Arc 9 | Chapter 296: Moving and Stopping

Sadly, Olivier didn’t quite jump when she popped up behind him as he exited his room, it was a near thing, though.

“How did you—” he started, peering around her and scanning his room for evidence of where she had come from.

He wouldn’t find it, the specific version of {Hidey Hole} she’d used closing up the moment she was free of it, sliding through more of the room’s door frame than the wall—it had seemed inappropriate to enter her not-really-teacher’s room without permission! The door frame was a little skinny, and she’d had to step

a little

into it. Not too much! Just a little.

Olivier glared into his room a moment longer before giving her a strained look, one that said he didn’t approve, but had come to know her well enough over the last few weeks that he knew telling her to

not

wasn’t going to do him any good.

Emilia would like to reiterate that she still thought the man hadn’t been anticipating her actually being allowed to leave the country when he told her about the trip. Now, she was there and he was stuck babysitting her. While she fully intended to behave more than she usually did for the annoying babysitters who had hounded her throughout her youth, that mostly just meant she wasn’t going to fuck off and leave everyone searching for her for days while she explored. Annoying Olivier was still on the table—at the forefront of her brain and every decision, even.

“Huh… you didn’t unpack,” Emilia noted, following his suspicious gaze through the room before the door was snapped shut, the wood stopping just centimetres before her nose.

“And you did?”

“Sure!”

The lawyer gave her a dubious look. “Really?” His dual toned eyes skimmed over her, and at any other time, Emilia might have preened to have him looking at her so closely. As it was, she felt like he was judging her!

“What?” she asked, crossing her arms and glaring up at him.

Waving vaguely over her admittedly dishevelled figure—but only a little!—Olivier told her she just didn’t seem like someone who would unpack their things for only a few nights on board.

Rude.

“I have experience travelling,” she pointed out, tilting her chin up and sniffing like the princess he still thought her to be. “My father has been detained on several-days-long trips that have turned into diplomatic disasters often enough that he always unpacks. So do I.” Emilia didn’t mention that even if she didn’t unpack, all her shit would end up scattered throughout the room anyways. It was just easier to purposefully unpack and know she’d need time to pack before departing. The number of times they’d missed flights, or she’d forgotten something important behind, missing that it had rolled under a bed, was astounding.

“Doesn’t that invite the aether to follow his intentions?” Olivier commented, his steps faltering as they finally began making their way to the restaurant for the first dinner of their trip.

“Do you believe that stuff?” Emilia asked, taking the pause in the older man’s pace to swerve in front of him once more.

Based on the look on Olivier’s face, he clearly hadn’t meant to say—or imply, at least—that he believed in the superstition that the aether would take thoughts and actions and especially spoken words as an invitation to have its way with them. It wasn’t exactly a commonly held belief; more, it was a fun thing that people teased each other with.

Don’t joke that we’ll have a pop quiz today!

or

If you dress like you’re famous, you’ll definitely become famous!

Those sorts of things. Some of the Free Colonies treated it more seriously, and Emilia knew a few people who had

accidentally brought the will and revenge of the aether down upon themselves

who now lived in a state of constant paranoia, but for Olivier—rational and reasonable—to believe such a thing…

“Oh. It’s true, then?” she asked, examining the other non-dev a little more closely than before. “It’s been a few generations, though? Even Halen’s parents didn’t believe in that, and I think their ancestors left the Grey Sands more recently than your father’s must have?”

There wasn’t much sign of Olivier’s Grey Sands heritage in him—his slightly darker skin, an almost sandy brown, was perhaps the only obvious thing she could now pinpoint as likely having come from his father’s heritage, and Baalphoria was filled with every skin tone one could imagine, so it wasn’t very noteworthy. Even Drewth de la Rue, his phantom sliding into Emilia’s vision to stand beside his eldest son, appeared more generically Baalphorian than Grey Sander—no surprise, given there had only even been a vague suspicion that his family had originally hailed from the Grey Sands.

Neither men—nor the fairer toned Antoine de la Rue—had any of the other traditional hallmarks of Grey Sanders. While Olivier and his father had dark brown hair, nearly all Grey Sanders had black hair, male styles usually featured intricate designs shorn into the sides. Neither had the beards that were common—although certainly not ubiquitous—among Grey Sanders, either. Even as her Censor lined up a list of common facial structure, virtually none of them aligned with any of the de la Rue men.

No wonder no one had ever been able to do more than guess at their heritage. Probably a good thing, unfortunately—even among people who weren’t purists, there was still a large contingency of Baalphorians who didn’t think the Grey Sands should have been brought under Baalphoria’s umbrella of control and obligation.

In many ways, Baalphorians had more dislike for Grey Sanders, legally citizens of Baalphoria, than many Free Coloniers. While there was certainly hostility between Baalphoria and the majority of Free Colonies—the result of millennia of wars and broken peace—the lack of contact with most in day to day life meant citizens felt little more than a curious, occasionally disrespectful, fear of Free Coloniers.

Grey Sanders, on the other hand, were seen as both recent enemies and Baalphorians who had refused to alter their ways to assimilate into the nation that had offered them protection from forces to the south of the Cyrenix Desert—not that the government at the time had cared for more than creating a more secure border between themselves and said forces. That government had dug its nails into the Grey Sands and refused to let go, demanding it become a layer of protection lest Chinsata, Mitine Dyn or any of the Free Colonies further south dare threaten Baalphoria. Most likely, they had expected the residents of the Grey Sands to slowly assimilate, the way the children and grandchildren of those rare Free Colony immigrants did.

That had never happened, and virtually everyone agreed it was insane that the government had ever expected it would.

Those few Free Coloniers who immigrated to Baalphoria did so out of a lack of options. They were betrayers to their governments in the midst of war. They were seekers of asylum from persecution for irregular deviations, for beliefs that didn’t align with authoritarian governments, for being non-devs fleeing life as a vessel for war.

They

came alone, or with a small group of friends and family. It was easy for their culture to disappear into the aether, as sad and cold as that was. The Grey Sands wasn't that; it was millions of people, almost all of whom belonged to a highly secretive and insular religion. Grey Sanders spoke their own language, refusing to teach it to most outsiders; they had an oral history that reached back further than the more recent informational collapse of the Colonial Wars.

In other words, without the Baalphorian government actively suppressing their identity, it was virtually impossible to image a world where Grey Sanders who still lived in their homeland would cease to become Grey Sanders and instead adopt the identity of

Baalphorian,

even if virtually all of them had adopted use of Censors.

The fact that Olivier, despite so many generations between himself and his Grey Sander ancestors, still believed in the ability to call upon the aether’s will was a perfect example of that. Some beliefs were nearly impossible to completely stomp out.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Emilia added to her question about whether the rumours about his heritage were true—he hadn’t answered and was instead staring at her with wide, almost fearful eyes.

Fearful for himself? Did he simply not want to add yet another complication to his identity as

the de la Rue family’s non-dev

? Or, was her afraid for his family? For his brother? Or, perhaps, fearful of his mother’s reaction, should she find out he had accidentally spilled a long kept family secret to her?

Somehow, Emilia thought it was more likely the last option, which begged the question: if Judith de la Rue cared so much about what a Grey Sander in the family would do to her family’s reputation, why marry Drewth de la Rue in the first place? If anything, the climate regarding prejudices towards Grey Sanders had lessened in the last few decades, as Halen’s family—who also fell into the weird category of

Grey Sander, but also not

—expanded their empire and power, their mixed heritage offering them trading opportunities with the Free Colonies where most Baalphorian companies struggled.

Now, with Halen—annoying and bitchy but undeniably brilliant—making a name for himself and actively not giving a shit about who he hired—he even had a recent Free Colony immigrant working for him, or so she’d heard—the situation would continue getting better, even if it would be a slow, painful crawl towards a world where Baalphorians didn’t fear part of their population.

Then again, that fear was almost bred into them; it wasn’t like most were liable to stop fearing The Black Knot or Hyrat clones or lavender codes anytime soon. Fear was, unfortunately, just a natural part of life in their country.

What a terrible thing for Olivier—probably his brother as well—though, to know that if people found out about their heritage, some may come to fear them, perhaps even despise them—someone would even say they didn’t belong, that they were taking opportunities away from

real

Baalphorians. Having hair and eyes like hers, Emilia had largely grown up knowing exactly what people thought of silverstrains. If people came to fear her for being a non-dev—and one who had killed a number of people, no less—Emilia doubted it would affect her much, but she wouldn’t judge people based on her own experience and potential reactions, nor would she leave the poor, almost terrified looking man in front of her wondering if somewhere in all this, she now feared or hated him.

“I also don’t care,” she continued when Olivier still didn’t say anything. “Uhm… I mean, I have friends from all sorts of heritage? It doesn’t really make a difference to me, but your father’s side is where that belief comes from, right?”

The two of them stared at each other for a long, painful moment. Olivier continued to say nothing, continued just standing there, dumbstruck or panicking, it was difficult to tell.

If one of them didn’t move soon, they were going to be late.

Sighing—resigning herself to both being the responsible one for the moment

and

not getting an answer to her question—Emilia looped her arm through Olivier’s and began tugging him along.

“Come on. If we’re late, we’ll have to make up some shit about why. You might want to find your tongue by the time that possibly comes up—my lies always involve sex, and I don’t think you’ll appreciate that. The class might believe me!”

Olivier still didn’t say anything as they walked, and while she was so, so curious as to what was happening inside his head—whether she needed to say anything else to him, or if her awkward attempts to make sure he knew his secret was safe with her had completely failed to make him feel better—Emilia resisted the urge to say more.

Despite what certain people—Halen, Leerin, Lux—said, she could so totally be quiet when needed! Holding her tongue wasn’t

that

hard.

If she started humming a song as they moved through the vessel, stopped in front of an elevator that would take them to the upper deck where the restaurant was located, that was something only she would know—Olivier didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything; if he were, he would have ripped his arm away from her long ago.

Still, regardless of the quietly aching tension between them, Emilia couldn’t deny that having the man so close felt good—right in a way she couldn’t explain.

So strange—strange and mildly concerning, a part of Emilia’s soul wondering,

“If I voice my hope that this man might help me, might stay with me, will the aether grant me that? Or will it become the cruel monster some believe it to be, and rip us apart with the brutality it so rarely shows our world?”