This is Chapter 5-2 of a serial fantasy novel.
For the most part, the feast went well enough. His parents were on good behaviour, keeping any horrible teasing to a minimum. Mossalea herself was a presence to behold, especially dressed in something other than her Seedwind gear. She wore a Ran ceremonial breastplate, which was inlaid with dandelion-yellow ivory. Lacquered feathers of matching colour were affixed to the back, raw ends exposed at various lengths to give the notion of wings. Sheer yellow material hung from hoops along the bottom of the plate, forming a semi transparent skirt.
As hoped, Callum’s usual jibber-jabbering was intimidated into relative silence by the striking Got-ran-pal girl. Frix found himself a little short for words as well. He was used to spending time with her one on one, where conversation was easy and stress free. But here, in his family’s feasting circle, the formality of it all dragged on his mind like a stuffy cloud.
It appeared to affect Mossalea too. She was all prim and proper and making polite talk instead of her usual snark. Beautiful as she was in her formal wear, Frix felt as if he saw a different person altogether. It wasn’t bad at all, but different.
He was busy noticing the richness and fullness of her chocolatey brown hair, curious about how she made it do that at all, when he heard his name crop up in the conversation.
“What’s that?” he said.
“Sorry?” said his mother.
“Oh, I thought I heard…” Frix trailed off.
“He was a little… distracted,” chirped Callum, now grinning like an idiot.
“I was just asking your parents why they decided to spell your name with only one x,” said Mossa. She shot a smirk at Callum, who turned red and became very focused on his meal.
“It’s a good question, why did we do that, Enn?” his father said.
“Perhaps we were drunk?”
They all laughed. Mossalea said, “I’m curious. It’s not very traditional, you know.”
Barrod shrugged. “Well, the Bit family has always been a touch open-minded, wouldn’t you say?”
“And prone to drink,” muttered Frix.
“Speaking of which!” His mother got up. “We need to refill the wine bowl.”
“Can’t I have some?” asked Callum. “Be open-minded!”
They laughed again, and in the spirit of the evening, Callum was awarded a small cup of the wine. Things continued to be bearable for Frix, and he relaxed as the food and drink melted into his bones. Before he knew it, the feast was over and it was time to see their guest away.
“I’ll walk you back?” he said to Mossa, as the family said their farewells.
“Ah, a bodyguard? I hear there are witches roaming the camp,” said Mossa.
Friz grinned. There was the snark. Maybe the wine had set it free. “Yes, and I double as a sentry.”
“You still have to tell us what happened on that raid, dearest,” his mother said, swaying a bit. Barrod steadied her with a meaty arm and winked.
“Classified on order of our illustrious Head of Spark, unfortunately, Ennie,” said Mossa. “But let’s just say ol’ Frix here went above and beyond. A few times.” She gave him a look he couldn’t quite figure out.
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Barrod. “We’re going to put our heads down to root. Stay outta trouble, or at least find trouble worth telling a tale about, alright then?”
They set off. Night had fallen, cloudless and starry. The Bit family of tents was near the centre of the camp, while the Ran camped much closer to the edge, preferring the tangle of woodland that made up the tree line. It would be a pleasant, lengthy stroll.
“That was fun,” she said after a few moments. “Your family is lovely.”
“I think my brother is in love with you.”
“I don’t blame him, do you? I mean, look at me.” She wiggled her wings and batted her eyelashes.
“Yeah. What’re you doing with a second rate sentry like me anyway?” He meant to say it with mirth, but it came out sounding somber. Maybe it was the wine… or the lack of sleep. They had barely any rest since returning from the raid: a quick nap after the initial debrief, then the extended debrief which took ages thanks to Dreff storming out on the marshal, then it was home for a wash and then it had been feasting time.
As if to echo the idea, Mossalea yawned and draped her arm over his shoulders. “I dunno. I guess you’re cute, honeysuckle. Sorta funny. You should enjoy it while it lasts.”
He wasn’t sure how to take that. He assumed it was part of the joking.
“Oh, how much more time do I have then?” he said, again trying to sound flippant. It was hard: exhaustion growled at the edges of his consciousness with greater urgency.
“That, I suppose, is with the fortune of the spark. But you definitely have tonight,” she said.
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