The Natural Order of Things

Under a chilly sun, Ferre waited, leaning heavily against one of the Boardwalk's handrail posts under the awning. Talle stood beside him, frowning. Around them bustled dozens of passersby; the air was clamor-thick and muggy with salt spray, and the ocean roared just feet beneath them.

Ferre shot a glance at his brother. Talle refused to look at him. The older man was still angry that Ferre had caused their stay in Aurandren to end so abruptly; personally, Ferre wasn't too bothered by it. He loved the nomadic life the universe had given him, and Aurandren had already begun to bore him, whereas Talle was the sort of man who preferred to sit in his study for months on end furiously taking notes on everything from fish species to the history of Revereli literature.

The ferry would, with fortune, arrive before too long. Ferre had blinded himself to the strange looks the other passengers were giving him; he closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the post, still exhausted. He hadn't had time that morning to restore his Charge, so he had stopped Stabilising while he waited to preserve it for the lengthy ride ahead.

Something tugged on his coat softly. Ferre opened his eyes and looked down, bemused.

"Before you go," said Finch, "tell me a story, Lightbringer."

Ferre's breath caught in his throat. "How did you find me?" he said over a pacing heart. Talle had already drawn a knife — despite his grouch, he would not put Ferre in danger — but Ferre waved him back, unable to take his eyes from the small merchant's face.

Finch shrugged, looking suddenly nervous. "Tracked you here," they said.

"Ferre," said Talle through gritted teeth, "who is this?"

Ferre eyed the horizon. No ferry in sight. He gave Talle a quick glance, then grabbed Finch by the shoulder and led them forcefully away from the loading dock, into the shadow of a heap of cargo crates.

"Why are you here?" he hissed, leaning awkwardly down to meet the intruding merchant eye-to-eye.

"I'm sorry," Finch whispered, looking down. "I… I wanted to know the truth." They paused. "I don't think you're here to tell stories, Lightbringer."

"Well, of course I'm not," said Ferre irritably. "And stop calling me that. That name was given me by someone who greatly misjudged my purpose in this world, and I'd hate to give anyone the wrong idea." He let Finch go, head spinning. "I can't let you leave, now, you know that."

Finch gave a start. "What? Why not?"

"Not only did you prove that you're proficient enough with bones to Track me through a city of over three million people," Ferre said, "but also that you're clever enough to have worked out that I'm not who I say I am. Sorry, merchant, but I can't risk something like that. People like you, people who know too much — those are the dangerous ones, the only ones that pose a threat to me.

"So I'll give you a choice," Ferre concluded, sliding a slender knife from the sheath at his belt. "You get on that ferry with Talle and I when it comes, or I cut out your heart and toss it in the ocean." He hoped the threatening tone in his voice was clear. Being followed was no small deal in Ferre's history — it had only ever ended in scars.

Finch looked completely mortified, making as though to turn and run. Ferre gripped the tails of Finch's scarf in his good hand and leaned in towards them, dangerously close to collapsing and sending both of them to the ground. "You listen to me," he growled, voice barely more than a breath. "I've spent too long working towards my goal to let a shrimp like you rat me out and get me killed. And I promise you that's what would happen. I'm dangerous, merchant, and they know that." He stood up, releasing the scarf. "Let them believe I came only to share knowledge. To bring light. I can't let that change."

A deep horn sounded. "Ah," Ferre said, standing straight as though nothing had happened whatsoever. "Ferry's arrived. You coming or what?"

"I can't believe you, Ferre," said Talle grumpily as Ferre and Finch rejoined him in the undulating crowd.

"You know," Ferre said, "neither can I." He turned and pressed his way through the throng of passengers, letting Talle and Finch disappear behind him.

The ferry was small and cosy; Ferre picked a room towards the back on the top level and entered it, then slid the key into a pocket and sat on the cot with a resigned huff, dropping his pack beside him. Rot, it was good to sit. He had burned through most of his Charge with an advanced Bonding that stuck the fragments of his shattered prosthetic back together, and now that he didn't have to struggle to stand upright, the relief was almost dizzying.

A knock sounded at the door. Startled, Ferre hopped up on one foot and unlatched it, expecting Talle or Finch there. But it was a stranger, a young woman in a coat far too large for her. She barely came up to Ferre's sternum.

"Oh, sorry," the girl said, sounding confused. "Not my sister's room. Good day, sir." Her voice was thickly accented — Ferre thought it was Revereli or Essodian, but he wasn't certain. She retreated, and he closed the door, returning to the cot by the window.

The sun was barely at its peak; Ferre watched idly out the window as the ferry left port, the empty loading dock drifting away behind it. He was so used to this life of leaving on short notice that it no longer affected him — Ferre had learned long ago that forming attachments to places wasn't any good.

He leaned back and allowed himself to think, mind wandering to topics that he had fearfully ignored for years upon end. The beginning of his quest. The removal of his leg. The loss of fingers, the time that his inability to run had nearly cost him his life. He thought about life before Talle had bought him a cane, the very cane he had rejected because he hated depending on it. He thought about the time he had stared into the black waters of a Caviric river, the time he had been certain his life was over.
Ferre absently tugged his gloves off, then reached up, feeling at the thick scar under his jaw. It tore from just below his left ear down across his clavicle to his chest, a badly healed knife wound that still burned when he thought about it.

On a whim, he looked down at his mangled left hand, the fourth and fifth fingers gone at the first knuckle. The leather harness that secured the wooden replacements was worn and stretched, stained with blood and saltwater; the scarred flesh below was little more than a mess of puckered white tissue that had closed without sutures or a bandage. As much as he hated it, it didn't disgust him any more. He raised his right hand, staring at the distorted flesh with blank eyes, then unbuckled the harness and let it fall to the blanket beside him.

Ferre hoped that he would make it to Pax alive.