There are no words to compare how utterly liberating it is to be rid of the constricting glamour. To force the life-weave to project a different form, to twist the body into a different shape, it isn’t natural. It’s constricting and tight and wrong, but it’s necessary for survival, so Heron endures it when he needs to.
Now though? Now he’s free, both of the glamour and the need to conceal his seiðr. He just needs to get out of here. Alive.
A breath, a pause, a moment in time suspended by the golden energy singing in his veins and pooling in his hands; the calm before the storm. Then, a sigh. The moment breaks as a wave against the shore, noise and commotion and havoc making themselves known once more before power swells and surges as a tsunami crashes against the rocks with shattering force. People are suddenly pushed away, stumbling backwards and into each other, tumbling together in a colossal tangle of limbs and fabrics and goods. The Enforcers shout for order, merchants scramble for their spilt wares, and aristocrats are horrified at their situation.
No one has time to pay heed to the small shadow slipping away into the side street.
Heron lets out an imperceptible sigh of relief once the sounds of the pandemonium is long out of earshot. Safe. Granted, the Holy Enforcers will no doubt start searching for him as soon as they sort out the commotion, but he’ll be long gone by then, back down into the relative anonymity of Nether-Sresta. That gambit was far more risky than he had planned.
“The epitome of inconspicuousness, hm?” A startled intake of breath, then Heron slowly turns around to greet the owner of that quiet voice. She’s balanced on a ledge above him, crouched and wrapped in the shadows of twilight, having arrived as soundlessly as night falls. Despite the darkness, he can still see the amused tilt to her lips.
“Hawk,” he says in acknowledgment. There’s a beat, a moment of unmitigated relief that she’s safe and not harmed, before the moment passes with the stray wind and the song of their lives continues. Heron scales the wall with deft hands, slipping up to rest beside her. “You heard about the incident?”
She scoffs, dark eyes flashing with humour. “Everyone’s heard. They’re crying for blood because-“ Hawk changes pitch, continuing in a mocking tone. “-an Abomination used magic on normal, upstanding citizens.” A soft, derisive snort. “Nice going Heron.”
He winces. “The Holy Enforcers? They’re that angry?”
Hawk tosses him a derisive look. “What do you think?” she snarks, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “That they’d twiddle their thumbs and do nothing? Che.”
It’s a stupid question, he knows. Of course the Enforcers are going to be angry. He pretty much flaunted his unnatural magic in the very heart of their base; it would be a wonder if they didn’t cry for blood. But he hadn’t thought about the consequences of his actions in regards to other people beyond just himself, and there’s a cold feeling in his chest as he realises that the Holy Enforcers are most likely going to scour Sresta for and slaughter anyone with even a hint of magic. He and Hawk aren’t the only ones with abilities.
Hawk heaves an exaggerated sigh to his right and punches him in the shoulder. It hurt. “Oi,” she says, ignoring his indignant cry. “What’s done is done. Stop snivelling and get over it.”
Heron scowls but stands up nonetheless, rolling his shoulders as he does so. “Yeah yeah,” he says, and as dismissive as it sounds, he knows Hawk can hear the undertone of gratitude. Despite her gruff tone, she never fails to lift his spirits.
An absent twist of his hand, fingers automatically slipping between dimensions to seek out the ever-present threads of existence, and the gossamer strands curl into his life-weave to grant him the same silent footsteps as his companion. It’s second nature by now; as easy as breathing. Green eyes seek out Hawk’s face. “Let’s go home.”
They ghost through the streets with the swiftness of wind dodging their steps but still staying inconspicuous. Earlier incident aside, Heron does know how to stay unobtrusive. It’s a necessity for survival, a fundamental lesson of a street child, and to have lived past ten years requires a mastery of the skill.
Heron stops abruptly, halting in mid-stride. “Do you hear that?” he hisses, pulling Hawk to a stop.
She looks at him in askance, as if mentally evaluating his sanity. “There is nothing to hear,” she replies slowly.
He shakes his head, green eyes clouding with worry. “No, I-“ He breaks off again, titling his head to amplify his hearing. A pause, and worry is joined by fear. “They- They’re talking about seiðr.”
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