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The present.
Saint usually conserved their energy during their turn at watch. Tromping around in tireless vigilance was fine for Grindelza, but they needed their beauty rest. Tonight, though, they could not sit still. That disconcerting conversation with Edmund was niggling at them, and they were still flustered by Yoree having overhead them talking about her. They might have been able to laugh off what she had overheard and direct the conversation away from the topic, but Grindelza had taken too much pleasure in teasing them and poking holes in their non-answers. The whole thing had left them twitchy and restless, so they paced a perimeter around the camp by moonlight, their footfalls nearly silent.
Do you want to kiss me?
Yoree had spoken softly but clearly, her tone free of accusation. Saint had understood her perfectly well, but they had also found themself in the rare position of speechlessness. Really, they hadn’t known that the answer to that question was a definitive ‘yes’ until she was asking it of them. Their feelings were revealed to them as they turned over their memories, and they were disturbed to find that the underside of their interactions with Yoree had long been infested with desire.
It made sense, in a way. They found the druid fascinating, and their instinct had always been to press their mouth to what fascinated them. They had just needed a moment to process the realisation and settle on the perfect lie, but Yoree was undeterred by their clumsy stall. She had simply reframed her question, like her wording had been the issue.
Would you want to kiss me?
Emphasis on the would, as if they hadn’t wanted to kiss her since the first time that she had laughed unselfconsciously in their presence, radiating that warming joy of hers. As if they hadn’t been careful to look away when she raised her waterskin to her lips, and to not lean too close when conferring on Talon matters, and to not let their flirtatious manner make any promises that they shouldn’t keep.
Because the fact was that what Saint wanted should count for nothing in matters such as these— which was to say, earnest friendship, a thing with with which they lacked familiarity or proficiency. In all of their experience, wanting had only ever led them astray and sown hurt behind them, and the thought of hurting Yoree was intolerable. Good-natured Yoree, who had only ever experienced romance between the pages of a book, and whose heart would steal itself if they let it. They could not answer her question in honest affirmative, then.
What they knew would be the key to answering Yoree's question correctly. So what did they know? That she deserved to have what was good for her, and that they could make themself into many things, but they could not be that. So they had obfuscated. They had assured her that they had no intention of kissing her, and if she noticed that they never said if they wanted to kiss her or not, then she let it drop.
That handled Yoree, but what of their own agitation? How might they solidify their resolve in the face of temptation? They would remind themself of what they were, and remember how it was that they came to be.
A long time ago.
Sparrow had learned early that the best way to cry was quietly, and to do so where no one could see you, if you could manage it. The latter tactic often wasn't possible in a crowded orphanage, but that same environment had provided plenty of opportunity to practice the former skill. By the time that they had run away from that place and taken a new name, they had perfected the art of soundless tears. So, naturally, Sorin was surprised when they were halfway through a silent cry, only to hear Talent Knowing's purposeful footsteps approaching.
The moon was high, the air was cold, and the woods were so quiet that they could hear the faint creak of his leather boots flexing as he crouched beside their bedroll. They were facing away from him, their body curled up tight for warmth and their back to the embers in the fire pit. They kept their eyes closed and breathed steadily, as if asleep.
"Bad dream?"
They startled as his words broke the hush. "No," they lied, frustrated that they had given themself away so easily.
"Then what are the tears for?"
“I’m not crying," they mumbled, even as another tear ran down their face, tickling their nose. “Go fuck yourself.”
He was quiet for a moment, then offered, "It gets easier, the picking up and moving on. Staying put for too long is asking for trouble."
"I know that. I’ve moved around plenty.” They heard the rustle of his clothing, and another creak as he adjusted his position. Go away, they thought, with an intensity of feeling that only a fifteen-year-old could experience. Leave me the fuck alone, or at least don't laugh at me.
But he did not go away, nor did he mock their weakness. What he did was worse. He touched them, settling his hand so that his warm palm capped the crown of their skull. Sorin startled for a second time, but they didn’t push him off or retaliate with their usual small violences. They just waited to see what was going to happen. And when he exhaled that soft shush that he used to soothe nervous dogs and riled horses, they were mortified to hear a small, wet gasp escape them. They clapped their hand over their mouth, but it was too late. Between the human contact and the lingering weight of nightmares, their composure buckled. They sobbed into their hands, and it wasn't quiet it all. It was ugly and messy, and worst of all, they couldn't make it stop. They just had to wait it out, like an earth shake, and their mentor was no help, either. He simply petted their head with uncommon gentleness, which made the ordeal go on longer. When their weeping finally gave way to wheezy panting, they wiped roughly at their face with their sleeves.
“Lie on your back now," Talent said, “and close your eyes. I'm going to teach you something."
Sorin squinted at him in weary suspicion. There was just enough moonlight diffusing through the clouds for them to read his expression as he awaited their obedience, and they could detect no ill motive. They were very tired now, so they did as he said.
"Where do your feelings tangle up?"
They immediately understood what he meant. "Here," they said, touching the low centre of their chest. He nodded, once, and then hovered his hand over their face.
"We're going to put them here." He lightly tapped the middle of their forehead. “Troubled feelings are nothing but mess and distraction, at best. Unless you learn to handle them, they’ll get you into trouble. But once you learn, you can stow them away to keep your mind orderly, and make tools of them as you need.”
This sounded like sorcery to Sorin, and they were hooked in spite of themself. “How do I do it?”
“Picture a box: how it looks, how it feels under your hands. Imagine the scent of the wood. This is your box. It has a good, strong lock on it, and only you have the key. Now, reach into that place where your troubles gather— don't make a face. Just follow my words and picture it, clear as you can. Grasp the first feeling you find, and imagine holding it in your hands. Now, open the box…"
The cadence of Talent’s voice was as sleep-inducing as the rocking of a carriage. Before Sorin had finished untangling their griefs and locking them away in the first of their mind-boxes, they had already fallen asleep.
Not much later.
Sorin slammed the room door behind them with all the strength in their skinny frame and tossed themself onto their unmade bed. They used a pillow to muffle their scream of frustration, and then kept it there, pressing it tight against their face, smelling the horsehair stuffing and feeling their lungs ache. When they finally lowered it and gasped a breath, they were lightheaded and the kettle-hot anger in their chest had loosened enough to grab hold of. They locked it away with relief.
Not long after, they heard Talent making nice on the other side of the door, smoothing over the disruption that they had caused stomping and slamming doors. Part of them hated that he was always coming along behind them and cleaning up their messes. Another part was relieved that it sounded like they weren't being turned out. This late and on the eve of a big festival, it would be near impossible to find decent accommodations.
They tossed the pillow away, sat up, and pulled their knees to their chest. As Talent let himself in and locked the door behind him, they turned their face away and stared at the wall, as if they found the folksy daubed paint pattern very interesting. The mattress shifted when he sat on the edge of the bed.
"Sometimes I forget.” He spoke as if he was picking up where they had left off in easy conversation, when in fact, they had cursed him out from across the inn tavern not ten minutes ago. "You're skilled for your age, and you're a quick learner, no doubt. You'll be a damn good grifter one day. But you're still young yet, and I’ve been too lenient."
They scoffed at that, their body curving inward as they rested their head on their knees. Their hair had been recently cropped and dyed dark, so that they could better play the part of Talent's son, and they missed the protective curtain of their longer locks.
"You think I'm being unfair, but I'm not. You'll sit the rest of this one out."
That made them lift their head and look at him in affront. "But it's a two-man con! And I've done it perfect! I put in the foundation work, and I nailed the approach…"
"No, you haven't."
"I befriended the son! He trusts me, likes me!"
"He was meant to befriend the boy you're pretending to be. You have let yourself care about what happens to him, which you made plenty evident with that little display downstairs. Your feelings are grime in the gears, and I won't have it on my job."
"This is bullshit," they spat. "You're just angry because I questioned you. Makes me think that maybe I was right."
"You weren't. Soft is what you are, and still too green to depend on. You know what we call a conman who goes stupid over a mark? 'Sucker' if you get lucky, and 'dead' if you don't."
"I'm not soft! I haven't gone stupid. I just…" They searched for a way to explain themself that he would understand. "I just don't think we need to take them for everything. It's still a sweet score if we leave them with enough to get by."
Talent sprang to his feet and motioned around the room. "That's an awfully noble position to take, considering that the dinner in your belly, the finery you so enjoy, this roof over your head-"
"Stop it!”
Talent's galloping words trampled their attempt at interruption. Sorin's heart began to race as the energy in the room wound up tight.
"-are only possible because of the very work you decry, but if you want to take a saintly position-"
"-I know that, I just-"
"-feel free to climb back into the gutter and make your own way-"
"-don't see why we have to be cruel, when they have been kind to us-"
"Kind!" He barked a scornful laugh. They made to move away, but he was quicker than they were. He grabbed their upper arms with bruising strength and forced them to face him.
"Of course they were all welcomes and niceties— they mean to take us for fools! That's the name of the game, sweet Sparrow, as you should well know by now. 'No honest man falls for a confidence scam', remember? The rich are greedy and vain and foolish, but their greatest sin is our way in: They believe that they deserve everything they have, and then more still. When the bait is an opportunity to profit at the cost of another, they will always bite. We're only returning the favour."
They knew better than to argue further. They set their jaw and met his gaze with defiance, which made him laugh unkindly. His breath smelled like whiskey, and his grip on them tightened, but they did not flinch.
"You know I'm right." He gave them a little shake before releasing them. "You just don't want to admit it, because you think you've made a friend in that young man. But don't you forget this, Sorin—if you do your job right and act your part, no one will ever really know you. That trust, that affection? It's false, all of it, and that's the way it should be. Don't bother with guilt, either. Unless you want a rope necklace, you had best be on your way to the next town with your score well in hand by the time your mark realises what you’ve done. Remorse will only slow you down."
With that, he turned away from them and poured himself a drink, leaving them to glare daggers at his back.
A couple of years after that.
“Shilo, wait.”
Sorin halted with one leg swung over the windowsill. As they looked back over their shoulder, the light of the full moon spilled into the dark bedroom and the gauzy curtains billowed around them with a summer breeze. “Mila?”
Mila was eighteen-years-old, same as them, but they could not be any more different. She had the tender hands of a girl who had never worked a day in her life, and an even more tender heart. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was sweet, and they had done their job, which meant that she had fallen for Shilo Waverly. They had already said their goodbyes twice over, but now she was disentangling herself from the sheets of her canopy bed and rushing towards them in a nightgown as gauzy as the curtains.
They hopped down from the window, took Mila in their arms, and kissed her with what they hoped was convincing enthusiasm. If their heart was racing with anxiety, well, she could attribute that to ardor. When they parted, Sorin/Shilo sighed with exaggerated feeling and cupped her face in their hands. “I know, Mila. I would stay, if I could. I’d keep you in bed with me long past the sun had risen, and let the rest of the world move on without us.”
“I want that, too… Oh, I'm just going to miss you so much. I will see you again, won’t I?”
Sorin knew that their only job was to get out of that big old manor without giving Mila reason to suspect anything was amiss, and to that end, they should promise her whatever she wanted to hear. But she felt so soft and vulnerable in their arms, and her hair smelled like roses and the room still smelled like sex, and the thought of her waiting in vain for Shilo Waverly made them feel strangely disoriented.
They swallowed hard. “I hope so,” they said, and they were relieved to hear how smooth their words sounded. “I’ll do my best to return to you. But if I am to make my fortune and become someone worthy of you, then I must go where the road takes me.”
Mila initiated one last tearful goodbye kiss. Sorin/Shilo gave her what she wanted, and she finally let them go out the window. When they were close enough to the ground that they wouldn’t break anything, they dropped lightly into the expansive garden and took off in the direction of the back gate.
They jogged through a cultivated grove of flowering trees, tasting their fragrance as they breathed deeply. Their nerves were calmer now that they were out of the house, but a faint nausea was stirring in their stomach. I will see you again, won’t I?
As they approached the high wall that surrounded the estate, Talent stepped out of the shadows and startled them. The heel of their boot slipped on the fallen petals carpeting the grass, but he caught them with an arm around their waist and set them back on their feet.
“Ah, there’s the young lover.” There was a plucked rose in his hand, and he stuck it behind their ear with a smirk.
They ignored his tease. The point of a thorn scratched them as they pulled the rose free and tossed it on the ground. "The lift all good?"
He patted the bag hanging at his side. “Smooth as silk. Did the daughter come through?”
In answer, they presented the big old key that hummed between their fingers like a struck tuning fork. Their mentor smiled in equal amusement and approval.
“Then we’ll celebrate your success tonight.”
“I just want to get out of here,” they grumbled, “and to see the magic happen. Hurry it up.”
The gate didn’t seem enchanted until Talent brought the key closer. Sorin watched in amazement as symbols appeared on the ancient lock, looking like strange little letters that shivered and shone like candlelight. They wondered if magic might be a kind of language, and if it might be possible for them to learn it. The notion of being able to enchant any lock to be unpickable was an appealing one, and they wondered what other problems magic might solve.
They retrieved their mounts and gear from the hiding spot and hurried down the road south. Once they had gone far enough that it was safe to slow their horses to a walk, the sky was lightening in advance of sunrise. As the early birds got started on their songs, Talent brought his black mare close to their sleek bay and struck up the exact conversation that Sorin did not want to have. As their teacher waxed on about the finer points of romance scams, Sorin turned most of their mind to other subjects and responded in shrugs and noncommittal sounds.
“— there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy yourself, so long as it doesn’t interfere with the job.” Their full attention snapped back to Talent when he leaned over his horse and clapped their shoulder. “Of course, if you applied the wisdom that I so graciously bestowed upon you, then your young lady enjoyed herself, too. Did you try the trick with the-?”
“Enough,” they blurted. They put a little more distance between their horses, their cheeks blushing hot. “My part went smooth. We have all the time we need to get away.”
Talent looked to the sky, judging the hour. “Hm, Lady Galfort should be rising soon. I imagine that the stiff old bird will wake the whole house when she discovers the theft... and anyone else for a mile around, the way she screeches.” He sat back in his saddle and chuckled at the thought, but Sorin had gone back to their other thoughts and didn’t laugh with him.
After a stretch of silence, Talent glanced sidelong at them with a knowing look on his face. “That wasn’t your first time with a woman, was it?”
They felt their flush spread to their scarred ears and down their neck. “No,” they lied.
He grinned at them. They rolled their eyes and tried to put the whole thing out of their mind, but they caught a whiff of floral scent clinging to their clothes, and suddenly that disorientation they had felt in Mila's bedroom overtook them. Yes, Shilo, don't stop. An acrid taste rose in their throat and they broke out in a cold sweat. Then we’ll celebrate your success tonight. What was wrong with them? Forget a new mind-box, they would need an ironbound chest to contain whatever this was. I'll just miss you so much.
They focused on not running off the road and breathing through their nose, and with great effort they thought of topics as far removed from roses and bedrooms as they could manage. Things settled again, but they knew their composure was precarious; so when Talent opened his mouth, they could not stand to hear whatever wisdom he would next impart to them. They kicked their horse into a trot to leave him behind, but his low laughter followed them up the road.
Only a few years ago.
For nearly six months longer than originally planned, Sorin had stayed put. Over that time, Songtooth had opened its doors and windows to them, and navigating its streets was second-nature again. They still stepped lightly and didn’t make a regular of themself anywhere, but the town had revealed itself to them by day and by night, and it had grown on them in a way most places didn’t. And for six months, Sorin had waited for their lover to open to them as her town had. They had been as patient as they knew how to be. They had made gifts of their time, their attention, their exclusivity. They had sought to play it cool, but found that impossible when their Bella made their blood run so hot. In her presence, confessions fell from their lips, and sincerity of feeling made their tongue stumble and their lies unravel.
What did they even know of her? They knew her drink of choice, and that she preferred wearing her leathers to anything else, and that she lived in a mask so well-constructed that it had taken them weeks to get a glimpse behind it. They knew how to make her thighs shake, and that she was strong enough to lift them in one arm, and how she looked in the morning after a late night. But she had never taken them home, only to a rented residence that was free of any clues to her private or professional lives. When they shared personal stories, she listened with interest and did not reciprocate. What they knew of her profession was educated guesswork, and she never spoke of family. They didn’t know who she belonged to, or if she had anyone depending on her— or, anyone aside from Sorin, who clearly didn’t count.
There were times when it almost seemed like Lamakh was hovering at the threshold of trust, and that their faith might finally pay off. At other times, they were certain that they had been left out in the cold. In spite of themself, they had proven incapable of staying away from her, even as she seemed perfectly content to keep them at arm's length. If they hadn't known the pleasure of licking crumbs from her fingers, they would have been shamed by the way that they dropped everything when she called and took whatever she had to give.
For the last month, their time together had been especially rare. They hadn’t even seen her face in a fortnight, and when they arranged to finally meet again, she was over an hour late. As they paced the floor of that expensive room at that expensive inn, they were lovesick and furious at themself for being so. They wanted to demand an explanation, but when Lamakh finally showed up, she dropped a heavy bag on the floor and pulled them into her arms before they had even closed the door behind her.
All of their frustration flew out the window, and they were dizzied by the relief that came from knowing they were still wanted. If they had questions about her freshly-bruised knuckles and the bandage around her bicep, the hunger in her kisses made Sorin forget them. When she pulled roughly at their beautiful clothes, ripping seams and sending buttons flying in her rush to get her hands on them, they just laughed in breathless delight. And when Sorin shook apart in release right there in the middle of the room, it was only her binding embrace that kept them them from falling when their legs gave out.
They eventually made it to the bed. Lamakh was ravenous that evening, and only after they had come again did she finally allow them to demonstrate what they knew of her. She barely breathed a sound when she arrived at her own climax, but the music of her quaking body against theirs conveyed a symphony of feeling, and she had crushed them to her afterwards and breathed their name like a prayer.
It was mortifying to the point of pain to admit it, but there was no other truth than this: They had been utterly smitten, and foolish with it. They had believed that Lamakh would step over that threshold and join them, if only she knew what they were willing to bet on her. As they lay tangled up together and she stroked their back, Sorin had not only made an offering of their first and truest name— they had gone all in, kneeling on the shards of their pride and asking to belong to her.
Lamakh’s hand stilled in its stroking path. The silence that followed their proposal lasted only a few seconds, but that was long enough to sink their stomach and open their eyes to reality. The shame they felt then was profound, and they could barely bring themself to look at her face. When they forced themself to, her expression was guarded. Her eyes met theirs and searched for something that they couldn’t even guess at. Just tell me what you’re looking for, they wanted to beg. I’d do anything, be anything, if only I knew what you wanted.
Before they had to figure out how to move on from that moment, it was interrupted by urgent knocking on the room door. Sorin didn’t recognize the voice speaking in hurried orcish on the other side, but Lamakh did, and whatever information had been conveyed made her expression darken ominously.
They donned a mask of cool composure, but their heart was pounding and their voice wavered. “What is it?”
“Probably nothing,” Lamakh said, voice roughened and low. She efficiently disentangled herself from them and climbed out of bed. The loss of her warm, solid body beside them felt like losing their last grasp on something necessary for survival, and muffling dread settled over them. “But best to make sure.”
They watched her quickly pluck her clothing from what had been discarded on the floor. That dread was so cold. Stupid, clinging, needy Sparrow. Always fucking up. She just doesn’t want you, not like you want her, and it's no wonder why.
They opened their mouth to ask her to wait, but then sudden disorientation, moonlight and the scent of roses
Shilo, wait.
and they shut their mouth.
Lamakh had her back to them as she donned her leathers, so they couldn’t read her face; she finished with the clasps and buckles, shook out her dark hair, and moved towards the door. When she spared a glance for them, her expression lightened by a degree, and she took a breath as if she was about to say something. Sorin’s heart lifted in one last spasm of hope. Another round of knocking, more urgent and even louder, interrupted whatever she was about to tell them.
“I have to deal with this.” Her accent thickened with frustration as she glowered at the door. “Stay here.”
Their Bella went away, and they were left alone in that big bed, with its sheets ripped up at the corners and its pillows that retained her clove-and-ginger scent. Their heart fell and didn’t rise again.
They did stay, at first. They drank some wine, but it just made them feel sick. They rested their head on the pillow that smelled least strongly of her. They replayed what they had said, cringing in bewildered shame, and they examined and re-examined their memory of her non-response for any hint of hope. They waited until they could see the moon from the window, perhaps two hours. That was how long it took for them to understand it, in the bone deep way of understanding that only comes from lessons hard-learned. If Lamakh returned at all, she would not be coming back for them.
With that understanding, the cold dread became shocking, like the time that they had fallen through a frozen pond and the icy water locked their body up. Just as it was then, they found that they couldn't get a proper breath, and they were beginning to panic. Every box in their head was unlocking at once, and they were mocked by phantom laughter. The only thing they could think to do was to move, to leave, to run far and fast. They dressed, struggling with their buttons and the laces of their boots, and they tried to go. Before they could make it to the door, the edges of their vision clouded dark. They dropped onto their knees and dug their fingers into the carpet.
They couldn’t let themself be this. If they were a heartbroken fool, they would wait forever, choking and dripping tears all over themself. They could only get out of here if they were something else.
Their tear-blurred gaze settled on the bag that Lamakh had left behind. They pulled it towards themself and went through its pockets with a thief's efficiency. Having the task to focus on stopped their crying, and their breath came easier. They inventoried a goodly sum of gold; an empty iron ring meant for keys; a stack of letters addressed in mysterious code; one unaddressed envelope separate from the rest; and a very fine dagger.
It was the one with an elegant cross guard and a handle of engraved ivory, and it was probably Lamakh's finest. Sorin had always admired how it looked in her grasp, but as they pulled it from its sheath and examined the blade, they were pleasantly surprised by how well it fit in their own hand, and delighted to find that it resonated with subtle enchantment. They tested the edge and found it as beautifully sharp as they could hope for. Truly, it would make a perfect score. As they sucked the blood from the side of their thumb, they remembered what they needed to be and relief washed over them. The notion they had ever been unsure of what to do was so absurd that they laughed into the empty room.
Love had made them soft for a time, but they could always be what they had been fashioned into—a damn good grifter who knew better than to go stupid for a mark, and who could ace the blow-off with the best of them. They would make Lamakh into a mark, then, and shape the story into something that let them go free. And just as they had done in taking their leave of Talent Knowing for good, they would fashion betrayal into a key to lock the door behind them. That way, they couldn’t even dream of crawling back to her.
They burned the letters unread and left the ashes in the middle of the bed. They took the gold, of course, and as they had been taught to do, they made it to the next town over with their score well in hand. Then they had just kept moving, never looking behind them for longer than it took to scan for trouble. After all, the way back was shut, and remorse would have only slowed them down.
The present once more.
Saint's legs were weak with fatigue and their back ached, but their anxious energy had finally been expended and their watch was coming to an end. As they made soft-footed passage through the camp, their hand resting on the ivory handle of their dagger, they checked in on everyone asleep. Bella's blade had been silent all night, its magic detecting no danger, and it did not sing out as they approached each of their travelling companions in turn.
They passed beside Edmund’s wagon first. They half-smiled to hear his soft snoring, and they were surprised to find that they had already forgiven him for kicking off their trouble with his careless bantering.
Next, they paused at the foot of Yoree’s bedroll, where she was curled up like a nesting animal. They let themself notice that she slept with her staff within reach and how her hair shone in the firelight, but they caught themself before their thoughts strayed too far into tenderness.
Lastly, they approached Grindelza. Her faithful mastiff lifted its broad head and stared at them until they removed their hand from their dagger hilt; only then did Giddy allow them to approach and wake the paladin for her shift.
As they settled to sleep, their body sank into the relief of stillness, but there was still one thing to do. They closed their eyes and rested their hand over their overtired heart, and they pictured their mind-boxes. Their journey through memory had caused the locks on some of them to rattle warningly, and others had burst open and spilled their contents, so maintenance was required. They tidied their mind, settling what they could and locking up the things that needed to stay shut away. Then, they fashioned three new boxes.
The first was simple and sturdy chestnut, with an unexpected amber inlay on the lid. The second was a natural maple so pale that it would reflect all kinds of light, decorated with leaves in carved relief. The third was a glossy redwood, precise in construction, with silver crescent guards protecting each corner.
Saint was finding that friendship was even messier and more complicated than they had anticipated. With these new additions, they were comforted to know that, should they ever need to contain the grief of loss—that most weighty cost of caring—they would be ready. In final preparation, they imagined a lock on each new box, but as they let sleep take them, they left each of them unlocked.