Reborn From the Cosmos

Arc 8-23

For most of my life, meals were lonely affairs. How could they not be? It was just me and Father in that crumbling estate, seated at opposite ends of a dining table built to accommodate an expansive family and their guests. When he bothered to show up. Often, he took his meals in his study or wherever he was working. I know he wasn’t absent because he despised me. He simply forgot, giving the matter no attention so long as I didn’t starve.

There are stories about caring servants that adopt their little young masters and ladies as their own, becoming surrogate parents and a bastion of warmth in a cold world. Well, there’s a reason those are stories and not the norm. Perhaps there is some kindly matron out there that has a heart as wide as a wagon’s wheel and the nature of a saint, able to pour out unconditional love on the scion of the shady bastards she works for while being witness to who knows what tragedies and subsisting off scraps from their table. She certainly didn’t live in the small village Father governed and sourced the help from.

Just as knights and princesses are romanticized in fiction, so are the lives of servants. It’s nothing but work, often hard and demeaning. They spend day after day cleaning up the filth of the people that lord over them, spending the gold taxed from the hard work of their neighbors while paying them coppers. It’d be a miracle if there was any goodwill in such a situation.

Perhaps it’s different for fulltime servants, those who live with their employers, breathing the same air and sleeping under the same roof, but in my experience, the servants couldn’t get out of the estate fast enough after they finished the chores and prepared the meals. Why would they play pretend with others when they had their own families to tend to?

Aside from that, I wasn’t a particularly likeable child. I can imagine them leaving their own brats for a while if they’re in the presence of a young saint, but for a sullen girl who could only be a sarcastic little shit when she deigned to address them? Yeah, no love lost there.

So, lonely meals. I got accustomed to the silence.

That changed once I met Kierra. She rarely let me breathe away from her, let alone eat a full meal. I worried over her clinginess but never insisted she stopped. It was so novel, the idea of spending time with someone for pleasure rather than purpose. The idea that she desperately wanted to spend time with me. I’ve had this thought before, but I really had no defense against my lovely elf. Perfect she is not, but that doesn’t stop her from being everything I’ve ever wanted and more.

And things only got livelier from there. Geneva and Bell. Alana. Talia. The servants, now and again. Friends and guests and somethings in-between.

All of it culminates in this sight; lively table full of found family. At one end of the table is Morgene, seated in a simple chair like it’s a throne, a royal despite her casual clothes and lack of pomp. Her worrying interest in Geneva has been rekindled, but Orum keeps it at bay, holding her attention and leaving the succubus to get on with preparing the table. Seated next to him is Kierra, who is listening to her parents with a smile, throwing in the occasional teasing comment as they trade stories of violence and adventure. Normally, she would be to my right, but as the elves enjoy their conversation, Talia has taken her place, living art that sits in a comfortable pose, ready to be admired.

On the other side of the table is Yulia, looking a little tired but not too worn, having spent another day at the camp. Her attention is wholly occupied by her son sitting beside her in a chair whose design I couldn’t even conceptualize until the weary mother idly complained about wanting to see more of her son during the little time she had free, meal times, and Bell swept in to fulfill her desires. As for the boy, he’s a ball of cheerful energy, little hands tapping the table excitedly as he anticipates more of the best food he’s experienced in his young life.

To the snow bunny’s other side and my left is Alana. Like her sister, she’s wearing her exhaustion on her face and a little more openly than the young mother, slouching in her seat. She’s the most casual of anyone, no doubt having simply washed her face and hands before coming to the table. The baggy, stained training clothes are a stark contrast to Talia’s efforts to doll her up the other night, but it doesn’t matter. I finally understand the saying that love is blind. She’s a ruffled, dirty, sweaty mess, more of a delinquent than a lady, and I still think she’s beautiful.

And then there’s me, seated at the head of the table. A seat that’s always empty in my head. Out of nowhere, it strikes me that I have a family. I have people I care about without reserve and people who care about me. People who would put their lives on the line for me, who would and have killed for me. It’s not a sudden revelation, but there is something more profound about it tonight as I watch over them while dinner is served.

Seeing them, I can imagine it. The refugees, before their city was destroyed, sitting at a table like this, enjoying their own families. If I were to lose this…saints, I pity them.

Is it wrong to be motivated by pity? I know it as a demeaning feeling, one that does as much harm as good. In the stories, the righteous and unwavering hero screams for the good and honorable people moved by his tragedies not to pity him, preferring to soldier through the struggles in his life rather than allow them to look down on him.

I’ve never understood it. When I was a young girl in the capital, besieged by childish cruelty and adult indifference, I would have accepted any level of condescension if it meant being raised out of that pit of despair. Saints, I would have barked like a dog and crawled on all fours if it meant someone putting the Grimoires in their place. Like most things, pride is a luxury. But I know there are plenty that don’t agree with me. People who would rather die than accept a helping hand or tarnish the memory of their fallen families.

It’s going to be a pain to help these people, isn’t it? Sigh.

But that is a problem for the future, after we’ve dealt with the hunters once and for all. Tonight is a time for basking in my good fortune. Several people try to draw me into their conversations, but I fend them off with brusque answers and minute shakes of my head. Alana looks at me with worry, but I reassure her with a squeeze of my hand. That’s all it takes for her to return to her dinner, the little glutton. Not that she’s the only one. The whole table is enamored with the spread. The side dishes are scant, given the scarcity of the city, but there is plenty of meat. I suppose Geneva brought back something, considerate as she is.

The good mood is interrupted by the appearance of Rolly, zipping over the table in shades of yellow and pink. The language of light is a strange thing. I’ve asked the lueorale to explain her shifting pallor to me, but she delights in my bumbling attempts to unravel its meaning and cause myself.

I used to think that the colors were a reflection of her mood but, if I’ve guessed the meaning of each hue correctly, then she’s more of a mirror, reflecting the moods around her. Or maybe both?

Like now, for instance. Yellows should be happiness or excitement. Pink is love or passion. I often see both when she hovers around our clan during a stolen kiss or louder flirting. The question is, does her colorful appearance reflect our feelings or how she feels watching us? Could it be what she expects us to feel? Or maybe it’s a prediction, based off our behavior?

Whatever the case, her appearance bodes well, though her words make me doubt that conclusion. “I have to hand it to you, partner, you keep nothing but interesting people around you. Things are about to get lively!”

She’s like Kierra in the way that the things she finds interesting make me very nervous. But before I can question what she means, Earl is at my side, speaking up as her last syllable ends.

“My lady, Maxine Guiness and a group traveling with her have requested a meeting.”

“Max?” I assumed Rolly meant guests and was ready to tell whoever it was to do everyone the courtesy of sending notice, but hearing of the wayward merchant changes my mind. I’m incredibly curious about what she’s gotten up to after suddenly leaving the city, so much so that I’m willing to accept whatever problems she’s bringing with her.

And of course she’s bringing problems. It’s an assumption, but I’m very confident in it, as it’d be strange for someone to have good news for me.

“How big is this group?”

“Five individuals, two women and three men.” I motion for him to continue. “Outsiders, unknown threat, wearing a conspicuous amount of leather and possessing foul tongues.”

That sounds like…but no. What would Max be doing running around with a bunch of pirates?

“Invite them in. Geneva, Bell, find some chairs. Or make some. Everyone! We need to adjust a little.”