Chapter Text
Triesta Tithis is not a man. That has never, never been a designation she accepts, ever since her childhood when she had longed to fly free with the other girls and to be like any other Highwing youth. Harp boys are born to pray, to study, to serve as the bridge between their people and the spirits and stars; not to dirty their talons with labor or care. Not to soar over the wide rivers and warm green hills, to play as they like, to get their clothes dirty. As Sagithol and Chirani were born to the Empress Geminian, so had the world been divided between the wingless and the winged; and even as the Harps trace their descent from Chirani her daughter, so they set aside their children in honor of Sagithol, to study and propitiate the stars, for it is said he had ever been a scholar, even after he took the throne. And Triesta Tithis was one such of these children.
Yet even if she had been an ordinary boy, she might have found some solace there, have pushed down a vague feeling of longing and discontent and focused her mind on her service to her clan. It was not always a bad life; a life of honor, and of prayer and contemplation which she has always loved. She'd always been a thoughtful child-- a sign that she is meant for this, the cruel voice in her mind whispers; that she is merely selfish and undutiful.
For the problem is, of course, that Triesta Tithis has never been an ordinary boy. Blessed, they call her birth; and Triesta 'Blessed-Born'. Her discovery had elevated Clan Tithis above all others, and she herself is never to lift a talon, is only to be treated with the utmost honor. With deference, ever since she was a child.
She is twenty-one now and it has felt more and more wrong with every passing year. The name, the clothes, the title. Blessed-Born, they call her, and 'my Prince'.
Which is why what she is about to do will, undoubtedly, cause everyone a great deal of worry.
She is not a man. But, she tells herself stubbornly, she can still be herself; can still pray, can still serve, can still guide her people. She still has a duty, and it is a role that nobody else will fill. In her soft and cushioned roost, late into the night, she'd stared up at the ceiling with eyes blurry with tears and come to her decision.
She needs to do this. Nobody else will.
Triesta, not being completely insensitive, leaves a note. She also bunches up some pillows under the blankets in such a way that it looks as though she's still asleep-- not being completely without cunning, either. Hopefully they will think her merely tired or sulking after the discussion of the night before, and it will buy her enough time. Raised as a boy or not, no Highwing she's ever met has been as swift in the air as Triesta Tithis. By the time they find out, she'll be miles upon miles away.
She dresses quickly in the plainest and warmest of her clothes. They are, frustratingly, still enough to signify to any Highwing that she is at least of high status and very noble birth. She will stay far away from their encampment and hope very firmly that nobody who sees her asks questions. Food is easier; she's squirreled away enough from snacks and meals for the three days' travel. One there, one to do what needs to be done, one back. Easy.
One last glance at her roost-room. Everything is in order. Then she is out onto the balcony and into the sky.
It is cold and early, the sky still a dull dark grey; the brisk currents ruffle her feathers and try to cut her to the bone. She finds it freeing, refreshing. So rare that she is allowed to fly alone, and never this far-- an adventure, she tells herself, and even with trepidation in her heart part of her believes it. Triesta climbs swiftly on the wind and begins to fly west. Towards the Empire.
Day clambers up into the sky and she sees very few travelers on the wing-- all of them heading east. Away from the fighting. She stays high up in the air, above them all, and tries not to think about it. They give her ample room and do not call out. Perhaps they think her a courier.
She passes over farms and homesteads, flocks of sheep, wetlands and copses of trees. It is so rare that she gets to see her country like this, drink in its beauty, and soon she is further to the west than she has ever flown before. To her right are the mountains, a long way off to the north; to her left, she knows somewhere far to the south beyond her vision lies the sea.
She has never been to the Empire, either; or even to its borders, although they grow closer every year. She tries not to think about what will happen if the Sahrians realize who she is. What would it mean to them, to capture the Highwing Prince?
In the afternoon there are some brief dark clouds from the south that look like rain. Triesta has a moment of panic-- she’s never had to fly in rough weather-- but they pass harmlessly behind her towards the Highwing territory she’s left behind. As she lands by a cluster of poplar trees for the night she can only hope that her luck holds, that tomorrow and the next day’s weather will be as good as today. She eats, says a prayer of thanks and purpose: to Librect the Black Saddle, the diplomat, under whose sign she was born; and to Sagithol as well, patron to whom she was dedicated at blessed birth. The Whistling Prince also watches over the Sahrians, she remembers-- he was their first Emperor. The thought makes her feel hopeful. Perhaps he will bring them both to common ground.
She must be almost to Sahr. Triesta wraps herself up in her cloak and dreams uneasy dreams.
She wakes to the bough of the tree above her dripping rainwater on her head. The weather has turned overnight, and her clothes are soaked. Her feathers, too, she realizes to her dismay-- soft dark iridescent purple and green, flecked and banded with gold; they are part of what marks her as Blessed-Born but they have never been particularly hardy or strong. She doesn’t even know if she’ll be able to fly. Triesta groans.
And her food is soaked, which makes eating significantly less pleasant. Why had she not brought anything to make a fire? Does she even know how to make a fire? Stupid, she tells herself, you never think ahead, you always just go charging into things wing-first….
She wants to cry. She wants to huddle under the poplars and wait out the rain. But she can’t; she has a(n admittedly self-imposed) mission, and she refuses to let herself back out now. Think of how wretched it would be, to go through all that lecturing when she returns and not even have anything to show for it. She forces herself to get up, scans the horizon, and hobbles out on her talons into the rain, in….the direction that she is fairly sure is west. Probably.
“At least I don’t need to find water to drink or wash my face,” she mutters. Because she had also forgotten to bring any water.
She doesn’t get very far. Thunder rumbles off in the distance. Great, she thinks; but she doesn’t have time to dwell on it-- a rustle of wings, an all-too-familiar shadow cast on the ground-- and she is being surrounded by a fully armed and armored Highwing Talon patrol, landing all around her on the grass, spears outstretched.
I’ve been caught, she realizes, dismayed, as the one in front of her steps forward and--
“Girl! What are you doing?”
Triesta blinks.
“W. Walking?”
Her voice cracks. They stare at each other blankly.
“Don’t be flip with me,” the Talon growls, recovering. “This is a war zone, you idiot girl-- you’re going to walk yourself right into the Sahrian lines! How did you even get here?”
They think I’m a woman, she thinks, heart soaring, and then realizes it’s probably only because she looks like garbage. She is certainly not in any condition befitting her people’s Prince. Then the question processes. “Uh. Flying?”
“You--” The Talon captain visibly restrains herself.
“She’s either a halfwit,” someone mutters, “or a spy.” At that, the entire patrol tenses.
“I am not,” Triesta protests, voice cracking again. “I am not either of those things! It’s true, I flew west to see the battlefield.”
The one who’d called her a spy laughs. She has glossy blue feathers, smeared with oil-- some kind of rainproofing, yet another thing Triesta had forgotten to pack. “You’re about to see it, all right-- when you bump into a Sahrian patrol and they hack you to pieces!”
“They wouldn’t--”
“The Sahrians would pull out your pretty little feathers and make a mattress,” the captain snaps. “You’re lucky you ran into us first. You clearly have no idea what you’re doing--”
“Give her a rest, sir,” someone pipes up from behind. “You’re scaring her.” The speaker is a little younger, with a friendly face; she meets Triesta’s gaze sympathetically. The captain grumbles under her breath. “Miss, we can’t take you back now, but--”
“No!” It comes out without her even thinking. Everyone stares like she’s crazy. “I need to see the battlefield. Please, it’s important.”
“And do what, Miss?”
“I-- I want to pray for the dead. Someone needs to make sure they-- please, I know that’s how war works, but we can’t just let our sisters die without giving them last rites. It really is important.”
The nice one closes her mouth again, looks to her captain-- then does a double take, looks back to Triesta. Her heart sinks. She’s clearly sizing up the wings, the face, the embroidery on her sodden clothes, how obviously out of place she is--
“Are you a Tithis?”
Triesta swallows hard. “I am,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. Everyone’s staring even harder now. Clan Tithis has always been powerful, and they’ve been held in the highest esteem for over twenty years, ever since-- well. Since she was born.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Triesta.” An impulse. She’d chosen with care, after her great-grandmother, but it’s the first time she’s ever said the name to anyone. “My name is Triesta Tithis.”
The captain frowns, mentally runs the name through her mind and can’t recognize it, then shrugs. She turns away with a deep, exasperated sigh. “Someone will have to carry you, I hope you know that. It’s still five miles to the Sahrian camp.”
“I-- What?”
“You cannot be serious,” She’s-A-Spy protests. A glare shuts her up quickly.
“For a Tithis? You think we’re just supposed to let her wander around and get herself killed? Don’t be an idiot.” The glare is turned on Triesta, who winces. “You’re not going to like what you see, though. I’m telling you now.”
“That’s fine,” she murmurs, as two of the Talons move to either side of her to pick her up. Maybe there is some advantage to being born who she is. It’s the first time she’s ever thought that. Everyone is certainly and suddenly much, much nicer.
“That’s fine,” she says again as they take to the air. “I’ll see for myself.”