to sputter, "What?" "Would you mind keeping it down in here?" the stranger repeated—slower, this time, as though you might have been hard of hearing. "In </span>here<span class = pastfont>?" you said. "Where is </span>here<span class = pastfont>?" Slowly, the cruel glint faded from his eyes, and there was a softness to his tone that hadn't been present before. "What do you remember?" "I-I don't know." You squeezed your eyes shut. "I was walking, and there was nothing around for miles on end. But then the sun began to set, and—" Your eyes shot open. "There was a valley cloaked in mist, and I couldn't even see my own—that was how thick it was, and there were voices in my head..." You faltered. Then, slowly, you met the eyes of that strange, young man. "</span>Your <span class = pastfont>voice." Silence fell. You were the first to break it: "We're in my head... Gods, you've locked me up in my own head." And he had the audacity to finally speak— "There's a reason we call it the Valley of Lost Souls" —as if you would just stand there and take it, as if you wouldn't lunge for his throat, watch those mismatched eyes widen just before the door slammed in your face. [[***|Chapter 24: Ronan]] </span>

<span class = pastfont> He made a mistake; he let slip that could hear you, so this is what you did: at night, you walked in endless circles, belting at the top of your lungs: BODY SNATCHER, PARASITE, BALL SCRATCHER, FEEL MY BITE! You were not entirely sure who broke first. You would like to think that it was he, but, truth was, you spent most of last night huddled on your side, instead of pacing the room, whispering, instead of bellowing, the lullaby your mother used to sing, instead of that gods-awful chant you conjured up in your rage. The sun was reaching its peak in the sky when the door appeared, and in stepped the you man who stole your body. You scrambled to your feet. "Why me?" you demanded. "Why not take the body of another poor soul?" "I wouldn't be so flattered, if I were you," he responded. "How often do you think we get visitors in the Valley?" You took a deep, fortifying breath. "If you're not going to give me back my body, at least take me to the right place." "Ah, you mean the home of that great, winged brute?" He tilted his head to one side, raised a teasing eyebrow. So it wasn't just your body this stranger had taken; he'd gone and invaded your memories, too. You spoke through gritted teeth. "Don't you understand? You're going in the wrong direction. You've added days to my journey!" But your kidnapper said nothing, that half-smile still dancing upon his lips. Realization was slow to come, and when it did, you put out a hand to steady yourself. "You're not going to slay the beast," you whispered. "But the prophecy—" "—has nothing to do with me." You stayed quiet. Even if you could force your jaw to unclench, you were almost certain you'd have nothing to say. Feet away from you, your parasite let out a shuddering sigh. "I'm taking us home." [[***|Chapter 25: Ronan]] </span>

<span class = pastfont> You didn't feel hunger. You didn't even need to piss. The one thing you did need? Rest. In fact, keeping your eyes open for more than a few hours at a time had slowly become more effort than it was worth. One evening (at least, it was afternoon when you last checked; time seemed to move at a different pace inside your own head), you woke to your jailer standing over you, a pensive expression etched into the grooves of his brow. "What are you doing to me?" you mumbled. "Nothing." You made a noise of disbelief. A lock of silver dislodged itself from behind his ear. "It's not my fault," he continued, haltingly. "It isn't yours, either. My mind is simply... stronger. Tends to happen when you've got nothing else to carry around." "Are you dead?" "I-I suppose you could say so, yes. I haven't had to worry about a body in..." He trailed off; something flickered in his eyes—nothing you could catch quickly enough to name. When the young man started back up again, his voice was so quiet, you could barely hear him. "You have so many memories of him... of Kaskel Canto." "He's my best friend," you said. "Why wouldn't I?" Your kidnapper continued as if you never even spoke. "Why didn't you keep that dagger he forged for you?" "It was a knife, and I did, it's at home—" "With everything else you left behind." You spoke past your exhaustion. "What good would a dagger do against the beast?" In the hush that followed, you finally allowed your eyes to flutter shut. Sleep was stealing over you when your captor's voice slipped through the darkness: "Can you call me something other than 'body snatcher'?" "'Ball scratcher.'" You opened your eyes, shared a smile before you remembered who he was. What he had done. "Can you call me 'Jamie'?" [[***|Chapter 26: Ronan]] </span>

<span class = pastfont> You woke up to light streaming into the room. Well. This was new. Slowly, you rose and hobbled over to its source: the peephole. A young man with dark eyes and even darker hair stared right through you. You screamed his name. You screamed and screamed and screamed. But he only shook his head. He only smiled. [[***|Chapter 27: Ronan]] </span>

<span class = pastfont> Days passed before the door appeared again. You spent most of the time between curled up on the floor. At first, you developed an obsession with the peephole, clinging, as you were, to the familiar sights... and a faint glimmer of hope—that someone might meet your gaze. As the days slipped by, however, the hope that kept your attention glued to the world beyond dulled like the edge of an unused blade. Looking out the peephole, watching as your life passed you by, as your friends and family were duped into complacency, now filled you with a sorrow so profound, you thought it might just drag you under. When the door appeared, you waited for it to swing open, for Jamie to come waltzing in like he owned the place. But the door, that blue on even bluer blue, remained firmly shut. You hesitated, then, before you could think better of it, you rushed over and pushed. It opened with such ease, you nearly tripped over your momentum into the hallway beyond. On all sides, doors, like the one you burst out of, stood at attention. You tried the nearest one and found within Prophet Jureen, lying pale and sickly, on his deathbed. "Come closer," he whispered. "Closer, child." Instead, you closed the door on that memory—for what else could it be?—and moved on to the next. "You're a brute," Tristen sang from his place across from you in that muddy, makeshift ring. His blade gleamed dully in the mottled light of afternoon. "You're nothing without your sword." On and on you went, until the doors remained firmly locked, or disappeared before you could even touch them. You leaned against the wall, swiped at the tears that dotted your cheeks. There was one last door before the turn in the hallway. You took a deep, quavering breath, then pushed it open. But there was nothing inside except the empty interior of a hut you'd never seen before, the fire still blazing. It must have been one of </span>his <span class = pastfont>memories. Jamie's. But there was a peculiar quality to it, as though you were looking at everything through the warped surface of a river. Could this memory have been tampered with? You placed a hand on the small, wooden table on the far side of the room. It shuddered beneath your <<linkappend "touch.">> Then turned slick with blood. Stifling a cry of alarm, you sprinted back to the door and slammed it shut. In the hallway, you stared down at your hands. But they were not stained with red, no—they were as pale as they had ever been. "I have to get out of here," you whispered. "I have to get my body back." [[***|Chapter 28: Ronan]] <</linkappend>></span>

<span class = pastfont> Which meant there was no time to waste. Bracing yourself, you turned the corner and, lunging for the nearest door, stopped just short of shoving it open. Why? Because a familiar, golden light was leaking out from the gap beneath the door. You took a moment to collect yourself. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, you eased open the door. The whole room was suffused in sun. It threw into sharp relief the tears sliding down Jamie's cheeks as he gazed upon the dazzling surface of a brook lapping across the far wall. This is all to say that he never saw you coming, only registered your presence when it was too late, and the two of you had gone crashing to the floor. But Jamie was far stronger than you'd given him credit for and you far weaker. In no time at all, the battle turned, and it was all you could do to keep him from slipping out of your grasp. At last, Jamie broke free, and he towered above you, his eyes narrowed in rage. "Try something like that again," Jamie said, very softly, "and I will destroy you." And there was the door, and behind it, the blue walls of your prison, and you howled, "No, no, no, no, no!" But there was no one coming for you, no hero in your story. Who did you think you were, anyway? The Crown Princess of Eshnaer? Your voice gone all hoarse, you slumped over to the peephole on the wall...</span> What was it like, slaying the beast? <span class = pastfont> ... and buried your head in your hands. </span>Like everything I imagined it would be.<span class = pastfont> [[***|Part 2: Kel]]</span>

"You lied to me." "You don't understand—" "You made me believe that you were Ronan all along—" "Kel—" "Don't." Your voice turns ugly. "Don't say my name." The young man who has stolen your best friend's body flinches, as though stung. You look away, push aside the sharp flash of guilt that steals over you. He takes a step closer. You take one back. "What are you going to do?" Jamie murmurs. "You don't get to ask any questions." "Then let me make this easy for you." He takes another step closer. This time, you hold your ground. "Tell me to let him out, and I'll do it." "You're lying." "Just say the word, and Ronan Fairchild will be yours again." You stare at him, at the man who is not Ronan, at the man who keeps looking at you, and you think he might just be telling the truth. But more importantly? You might just believe him. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and whisper: [["You have to go."|Chapter 29a: Kel]] [["Why are you here?"|Chapter 29b: Kel]]

Because there is no place in this world for the dead, and Ronan is still your best friend, so what choice do you have? Who would you be if you gave in to the ache in your chest, that wound weeping red? You keep your eyes firmly shut, open them just in time to see Ronan's legs give out. You run forward, catching him before his body can fully hit the ground. "Ronan?" Slowly, he blinks open his eyes, and there are tears on his cheeks, and he embraces you, and there is suddenly no need for words. You understand. Ronan and Letta are married in the spring. You give Marieyn the dance she has always wished for, but this is all you can give her. You often find yourself returning to the brook. That wound in you never properly heals. Some days, it burns more sharply than others—for what could have been. For that soul who, given time, might well have been yours. [[***|The End]]

"I don't understand." You blink open your eyes. "Why not take his body and run? Why come all the way back here just to risk discovery?" But even as you speak, the answer becomes abundantly clear. Because this is the way he's looking at you: Like <<linkappend "no one ever has.">> Like you might be something worth dying for. "I have to go." [[***|Part 3: Ronan]] <</linkappend>>

You never manage to fall asleep; you spend the entire night waiting for the sky to lighten. All day, you avoid speaking unless spoken to; when you find yourself in the same room as Letta, you make sure someone else is around, too. Afternoon is transforming into dusk when you give into temptation. Let your body lead you to that brook between the trees and the young man standing before it. All the lanterns have long since gone out, leaving behind only the melted-down husks of wax and bone. Jamie glances over at you, and the ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "You can ask, you know," he declares, but when you say nothing, Jamie merely clears his throat and continues on. "Nearly a century. That's how long I've been dead." "That wasn't what I was going to ask," you murmur, coming to a stop beside him. "I want to know why you keep coming back to this part of the woods." Jamie is quiet for a moment. Then, he sucks in a deep breath and replies, "Because it reminds me of my home." In the hush that follows, Jamie takes a seat by the water's edge. "There once stood a hut at the end of the world with a single window. It was a shabby home, but it was... my home. "And you could see everything from that one window: the trees bending against the wind, a brook that gleamed as though set fire by the sun. We didn't have much. My father died when I was very young. He left behind a wife, two daughters, and a son. But with what little we did have... I think you might've called us happy. "And then one day, a strange man showed up at our doorstep disguised as a crone. I was eighteen, in my prime and handy enough with a blade. Turns out, none of that really matters when you've got the element of surprise and a light dose of nightshade on your side. "He waited for night to fall before making his move. I woke to my mother's screams. He killed her first, and then my sisters. Saved me for last so I could watch it all, I suppose." His voice chips at the edges. "He did things to me, things that left my soul ragged. Torn. Sometimes, I wonder if that's why I couldn't make it to where the good ones go—if that's why I couldn't resist the Valley's call." "There's nothing wrong with you, Jamie. There's nothing wrong with your soul." Where those words came from, you aren't entirely sure. But there's no taking them back now, and you think they might be true, and in the space between two heartbeats, you feel his gaze latch onto you. "I can see it, you know," whispers Jamie. "Your soul." "What does it look like?" "Like the sun." [[***|Part 4: Ronan]]

<span class = "sectionfontRONAN">RONAN</span> <<timed 3s>><<goto "Chapter 30: Ronan">><</timed>>

You are lying on the ground when the door materializes on the far wall, and in comes your silver-haired captor. You wait for Jamie to speak, for the door to wink out of existence behind him. But when his lips remain firmly shut and the door firmly in place, your heart begins to hammer. And when Jamie moves to hold open the door, it stops altogether. "What are you doing?" you hear yourself breathe. "You're... you're letting me out?" "There's something I need to show you." [[***|Part 3: Kel]]

//You were willing to leave, if I said the word.// Your best friend looks at you, his eyes smearing like ink. //Why?// "Because you love him." Four words. They slip off your tongue, hang in the sun-drenched air of that amphitheater of your mind. How do you fall in love with someone else's memory of someone else? Between one heartbeat and the next, Jamie turns to look at you. "And I don't understand how you never could." //Try something like that again, and I will destroy you//, Jamie had said. But it was nothing more than a bluff. You know this now. But somewhere, deep down, you think you might have known all along. What does it mean to love Kaskel Canto, if it doesn't also mean loving you? His shadow is lengthening beneath the sinking sun by the time Kel disappears between the trees. Once more, the air is still, and only then do you speak: [["I know what you're trying to do."|Chapter 32a: Ronan]] [["Do you think you could make him happy?"|Chapter 32b: Ronan]]

<span class = "sectionfontRONAN">RONAN</span> <<timed 2s>><<goto "Chapter 32: Ronan">><</timed>>

"But it won't work," you declare. "This is //my// head, //my// body. You don't belong here... You don't belong anywhere in the world of the living." You take a deep breath. "It's me he loves, Jamie. Not you. So what right do you have to take me away from him?" Because Kaskel Canto might be your best friend, and maybe you cannot love him the way he deserves to be loved, but neither can this stranger standing before you. And even if he could, why must you bear the ultimate sacrifice? Why must it always be you? "Don't I deserve to be happy, too?" You can strike, now—try to take your jailer down. Instead, you go quietly back to your cell, a plan already formulating in your head. Because Jamie made a mistake; he opened his heart to you, and you—well, you have never been quite so untouchable. [[***|Part 4a: Kel]]

Because Kaskel Canto is your best friend, and maybe you cannot love him the way he deserves to be loved, but you would die for him, and if not that, then you will settle for the happiest version of him. Because this is always how you've liked him best. Later, as you lie on the floor of your prison, all you can think about is the four words Jamie whispered in reply: //I want to try.// [[***|Part 4b: Kel]]

You spend the next morning helping your father unload the last of his merchandise. The sight of those rare fabrics and trinkets don't fill you with quite the same sense of giddiness as they did years ago. But it's a step above fiddling with twine for your mother, and gods know you need a moment to clear your head. You're walking back to your room when you hear a pair of footsteps speeding toward you. Dread pools in your stomach, and you lunge for the door<<linkappend "—">> Just as another hand slams it back on its hinges. "Look at me, Kaskel." For a moment, you simply stand there, gazing at the door's wood paneling. Then, slowly, you lift your gaze until it meets hers. "Why are you doing this?" Letta whispers. "Do I mean nothing to you?" "Why would you even ask me that?" "I know you're hiding something—both of you. Whatever it is, don't you think I deserve to know?" She steps forward, and the sharp flint in her eyes melt like snow beneath the sun. "I love him, too, you know?" In the quiet that follows, you finally come to a decision: [[Tell Letta the truth.|Chapter 34a: Kel]] [[Keep the truth to yourself.|Chapter 34b: Kel]] <</linkappend>>

You spend the next morning helping your father unload the last of his merchandise. The sight of those rare fabrics and trinkets don't fill you with quite the same sense of giddiness as they did years ago. But it's a step above fiddling with twine for your mother, and gods know you need a moment to clear your head. You're walking back to your room when you hear a pair of footsteps speeding toward you. Dread pools in your stomach, and you lunge for the door<<linkappend "—">> Just as another hand slams it back on its hinges. "Look at me, Kaskel." For a moment, you simply stand there, gazing at the door's wood paneling. Then, slowly, you lift your gaze until it meets hers. "Why are you doing this?" Letta whispers. "Do I mean nothing to you?" "Why would you even ask me that?" "I know you're hiding something—both of you. Whatever it is, don't you think I deserve to know?" She steps forward, and the sharp flint in her eyes melt like snow beneath the sun. "I love him, too, you know?" In the quiet that follows, you finally come to a decision: [[Tell Letta the truth.|Chapter 34c: Kel]] [[Keep the truth to yourself.|Chapter 34d: Kel]] <</linkappend>>

She listens, and at you tale's end, you expect the color to drain from her cheeks, for her to put out a hand to steady herself, maybe even ask, //How is this possible?// Instead, Letta continues staring at you, her expression sealed as carefully as a love letter. "How long have you known?" you ask. "I can tread quite softly when I wish to," Letta sighs. "Not that I needed to. Not when your attention is wholly occupied by someone else." "Because you know what it's like." Her lips press shut. "When the whole world seems to go quiet. Like everything just... falls away." "We have to do something about it," Letta declares, after a brief pause. "You know that, Kaskel, don't you? This isn't what Ronan wants... This isn't what he deserves." You lean against the wall, let the wood take your weight. "But if you won't do something about it, I will. I swear it." [[***|Chapter 35a: Kel]]

"Is it really so hard to imagine that Ronan might love me back?" you murmur. "Is it so hard to believe that he might have chosen me instead?" Her eyes grow wet. And then they freeze over altogether. "Then so be it." [[***|Chapter 35b: Kel]]

You meet him by the brook again. "Letta knows," you tell Jamie, and when he frowns, you add, "She's still my sister. She's still Ronan's..." You trail off, then continue on with a sigh. "She deserves the truth." "I... understand," Jamie mutters. But by the look on his face, you're not all too certain that he agrees. "So what now?" It's the one question you did not come prepared to answer, and you're about to tell Jamie as much when he staggers to his knees. You let out a startled cry, one loud enough to send a family of birds scattering across the blue. "Kel!" gasps Jamie. Or is it someone else? "Ronan?" "I don't have much time. Please, Kaskel... You have to help me." A tremor wracks his body; spit flies from his lips. "You have to let him go... Please... Promise me, promise me you'll—" He stiffens; his eyes go blank. But then he blinks, as though a statue come to life, and there Jamie is, back in the driver's seat. This is the part where he runs; this is the part where he saves himself. This is not the part where he whispers your name. And whispers it again, and again, and again. "I'm sorry," you choke. Because there is no place in this world for the dead, and Ronan is still your best friend, so what choice do you have? Who would you be if you gave in to the ache in your chest, that wound weeping red? Jamie sighs, raggedly, like he is savoring every breath as they go. "Will you hold me one last time?" In the ensuing hush, you take a seat next to Jamie and fold him into your arms. He whispers your name. And whispers it again, and again, and again. As though it is the only word he has ever known. As though it is the only name that has ever mattered. That night, you take your place between Ronan and Letta on the Fairchild side of the passageway between your homes. And your best friend tells you that you did the right thing, and your sister tells you that she knows what this cost you. <div id="think4">\ But all you can think about is how <<link "they will be married in the spring.">> <<replace "#think4">>But all you can think about is how <<link "you will give Marieyn the dance she has always wished for, but it will be all you can give her.">> <<replace "#think4">>But all you can think about is how <<linkappend "at dawn, the next day, your body will take you to the brook, and you will close your eyes, and let the tears come welling over.">> [[***|The End]] <</linkappend>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>> </div>

You meet him by the brook again. "Letta is suspicious," you tell Jamie, and when he frowns, you add, "I didn't tell her anything." "I see," Jamie mutters, then takes a deep breath. "So what now?" You're glad Jamie asked; after all, it's the one question you came prepared to answer: "I want to talk to Ronan." [[***|Part 5b: Ronan]]

<span class = "sectionfontRONAN">RONAN</span> <<timed 3s>><<goto "Chapter 36b: Ronan">><</timed>>

"Ronan?" Your vision sparks and fizzes; you let out a shuddering breath as a familiar pair of arms wraps around yours. "Gods, it's really you," Kel gasps, and you smile weakly. "You've gotten stronger, Canto." Slowly, his grip on you relaxes, and he stumbles backward, as if in a daze. "I keep feeling like I might just wake up one day," murmurs Kel, "and all of this will have been nothing more than a dream." "Not a nightmare?" He stiffens, and his gaze lands everywhere but on you. "It's okay, Kel. I-I think I understand." You hesitate, then continue on. "I think I've known, deep down, how you felt about me. I think I wanted to spare you so much that I ended up hurting you, instead." "Funny how that works." You let out a brittle sort of chuckle, then take a seat by the brook and dip a hand beneath the clear surface. Tears crowd your vision. You have missed this—water against your palm, breeze in your hair; sun on your neck, sparrow-song in the air. "Do you still love me?" you ask. "Of course." "You know what I mean." Kel falls quiet. "Do you love him?" "I-I don't know." "I want my body back, Kel," you murmur. "I know." "But more than anything, I want you to be happy." Kel is quiet for so long, you think he might never speak again. Then, he sits down beside you and plunges both hands into the brook. "In that case, I think I have a plan." [[***|Part 5b: Kel]]

<span class = "sectionfontRONAN">RONAN</span> <<timed 3s>><<goto "Chapter 36a: Ronan">><</timed>>

The closer you get to the center of town, the sweatier your palms become. Next to you, Jamie stares straight ahead, his mouth grimly set. "He's not got much time left," your mother told you just hours ago. "A day at most." At last, the house with its curtained windows draws into view, and Jamie's hand brushes against the back of your own. "I want you to know that—" he begins, and you cut him off with a shake of the head. "Tell me after," you whisper. His lips part, and for a moment there, you think Jamie will simply finish his thought. Instead, he takes a deep breath and knocks on the Aligores' door. [[***|Chapter 38: Kel]]

The trees are finally beginning to thin when you hear it: somewhere above the wind, above the birdsong—the unmistakable sound of voices. You and Ronan exchange a look of alarm. But before you can do anything more, the undergrowth shivers, and a group of knights on horseback comes galloping into view. "There he is!" one cries as the others leap from their saddles and wrestle you to the ground. In your peripheral vision, you catch two knights tossing a strange, glimmering net over Ronan. "Ronan Fairchild: you are hereby summoned to the High Court for purification." "No! No, no no, no!" You struggle desperately beneath the weight of countless hands, and only stop when your gaze lands on a figure clad in sky blue. "What have you done?" you whisper. Her eyes are cold, black stones when they meet yours. "What I had to do." Letta and Ronan are married in the spring. It has been months since you last spoke to them. No one can really meet your gaze anymore. No one, save the one person you cannot bear to look at. Funny how that works. The morning after their wedding, your body takes you to the brook. You are not alone—that much becomes clear even before you step through the final line of trees. "He had a strange look," Ronan says. "Long, silver hair. One eye green, the other gray. He was tall, built almost like an oak. I thought he might have been immovable as one, too. Of course, I was wrong. He would have moved for you." For a moment there, you had let yourself hope—that you might be able to give Jamie a second chance at the life he never truly lived, that your life, this tale with no heroes, might find its way to a happy ending. He takes your hand. You close your eyes. And let the tears come welling over. [[***|The End]]

Tristen Aligore's recovery is deemed a miracle; no one has ever seen anything like it, and your mother spends the next few days spreading a different sort of gossip: "They say Ronan Fairchild visited Tristen on his deathbed, and the next thing Mother Aligore knows, her son is up and walking again!" Having safely stowed Ronan away on the Canto side of the passageway, you nudge him with your elbow. "Looks like you're back in the spotlight, Fairchild." "I'm not entirely sure I ever left." "Right." You trace a curving line across the ground. "What are you going to do about that great, winged beast?" "I don't think those girls we were running from would appreciate being called that." You breathe out a laugh, and Ronan shrugs. "Maybe it's about time I belonged to someone other than the world." He closes his eyes and leans back on his hands. "Someone like myself." Later that day, you set off into the woods. The nights have only grown longer, and the days shorter. At the brook's edge, you kneel and stare at your rippling reflection. Maybe it's just the water, but you don't think you look the same as you did before. The sound of leaves rustling pulls you out of your reverie, and you turn just in time to catch Tristen Aligore emerging from beneath a low-hanging branch. "Jamie?" And he looks at you, and there are tears on his cheeks, and he embraces you, and there is suddenly no need for words. You understand. Letta and Ronan are married in the spring. The morning of, your sister takes you by the hand and presses her lips to your forehead. "You're a good brother," murmurs Letta. "You know that, right?" Of course you do. But all you do is smile and say, "He's waiting." That night, you lead Jamie to the brook and wrap a piece of twine around his fourth finger. "I thought you'd want to know what I really look like beneath all this," Jamie remarks. "For a moment there, I was worried you would no longer want me if I no longer looked like Ronan." His eyes, ringed with violet, are bright in the shadows, and you recall, suddenly, what he said the day he came to meet you in Tristen's body: //I arrived just as he was preparing to leave. I think he was relieved that I'd come.// "But you still look at me the same way." Jamie places a hand on your cheek. "Like I will always be worth saving." Perhaps only one of you can see the souls of others. But the truth is, you've never seen a soul shine quite as bright as his. You tell him so. [[***|The End]]

<center><span class = "begendfont"> FABLE</span> by: Sophia Zhao</center> <<timed 3s>><<goto "Prologue">><</timed>>

You meet him by the brook again. "Letta is suspicious," you tell Jamie, and when he frowns, you add, "I didn't tell her anything." "I see," Jamie mutters, then takes a deep breath. "So what now?" It's the one question you did not come prepared to answer, and you're about to tell Jamie as much when he staggers to his knees. You let out a startled cry, one loud enough to send a family of birds scattering across the blue. "Kel!" gasps Jamie. Or is it someone else? "Ronan?" "I don't have much time. Please, Kaskel... You have to help me." A tremor wracks his body; spit flies from his lips. "You have to let him go... Please... Promise me, promise me you'll—" He stiffens; his eyes go blank. But then he blinks, as though a statue come to life, and there Jamie is, back in the driver's seat. This is the part where he runs; this is the part where he saves himself. This is not the part where he whispers your name. And whispers it again, and again, and again. "I'm sorry," you choke. Because there is no place in this world for the dead, and Ronan is still your best friend, so what choice do you have? Who would you be if you gave in to the ache in your chest, that wound weeping red? Jamie sighs, raggedly, like he is savoring every breath as they go. "Will you hold me one last time?" In the ensuing hush, you take a seat next to Jamie and fold him into your arms. He whispers your name. And whispers it again, and again, and again. As though it is the only word he has ever known. As though it is the only name that has ever mattered. That night, you take your place between Ronan and Letta on the Fairchild side of the passageway between your homes. And your best friend tells you that you did the right thing, and your sister tells you that she knows what this cost you. <div id="think4">\ But all you can think about is how <<link "they will be married in the spring.">> <<replace "#think4">>But all you can think about is how <<link "you will give Marieyn the dance she has always wished for, but it will be all you can give her.">> <<replace "#think4">>But all you can think about is how <<linkappend "at dawn, the next day, your body will take you to the brook, and you will close your eyes, and let the tears come welling over.">> [[***|The End]] <</linkappend>><</replace>><</link>><</replace>><</link>> </div>

<center><span class = "creditsfont"> FABLE</span> <<timed 2s t8n>>by: Sophia Zhao<</timed>> <<timed 5s t8n>>Many thanks to first readers / players L. Mao and Yinyu Ji!<</timed>></center>