Work Text:
It starts small.
A painting here. A ballad there. A tattoo inked onto the skin of the Tempest herself.
Tary’s books sell wide and far. Scanlan’s songs travel, and he’s not the only one to have been inspired by the charming rogue with the wings of the Raven Queen. Deep in Emon’s tunnels they whisper of the thief who stole himself away from the Spireling’s grasp. Among the Ashari there is a children’s chant about the Tempest’s Shadow.
It starts small, but it does not remain so.
~*~
Gilmore catches a thief in his shop. The boy is wide-eyed and scrawny and shakes like a leaf in his grasp. A call to the guards will have the boy taken, jailed, probably hanged if this isn’t his first offense. Gilmore lets him go with a warning.
The boy returns, not to steal but to give. He slides a magic bauble across the counter, eyes darting to the door, and Gilmore’s heart aches.
He soon acquires a reputation among the children of the streets. He’s fair, honest, pays well and doesn’t cheat even when he could. In the winter he opens up a storage room to them. He keeps it warm and well-stocked with food and tea. Some stay the winter, others only visit once in a while. Many seem poised to flee at a moment’s notice.
One of the children, he’s not sure which, paints a mural on the wall one night. A dark man with dark wings, coins at his feet and daggers in his hands, sketched against the wall. Art of the Raven Queen causes grown men to shudder, but this mural is different. The children sleep peacefully beneath the watchful gaze. They make small statues of a man with wings, carve charms and trade them amongst each other. “Good luck,” say the younger ones. “Memento Mori,” say the older ones. Gilmore says nothing.
Dark wings and dark hair show up in the city’s street art. Gilmore sees a new shrine at the crossroads, rough-hewn planks and a familiar figure inside it. There are coins and candle stubs and feathers scattered at the feet. He leaves a coin one day and feels the flutter of wings at his neck, but when he turns there’s nothing behind him.
~*~
There’s a dark figure in his room one night. Gilmore hasn’t had a threat in years, but the defensive spell comes to his hand easily. He can’t make out many details from the light of the fire and the glowing lamps outside on the streets.
“Shaun Geddmore.”
Gilmore lets the spell fizzle and extinguish. He knows the voice, though it’s changed now, rough and dry like something long-buried and forgotten.
“You are changing Fate.”
Gilmore feels cold. It’s never warm enough in Emon for his taste, even after all these years, but this is a different kind of cold. It’s the chill of death. He’s felt it before, not far from here even, huddled in the basement sheltering Empress Salda and her children.
“How so? My days of adventuring are long gone.”
The figure shifts, feathers rustling. Now Gilmore can see a mask, porcelain and blank. “The thieves. You have spared them. Nurtured them. They were bound for short, brutal lives.”
“And you think that was wrong?” Gilmore feels a flare of anger in his belly.
“I … my Lady she, she maintains the threads of Destiny, the fate of every living person. You have changed much that was pre-determined.”
Gilmore thinks of the children’s pinched faces and racking coughs, before he opened up the spare room to them. He raises his chin. “I will not apologize for that. Nor do I regret it.”
The wings seem to block out all light, save a faint glow emanating from the figure. “You defy my Lady?”
“I defy anything that says we should let those suffering remain so, when we are able to help them instead.” Gilmore clenches his hands into fists. “Someone was kind to you, once, a long time ago. Many people were kind to you, when you lived. Was that wrong? Was that defiance against a god?”
The mask visibly cracks, shattering along the side and over the bridge of the nose.
Gilmore steps forward. “Vax’ildan …”
“No!” the figure draws back, wings coming up defensively.
The rush of air causes the fire to flare briefly. It’s only a moment, but Gilmore sees the tears streaming down that ghastly-pale face.
“What happened to you?” Gilmore asks. Then he reconsiders. “What … is happening to you?”
The words are a whisper, hardly louder than the crackling fire. “I don’t know.”
Then the shadows surge and he vanishes.
~*~
Some of the children assist in the shop now. One has the makings of an artificer, and Gilmore sets her to work on trinkets. Soon she’ll need schooling, and he has a mind to start a scholarship for children such as her.
He hears stories now, from those that still roam the streets at night. How their feet flew over an enormous jump from rooftop to rooftop. How a raven brought them a lady’s jeweled earring. How a shadow moved to hide them from a patrol of watchmen. How a prayer at the little shrine gave them good fortune the night of a dangerous mission.
Gilmore hears rumors from adults in the city too. There are whispers of a haunting at the Raven Queen’s Temple. Strange dreams and disturbing visions among her faithful. Thefts of minor artifacts. A crumbling wall that cannot be repaired even with magic.
There seem to be more ravens in the city now, or at least on Gilmore’s usual routes throughout the city. He isn’t as spry as he once was, so he often stops to sit on a bench and catch his breath. A raven or two or three invariably perch nearby and wait with him.
Gilmore leaves a clump of snowdrops in the small dark shrine. A raven is perched on top of it. It squawks at Gilmore and flaps its wings.
“Are you following me?” Gilmore asks.
“Protect.”
Gilmore starts. He knows raven can speak, has seen trained birds perform at carnivals, but this seems more purposeful.
“Protect.” The bird flaps its wings. “Glorious.”
The bird flies away.
Gilmore makes his way back to his shop. His mind is racing with plans for scholarships, for an expansion to the store to take in more children next winter.
It starts small, but it does not remain so.