Chapter 34: Timatticus

(I painted this in Procreate using the HB Pencil and Oil Paint Brush, took 2 days of brainstorming, sketching, painting and results in this image and my arm twitching - Chaiga T. Cheska)
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The moment the last glimmer of the dragon dissolved into the light, Bran turned sharply to Tavik. Looking up at him, he asked in a low, urgent rush, “Tavik, are you speaking to Nix through the tether? Are you talking to him now? Is he explaining…”

“Bran.” Oren caught his brother by the arm just as Tavik pushed him back, distracted and irritable.

“Yes, I’m talking to him,” Tavik snapped, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “But the idiot’s made up his mind and won’t listen. Something about this doesn’t feel right.” He exhaled hard, then looked up at Oren with a tired sort of resignation. “I told him if he isn’t back by tonight, I’ll throttle him.”

“Did he hear you, Tav?” Bran asked, worry tightening his voice.

Tavik glanced down at him, then turned Bran by the shoulders so they both faced Harthos, who had been watching in steady silence.

“While you wait for your cousin’s return,” Harthos said, “would you care to meet my chieftain and rest in my village? You would be welcome. And I believe we may be able to arrange a meeting with the scribe Olis, which, if I understand correctly, is your purpose here.”

“Thank you, Harthos,” Oren began, smiling, but before he could continue, Bran leaned into his side, peering up at Harthos with bright urgency.

“Do you know Olis? I thought he lived in the forest for some reason. Do you have healers in your village…?”

Oren gave Harthos an apologetic smile, drew Bran behind him with a gentle tug, and gestured for their host to lead on. Tavik raised an amused eyebrow at Bran and murmured, “Chatterbox,” before darting out of reach as Bran swung at him and missed.

The Burrowback village unfolded through the trees, and for a moment, none of them spoke.

It was the smell that reached them first: something green and resinous beneath the sweetness of the blossoms, the particular scent of living things woven close together, sap and petal and warm earth breathing out the last of the night’s chill. The towers and houses rose in clusters, their walls not built so much as grown, coaxed from plant fibre and living wood into shapes that leaned and curved like old companions holding one another up. Blossoming branches trailed so low across the rooftops that it was nearly impossible to say where the trees ended, and the buildings began. The morning light came through them in fragments, dappled gold and pale lilac, pooling softly in the quiet pathways and shifting as a breeze moved through.

The village was almost still. Only a handful of Burrowbacks moved amongst the cottages, their footsteps unhurried, their voices no louder than the creak of settling timber. Everything else held its breath in the peculiar, expectant hush of a place not yet fully awake.

At a glance, Oren thought, if he were simply walking past, he might mistake the whole place for a thicket of blossom rather than a village at all. There was a faint shimmer to it, a sense that one could only see the settlement if invited, as though the village chose its guests and hid itself from all others.

Harthos led them along winding paths beneath those trailing, coloured blossoms until the way opened into a ring of cottages arranged in a gentle circle. At the centre stood a round structure with a carved totem beside its door. Harthos paused long enough to explain that the marking read Chieftain in the Way of Lon, visible only to those who had studied the ancient tongue.

The brothers exchanged a look, each thinking of Nix and the strange, astonishing fact that their own cousin spoke that language fluently.

The village was quiet as they passed through, with only a handful of Burrowbacks moving about. Harthos explained, in his unhurried way, that his kind preferred lazy, lingering mornings and rarely rose before noon.

Bran nudged Oren and sighed with theatrical relief. “See? There are others in MirMarnia who don’t get up at the crack of dawn. Unlike you.”

Oren nudged him back. “If I didn’t wake you, you’d sleep through half your life, Bran.”

Bran glowered up at him. “Your idea of ‘morning’ is before the sun rises. In winter, you’ve had the audacity to wake me when it’s still the middle of the night. It isn’t natural.”

Oren rolled his eyes and shoved him lightly, sending Bran stumbling into a small, neatly trimmed hedge. Bran scrambled out, brushing leaves from his hair as Tavik snorted with laughter.

Harthos brought them to the Chieftain’s door and waited until Bran had rejoined them before knocking softly and stepping back. Oren shifted with him and promptly trod on Bran’s foot. Bran swallowed a yelp and shoved him in return.

Tavik wondered, with a sinking sort of amusement, how much of a spectacle they must look when the door opened, and the Chieftain of the Burrowbacks appeared, standing in the doorway with bright, clear eyes, taking them all in.

Harthos bowed his head to the figure in the doorway and gestured to the brothers. “My Chieftain, we have arrived. Allow me to present three of the four you instructed me to bring. This is Oren, Tavik, and Bran. Their cousin, Nix, we expect to join us later tonight.”

He stepped aside as the Chieftain moved forward.

“Greetings, my young friends,” the Burrowback said, his voice soft but resonant. “I am pleased to have you before me at last. I am Timatticus. Please, come in.” He opened the door wider, inviting them through.

Timatticus was a little shorter than Harthos, yet still towered comfortably over Oren. Bran, following his brother inside, found himself tilting back and back to take in the full height of the Chieftain. With a flicker of fascination and mild irritation, he realised his own head was level with the doorknob. An unhelpful thought struck him: What if I’m the brother who stops growing? What if I’m destined to be Burrowback doorknob height forever?

He sighed, long and put upon, and immediately earned a nudge from Tavik, who was trying to squeeze past him through the doorway.

They were led into a perfectly circular room, a shape that, for reasons none of them could quite name, made them feel held and unexpectedly safe, as though the walls had been built specifically to keep the outside world at bay. The air inside carried the scent of old woodsmoke and something dried and herbal, faint and sweet, the smell of things hung in quiet bundles somewhere out of sight. The Chieftain guided them towards a low hearth, where a long, padded sofa curved along the wall, and they sank into it without ceremony, the cushions taking their weight as though they had been waiting. Only then did any of them understand how tired they truly were.

Bran slumped between his brothers, blinking slowly at the room. The embers in the hearth glowed a deep, steady amber, and the warmth they gave off was gentle and unhurried, the warmth of a fire tended through the night by careful hands. Above the mantelpiece hung a row of small oval painted portraits, and in the hearth light, the faces within them were softened to something barely there, watching the room with the patient attention. Bran found himself looking at them and wondering whether the families in this village had all known one another from birth, every face familiar to every other face for generations.

Timatticus took his seat, and as he settled, the long spines of his back shifted; their blue-tipped ends caught the hearth light and shimmered briefly, the way a feather does when turned against the light.

Harthos settled beside him. For a moment, both sides simply regarded one another in companionable silence, as though they all needed a breath to take stock of where they were, what had happened, and who they were now sitting before.

At last, Timatticus drew a deep breath and spoke.

“I must apologise for receiving you in my humble home. We had intended for the young ones of our village to greet your party when you emerged from the forest, though we expected your arrival to be much later. Our young ones are still asleep. I have never known travellers to make it out of the Eldertree Forest Labyrinth so quickly, even with Harthos’s help.”

The Chieftain studied the three boys before him, his gaze thoughtful, as though weighing their words before they had even spoken. Bran shifted uneasily, glancing between his brothers. Oren leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“Our cousin, Nix, made friends with a dragon who flew us out of the labyrinth,” Oren said quietly, flicking a glance towards Harthos.

“A dragon?” Timatticus exclaimed, turning sharply to Harthos, who merely blinked back, offering nothing at all.

“The dragon was the labyrinth,” Tavik added. Oren, Bran, and Harthos all turned to stare at him. “Or… that’s what Nix has been saying through the tether.” With more eyes on him than he could reasonably return, Tavik dropped his gaze to his boots.

Oren looked back at Timatticus, attempting to clarify. “My brother and my cousin are connected by a magical tether. They can communicate through it and, apparently, create magic together as well.”

He shot Tavik a pointed look. Tavik mouthed, What?

Oren hissed back, “You and Nix, using your tether and magic to create the balls of lightning to protect us in the circle. We will talk about that, Tav.”

“You’re one to talk, with your glowing crown and no actual use of magic yet,” Tavik muttered. Oren thumped him for that, and Bran ducked instinctively between them, half in the line of fire. With a huff, he abandoned the sofa altogether, slid to the floor, crossed his legs, and leaned back against the base of the sofa. He shot both of his older brothers a fierce glare that very plainly meant stop it.

“My cousin speaks the Way of Lon,” Bran announced, earnest and bright, looking up at Timatticus. “Do you speak it here? I’d never even heard of it until Nix was talking with the dragon!”

Timatticus was still digesting the mention of the dragon. He looked down at Bran, tired, enthusiastic, and sitting on the floor as though he belonged there, and smiled.

“Ah, yes. The Way of Lon is certainly a language any dragon would know. It is a sacred MirMarnian tongue, and known among our people as well. Most of us use the common speech, but we do offer classes in basic phrases. You might enjoy joining one later today.”

Bran turned immediately to Oren and nudged his leg. “What do you think, Oren? We should learn! It might be really useful and…”

He was cut off as Oren swatted him lightly on the top of the head.

“Priorities, Bran. First, we wait for Nix to return, then we find out about Olis, and then we…”

Oren broke off as Timatticus straightened slightly at the mention of a scribe he clearly recognised.

“Olis is my dear friend!” Timatticus exclaimed, his face brightening at the brothers’ astonished expressions. “He is due for his spring walk into our village and into the Eldertree Forest within the next few days. You are welcome to stay with us so you may meet him.”

“You know Olis?!” Oren blurted, relief washing through his voice. “All we’ve been told is that we must meet him to help our cousin.” He turned sharply to Tavik. “Which means Nix has to get back here tonight, or I’ll throttle him as well. Tell him, Tav.”

Tavik frowned at Oren, then leaned back, drawing a slow breath. He closed his eyes and reached along the tether, sending a message to Nix: that they would be meeting Olis in the coming days, and that Oren had threatened to throttle him if he wasn’t back by nightfall. Tavik waited, and felt, rather than heard, a response: Nix’s familiar warmth, a smile threaded through reassurance, a quiet I’ll be back. Don’t worry.

Tavik opened his eyes to find both brothers staring at him. He responded in the only way that felt natural, by shoving Oren and thumping Bran.

Timatticus had been watching them with gentle curiosity, understanding little of the tether but recognising exhaustion when he saw it. He rose to his feet.

“You must be tired after being up all night,” he said. “We can offer you a cottage in the centre of our village where you may rest for the day. It has enough beds for when your cousin returns later. Harthos will show you the way, and I shall come to find you later, so you may visit a classroom and dip your toes into the Way of Lon.”

Bran scrambled up with his brothers, grinning at Oren when Timatticus mentioned the Way of Lon. Oren responded by giving him a shove and steering him ahead.

They left the Chieftain’s home and followed Harthos back through the quiet village to a cluster of cottages near a grove of Eradai Trees. Their deep purple and white blossoms hung in long, trailing curtains across the doorway, and as Harthos swept them aside, the scent that spilled out was thick and sweet and faintly resinous, clinging to the air long after the blossoms had settled back into stillness. He opened the little cottage and gestured for them to enter.

Bran went through first and stopped.

The cottage was the tree house. Not merely similar, not built along the same general lines, but identical: the same low shelf beside the door, the same slant of pale window light falling across the same small kitchen, the same particular quality of warmth in the air, as though the same careful hands had laid the fire and set the table. The recognition moved through Bran slowly, like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples of it widening outward and outward. They had never been without the Burrowbacks. Not once, not from the very first moment in the Eldertree Forest. They had been held the entire time and had not known it.

He stood in the doorway until Oren, too tired to wait, lifted him bodily through the entrance and deposited him in the small kitchen. He turned back to Harthos, who stood in the doorway, ducking to peer inside.

“Have a rest for a few hours,” Harthos said. “Someone will come to collect you for the Way of Lon class later. Rest well, and thank you for your help guiding us through the labyrinth earlier.”

He closed the door gently behind him and was gone.

Tavik sank into the soft chair beside the little hearth, and Oren took the one opposite, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees, studying his brother.

“Can you tell where he is through the tether?” Oren asked, watching Tavik’s face.

Tavik frowned, shook his head, and met Oren’s gaze again. “I can’t tell where he is. I only know he’s still flying. It’s just… a feeling. Like the air hasn’t settled around him yet. I can’t really describe it.”

He slumped back in the chair and glanced over at Bran, who was already in the kitchen pulling books from the shelf and settling down to read as though they hadn’t been awake all night.

Tavik turned back to Oren. “How can he read? Isn’t he tired? I’m tired. I can’t remember when we last slept, or even what day it is. Feels like so much has happened.”

Oren leaned back, watching Bran for a moment before returning his attention to Tavik. “What about the pain, Tav? Nix’s pain. Can you feel it?”

Tavik turned inward again, reaching along the tether, then looked up at his brother. “Honestly, it’s not like it was. I think the Temporal Mist must have done something to him. There’s still a throb of pain, but nothing like before.”

Oren glanced over at Bran and chuckled. He pointed, and Tavik followed his gaze. Bran had fallen asleep with his face pressed into the book he’d been trying so valiantly to read.

“Seems he is tired, Tav,” Oren said, smiling faintly. “This Way of Lon language… why does Nix speak it, and we’ve only just found out? I’ve got so many questions about so many things.”

Tavik gave him a weary look, then pushed himself to his feet and stretched. “Save them for when we meet Olis. I’m sleeping in a bed, not on a book, like Bran.”

He headed for the stairs, marvelling again at how identical this cottage was to the tree house they’d stayed in back in the forest. The thought of an actual bed felt almost miraculous. He climbed the stairs whilst Oren rose and walked into the kitchen to rescue Bran from his makeshift pillow.

They slept for a few hours and woke feeling somewhat restored, though Tavik sensed he hadn’t slept properly at all. The faint pull of Nix drifting further and further away along the tether created a tension he couldn’t name.

A little later, the three of them were gathered in the kitchen, slightly more refreshed and now eating apples and a slice of cake Bran had triumphantly discovered in a cupboard. A gentle knock sounded at the door, and Oren went to answer it.

When he opened it, a slender, elegant female Burrowback stood on the threshold. She was about Oren’s height, her spiny back lined with green iridescent spines that shimmered in the afternoon light. She wore a dress woven from leaves that fell to her ankles, releasing a soft floral scent each time she moved.

Oren found himself momentarily transfixed. Realising he was staring, he straightened abruptly and stammered, “W… welcome, please do come in.”

He stepped aside and opened the door wider. The Burrowback smiled, dipped her head, and entered, looking around the cottage with delighted curiosity before turning to the three brothers.

“Thank you,” she said warmly. “My name is Thessaly. My uncle, Timatticus, said you wished to attend my class with the little ones, yes?”

Her smile was infectious, and all three brothers found themselves smiling back before they realised they were doing it. Bran, delighted, pushed in front of his brothers and looked up at Thessaly with unabashed enthusiasm.

“We would very much love to learn the Way of Lon!”

Oren shoved him, not because he disagreed, but because he didn’t want to appear overeager. Bran, however, had already clocked the way Oren had stammered earlier, and, true to the nature of a younger brother, he turned to Thessaly with his most sincere expression.

“My eldest brother, Oren, is especially interested in your class. Aren’t you, Oren?”

Oren looked down at Bran with a warning that would have sent him fleeing if he hadn’t been standing directly in front of their guest.

Thessaly turned her radiant smile on Oren, warm and dazzling enough that Oren felt momentarily winded.

“Is this true, Oren? How delightful that you are so interested in our sacred language.”

Bran beamed up at him, triumphant. Oren realised, with a sinking inevitability, that he was now committed. He managed a polite smile.

“I’m sure my brothers and I would be delighted to learn more about the Way of Lon.”

Thessaly’s smile deepened. She turned and pointed through the doorway, towards the cottages beyond and the winding path between them.

“If you look there, along the pathway near the red blossoms, you’ll find my stone circle at the end. That is where I teach all my classes. You are welcome to join us. We begin in an hour.”

She gave all three brothers a final warm smile, then stepped back through the doorway, turned to wave, and slipped outside, closing the door gently behind her.

Bran waited until Thessaly had only just stepped through the door before bolting into the kitchen and diving under the table. Oren arrived two seconds later, spotted him instantly, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him out. Tavik’s laughter drifted in from the other room.

Still amused, Tavik reached along the tether and sent Nix a visual impression of what he was seeing, Oren, attempting to flatten Bran in a Burrowback kitchen. He felt Nix’s response at once: a smile, warm and familiar. But threaded through it was something else, the unmistakable sense that Nix was no longer with the dragon. He was alone. Tavik’s worry deepened.

Where are you, Nix? Tavik asked silently through the tether. Are you alright?

There was no answer at first. Tavik glanced back into the kitchen, where Oren and Bran were now scuffling and attempting, for reasons known only to them, to force each other’s hand into a dish of butter. Tavik turned away, trying to focus.

At last, Nix replied. Tavik caught the impression of him being out of breath, running. Tav, I’m alright. Please don’t worry.

Tavik tilted his head, listening harder, trying to sense more. He felt wind, fierce, howling, many-voiced, and the unmistakable sense of height. Too much height.

He frowned. Nix, it doesn’t feel right. Please get out of wherever you are.

Tavik looked up at the clatter in the kitchen just in time to see Bran with butter in his hair, shaking his fist at Oren. He turned away again, trying to focus, and then felt it: a sudden surge of fear from Nix that punched the breath out of him. Tavik inhaled sharply.

Nix, what’s happening? He sent through the tether.

There was no answer. Only the wind, that same howling, many-voiced roar, and a silence from Nix that felt strange. Not absence, but quietness. Hiding.

Tavik spun back towards the kitchen, panic rising. “Oren, Bran! Something’s happening to Nix!”

His own fear spiked, sharp and helpless. He hated being so far away, hated not knowing what was happening to his cousin.

Oren and Bran hurried over, both suddenly serious. Oren wiped butter from his elbow, eyes fixed on Tavik. Bran, butter smeared across half his head, looked ridiculous and terrified all at once.

“What’s happening?” Bran asked, looking worried.

Tavik could barely focus on them. Nix’s fear was flooding through the tether, overwhelming everything else. Tavik’s own breathing sounded impossibly loud in his ears, and it felt as though his eyes were bulging, his whole body tightening around the panic that wasn’t his.

Then Oren’s hands were on him, steady, grounding, pushing him gently down into a chair and guiding his head towards his knees.

“Breathe slow, Tav,” Oren said, voice low and firm.

Bran crouched in front of Tavik, watching him fight to steady his breathing. “What’s happening to Nix?” he asked again, fear lancing through him as sharply as it had through Tavik.

Oren nudged him. “Give him time, Bran.” He stood over Tavik, willing him to speak, but the fear bleeding through the tether was unlike anything he’d seen from his brother. Tavik didn’t panic. Not like this.

Tavik gasped, pushed Oren’s hand away, and straightened, looking between them with wide, strained eyes. “He’s hiding from something. And wherever he is, he’s very high up. The wind’s full of… howling voices. And he’s afraid.”

Bran rocked back on his heels, staring at him. “What do you mean, howling voices? Tell him to get out of there and come back!” His voice cracked with panic.

“I have been telling him to get out of there,” Tavik snapped, exasperation flaring through the fear. “But he’s a stubborn fool and won’t listen to me!”

Oren sat beside him, grounding the moment with his presence. “Where is Nix now?” he said quietly.

Tavik glowered at Oren but forced himself to focus, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as he reached along the tether again. Slowly, painfully slowly, he began to sense more. Nix was hiding. Safe for the moment, but deliberately silent. Tavik caught the strangest impression: Nix believed someone might be listening in.

The thought jolted him upright. His eyes snapped open.

“We can’t do this. We need to do something else. I don’t want to reveal anything to anyone who might be listening.” He looked at his brothers’ confused faces, then stood too quickly. The room tilted. Oren grabbed his arm and steadied him.

“What’s going on, Tav?” Bran whispered, standing as well, looking up at him with wide, anxious eyes.

Tavik drew a deep breath, forced a quick smile for both of them, strode to the door with far more confidence than he felt, and called back over his shoulder:

“So, are we going to the class or what!”

The Way of Lon class was held on the village green, within a small circle of stones. Around twenty Burrowback children of varying ages sat facing their teacher, Thessaly, who crouched low so as not to tower over them. Oren, Tavik, and Bran settled at the back of the circle, feeling faintly ridiculous behind so many very small children. The little ones kept twisting round to stare at them, giggling, whispering, then peering round again as though the brothers were the most fascinating creatures they had ever seen.

Oren sat between Tavik and Bran, doing his best to look attentive as Thessaly began the lesson. He tried to give the impression that he was deeply interested in every word she said, though in truth he was watching Tavik out of the corner of his eye. Tavik wasn’t behaving like Tavik, not since the tether had strengthened, and Oren kept half expecting him to keel over, even though Tavik was not the sort to do such a thing.

Tavik felt Oren glancing at him and jabbed him sharply in the ribs. Oren hissed back, “Nice, Tav, when I’m just concerned for you,” and gave him a shove.

Tavik ignored him and fixed his attention on Thessaly, trying very hard not to think about Nix, or the unnerving impression that someone might be listening in on their tethered conversations. He had never once considered the possibility. He didn’t even know how the tether truly worked. But if Nix was hiding, silent, wary, then perhaps Tavik ought to be cautious too.

So, he forced his mind onto Thessaly’s lesson, clinging to every word as though it were a lifeline. If anyone was listening, Tavik hoped they’d be so bored by his sudden, earnest interest in grammar that they’d drift away and leave Nix alone.

Whilst Thessaly had several of the children standing to recite a poem in the Way of Lon, the rest of the class dutifully noting the differences between its phrasing and the common tongue, Tavik felt a slow, sinking dread begin to gather in his chest. It wasn’t his. He knew that instantly. It was Nix’s, bleeding through the tether like cold water seeping under a door.

Tavik sat up straighter, trying to ignore it, but the dread thickened, sharpened, and then tipped into fear. Real fear. Tavik knew he had to get away, anywhere out of sight, especially from the children, because something was coming, and he could feel the edges of it already. If pain struck, he didn’t want to lose control in front of them.

Ignoring everyone, Tavik lurched to his feet. He meant to run, but his body moved sluggishly, as though his limbs were bound to Nix’s movements somewhere far away. He stumbled instead, baffled by the heaviness dragging at him. Beside him, he was vaguely aware of Oren and Bran rising, reaching for him as he staggered away from the open circle, desperate to find somewhere private before whatever was happening reached him fully.

Through the tether, Tavik sensed Nix calling on his magic, wings flaring, power rising, a fierce attempt to appear threatening. Cornered. Surrounded by something vast and incomprehensible. Tavik felt Oren grab his arm, but Tavik surged forward again, dragging his brother with him. The sounds around him blurred into a muffled din, nothing making sense except the overwhelming need to get away.

Then it hit.

A rushing force tore through the tether: Nix’s fear, Nix’s magic, Nix’s cry, and something converged on his cousin. Tavik felt the impact as a wrenching shock that reverberated through Nix and slammed into him. Pain, blinding, overwhelming, seized him. His body stiffened; his legs buckled. He staggered and fell.

A terrible sound filled the air. Tavik thought it was Nix screaming through the tether, until he realised, dimly, that it was his own voice, torn out of him by the force of it.

Radiant colour tore across his vision, too bright to endure, and then the dark rose like a tide and pulled him under.

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Author’s Note:

I hope you enjoyed this week’s chapter! For those who know me, you’ll recognise one of my many memorials to my younger brother in the name I gave the Chieftain of the Burrowbacks. The game where Oren and Bran try to force the other to put their hand in the butter is one I played long ago with my own brother, full of laughter and utterly absurd!
- Chaiga T. Cheska