Chapter 159 - Farenlight’s Den IX

Claire breathed slowly. The deep wheezes escaped her throat one at a time as she fought to keep her sanity. The attack was awful, perhaps even worse than the ones that came before it; the thoughts that wrought her mind were more explicit, and the time she had spent with its target only served to amplify its effect. The meows she heard were no longer generic, but came hand in hand with a voice she knew. They beckoned her to raise her head, to look into the moistened eyes of the offering before her. With words she had no trouble imagining.

She wanted to vomit. Or perhaps even to stab herself in the throat and be done with it, to wash away the shame with blood. But the familiar, comforting warmth wrapped around her upper body helped to reign in the unease. Slowly but surely, she was able to fight it back, to suppress her overworked heart and quell her frazzled nerves.

When she opened her eyes again, with her breathing calmed, she found that she was quarantined within a bubble. And that her fingers were bloody from scratching against it. Some of her nails were torn out of their places, but they were soon restored by the soothing melody echoing through her ears.

Retracing her spike, she crossed her hands over her chest and hugged her shoulders. They were still trembling. But the fingers that intertwined with hers helped to stop the shaking. To quell the murky fear bottled up inside of her. And silence the provocative, coquettish whispers that danced around her ears.

Looking in front of her again, she realised that the bubble was opaque. Sylvia was the only one to know the full extent of her shame. The others were kept out of it. As much as possible.

Turning into a humanoid, she spun around and buried her head in the fox’s chest. “I thought I could handle it,” she said, quietly.

A hand ran its way through her hair, along with a gentle stream. Warm and soapy, the water washed away the blood that caked her hair and stained her shoulders.

“Are you going to do this every time?” she asked, her voice still husky.

“Mhm.”

“Really?”

“Of course, silly,” said Sylvia.

Claire tightened her grip on the half-fairy’s waist. And took another slow, unsteady breath.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she muttered. “Stupid dog.”

“I’m a fox,” chided Sylvia, with a gentle smile, and an even gentler head pat.

“I know.” Claire tried to fight back a sniffle, “But you’re my dog,” and lost.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” complained the pupper. “And dogs don’t hug you when you have panic attacks!”

Claire tightened her grip on the fox and squeezed the air out of her lungs. “You don’t know that. You’ve never had a dog.”

“You’ve never had one either!”

“I wanted one. But my father…” She cut herself off with a shake of the head. “We’re getting too far off topic.” The fox was grabbed by the shoulders and pushed away. “Thank you, Sylvia. For always doing this.”

“No problem!” chirped the fox. “That’s what friends are for.”

Turning her head away, the lyrkress silently nodded, pulled her hood over her face, and moved towards the bubble’s far edge. It gave as soon as she touched it, allowing her to slip out with no resistance, only the sensation of moving through a sort of membrane.

Lia was seated just outside the magical sphere, a conflicted look on her face. She did away with it as soon as she noticed the halfbreed, turning the confused frown into an awkward smile. “Are you feeling better now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The bubble popped as the lyrkress shook her head, with a beaming Sylvia appearing in its place.

“Weren’t you ju—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” repeated the force mage.

“She means she’s sorry!” said the elf.

“No I don’t.” Claire spun around and moved to flick the fox girl’s forehead, but the unforeseen attack was easily evaded with a twirl.

Sylvia bent forward and stuck out her tongue with her hands behind her back. “Yes you do, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“It’s alright,” said Lia, with a calm smile of her own. “I understand. We all have our pasts, and sometimes, just sometimes, they end up coming back to haunt us.” She placed a hand on her rapier’s handle and gave it a quick squeeze.

“Oh, oh! Does this mean it’s story time?” Ears twitching and tail wagging, the starry-eyed fox conjured a trio of bubble-shaped seats, each large enough to double as a bed. She fell right back on hers, arms spread wide and a large grin plastered all over her face.

The beds weren’t her only creations. She also made a small fire and plopped it right in the middle of the makeshift campsite. Its flames crackled, as if they were burning away a piece of wood, but there was no heat, only a comforting ambience illuminated by oranges and reds.

“I guess so.” With a wistful smile, the brunette moved her hand from her blade to her diary. She started with a moment of reminiscence, her eyes glassing as she looked through the dungeon’s walls, off into the distant past.

“I don’t want to know,” said one halfbreed.

“Claire, what the heck!?” complained the other.

“I don’t want to know," repeated the first, with a brief hiss.

She saw no purpose in burdening herself with a third party’s secrets. The more she was told, the more she had to hide, and the more effort she would have to put into their everyday conversation. Obscuring her own past was already difficult enough; it was too easy to accidentally blurt out the wrong thing whilst speaking with the fox. But despite her reservations, she found herself tempted to comply. She could tell, by staring into the catgirl’s eyes, that encumbering her was not her intention.

“I think you might feel better if you listen. People always say it helps to hear about everyone else’s pain.” It wasn’t as if she was venting or seeking pity either. She meant what she said. Unlike the lyrkress or the fox, she had never been the type to lie.

“...Fine.”

“Wait, wait! What the heck!” Transforming, Sylvia leapt on Claire’s shoulder and lightly rapped her fists aginst the side of her head. “How come you never listen when I want you to listen!?”

“I do.” The mischievous vixen was lifted by the scruff and pulled into her arms. “And she’s a respectable warrior. Unlike you. Her voice is meant to be heard.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense! I’m stronger than both of you combined!”

“Strength alone does not make you respectable.”

“Wha!? I’m totally respectable!”

“No. You’re adorable.” Claire pinched one of her cheeks. “There’s a difference.”

“I know I’m adorable, but that doe—”

She was cut off by another pinch. The fox flailed her arms, but didn’t really struggle. She allowed herself to be silenced by a series of light scratches.

“We can have this talk later. Let’s listen for now. You were looking forward to it.”

“Okay, fine,” she said, with a huff.

Lia, who had been watching the whole exchange, brought a hand to her lips and stifled a giggle. “I knew you were Cadrian, Claire.”

“I’m not.”

The cat narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow, but gave up soon after; reading the practiced poker face was beyond her means. “If you insist.” She adjusted her glasses, and with a flourish, flipped her notebook open. “Where do I begin?” Wondering aloud, she tapped her feathered pen against her bottom lip before turning the journal back to its very first page. “I guess I should start by telling you a little bit about my family.”

The Vernelle household was one that started as lower-middle class. They had only one undersized litter, but even with both the parents working their hardest, they would oftentimes struggle to make ends meet. It was a problem that ultimately stemmed from a series of misguided career choices. The family’s patriarch was a small-time adventurer turned bard. He suffered a wound from a cursed arrow early on in his career, but rather than taking from his family’s already deprived funds, he turned instead to singing, to retell his battles for coin. His wife’s fortunes were as fictitious as his tall tales. Her barber shop, located on the edge of town, was almost always devoid of customers. It was a functional idea in theory, but there were too many competitors for the aspiring barber to earn her keep. Because their claws were sharp and precise, capable of making all the precise cuts required for a complicated style, similar storefronts could be seen scattered all over the town. But while the parents' talents were lacking, the children were particularly remarkable.

“Wait.” Claire interrupted the story by raising her fox. “Did you just call yourself remarkable?”

Natalya coughed and turned away, her cheeks flushed. “I was just repeating what other people used to say about us.” Still red as a tomato, she returned to the story with a cough. “A-anyway, where was I?”

Alina, the older daughter, was particularly renowned. From a young age, she distinguished herself from her peers with her outstanding strength and speed. She had always been interested in swordplay, and when the town guard refused to teach her, she learned by watching their practice. By the age of ten, she had already challenged and bested more than half their number. Her eye-catching antics were discussed by bards, adventurers and merchants, and before long, word of her spread to Sir Belyaev, a retired master duelist in search of a pupil to inherit his blade. But upon making the journey to Paunse, and then to the small town of Krai, he found not one girl, but two, both eager to learn the way of the warrior.

The old berserker had only wanted to take the genius under his wing, but knowing the pain of exclusion, Alina refused to learn unless her sister was taught. So both were made privy to his techniques. The education they received was the same; the old man kept his word and treated the twins equally. And it turned out, even from day one, that they both had a knack for swordplay. Though not as talented as the firstborn, Natalya still learned at an accelerated pace, mastering her first class only two months after its acquisition. It was welcome news, and celebrated by the whole family, but it lacked the excitement provided during the elder twin’s ceremony, which had taken place a whole six weeks prior. It was not the family’s fault. They had every intention of cheering Natalya on, but it was the second time they had received the news, and they didn’t have the money to host another large event.

The older girl never bragged, but Natalya was not oblivious to the discrepancy. She nearly cried herself to sleep that night, stopping only because her sister had intervened. Alina had descended from their shared bunk, pulled her twin onto the roof, and spoke many a word of encouragement. She claimed that the blade was not all there was to learn, that while the older sister was a better swordswoman, the younger one was a better bard. Unlike her tone-deaf sibling, Natalya had inherited her father’s singing voice, and all the wondrous potential therein.

“Your sister lied,” said Claire. “Your singing voice is awful. My ears bleed. Every time you force me to listen.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be so mean,” said Sylvia. “I know it’s not great, but it’s at least better than average!”

“Your average is skewed. You already told me that the other foxes can’t sing.”

“That’s normal! Most people aren’t supposed to be able to sing properly!”

“Try telling that to a harpie.”

“Could the two of you please let me finish?” said Lia, with a strained smile. “And I would just like to point out that my singing voice is one of the best in Paunse.”

“If you say so.” Claire narrowed her eyes and silently concluded that catgirls were simply incapable of singing, precisely because they were derived from Llystletein foxes.

“Good. I’m going to get mad if you interrupt again, okay?” Natalya cleared her throat and continued her story.

Their talk had inspired her to follow the path she wanted, regardless of whether it was the most suitable. Because Alina was a beacon of light, and it was only right for her to be the shadow she cast.

She had always assumed that her sister would forever remain her better. And for the most part, it was true. Sir Belyaev had allowed the older twin to set out on a journey a whole two years before her younger sister. And in just that time, she created an insurmountable gap, nearly acquiring her thousandth level in a single sprint.

Natalya chased after her, continuing at her own pace. She slowly gained her levels, trained her classes, and defeated all sorts of different monsters, just so she could one day become worthy of calling herself her sister’s shadow.

But that day never came.

Because the pair had enlisted, when Paunse made a call to arms. And Alina met her match.

In just one quick exchange, the genius lost her life. To an even more insurmountable monster.

“That’s why I’m here now,” said Lia. “When Alina died, I took her sword and ran as fast and as far as I could.” She tried her best to smile. “I know that, if she lost, I’ll never be a match for him, no matter how hard I train. But one day, I’m going to try. I’m going to try to honour my sister’s life. By killing Virilius Augustus.”

“Augustus? Where have I heard that before? It sounds kinda familiar,” Sylvia tapped a paw against her chin. “Wait...” Slowly, she directed her gaze upwards, towards another one of the man’s many victims.

Claire’s eyes were obscured. She was holding her hood over them with her tail and hiding her expression, but the bottom half of her face gave away all that was left unsaid. Her teeth were clenched, hard enough for blood to seep from her gums. But she said nothing.

“It’s only been a few weeks. And I still can’t get the scene out of my head,” continued the cat. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her head fly. And it scares me, because sometimes I think it might be mine.”

“The butterfly blooms beneath the moon,” said the lyrkress.

“The butter-what?” asked the cat.

“Nothing.” Claire pulled back her hood and leaned back into her bubble. “I just find it funny. That coincidences like this happen.” She took a deep breath and squeezed the fox for comfort. "You aren’t the only one whose life he threw off course.” She flashed a small smile. A genuine one. “I’m running away from him too.”

“You are? Then…”

Lia was cut off by a shake of the head. “I’m not sharing anymore. Not now, at least.” She leapt to her feet and made for one of the room’s entrances. “And you were right. Listening did help.”

Claire grabbed Boris, who had fallen asleep atop what was originally Sylvia’s magical bubble, and mounted him on her back. After double checking that he was secure, she gave her neck a crack and made for the room’s exit.

The cat’s story had only served as a reminder. That she needed power, to overwhelm the unfeeling monster that was her father. If she wanted to live, then she couldn’t stop, no matter whose meows she heard. Not until she was strong enough to face him herself.