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“There are extenuating circumstances. They might just execute you. They might feel terrible about it, and they might apologize profusely, but [Lochfort] has seen some shit and they do not want another epidemic breaking out.”
Jason Massey, Episode 34
“Fear has a funny way of causing normal people to make exaggerated decisions completely based in fear. Not only are they going to see her as a monster, they’re going to think about all the things that could happen, and they’ll start to see them as absolutes. They will kill her.”
Grayson White, Episode 38
“Do you think what you want is more important than the safety of everyone else?”
Larg, Episode 34
Aubrey
In the second week of the truce, after terms had been hammered out, residences arranged, and repeated hostile talks were had, Jonathan walked from the general goods store in the early night with more than a dozen live chickens stuffed in a cage. A few would be dinner tonight and the rest would be raised in case the city’s promise to provide them with food was ever a ruse to drive them out. Better safe than sorry, and if they were going to eventually run an inn they’d need eggs and meat anyway. The chickens weren’t happy with the cramped transport and clucked furiously at him. He stopped every little while to calm them down, their cries piercing the otherwise quiet air.
From his side came a chuckle and, “It’s no use, y’know. Chickens are noisy on a good day, let alone while they’re stuffed inside a crate.” A woman had turned the corner and seen him kneeling down next to the crate, shushing the birds and praying that Melora or Erathis or somebody would shut the feathered menaces up. Without pause, the woman knelt down next to him. “Come on, it’s a big cage, and they might settle down if the ride’s a little smoother.” She patted his hand, frozen where it had been resting atop the cage. Friendly and casual, as if he were a regular neighbor. “You grab that side, I’ll grab this one. Don’t worry abo—” She was moving to pick up her half of the crate when it clicked in her mind – night time, cold skin, the truce, live animals – and she stared at him in horror, the moonlight washing out his already pale skin.
At times, it was impossible to forget you were undead, undeniably separate from the other people puttering around breathing in air and spilling their own blood doing foolish things. Under distress, a living person’s blood pounds, their limbs shake, everything about them moves. A vampire holds still. Fear and hunger, shock and anticipation, are rolled into one reaction: wait. As the woman’s eyes widened, as she jerked back, every single muscle in Jonathan’s body held still like a statue – like a corpse – and he felt sick looking at her, but he couldn’t unlock his legs and run. A deep-rooted instinct rebuked him: she’s going to scream/don’t let that happen/fresh blood/she’ll alert everyone/you’re going to die/it would be easy. But he couldn’t; he was motionless, a harmless fangless corpse.
She screamed and scrambled away, knocking herself down and hitting her head hard against a wall, and she screamed again. She’d drawn her own blood.
Jonathan closed his eyes and stood, his head pounding. He’d explain to Selena why he didn’t bring back the chickens, it didn’t matter, he had to leave.
He turned, ready to run, when Alexandra appeared in front of him like a vengeful warrior spirit and stabbed him. She paused, after, and took in the scene, the woman, the birds, his face, the sword stuck in him, and said, “Oh fuck.” Jonathan fainted in reply.
Lochfort
“How long have you been afflicted with lycanthropy, Miss Riehart?”
“Since I was sixteen. I’m sure you remember, Taryyn. I ran off from my mom’s place and disappeared for a few years. Well, the reason I was gone was because I got fucking bit, and I knew I couldn’t let anybody know. So I left. Learned a lot out on the road.”
“You survived an attack from a werewolf? Alone?”
“Sheer dumb luck. A wilden saved me. I don’t know why. Apparently they wanted to stick their neck out for a dumbass teen in the woods. I don’t know. I survived, and I got the hell out of town.”
“You claim that you never transformed.”
“I never have. Hand to the gods, I haven’t.”
“You’re over thirty, Miss Riehart.”
“Thirty-five, same as you, Taryyn. I’m not lying. Got attacked on the road to Fairbay and realized what the crawling feeling meant, so I did what I had to do. This thing needed a guard, one with a watchful eye and no mercy, so I got armor and I put it on and I kicked its ass. If it wanted me to get angry, if it wanted me to flip out, then I’d be like a steel wall. It was hard at first, but you get the hang of anything if it saves your life. By the time I got back to Lochfort it was easy as breathing, and I could practically kill a man with a look, so I joined the guard. Been a damn good guard, haven’t I, Taryyn?”
“Miss Riehart, during the Panic…”
“That was a fucking hellhole of a time. Killed one of the monsters myself. Did much better than when I was sixteen….Are you accusing me of leading them in? You can’t be serious.”
“No, no. It’s only…these people, they’re scared.”
“You’re fucking serious. I would rather slash my own throat than willingly endanger those people. They’re my people. You know that. Give me a blade, I’ll save you your damn execution. I’ll prove myself right now.”
“Marina…”
“Oh, no ‘Miss Riehart’ now, huh? Did that make you upset, imagining me dying? Well good luck with that, Taryyn, because you’re going to see it soon, and it ain’t gonna be pretty. A silver headsman’s axe to the neck is in my future, and everyone’s going to cheer.”
“Nobody’s going to be cheering.”
“Stop crying, you coward. I’m not in these ropes so that you can let me go and give me a slap on the wrist. I’m the best guard in this town, but you’re going to kill me because of something that’s never going to happen….Stop crying! I mean it. Look at me. Look at me. See me? I’m not crying.”
“You have to die, Marina.”
“Stupidest thing I’ve heard in my life, and I’ve heard braindead thieves try to justify why they just needed to steal some lady’s expensive necklace. If there’s ever been a werewolf you don’t need to worry about, it’s me. I haven’t felt a single twinge from the thing in years, not since the Panic, and I almost starved back then. A thief stabbed me in the stomach months ago, and I didn’t feel anything from it. Remember that?”
“…Yeah, I do.”
“I know you do. You fussed over me for weeks, expecting a rough breeze was gonna roll me over into my grave. Turns out you’re going to do it instead. Not a werewolf or a bandit or anything else. It’s gonna be you. You’re going to kill an innocent woman that’s only defended her people her whole life without flinching. That feel good? For the gods’ sake, stop crying. You’re pissing me off. Am I supposed to feel bad for you, being ‘forced’ to kill one of your closest friends over a crime that never happened? I don’t feel fucking sorry.”
“I’m so sorry, Marina. There’s no other way. You could kill everyone, and you know it. No matter how good your control is. I’m sorry.”
“When my head comes off, you better be watching me. No turning away for you. Maybe you’ll learn something about common sense. Maybe the next poor hapless soul that comes into this town’ll get better treatment.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish things were different. Oh gods, you don’t know how much I want things to be different.”
“Visit my grave, Taryyn. You owe me that much.”
“I will.”
The next morning, Marina Riehart’s blood spilled onto the earth. Nobody cheered, but nobody cried either. Taryyn nearly vomited at the sight of her head rolling, but he watched until the blood stopped running and the body cooled. It was the least he could do for her.
Aubrey
Jonathan drank heavily for a few days and then he was fine. Alexandra came hat-in-hand to apologize to him, prodded on by a stern-faced Madailein Rhiawen, and Father White issued an apology on behalf of the town, but it was all empty. Within a day, everyone forgot that one of their vampiric neighbors had been within an inch of steel and flesh from death.
“We should stay together when we go out,” Selena said. It was daytime, and they were shut up in the house they were converting into an inn, lying down on the recently scrubbed floor. (“How about the Eternal Slumber?” Selena suggested. “You have got to be kidding me,” Tholin said. Selena replied, “Why not? They can’t hate us more than they already do,” to which Tholin snapped,“So obviously we should bait them!” Jonathan shrugged.)
Jonathan shook his head. “There’s only three of us. It wouldn’t work.”
“At least Maddy’s nice?” Selena said. Her voice was too flat to offer any real comfort.
A weight settled over them, and they were of one mind: the distrustful glances and the two shops that had begrudgingly agreed to nighttime hours and the sharpened stake they’d found on their doorstep and drunken threats they heard drifting out of the Silver Flagon and…everything else.
“I almost died,” Jonathan murmured.
“These people have been through a lot, for a long time,” Selena said, just as hushed.
“Does that make it better? Nobody wants to exterminate Brightport, and most of the people in that city are irredeemable scumbags.”
“We have to give them time.”
“How is that fair?” Jonathan sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I wouldn’t trust us if I were them either. I just wish…”
“I know. Hey, we’ll be alright.” Selena took his hand, and they laid on the bare floor, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think of swords in hearts and holy water.
Bandit’s Rest
Some might call Elise’s home a garbage pile. Some, with a less judgmental eye, might call it a useful stockpile of resources, if a wasteful one. Elise had crossbows and shortswords aplenty, clothes that could fit all manner of people, pillows and blankets and tools and journals and jewelry and gold and horses and everything else, except for furniture. She had a chair or two, nothing much. Once in a while, a bandit discovered her shallow cave filled with goods and she’d come home to find them rooting through her things, tipping things over and making a great mess, but they were easy to deal with and a nice snack besides. Always nice when the rabbit hopped right into the wolf’s jaws. Or right onto the snake’s fangs, to use a more appropriate metaphor.
The best thing about being a vampire in Bandit’s Rest was that no one suspected anyone but bandits when people went missing and their luggage looted. She had to be careful that the bodies were never found, lest outsiders caught on, but mass graves weren’t hard to make. An afternoon’s work of digging was worth living fat off the land.
Unlike the bandits who shared the forest with her, she liked to play with her prey. She would groom a horse, put on one of her nice outfits, something gaudy and silly to wear traveling, and ride down the road, putting on an air of misery. Sometimes a cart would stop, sometimes a party walking on foot, sometimes another lone rider. Her favorite was the lone rider, wary but concerned. Her cover story was always the same – ran away from home, out of food, oh, I wouldn’t want to impose, oh, you’re so kind, stranger – but endearing herself to the newcomer was a different challenge each time. Some liked her fainting and adoring, some liked her tough and indifferent, mean or nice or prim or informal. Riding beside someone else, just the two of them on the road, prying out personal details, understanding how they moved, how they talked, what they cared about: it was thrilling. Because eventually they would stop to rest, be it natural or something she manufactured, and she’d smile at them wide, fangs extended, and the sweet betrayal on their face was better than the taste of their blood when she ripped into them.
Once, a tall, broad-shouldered woman coated in thick armor managed to fend her off longer than a few seconds. She had the gall to look sad, despite the long gash dripping blood down her neck. “You’ve hurt people,” she said, voice resolute. “You deserve to die.”
“And so do all of you!” Elise hissed, spit flying from her lips with the force of her anger. “Vampires are made, not born, you stupid bitch. We’re us one second, and then, whoops, we’re monsters the next. Fuck you!”
Usually, Elise ate neatly. It was unfortunate to ruin a perfectly good embroidered jacket or blush pink blouse. The stubborn ones, who talked back and acted superior, using their last moments to pity or condemn her instead of crying their eyes out and begging her over and over to have mercy, were tore apart. Throat ripped open, her hands slipping in the blood, cutting and stabbing. They were alive during the feeding, and they screamed in her hold and battered at her shoulders.
“What a mess,” Elise said, looking down at her ruined clothes and all the blood running into the ground, and then she started going through her victim’s bags. “Ooh now this is a pretty little ring. I hope it fits.”
Aubrey
In the long run, it was the little things that exhausted Jonathan more than the outright hostility. When he walked outside, people turned corners to avoid him or stayed as far away as possible. The few merchants he managed to talk to either evil-eyed him and jacked up their prices or quivered in fear of him and dropped their prices ridiculously. No one touched him if they could help it. When they talked to him, their eyes lingered warily on his mouth. Most of it, he couldn’t put in such clear words.
An official visited every so often, ostensibly to give any donated human blood but in truth checking for signs of violence, especially if someone had stayed at the Eternal Slumber a couple nights before.
“Business doing well?” the official chirped.
“We get by,” Jonathan replied, trying not to fidget with the jar of blood in his hands. It was winter, so it would keep for much longer, meaning the three of them could savor it rather than gulp it all down for one dinner. He wanted to inspect it, take a sniff, see which donor it was (there was a handful who regularly contributed, and the bright-eyed new acolyte’s blood was by far the best quality), but he knew the man’s smile would fall as soon as Jonathan brought attention to his vampirism. Jonathan could already see him waving in his friends, saying, You should have seen him, pawing and sniffing at it. I’m telling you that no matter how “civilized” they look, they’re still bloodthirsty beasts. They want to kill us as badly as they always have, they’re just being more clever about it now.
“Good to hear!” the man said. “Do you serve food here?”
“Of course.”
“Why, that’s amazing. How do you manage it?”
With effort, Jonathan managed to maintain his easy customer service smile. “The same as everyone else, I’d imagine, except we don’t eat it.”
The official nodded like a sign wobbling in the wind. “Well, isn’t that impressive? Glad to hear it. Good day, Jonny.”
Jonathan waited until the front door of the Eternal Slumber closed, and then he sighed.
Winterhaven
If someone had asked a twenty-year-old Rhodon Merikos where he pictured himself in twenty years, he would have said, “Dead.” Adventurers died young, and he wasn’t eager to retire. He used to brag to his buddies, “They’ll have to drag me to hell before they can stop me.”
Turns out, all it took was a werewolf biting his leg off, and he became a baker in Winterhaven. It wasn’t a good story, so he didn’t like to tell it. One other person had survived the incident, but Sylvio liked talking about dreams and spiritualist bullshit, so it never got talked about. Thank the gods.
If someone had asked a twenty-year-old Sylvio Nightbloom where he pictured himself in twenty years, he would have said, “Oh, probably running an herbalist’s shop and living with a nice man.” If anything, he was perceptive. Exploring was exciting, but it was a novelty. A dangerous novelty, but Sylvio never claimed to have much sense in his head. In the forest, when Rhodon clutched at the bloody space where his leg used to be, sobbing and delirious with pain, Sylvio knew where to lead them.
“A werewolf can’t live in Winterhaven,” Rhodon growled. Really, all the snarling and barking he did was much more fitting now, Sylvio thought. As a tiefling, he already had a tail. The only thing out of place were the horns. Pity.
“A werewolf shouldn’t live in Winterhaven, you mean,” Sylvio corrected. The half-elf had an airy way of speaking, always with a half-smile and half-closed eyes, as if he were falling asleep at any given moment. He was impossible to argue with and a complete, mush-brained idiot.
“I’m not exactly…stable,” Rhodon said through gritted teeth. The anger that had made him so strong in a fight was now a constant danger he had to fend off. Sylvio’s meditation and breathing exercises were unbearable to him – he couldn’t concentrate on them, and then he felt more out of control than before. Already Sylvio had seen him transform twice and had been forced to knock him unconscious, once in a bitter fight that almost killed him and once by drugging some meat and hiding.
Sylvio waved a hand. “Not a problem. We only need you to relax and plenty of medicines can do that.”
Rhodon stared at him. “Drugs, you mean.”
“There really isn’t a difference,” Sylvio said with a shrug.
“You want to keep me from killing hundreds of people in a city by drugging me?” Rhodon said, too flabbergasted to knock the half-elf over the head and tell him how moronic that was.
“It will be fine,” Sylvio assured.
Twenty years later, he wasn’t wrong, exactly. Nightbloom’s Nightshade was a well-liked herbalist’s shop, especially with Sylvio’s lack of scruples concerning sale the of illegal drugs under the table. (“They’re going to find it somewhere else anyway. Mine at least won’t be tainted.”) Rhodon’s bakery just said Bread over the door. A few racists in town called it Red’s Bread, but no one said it to his face unless they wanted to lose a few teeth. Dealing with assholes and annoying people was the reason he hired a clerk as soon as he could afford it and smoked whenever he had to interact with people himself. The front room reeked of the foul cocktail of herbs Sylvio packed for him each morning, three varieties: a mild relaxant that choked acrid and lingered on the tongue; an intense relaxant which plumed bright white smoke and smelled like a sharp cold wind; and a near-sedative that made him clumsy and silly, as if his mind was wrapped in a thick wool blanket, which was a shame since it was the closest to a sweet taste, burnt sugar.
Sylvio wandered in about every hour to say hello. It was common knowledge that if someone wanted to see Sylvio and he wasn’t at Nightbloom’s Nightshade, he’d be leaned over the counter talking to Rhodon as the tiefling bitched about late shipments and taxes and snow.
“I don’t understand Malchus Grimnas. Why the hell would any tiefling want to live in this good-for-nothing frozen tundra? Whatever, he’s so conceited his ego probably keeps him warm, along with that gaudy piece of shit carriage. I swear, if I see that thing rolling through the streets one more fucking time—” Rhodon puffed determinedly at his pipe, white smoke clouding thick in the air. One of his ovens had broken, and it’d been a stressful day before then with his assistant out sick. He was fighting to calm down, emotions tangling and thrashing under the surface as the drugs tried to soothe them and wrap them up.
Sylvio held the hand that wasn’t holding the pipe, his scarred fingers stroking along the lines of Rhodon’s palm. Rhodon tried to focus on the motion, how repetitive and familiar it was – Sylvio had talked for hours about the “vast meaning” to be found in palm reading – but he kept thinking how much time and gold it would take to fix the oven, and his teeth ground hard together.
“Would you like to go home?” Sylvio asked, interrupting a tirade. He had the perfect way of looking into the distance, as if the most important objective of their day-to-day lives wasn’t keeping Rhodon from turning into a slavering beast that would hunt and kill everyone they cared about, starting with Sylvio.
“No,” Rhodon snapped.
Sylvio hummed and nodded. “Would you like to gather herbs with me outside the city? We could bring a pack, sleep under the stars. Fresh air.” As Rhodon opened his mouth to protest, he continued, “We can take as many breaks as you need to rest your leg. It’s no worry.”
Rhodon grumbled something rude about half-elves under his breath and reached for the key to the shop under the counter. “I’ll lock up.”
Aubrey
“You know Grayson?” Tholin asked, without prompting.
Jonathan thought a moment. “Father White’s son? What about him?”
“He’s definitely a vampire.” Tholin crossed his arms and leaned back against a wall.
Jonathan paused where he was knelt down doing inventory among the spare linens to throw a glare at Tholin. “That isn’t funny,” he said.
Tholin shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not joking.” He wouldn’t say much after that. Typical.
Jonathan forgot what Tholin had said within a week. He had things to do, numbers to crunch, supplies to check, a counter to keep; one of Tholin’s deadpan jokes didn’t rate high on his list of priorities.
One of the things Jonathan missed most about being alive (being not-undead? being—oh, whatever) was the ability to get drunk. He hadn’t been a big fan of alcohol before, but he yearned for it in its absence, so much so that whenever the stress became too much, he would fill a canteen with whatever blood they had and then mix in a swig of wine. Once he’d drunk half of it and the wine started to make him sick, he wandered the town to distract himself from the feeling until plopping down in the dirt somewhere in the center and trying not to vomit. By that time deep in the night, he was never sure why he had been so desperate to poison himself, because the gut-churning, weak-limbed feeling was nothing like getting drunk used to be. It mostly hurt and made him dizzy, that was it.
It was such a night, Jonathan lying in the deserted road and drinking the last dregs of his mild poison, when Grayson appeared, towering above him with his arms crossed. “Your friend is an idiot,” Grayson told him.
“Hey, Selena is incredibly intelligent,” Jonathan defended automatically, grateful for the distraction as his stomach heaved. He hiccupped. It was embarrassing. What self-respecting vampire hiccupped?
“I meant your friend Tholin,” Grayson said testily.
“Oh, well, he’s socially inept and a loser.” Jonathan shrugged. “We all are.” His eyes wandered from Grayson’s figure to the night sky, cloud cover pinpricked with stars. He found he appreciated it more while in terrible pain.
Grayson stepped in front of him and leaned down until they were face to face. “We?” Grayson whispered, words crawling out of a strangled throat. “I may share this affliction with you, but I refuse to become an outcast, to have people cower when I say hello, or worse, treat me like an interesting freakshow to point at and laugh. If that is the life you’d like, good for you. You are stronger than I. But your visibility does not mean others cannot benefit from hiding. Tell your friend to leave Tamera and I alone.”
Before Jonathan could process enough of that to so much as blink, Grayson straightened himself up and left.
After a long moment, Jonathan looked at his canteen, finished it off in one mouthful, and said to the sky, “Well, shit.” Of course Tholin had to be right. All Jonathan wanted to do was get drunk, for the gods’ sake.
Yemgar Swamp
Waking up was a victory and a nightmare.
Every time, Lily knew it wouldn’t last. Whatever satisfaction she might have gotten from remembering her name and regaining the ability to walk on her own two legs and speak was washed away by a crushing wave of anxiety. She tried to breathe long, slow breaths, but they came out wobbly and choked.
Her hands were dirty. With what? She scrabbled at it, nails scraping hard but knocking off nothing, it was so hard-packed and thick. Dirt and—was that blood? No no no, please don’t let it be—she scrabbled harder, dragging her hands over her equally dirty body, frantic, panting, crying, squirming, she was covered, what had she done, no no no no—
Through enormous effort, she forced herself to lie still, staring up at the patch of sky through the thick foliage. Her breathing heaved through her whole body, arched her neck on the intake. Spots danced in front of her.
There’s nobody in Yemgar Swamp, she thought. She tried to say it, but all that came out was a wheeze.
That’s why you’re here.
No one travels here.
If they do, they’re not stupid.
If you find them, they can kill you.
She’d thought it a thousand times, waking up in the swamp. The words had no weight. They were lies she comforted herself with. She knew, deep in her bones, she had killed people. Blood was on her hands. Before the last line of the mantra was finished, it had dissolved into I’m sorry/I’m sorry/I’m sorry/I’m a monster/I hate myself/I’m so sorry/I should never have been born and on until it became a blur of pain and panic and guilt, and the creature rose up in her.
“I’m sorry!” she screamed, her hands digging into the dirt, trying to fight it off. It knocked her aside easily, bent her back, twisted her hands, stretched her jaw, transformed her scream into a bone-rattling roar.
Lily’s last coherent thought was: I won’t wake up again, and then the wolf knocked her out.
Aubrey
“Can you believe it’s been two years?” Selena said.
The three of them sat around the storage room of the Eternal Slumber, which had become a sitting room of sorts through years of conversations and dinners there while Jonathan took inventory, Selena reorganized, or they passed through to get to the chicken coop out back. They had a solid chair for each of them and a little table they pushed around, currently filled with three glasses of blood. That bright-eyed acolyte was leaving for Brightport in a week, that poor soul, and she’d donated to them one last time. May her path be bright, or whatever worshippers of Amaunator said.
“And some change,” Tholin added, fingers tapping on his thigh. He hadn’t touched his glass.
Jonathan exchanged a glance with Selena, took a sip from his own glass. “Two years,” he repeated. “If you asked me two years ago, I never would have thought I could raise chickens without killing them.” A pause, and he added, “I mean through negligence, not—” He and Selena laughed.
Under his breath, Tholin muttered, “Bet you didn’t see the sword in your gut either.”
The easy atmosphere dissolved, leaving the room empty. Instead of three friends having a lazy dinner together, it was the old days again, three fugitives hunkering against the wind.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Jonathan said. “It was less than a month after the truce. There was a lot of misunderstandings and—”
“Oh, shut it,” Tholin snapped, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs. “You sound just like them. It’s the same garbage they say about tieflings: ‘Well, we don’t actively murder them anymore.’ It’s them patting themselves on the back for doing a half-assed job. ‘We let three vampires live in the city. We sure are proud of ourselves for such benevolent tolerance. Praise Amaunator!’” He leaned back again, flicking a hand in disgust, as if something nasty was stuck to it. “I’m done with it.”
“They were killing us two years ago. Not even half a decade,” Selena said.
“And we’re just as hated as before,” Tholin replied. “I’m looking forward to being reviled for all of my undeath in my own home.”
Jonathan shook his head, struggling for a rebuttal. “Give them time, Tholin, by the light.”
“I’m tired of that damn excuse!” Tholin’s fangs slid out then retracted again, and he clenched his fists. “I know you are, too.” Suddenly, the fight went out of him and he slumped in his seat.
Jonathan’s heart twisted, and he went stock-still. What was there to say?
With a scrape of wood on wood, Selena dragged her chair next to Tholin and took his hand in hers. “You’re right,” she said.
Tholin lifted his head to glare at her.
She cracked a smile. “You’re absolutely right, everything you said. We’re going to have to fight for every scrap of tolerance and dignity they throw to us, because they’re scared and they don’t trust us. Sometimes, it’s going to feel hopeless.” She squeezed his hand, and her voice lowered for a moment. “Maybe most of the time.”
“I know what you’re going to say, and you’re a ridiculous optimist,” Tholin grumbled.
“Maybe so, but this town is all about finding light in the dark, isn’t it?” she said. She smiled again and shot a look over to Jonathan, who returned it weakly.
“And killing vampires,” Tholin reminded.
“And that.” Selena nodded, serious. “I think Grayson’s a fool. He has to live in the shadows, lie to people, and hide himself from everyone, including us. We could help him, be his friend, empathize when things are tough, but he has none of that. And that’s what makes us strong. That’s how we get through every day that someone glares at us or implies we’re evil or flinches when we smile: together. And I know that sounds stupid, and it certainly doesn’t seem much of a consolation in the worst of times, but that’s what holds the entirety of Theria in one piece. When we don’t have it, we fracture. Even Grayson knows that, with how close he is to Tamera.”
“Friendship conquers all,” Tholin said sarcastically.
“No. It’s what keeps us alive, keeps us sane.” They stared at each other for a long minute, and then Selena pulled him into a hug.
A big, stupid grin split Jonathan’s face, and he wrapped his arms around both of them.
“For the record, I hate this and everything’s still awful,” Tholin muttered, muffled by Selena’s shoulder. It was so pouty and dramatic, in contrast to all the awful things they’d heard and seen. They all laughed.