After settling the girl in the rowboat, with Wua'en staying by her side to watch over her, Alllen went back inside, not without glancing over his shoulder one last time. The child was sitting perfectly still, staring out at the sea in front of her without really seeing it. His heart clenched at the sight. From what he'd observed, the girl couldn't think for herself. Earlier, she didn't react or complain when Allen pulled her up and fastened the cloak, which had straps and silver buttons all over the torso area, nor did she respond when Myrven took her in his arms, holding her face against his chest to prevent her from seeing the sea of corpses in the hallway. She didn't try to resist, and she didn't make a noise.
At first, they didn't want to leave her alone on the rowboat, but in the end, they tacitly agreed not to bring her with them in the cell to face the elder. She didn't need more trauma than she already had. Allen didn't know her, and he couldn't tell how she would react. She might be the type who needed to see her tormentor brought down to their knees and reap what they sew, or it might have a perverted effect on her and worsen things. It was better not to take any chances. With the child ghosts around, surveying the area, he was confident enough to leave her there; they would be alerted right away if something was amiss.
"We'd better get this done fast and go back home," Allen sighed, nevertheless worried about the little girl. "I presume you took good care of it in my absence, haven't you?"
If possible, Allen would have loved to turn around and leave, but he couldn't delay interrogating the elder. If he had other accomplices, which seemed highly probable considering they went to great lengths to bring the girl to the mainland, Allen didn't want to leave them enough time to flee or destroy the evidence linking them to the experiment. They had to act fast, for he knew just how slippery the elders could get. He had been handling council after council for centuries, and some things never changed.
"Of course, I maintained the house. There's only one bedroom in your home, though," Myrven pointed out. As for him, he usually slept outside, except on the rare occasion when he needed to sleep indoors. "Should we convert a room into a makeshift bedroom for her?"
"Hm, I guess we will have to," Allen nodded as he stepped over a corpse, another sigh escaping him. He had been living on his own for a long time now, single and without children. The last time he had taken a lover was in his first life, for afterward, he could never bring himself to settle down and found a family, knowing that he'd have to say goodbye one day and still remember them in his next life. It was too painful.
Even now, he had yet to forget his past lover, or some of his past family members. For most of them, he could barely remember their faces, but a few lingering memories were engraved in his heart, and some nights, they haunted him. The happy times they'd shared had become a heavy burden, one he could never bring himself to lay down. Because who would remember them, then? Especially his lover. Today, she was nothing more than a legend in the tribe's history, a vague figure that accompanied the exploits of their first chief.
"What do you know? I would never have expected to raise a child in this life," Allen shook his head. He was aware that, because of the girl's lineage, he was the only one who could take care of her properly. No one other than him in the White Moon land could handle what was to come during her puberty. Still, his old dwelling wasn't equipped with what was needed to raise a little girl. Never mind a bed, they didn't even have clothing for her. "I'll need to arrange something for her asap. I can't exactly have her sleep in the wild with you, or she'll get your bad habits."
"My habits are fine. Yours are far worse than mine."
"Are they, now?"
"Is that really up for debate?"
"No, not really."
Amid some bantering, they discussed what they had to prepare to welcome the girl into Allen's home. They got engrossed in the conversation, but at one point, they reached the cell in which Myrven had thrown the elder and grew silent. Allen gestured for the familiar spirit to do the honor and open the door; he would rather not bear the brunt of the elder's shrill screams and stream of curses, so he might as well use Myrven as a meat shield. It certainly didn't disappoint, and the moment Myrven entered the cell, the man hurled insults at him. Red in the face, he was shouting at the top of his lungs, as if afraid the familiar spirit wouldn't hear him despite the close proximity.
"You goddamn stupid mutt! Do you realize what you've done? Or are you just so stupid that you sincerely think the council'll forgive your transgression?! Wait until they learn about what you've done, you won't be–"
The elder's rambling stopped mid-sentence when his eyes fell upon the silhouette of a boy that slipped from behind Myrven. He had noticed him earlier, of course he had: it was impossible not to see the teenager nonchalantly slouching in Myrven's arm while he ripped to shreds his henchemen. The sight had been so preposterous that, even now, he was wondering if his old eyes hadn't played tricks on him. At the time, the hood had hidden his eyes, and he had yet to see them. But now, the young teenager wore no cloak, and his face was clearly visible. Those mesmerizing eyes… he could never forget them. No one could.
"I think you're the one who's sorely mistaken about something," the teenager smiled gently, yet shivers ran down the elder's spine, "you're the one who doesn't realize what you've done, nor what consequences your actions will bring on you and the rest of the tribe. You've created one hell of a mess. That's a welcome gift I could have done without."
"Y-you, you!"
The elder could barely speak, his eyes seemingly about to bulge out of their sockets. Terror struck him like lightning, and he didn't seem to know what to do. What was the chosen one doing here, and when had their god picked someone to lead them? He hadn't heard about it. Also, what was wrong with that kid? He was obviously from the slums. His unkempt clothes and emancipated body said as such, yet he spoke with poise and a certain elegance. His firm tone carried an oppressive authority that rendered the elder unable to form coherent words. Something was terribly amiss with this boy. That much, he could tell.
"Yes, me?"
No answer came, so Allen snorted.
"Let me ask you a question," Allen asked, crouching in front of the elder, "from which divine being did you take the essence?"
Again, no answer. The sudden silent treatment grated on Allen's nerves, and he decided not to beat around the bush: he had no time to waste on this trash, for the girl was waiting for him in the rowboat. Thus, he bent over and pressed his thumb on one of the elder's legs, right where Myrven had broken it. A scream filled the room, but Allen was numb to it. Instead, he repeated, "Let me ask you again, which divine being did you take the essence from?"
"A god of the sea, a god of the sea!" The elder sobbed, "We found a heavenly dragon's corpse on the shore! It seems to have died of natural causes as it didn't have any wounds… I'm telling you the truth! Stop pressing, it hurts! It hurts so much!"
Tears flowed down the elder's face, making Allen cock an eyebrow. Well, if the old coot broke down this easily, getting the answer he wanted shouldn't take too long. But really, what did he expect? This generation had been coddled, getting everything on a silver platter, and knew nothing of the harsh world. The sea monsters had long been slain, and the erected barrier, which sprang above his house, protected their sky from predators such as griffins. In this day and age, most elders hadn't suffered any injury, and none were seasoned fighters. They were weak, frail, and useless.
"If it's a god of the sea," Myrven said, tapping his lips with his index finger, "then they will probably refrain from unleashing their wrath on your tribe, if only for your father's sake. Although I guess any other tribe would have already been wiped off the map. Gods aren't very forgiving."
"Right. These geezers can get pretty petty for the smallest thing when they aren't being outright whimsical. Don't look at me like that, you know it's true. Oh, fine. I've got to admit that they're being quite magnanimous this time; one of my people did desecrate one of their kin's corpses and steal its divine essence. Granted, heavenly dragons are seen as lesser divine beings, but still…"
"The White Moon land is your father's territory," Myrven reminded. "They wouldn't dare trespass, even if one of their comrades' corpses washed up on our shore. My master is a God of War, after all."
"Your master is a fool, that's all he is."
"Young master…"
Allen waved away Myrven's rebuking tone, barely glancing at the elder, whose face had grown livid. He was a mad idiot for daring to experiment with divine essence, but he still had a brain, and his brain was working harder than ever. Now, he couldn't help but remember the legends that had been passed down for centuries in their tribe. It was because of these that they even dared to venture into the treacherous path of mixing mortality with divinity.
A long time ago, a god gazed upon their land on a whim, and his eyes fell upon a young werewolf, a shaman of great power and moral integrity. Curious, he observed her as she went about her daily life, helping her kin as much as she could, sharing her knowledge, and caring for the wounded, the young, and the old. He fell in love with her in due time, and one day appeared before her. The shaman was startled at first, but quickly accepted the god's infatuation, and it didn't take long for his feelings to be reciprocated. He was very thorough in wooing her, going so far as taking care of the sick himself, helping her with bandaging people's wounds and disinfecting them. Because he was a God of War, he couldn't instantly heal anyone, so he had to resort to the mortal ways. He didn't mind, as long as he could stand by the shaman's side.
Their union should never have been possible, nor should it have been allowed, but it happened nonetheless. From their forbidden love, then was born a boy who, also, should never have seen the light of day. Still, he lived against all odds and grew up to become the first chief of the White Moon tribe. The story of his life was a myriad of exploits and tragedies, something that inspired bards for centuries. Even the frame above the entrance of the council's room had been inscribed with one of the oldest verses from the legends:
'He was half mortal and half divine, a strange being whose words carried a deep weight. Yet, he stood with the mortals and walked alongside his mother's kin, never looking at the heavenly realm, for his life was here, in the White Moon land.'
It was because of the divine aspect of the founder of their tribe that the White Moon people believed their tribe had a god that watched over them, the father of the chief. It was said that he couldn't bear to see his son's tribe suffer after his death, so he silently watched over them, protecting them in the shadows. That was why no one doubted that their tribal god intervened from time to time, notably to choose a chief to lead them.
The elder had half-believed the story of their tribe, thinking that much of it was a bunch of nonsense, although it was undeniable that their land was more prosperous than others. That thought was shattered to pieces today, for this teenager, who bore the chosen one's distinctive eyes, spoke as if their tribal god were his father, as if he were the first chief.
Suddenly, everything made sense, and only fear remained in his heart.