203. [SEGUE] Follow Your Heart

As Night deepened, rain eased. The thick mist abated to a light drizzle, revealing more of the overcast skies above the Riverside Necropolis. But the skies were still dark. So dark it was hard to believe the sun would ever shine again.

Jasper aft'Hanafin sat leaning against the sturdy trunk of an oak tree—her refuge from the rain and the violence that yet hung in the Night air. Some of the Templars had already departed the scene, the better to seek shelter from the thickening skyveils. Others dutifully patrolled the cemetery, alert to any signs of the Butcher resurfacing from the Catacombs—signs of the Viceroy's plan going awry.

Jasper herself kept her distance, shielded by the oak tree's canopy, its branches gnarled and sprawling like Mriga antlers. She kept her distance, not because she lacked interest in the proceedings. No, quite the opposite.

If anything, she was too invested. For she was connected to every one of the operatives, their every action and emotion conveyed to her via VEILWINGS beating against gossamer veils.

She'd felt in her own bones, for example, the absolute chaos that unfolded inside the tight confines of an elevator. Her heart had ached for the sudden mishap that had befallen Brother Nankervis, his fighting spirit destroyed in a moment of madness and confusion. She also 'followed' with intrigue as Sister Edin delved deeper into the Catacombs, guided by some purpose that transcended worlds and perhaps even lifetimes.

Anchored, Wayfaring, or even Night-sider. As long as Jasper's WINGS could touch them, they were all her brothers and sisters. And her heart went out to all of them, even as she herself sought refuge beneath the canopy of an oak tree.

It was with a kind of restless trepidation, then, that she reached into the sleeve of her robe and pulled out an envelope.

She'd already read the letter several times, as the Day had worn down to Dusk. Yet now, in the murkiest depths of the Gloaming hours, she felt compelled to read it again. Not to distract herself from the proceedings, no. Rather, it was Jasper's own way of staying as connected as possible. To stay in touch with the heart of what ailed Tidereign on both sides of the divide.

The ink was smudged in parts and the writing itself was a chicken-scratch scrawl. Jasper couldn't help but imagine the penman as a child, or at least someone quite young at heart. Nevertheless, the words were legible enough to any versed in the CMV.

To She Who Watches From Atop the Hill,

You may not remember me, but you're all that I've thought about each and every Night since our meeting.

My name is Oriole ere'Quinlan. Just Ori to those who know me best. I'm a Tiryaga from the Night-side city of Duskpool. I don't know if any of that means anything to you, but that's who I am, and I can't make it plainer than that.

In case you don't remember, we met—the Keeper knows how many turns of the moon ago—at the Observatory atop Veilwatch Hill. Only briefly, and it's never happened again since, no matter how many times I'd gone back and waited. But I know you're real. And I have faith these words will reach you, one way or another.

I've never told any other Duskpooler about you. The secret's eating me up inside, but I have to keep it. Partly because I don't think anyone would believe me, but more because I want this to be something before I announce it to the world.

We Night-siders tend to be all fancy dreams with nothing of substance to show for it. There are, of course, what you might call extenuating circumstances, and I don't blame my fellow Tiryagas for their shortcomings. But I don't want that life for myself, understand? If I were to dream—if my nose catches scent of something big—I need to follow it to the ends of the earth.

I'm no good with words, and even I can tell I'm starting to lose the thread. I have a lot to say, and I hope I get to say them to your face someday. For now, though, all I want you to know is this.

I have something of yours. Something you let slip and passed onto me the Night (maybe Day for you?) we met. Something important to you, I think, even though I have nothing but my nose to tell me that.

I will find a way to deliver it to you. Not by some loophole or trickery, but in person. From my hand back to yours, face to face and under the same sky.

I haven't the faintest idea how, but I'll find a way. That's my promise to you, and I hope this letter is a start. I also won't say no to some suggestions from your end!

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Anyway, I'm sure I've taken enough of your time. Do with this letter what you will. I don't expect a reply, but if I'm being honest, it'll be nice to hear from you again.

Yours apart but together,

Oriole

Jasper's heart ached and raced anew as she read the letter.

She remembered their meeting. How could she ever forget? And if she were honest, she too had spent many a Day since that encounter, staring up the veils for any signs they might shift again and reveal that earnest tabbycat on the other side.

She'd read the letter several times toDay and now once toNight. But it wasn't until right this Ksana, as the Gloaming hours waxed and variegated WINGS beat against their immutable fates, that she was finally moved to pen a reply. She'd especially been inspired by Sister Edin's steadfast drive: fearless and relentless in the face of gathering darkness. Darkness and perhaps something more—a presence and power beyond comprehension.

Jasper turned over the worn paper and wrote, pen racing even faster than her heart. Her ink too smudged from the droplets that fell off the oak leaves, but her penmanship was neat and sound. At least that she could take pride in.

She finished her letter, folded it in reverse, and slid it back into the same envelope. The red signet seal stared back at her—the very same design that had been emblazoned on her lost ring. And that was when she remembered to hesitate.

What am I doing? She asked herself. My duty is to the people of Dawnwick. Even as I sit here, there are Templars fighting to protect the herd from a murderous beast. Yet here I am, chasing fancies beyond the veils. Composing words to a man I'll likely never meet again. This… this isn't who I am.

"Who is that letter to?"

Jasper looked up with a jolt, startled by the voice and presence beside her. To her embarrassment, she'd nearly forgotten all about the young woman who'd joined her at the oak tree some time ago.

Sister Sheeran had been the only Anchored soul to have played a role in toNight's operation—and what a vital one it'd been. With the Butcher now effectively trapped in the Catacombs, the Templars had offered to escort the girl to her accommodations, but she'd refused. In her own words, she had to 'see this through to the end'.

The young woman now turned the same determined gaze onto Bishop Hanafin as she waited. Again to her embarrassment, Jasper struggled to find a response 'becoming' of her place in the herd.

"It's… to a friend," Jasper stammered, subconsciously holding the envelope closer to her chest. "Not that I know him too well. Forgive me, I can't say much more. Strictly speaking… this is extraneous to my Templar duties."

Sister Sheeran nodded promptly, as if she'd understood everything. Her expression remained tense yet focused—and utterly free of judgment.

"Are you having second thoughts about sending it?"

Am I that obvious? Jasper wanted to ask, but instead, she put on a stilted smile and deflected. "I think I might sit with it a while. Really reflect and make sure I've chosen my words correctly. And whether I'll send it or not after that… I suppose that can be a decision for another Day."

At this, Sister Sheeran's countenance did shift, softening with the hint of a teasing smile.

"This friend of yours. He the sort to expect you to choose your words?"

Jasper's smile, never meant to stick in the first place, faded in an instant. For the first time in a long time, she was lost for words. Not even the Viceroy ever pushed and challenged her like this Peridot aft'Sheeran seemed perfectly happy to.

"I'm just a lass from the farmlands," Peridot went on, still wearing that faint, teasing smile, "so don't put any stock in what I have to say. But I reckon, Bishop Hanafin, that with all you do for the city Day in and Day out and sometimes through the Nights, you've earned yourself the right to pursue a few extraneous interests. And as for letters… I find the best ones come straight from the heart."

Jasper stared a while longer.

Above her, the oak tree and its antler-like branches swayed from the wind. But was it wind or the beating of butterfly wings against gossamer veils? Seconds ticked, draining away the Gloaming hours—and narrowing the window that yet peeked through between worlds.

Jasper eventually nodded, as if to herself. She called to her remaining butterflies that yet fluttered amidst her roses, and she passed the letter onto their capable WINGS. The butterflies took off into the night, envelope secure (and more importantly dry) in their grasp.

It was Peridot's turn to look up in frank surprise.

"What, you're sending it out now? Just like that?"

Jasper laughed. Genuine and carefree. Hers was the unburdened and unapologetic laughter of a soul who'd been nothing but true to herself.

"Upon reflection," she said for the benefit of her new friend on one side of the veils, "I reckon my words were just fine the way they were, straight from the heart. Besides, I need a special courier for this particular delivery. And as far as I know, she only works during the Gloaming hours."

Variegated WINGS beat against fates perhaps a little more mutable than once thought. They carried hope and purpose, across the Gloam and into the darkness of Night.

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