2.3 & 2.4

-3-

            Ishitar sat at the fire, watching Zuko, who sat at his desk writing a report.  Every now and again, Zuko would raise his gaze from his paperwork and give Ishitar a guarded, almost frightened smile.  Ishitar, who wasn’t quite yet sure what to make of Zuko, would hurriedly look away, embarrassed at having been caught watching his new teacher.

            The thing that fascinated Ishitar about Zuko was the fact that he carried the burdens of each and every one of the children that he had been charged to oversee as if they were his own.  Though Ishitar had yet to actually assist Zuko with any of his tasks, Zuko had given Ishitar his diaries so that Ishitar could read the stories of each and every one of the children that Zuko had helped to date.

            The stories ran from mildly cruel to horrifically unbelievable.  But regardless of the level of abuse that the children received from their parents, Zuko was always there, interfering with their lives in whatever manner he could.  Sometimes he would simply influence a parent to walk past their children’s doors at the moment that they were saying their prayers and the parent would realize what they had done and correct the issue.  And at other times, he would actually spirit the children away from their parents, setting up a home in which he would raise them as his own so that they could return to their parents, or their parents lands, as adults who were capable of responding to the situation.

            Though Ishitar hadn’t yet read the paperwork on the last child that Zuko had been minding—Zuko was still writing his report on the matter to deliver to Lord Raziel—he had sat down with Ishitar and explained the child’s story to him.  The boy, who was nine, had been sold to a band of singers who had intended to cut him so that he would always sing soprano.  Zuko had been the intended purchaser, but had missed the sale by a mere hour.  As luck would have it the cutting took place and the child bled out.  Zuko’s only option was to influence one of his other children from another lifetime who had been made into a vampire to reach the boy with not a moment to spare to turn the boy and take him under his own wing.

            This hadn’t been the solution that Zuko had wanted, but sometimes, when one task overlapped another, Zuko had to make do with whatever tools he had.  In this case, the only tool that he perceived would help him was a child that he had saved at a previous moment in time.

            Such was the price, he had told Ishitar, of mortals having free will.

            Finished with his report, Zuko sat down his quill and raised his hand to rub at his left eye with the base of his palm.  As he did so, Ishitar marked how boyish in appearance he had been made and smiled. 

            “Done.”  Zuko said as he raised his hand and ran it through his dark brown, chin length hair.  “I don’t normally drink, but I really could use a belt after that one.”

            Ishitar smiled at that.  “Perhaps just something light.”

            “Maybe.”  Zuko agreed giving him another guarded smile.  “You know that you don’t have to hang around with me if you don’t want to.”

            “Aiken isn’t home and Loki’s working on some damn book he’s obsessed with reading.”  Ishitar felt his brow furrow as he thought to Loki and the book that he was always asking Ishitar to translate for him.  Ishitar knew that if the book was written in a language that Loki couldn’t read that he probably shouldn’t try.  As a result, whenever the subject arose, Ishitar managed to swiftly change the subject.

            As for Ishitar, it was one of those things that he was mildly curious about but really didn’t feel like wasting his time with at the moment.  If he decided that he was ready to read the book, he could do so any time that he wanted to.  But it was so small and insignificant in comparison to the other books in Lord Loki’s library that he found himself going for the weightier Tombs. 

            Also, though the only one that he had admitted this to was Ansibrius, he found Loki’s obsession with the book rather humorous.  He knew that he probably shouldn’t but, really, it was just a damn book after all.

            Zuko, who didn’t know the turn of Ishitar’s thoughts over the book, let out a tired sigh.  “What’s so important about the book?”

            “I know not.”  Ishitar replied.   “I haven’t read it.”

            Zuko shrugged.  “Books have never really been my thing.” 

            “Mine either.”  Ishitar admitted.  “Zadkiel and I always spent our time out of doors when we were free.  He would take me fishing almost every morning.”

            “Fishing?”  Zuko let out an involuntary laugh at that.  Ishitar, who had never seen Zuko wearing an honest smile—let alone heard him laugh—grinned. 

            “Yes.”  Ishitar replied.  “But we were never allowed to keep what we caught.”  He chuckled.  “Catch the fish and then let it go, Ishitar.”  He groused in imitation of Zadkiel’s deep voice.  “If you kill off every fish you catch, then what are you going to catch tomorrow.”

            Zuko let out another laugh at Ishitar’s imitation of Zadkiel.  “That’s a strange way for an archangel to while away his time.”

            “Zadkiel is a strange individual.”  Ishitar replied fondly.  “The other eleven were always bent on making me study.  Not so, Zadkiel.  His brand of teaching was by example and way of life.”

            Zuko smiled.  “He sounds like the right medicine for a stormy heart.”

            Ishitar felt his brow furrow at that.  “Yes.”  He nodded.  “He was.”  Then with a sad smile.  “He is.”

            “You miss him.”  It wasn’t a question.

            “I do.”  Ishitar admitted.

            “Why don’t you go visit him, then?”

            “Because he’s been exiled.”  Ishitar replied, frowning.

            “So has Lord Lucias.”  Zuko shrugged.  “I understand from what Loki tells me that you’ve visited him.”

            “I have, but . . .” He lowered his gaze. 

            “If you love him and miss him,” Zuko advised, his tone more gentle than Ishitar had ever heard it, “damn the rules.  Go and see him.”

            “You don’t understand.”  Ishitar reached for Ansibrius, who was looking up at him with his mismatched eyes.  “If I go and see Zadkiel then Zadkiel will be punished.  And I can’t bear the responsibility of that.”

            Zuko didn’t respond to that right away.  Rather, he watched Ishitar, his dark brown eyes dancing over Ishitar’s face.  Finally, he asked, “Who would tell?”

            Ishitar returned his gaze to Zuko.  He realized, almost at once, that this was a serious question.    “Azrael for one.”

            “I was at the meeting where Azrael was flung against a wall for refusing to speak about something that was of far more import than you possibly visiting the man that you think of as your father.”  His expression was suddenly very serious.  “Had Lord Evanbourough not jumped between Azrael and the wall, Azrael would have been seriously hurt.”

            “I haven’t ever heard that story.”  Ishitar said, his mind casting to Azrael.  His last memory of Azrael was one of anger for Azrael having been the one to deliver the message to Ishitar’s father that Zadkiel meant to defy him.  In a backward way, Azrael was just as responsible for Zadkiel’s whipping as whichever one of Zadkiel’s brothers it had been to hold the whip.

            “I’m certain that it wasn’t his proudest moment.”  Zuko shrugged.  “Though it should be.  Even after your father punished him for holding his secrets he refused to talk.”  He lowered his gaze.  “It was at that moment—when he stood up to your father in front of all of the Gods of the Council—that I started questioning my own loyalties and opinions.”

            “What are your loyalties and opinions?”  Ishitar asked, genuinely curious.

            Zuko smiled that guarded smile again.  “That’s a story for another day.”

            Ishitar, who had gotten more information out of Zuko in the past three minutes than he had in the several months that he had been spending time with him, knew not press the issue.  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

            “Me?”  Zuko asked, surprised.

            “You.”  Ishitar grinned at him

            “Nothing.”  He shrugged.  “Funnily enough I have the day off.”

            “Maybe I can’t go see Zadkiel.”  Ishitar smiled at him.  “But I can take Ansibrius fishing.  Do you want to join us?”

            “I . . .”  Ishitar realized that Zuko was blushing.  He found that very curious.  “Yes, my Lord.  I’d like that.”  Then smiling.  “But I don’t know how.”

            “I do.”  Ishitar’s smile grew.  “Maybe for once it’s time that I be the teacher.”

            “Yes,” Zuko gave him a contemplative smile, “May be it is.”

-4-

            Iladrul’s eyes were wide as they turned from the Great Road into the grove where the mischief fairies made their home.  Here, there were trees so tall that Iladrul wondered where the branches ended and the sky began.  He saw huts built within each of them and long, vine ladders that fell from the branches to the ground.

            “It’s dizzying, isn’t it?”  Balean asked him, smiling. 

            He started at the sound of the General’s voice and forced himself to smile in return.  He didn’t feel much like smiling these days, but General Balean had been both kind and patient since the demons had attacked.  It was almost as if he understood Iladrul’s fear of them. 

            Almost.

            “It’s beautiful.”  Jeanir, who rode on the other side of Balean muttered. 

            Iladrul thought his placement odd.  But then what did he know of doxies and their places?  In his opinion, however, Jeanir belonged at his father’s side.  Not next to the General.

            Yet, he offered the doxy a smile too.  He was, after all, Iladrul’s Master.  And he had turned out to be a fine one at that.  Iladrul was twice the swordsman that he had been before training beneath him.  And three times the bowman.

            As to his work as a sorcerer, that hadn’t progressed at all.  Wisterian hadn’t found the right Master for his academics or alchemy.

            But magic could wait.  He was still very young.  He had plenty of time to learn spell work and potions.

            “It is beautiful.”  Iladrul finally agreed.  And it was.  More than beautiful—it was magical.  It was as though the Gods had kissed the very trees.

            He supposed, given that a God lived in this grove, that they had.

            They came to a stop and his father flew from his horse—literally—to land deftly upon his feet.  It was a beautiful thing to watch and Iladrul, though he had no wings, tried to match it.  He thought he’d managed well enough, though he didn’t care for the amused smiles on Balean and Jaenir’s faces.

            He stepped next to his father and looked up at him, trying not to show the fear that he felt on his face.  His father reached for him, squeezed his shoulder and guided him through the Grove.

            “Don’t be afraid of Jamiason.”  His father smiled down at him.  “He wants to meet you.”

            Iladrul swallowed.  He was afraid.  “I really don’t want to meet him.”

            Wisterian ran his hand over the back of Iladrul’s head.  Iladrul felt lost in the size of it.  “He’s a good man, Iladrul.  And he will be your ally after all of this ends.  You have to trust me to that fact.”

            “Yes, my Lord.”  Iladrul swallowed, still holding his father’s gaze. 

            “I’m serious.” Wisterian lowered himself to meet Iladrul’s gaze.  “He is your friend.  No matter what else passes between his race and yours.” 

            “Yes, my Lord.”  Iladrul replied, shivering.

            “Good.” Wisterian smiled at him, kissed his forehead and then stood.  “Come.  We must meet and thank Lord Aiken.”

            “I thought that he would be gone!”  Iladrul cried.  He had no desire to meet Jamiason.  But he was terrified of the thought of meeting a God.

            “He will be.” Wisterian’s voice, and smile, was tight.  “Before Jamiason comes.”

            “Then I must meet him?”

            “Yes.”  Wisterian nodded.  “He is doing us a great favor by allowing us the neutrality of his Grove.”

            “Yes, my Lord.” Iladrul whispered and followed his father into the grove. 

            As they walked deeper within the line of trees, Iladrul’s sense of dread lifted.  The people that they passed were extremely beautiful and seemed to be very kind.  None of them wore any clothing, which at first took Iladrul by surprise, but then he realized that this must be the custom of these people and, eventually, failed to even notice.  Each of them had great wings—not like those of his father, but more like those of a butterfly.  And all of them had strange, filigree tooling upon their face that appeared to be metallic in nature. 

            When they reached a great tree in the center of the grove, Iladrul’s father stopped, bowed low to a male fairy standing at the foot of the tree and gave him a warm smile.  “We’re here to see Lord Aiken.”

            The fairy’s strange, yellow eyes flicked to Iladrul.  When he smiled, Iladrul realized that his canine teeth were sharp and pointed.  He shivered slightly at that as the memories of the demon with his murderous teeth hovering over him came to mind and then forced himself to smile in return.  “He’s been expecting you Lord Wisterian.  Go ahead and go on up.”

            Iladrul’s father bowed and started climbing up the vine ladder that seemed to Iladrul to go all the way to the very top of the tree.  Iladrul followed and Balean and Jeanir followed after him.

            At the top of the ladder was a trap door that led into the hut.  Wisterian pushed this open and then pulled himself through.  Once there he bent over, reached his hand down to Iladrul and pulled him the rest of the way up.  He left the angels to their own devices as he stepped to a closed door and knocked.

            A deep voice on the other side bid them to come in.  Wisterian pushed the door open and stepped in, waiting for Iladrul to step beside him before facing the room.

            As Iladrul stepped in, his mouth fell open.  The hut had literally been made around and out of the tree.  And on each of the walls were delicately made tapestries of thread that were more beautiful and detailed than any painting that Iladrul had ever seen.

            “So this is the famous elf.”  The deep voice forced Iladrul out of his reverie.  He turned his gaze toward its owner and stared with open mouthed surprise.  The creature was beautiful.  Very tall and very slender, he had long white hair that fell below his hip which was littered with wildflowers.  His sensual lips were curved into a pretty smile and his eyes—the most beautiful shade of violet that Iladrul had ever seen—were dancing over Iladrul’s face.  “Awfully small to be causing such a ballyhoo.”

            Wisterian chuckled at him.  “He won’t always be small.”

            “No.”  The fairy shook his head.  His pretty hair danced around him.  Iladrul realized as his eyes drank him in that he wore a small black loincloth to cover himself.  It looked so out of place on the fairy that it was more distracting than had he worn nothing at all. “He certainly is pretty.”

            “He favors his mother.”  Wisterian replied, still smiling.  “How fare thee Lord Aiken?”

            “I bide.”  He shrugged his well made shoulders and turned his attention to Wisterian.  Iladrul was relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of his gaze.  “”And you?”

            “We do the best that we can with what we have left.”  Wisterian smiled wistfully at him. 

            “I suppose that is all that any of us can do.”  Aiken replied.  “Jeanir.  Handsome as ever.”

            “My Lord.”  Jeanir bowed to him. 

            “We appreciate your allowance of our use of your Grove as a neutral setting with the demons.”  Wisterian said swiftly.  Iladrul marked that Aiken flinched.  “We must be a great inconvenience to you.”

            “I’m sure that I can find something to do with myself.”  Aiken’s lips were drawn in a taut frown.  “Though I do wish that your little friend would let bygones be bygones.  Damn the rules of exile.  No one else follows them.  Why must he?”

            “I wish that too.”  Wisterian bowed to him.  “For both of your sakes.”

            “He always has been stubborn.”  This was said in softer tones. 

            “His most endearing quality.”  Wisterian smiled at him.

            “Indeed.”  Aiken’s eyes returned to Iladrul.  They danced over his face as his lips flicked into a smile.  “He doesn’t look anything like his mother.”  His eyes returned to Wisterian.  “He favors you.”

            Wisterian smiled at this.  “Perhaps a little.”

            “Will you tell Jami that I’ve made a lair for him?”  Aiken asked gently.  “You may all stay as long as you need.”

            “I will tell him.”  Wisterian promised.  “And I thank you for your courtesy.”

            Aiken nodded.  “It’s just south of here.  He should find it easily enough.”

            “It’s kind of you to accommodate him.”

            “Perhaps more selfish than kind.”  Aiken corrected him.  “Perhaps knowing that he has a safe place to lay his head here will tempt him to visit me from time to time.”

            “Perhaps.”  But Wisterian’s tone was doubtful. 

“I should take my leave.”  Aiken muttered.  “Lest he sends a scout and I spook him.”  He turned his gaze to Iladrul, then.  “It is my pleasure to meet you child.”

Iladrul bowed.  “The pleasure is mine, Lord Aiken.”

He chuckled.  “Indeed.”  Then he turned to Iladrul’s father.  “Whatever comes of this, you do know that Jamiason loves you.”

“I do know that.”  Wisterian agreed.  “But, at the end of the day, he must protect his own people.  Not mine.”

“Just so.”  Aiken nodded.  “I wish you luck, Wisterian.  In all things.”

“And you as well.”

“Good day, Iladrul.”  Aiken reached forward and, very lovingly, ran his finger along Iladrul’s cheek.  Iladrul shivered under his touch.  “When the time comes, try not to break Jami’s heart.”

Iladrul started at that.  He had no idea what the words were supposed to mean.  But he didn’t have to respond to them as Aiken was suddenly not there.  He turned his gaze to his father.  “Why did he say that?”

Wisterian smiled wistfully at him.  “Who can know?”

Iladrul knew within his heart of hearts that his father was lying.