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Time passed slowly in Ataraxia, Ingressus noticed. Or maybe it only passed slowly because he was bored. There was less to do than in the mountains– or maybe, less that needed doing. There had always been activity back at the camp: the adults would rotate going hunting or patrolling for signs of enemy clans, and meanwhile the children and remaining adults would train, collect firewood, tend to the camp, prepare what the hunters brought back... the tasks to be done could be tedious at times, but at least there was something going on. Here in Ataraxia, he had to just sit around– or hobble around, at best– and wait for his leg to heal.
Ingressus exhausted every avenue Galleous's cave provided him for ways to occupy himself. He raided Galleous's bookshelf for things to read, eavesdropped on the conversations happening at the cave entrance, and once was so bored he took a cut of raw pork and tried cooking it over the lava basin. Galleous had cocked his head curiously when he saw him, but the only comment he made was "I'd never thought of that." At night Ingressus would sneak out of his room to study Galleous's maps, searching aimlessly for anywhere he might be able to go once his welcome in Ataraxia was overstayed. He designed a handle for his blade, securing a wooden grip to the broken side and sharpening the edge. After watching Galleous repair someone's iron hoe, he borrowed the rust-removing whatever-the-stuff-was, and polished and sharpened the blade until it was like new.
After about a week, he got his chance to search Galleous's room. The Sendaris had left on a trip to the market, telling Ingressus, "if the worst happens and someone finds you, tell them to talk to me." Ingressus watched him leave, gave him a few minutes to return in case he had forgotten something, then went in a last search of Voltar and his father's broadsword. A chest sat near the foot of Galleous's bed and he beelined for it, but try as he might the ice-blasted thing wouldn't open. He tugged and yanked, beat the lid with his fist, even crouched on the floor and tried to shove it open with his shoulder, all to no avail. The only locked chest in the cave had to mean there was something worth hiding, but that knowledge didn't help him if he couldn't get it open.
He slumped over the chest in frustration, then paused, pressing his hands to the wood. There were Songs in the chest, he realized. At least two different orders, probably, flickering and humming faintly away at his Song-sense through the wood. Well, that could be worth hiding. Didn't prove that Voltar wasn't there, though.
He punched the chest again in frustration. Maybe he could get a shovel and break the thing open, but there would be no way of hiding what he'd done. It would be a last resort, he decided. If he was desperate, or there was danger– when he was ready or needed to run. Which he wasn't, yet. He still needed to heal.
Listening in on the Ataraxians' conversations was a strange experience for Ingressus. According to Galleous, the population was mostly Ardoni, but what he heard wasn't... wasn't at all what he would expect the four clans to be like. It was so... ordinary. Sure, they talked about farming and mining instead of hunting and patrols, but it wasn't— they didn't sound cruel, or vengeful, or bloodthirsty. Children would call to their parents, having found something interesting to show them. Passers-by would share gossip, or news about family members. They didn't sound like raiders or Champions. If Ingressus hadn't known better, if the truth didn't hit him in the face with every birdsong, every warm breeze, every hobbling step he took, he might've been able to believe he was back home.
Some evenings, Ingressus would wrap himself in a blanket to hide his glow and walk down to sit on the balcony. He would stare out at the floating islands, dark and still against the moonlit sky, with torches and lanterns capping their peaks in light. Once he heard voices from another island, and looked through the railing to see the Mendoris from the first morning sitting on a balcony, two children with identical markings sitting with him and listening intently. Ingressus couldn't make out the words, but the way the children were leaning forward reminded him of Gyarus's stories, the way you would be dragged in as though you were really there.
But they were all so relaxed, that was the biggest difference. Even when there had been no raids, even when the snowstorms were absent and the game plentiful, the Voltaris always had the alertness for danger, the preparation for hard times, the attentiveness to every detail that could mean life or death in the harsh, jagged, frozen peaks. Every Voltaris knew that good times never lasted forever. They read the ground like a book for signs of raiders or predators, judged the safety and defensibility of caves and landscapes without even thinking about it, searched the skies for signs of blizzards as readily as stargazing. The Ataraxians held none of that fear. The Mendoris family on the balcony cared nothing about the fact that an arrow or Aggressium Song could reach them, that certain Mobilium Songs could deliver an enemy right to them. The torch on the balcony shone even brighter than their markings, declaring their location like a beacon, and it was no cause for worry for them. The father regaled his children with tales for almost an hour, and never once did he sense Ingressus's gaze. Never once did he look around, searching for danger. He wasn't afraid. There was nothing for him to fear.
Ingressus turned away and leaned against the stone, staring into the darkness of night. Why couldn't his clan have this? Why was the rest of the world so determined to deny the Voltaris this kind of life? The other clans had so much, what would it cost them to share in their bounty?
Ingressus woke the next morning on the balcony with a numb leg, a fabric pattern pressed into his cheek, Galleous looking at him with concern, and no answers to any of his questions.
The tolerance Ingressus had come to have for Galleous still at times made him think he had to be dreaming. A Sendaris meant death to a Voltaris; the only safety was to either stay away or attack them first. This Sendaris in particular should've been among the worst. Yet, he wasn't. And Ingressus was slowly coming to believe he really wouldn't be. Despite Ingressus's attempts to maim him, Galleous had taken no revenge, and apparently held no grudges. He left a flowerpot next to the pile of dirt Ingressus had replanted the flower in. He continued to wake Ingressus from nightmares, though he had learned how to avoid a blow if Ingressus lashed out again. If Ingressus was feeling particularly restless he would limp out to sit in the forge, sometimes talking with Galleous, sometimes just sitting and watching. Galleous let him try his hand at the forge once, an endeavor which ended with Ingressus holding a lumpy, deformed shovel head and Galleous looking on in polite silence. They had a close call at discovery once, when a pair of children came running into the forge, excited about learning their Songs. Ingressus had just enough time to duck behind a chest before they would have seen him. Galleous had ushered the children back out, telling them, "I'm glad you're excited, but don't go charging into someone's home next time."
Ingressus sat up with a wince as Galleous returned. "You're a Songmaster?"
Galleous held out a hand to Ingressus, helping him up. "You sound surprised."
"You're not like the one I knew. She really leaned into the whole 'old, wise, and serene' act."
Galleous arched a brow. "You don't think I'm old and wise?"
"You're not much older than my father," Ingressus noted.
"I notice you didn't mention the 'wise' part."
"What Songs do you have?"
Their injuries slowly healed as time passed, as days turned to weeks. Galleous's bruise darkened to a deep indigo color, then slowly faded away. Ingressus's foot hurt less and less, his ribs became less tender, and the gash on his leg slowly began to close.
Ingressus learned two new words one day when Galleous, distracted by a conversation with a customer, had burned his hand on a hot piece of metal. Ingressus dropped his book on his bed and had actually started for the forge before remembering no, there's someone out there, you can't be seen! So instead he lingered just inside his cave, listening to the visitor freak out and Galleous calming him down, saying it was an occupational hazard and nothing that hadn't happened before. The two left to head to Ataraxia's hospital, and Galleous returned twenty minutes later wielding a Proteheal Song.
"You ready to get rid of that crutch?" he asked Ingressus.
Injuries were a fact of life in the mountains. Wildlife, raiders, shards of rock, frostbite, or even just slipping on ice and breaking something. So Ingressus had had Proteheal used on him before. He watched as Galleous's hand hovered over his exposed wound, blue shards of light falling from his hand and settling on the cut. The light seemed to stick to his skin, gathering along the edges of the wound and growing together to form a long line of blue. He felt the pain vanish as though it was being absorbed by the light, and when the glow faded there was nothing left but a long, pale scar. On his foot and ribs the light soaked into his flesh, shining through the gray skin as it arranged itself along the places of damage. Ingressus winced as the Song realigned the bones in his foot just right, but the pain was soon dulled and the light faded away as if there had been no wound at all.
Ingressus felt all the pent-up energy of the past month coming to a head as the Song's magic worked its way over the last cut on his arm. He was so close to being able to walk again without pain, to run and jump and fight properly without hindrance, and the light was nearly finished and why was it taking its time—
The minute the light faded Ingressus leaped to his feet, landing solidly on the stone floor. He ran forward, relishing the feeling of freedom he vowed to never take for granted again. He stumbled as his formerly-wounded leg gave out, unused to supporting his weight. He caught himself on the wall and spun back to Galleous, grinning like he'd just brought down a giant kill for the clan.
"Someone seems happy," Galleous observed.
"I am," Ingressus agreed.
"Glad to hear it." Galleous stood, and Ingressus spotted a dark patch on the back of his wrist.
"Your hand!"
Galleous looked down at it as Ingressus ran unsteadily over. A burn still marked the back of his hand, fainter than Ingressus feared but still visible.
"It didn't heal right?" he asked worriedly.
"Oh, it's fine," Galleous said. "The doctor let me borrow the Song because I told him I wanted to demonstrate it to my students. Denarus hasn't managed to summon any shields yet, so we think it could be a Proteheal Song he has. The doctor only healed the burn most of the way so I would have something to demonstrate it on."
"Oh." That was a relief, he supposed.
But wait. "You don't know what kind of Song he has?"
Galleous looked at him strangely. "We know it's a Protisium Song. But there's no way to tell what kind unless someone else has used it before him, or by practicing until he can summon its power."
Ingressus frowned at him. "Yes there is. Each kind of Song has a slightly different tune to it, and if you listen closely enough you can learn to tell them apart. I could never do it but Ritanil, our Songmaster, could."
Galleous stared at Ingressus. "You're not joking?"
"No." Ingressus shook his head. "Your clans never figured that out?"
"Yours did?"
"Obviously."
"Obviously," Galleous agreed. "Interesting."
Galleous had to leave soon after that to meet his students. Ingressus walked around the forge, just to enjoy the simple pleasure of mobility, to be able to move freely without needing a piece of wood under his arm, without wincing if something jarred his leg. Even if the limb was still stiff from disuse it felt so good to just be able to walk again. He climbed the bookshelf, leaped onto the table, and thoroughly wore himself out by the time Galleous returned.
That evening, Ingressus had a bigger appetite than usual. He'd already downed two pieces of chicken and was gnawing on a carrot when Galleous asked him a question.
"So do you know where you're going to go after this?" he asked. "Not that I'm in a hurry to kick you out, but people may start getting suspicious sooner or later."
With that, Ingressus's mood crashed. He slumped, leaning against the table. "I don't have anywhere to go."
No matter how much he'd come to relax around Galleous, he couldn't take the chance of returning to the mountains. Even if Galleous truly had no ulterior motives in helping him return home, there was just no way to be certain that someone else wouldn't spot him along the way and tail him right back to his people. Looking at Galleous's maps had revealed a few places, far distant from roads or towns, that looked like he may be able to go unseen for a while, but could he count on them for the rest of his life?
Galleous was taken aback. "Nowhere? But what about the other Voltaris in the mountains? Wouldn't they take you in?"
Ingressus shook his head, remembering the half-truths, the excuses he'd prepared. "If the raiders find you, you're marked," he said. "It's too dangerous to take someone in that they might be following. And to be alone in the mountains is a death sentence."
Neither was fully true. Your odds were much worse being on your own than with a group, but he did know of some lone wanderers that traversed the mountains, occasionally crossing paths with one group or another and sharing news. And while there was always a chance that a Voltaris who'd fled from a raid could have someone on their tail, they wouldn't just be turned away automatically– the clan lost too many people to afford to abandon their own.
Galleous opened his mouth, then closed it again, leaning his chin on his fist.
"There has to be somewhere that would be safe for you," he said. "You can't stay... here... hmmm."
That was true. Ingressus wondered if he would miss Ataraxia. It wasn't home, wasn't the mountains, didn't surround him with his friends and family. But the floating islands were amazing, and having a steady supply of food was definitely something he didn't want to part with.
"Maybe you could..." Galleous said slowly, half to himself. "If I told them you were under my care– made it clear that you weren't to be harmed– it's not like there's any raiders here... I'd need to think about this more, but if you wanted to, maybe you could stay here."
Ingressus looked up at him. "What?"
"Only if you wanted to," Galleous said. "But this place is very isolated. There's barely any visitors from outside– my brother certainly never visits. And no one moves this far to the middle of nowhere because they want the kind of 'honor and glory–'" He made a contemptuous gesture– "that they'd get on the raids."
"But there are Ardoni here," Ingressus said, the fact an argument in itself.
"True, but..." Galleous gestured vaguely to the north. "Thalleous is obsessed, and I'm sure he's not the only raider to be. But as for the rest of us... most Ardoni just don't think about the Voltaris very much. It's more indifference than hatred. And you're hardly a threat. If I tell everyone that I'm caring for you, they'd have no basis to tell me I can't."
Ingressus sat back in his chair, thinking. That was an idea that he'd never even considered, had never even thought of. It was just so obviously not an option, and his instincts shoved the idea away like a hot coal. And yet... did he have any better ideas? Roaming the wilds of Ardonia alone and hoping he wouldn't be found for the rest of his life... he didn't like the thought of leaving his fate up to luck like that, up to the whims of fate or some lost traveler.
Galleous shrugged. "I'll have to think this through more. But if you really don't have anywhere else, well... you're a decent enough kid, you're welcome to stay."
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