Darkness and Beauty (The Fated Series, #1)

Chapter 39 - Darius - Melody

Day two of training was pathetic. Utterly...pathetic.
Ella – who I'm still having a hard time trusting – has us trying to summon the elements. You'd think that since I managed to summon a wall of flame when Garrison tried to take my book away, I'd be able to summon a small little flicker of it.
Yeah, no.
Getting the elements to appear and disappear on my arms has become easier, and maybe with a few more days it'll be second nature. Getting one element to appear in one hand and the second in the other...we're both struggling.
Our turtle slow pace of improvement has me worried and anxious for the sun to set so we can go back into the tunnels to start training again. It's been nagging at Clarice too, making her foot bounce or finger tap obnoxiously quick. My mother was getting tired of our tapping and nail-biting, so she sent us out into the gardens for a walk. Neither I nor Clare were paying attention as our feet moved and we ended up at the shoreline of the moat. This far away from the busy castle, no noise traveled nearby except the sounds of nature alive midday, so we decided to try and distract ourselves and lay down on the grass.
The sun is shining and keeping us from freezing in the late autumn temperature, and a soft breeze cools us off when the sun's too hot. Perfect weather. Siscilla claimed that it's because of me and Clarice, but I honestly don't think that we have that sort of control to make the weather so nice. I did, however, rethink it when I saw Adeline's willow. Last I recall, it was losing its leaves and becoming bare. Now the leaves look like it should be springtime with their rich green shade. Clarice totally flipped when she saw it and started yelling at the Gods asking if it was some sort of sick trick the Gods were trying to pull.
We all kind of stood around the crazy looking woman, waving at the passing Court or servants that looked concerned and appalled at her use of language.
Now she's perfectly calm and making ripples in the moat with her fingers she gently draws patterns with. She's lying on her stomach, her chin perched on her other hand and her yellow mask shining gold in the sunlight. The marigold gown she's wearing is made of velvet to partially guard against the cold. I have to put my hands beneath my head to keep me from reaching over to feel the fabric. Velvet has always been my favorite, along with silk. I don't know why, just that I love feeling the fabric against my palm. Most of my things are velvet and silk because of the small obsession. The only clothing that is ever different is my formal attire. All my jackets are lined with silk on the inside, and the outside whatever fabric Lilian decided to use. Velvet is too thick for the summer heat piled within my other layers, so it lines all my winter clothing, but even with my velvet-lined jacket I can't feel its softness through the sleeves of my shirt. Hence my urge to pet her dress.
I look away from it before I do act on my thoughts.
The Dozen are sitting around us, all their heads on a swivel. I tried getting them to relax and lie down too, but since the whole superpower reveal, they haven't lost their tension. They still joke and fool around as always, but they have one ear in the conversation and the other listening for someone around the corner. They're doing it now, and I'm starting to find the quiet agitating.
Thankfully, Clarice breaks it. "You know, I never gave you guys a name."
"I'm pretty sure mine's Gabriel."
"And mine's Alexander, but you can call me Alex." He gives her a wink to which she glares over her shoulder in response.
"That's not what I meant, smartass," she slides, flipping onto her back. "I meant that I need to give the twelve of you a group name. You know, like the Hávarđur, or something."
I think my brain just committed suicide. "Hava-what?"
"It means high guard."
"Well, maybe you could find something...more pronounceable," I suggest.
"What about...the Dušan."
"That sounds an awful like douche..."
She turns to me, wickedly smiling as she says, "So it's perfect then."
"I think so."
"No," Benny answers flatly.
Her face falls, but only slightly. "Fine. Then how about Ǽschylus."
"Didn't I say pronounceable?"
"You guys are no fun," she whines like a toddler.
Vlad takes pity on her mimicked sad face. "What does it mean?"
As if her answering smile wasn't enough, she mumbles, "Shame."
"Oh for Saint's sake."
"Alright, alright. All seriousness, I think you should be called..." This time she takes a while to think about her suggestion. Her bottom lip gets stuck between her teeth. I watch her get stuck, wondering what it must be like in that complicated head of hers. I can barely keep up with her words and facial expressions I'm still learning to track. I'm not sure I would survive the running thoughts in her mind.
Her cheeks fill and her eyes light up when the thought strikes her "The Bhaltayr."
"What does this one mean? Bastards?" Winston snarks.
She smiles wider up at the sky. "The Bearers of Espoir."
"Espoir?" Thomas asks. My head lifts from the floor. I hadn't realized he was here, fucking ghost.
"Hope."
Hope...
My friends have been many things for me, they've done many things to keep me sane, and giving me hope is one of them. The Bhaltayr doesn't just sound like a badass group of men, but it describes what I know they stand for. As I watch them all consider the name, I start to picture what it could look like.
When people see them they'll whisper their names in both awe and - well, hope. They'll be the symbol of the new world. A world where peace isn't a question, but an answer. I'll just be a King – an elemental King, maybe – but they'll be the men that kids will grow up impersonating. The name won't just be a name, but a prayer, and I honestly don't know how Clarice came up with it, but I think it's just about the most beautiful thing she's said since I've met her.
"But I liked being called The Dozen." I glare deeply at Alister. Where's his common sense?
"You're unbelievable," Clare sighs, flopping back onto her stomach. "Stories of The Dozen's idiocy and ludicrousness-"
"Hey-"
"-will be told around the world, and retold for generations."
I have to bite my lip to keep myself from laughing and earning a likely small pebble she was shoving into the softer dirt to the head. Her nose is doing that cute little scrunch again. It only happens when she's disappointed, not mad. No, mad is when her face turns into a blank canvas except for her eyes which will be swirling with wrath and a promise of pain.
She's pouting, and it's cute.
I roll onto my own stomach, setting my cheekbone into the palm of my hand to admire the small tick in her jaw, marking her annoyance. "An alluring sentiment, Waterlily."
She scowls sidelong at me. I can't help but smile a little again. When we first met, her stony looks would burn the world down. Now, these looks feel like nothing more than the soft brush of velvet against my skin. She's beginning to lose her touch. Or maybe she's finally warming up to me, or me to her - though to be honest, I had taken a liking to her the second she didn't give a shit about my title or the crown on my head or the throne I sat on.
At first, it was her eyes that entranced me. I swore they were familiar and that I had seen them before, and I still believe that I had, but I haven't been able to recall from where. All my thoughts were on her eyes. That was until she opened her mouth, and since then I've found myself looking forward to what she'd say next. Something snarky, something smart, something hilariously stupid. Or maybe just her laugh.
"The Bhaltayr," Garrison muses. He looks out at the castle and its expanse as if imagining the halls full of voices saying their name. It starts in the shadows, too new and too shy to be heard, but then it's being widely spoken and then cheered. Garrison doesn't openly grin too much, but I swear there's a soft lift of his cheek.
It stays there as he takes a long, deep breath and exhales slowly. A second later, he lies down on the grass and watches the clouds slowly pass over us.