And so they marched. Only the outriders carried torches, the rest of the column rode in darkness, dour and silent. An hour had passed with nary a word spoken, the distance between them and the camp becoming larger with every moment. They were three miles away for now. As for Daria, she hoped for closer to thirty miles before dawn. It would be hard, on horses and men, but any hope they had of fulfilling their task lay in being as far from any possible response force as was feasible. Deep down she was afraid, not of death, but of failure. Afraid of being wrong. If she was wrong, then she was leading what was left of her command into the jaws of death for no reason. She would have left those who were too weak to move at the less than tender mercies of the Allied troops for nothing. She doubted herself, a gnawing feeling in her gut that left nothing but questions. And fear.

A lancer she didn't know by name called the mile, her voice softly echoed down the line, putting them further from any possible retribution. It was only a small comfort to her unquiet mind. The distance seemed like nothing. She glanced back at the sprawling expanse of the camp behind them, spread out like a small city. It still seemed so close, like she could reach out and touch it with her gloved hand. Almost definitely close enough for them to still be seen if the light worked well for a keen eyed observer.

As the minutes passed she grew more and more confused. Surely they must have noticed something? The unconscious guards, the ripped tent cloth, the muddied patch of floor where the struggle happened? Then why was there no alarm? Someone must have kept it quiet. It couldn't be Benthey, she was too aggressive. The whole camp would be in uproar if she had found it. Perhaps the one-eyed Haman, the stoic giant of a man. He seemed to have the cautious temprament of a career soldier from what she had seen of him. Either way, every moment they had was a blessing.

The prisoner was behind her on one of the spare horses, flanked by two guards and tied to both them and their steeds. He wasn't awake... yet. That was expected to change very soon. When he did, the plan was to be honest. He had no reason to trust her. None at all. He had every reason to despise her. She would have to work hard to get him to listen.



Another hour passed. Four more miles had gone, eaten up by the steel shod hooves of three hundred odd riders. The prisoner had groaned a half hour ago.Daria had executed a quick saddle change with one of the guards, who now rode Stepper a few yards away while she had a front row seat to the awakening of Prince-Commander Barth. He finally stirred properly, reaching up with his hands to pull at the sack over his head, only to find they were bound to the saddle he sat on as securely as he was to her. Rather poetic that. Something about sitting on one's hands occurred to her, but she held her tongue by some miracle. She engaged her warmest smile before remembering that he couldn't see it. Oh well.

"Ah, Prince Barth, you're awake. Good." Finally.

"Perhaps you are wondering why you are here? Well, allow me to explain..."

The words tumbled out, sometimes in a rush, sometimes measured, but they came. She was unused to explaining herself to anyone, but this was an exceptional circumstance. Maybe he would come around. Probably not, but you never know your luck.

Barth's head was pounding, although in spite of the blow he'd sustained he knew it was more from the drinking than anything else. He hadn't handled Verana's passing very well, that much was a fact. To make it somewhat ironic, she hated the drink more than anyone, to the point of scolding him whenever he had too much. To some it would've looked humorous, a battle-hardened prince being reprimanded by a girl who was much smaller and less experienced, but to Barth the woman was worth listening to. Even when he ignored her and drank too much anyway, he still felt ashamed whenever she fixed him with her accusing grey stare.

He listened carefully as Daria spoke, unable to believe what he was hearing. It was all incredibly hard to fathom, and the sheer insanity of it made him wonder if he'd been alone in hitting the bottle that day. Still, he allowed her to finish explaining herself before speaking. It wasn't like he could do much anyway, with his hands bound and his vision obscured; he understood the reasoning behind his current situation, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable for him.

"Unless you fear that I can kill with my gaze alone, remove this sack from my head. It smells like old tits, and while I'm curious as to why that is, I won't presume to delve into your personal affairs. Leave my hands bound if you wish, but if I need my ass scratched you'll have to oblige me."

He heard mumbling voices, and then finally the sack was moved and he saw the flickering of torchlight a ways away, at the edge of his vision. If not for his current sensitivity to light he'd have missed it entirely, as the group he was riding with was shrouded in darkness. Undoubtedly, this was by design. Barth inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air that greeted him. "Much better."

He observed the group, throwing an exploratory look back over his shoulder. It seemed very much like the entirety of the Heart Guard, those who'd escaped the battle without serious injury, was in attendance. He narrowed his eyes, then turned back to Daria, who was riding one of the two horses tied to his own. "Your plan is a daring one. A little stupid, too, although that's not necessarily a bad thing. The former general of Linden, who led the army in the years of my youth, was a man by the name of Daiden'sk. He seldom visited the field, and instead spent his time studying his papers as opposed to the enemy. Every strategy he proposed was based on his theories - his most memorable work would have to be when he had the idea to utilize pikemen in defending against the Tutar. It seemed logical enough, but then the beasts would stop shy of crashing into the lines, choosing instead to let loose with their spears. They outnumbered us ten to one, in those days, and the sky was darkened by the shafts they flung. A logical theory, but a complete failure of a plan. Perhaps here I'm witnessing the opposite."

One of the mercenaries was staring at him in disbelief; it probably wasn't the ideal time for a history lesson, but Barth had never been very predictable. He also felt strangely talkative, although that might've been the remnants of the alcohol in his system. He wasn't exactly known for his tolerance. "But I have to ask… why isn't there an uproar following in our wake? From what you've told me, you left a great deal to chance. So why isn't there a civil war on our heels?"

Before the red-headed woman, who was unmistakably a descendant of the Thaamin, could reply, Barth was surprised to hear another voice speak out.

"Forgiveness, Captain, but I was leaving the tent when I was caught up by the big one," said the rider, who had been hanging back behind them until now. "The one with the eyepatch." Barth smiled, imagining the scene as the man spoke. If trouble came, Haman was always nearby, ready to break every bone in its troubled body. "He left me little choice - I… I told him everything. And he… he nodded, and said he would do what he can. I'm sorry, I know you said to maintain secre-"

"Nonsense, good man," Barth interrupted, as the stammering mercenary turned from his leader to their captive. He must've been hoping to get by without admitting what he'd done to Daria, but she actually owed him a great deal. Haman was a big, scary individual - but he had a brain. He was smart, much smarter than many would have given him credit for, and he'd clearly seen the situation as Barth was now seeing it. Daria trying something like this, without good reason, would've been suicide. For her, and for the Allies' chances. The mammoth man knew better than to raise the alarm, and that was just one of many reasons he was held so highly in the Prince's regard. "If you hadn't told him the truth, he would've probably ripped your limbs off. The screams would've led to all kinds of trouble. You did the right thing, now, what do you have there in that skin?"

The man stared at him for a second, looking a bit lost for words, before glancing down at the container hanging at his belt. "Oh, this. It's water sir. Uh, Sir Prince."

"Ah. I thought it might've been wine, but that's better than nothing. Parched, I am. Bring it here," Barth added imperiously, gesturing with his head, and then the skin was passed to the man flanking him on his other side, who held it to his mouth. He drank deeply, relishing the liquid as it eased the dryness of his throat - he felt more awake than he had in some time, which was a good thing given what waited ahead.

"I admire your ability to think on the fly, Daria," he said once he'd taken his fill, "because there's no way you put a lot of time into this. It wouldn't have been nearly so sloppy, and if you're wrong, a lot of people are going to die. But Lady Lydia must have blessed you, because if your man hadn't run into Haman and told all, you'd be in serious trouble. And the weight of everything that happened next would have fallen squarely on your shoulders. But luckily, there's still time. If this is going to work, we'll have to make the most of what we have."

It was dark, but to his eyes the woman appeared to be surprised by his willingness. He grunted, nodding in a knowing fashion. "Yeah, most prisoners aren't so eager. But while it might make me a fool to say so, I'm inclined to believe you. I meant what I told you in the tent, Daria. And as such, I'm putting my trust in you. I will do my part."

Barth stopped, allowing a brief silence to fall before he finished his thought, his tone as serious as it had ever been.

"Just don't fail me."

_________________

There was a sense of celebration to be had, but the God of the Hunt was in anything but a celebratory mood. His brother wolf had all but abandoned him for a human who smelt of fear and patheticness and the world just no longer made sense. Clutched in his hands was his bow, once a weapon that brought him not only great joy but justice to the lands that were under his protection. On this day, it failed…though that was hardly fair for the bow was not the one who missed.

Weylyn was the one who missed.

Even now as he stood there in the silence on the outskirt of the camp, he remembered that moment. The look in her eyes as she was faced with the Tutar, fear mingled with righteous determination to not go gently. Fire burned in her eyes that told each and every creature there that they were about to be in for a fight for their lives. Even if she were to fall, she would be sure to take as many down with her. All he had to do was shoot one. Just one at her back and she would have been fine.

And he missed.

His hands tightened about the bow, the grains of the wood pressed into his callused palms only brought a fraction of pain though it threatened to be splintered under the power of the God.

"You are a hunter, not an army. You could not save her, Weylyn. It was her time." The presence of the man who was as much his father as the wolf that raised him comforted his troubled immortal soul though his words did little to ease his pain and guilt.

"No. It was not her time," bitter tone clung to his words as he looked down at his bow. "Her light was bright. Her skill unmatched, heart pure as gold and loyal as any wolf," his hands tighten on the worn material as for the briefest of moments he thinks about snapping it over his leg. "I missed. I caused her death."

Rolyn looked at the God that was like a son to him, and felt the anger coming in waves. He blamed himself, blamed it all on one arrow - a failure that stung all the more thanks to its rarity. Weylyn did not miss.

"Perhaps Verana Snowblade was meant to live a full life. Maybe she would have helped lead her people to victory, securing a future for Soluunar that many dared not hope for in its darkest hours."

Rolyn could not touch Weylyn when they spoke like this, but he stood right next to him, and he knew the other could feel his presence.

"And perhaps she may have been meant to live on, only to see defeat and the death of those she loved. Even the wisest cannot see what may have been, Weylyn. But she died fighting alone against overwhelming odds - she died a hero, and not an archer shall raise their bow on Soluunar without knowing the name Verana Snowblade."

He began fading, as the concentration that bound him to the tent was weakened as Rolyn felt the call to action within the Upper Regions. "Don't think of the arrow that missed, Weylyn. Think of those that may still be saved, as you still draw breath. And remember the fallen, lest you join them."

For a long moment, he stood there, eyes on his bow still as the trees of the forest he called home. Then with measured actions, smooth from years of practice he drew his knife and carved into his bow a single word.

Verana.

Every arrow that he notched from this night forth would pass across her name and carry with it her hopes, dreams, and her vengeance. With her he would reclaim the land and drive back the dark.

He would never miss again.

“What now? You must feel that in the air? This…victory is hollow for more than one reason,” he cast his gaze to the heavens. “These mortals are in for a storm…aren’t they?”

_________________

”Eu cael! Peidiwch â gadael iddynt ddianc!”*

Water erupted into tendrils and ribbons as a stampede of hooves intruded upon the once unblemished stream, kicking up mud as they dug into the soft earth. The screams and hisses and obscenities of their pursuers were closing in, and no matter how hard she was kicked, Emira was already going as fast as her small legs could carry her. She had taken Rajah to the front of the group of five, but even she wasn’t fast enough to outrun the Rapaii forever. The thought scared Rajah, not for himself, but for the other four men traveling with him. If Emira wasn’t fast enough at the front of the herd, it was only a matter of time.

The impact of Emira’s hooves hitting the ground wore on Rajah’s legs, and his thighs trembled under the pressure and threatened to give out on him entirely. He wasn’t sure if he had stopped riding Emira as hard in his fatigue, but he quickly lost his place at the head of the group as a sudden surge of panic seemed to overtake one of the other riders. His horse carried him far ahead until he abruptly stopped and his horse reared. The rider, Aman, struggled to keep hold of his reins and hold himself up but to no avail. He slid off the horse’s back and made a sickening thud on the ground that reminded Rajah too much of dead weight, and despite the pain in his legs he pushed Emira to ride harder, though he got a sick feeling in his stomach when he thought of what could have been the reason for the horse to rear so suddenly. There were crags and hills in this area with sudden drops, and the nights in the Scorched Plains were dark and made it difficult to tell one way or the other. Emira picked up her slack to pull ahead, and Rajah leaned almost all the way off of her back with just a leg hooking around her hips to support himself as he offered his arm to his fallen companion as they approached. Emira, too, stopped suddenly, sending Rajah forward against the back of her neck.

It was a drop, as he had feared, but not nearly as horrible as it could be. Both of Aman’s hands wrapped around Rajah’s proffered arm and kicked the ground wildly in attempts to get to his feet. “Dawela, Emira, dawela!”** Rajah pleaded quietly, stroking her neck with his free hand in attempts to soothe her. She whined and protested loudly, and it only grew louder as the gentle hissing of arrows passed by her ears. She kicked up onto her hind legs and Rajah wrapped the reins around his arm, holding himself up by pure will alone. The weight on his other arm suddenly increased tenfold and almost dragged him right off Emira’s back, and Rajah looked down in horror to find Aman’s left eye protruding from his head, mounted on the tip of a crudely carved arrow head. A strangled, startled cry escaped the back of his throat, and Rajah’s arm swung wildly, independent of his will, and sent Aman to fall on his back, spitting up and choking on his own blood.

“Rajah! Ewch nawr!”***

Rajah’s head whipped around, his long and disheveled braid whipping around to send black scribbles arcing through the even blacker night. His eyes focused just in time to see his best friend and blood brother Radu take his horse in a jump, right over the ledge, followed by the other two Reclaimers that were with them. It wasn’t a far drop, and judging by the splashes he could hear below, they would have a body of water to cushion their fall. In a split second decision, Rajah quietly said his apologies to Aman, the gods and Emira before taking his horse over the ledge and waiting to see his life flash before his eyes. The flash he was waiting for never came, and he was instead brought back to the here-and-now by ice cold waters blanketing his legs and the sides of his horse. He was acutely aware of the plethora of sounds around him now; the shouts of the Rapaii above him, the frantic splashing of horses traveling through the water, the hiss and splash of arrows being rained down on them from up on the ledge. He could even hear the drowned screams of one of the Reclaimers, whose horse had broken its leg on the drop and fallen into the water, holding him down with it.

”Rajah!” he heard Radu urge, and Rajah obliged, kicking Emira into submission and pushing her forward through the chilled water. The rain of steel and wood didn’t stop, in fact becoming more incessant as they were closer to fording the stream, but at last he saw Radu’s horse get back on solid ground, and a few seconds later he got the same pleasure. They rode hard, hard enough to carry them at least far enough away to where the flurry of arrows was no longer a direct assault to them, before pulling their horses to a stop and looking around and realizing that they were the only two left.

They’d left with five men. One took an arrow through the head, one drowned under the weight of his own horse, and the other… Rajah couldn’t say for sure, but he likely fell victim to the barrage of arrows. His eyes locked with Radu’s for confirmation, but looked away in grief as soon as he got it. Radu pulled on his reins to turn his horse around, and Rajah did the same. Their right hands extended out to their fallen brothers, then came back in to form a fist over their hearts. Rajah almost felt he didn’t have one at this point, and that his fist was merely covering up the hole where his heart should have been.

With their brothers in arms fallen, and the weight of the Scorched Plains on their shoulders, they urged their horses back around and started forward. To Linden; to help.

*”Get them! Don’t let them escape!”
**”Peace, Emira, peace.”
***”Rajah! Go, now!”



Rajah woke with a sharp inhale, reaching blindly for his bow only in a frenzied panic until he heard the gentle murmurings of Radu to calm down. ”Peace, Rajah,” he reassured his companion as he looked over his shoulder. It was only then that Rajah realized he was not on Emira, but instead saddled behind Radu.

Groaning, Rajah sat up straight and looked from side to side for Emira, following her reins from Radu’s hand to where she strode just behind them and to the right. “How long was I asleep?” he mumbled, almost more to himself than to his friend, and straightened out his back in a series of stretches and turns. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep, or being tired or anything of the sort. He normally got plenty of sleep when they stopped to make camp, and he briefly contemplated how he could fall asleep riding on Emira, but relented and decided to just be thankful that Radu had taken him on.

“No more than two hours.” Radu made it sound so nonchalant, but Rajah looked at him incredulously as if that had been an eternity. Because when they were in such a rush, it was eternity. They could have been riding faster and harder in those two hours if Radu hadn’t been so polite as to let him sleep. The look on his face must have been hilarious, because Radu’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Calm down. We are almost to Linden; there’s no harm in a few hours of sleep.” With the reins still in hand, he pointed to the up and to the right a bit. “We just have to follow this road for a little longer and we’ll be there.”

Rajah hummed in acknowledgement and scooted back enough to where he was sitting on the horse’s hips, feeling himself being jarred side to side as it stepped, just enough to swing his leg to sit side-saddle and make the small jump to his own horse. Emira whinnied and snorted hot air in protest at the sudden jar, but a few solid pats to her neck were enough to soothe her. “Do you think they’ll send help?” It was a hollow question, and one that he didn’t want to ask but felt was necessary. Radu seemed prepared for it.

“Oh yes,” he assured his friend, in that way that he always did. He looked over, those golden brown eyes glimmering in what could have been dubbed excitement and his thick, black braid loosened just slightly from where Radu insisted on keeping it wrapped loosely around his neck, the bells in his hair jingling at the movement.. “Hundreds of men. Entire battalions with their fiercest generals and warriors. You do not need to worry. Nor do our people, Rajah, I promise you that.”

The barest of smiles graced Rajah’s lips, not at the idea of Lindenians coming to their aid - because on that he was sincerely skeptical - but at how Radu always stepped in to immediately reassure him and dispel any doubts that he might have. Even if those reassurances were based in fantasies and rambling daydreams. He loved Radu, though, as much as he would love his own brother if he had one. And they were brothers, in a way. They’d both emigrated from the eastern plains when the Tutar attacked, and they had been together since, but more than that they had bled together. For each other, with each other, and because of each other they had bled together. And it was because of this that Radu had always held himself in the big brother stance, constantly protecting Rajah from things he did not necessarily need protecting from, and sometimes protecting him from reality itself. Much like now. He wanted to protest Radu’s hopeless romanticism of the situation, because in reality seeking aid from another country was difficult and you did not have a good chance of acquiring it without an already-standing alliance. He kept silent, though.

And he continued to keep that silence for the rest of the hour it took to finally see the silhouettes of buildings Radu was the first to spot them, and he kicked his horse into gear immediately in excitement, rushing ahead and already seeming miles away by the time Rajah registered what was happening. He dug his heels into Emira’s sides a few times, urging her forward into a matching speed, and from there it erupted into fits of laughter and racing and contest as the two struggled to get to the city gates first. Radu maintained his lead, given his abrupt headstart, and Rajah watched fondly yet no less determined to beat him, even as he watched the other pass under the portcullis. And stop. Abruptly. Rajah pulled hard on the reins some yards away from where Radu’s horse stood, watching his brother struggle to pull the horse back away one step at a time.

“What is it, m’rawd?*” Rajah called out, urging Emira forward in a small, wary trot. The smile was still tugging at the edge of his lips, but very quickly faltering.

Radu turned at the hip on his horse, a desperately broken look on his face that Rajah could spot even from this distance. The trot turned into a canter, and then to a run as he raced forward to see what could so defeat Radu, who just a few hours ago had been so sure that Linden would be well. Emira closed the distance between them quickly enough, and Rajah remained at Radu’s side as they both beheld what was - or was formerly - the capital of Linden.

Rajah took forward in slow, cautious steps as he passed under the portcullis that opened to a courtyard, his eyes roaming from building to dilapidated building. Each hoof that dropped made a sickening crunch, though whether it was rubble or bone, he could not be sure. The thought made him ill, like he could be leading Emira over the bones of his own brothers. The remains of bodies lay haphazardly strewn about the ground, and his mouth fell agape to ask what could have possibly done this, though his jaw snapped shut tight as the sight of a Tutari body answered his question.

“What are the chances that there are survivors?” Radu asked, all expression and enthusiasm dissolved from his voice. Rajah merely shook his head and looked down at his hands fumbling with the reins. Radu hummed thoughtfully, then kicked his horse into a trot. “I suppose there’s no way to know other than to look.”

Rajah stared blankly after him, and briefly wondered how Radu always maintained a sense of optimism even in the bleakest of scenarios. Then he kept wondering, wondered some more, and then forgot about it altogether and chalked it up to the fact that he was simply Radu. Emira soon followed after the other horse, and together they wandered up and down city streets until eventually they found themselves in the belly of the shadow cast by the castle itself. Radu and Rajah exchanged a glance, and then in unison slid off the sides of their beasts and took the stairs to at a time until they reached the top.

Rajah pushed on one of the grandiose castle doors, first with his hands and then ramming his shoulder into it. He jerked his chin in the direction of the other door, urging Radu to help him with it. The other obliged, and together they pushed their shoulders into the doors. Once, twice, and on the third time they gave way, sending both men stumbling into a gruesome scene. Radu looked away immediately, putting his hand over his mouth to stop from wretching. Rajah kept his eyes open though, taking in the grisly sight before him.

What had obstructed the doors were none other than a massive pile of Tutari bodies, some of them blatantly in pieces and others without all of their organs inside of them. There was a multitude of bodies, not all of them belonging to the Tutar, but a plethora of Tutari bodies converging into some elementary version of a circle. The newfound sunlight caught the reflection of something in one of their hands, gracing his vision with brief glimmers, but Rajah couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it came from. Hazel eyes squinted, trying to locate it to no avail. He pushed one of the doors shut suddenly, then opened it again just as quickly, eagle eyes watching for any hint of glitter. And sure enough, there was that sparkle again, masked in the clutches of a decaying Tutari hand.

“Rajah, what are you doing?” he heard Radu ask from behind him, but Rajah was determined.

Nimble feet carefully stepped over, around and through bodies, careful not to touch any of them directly. That is, until he made his pause at the Tutar ring, and the one body in particular whose hand clutched so desperately to that one object. He bent down at the waist, as kneeling down would soak his knees in blood and gore, and dug his much smaller hands into that of the Tutar. There was definitely something solid in there, and cold. Metal?

”Rajah!” Radu repeated, though it came out as more of a quiet hiss this time, as if he were afraid that one of these bodies would hear him and kill them both.

“Just.. hold on a moment, would you?” he asked, rhetorically of course. He had no intention of hurrying up even if Radu did mine. He almost had it, whatever ‘it’ was. Spindly fingers hooked around whatever the mysterious object was, and he pulled as hard as he could. So hard, in fact, that he heard the sickening sound of one of the deceased Tutar’s fingers snap off. He held in a horrified noise and kept pulling until the object was revealed. “... It’s a crown.”

“What?”

Rajah turned at the waist and held the newly discovered above his head for Radu, the gods and all of the corpses to see. His expression was not one of someone who had found some great treasure to barter, or some adornment to wear and flaunt. Instead, the look he held was one of a broken man who had lost all hope. This was the crown of the king of Linden, without a doubt.

Linden had fallen, and with it, their only hope of seeking aid.

The descent down the castle steps was a sad and defeated one. Rajah vaguely wondered what, exactly, he had expected. The entire capital had been overthrown and reduced to rubble and debris and corpses. Why should the king have been spared? To grant the miracle dreaming of some Plainsmen? His thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth and he wished for the world he had left the crown where he’d found it, but nevertheless found himself instead hitching it to one of the packs Emira carried at her sides and resumed his place on her back.

They were halfway to the portcullis they’d entered through when Rajah voiced the question that was weighing on both of their minds. “Where do we go from here?”

“Lebidan,” Radu answered simply, giving his horse a quick squeeze to the sides to speed up, as if that somehow reaffirmed his thinking.

Rajah stared blankly after him as his companion trotted further ahead of him. It astounded him that even in the face of absolute adversity, in the worst possible scenarios, Radu still had an answer for everything. Or at least, he pretended to. So far, Radu’s answers had gotten them nothing but disappointment. “And what will we find in Lebidan?” he called out, urging Emira to catch pace with Radu’s horse. “Men who cannot see us past their wealth and ego enough to help us?”

Radu’s head spun around to face him, and Rajah felt himself be studied for a moment before he got another hollow answer. “I suppose we’ll just have to see.”

Time passed by them; seconds, minutes, hours, days. It was the evening of the second day that they saw the camp. Or, the remains of a camp, anyway - though from the Tutar bodies scattered here and there across the ground Rajah thought it looked to be more a battlefield than anything. The beating of hooves slowed as the horses circled their way through, taking careful movements to not step on the corpses.

“A Tutari camp?” Radu asked, though that was not a question that Rajah could answer. The remnants of torn tent fabric and poles and nothing else made him shake his head, though. There was something wrong here. If this had been a Tutari camp, where was the camp itself? Surely no small group of bandits had killed this many Tutar and taken up their entire camp. No, this was something else, something..

With a sense of morbid curiosity, Rajah swung off his horse and dropped down onto solid ground. The reverberations caught him from the ankles up and made his legs tremble. The sound of bells and a soft thump let Rajah know that he was not alone. With their reins in hand, both men padded their way through the macabre scene.

“Hey.” Rajah hummed in response, waiting for Radu to continue, but all he did was repeat it more incessantly. If Rajah had rolled his eyes any further back into his head, he was sure he would have been able to see his own mind reeling from whatever menial finding could possibly be so important to make him turn around, but his thoughts stopped in their tracks the moment he did and he jumped at the sight of a scimitar pointed right at him.

The look on his face must have been incredulous and hysterical at the same time, because Radu almost doubled over laughing. A sigh mixed with agitation and relief escaped his lips, and Rajah merely pushed the blade aside. “That’s not funny, Radu.”

“No, take it,” Radu insisted, pushing the flat of the blade to his chest. “They’re everywhere. Spears, too.”

“You’re looting bodies.”

“Are you particularly surprised?” Rajah had to think about that for only a moment before he decided that no, he wasn’t surprised at all. “Besides,” Radu continued, dropping down to his knees to find whatever else was left on this particular body. “Do you honestly think that they will need weapons now?”

Rajah only murmured some sort of incoherent protest before dropping down beside of his friend anyway to wrestle the scimitar’s sheath away from the body. After some fashioning, Rajah managed to slip the cloth belt around his waist through the two metal loops at the back of the sheath, then refastening his belt in a knot at his side. He jumped up and down a few times just to make sure the sheath would stay in place before slipping the sword inside.

They continued these motions for some time, poking and prodding at bodies while their mounts were tied to a spear that Radu had plunged into the ground. The first noise that Rajah heard sounded like it had come from Radu, so of course he largely ignored it. The second noise, then the third, and so on and so forth became more persistent in demanding his attention. He looked up from what he was doing, what he was doing being of course looking for any food on the Tutar that didn’t happen to be spoiled meat, and let his eyes dart in every direction to pinpoint the source. He was so focused on finding whatever it was that he didn’t notice Radu come up behind him. If the other man’s hand hadn’t clapped itself over his mouth, Rajah was sure he would have screamed.

“Get to the horses,” he whispered, his hoarse voice cracking under the pressure of trying to keep so silent. Rajah turned his head the best he could in the vice grip, but Radu was having none of it and kept his head straight. “Rajah, go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Rajah took a deep breath as soon as Radu removed his hand, and then everything seemed to happen both all at once and in slow motion. The sounds, which Rajah could clearly make out as footsteps now that they were so close, got quicker as the Tutar realized they were here. His feet kicked up dirt and grass as he struggled to stand, breaking into a run for the horses as soon as he found his footing. He could hardly hear anything over the sound of his own ragged breathing by the time he got to the spear protruding from the ground, and what he could hear seemed to be flashbacks of their escape from the Rapaii all over again.

Nimble, spindly fingers made quick work of the knots in the reins and he held them both with one clenched fist to keep both wild beasts from fleeing. He heard his name called over his shoulder in desperation, and his free hand found itself wrapping tightly around the spear, wretching it free from its place in the ground to turn on his heel and thrust it toward Radu’s chest. Rajah scrambled onto Emira’s back, seating himself as quickly as he could to watch in horror as Radu spun around in place and rammed the head of the spear into the jugular of one of their Tutar pursuers, clenching his eyes against the spray of blood and gore that coated his face. Closing his eyes was his downfall, and just as Rajah was notching an arrow, Radu’s entire head was taken into the claws of the next Tutar. He could only watch in horror as his friend and brother was picked up and slammed down, and two more times after that until Rajah was sure that he was dead.

Then the focus was on him. The thought to flee didn’t cross his mind until the Tutar was already descending on him, scimitar drawn and ready for more bloodshed. In a split second decision, Rajah kicked Radu’s horse in the haunches as hard as he could, sending the beast flying in the opposite direction and forcing Emira forward instead, making a wide circle around the disfigured, bestial murderer and leaning sideways off his horse, only keeping himself propelled by hooking his leg around her middle. The way he leaned over made him think of Aman, and how this hadn’t worked the last time. But it would work now, it had to. He couldn’t leave Radu.

Emira closed the distance between them and Radu’s body, and Rajah leaned down even further to grab at the back of Radu’s pants. He missed, and he rode another wide circle around the Tutar in the almost unbearably painful position to try again. This time he got a good hold, hooking his fingers under the waist of Radu’s pants and dragging him along the ground for good few feet before he found the explosion of upper body strength to hoist him up, his entire body going rigid when he felt Radu’s dead weight on his lap, jarring side to side from the impact of Emira’s rough riding. The horse raced in the direction of its counterpart, and Rajah leaned over to the best of his ability to snatch up the reins of the other, more startled beast.

He rode hard after that. He couldn’t say in which direction, but away from that camp. He was miles and myriads away before he slowed Emira down to a halt and slid off her bad, cradling Radu’s body in his arms and dropping down to his knees. He cried for a long time; he’d lost track of just how long. Long enough for the Tutar to have caught up to him if he was being pursued, but that didn’t matter. When he stopped crying was when he got down to work.

With Radu propped up into a sitting position against his chest, Rajah slowly unbraided his hair and removed the bells and other adornments he insisted on wearing in it, straightening out the ravelled hair as best he could before laying him down on the ground. His horse was butchered, and Rajah took only enough meat from it to last him a couple of days. Then, as was custom, a pyre was built. Radu lay peacefully on a bed of sticks and branches and kindling next to his horse, who had a bed of the same fashion. Rajah didn’t watch them burn, but instead rode far enough away to where he could see the pyre grow ferociously, flames licking the air in a dance that truly befitted Radu. Choking back a dry sob - his tears had run dry by now, he was sure - Rajah slowly extended an outstretched hand to his brother’s burning body and brought it back into a tight fist at his chest.

With that, he was alone; the burden of the Scorched Plains on his shoulders and his alone. With or without Radu, his people needed him, and that meant Lebidan.


*brother

_________________

She dodged behind the flap of an opening tent, catching it before it swished shut and prompting a quick, confused stare from the man who exited. Mismatched eyes kept an easy bead on Haman’s broad and, apparently, very scarred back. She chewed the inside of her cheek briefly, contemplating on his words, mulling over his strange blend of passion for protecting his Prince and nonchalance at the kidnapping of said Prince. He certainly hadn’t seemed to be lying, and no one from Linden had anything shifty to say about the kneecap-buster that didn’t reek of duty and pride. She dropped the flap of canvas and followed again at a not-so-distant distance, taking stealthy steps even though the ambient camp sounds were more than enough to cover any -

A firm pressure pulled on her shoulder and she jerked back in surprise, grabbing the offending wrist and pivoting her body to intersect her assailant against the grain, only to meet a pair of very familiar, pale green eyes.

Rendir didn’t look quite as fresh as he had on the battlefield, but all things considered, he really wasn’t too damaged. A wide, angry gash ran from the corner of his mouth to his left temple, no longer bleeding but still very inflamed around the edges. His right arm was in a sling, as well; for someone who specialized with a bow, compromised arms could be a bit of a problem, but other than that he had gotten away with a few bruises.

She dropped her hand from his arm and it fell to his side, and for a few beats the siblings just stared at each other. Finally, Rendir opened his mouth and gestured very broadly with his functional arm, his expression somewhere between astonishment and exasperation as he indicated the entire surrounding army camp while staring at his sister.

Sen shrugged.

The elder sibling sputtered an incredulous snort, then ran his good hand through his bangs and looked away, eyes moving quickly but taking nothing in.

“Thought I was hallucinating out there, you know,” her brother started, still not looking at her, “on the field. Especially when I didn’t see you at the send-off for the fallen.”

“Trying to keep a low profile,” she murmured, crossing her arms loosely and turning to stare vacantly in the same direction.

“Naturally.” The word was accompanied by a snort of sarcastic acceptance.

“Were there many?”

“Hm?”

“Fallen,” she said firmly, finally pivoting to stare at the side of his face, “Were there a lot of casualties? From our House?”

Rendir’s look of stubborn discontent faded into something softer, sadder, and he handed her a folded up piece of parchment that had been tucked into the front of his vest. “We brought a lot of men, Seniré.”

She unfolded the paper and read down the list of names and injured, her eyes skimming for two very specific titles. The list of deceased held neither (she released the breath she’d been holding, thanking whichever gods were listening with it), but there was one on the other side. “Emmet?”

“His leg.”

“Broken?”

“Gone.”

Sen’s face paled and she stared blankly at the words for a moment. Her tall, statuesque brother, the apple of her parents’ eyes, the object of poetic desire for so many courtly ladies, who made his name as a proud, fierce, naturally-talented warrior. Reduced to a cripple. He wouldn’t fight again, at least, not very well. She knew he had put a lot of stock in always being able to follow in father’s footsteps and now… now, he wouldn’t really be following anyone. Sen felt an unfamiliar pang of pity for the proudest of her siblings.

“I should go see him - ”

“You should go home, little sister.” Rendir finally turned to stare at her, his gaze intense. “This isn’t the place for you. I know you think with your new hair and clothes and –eye?- that you can hold your own out here but - ”

Sen felt a very defensive fire turn from a simmer to a boil in her gut, but before she could properly scorch him, Rendir had turned away to grab the arm of a passing soldier. His livery affiliated him with her family, but she didn’t recognize the smaller crest. The horsetailed man barked a few terse orders at him in a quiet tone, received a whispered response, then nodded curtly. Sen found it odd to watch him be so much like their father.

“Take my horse and leave. Just get out of camp, back the way you came. Go. Home.” With his final emphatic press on the last two words, he turned heel and strode with the departing soldier. Sen could see him turning to interrogate the man even as they walked, his intelligent eyes sparking. He was always better at strategy and politics than the eldest brother; Rendir probably would have fared a lot better without all four limbs.

She pondered his last order, hot offense slowing to a vindictive simmer as she cast a sweeping stare around her position. Haman was long gone, of course. Sen was torn between rolling her eyes because of course her target was gone and snarling in frustration because the one person from back home that might have understood, that might have been willing to try to understand, had turned his back on her and left her standing in his dust, just like the rest of them. Just like always.

There was no way Haman would be difficult to find, at least. She suspected it would take no more than a few minutes of searching and some light eavesdropping, but before the theory could be tested, she became vaguely aware of a particularly well-lit spot. Not “well-lit” as in too many torches, either. Wisps of colors faded in and out of each other, far more faint than they had been in the recent battle but unmistakably present, like footprints on a shore with a rising tide. They formed a sort of iridescent dome, growing slightly more vibrant toward the lower center, and before she had really registered what she was doing she had adjusted her course.

The light around the tent wasn’t painfully bright by any means, not the way it had been before, but it was still different from the dim camp that sprawled around it; Sen found it strangely unpopulated, given the unnatural light and the tension in the air around it. It seemed important that she be close to this place, to this feeling, so that –

The armored arm caught her square across the shoulders and neck, an abrupt barrier that made her sputter a quick cough and turn.

She remembered him clearly, though she’d only seen him for a few seconds before; the man in the full helm, following the God that had fixed her eye. He didn’t look any more inviting than he had in their first encounter, but he still initiated conversation with a terse, “I remember you.”

The blonde woman swallowed, suddenly feeling awkward again. Something about being stared down was considerably more intense when all one could see was the set of eyes doing the staring. Sen wasn’t sure if his golden-bronze armor was particularly well-shined, or if he was still wreathed in a very faint coating of the same colored light. She opened her mouth to choke out some sort of response, but he saved her the trouble and continued with “Thought you’d be dead by now.”

Well, that was rude. Sen’s face and tone said as much while she answered “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Maybe next time,” came the metallic response, armor clinking as the man hefted his quarterstaff against his shoulder. The woman’s stare flattened further, but she decided that his stone-cold eyes had softened, just a little. Maybe, under that full helm and thick armor, this silent, hovering figure could actually be a decent, warm –

The business-end of his quarterstaff caught her in the lower back, right in the left kidney.

She inhaled sharply in pain, helmeted-echo chiming in. “Come at me, little girl.”

Sen wheeled around to face him, eyes watering even though she knew the blow hadn’t been that hard. Just a tap, proof that even though she had been staring directly at him, he was still fast enough to reach her back. Clearly to make a point more than anything else, but it still hurt. “No,” she retorted sharply, trying to disguise the discomfort in her voice. Regardless of the one-sidedness, she hardly felt confrontational just now; the aftermath of the battle had been taxing, almost as taxing as the actual thing, which hadn’t even been that long ago and –

The butt of the long weapon caught her again, in the solar plexus.

She doubled-over, still acutely aware that it had been little more than a skip forward and a love-tap to the tall man. “Knock it off!” she finally barked, ignoring the inevitable nausea that typically followed such a blow.

“Let’s see how much longer you’ve got.”

Sen saw the quarterstaff this time, keeping a defensive hyperawareness of her body; she pulled her shoulder back just in time to avoid it, and, somehow, just in time to stumble backwards over it. She landed hard on her hind end, staring up with unconcealed frustration and anger to the rude, full-helmed butthole. “Not long, all right?” she spat, scrambling ungracefully to her feet, the blood rushing to her face.

For a moment, he was silent, standing in front of her with his weapon in a far more passive stance. She stared at the only visible part of his face, trying to read his expression while awaiting what would undoubtedly be another calm, offensive retort, but he only tilted his head very slightly and murmured, “Maybe.”

Sen’s stare turned almost as flat as her chest, but before she could respond, a familiar voice came from the well-lit tent. “Lagaan.”

Without any further acknowledgement of her existence, the man with the quarterstaff quickly and silently disappeared behind the tent flaps.

Maybe.

Sen stood there for another few minutes, unaware of the occasional soldier walking by or the burst of ambient sound. Maybe. She would either die soon, or not as soon. This close affiliate with the divine presence in the camp wasn’t quite as informative and omniscient as he wanted to appear. She didn’t dislike him, despite the dull aching in her torso. Or perhaps it was simply that she was very curious to see what his face looked like beneath that bronze helm and those vague references to her early death.

The gawky woman finally stirred and headed past the tent, turning for the makeshift paddocks that housed the remainder of the mounts for their dwindling forces. She hadn’t forgotten about Haman and his shifty behavior regarding the apparent kidnapping of the Prince-Commander, but she had decided to skip the giant middle-man altogether and pick up the trail on her own. She would need to be able to move quickly. Perhaps with a horse belonging to this Lagaan, or Rendir, or any of the other people who continued to doubt her.

“… important.” Unbidden, the memory flickered to life, seeming faded even though it had been such a short time ago. “You must succeed- you are the first, and a quick death for you would not do much for our cause.”

Maybe.

She scowled in determination, prompting a couple of passing squires to eye her warily and give her a wide berth.

Dawn had passed an hour ago, blood red rays splitting the gloom with inevitable slowness, bringing light to the world for one more day. It was an eerie kind of moment, almost tranquil if not for the chittering of birds. Worst of all, it allowed one to think deep thoughts. The ones that occurred to the Heart Guard's redheaded commander were along the lines of wonder. Barely a day had passed since the war for Soluunar's fate had been fought and here she was playing cloak and dagger in the company of lords once again. There were still men yet to awake from the shock of their wounds received in that brawl, yet the machinations of politics and men too stupid to see the danger at the end of their nose waited for no-one.

As the sun rose fully above the horizon, it illuminated the flat, oddly truncated peak of Highborn Rock, a sort large, rocky hill that many of the southerners had taken to calling a mountain. If only they knew. It was less than an hour to the base of the structure, if she was any judge of distance, which meant that the sentries at the old fort carved out of the hill's side could not have missed seeing them by now. Five hundred years ago it had belonged to the Guard, part of payment received for altering a line of succession, back when they had numbered ten thousand instead of a mere five hundred souls under arms. Now it was a crumbling ruin, manned by ex-Guard and their families, a bustling community in it's own right. The fort itself was a ruin, useless as a fortification by now, but it was a home of sorts.

A few hours of rest in the shade of it's walls would be all they could spare before they would return. After all, politics waits for no-one.



They had been in the shade of the Rock for three hours now, a light camp thay could be broken quickly should the need arise. Barth had given a few interesting pointers to her lancers about setting a really fast camp, something she both approved of and disliked. He had gotten far too comfortable at telling her troops what to do in the short time he had been around and she had grown irritable with him over it. They were hers, not his. Never his.

Lance-Captain Arela had brought around a jug of wine liberated from the fort above, although she had quipped something about 'not having the head for it' when it came to filling Daria's cup. She was right of course, she couldn't hold a few cups of wine even if her life depended on it. One couldn't have eveything. Once the tired laughter had faded and sore legs had some life massaged into them, they began turning the whole thing around again.

Daria's head was muzzy, after only two cups that had even been watered down, but she could show no such weakness, no matter how much she felt like lying down. Commands were given, shouting was avoided and a quiet laugh was held by her fellow captains at her hidden distress. She was distressed enough to send a rather rude gesture Arela's way at one point, much to the other woman's amusement. They were a family, a disparate, broken family of the worst scum of humanity. But they were still a family, one they had chosen rather than the other way around.

Soon she would likely have to send more of them to their deaths, a thought that gnawed at her again as the column trudged back through it's own tracks. The title of First Captain had been hers for only just a week now. There came the feeling that she was a child playing dress-up. She recalled the fond memories of her father, not the man who had fathered her, but the man who had raised her. The one who had made her strong. The one she betrayed. Tears came to her eyes unbidden, unseen by those behind her as they followed her once more into uncertainty and possible death.

"Father... forgive me. Please."

The world became silent, even Cameron went on and on about what he saw none of that filtered in as Ausan had only focused on the first bit. He was gone. There was no more that needed to be said or understood at the moment for her. Body moved under automation and familiarity, she started to don her armor even as her mind flashed back to nearly every moment of her life that had involved the lost prince.

The fire popped and cracked, sparks allowed to escape up into the atmosphere as if they sought to join the stars above only to disintegrate before they barely passed the smoke. A quiet night save for the snores of their comrades, the both of them had stayed awake no words said between them just up in the silence and enjoying the company of one another.

Finally, she broke the silence, “You know you can sleep too, right?” Silence again as they both continued to look up at the stars. “Despite what you think or feel, you are not going to fail anyone if you get a couple of hours of sleep,” she lowered her gaze from the stars to look over at Barth. “Besides, I’m here, and I will always watch your back. You don’t have to constantly be on guard when I am around.”

Silent tears of rage and anguish slipped from her eyes to roll down her cheeks, unnoticed though even if she had noticed she would not have cared. This was not how it was supposed to be, he was meant to be safe. Always secure, because Ausan would be there to protect him and yet, he was gone. Taken from her by those who would call themselves a friend.

The battle was thick and hot, blood soaked the ground to the point of turning it to mud which made each step a treacherous endeavor. How many had she slain by then? The count long since lost in the thick of things, especially now as she tried to get eyes back on Barth. “BARTH!” Ausan shouted at the top of her lungs once she dispatched another foe. If it were possible she felt him before she saw him, the prince covered in gore and dirt charged at her from the side and tackled her right out of the way of an axe she had not seen coming. Together they landed with him atop her, sword brought to bare prepared to defend her from another attack. “Hey!” she snapped to get his attention. “I’m supposed to protect you!” The smile she gave him came so quickly even in the thick of battle that it stayed even when she pushed him off to thrust her sword through the gut of someone who had managed to slip past his watchful gaze. “Together?” she extended her hand down to him and helped him to his feet.

Back to Back, they fought and Back to Back they won.

So many moments they had shared together. Moments when nothing but a look was given, and instantly she knew what he needed or wanted and vice-versa. Theirs was a bond unspoken, and it would not be broken. Not today. Not any day. Even if death claimed her, she would return and be there for him.

“Cameron! Enough of the apologies! Get my horse saddled and ready to go now!” Sword slammed home at her hip she strode out of her tent toward the stables.

The giant of a man stood there like an impassable mountain. Long had they been friends and years spent together on the battlefield. She had been there the day he lost his eye to Barth, and now he would lose the other if he did not get out of her way. Nothing else mattered to her, not the war, not the army. Barth was her concern now and if she had to kill the man before her she would, though she prayed to the Gods that would not be the case.

“Move and allow my charge to get Symas so that I can retrieve, Barth.” The gaze she leveled at Haman was not one of anger or even hate. More of silent desperation, for she felt his delay of her would allow for her to be too late. A thought that she could not even begin to stomach. If he was…



“Haman…please.”

Haman saw the look in Ausan's eyes, a look that made it clear she wouldn't be reasoned with. At the same time, he couldn't risk letting her leave the camp. There was too much on the line, and the woman was just going to have to trust him. Or be forced to, although he wanted to avoid a fight if he could.

"I'm sorry, Ausan. But I can't," he responded, his voice firm but carrying notes of pleading on it. She needed to understand, but everything he knew about the woman suggested that wouldn't be happening. "Give it some time, and he will return. I can explain everything."

“You know I won’t do that…” the sword removed and handed to Cameron. “You know that I can’t do that,” if anyone knew of their bond it would be this man. The talk now was just a formality between them, not with any genuine hope of it deterring the other. Fists raised she squared her shoulders and decided to give him a final chance. “Move.”

Haman's single eye went from fist to fist before landing squarely on the face of Linden's last Maiden. He knew he was doing what needed to be done, and that if he failed to stop her a number of things would go terribly wrong, but it still pained him to stand in Ausan's way.

Every instinct in his mind and body told him to stand aside, or even to help her, and accompany the leader of the Sisters as they laid ruin to the plan. The plan that was their best chance of ending a real threat, once and for all. Of course, it was just wishful thinking, nothing more than an idle fantasy that offered him a chance at evading the coming strife.

"Walk away, Ausan," he said quietly, even as he put his own hands up.

“You know that won’t happen,” as the last word left her mouth she moved. Fighting is what she did. It was all that she had done in her life, thanks to her father and what he wanted her to be. A classic combo, with a right and left hooks, thrown with a bit of force but mostly she wanted to see how fast he was. They were blocked seamlessly, but he gave some ground that she quickly took and threw a couple of punches lower at his kidneys. Even as she contacted with his flesh, it felt more like one of the many times she hit a wall. Thick. Solid and unforgiving, her gauntlet fist offered some assistance but not much.

Haman blocked the blows and stepped back, but Ausan stayed right on the offensive. It fit with what he expected of her, but it was a nuisance as she prevented him from taking advantage of his range.

And could I, even if she let me? Can I strike this woman?he asked himself with more than a little exasperation as she delivered a pair of strikes to his kidneys. The impact was solid, but he withstood it easily as he threw out an open palm, shoving her away from him as he shifted his weight forward, stepping into her path of attack and throwing her balance off.

She was holding back, at least for the start, and he couldn't seem to be able to bring himself to launch a real counterattack. He was going to need to get over that quickly, however, if the look in Ausan's eyes was any indication.

Like her he held back, but even still the shove was enough to light a fire under her ass and make her drop the guise of a “friendly” fight. If she wanted him out of her way, she would have to make him move. Into his space, she stepped once more, as she needed to keep close to him so that he could not use that ridiculous reach to his advantage. A stomp to his instep gave her an opening that she used to right hook to his gut, which she followed up with her forearm to his jaw once he doubled over. To try and seal the deal she threw all of her weight into him, the idea being to knock him off balance and send him to the ground.

Ausan drove in once more, and it was clear she was no longer only testing the waters. Her next punch was a powerful one, and as it hooked into his stomach he felt the air rush out of him and he doubled over. There were only a few people with a strong enough punch to get that kind of reaction out of him, but the Maiden was one of them. At the same time, he exaggerated his response, just a bit.

The forearm shot to his jaw was sturdy enough to send lights dancing across his field of vision, but he kept his head about him as she threw her form into his, seeking to knock him off his feet.

With a roar, he wrapped his thick arms around her and straightened up, feeling her squirming violently in his grip as her feet left the ground. With nothing else to do, he squeezed Ausan in a massive bearhug, enveloping her torso completely. She punched him, repeatedly landing blows to his sides and back, but he only held on all the more tightly as he put everything he had into squashing the fight out of her.

"Stop…. struggling," he muttered through gritted teeth.

NO! NO! NO!

Frantically, she struggled against the grasp of the man who held her. In desperation, she tried to head butt him but found his skull thicker than she expected. A trickle of blood rolled down her forehead and into her eyes, though Asuan continued to struggle.

“HAMAN! PUT ME DOWN! I HAVE TO GET HIM! I HAVE TOOO!” The punches continued until finally she just stopped. “Please…if I lose him…” the words were lost as she openly sobbed in his arms. “I have to save him…without him…”

“You can always place your faith in me, Barth. From this world, into the next and even beyond that you can count on my sword and my friendship.”

She had betrayed that faith.

_________________

Soluunar

It was difficult to see much, even without the sack over his head, but Barth knew when they reached their destination. The pace slowed down, and the painful bumps he was subjected to in the wheelbarrow finally lessened in intensity, as a feeling of waiting fell. This was it. Even with his eyes mostly closed, lacking any word from Daria or the others, he knew the time had finally arrived.

"Who approaches?" barked a sentinel, and then finally Daria's voice rang out, quiet but still clear.

"We bring a gift for Lord Garth. I was told he would be present to receive it."

There was silence, followed by the sound of brisk footsteps, and a new voice joined in, this one familiar. It also sent a pang of anger coursing through Barth's body, but he was careful to remain still as Garth addressed the leader of the Heart Guard.

"Daria of Colbyne. I have been expecting you. What is it you've brought me?"

"Do it," she said, and Barth readied himself for a moment before the wheelbarrow was upturned, sending him tumbling out and down to the ground. He was careful to keep his body limp, and so as he landed he allowed his limbs to flop around lifelessly. He landed face-down, with his head twisted and staring upward. One of his arms was caught under him at an awkward angle, which was unfortunate given his ongoing need to stay perfectly still.

"What I have brought you, Lord Garth, is Barth Krinwulf."

"Is that so?" he asked, walking closer to see better in the dark. Barth could just barely make out the man's outline; the smell of stale perfume mingled with sweat reached him, though, and that was more than enough for him to identify the speaker.

"Yes," Daria answered, her voice still very level. "The Prince of Linden has been killed, as requested. And now it's time for you to fulfill your end of the bargain."

"Is it?" the man asked, and the atmosphere changed with alarming speed. "I must say, Daria, you have acted quite rashly. I understand that you felt a lot of loyalty for my son - this is understandable, as he was a great man, but that is no reason for you to commit such a heinous crime. Murdering the Prince of Linden… my sense of duty demands that I report this, Daria. I am sorry it had to come to this."

Barth heard steel being drawn in every direction, and the tension in the air tripled as more footsteps approached their position. And then, there was an explosion of sound.

Horns blared out from overhead, and a string of swear words came flying from Garth's mouth as torchlight all around them threw the scene into sharp relief. Descending from the ruins of the fortress overhead was none other than Thorin Sgaran Sahir, King of Lebidan. The jeweled circlet atop his head glimmered in the unsteady light as he approached Garth, his knights all around him.

"Lord Skandrick Garth," the heavyset, bearded man roared, "you are hereby found guilty of treason!"

"Your Majesty, I-"

"You aimed to have the commander of our forces assassinated! If you had been successful, you would have crippled the core of our army, sabotaging our efforts in the war against the Tutar. You are hereby sentenced to-"

"No! You cannot do this!" Garth shot back, his eyes wild and frantic as he stared around, looking very much like a cornered animal. "They murdered my son! It is what any father would do! Please, Thorin-"

"You do not get to call me by my first name," the king replied, his tone colder than the frost of Thaam. His household knights stood around him in a semi-circle, ready to clamp down on the blustering lord if needed. "That is a right reserved for few, and that list does not include conspirators and traitors."

"What, shall you let the mongrels burn me like they have my son? You may as well, you bastard!" Garth retorted as rage took over, guiding his words. "Turn your back on your own nation, why don't you? On your own people, just to preserve the life of some ****ing beggar prince! You… **** you!" he shouted, and then he spat on the ground at Sahir's feet.

"No, no fire for you, Garth," the King replied, his voice calm but deadly soft. "For a man of your standing and honor, the gallows will do. As for your House, it is officially dissolved. All your lands are hereby stripped from the Garth name, and your forces shall be taken in to join my men. If some wish to serve other lords, I will oblige them, but none shall serve you, or any of your kin, ever again. Your line is spent."

Barth watched as the man slowly fell to his knees. He didn't watch when they hung him, though, simply because there was no point. Once his title and lands had been taken from him, there hadn't been any life left in the elder Garth. And there was no sense in watching the same man die twice.


The prince hadn't mingled much after the deed was done, although there was some revelry within the mercenary unit that night. Drinks had been offered to him, more than a few times, but he'd refused, only speaking enough to commend Daria on her execution of the King's plan. The members of the Heart Guard who'd gotten close to him during his time with them had been disappointed when he turned down their invitations, but Barth had reached his limit on drinks in the wake of Verana's death. For him, the time for celebration was over before it could even begin.

Antisocial as he was feeling, eventually Barth received a request he couldn't possibly refuse.

The fortress that had been carved into the hill wasn't much of a palace, but the King clearly preferred it to tents down among the soldiers. Barth walked into a room that looked like a shabby ruin that had been hastily decorated; there was a large rug spread over an uneven floor, and several tapestries just barely fell short of being able to obscure the large holes decorating two of the walls. Still, it was clear pains had been taken to make the place more suitable for royalty. The fireplace against the far wall was big and looked to have been recently restored.

"You summoned me, Your Majesty?"

Thanks to his immense midsection and curly brown beard, Sahir was instantly recognizable, even if he chose to forgo the jeweled circlet and sword. As the hefty man stood up, rising from the ornate, carved chair he'd been lounging on, it occurred to Barth that it was the first time he could recall ever being alone with the Lebi king.

"I have. I am told you aren't participating in the festivities."

"It's not a night for celebrating. Not for me."

"I am also told you approved of my plan?"

"It was cunning," Barth replied, not in a tone to suggest he was being complimentary, but rather a simple statement of fact. "You knew what Garth would want, and where he'd go for it to be done. And you laid the trap and sprang it without him ever becoming aware of it."

"I have never lacked for cleverness," Sahir replied, as he turned to gaze into the roaring fire that was the room's only light source. "But at the end of the day it is simply a matter of understanding what is needed, and knowing how to acquire it. Any king worth his salt can do this."

A silence fell, and Barth felt an impatience growing in him as he watched the man. There was only one reason Sahir had summoned him, and they both knew it wasn't to hold a discussion about monarchs and their faults. Barth already knew far too much on the subject, after watching his father in action for so long.

"You want something from me. What is it?"

"What I want," the king said as he turned around, his pristine red cape swishing up behind him as he moved, "is you. I want you to stay in Lebidan when this is all over. I want you to remain here, and command my army."

Barth blinked, caught off guard. "What? I… what of Linden?"

"What of Linden? There is nothing left for you back there, Barth. Your people will not forsake the safety of my city's walls, nor could you ask such a thing of them. They've endured enough."

"I don't understand. Why do you want me, after everything that's happened?"

"In the first little skirmish we had against the Tutar, we lost damn near half the men we sent to aid your people," the other man responded, reaching down to seize a silver goblet that had been perched atop a small circular table near his seat. "After that, even with all the horrors I've been told of, we lost far fewer in the battle than I thought we would. You held our people together, in the face of all that," he finished, before drinking deeply from the cup. The smell suggested it was a wine of some sort; Barth was relieved when the man didn't offer him any. "So the reason I want you, Barth, is you're good at what you do," he added after wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. "You're a gifted commander."

When Barth didn't answer right away the king went on, continuing a speech that had clearly been well rehearsed.

"With Lebidan's forces at your disposal, you'll lead an army the likes of which you've never had before! Even in its prime, Linden could never match such a force! And you would have quite a force indeed, as I have truly seen the value of women soldiers, thanks to your Maidens and the others. I know of Sen the Sister, and I have elected to follow your example."

Barth winced at the term 'Maidens' — It's just 'Maiden' now, I guess — before shaking his head stoically. He didn't even want to ask about how the king knew everything he did - the man had informants everywhere, and it seemed that they were reasonably unbiased. "We would have been crushed, if not for the intervention of the Gods. You give me too much credit."

"Wrong, Prince Barth. I don't give you nearly enough. There were indeed Gods out there, and you gave orders to them! You'll perhaps try to say you were merely doing what you needed to do, but I would then tell you that very few men could have risen to such a challenge, and what you demonstrated is the mark of a gifted leader. Borim Garth's death was… unfortunate," he added, with a certain hesitation that suggested he didn't think it was unfortunate at all, "but the man's father was an ever-present thorn in my side. And the son himself was poised to take that role on with great enthusiasm once his old man stopped getting out of bed in the morning. Beyond that, the man was a coward. I won't condone it happening again, but I won't hold what happened against you. I need a commander of your quality. Once this is all over, you'll need a home, young Barth. Accept the power that is your due. Don't walk away from your true calling."

Barth took a breath and opened his mouth, only to close it again as the words landed home. Whatever he'd been expecting after receiving his summons, this wasn't it. He didn't know how to handle any of it, and the king knew it. As such, Sahir seemed intent on pressing his advantage while he had it.

"Stay, and your people will thank you. They will stand by your side as you achieve greatness in the name of Lebidan. Don't drag them back to the rubble of their failed dreams, when you can instead build a new future with them."

The king's manner of speaking was convincing, and the tone of voice he used only lent the words more power than they already had. Sahir spoke truly, even if Barth didn't want to admit it - returning to Linden wasn't something he'd ever thought about, but that was because he never saw a point to it. With the threat of the Tutar looming overhead, he'd never stopped to think about life after all of it was over. It seemed presumptuous to assume he'd actually live to see that day.

"None of this means anything if we don't survive what is coming. You're planning very far ahead, Your Majesty. Nothing is promised."

"Oh, I have the utmost faith in you, Prince Barth. But it's just something to think on, in the meantime," he answered, looking Barth over with a thoughtful expression on his rounded face.


Try as he might to shut out the voice, the lone Lindenian riding with the Heart Guard had a difficult time forgetting Sahir's offer as they made their way back to camp. He hated how tempting the words were; deep down, he could see their truth, but it was a reality he had no interest in examining. The king was behind him, somewhere; he'd be present when Barth did what needed to be done, back at the camp. Which was fine by him - the more people there, the better. First, he'd need to make sure things were calm in his own camp, where unrest was almost a guarantee.

He was unsurprised to find Ausan and Haman trading blows - or blows for hugs - once he reached the Lindenian camp's outskirts.

"Alright Haman, no need to keep crushing her. I'm back. And I'm fine," he added as he smiled at Ausan, whose eyes looked a bit glazed over as Halan set her down. There was some blood on her face, which he wiped away with a gentle hand. "Sorry if I worried you," he said, before quickly pulling his head back to avoid her fist as she tried to swing at his face. "I really didn't have much of a choice in how things got started," he went on, fighting the urge to chuckle. "But I'm back now, and there's something I need to do."

A short time later he stood on a raised platform, in front of the entire allied army. Heart Guard, Lebi knights and soldiers, every last Lindenian, they were all assembled. Even the king was in attendance, and he waited off to one side, undoubtedly intending to speak the moment Barth was finished. The man had his own goals and plots, even in the midst of a war that would determine the fate of humanity itself. And in spite of how crazy and misguided that seemed, Barth couldn't help but admire him for it.

"What happened to Borim Garth was a mistake, and it should not have occurred," he said loudly, projecting his voice out over the heads of those gathered. "In Linden we ran into hard times, and we forgot a lot of things. Now, as a part of a single, unified force, we must remember them once again. Borim Garth was a coward and a liar, and he is largely responsible for the death of one of Linden's most honored heroes, Verana Snowblade, my sister and fellow soldier. But that did not give me the right to do what I did. Ausan was wrong, but the blame lies on my shoulders for allowing this to happen. I accept full responsibility, and I swear to you all, I shall try to do better for you and by you, in the future."

The king stood up on the dais, and as he began praising Barth's hand in the previous victory the prince tuned him out, staring among those assembled. The Lindenians were quiet, neither angry or cheerful - they knew Barth did what was necessary, but to many he'd undoubtedly displayed a bending of the knee to the other factions. The wiser among them knew how important such actions were when it came to the army as a whole, but that still didn't make them love it. The Heart Guard and Lebis were divided; some seemed surprisingly upbeat, and it occurred to Barth just how many of the red-bearded knight's own countrymen had disliked him. His father, it seemed, was even less popular.

The mercenaries who'd been in Barth's presence during the king's gambit were among those who seemed pleased; something about him had drawn them to him, although he wasn't sure what it was. Perhaps he was an inspirational type of person, but only when his hands were bound. In any case, he was going to keep them close, particularly their leader. Daria's mind was one he wanted at his side, as it would be foolish to disregard her perspective.

The Lebis who didn't look happy about anything in particular were split up into two groups, one of which was composed of Garth loyalists who held no love for Linden or its prince. The other consisted of members of Garth's house who had no desire to fight directly under the king. As Sahir declared Garth's house dissolved, announcing the recruitment of the disgraced lord's soldiers into the king's own ranks, there was a great deal of outburst from these people.

Barth spotted Jahal Resuran as he calmed down the men around him; the lord knight had a presence about him the prince hadn't noticed before, as he effectively controlled the situation on his way to over where the king stood. Barth hadn't been certain of how the man with the braided mustache would respond to Borim's burning, but not only was the man still on his side, he seemed to have grown into much more of a leader now that the red-bearded shadow of Garth was no longer looming over him. He was curious as to what Resuran was going to tell the king, but he found his attention taken over by a woman standing near the front of the assemblage. He stepped down from the dais, having no other reason to remain up there, and approached her.

"It is good to see you back, my Prince."

Barth inclined his head with a smile as the Sister with a shaved head saluted him. Her right arm was almost entirely covered in bandages, and there was a deep, fresh scar going across her forehead. Still, her injuries were overshadowed by the darkness encompassing her features. "What of Yuleyne?" he asked, remembering the woman's sister, a grizzled veteran with broad shoulders and an axe perpetually in her grasp.

"She lives on," the soldier replied bluntly, her expression immobile. "Drorghan crushed her."

The smile slid from his face and impulsively, without thinking, he seized her with an arm and pulled her in close. There was a stiffness, punctuated by surprise and uncertainty, but then Bren was melting, rigid spine bending as she sobbed onto Barth's chest. His arm he kept encircled protectively around her as he remembered her fierce older sibling. "May Rune's hand guide her," he whispered, patting her gently on the back as she pulled away slightly, grief and gratitude spilling from her eyes.

"And may Naiya light her path."

He let go of her, and the woman smiled one last time at him before turning and walking back among the tents; he hoped she would find some time to rest, and perhaps grieve in solitude - soon the time for things such as that would be lost, and battle would take hold once again. Of that, he had no doubt.

He was leaving the area when he heard an outburst of cheering and applause; turning around showed him Resuran raising a hand to the crowd as a large number of Lebis shouted his name. The king clapped the former lord knight on the shoulder, nodding approvingly, and then Barth remained where he was, curiosity having gotten the better of him. Eventually, the man reached where he was waiting.

"Prince Barth."

"Jahal," he replied with a smile as they clasped each other's forearms for a moment. The other man ran a finger through his braided mustache, and although it was likely just a nervous habit, Barth found himself wondering if he did it on purpose to make people look at it. It certainly drew attention, at any rate. "What was all that about?"

"A great number of Garth's men held no love for the lord, and do not wish to fight directly under the king," he replied, indicating the section of the crowd that had been cheering not long before. "Many are loyal to me, and to our Lindenian allies. I have taken them all in, with the king's approval."

Barth nodded, pleased by the new development. Resuran was a capable man, and it was good to see him being granted some measure of the influence he deserved. It was fitting that this would come on the heels of Garth's destruction, as that was the flag under which the knight had toiled for far too long. Which reminded him of his next question.

"Shall I once again refer to you as Lord Knight?"

"Nay," came the reply. "I am no knight, but I am a captain. I am without a banner, and the men who will fight under me are the same. We are an independent unit, the Flagless Ones, and we answer only to the allied commander. Our allegiance is not to Lebidan or Linden, but to humanity itself."

"The flagless ones…" Barth said quietly, remembering something from the first years of Linden's war against the Tutar. "The Tutar had a word for lone soldiers left out on the field, the last of their units. These soldiers were alone, with no flags, no support - the Tutar called them lagw'as, meaning 'easy prey'. But a soldier pushed to the limit, with nothing left, and only death to look forward to is not easy prey. The Tutar would attack aggressively, eager to take the final kill, and they would die. Many lives would be given for the one, until eventually the Tutar had a new name for the bannerless men who died last. "Re'negrish. They called them the 'Red Death', because by the time they finally fell, the last soldier would be painted, from head to toe, in the blood of the Tutar."

Resuran stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "The Red Company, then. Thank you, Barth."

The prince clapped the man's shoulder, then watched as he left to rejoin his new comrades. "So long, Captain Resuran."

The man had been through quite a bit since the beginning - all of them had, and if history was any indicator, things weren't going to be slowing down any time soon. The atmosphere was certainly quiet, still ringing with the aftermath of the tremendous battle that had been recently fought, but to Barth the silence gave way to a sense of waiting - waiting for whatever would be happening next, and he needed to be ready for it. They all did.




Upper Regions

Being in the garden still offered the God some modicum of the solace he desired, but there was a sad note to the tranquility now. As if the time he could afford to spend within it was suddenly finite after previously being thought everlasting.

Rolyn knew the wolf was there before he opened his eyes.

It was a presence he was all too familiar with, even if it had been a while since their last meeting. Rolyn looked at his visitor, and the old, grizzled wolf moved quickly so as to stand directly in front of his seat, between him and the shimmering waters of the fountain. "What is it, Fenric? I haven't seen you in a long time. I believed maybe you'd forgotten about me."

A soft whine emerged from the greying muzzle, and the slightest shake of a head gave Rolyn his answer. He smiled, and put a hand out, feeling the top of the wolf's head as it brought it forward to meet his palm. "I know, I know. You would never forget a friend. Are you well?"

When the wolf pulled away and fixed him with a steady stare, its head tilted slightly to one side, Rolyn raised an eyebrow. "There is no need to worry about me. I have done alright on my own, Fenric. I have been around for a long time, you know. And I can handle whatever tasks stand before me. Weylyn is on Soluunar, and is in greater need of your protection than I."

The staring continued, only this time it was punctuated by a quick, sharp bark.

"Nonsense. The situation is under control. And even if it wasn't, I have no enemies here."

The next bark was a bit louder than the previous, and it carried a new edge to it. Rolyn's smile slipped away and he narrowed his eyes, affronted.

"Well now, there's no need to be sarcastic about it."

The wolf moved closer and nudged him with its nose, and Rolyn released a sigh of resignation. Fenric, the wolf who'd raised Weylyn, was no ordinary animal. He'd been blessed with the ability to travel between the realms, among many others - old as the greying beast was, it was about as close to a God as any animal could come. It was also incredibly intelligent, although that was natural, and not something granted to it by Rolyn.

"Fine, I will admit, most of my supporters are out of reach, fighting a war down below. But that does not mean anything. Everyone understands what must be done, even if they don't like it."

Another whining sound came then, as the wolf broadcasted its doubts, but then its head was on Rolyn's knee and the Circle God closed his eyes once again, listening to the sound of the water as he placed a hand gently atop the wolf's head. It was a peaceful moment, the kind Rolyn sought out whenever possible, but it was short-lived. Mere seconds had gone by when the sound of hurried footsteps reached his ears, and then Fenric lifted his head, indicating the steps were headed for them.

"My Lord, forgive me for the interruption."

Rolyn's eyes opened, and he watched as the man, pale and slim, with dirty blond hair kept in a short ponytail, walked closer. He was a Demigod, and it only took a few cursory look to figure out that he was one of Naiya's. He was young, and at the moment, he looked uncertain and worried. Rolyn offered him a smile; it wasn't often he was interrupted in the garden by someone not seeking to yell or complain, as of late.

"It is no interruption at all. What can I help you with?" he asked, standing up as the young Demigod drew closer. Fenric watched him with expectant curiosity, and the man glanced down at the wolf for a moment before returning his attention to Rolyn's face.

"It is Lady Naiya, she… something happened, and she won't tell us anything."

"Something happened?"

"We think she was… I… I'm sorry, but would you come with me? I don't know who else-"

"Yes, of course," Rolyn interrupted, unwilling to let the man's stammering continue longer than it had to. "Lead the way, Piedal."

The Demigod stared at him for a moment, surprised, then nodded and started walking. Rolyn followed in his wake, with Fenric trotting along at his side as they left the garden behind. While they moved along, drawing closer to the Fire Goddess's dwelling, the Circle God considered how unusual it was for someone from Naiya's camp to be coming to him for assistance. If it was something they needed a bit of seniority for, Malinar would seem like the obvious choice.

Something most definitely wasn't adding up.

_________________

She stood in the crowd, jostled against the remaining foot soldiers and her fellow Sisters. The Prince-Commander had returned, apparently mostly unharmed, and all available men had been summoned out for some official something-or-other. Sen, already unimpressed with anything “official”, found herself becoming even more so the longer she remained entrenched between people who shared her priorities. Besides, her extremely justified panic and subsequent suspicion over Haman following the Prince’s “kidnapping” had left her somewhat drained, especially in the light of new evidence suggesting it had all been for some sort of ruse to which she had not been privy. She didn’t mind being kept out of political intrigue and plots and all of the other bullshit, but as long as she was going to be randomly stumbling onto them, it would have been polite to fill her in. Her suspicion of the leg-smashing giant had been gradually replaced with a grumbling offense, and she was more than willing to meet his brief eye contact as the Commander mounted the platform. She made sure her stare was particularly… unimpressed.

The curious murmurs and ambient chatter died down quickly when Barth started speaking, and all assembled were completely silent by the fifth word. She listened intently, her eyes locked on his bearded face. Sen’s dissimilar stare flicked to Ausan as the Prince-Commander finished and gave way to her king, her transparent expression a mix of curiosity and concern. The white blade against her calf felt hot on her skin for a moment, before the victory could be properly (and politically) described in the most flowery (and political) phrases.

Perhaps she had been selfish, grieving Verana’s loss so pointedly only in how it affected herself. There had been a dynamic between the two Maidens, and between each of them and the Prince, and between all three, and she had no idea if they were even similar dynamics. Ausan seemed so much like a wildfire, burning hot and unyielding and nigh unstoppable, but who could live like that forever without some form of temperance? Barth was inspirational and appeared to be enough of a tactician to see the gains and losses of so many potential moves, yet he seemed in such a mad rush to make things right that he would take risks a man in his position should at least execute more thoughtfully. Had Verana been some form of… calming stabilization for them? A voice of reason that actually –

She was jerked rudely from her musing by sounds of shock and anger, and to her confusion they came from her own countrymen. It was almost unheard of for anyone to actively voice any disagreement towards a lord, let alone a monarch, regardless of mob mentality. Instinctively she glanced over the faces of her Sisters, but they didn’t seem to care very much at all about whatever had roused the Lebi indignation. Snatches of impassioned conversation, furious whispers and repetitive affront gave her the idea almost immediately.

“The entire house, all gone.”

“He can’t do that to us! My family’s fortune is tied to - ”

“The Garth folk weren’t the most upstanding men, ‘tis true, but we depended on - ”

Sen’s eyes hit Barth’s face again, but he was scanning the crowd carefully, analyzing the reactions if she had to guess his thoughts. It corroborated the stories she’d been hearing of his return well enough, but it was still a bold move on the part of His Majesty to dissolve the whole Garth house. Many well-paid men-at-arms and private guards that had accompanied those forces formally given to the cause would be cheated of wealth and security, even with being absorbed into the royal forces on a not-so-temporary basis. Defections and demotions would be unavoidable, and she suspected there would be a substantial rise in outright desertion as well. Was it a narrow-minded, self-centered viewpoint for the common soldiers and lower knights to have? Yes, absolutely, but she could understand the discontent.

The late Borim Garth’s man, Resuran, approached the platform, apparently exuding calm to a five-foot radius based on what the lanky Sister could see. He ascended with confidence, and King Sahir didn’t seem surprised by the approach, so whatever they were about to announce had been discussed at length already, clearly. Sen’s stare flattened further as the announcement rang out, bringing out cheers with varying degrees of hesitance from her fellow Lebi soldiers. To their credit, many of them seemed pleased to be able to stand for the effort rather than just the pay, though she assumed a few would fall in with the King out of a stubborn patriotism or good old fashioned boot-licking. She turned back to the casual gathering of her Sisters, feeling very keenly her spot between them and the knights cheering as their reins were passed between leaders.

Sen watched Resuran approach Barth, ignoring the discordant chatter and movement around her. The Prince-Commander seemed pleased by the recent development, and the new captain appeared pensive as they spoke. Opportunities nipped at her heels, and she could see them pestering other feet similarly. Resuran could prove himself a capable leader, earn honors and rewards for leading a band of passionate nobodies. Barth could continue to grow and lead, and let his country recover political standing on his coattails. Her own house could absorb stragglers, potentially knights unwilling to lose face by following a new captain or the king, improving her family’s standing in court.

Almost unconsciously, she turned and faced the direction of the still-fresh battlefield, catching a whiff of rotting Tutar corpse that may or may not have been her imagination. Was it worth it? All of the opportunities and reputation-building and political rearrangements… would it ever be worth what people had gone through on that field? She closed her eyes, opening them slowly, letting the echoes of a burning Borim’s screams fade from the forefront of her memory.

She was so sick of politics. An independent company was actually a fairly appealing idea, regardless of Resuran’s assumed Lebi-born opinion of female warriors. She was wary of his position under his former lord, but the Commander seemed oddly approving of the man. On that note, there wasn’t a reason for her to abandon her Sisters, whatever her country of origin. They had welcomed her with well-muscled and open arms, and for her to leave them just because of a suspected chance to make more waves was hardly –

“Hey there, high-roller.” The playful cadence turned her, eyes quickly landing on the faintly glowing outline of a dark cloak. The figure was very stationary compared to the random movement on all sides of a dispersing crowd, hooded and leaning very casually on a barrel to the right of a tent. “Can’t believe you still have that,” he continued, gesturing to her left arm.

She reached up touched the torn strip of navy blue material with her opposite hand, finding a smirk in her to match that of the cloaked man. “Not a lot of thick, dark fabric around, oddly enough. Plenty of metal, leather, or bright silks but they don’t quite have the same effect.” She paused, then added a more serious, “Thank you.”

He shrugged and flipped his hood back, revealing eyes that sparkled with more mirth than his white grin. “I’m glad you appreciate it, because I look ridiculous now.” Luke gestured to the hastily (but neatly) mended sleeve of his cloak.

Sen couldn’t stop the brief snort of laughter; as if any clothing could ever make someone with his features look even remotely ridiculous. “I can go dig up some of those bright silks, if you want a replacement.”

“Please don’t. You people have an astonishing amount of tenacity, and an equally astonishing lack of fashion sense.”

“Not including yourself in that? Seems kind of like your mistress and the others have thrown their lot in with ‘we people’.”

Lydia’s demi-god paused for a moment, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful as he turned his gaze to something in the distance. “Good point,” he finally murmured.

Sen waited for him to add something, but after a moment finally piped up with a quiet, “It’s not all that bad, is it?”

He snapped back, as though he were remembering her presence. A grin broke his face again. “Of course it is. The open-mouthed lack of comprehension and the indiscriminate dying are all expected, so the most surprising thing - ” he reached out and gripped Sen’s nose between his first two knuckles “is just how terrible you all look doing it.”

She slapped his hand away, trying unsuccessfully not to smile.

He chortled and flipped his hood back over his hair and upper face, turning away. “May the Dice favor you, high-roller,” he said lazily, offering a casual two-finger wave before allowing himself to be swept away in a wave of passers-by. Sen would have lost sight of him completely, save that he was still ringed in a fringe of deep blue glow.

There were no words that could explain how Ausan felt. Relieved, ashamed, ****, disgusted to name a few. The fact that she missed the punch did not help either, it would have felt nice to pop him one in the face. Sore all over now and with unspent energy, though she felt exhausted at the same time she was just unsure of what to do with herself. The speech was given, and the Maiden felt her throat tighten with the mentioned fault. It had been wrong. To slay the man in such a way, but even now she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, she would have done it again.

Once it was over, she slipped away to her tent. The armor felt heavy, heavier than it had ever felt before she removed it and allowed it to just fall to the floor. Tired. So exhausted, was how Ausan felt and she was just not sure what to do. This is what she meant when she spoke to her father those years ago, that she was not what any man would want or desire. A killer. A monster. A murderer is what she was and what she had become. Forged under his cruel hand and then tempered in the heat of battle, cooled in the blood of her enemies. All she knew how to do was to kill and maim.

When the war ended, she really did not know what she would do. A soldier without a war was useless.

Barth's footsteps carried him of their own accord as he ventured deeper into the Lindenian camp; he finally stopped once he arrived at Ausan's tent, which he entered without hesitation. She'd been both furious and relieved when he returned to the camp, but he didn't think he was still in danger of being attacked. She was well within her rights to try, though - he had no intention of stopping her. Perhaps he felt some measure of guilt, about, well, everything, but the reasoning wasn't entirely clear.

"Ausan."

He didn't know what to start with, or what to say. Did he speak of the weight that was lifted with the ending of House Garth? Did he try to lend the proper weight to his absence, by speaking on the importance of the Lebi king's plan? Or did he simply dwell on the obvious. The loss they'd both suffered, the entire reason a knight had been burned to death in front of a sea of onlookers. Bur could he speak of it? Verana's death was still there, still present as it loomed over them, but talking about it out loud seemed like too painful an endeavor. It would happen, it needed to, but if he could delay the initiation of that conversation he would do it time and time again.

"How are you feeling?"

How was she feeling? HOW…WAS…SHE…FEELING?!

It was such an innocent question, and yet it suited only in **** her off further. Back still to him, she stood at the table in her tent. Back slightly bent as leaned on the table, the wood old from time of use it had creaked initially from the weight, but had proven itself strong and reliable as ever. As she once thought herself to be. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about how to answer that question, thought about whether or not it even mattered.

“I can’t…” she whispered down to her worn hands. Battered, broken and swollen one hand had already been in need of aid and now after this fight with Haman, it looked even worst. “I can’t…” she said louder this time and turned to face him. “I thought I had lost you!” Anger mixed with pain in her voice. “Without you what was there left for me?” Though she asked him this question, Ausan honestly did not want an answer from him, if only because she feared what that answer might be. “She’s gone and then you were…”

Even though he stood there before her and she knew him to be safe, the panic of lost was still there. It was still fresh in her mind and too great for her to ignore. “I just can’t anymore. What am I supposed to do is you die? I would be alone then. Completely and utterly alone and there would be nothing left for me. Even after all of this what am I to do? All I do is kill. All I do is hurt. When there is no war then what?” The tears fell from her eyes, and she raised her hand to wipe them away, only to stop when the pain in her hand flared up. “I just can’t….”

Her anger and pain washed over him, and Barth found himself struggling to find the words for a response. A few seconds passed in silence, and then Barth moved forward and pulled her forcefully onto his body. He encircled her back with his arms, and while he held her he spoke softly, having finally found a reply on the heels of the embrace.

"I lost my sister… but I still have my best friend. And I have no intention of leaving her behind, Ausan. I know words are wind, but heed mine when I say I'm not going anywhere." He let go of her, and took a step back, smiling. "You claim all you do is kill, or hurt, but you are being unfair to yourself. The soldiers, the Sisters who follow you, they do not do so because you are a fierce soldier who can hurt and maim. They do so because they know you care. You love them, you love your people, and you love the home we've left behind."

She was ever the picture of strength and resilience, but there was much more to the Maiden than that. As much as Barth had come to depend on her, she needed a hand every once in a while as well, just like anyone else. And she'd clearly been pushed to the limit, with everything that happened. His disappearance wasn't his fault, but he had no intention of telling Ausan who'd really been behind it. Punching Sahir was unlikely to uncover any fruitful results.

"You killed Garth, yes, but would you have gone to such lengths if the man had not shattered a bond of love? You are so much more than a shield and sword, my dear Ausan, and it is time you recognized that."

He glanced down and seized her wrist, bringing the hand up to his eyes. "It is also time we took care of this," he said, holding the battered hand carefully."No more punching for a while, I think, and it's high time you let that God take a look at your injuries. Stubborn woman," he added, still smiling.

The hug was a mixture of pleasure and pain. Pleasure in the relief and the feeling of having him close once more. Pain for the very same reason mixed with the physical pain of his touch on her sore and broken body. How she longed for this to just be how it was between them and not just the friendship they had. It would never be, however, because he would never see her as anything more. Even as he smiled and held up her hand, and spoke of her stubbornness, Barth saw only his friend.

Not anyone to be desired.

“It is nothing but a flesh wound,” an attempt at a joke, Ausan took her hand back carefully. “Honestly, I will only go to see the God so that I can punch Haman. The bastard is likely to think that I’m soft or something.” Finally, she smiled back at him, a weak one but it was there, her eyes allowed to linger on his own for a moment before they darted to the state of her tent. The armor strewed about, bloody bandages and the like. “Ugh. Where did this mess come from?” question posed mostly to herself than to Barth as she bent to pick up the chest piece she had discarded.

It was a relief to see her smile, along with a threat regarding an unsuspecting Haman and a punch that was undoubtedly in his future. When Ausan bent over to pick up the nearest piece of discarded armor, Barth put an arm around her waist and pulled her back, guiding her into a chair.

"There is such a thing as rest for the weary, Ben. You're no good to anyone if you kill yourself. Now be still," he added with rare sternness as he went about picking up the assortment of items littering the ground within the tent. "My own tent doesn't look much better," he quipped as he gathered up some old bandages. "It's about half torn to pieces, but that should be good for letting in some breeze."

He straightened up as he heard movement at the tent's entry; turning, he spotted Cameron, who he greeted with a grin. "Cam, good to see you. Can you do me a favor? I need to get ahold of the God in the dark blue robes. He's got brown hair he keeps in a ponytail, answers to-"

"Prince Barth. Your timing is apt."

He stared, disbelieving, as a man in midnight blue robes donned over gleaming plate armor entered the tent. The silent, bronze-clad man following in his wake stared at Cameron, who backed away from the flaps so quickly he nearly lost his footing.

"Lord Yorinth, what bring you here?"

"Idle hands," the God replied, looking calmly from Barth to Ausan. "I have spent much of the last day aiding those who could be helped; the battle left many wounded in its wake, but all of those I treated should make full recoveries. Some lost limbs, however, and I cannot speak for their future lives as soldiers. But they live."

Barth bowed, both in response to the man's kindness as well as to the knowledge that even some survivors endured heavy losses. "You have done us a great service. We are deeply indebted to you."

"What I have done falls within the bounds of my power. It is no trouble at all. And now that the others have been tended to, I would like to look over this one," he said, indicating Ausan. "My interests are in doing what I can for this army's chances, and that involves ensuring an important soldier is able to fight to her fullest ability, should the need arise sooner than expected."

"Sooner than… do you know something?" Barth asked, alarmed by the ominous statement, but the God shook his head, still watching Ausan calmly.

"Even the wisest do not know all. But it is better to be prepared."

The look she threw at Cam made the already shocked boy glad to slip out of the tent and go find something else to do for a while. A tired look was leveled at the God who approached her, “I am only allowing this because I owe people punches. Otherwise, you would not have been allowed a single step into my tent.”

Defensive, hurt, tired and emotionally drained. Ausan felt more like a cornered animal than a woman in need of help. God or man, she would have been just as hostile no matter who came in to patch her up.

“But if you must give me a hand so that I can be in top shape to hurt people. A spear fragment pierced my armor about here,” she sat a bit straighter raised her shirt. “Hurts to breathe too deep and the blood has not stopped completely,” the shirt lowered she held up her hands. “This one hurts because I punched a tutar and this one hurts because I punched a Haman. I am honestly not sure which one hurts the most right now, but I do know that gripping a sword hurt like a ****ing.”

That’s it Ausan. Focus on the pain and humor. Ignore everything else. the maiden coached herself as she waited for the God to do his thing and fix her.

Yorinth smiled in response to Ausan's hostility, although the silent man behind him bristled slightly. Barth looked at him for a moment, waiting for a reaction, but the Demigod simply stood back and watched as his master looked over the Maiden's injuries. "Are all the women of Linden so resilient?" he asked with some amazement as he examined her knuckles, and the prince smiled.

"Yeah, although none compare to Ausan. I would've died a hundred deaths if not for her presence at my side."

There was a grunt, and then a bright light was emerging from Yorinth's palm. It threaded around Ausan's hands like a coiled, blinding rope, and Barth thought he could smell something like old ruins and caves for a moment. "The hands are easier, I would deal with them first. I do not know what a 'Haman' is, but it clearly has a hide made of stone, or perhaps iron. I would presume you mean a rock troll of some kind, but such creatures are very rare in this age."

Ausan's hands were completely encased in light, and then as a wave of coldness washed over the inside of the tent it vanished, leaving behind a pair of fists with no marks or blemishes. The swelling was gone completely. "The bleeding here has not stopped, because there is a sliver of something caught within," Yorinth said calmly as his nimble fingers searched the wound. "The wound cannot heal until it has been removed. This should only take a moment."

He cupped both hands over the spot, and after another flash of light he was holding a small fragment of something metallic between his thumb and forefinger. "This would have caused you much pain, and could have permanently weakened your sword attacks, particularly the downward slash. Sometimes it is best to cast aside one's pride," the God added sternly as the injured area was obscured by a blinding patch of light. "But if I must track you down after every battle, I shall."

Barth grinned, moving forward as the light once again vanished, leaving a miraculously healed injury in its wake. "Thank you, Lord Yorinth."

"Be well, Prince Barth," replied the God, who nodded at Ausan before exiting the tent, his silent bodyguard slipping out behind him like a shadow.

“He is likely to have to,” Ausan remarked once the God and Demi-God had left the tent. “There are those who need him more than I, so if he wants to heal me he will have to track me down,” she smirked at Barth and stood was the chair to cross over to where her cot stood. The torn and bloody shirt was removed, allowed to fall to the floor while she looked down at the scar where the wound once stood. “Not as prominent as my other scars, but I suppose it will do,” it honestly was barely there, though she could just feel it when she ran her fingers along the place where she remembered it to be.

“I owe Haman a punch, and I still owe you a kick in the ass,” the remark thrown over her shoulder while she found another shirt and pulled it on. The silence was allowed to fill the area between them before she finally started to speak, “Barth…I….” the words fell off, more along the lines of choked off as she could not get herself to say more. There was that fear that she just knew he did not feel the same as her and to say anything of it would just ruin what they already had.

“I’m sorry. I should not have lost my composure,” an apology being only one thing that she wanted to say to him but an apology she felt he was due regardless.

Stubborn to the very end, he thought with some amusement as she changed, voicing her refusal to seek out help from the God. It wasn't much of a surprise, though - Ausan was always far too willing to ignore her own pains for the sake of those around her. It was a source of both pride and aggravation for him, as the prince respected her for it while still wishing she'd do more to take care of herself.

"We have no lack of scars, and by the time this is over I'm sure we'll have many more," he answered, after she examined the mark left behind after Yorinth's healing touch. He'd escaped the previous battle without any noteworthy additions to his own collection, which was quite a surprise in itself, but he knew better than to assume that would be continuing. War was as much about luck as it was about skill, and he'd seen many a seasoned soldier fall in battle simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ausan's apology hit him hard, distracting him from his musings.

"You know, she never spoke of it, but Verana had an incredible singing voice," he said quietly, his words directed to her back. "I once heard her, when she thought she was alone, filling a pail in the river. The sound brought tears to my eyes, and when she saw me she stopped singing, and we never spoke of it. But I always remember the song, and the way her eyes were staring out at something I couldn't see. There was… such hope, in them."

The events following the discovery of Verana's death had swept them all up, but now that a relative calm had settled it was like the pain had been rekindled and restored to its original potency. He walked closer to her, reducing the distance between Ausan and himself, and let out a long, slow sigh. "I am at fault as well. We had just lost a member of our family, and we acted rashly and without thought. Regardless of what happened, and whatever may happen in the future, I will stand by you, just as I know you will stand by me. And that is more important now than ever before, because things will be changing and I will need your support if any of it is going to work."

He would need her, and like the love-stricken puppy that she was Ausan would be there for him. It was such a funny thought that she laughed and shook her head. Tears brimming in her eyes as she looked down at her hands, “You know she once asked me what I wanted to do with my life…” One hand clenched into a fist and then the other, “You know once we were done fighting. I told her I did not know. All of my life, I have been taught to fight. Conditioned to fight. Eat, sleep and breathe combat. I never knew tenderness, save for the rare occasions that my mother was allowed, or she snuck a hug here and there when my father was not looking…”

All at once both hands were released and allowed to fall down to her sides, “I told her, I had no idea. Because without war, without conflict, I feel…lost. But she made me promise to think about what I want, and I know what I want now.”

A smile came over her face then as if whatever inner turmoil there had been was at rest with the pain that no longer plagued her body. “When this is over I will share with you what I want because I can already see that look in your eyes of your curiosity wanting to know. But, what I want won’t matter if we do not win. So, you have to promise me that you won’t leave me in the dark like that again. Even if it is just a simple and quick trust me you have to tell me, or I can not promise you that I will be here when you get back. Understand?”

If he left again and Haman tried to stop her, she would likely try to kill the Giant to be on her way after Barth. If she failed that, she would just leave. Take the sisters that would join her and go off on her own to find that future that Ausan promised Verana she would find. Ausan was tired of living in the shadows of others, and if the man she loved and trusted with all her heart, could not do the same for her then she would leave. Even as the words formed in her mind, her heart knew that if Barth called on her, she would be there. Without hesitation and at the expense of her own happiness.

"I understand," Barth said quietly, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of returning to find no Ausan there waiting for him. It was a loss he couldn't bear, in a live that had already seen too many of them. But he was hardly the only one who'd been subjected to such trials in the grim world they inhabited."And I will not subject you to that again, if I can help it."

Thoughts of what they would do after everything was over - if such a future existed - were still as foggy as ever for the prince. King Sahir had planted the thoughts in his mind, and now Ausan had awakened that same sentiment once more, but Barth didn't even know where to begin. The Lebi's offer echoed in his memory, but he wasn't going to bring it up. First, because he himself didn't know how he felt about it, but secondly because there were simply too many unknowns that needed to be dealt with first. There was no point making plans and decisions when not even tomorrow was a guarantee.

"I'm glad you know what you want, Ausan. Verana would be happy to know this. And I hope that whatever it is, you get it. You deserve as much," he concluded with a smile, and then he walked away, out of the tent and towards the place where he knew he'd find a group of Lebi knights. It was time to prepare for the next engagement, whenever that would happen. His guess was sooner, much sooner, than he would have preferred.

“What I want is you, Barth….it is what I have always wanted…” she whispered after him. Alone in her tent, she stood there and looked at the items that made up the whole of her life. Armor, weapons, and bandages. A killer, a soldier and a protector. These were her titles and this day more than others she felt how little they meant at the end of the day. When she came home to an empty tent, there was no reason or point to anything that she did. It felt as if it were for nothing at all, save to further stain her soul with the blood of those that she had slain.

If the Goddess would look upon her with kindness, one of these days she would come home to Barth. But in a world where there was no guarantee that the maiden would see the next day, she would have to hope and pray that such a time and chance would become possible.

_________________

Everything is… so quiet…

Rajah was enveloped in silence. In all of his years, it had never been this quiet, this peaceful. He couldn’t hear any noises, but he felt their presence. Instead of listening, he felt the quiet chirp of crickets, the fatigued trotting of Emira. It felt somehow omniscient, godly, to resonate on such a spiritual level. His heart slowed to a minimal beat against his chest. Is this what Radu felt like, right before he died? This calm, transcendental state?

A sharp, burning sensation erupted in Rajah’s chest and he jerked his head out of the water, sputtering and gasping for air. He was still alive, he decided as his hands pushed back the long black tresses that had gotten wet and matted against his face. He had never intended to drown himself, that time or any of the other four times he’d done that since Radu died. It was more of a wake up call every few days. If he didn’t drown, it was a sign that the gods and his people wanted him to keep pressing forward. If he did drown, well… he didn’t know. He hadn’t gotten that far yet.

An odd mix of defeat and determination settled into his bones and gave him the strength to pull himself out of the pond and get dressed. Maybe today would be the day. His people had waited weeks, bordering a month, for him to bring help. Please, let today be the day, he prayed as he mounted his horse. It hurt, being in the saddle. Weeks of nonstop riding had taken a heavy toll on his entire body. His thighs quivered violently as Emira took a steady trot, but it was his ass and back that were taking the brunt of the damage. The backs and insides of his legs were raw from constant friction. Every part of his body groaned and protested the sudden continuation of their abuse. But yesterday was not the day, and neither was the day before that, so Rajah wouldn’t rest.

Please, Rajah prayed again, his knuckles whitening around Emira’s reins. Let today be the day.

The sun beat down mercilessly on Rajah’s shoulders. His thick hair was still wet when he set out so that had saved him for a few hours at best, but then after a while even his hair started to feel hot on his back. He didn’t want to die like this - alone, starving and exhausted in the middle of a foreign land. His stomach growled viciously to confirm the fact that he was starving. When was the last time he’d eaten? He couldn’t remember.

“You need to take better care of yourself, brother.”

Rajah’s head whipped to the right, then to the left, then all the way around in the saddle as he looked for Radu. That was his voice, he knew it! “Radu!” he called out, his voice cracking and sending painful reverberations up his dry and cracked throat. Emira whickered and huffed in protest of the rapid movement on her back, but Rajah coaxed her around and around and around in a circle.

And then it hit him.

Radu wasn’t there, he couldn’t be there. He was dead. Reality crashed down heavily on Rajah. He suddenly had trouble keeping his eyes open, everything just felt so heavy. With a clenched jaw, Rajah took Emira around and urged her forward. His stomach was revolting and he felt nauseous. It felt like he was leaving Radu for a second time, and it certainly hadn’t gotten any easier.

The hours were beginning to blend together as they did every day. The sun had piqued now, looming above him and torturing him as if it had been too benevolent before. Rajah tipped his horse skin bladder straight up, relishing the feeling of water running between his cracked lips. Eventually though, the water stopped coming. He held the bladder at armslength, turning it on its head, prompting a single drop of water to slide down the skin and catch at the lip. He was out of water.

The skin slipped from his hand, landing on his leg first before falling to the ground. Emira trotted on, ignorant of her rider’s sobs of protest above her. Rajah slowly leaned forward until his chest was resting against the horse’s neck, his arms dangling down limply to either side. He was going to die. Out of all of the times he’d tried to drown himself, he’d never meant to die. Rajah had always believed that he wanted to breathe as he died, the thought being surrounded by water and not being able to breathe terrified him. He never imagined he would be even more distressed by the opposite. If he had the strength, he would have smirked at the irony.

“What are you doing, Rajah?”

Rajah kept his eyes closed. It was only a cruel trick of a dying mind. Radu wasn’t there.

“Hey.” Imaginary-Radu was more insistent this time, and Rajah flinched as the punch to his arm sent pain up and down his side. ...a punch? Rajah’s brows knitted together in confusion, and he took a moment to register what had happened before he bolted upright in his saddle. Radu sat atop his horse, hands on his hips and looking as cocky as ever. Rajah could have kissed him. “Get up. Do you think you get to quit because you’re tired? Do you think that there aren’t people waiting for you to get back?”

Rajah blinked. “Radu, I… -”

“- I don’t want to hear it. You have people relying on you. If you fail, they will die.” It was starting to become hard to see through the tears. His eyes stung horribly, but he couldn’t tear his vision away from Radu’s expression as it changed from callous to good-natured. “I know. Race me there,” Radu insisted, turning his horse in an aboutface. “Race me to Lebidan. I know you can’t stand to lose to me.”

Rajah couldn’t have protested if he’d tried; Radu was off, his horse kicking up clouds of dust in his wake. His eyes widened, his lungs inflating to a painful extent as he watched Radu slip through his fingers again. With a swift kick to Emira’s sides, Rajah was right behind him in pursuit. “Radu, wait!” he cried out, leaning forward and reaching out desperately, fingers twitching toward Radu’s braid. The bells in his friends hair seemed to grow louder and louder until they were eventually all Rajah could hear. He couldn’t even hear himself when he called out Radu’s name, though he certainly felt the pain in his throat. One more desperate reach, he was almost there…

The sky was alarmingly blue, he realized suddenly, now that he was looking straight up at it. He could see himself getting lost looking at it. It was so beautiful and peaceful, and much when he was submerged in water, Rajah couldn’t hear a thing. He could feel footsteps reverberating through the ground he was laying on. His head lulled just slightly to the side as a shadow washed over him. A silhouette stood above his dying body, dark black against an increasingly white background. He closed his eyes then. I’ll be with you soon, brother.

-------------------------------

“Wait, what?” The man was a Lebi, and one who was no stranger to battle, based on the dents in his armor. Still, he looked nervous, although Haman wasn’t sure why, as he leaned down over him, glaring with his lone eye.

“I-I said there’s a rider, Sir. He’s coming from the East, and the scouts have reported that he’s a Plainsman.”

Strange.

“And where is this Plainsman headed?”

“Here, Sir. They say he was at a full gallop, too. Should we raise an ala-“

“No, I will handle it. Thank you,” Haman said, patting the man gently on a shoulder, sending him flying sideways into a group of Maidens. They caught him, stopping him shy of the ground with smiles on their faces as he sputtered a hasty apology to them. Haman missed what else was said, however, as he used his long strides to quickly exit the camp, heading out to where this mysterious rider would be arriving, assuming he stayed true to his course.

The very existence of this man was a mystery, but it wasn’t Haman’s place to know the ‘why’. He needed to control the situation, whatever it was, and leave the rest to his betters. It was the way he did things, and while many would have found issue with such an existence, Haman held no such resentment in his massive frame. He only knew his duty, to lord and land. And his loyalty to Linden was trumped only by his loyalty for Prince Barth, for whom he would gladly lay down his life.

Two others joined him, Lindenians like himself, as he trudged out in the open space south of the camp; they were wordless as they walked, but all three of them were staring at the same thing. A cloud of dust approached, with dark shapes at their center. Eventually a rider came into focus, and they watched as the man reached out in front of him, grasping at empty air. Even as the horse beneath him released a whinny of protest, the man tumbled off of it, landing hard on the ground.

Haman quickened his pace, reaching the Plainsman in time to see him staring vacantly up at the sky.

He looked like a corpse, or at least very close to one. His countenance was drawn, his skin was dry and cracked, his lips even more so, and his eyes were glazed over. The braids for which the people of the Plains were known had seen better days, and there was something about his appearance that made it clear he hadn’t eaten in days. He looked like a man at the very end of his rope, which of course was hardly a new sight for Haman of Thalshen. “Dehydration, exhaustion, and probably a few other things that might kill a man,” Haman said quietly, even as he pointed one of his fellows towards the horse. “Have her fed and watered, with lots of grass underfoot. And brush her down, thoroughly. Plains horses don’t get that tired, not unless they’ve galloped half the length of Soluunar. This man has come a long way, and fast.”

The soldier he’d indicated scurried over to the animal, which didn’t seem bothered by the attentions of a stranger - exhaustion did that sort of thing, even to the most unruly of beasts - and the other remained by his side, looking down at the Plainsman who’d reached their doorstep seemingly just in time to succumb to death. “Will he live? Should we call for a wagon?” he asked, just as the man closed his eyes, seemingly in acceptance of his fate.

“He will live,” Haman said simply, kneeling down beside him, “and he will need no wagon.” A moment later he was straightening up with the Plainsman draped over his shoulder like a rug. “Find the God, Yorinth, and tell him he is needed. Urgently.”

-----------------------------------------------

He was flying. That’s what it felt like anyway, swaying back and forth like he was on Emira’s back. The thought of riding made him happy, but right now the actual movement just made him feel nauseous. His limbs dangled lifelessly next to him but they bore no weight; he couldn’t feel them at all. It should have terrified him that he couldn’t feel his arms or legs, but it had a strange soothing effect.

“Peace, Rajah.” His eyes squinted against the light of the sun, but he eventually found the strength to open them. Emira trotted alongside him, bereft of a rider or any worldly cares. The iron pines of Linden stood sentinel over sleepy plains, ever stagnant and yet constantly moving toward them. “Calm down. We are almost to Linden; there’s no harm in a few hours of sleep.” That’s right. They had been travelling to Linden that day and he’d fallen asleep. He knew he was supposed to say something right then… what was it? Maybe if he didn’t say it, they could just stay like this and no one else would have to die.

In the back of his mind, of course Rajah knew what this was. His mother had always told him that right before you die, you see your most precious memories play right before eyes. The small hints of a smile slowly fell away. This wasn’t real, he decided as he swung one leg over, looking at the ground pass beneath him. When he jumped off of the horse, he watched himself fall. He saw Radu ride away, disappearing into thin wisps and dissipating completely. This was for his people, and if that meant leaving Radu behind now, then he would do it.

Seconds after seconds passed before Rajah realized he was still falling. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. His lungs filled with fire and deflated as he gathered up the courage to look down. It was black beneath him, he noticed to his horror. He looked up, around, everywhere. Where was the trail, the iron pines, the sky? Everything was dark and empty, void of light though Rajah could still make out himself as if the sun were still shining down on him. And he could make out…

What is that?

A small white speck in the vast nothing crept toward him. Rajah leaned closer, squinted his eyes against the darkness to focus. He couldn’t make out what it was, but it was definitely getting closer, and closer, and closer still until out of nowhere, the Nothing was illuminated and the pure white was upon him, and he didn’t run from it.

When Rajah woke, it was violently and not without hyperventilating. He sat straight up in bed, clutching at his chest through the fine sheen of sweat that covered it. Every part of him hurt, he noted suddenly. He breathed in and out rapidly, each breath harder to take in than the first. He brought his legs up and bit through the pain as he buried his face into his lap, his nails digging at his chest - his lungs burned so much. It subsided after a few moments, but in those few moments he felt like he was dying.

A small shuffle from the other side of the room prompted his head to turn, uncurling from around himself as he looked to the room’s other occupant. He stared at the man’s expression, his garb, his demeanor, trying to find some semblance of him being another mirage. He could find none.

There were many things he wanted to say. Many men had died around him, he’d lost his brother, he was sore and fatigued and hungry and this was the first man that he had seen in two weeks. Out of all the things he could say, only one question immediately came to mind. “Where am I?”

“You are currently in a tent, in an army camp located roughly sixty miles south of Lebidan’s capital city. You were seen galloping towards our position, before being found very close to death out beyond the camp’s limits. If not for the presence of an Elder God, we would not have been able to save you. There’s water in the bowl near your bed, if you’re thirsty. And bread, if you wish to eat.”

Barth tried to speak slowly and clearly, anticipating that the man might have trouble understanding him based on his previous experiences with Plainspeople. Additionally, he wasn’t sure how much of the man’s senses with with him at the moment. Yorinth made it very clear that the man had only barely escaped death’s embrace, and even after he’d been healed the stranger still needed to be given water in small amounts to offset his dehydration.

“You have traveled far, to find us and our war. What brings you here?”

Water, that’s a word he understood. Rajah supported his weight on one arm, which seemed to be a bad idea as it threatened to buckle under his weight, as his free hand reached for the water bowl. It felt cool on the back of his throat and it was all he could do to stop himself from taking more than a few sips, instead focusing his attention on what the man said. His mother had always seen the importance of being at least partially fluent in Northern tongue. And he was fluent in it, to an extent, but that part about the Elder God seemed lost on him. First the dead were riding with him, now a God was raising him from the dead?

What brought him here? He knew it was something important? Something about kings and wolves… “Krinwulf,” he said suddenly, and if it weren’t for the pain shooting through his entire body, Rajah would have jumped out of the bed and resumed his search. That’s right, he was searching for the king of Linden. “I must speak with King Krinwulf.”

Barth's eyes widened when the man mentioned his father. Aside from being quite a coincidence, it seemed strange that the Plainsman would be seeking out the ruler of a nation so far away from the actual nation.

Or at least, what's left of it, he thought soberly as he examined the man.

He looked much better than he had before, although he was clearly far from recovered. He also looked like he needed a bath, which, coming from Barth, said a great deal.

"There is no King Krinwulf. Not anymore," he answered, noting a delirious kind of enthusiasm in the man's eyes. "Linden is fallen, and all that remains of its people have taken shelter in Lebidan. You are currently in the domain of King Sahir."

“King Sahir then,” Rajah insisted, his voice as firm and resolute as it could be when it seemed to crack on every other word. Lindenian or Lebi, it did not matter. What Rajah needed was an army, he didn’t care whose it was. “I am coming from the Scorches Plains to speak with a king.”

“King Sahir is not at this camp,” Barth replied, wondering all the while what kind of errand this man could possibly be on. He also wondered if he’d perhaps gone insane, no doubt due to the strenuous nature of his journey. “He has departed, headed back to his city, for the battlefield is not his place. He’s not that kind of king.”

Barth moved closer, watching the Plainsman carefully. “If I can help you, I shall, although I am no king. I am Barth Krinwulf, the commander of this army, and I wish to know why you have ventured so far from your home during such a dangerous time.”

Rajah didn’t need to hear more. “It is dangerous time for my people as well.” He spoke slowly in attempts to keep his voice as monotonous as he could. The less stress he put on his throat right now, the better. “The Rapaii have taken the Plains. My people have no food, no water. They kill people every day. They kill my men when we escape.”

The thought made him nauseous. His people were dying, including his mother if she hadn’t already been killed after his escape. They were expecting something to be done by now. He had no way of telling them that Linden had fallen, that there was no King Krinwulf, that so far everything they’d set out to do had ended in failure. They were still expecting him at any day. If only he could at least tell them that he might have finally found help

“So while the Tutar busy themselves with attacking Linden and Lebidan, the Rapaii have grown,” Barth said quietly, almost as if thinking out loud. “They were a much smaller tribe, when I last saw the Plains. And it seems that they’ve grown bolder as well.”

He turned and walked the length of the tent, stopping near the exit as he peered outside. “You must be one of the Reclaimers, from the way you speak. I of all people know what it’s like to lose your home, and to watch as others kill your loved ones. The Tutar are monsters, yes, but so are these men of whom you speak. Yet… what can I possibly do to help you?”

The words pained him to say, but what choice did he have? There were too many lives at risk, and he was responsible for all of them. He couldn’t risk so many to aid others so far away, not when they had need of every single soldier they possessed, and then some. The king would have his head, and his army would revolt. And his people would suffer all the more for it.

“The Tutar have struck us more than once, already, and the last battle could have spelled the end for us if not for luck, and very timely aid,” he said, turning to face the Plainsman once more. “And there are more of them. Many more, within the Ravine, and they will not rest until this world has been rid of all mankind. I cannot risk weakening my army, not when the next strike of the hammer might well be the biggest of all. I… I am sorry,” he finished, and he meant it.

Rajah felt like he was dying all over again. “Please,” he said suddenly, his voice rising and sending fire down his throat. He hadn’t come this far, he hadn’t lost this many men to be turned away. “My people would fight for you.” The Plainspeople had every reason to hate the Tutar. They were the ones that pushed them further east, making them into a small cluster of broken people and making it easy for the Rapaii to seize control. “Rapaii are not Tutar. They are not a large army. A small group of soldiers would kill them, and you would have all of our warriors.”

His eyes stung with bitterness and grief. He’d come so far and his people were dying as they waited on him and prayed for his success, and Barth Krinwulf had turned him away; the man that bore the name of their supposed savior had condemned them to die. “Please.”

Barth sighed, scratching his beard uncertainly. His father would have sent the man away, perhaps after extorting some money from him. Sahir would’ve stood firm, putting his own interests first and doing what was best for his throne, as well as his people. But Barth was no king. He knew nothing of political maneuverings, but what he did understand was war. The Plainspeople were skilled archers, with some of the most impressive draw-speeds of anyone on Soluunar with their deadly shortbows. If he could only come up with a way to make the benefits outweigh the cost…

“Maybe…” he thought out loud, before moving quickly to the edge of the tent and seizing a sharp looking stone from the ground outside. Then, with his writing utensil in hand, he walked to the center of the space within the tent and started digging into the ground. “Lebidan,” he muttered, as he outlined two circles, one much smaller than the other. “And the camp. And then,” he went on, making am much larger shape far below, “the Ravine.”

To the Ravine’s shape he drew two lines, and to the right of one of the lines he drew a large rectangle. “The Scorched Plains were the first place affected when the Tutar came out of the Ravine. The mountains have a pass on their eastern borders, which they used to filter onto the plains and then eventually work their way up to Linden.” He depicted his former’s home’s location with a small circle some ways above the rectangle, feeling a pang of sadness as he wondered what the place probably looked like in the present. “But now, they only use this way,” he said, indicating the line going straight up from the Ravine towards the camp. “Some rogue warriors and stragglers might occupy the eastern pass, but they would be few in number. Easy to overwhelm.”

He stood up with a groan and stared down at his handiwork, watching the pieces coming together. He was no politician, but he was a tactician, and he believed he had something. “We have been content to sit and wait for them, for too long. We let them dictate the battles, and decide when to attack. We settled for defending, always defending… but no more.”

He looked at the Plainsman and grinned, unable to hide his pleasure at having found a way. “The eastern pass would allow us to catch them off guard, and engage them on our terms. Draw their attentions back to their homeland, removing from them the luxury of maintaining offensives and nothing else. And the only way we can access that pass… is if the Rapaii are dealt with.”

Rajah watched Barth draw patterns and shapes in the earth, finding it a really useful tool to help him translate what Northern he didn’t understand. He felt Barth looking at him and met his eye. It took him a long minute to register what it is that he’d heard, but when he did he replayed it over and over again. “Thank you.” He repeated it one, two, three more times and clasped his hands over his mouth, covering it as his voice cracked on either a sob or laughter. I hope you’re watching, Radu. After all of this, the sacrifice, the anguish, the starvation, their people would finally be safe.

_________________

Soluunar
 
“I was on my way to confer with some Lebi Knights. You might find the meeting boring, but you’re welcome to accompany me, if you want,” Barth told Rajah, who had managed to introduce himself some time after the tenth ‘thank you’. “You might find someone with a wineskin too, if you look hard enough. Not sure if you’d want to drink so soon after nearly dying of thirst, but I don’t judge,” he added conversationally as he led the way out into the daylight, which was turning very slightly grey as the wind grew a touch colder. “Your horse is doing well, you should know. She’s a tough one. Is she mixed with toarn?” 

A passing group of Lebis stopped as he walked by them, nodding in greeting; he spotted a red slash on their chests, and another on their left gauntlets, and he slowed down long enough to nod back. “The Red Company,” he said quietly, as the continued deeper into the second, much larger camp. “Free men who value their lands and comrades over wealth and titles. You haven’t heard of Lebis like this, I’m sure, but they exist.” 

It was an interesting feeling, giving someone a tour of sorts, given the tensions that had arisen when Barth and his comrades first arrived. A lot has changed, he thought, feeling a slight pang of sadness as his mind touched on Verana. He was going to need to get used to that, but it would take time - the wound was still too fresh. “You were seeking my father, correct? If it makes you feel any better, he wouldn’t have helped you. Better to accept aid from a snake that never shows you its face.” He wanted to ask Rajah if he’d been to Linden, but he feared the answer. He feared what the man would tell him had become of the place he had once called his home. 

“Have you been to…” he stopped, trailing off, before shaking himself slightly.

Not the time, Barth.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Rajah knew nothing of meetings or Lebi Knights, but he knew that he didn’t necessarily feel like being alone right now. He trailed closely behind Barth, looking at soldiers and tents and horses as he passed them by. When Barth mentioned Emira, something struck him. The crown he’d retrieved from the horde of Tutari bodies, that had belonged to this man’s father. Though it was disappointed to hear that King Krinwulf wouldn’t have sent him help, Rajah still felt obligated to give the crown to what would have been it’s next inheritant. 

Barth was fine company, though Rajah had only known him for the past couple of minutes. “She is mixed with toarn, yes. She is Emira.” 

If he’d had the strength or motivation, Rajah could have almost laughed in disbelief at the idea of Lebis valuing anything other than coin. “The Lebis they tell us about, they are pompous and cannot see around their money.” It was obviously not true for all of them, as he was currently being nursed inside a Lebi camp, but it seemed to really resemble what few he’d personally met. 

When Barth fell silent, Rajah gave him a sidelong glance as they walked. Have I been to…?”Linden?” he asked, and then fell silent as well. “After the meeting, come with me to Emira. I have a gift.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Emira,” Barth repeated, smiling at the sound of the name. “I like it. She was distressed, you know. In spite of her exhaustion, until the moment you were healed. That is a special animal you have.”

They were almost at the meeting place, which was a cavernous tent with a peaked roof - not long ago he would’ve rolled his eyes at the sight, but he was growing accustomed to the ways of his allies. And how could he ever expect them to tolerate him and his people if he couldn’t do the same for them? There were too many good Lebis to condemn the lot, regardless of how rotten some of them might be. 

When Rajah mentioned the Lebis as he knew them, Barth snorted. “Yeah, I encountered some like that. Many of them were concerned only with their banners and wealth, but when they got their first taste of the Tutar… some of them changed, after that. Many of them. And while most hated the ragged prince at the start - and that only got worse once I was given command of the army - I think I can say some of them are starting to change their minds. I’ve even made some friends among them, and so long as I can help keep them alive, maybe that’ll continue.”

They were just outside the tent when Rajah asked him if he’d meant Linden, and Barth paused. “I was going to ask if you have been to my home, but I don’t know if I want to hear the answer.” The offer made regarding Emira seemed strange to him, but he smiled, nodding as he pushed through the flaps. “Come, let us see what Lebidan’s bravest have to report.”

The Knights were fewer in number than when he’d last seen them all together, on the eve of the battle - it was easy to focus on one’s own losses, but no group passed through that conflict without its share of grief. 

“Thank you for coming, Knights and Lord Knights,” he said, surveying them all with a steady eye. “The battle has been won, but it was not the last. Those of you gathered here command the bulk of your house’s men, and as such I wish to hear of your troops’ morale, and also if you require anything. Convoys will be moving southward from Lebidan, and whatever resources you require will be provided.”

“Prince Barth!” ejaculated an older man, moving forward with enthusiasm that was definitely feigned. His manner of speaking was on the ‘breathy’ side, and Barth was grateful that he didn’t seem to have had onions recently as the distance between them evaporated. “Sir Derrald, at your service, Commander. I speak for Lord Brigham, who-“

“Apologies, Prince Barth,” cut in a much younger man, to the consternation of the other, who smoothed his combover down in an agitated fashion as he was shunted aside. If there was one area the former had an advantage, it was that his armor was positively shining in spite of the dim light. The younger man had long hair, high cheekbones and light armor, good for movement, but unappealing to the eye. He also had one arm in a sling, and a fresh scar running across a cheek. Barth liked him instantly. “Rendir Brigham, and I wish to spare you from Sir Derrald’s requests for more polish.”

“Appearances matter, Master Rendir!” the man squawked, sending a wave of hot air over the proceedings as the younger man winced. “We must separate ourselves from the animals we face, or we would look like… like…”

“Me?” Barth asked, his voice quiet but a smile on his face as the man practically leapt up into the air, terrified by the thought of insulting a superior who happened to be wearing horribly dented, stained armor. 

“No! never, Prince Ba-“

“Enough, Derrald. Prince Barth, if you could request fletchers I would be truly indebted to you. We have timber, but lack the craftsmen to arm up properly if the next battle comes sooner than later.” 

“Of course, Lord Brigham. How is morale?”

The young man’s face darkened slightly, but he nodded all the same after a moment’s hesitation. “It is good enough. We suffered losses, like everyone else, but the men still hold strong. They know what they are fighting for, and they will be ready when the time comes.”

“Good. I am glad to hear that, L-“

“Please, call me Rendir,” he said, looking more than a little anguished about something. 

“Very well,” Barth answered, although his expression remained serious as he watched the young Brigham. “You have my sympathy, regarding your brother, Rendir. He was a great soldier.”

“Thank you, Commander. And my sister-“

“Is a hero, who saved my life,” Barth interjected, the softness in his tone turning to steel. “She is more, much more, than your sister now.” 

The young man, although clearly unhappy, nodded and walked away, to be replaced by representatives of the next house of lords. The whole time, Derrald watched with a longing on his face that the prince knew had everything to do with polish, probably for his sollerets.

Some time later the two of them were back outside, and evening was beginning to set in as they made their way to where Emira was being kept. “Do not lie to me, Rajah. We both know that was incredibly boring.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Rajah poured out of the tent, grinning for the first time in what felt like hundreds of years. He’d stayed along the wall of the tent for the duration of the meeting, uninvolved in the conversation and able to fall back and observe. Between the insistence that the army needed to look good and the love of hearing themselves talk, Lebis were more or less exactly what Rajah expected. 

“It was boring,” he agreed. “North men love tents. When Plains warriors meet, it is under the sky for the Gods to see. We have fires and women and ritual.” He stopped, looked back at the tent and then back to Barth, shaking his head. “It is not this.” 

The stables weren’t terribly far away, or at least they were vaguely visible through rows of other tents. Emira had never been stabled, Rajah had seen to it. The entire Plainsman ideal was to roam freely, and that meant their horses as well. Nevertheless, he had never been happier than he felt looking at her in a stable. 

He held out his hand as he approached, fingers brushing her muzzle. Emira’s saddlepack hung on the wall just next to her stable, and Rajah’s free hand set out to searching through pockets until eventually he found the only item in the entire pack. He stood with his back to Barth for a second, looking down at the crown in his hand. “I took this to give to the king of Linden, but the king no longer exists and neither does Linden.” He turned, extended his arm and offered up what Rajah guessed was the last heirloom of Linden. “It should go to his son instead.” 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“We didn’t use tents for our meetings either, not unless the weather was bad,” Barth replied, smiling at the man’s recollections. “These fiery women, though. I’m interested in learning more about them,” he said, still grinning as they moved to the camp’s outskirts.  

They reached the stables and Barth watched as the man was reunited with the horse that had taken him so far in so little time. He looked on, curious, as Rajah began digging through a bag that was hanging near Emira. Eventually the man turned around and held out something that flashed as it caught the light.

The crown of Linden.

Wordless, Barth reached out and accepted it with trembling fingers. Gleaming silver, that had been tarnished in his memory, but which was now flawless and beautiful, sat upon his callused hands, the jewels set within bright and colorful. Paetar Krinwulf had defiled the crown in Barth’s eyes, but as the prince stared down at the heirloom he remembered not his father, but the legendary kings who’d existed before him. He remembered the history lesson he’d received when he was young, about how Linden had formed in the shadow of an empire, under the leadership of courageous men who sought only to do what was best for their people.

He remembered being young again, the embrace of his mother, and the days when he would look out onto lush countrysides from the back of his horse and think of the hope that the future would bring. 

He remembered Linden.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, as he stared down at the symbol of everything he had lost. “Thank you for this, Rajah. I am… forever in your debt.”

Even as he gazed at the crown he’d thought was lost forever, and right before he put it away, wrapping it in cloth to keep it from seeing the light of day, Barth heard the voice of King Thorin Sgaran Sahir echo through his mind. 

“Accept the power that is your due. Don't walk away from your true calling.”



Upper Regions

A different Demigod stood in the entry to Naiya’s home.

Like Piedal he was slim, but he was darker and shorter, with messy hair and sloppy robes. He was staring angrily at the man striding alongside Rolyn, having somehow failed to see the Circle God approaching him. “I said not to bring anyone,” he shot, clearly annoyed. “We can handle this on our ow-“

He broke off, realizing who was accompanying the other Demigod. Rolyn walked up to him and smiled, indicating the doorway behind him.

"Greetings Kilkren. Do you intend to prevent me from entering this dwelling?" There was no threat in the words, nor any heat to his tone, but the man's face paled slightly and he quickly stepped aside, fixing Piedal with an incredulous look as Rolyn walked smoothly into Naiya's home. He took an additional surprised step back when the old wolf trotted past him, before fixing Piedal with yet another stare, one that was more confused than anything else. 

"Naiya Flamecloak," Rolyn said softly, and the woman looked up from her lap to stare up at him, looking shocked to see him standing there. He could see that the corners of her green eyes were glistening, but at the moment it was shame that dominated her expression.

"Lord Rolyn, I- what are you doing here?" 

"I am only here to talk. I wish to know what has happened to you, and if I can help you in any way." 

She turned to glare at the doorway, and the young Demigod standing just inside flinched as if he'd been struck. She seemed content to focus on her affront at the moment, leaving the more difficult items behind for the time being. ”Piedal, I will have your hide for this! I-"

"Forgiveness, Naiya," Rolyn interjected, watching her calmly. “The young man merely acted out of concern for you. And while I would like to assist you, if I can, if you wish for me to leave I will not argue." 

The fire left her emerald eyes and she shook her head sadly, looking doubtful. “I don’t know what I want. I… I brought this upon myself,” she finally choked out, looking down into her own lap once again. “I deserved it, and perhaps the lesson will teach me not to meddle in things I do not understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The message that reached you from Seagan Kahz,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “It came from me. And Malinar… he… he found out.”

Rolyn moved closer without realizing it and placed a hand under her chin, forcing the Elder Goddess to look up at him. There, on one cheek, was the shadow of a bruise. And in her eyes was the pain of betrayal. She’d never believed him capable of such a thing, and when he struck her he’d shattered something that could never be repaired.

“Malinar,” he said softly, and a muscle twitched in his face as the fury within him grew to alarming levels. All of the childish squabbles between them, the Chaos God’s refusal to let him gain an inch of progress towards his goals, all of it paled in comparison to this. This was a member of the Circle, and with this act he had brought shame onto all of them.

There was a flurry of movement behind him, and when he turned Rolyn saw all three of Naiya’s Demigods moving for the exit, their faces mirroring the rage he felt.

“Stop,” he told them, his voice firm and unyielding, but only two of them obeyed. The third, Kilkren of course, continued stalking towards the doorway leading outside. By the time he reached it, Rolyn was standing in front of him.

He jumped, taking two steps back, before squaring himself up with a scowl. “You can’t stop me. I don’t care who you are, I’m going to find him.”

“And do what, precisely?”

“Going to teach him a ****ing lesson,” the Demigod growled, practically shaking with fury. Naiya made a sound of alarm, and his comrades moved to put their hands on him, but he drew his sword, eyes blazing like the fire his Mistress wielded.

“I will not allow that,” Rolyn replied, matching the man’s gaze. His tone was that of a person simply stating a fact, and his level demeanor only seemed to make the Demigod even angrier. “He would kill you.”

“He wouldn’t dare!”

“If you are foolish enough to give him a reason, he will most assuredly will. He would also be able to do so with very little difficulty.” 

"I… I don't care! I'll fight him if I have to!"

"No, you won't. And that is the end of this discussion. Sit down,” Rolyn said, pointing at a chair in the corner, but the man bristled, staying right where he was.

“You will not treat me like a child! I won’t be sent to sit down like a-“

The sword’s gleaming steel blade corroded with astonishing speed. The glimmering metal dulled, turned an ugly shade of black mingled with rust streaks, and then it was falling to the ground in a small swirl of dust. The Demigod had only enough time to stare down at the ruined weapon in shock before a blast of pale blue light hit him in the chest, sending him flying backward into the arms of Tamin and Piedal, who only just barely managed to catch him before he could hit the ground.

“What did you…? Is he?”

“He will be fine,” Rolyn said, as Naiya looked down at the man with considerable distress. He was perfectly still, and didn’t appear to be breathing. “In a moment he will awaken, and hopefully he will be much calmer than he was before.”

“Kilkren is a hothead,” Tamin replied as he worked in unison with Piedal to lay their fellow Demigod on the ground. “What if he isn’t calm?”

“Then I will make it so.”

All three of the home’s conscious occupants looked at him with some surprise, but Rolyn himself was not calm. Far from it, really, as Malinar’s transgression could not be overlooked. Not this time.

“It was necessary, to save his life,” he added, peering down at the man he’d stunned. “Malinar is a vengeful individual, and I know that better than most. He would have hurt this one, more out of spite than from any real need to protect himself.”

“You were his friend, once,” Piedal said, before looking shocked at himself for saying it. It was something everyone knew, more or less, even if no one spoke about it openly. The man’s nervous expression faded when Rolyn nodded, looking from him to the Goddess he served.

“Rumors are usually based, at least partly, in fact. Malinar and I were once friends - no, we were much closer than that. We were brothers, and in those days whenever the Circle faced turmoil and strife I always knew I could rely on him.”

“What happened?” Naiya inquired, the look on her face making it clear it was a question she’d longed to ask for a very long time. Perhaps she had tried, at some point or another, but Malinar was unlikely to have given her any real answers.

“When the Empire of Grahn was brought to its knees in its war against Thaam, Malinar, the famed Grahnese general, had blamed himself for it. His Uplifting had meant abandoning the nation, and it struggled following his departure. From the Upper Regions he could do little to help them, and so he beseeched me to vote for intervening. He wanted the Circle to stop the destruction of Grahn, and because I was his friend, he believed I would do so without question.”

“And when you voted against him…” Naiya said, looking at him with disbelief etched across her features.

“He never forgave me. He believed I was taking Valiya’s side, choosing Thaam and her friendship, and he refused to see it any other way. Even now he fights me against aiding Soluunar, all because of what happened all that time ago.”

“I… I don’t believe it.”

He nodded, unsurprised by the reception received by his revelation. With everything happening in the world, it was difficult to fathom the idea of a man with as much power as Malinar being so vindictive - particularly given the lives at risk. Many centuries had passed since the rift formed between the two oldest Gods, but it was perhaps time to make things right, if such a thing was even possible.

“I have to leave,” he said abruptly, suddenly feeling confusion and uncertainty nagging at the edges of his mind. “Be well. And keep an eye on him,” he added, indicating the man still sprawled out on the floor as he left the dwelling, Fenric trotting along behind him.

I do not sense him. Something is wrong, he thought as he looked around, focusing his mind, but to no avail. “Phyrexus,” he called, opening his palm as a golden light appeared at its center.

“I need you at once.”



Soluunar

“A right mess, this. What say you, Sir Keln?”

“I say you should shut your trap,” came the response, and the portly man with the curly brown beard stopped talking immediately. “Your words are your own, but watch where you speak them. And take care with hefting my name around,” the man with the golden bear on his chest added with a glare, and the other Lebi nodded rapidly, eager to show his understanding. 

“Yes, Ke- friend, of course.”

The other man, a slender but solidly built knight with a reputation for as a master swordsman as well as for being completely incapable of staying out of trouble, offered the flustered man a grudging grunt of acceptance. After maintaining eye contact for a moment longer, during which the corpulent Lebi began squirming, Sir Keln Sasek shouldered past him into the dark, spacious tent whose entry was hidden behind his girth. 

A table had been set up, around which sat a number of men just like him. That is, they were all angry and discontented. 

Keln sat down at the end of the table furthest from the entryway, and the others, who’d been speaking softly but intently, quieted down almost immediately. Whatever smatterings of conversation remained were quickly stifled once he tapped the table in front of him with the tip of an armored finger. 

“Good of you all to make it,” he said quietly, as the hefty man from outside waddled in and busied himself with a bottle and some mugs in the corner. “Today is a day that shall determine not only our fates, but the fate of Soluu-“ 

He broke off, glaring at the man who was hurriedly picking up the mug he’d dropped, whimpering a string of apologies as he moved. Once his momentary rage passed, Keln returned his attention to the Lebis at the table. 

Each and every one of them were of the fallen House of Garth, a name that would be stricken from all records, but never from the hearts of those who remembered its greatness. There was the pair, Borrie and Pav Hormen, brothers known for their fist fighting skills as well as their equally bald, ever shining heads, Lad Lazinus, who was older than any of them with the long grey hair to prove it, but whose face remained remarkably unlined, and then there was Sir Fenn Hewten, a cousin of Borim Garth and an honorable man through and through. It was said that the boney, nearly skeletal Fenn only ever beat his wife when he was drunk, and that was only the first of his many admirable qualities. 

Aside from those notable guests there were others, men who had not been in the employ of Garth for as long, but who knew enough in spite of their youth to see where their loyalty truly belonged. 

“Anyway, as you all know, today is the day we are to be… relocated.” Keln looked sadly down at the bear adorning his chest, and shook his head regretfully. “Either join the king’s men, all of whom are common simpletons, or we join in the other Houses, the ones that would take us, anyway,” he added, his words fed by a tone of sheer disgust. “And they won’t, for why would they sully their ranks with the likes of us? We are men of House Garth, and as such we are poison. Taking us on would be political suicide,” he finished, watching the fat man closely as he set his mug down in front of him with painstaking care. 

“What of Resuran?”

“Hah!” Keln barked, staring wide-eyed at the speaker, who was one of the younger among them whose name didn’t matter. “The Red Company would seem like a way out, but only if you’re an ugly fool.”

The ‘ugly’ part wasn’t necessarily needed, but it certainly helped to get the point across. The soldier slumped in his chair, and Keln nodded, pleased with the result. They needed to learn while they were young, after all. 

“Jahal Resuran is a blood traitor, whose family served the noble House of Garth for generations. That is, until he decided to spit on the banner that shielded him and that ****ing mustache for all those years,” he said, his voice heavily laden with bitterness as he stood up. “He could have done something when Borim was murdered by that scarred ****ing, but instead he turned his back on him! On us! We were brothers, all of us, united beneath the golden bear, and Resuran chose his new friend Prince Barth, lord of ruins and corpses, over his own family.”

The table fell into a deep silence after the pronouncement, and Keln sat back down, breathing heavily as he tried to calm himself. On the faces of the elder attendees was the same anger - Resuran was a hated man in that tent, and his days would be safer if he kept his distance from it. “On top of that,” he continued, his tone now level, “Resuran knows me. He would watch me, all of us, like a hawk. The Red Company is not an option.” 

Resuran and Sasek were friends long before, briefly, until a bitter rivalry and eventual hatred developed between them. Resuran was an accomplished swordsman, but Keln knew he was far superior although the two of them had never directly clashed. He also knew Resuran hated him more than he hated anything else, and that he would love to be the one to end him, somehow and some way. 

“The answer, you idiots, is obvious. Or at least it should be. The king’s men are plentiful and simpleminded, and they are led by Lord Knight Paraan, who is merely a figurehead, a puppet to a king that is miles away. We would blend in, and then…”

They all watched him, waiting expectantly for what was to come. For he was Sir Keln Sasek, and he never failed to deliver.

“And then we will take what is ours.”

A cheer rose up, and the mugs clanged together before their contents vanished. 

_________________

So, it was over. They had won.

Karessa had felt much joy when the people of Soluunar emerged victorious. But their camp had felt very tense, and so she had decided to leave them be for now. It was not yet her time to approach them. Instead, she had gone off to be left to her own thoughts, looking out toward the battlefield. Mainly about things that needed to be discussed with the others, and about where the people of Soluunar would go from here.

She could feel it in her very being, just how great her joy was. It was pretty exciting to say the least. But was she getting ahead of herself? Should she not be so optimistic, looking toward the future? Some might believe this, but she felt differently.

Soluunar was changing, and now that change could flourish and become even greater.


Even with the encouraging words of the Elder God who was like a second father to him, the God of Hunt still felt a sting of defeat. The battle was won, their world appeared to be safe for the moment, but all he could do was stare down at the name that he had etched into his bow. For a man who preferred the company of animals to humans, he felt that he and this woman shared a bond though it had never been spoken and they never had the pleasure of meeting. From afar he had watched. Admired her skill, her tenacity, and the fire that burned so bright within her soul it almost seemed as if the Auburn locks upon her head were aglow with that same flame.

Celebration on the eve of their victory was tainted by the lack of mourning he felt the others honestly shared for the fallen archer. At her funeral pyre, he had waited until most had departed before he approached. Bow in hand he drew the blade he had used to carve her name and slashed a wound across his bare chest.

“By the light of Sun and her lover the Moon. With the strength of the Wolf given to me I swear that each arrow fired and each spear that is thrown I shall slay a monster in your name. They will fall and die a swift death. Their spirits will be cursed to darkness while your own will travel the spirit world with my Wolves until you are led back home,” the words were carried on the wind with the blade still fresh with his blood and dipped it into the ashes then smeared it over the open wound. “Tá mé do bhfeice. Do laoch. Do arrow.”

Done with this Weylyn stalked off into the night, flanked by the female Alpha of his pack. Lost in his own thoughts and musings, he did not see the Lady Karessa until the wolf at his side nudged his leg. “Oh, My Lady,” a rough though deep bow was given. “Forgive my intrusion. I had not known you were here and did not mean to disturb you.”


The Elder Goddess of Frost turned to face the God of the Hunt, taking her focused away from her thoughts and giving it to him.

“Ah, Weylyn, this is a nice surprise,” she said calmly, welcoming his presence. Her expression was warm, and she even smiled a little. “I was enjoying the quiet, but, rest assured you have not disturbed me from anything.” With everything going on in her mind, having someone to pour her thoughts to might prove to be a good thing. A quicker way to gather her thoughts, perhaps, and have someone to tell her if something she said was silly.

“How are you faring?” Karessa added, curious to hear his thoughts.


Weylyn nodded and moved a bit closer, "I fare...well enough..." the words came out in a halting fashion as if he struggled to gather his own thoughts and feelings. "This battle, though won, does not feel it. It feels...empty and hollow. So many have died and so many more are going to die. I fear for the world..."

Like a flood gate he poured his thoughts and feelings to the Goddess. Guard down now and vulnerable before her, with no regard to any pride. In this moment they were one of the same and he felt he could share with her. "What of you? How do you fare?”

“I…” Karessa began, choosing her words carefully, “I feel good.” Weylyn’s words echoed in her mind a few times, and she was thrown back into the battle. They all appeared again to her, the faces of the people who were lost, who had lost others. Those who had been caught in the blast of ice… Even her optimism flooded back to her, ready to burst out as his thoughts had. But she managed to keep her composure.

“We both want what is best for this world. A lot of lives were lost, yes, but I feel whatever comes next will ultimately decide how the people of Soluunar move forward,” she continued. Was that the right thing to say? She retreated to her thoughts again, for a moment. Her brow furrowed in thought and the corner of her mouth pulled down into a slight frown.

Then, she looked up, focusing on the wolf accompanying him.

“Your wolves are full of energy as always, I see.” Karessa decided to try to shift the conversation a little. He looked… troubled. No. Tired perhaps.


He nodded, "She is without her mate. A human male of some note worth and potential has claimed my male Alpha. The hope is that he will make something of himself and not be a coward or a worthless lump of flesh."

Bitterness in his tone with little hope for the man, but his wolf seemed to think otherwise. "How can you have such optimism? This place feels so empty as if they are on their last breath before death shall come and steal it away."


There was a long silence between the two of them.

Karessa turned away, looking out to the wilderness. She closed her eyes and let out a steady breath as if she was trying to find the right words. Then, she turned to the God once more and spoke, “To be honest, that isn’t an easy question to answer. Soluunar has felt empty to me… well… since Thaam was transformed into a frozen wasteland. Many were lost there, too…” A pause, then she added, “I don’t think I know the answer myself, but... these people are survivors. They have lost so much, yes, but I believe their determination will shape a good future. One year, two, two hundred… Later generations will remember what these people are going through now.”

She stopped talking, feeling her emotions starting to pour out much quicker than she wanted. There was a faint ember in her eyes when she spoke. While she did not disagree, an emptiness lingered, she was not about to let that become her focus. Not everything was lost in that battle.

“There is still hope, as long as they continue on.”


“You are wise, m’lady” Weylyn said with a smile. “I would take to listen to you more often. I think that the both of us would do good to listen to one another more,” the hunter who has now missed took a seat beside the Goddess. The wolf at his side chose a spot nearby by to lay down and so it was that silence consumed the trio as night continued on.

“When this is over, how about I help you reclaim the frozen lands? Between the two of us we should be able to do something about it, yeah?” Optimism thick in his voice as he felt that once this war was over his own path in life would not be the same. There was more out there for him to do, he just needed to find his way.


“Oh my…” Admittedly, his words had caught Karessa by surprise. For a long time, she has wanted to reclaim Thaam, for a long time she had thought it impossible, a dream. But… “I do believe you are right. Once this is over, we shall get to work immediately. I would love to have you at my side.” It would take a long time to undo the wrongs that had been done but, with Weylyn’s help, she was confident that it could be done.

It would be done.

“Perhaps Thaam’s revival would be what the people of Soluunar need… Anything for them to see hope for the future,” she added, her thoughts already going to work.

--------------------------------

For Soluunar…

Alistair took a long drink from his mug, staring at it for a moment after it was empty. The God of the Hunt’s words still rang in his mind. That gaze was… horrifying, and continued to burn deeper into his mind. It **** him off to say the least. Or maybe he was using anger to hide that the God had hit the nail harder on the head than any realized. Of course, he was not going to admit that to anyone, not even himself.

But at the same time, he still could not believe he came face-to-face with a God! A lot of people could say that they have seen them, fought alongside them, but not many could say that they have spoken to them. It was a damn good day. Not to mention, the wolf was still at his side. He really has seemed to have taken a liking to him if he didn’t leave when his master came. It was really, truly was a good day for him.

But the words exchanged between him and the God of the Hunt were still in his mind, mainly one world in particular: Hunt. Prove his worth.

Alistair scratched at his chin, glancing at a sword that had been laid aside. A thought started to form: he could just… get out of here. Sneak away. Nobody would notice him if he did that. Hell, he hardly had people come his way now. But… why should he? Prove himself… He was already alive, and that should be enough of a blessing. Or so he thought.

Sneak out of camp

Hunt.

This was his chance, and he knew if he did not take it, he Weylyn would feed him to his wolves. He wrapped his arms around him and shifted his weight, biting his lower lip. Damn it… He didn’t want to go out there. Many people already believed him to be dead. Normally he would have some tale to tell, and honestly he did have things he wanted to say, but the more he thought, telling tales would only attract the God again…

“**** it.” Alistair grabbed the sword by the hilt and hefted it on his shoulder. It was a just a standard longsword, and in pretty rough shape, the blade worn from use, but it would work. “I guess we’re going hunting…” He said to the wolf. All he had to do was cut up a few corpses, right? Maybe he could find one that was already dying…

There were a lot of things happening around camp. The chattered seemed to be everywhere. Some people were saying something about Barth missing, and being found again. The Heart Guard. Someone else being arriving at camp, and a lot of other things that just seemed to go in one ear and out the other as he moved closer and closer to the edge. All he cared about was getting out of there and getting back before the God decided to come check on him.

_________________

Darkness is perpetual; something that always has been, is, and will continue to be. Whether it be shadows in the corner, or shadows inside, darkness will never cease to exist. A thought like that might have been reassuring any other time, but Phyrexus’ frown was as perpetual as the shadows he manipulated. He stood enveloped in an empty abyss, unamused but overall noncommittal as he looked from gateway to gateway, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Darkness was not something that could be done away with, but so too was it something that shouldn’t grow as rapidly as it had been. Upheaval and unrest and war had always been commonplace - to war is human, as he’d learned myriads past. There was something different about this, something that made Phyrexus uneasy. An unnatural darkness was spreading rapidly across the plains of Soluunar, and something about being the Elder God of Shadows and not being able to pinpoint the root of the cause left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Phyrexus… He paused, stared blankly at a Gate looking down at the ruins of Linden as his own name repeated in his head, over and over until it got louder and clearer. He straightened his back just a little, lifting his chin just slightly to look straight ahead as he waited, ever patient. I need you at once.

Phyrexus turned on his heel, the blackness melting around him as he was introduced once more to the light of the world. One light in particular, emanating from Rolyn’s palm. Phyrexus watched from his place in the shadows, waiting only a moment before making his presence known. “My lord,” he responded, taking the long strides that separated him from the Circle God.

Rolyn nodded in greeting as the Hand of the Circle moved towards him. He extinguished the golden light rising from his palm and watched the Elder God, considering the correct approach to what was a very delicate situation. Endless possibilities flew through his mind, each less likely than the previous, and at the heart of it all was the fear that Malinar had done the unthinkable. No, not that. Never that, he reassured himself.

“I need you to find Malinar. I do not know where he is, but he needs to be found immediately. I cannot sense him, however, which does not bode well.” Phyrexus was capable, and in many ways reminded Rolyn of his predecessor, but this would be a challenge even for him.

“He is not being charged with anything, meaning you lack the authority to bring him to me by force. You also lack the power to face him if he decides against cooperating. I would handle this on my own, without the others, if possible. I am trusting you with this, Phyrexus. Handle this with tact, and be careful.”

“Without the others?” Phyrexus clasped his hands behind his back, idly toying with his fingers as he examined Rolyn. The Circle God had always been someone he’d respected in the utmost fashion, his own post as Hand aside. Malinar had become enveloped in a flurry of unbridled emotions like ambition and power, and left unhindered those made him dangerous. All the same, though, this sounded uncomfortably like vigilante justice. “My lord,” he repeated, this time with a begrudging tone of neutrality. “Under what circumstances should these be, where you are not informing the others of your request?”

Phyrexus seemed hesitant, which was no surprise given the nature of Rolyn’s request. The God of Time had taken matters into his own hands in intervening on Soluunar, and the repercussions of that act were still reverberating through the two worlds, but in that matter he had acted alone. Involving Phyrexus was a different situation entirely, but it was a course of action he didn’t think he could avoid.

“Yes, without the others,” Rolyn replied, even as he wondered just how outlandish his behavior would have seemed to the Rolyn who first assembled the Circle. “Malinar has done something for which he must be called to account, but if I utilize the traditional means I will only make things worse. I intend to repair the rift that has formed between us, once and for all, and for me to do that I must do this without the rest of the Circle.”

The words sounded ludicrous, with all the years that had passed without even a dent made in the hatred Malinar held for him, but Rolyn wasn’t going to walk around the difficulty ahead. Not this time.

Phyrexus eyed him warily as he rocked back onto his heels. There was a lot of weight in what he was asking, even if the question itself seemed nonsensical. In the absolute worst case scenario, Phyrexus would fail. Whether it be in locating Malinar, making it back to Rolyn alive to reveal his location, or keeping this a secret from the other members of the Circle. The danger didn’t reside with Phy alone; Rolyn would be in immediate danger as well. ‘Repair the rift’ between them? What did that even mean, and regardless would it be enough? Malinar was not the type to listen to reason. They were all acutely aware of that.

“Malinar has done more than one thing in which he must account for,” he started, slowly at first in order to word his thoughts properly. “Should you fail, what then? I swore to uphold an oath to obey and protect the members of the Circle, and to protect their lives even at the cost of my own. To let you go to him alone - to talk, of all things - would not only be violating that vow, but it would simply be asinine.”

He let out a deep breath, let his hands fall back to his sides and closed the respectable distance that was between them. “I will not be an oath breaker, Rolyn,” he warned, though he knew his voice betrayed him. He had already decided some minutes ago what that he would do as Rolyn requested. He brushed passed the Circle God, clapping him once on the arm. “So try not to die.”

He left Rolyn then, without so much as a goodbye. Perhaps it was rude to suddenly abandon someone you were supposed to be serving, but then again those that he served typically didn’t ask such outlandish things of him. The light faded around him as he stepped back into the shadows, the darkness that he was so accustomed to enveloping him in its familiar embrace.

One by one, the Gates appeared to him. He did not summon the two or three that he chose to watch day to day, but instead an army - millions and myriads of gates appeared before him, stretching across an unfathomable distance across the dark nebula that he stood in. It seemed that for every star in his otherwise empty surroundings, three gates arose, opening themselves to Phy’s searching gaze. It was time to get to work.

His legs lifted out from under him, crossing beneath him as he levitated weightlessly in his environment. He took a deep breath and then let it out, in, and out, repeating this process until he could no longer register the fact that he was breathing at all. His mind went blank, a void to anything other than the image of Malinar, and then everything rushed him at once. Images passed through his mind at an alarming rate, one that threatened quite suddenly to overcome him.

Vivid pictures of rotten corpses, battle-hungry soldiers, starving children, desecrated cities, the aftermaths of war all surged through his mind. He saw mothers stealing food for their children, only to be hanged for it; a man jumping to his death to put an end to his inner torment; a man reciting a prayer to Phyrexus himself, to have the night cover him and his family as they escaped from the Scorched Plains. The images flickered faster, and faster, and faster until they were unrecognizable.

Dark eyes snapped open at once and Phyrexus lost his balance, his legs falling out from under him and his hands clasping at his chest as his labored breathing attempted to return to normalcy. Phy looked around, his gloved hand coming up to brush a thin sheet of sweat from his brow. He located Rolyn easily enough, though one look through the Gate had informed him that he’d been asleep much longer than the few seconds he felt like he’d been gone. He must have looked for hours, maybe longer, and while that thought in itself was mildly distressing, Phyrexus had other matters to attend to.

The passage through the Gate was a short one, but this trip taxed him. He felt lethargic, unnerved, weary, but he walked into Rolyn’s abode with as much grace as he could muster, looking as disheveled as he did. “My lord,” he said, making no effort to raise his voice any more than necessary. He knew Rolyn could hear him.

Rolyn looked up and watched as Phyrexus returned to him. The God had conducted a very thorough search, it seemed, but whether or not it was successful remained to be seen. If he had found Malinar, he hid his triumph well.

“Do you have anything to report?”

They were alone, as they were before; knowing Phyrexus would have no difficulty finding him, Rolyn had chosen a secluded area of the woods not far from where Seagan Kahz had arranged his solitary dwelling. From then it was simply a matter of waiting, which was no matter as there was always far too much for the Circle God to think about.

Phyrexus looked down, feeling the vague wash of shame wash over him. In all of the times he’d been asked to locate someone, he’d never failed in his endeavours. Why was this time any different? “No. Well, yes,” he corrected, willing himself to hold his head up and look Rolyn in the eye. “I have nothing to report, because Malinar has hidden himself. Wherever he is, he is taking great measures not to be found.” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice, and it sounded uncomfortably to his own ears like he was blaming his own shortcomings on something extraneous like what Malinar wants. When had Phyrexus ever taken into account what someone wanted? If he was ordered to find someone, he found them. Why should Malinar be any different? “That is to say, I failed.”

“Hid himself?”

Rolyn stared at the Hand for a long time before shaking his head in disbelief. He was sure Phyrexus would’ve been able to find Malinar; the Elder God could track anyone down thanks to his domain, and the powers granted to him as the Circle’s instrument made him even more precise. If Phyrexus couldn’t find him, Malinar was indeed taking great pains to hide himself.

“This is not good,” he murmured, looking off at nothing in particular. His mind was working furiously, but there were no solutions — only more problems, no matter where he turned. “This is not good at all. We need the others, and quickly,” he said, the volume of his voice rising as the urgency of the situation took hold. “Inform them immediately, Phyrexus. Tell them it is an emergency Conclave, and they will not delay,” he added, already striding off towards the Hall of the Circle.

Phy kept his head bowed as he took step after step back, before taking the edge of his cloak, enshrouding himself in its embrace as he spun on his heel and disappeared into the shadows once more, setting off as he was bid.

_________________

The tent felt empty. Like most of her moments in life felt whenever they were apart, an absence that she felt more and more each day. With the trying times that they faced, the maiden worried that her chance to tell Barth how she felt would never come and that the Goddes would take her in the heat of battle. If that were to be her end Ausan wished for it to happen at his side, just so that she could spend the last moments in this realm with him. To think that this was her father’s plan all along, to have her want to be more than just his friend and companion. No, he wanted more from the pair, the only downside was that he made her too rough. Like the hard steel, she wielded, Ausan was not the delicate flower or cute thing that most men enjoyed in their beds. At her current time in her life, there had never even been the chance for any kind of intimacy or physical encounter of a romantic nature.

If fists counted, though she knew they did not, then her love life was just grand. The only one who ever got this part of her, this yearning for more was gone now. Lost in the fires of battle by the betrayal of a coward. Even now, though Ausan had managed to get revenge on the bastard life felt empty. Hollow and absent that light. Barth was off being the leader his father always feared he would become. Adored by all. Worshiped almost. Whereas she was no more than the last maiden. The Lord Slayer. The fire of Justice. Murderer.

The names were many and each stung in their own way because they all suited to remind her of the moment when she was weak.

Bloody bandages and dressings were gathered up. Cameron instructed to leave her be for the time being, Ausan went out of her way to bring order to her life in a more physical sense. Emotional turmoil ran rampant through her heart, her mind nothing but a mass of memories and thoughts filled with what ifs?. She felt like a ship lost at sea, the warrior tossed back and forth between moments where she felt at peace and where she longed for the feel of the blade across her skin. The sensation that right amount of distraction.

An armload gathered, she strode outside to dispose of them when she spotted a man and a wolf slinking about the camp. Were it not for the familiarity of the wolf, she might have left it be. However, the wolf had been with the God of the Hunt. Therefore, this man was not someone of interest. Sword retrieved from where it had been within the tent she slipped off after the man to see what he could possibly be up to.

Alistair was beginning to have second thoughts, the closer he got to the edge of camp. Once he was there he became rigid. His heart was racing, his feet refusing to move, and his mouth felt dry. He grabbed a flask that had been set aside on a table along the way, which didn’t have much in it to begin with, and completely drained it. The contents gone, he tossed it aside and took in a deep breath.

When he started moving again, he looked over his shoulder and noticed the wolf had not followed right away. Instead, he seemed to be looking at something. He tried to call him, “Hey, wolf, I’m not backing out if that’s what you’re thinking… Now, let’s get a move on before I do change my mind.” But the wolf remained. “Oh, rats… What is it then?” Perhaps the wolf wanted him to stay a moment longer? But… why?

Alistair sighed and turned around, “Look, I…” He paused, seeing someone else approaching. Well, great, he thought to himself, things had been far too easy to not get caught. Even in the lack of light, he vaguely recognized her… Yes, she was the one who had ordered that man to be burned. This was just his damn luck...

He straightened himself, trying his best to put his nerves aside. “I... You're Ausan, yeah? At least that's what I've heard... Can I help you?”

“Can you help me?” she asked with a smirked. “Small man there are few in this world or even the next whose help I need. But you,” she pointed and poked him square in the chest, “Look like you are up to something that is either no good or worthless. So, which is it?”

Alistair winced at being poked, “Right… My bad.” A long pause, “Oh, you know, just out for a stroll. Nothing bad about that, right?” He should have stopped there, but his mouth kept running, “I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d exhaust some energy.”

If that wasn’t worse, he probably dug his hole deeper when he added, “So, in that case, maybe ‘worthless’ isn’t too far off.”

The maiden sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. “I know the wolf that accompanies you,” she stated finally. “He belongs to the God of the hunt. The fact that he is with you would mean that you have some worth…so why waste time? This place needs help. People to help with bandages, to help with weapons, food, supplies. Guard duty, anything really rather than skulking about and being worthless.”

“Fine, fine…” he said, sighing heavily. Casting a glance at the wolf, he straightened up a bit more, cleared his throat, and continued, “If you must know, what I’m actually doing is… Well… I’ve been tasked by the God of the Hunt to bring back the head of a Tutar or two. Maybe… Maybe it’ll boost morale around camp… Oh and... I guess I'll look for some supplies while I'm out.”

If she thought that this man could get any dumber he surprised her with the words that came out of his mouth next. A glance about their area, Ausan wanted to make sure that they were indeed alone and that no one else had overheard him being so….stupid. “You? A lone man and a single wolf would go out into the wilderness? The wolf I can see surviving, but you?” she scoffed and shook her head. “There is nothing about you that screams warrior or any such thing. The notion, is….admirable, if fool hardy and I would ask that you not waste such time and possible resources doing such a thing.” Then, after a moment of sizing the man up Ausan asked a question that was probably the most important one between them. “Have you killed a Tutar on your own?”

“Haven’t you?” Alistair’s lips formed a thin line and he shifting his stance a bit, moving the sword on his shoulder to a more comfortable position. “I can handle myself just fine, thank you very much. Hell, I have a God by my side, watching over me.” He glanced to the wolf at his side and nodded.

He shifted again, then opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. For a moment he was quiet, as if contemplating. Then, after another quick glance at the wolf, he finally continued, “But does it even matter? E-Either I come back alive, or I don’t.”

Ausan sighed and shook her head. The man stunk of weakness and uncertainty, but he had the heart to at least try something. “We are a dying people. Our homes have been taken from us, our land has been ravaged and all that we have left now is to band together and fight so that one day. With hope, blood and our hearts that one day not us, but our children’s children will have their land back again,” she gave a bitter laugh and looked out at the land. Burnt and soaked in the blood of both ally and foe. It was a long call from the green and prosperous lands they once were. “Let’s face it. No matter what we do, even when we win, we have already lost and we can now only think about the future. To do our best to ensure it. You are not a coward like others, but you are a fool to think that you can win this on your own. No one man…or one woman is an army on their own and we cannot win this unless we band together and face the darkness as one. There is no glory on a foolhardy mission. There is no honor in such a feat. So, do yourself a favor and return to your tent. Pray to the Gods and let them know you still believe because there may come a day when you need their aid and their wolves will not be around to save you.”

An unintentional remark in regards to his past that she was unaware of and more of a stab at the fact that he with the wolf might be a formidable team, but the wolf could leave his side one day and he would be on his own.

“Take care,” and the maiden gave him a final wave before she slipped back to her own tent. There were plans to be made, a heart guard ****ing to gut and a mountain of a man to punch. With her hands healed he would feel her wrath and then they could hug it out again. But first the punching, always the punching first.

_________________

The snare had worked perfectly, the prey had taken the bait and not seen the noose tightening around it's neck until it was already as good as dead. As easy as that. A gloriously ignoble death for a thoroughly unscrupulous man. She had had a word with the men that did the deed, something about shortening the rope a little so his neck didn't snap from the drop, letting him choke out his final minutes in agony. Skandrick Garth was many things, chief amongst them a liar and a murderous bastard. The Guard had been on his rolls for years prior to this conflict, waylaying rivals and burning homesteads to ash to keep the good Lord's hands clean of any wrongdoing during his quest for power. Daria was glad to see him dance from a length of hempen justice.

Yet now it was done. Their little diversion was over and she had again been relegated to the shadows, where a good sellsword should be, always ready to spill some blood for the ones paying her. It was King Thorin doing so now or, more correctly, delivering the promise of paying her. The man had sworn profuse awards and compensation for removing such a thorn in his side and doing the Alliance a major service to boot. Not a word of thanks though, just business. Even Barth's commendation seemed more like a 'well done' than a 'thank you'. It almost hurt, on a personal level at least, to be so ignored, to be seen as a living tool. But the rational side of her demanded focus and told her that was what she must be, for the time being, to remain here and in some control of her fate. The realisation stung, but not too much.

The speech was nice too, an admission of fault. That was something she had yet to see any commander she had ever served with do. They had admitted mistakes, yes, but never this publicly and never quite so abruptly. By Rune's beard this man was something else. Whether that was a good thing or a distastrously bad one remained to be seen. At least House Garth was no more. That was most certainly a good thing.

As the army broke away into it's lines, Daria found herself walking alone, hand on hilt, head tilted pensively to one side. She suddenly had no idea what to do with herself. She was almost at liberty. Well, not quite. But close enough. She finally declared her intentions to the open air, garnering a few confused looks and quite a few more conspirational grins.

"I guess I'll go and tour the wounded. And then after that I'm going to go and get ****ing ****."


Daria's head ached.

Which should surpise no-one, least of all her. She had never had a good head for liquor at the best of times, doubly so when tired from battle and travel with little chance for rest. Her neck also ached from where she had fallen awkwardly asleep at the camp desk in her tent, as did her righ foot from where it had been smothered beneath it's companion, which in turn...

Suffice to say she was at less than peak efficiency, mentally or physically.

Not one for lounging around and waiting for the splitting headache to recede, she began, or at least attempted to begin, looking over today's writtent reports from her junior officers. It was slow going. Lists and numbers don't work very well with a hangover, but she persevered, eventually making it to the notes section of the first report of many. This was less interesting and, beyond a few vaguely intriguing rumours surrounding the remnants of House Garth, was quickly put aside. Hopefully the second would not be as much of a marathon.

The strong and determined steps of the maiden carried to the tent of the Captain of the Heart Guard. A glare from her caused those on guard to flinch, but to their credit their held their ground and refused to move aside so that she could enter without accostment. "TELL THAT ****ing OF A CAPTAIN TO GET HER ASS OUT HERE! OR I SHALL BE FORCED TO GUT YOU FIRST AND THEN HER!"

The threat was as plain as day, especially when her hand causally when to rest atop the hilt of her blade. A silent word was exchanged between the two before one dared to enter Daria's tent to deliver the message from the maiden.

Daria could not have missed the shout, even though she very much wanted to be deaf right about now. The Duty Sergeant that entered her tent found her, leant back in the rickety chair, hands planted over her eyes trying desperately to alleviate some of the fresh pounding that Ausan's unintentional acoustic assault had brought.

"Ma'am? Lady Benthey is outside. You may want to see her, before she kills poor Endrick." He was a solid man, not easily shaken, but here was a veteran of twenty years looking very nervous indeed. Daria raised a hand to indicate that she had heard him. With a slightly stop-start motion she stood and reached for her sheathed sword, hand resting comfortably on it for a moment as she contemplated what lay before her. After two seconds or so she tossed the sword to the Sergeant, who caught it neatly despite his unpreparedness. At his quizzical look, she explained.

"I'm not looking for a fight right now. Only if I need it." She swept the tent flap aside and stepped outside to face down the furious Maiden.

"I understand you asked for me? Well, what is it you need, Miss Benthey?"

Just as she thought to pummel the fool before her, the one she sought appeared and she narrowed her eyes at the other woman with a glare that had made many a man **** themselves. "I need you to explain yourself," the overly unprofessional means with which she had been addressed ignored. "What in all the circles made you think, for even a single second that I would allow how this whole plan to go unaddressed? That I would not storm here and shove me fist so far down your throat you will be tasting the armpit hair of whatever descendants I happen to have for the next 100 years."

A single step she took forward and the man on guard tensed though was smart enough to not draw his blade on the furious woman before him. "Explain to me why you even had to punch his sorry ass when she was so drunk Cameron could have handled him?"

Ah, so that's what this was about. She might have guessed, but she hadn't. And therefore she didn't have a truly satisfactory explanation ready to go. This was one of those times when you had to wing it and hope for the best. Oh if only her head didn't feel like it had been stuffed with cotton woll wrapped in nettles.

"I knew nothing about him, save what is commonly said. That is not enough to go on, I'm sure you agree. I had hoped to persuade him, along with voice my displeasure at your actions to do with the late Borim Garth, but alas he was drunk and I saw no other alternative open to me." The word displeasure dripped with disgust. The Maiden's actions had elicited more than displeasure in her, but that was an argument for another time. As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. That was about as inflammatory statement as she could have made. She was mentally scrambling for something to diffuse the situation.

"Perhaps, instead of causing a scene out here, we could step into my tent for some privacy? I have some leftover wine if you want some and we could further our... discussion in comfort, of a sort."

At the tone of disgust, the hand on her sword tightened in a white knuckle grasp and her jaw tightened to the point of pain but she resisted the urge to lash out and instead, merely stated. "I do not drink," her next steps carried her past the guards there and the captain into the tent where she strode away from the entrance before she turned to face the other woman. "So, displeasure?" she cut right to the chase. "Tell, what was so displeasing about my actions that you felt the need to speak with the Prince?"

The Maiden's sword hand tightened, that did not escape her, but the blade stayed away, something Daria was very thankful for. With that extra step she had taken, the Maiden was well within a distance where she could strike before Daria had her sword in hand from the Sergeant. As she brushed past them, Daria retreived her blade from the confused man and waved the pair of guards back to their posts. Hopefully they would not be needed.

Leaning her sword against the camp desk, she motioned the seething Lindenian to take a seat on her bed, before sinking gratefully into the chair she had occupied but a mintue ago, rubbing at her temple to try and lessen some of the throbbing.

"My... displeasure... came from the fact that Borim was murdered, in cold blood, in a very public spectacle with no due process. I do not disagree that he had to die. In fact given what I have learned of him over the years the Guard served his father, I would have killed him myself quite happily. But it was the WAY in which he died that I disapproved of. We have our ways of military justice and we must stick to them, lest we become no better than the beasts we fight, proving worthiness to lead and command by virtue of who can hit hardest." She sat up straight and squared her shoulders, staring directly at Ausan's face.

"That's it. No more, no less."

The offer to sit was refused, though her hand on her sword did finally drop as she listened to the captain explain herself. "Have you ever loved someone?" Ausan asked rather than reply directly. "What I and Verana shared was something that could not be explained in terms of words either now or in another life," a moment was taken as her words faltered at the mention of her beloved friend's name brought back the still-fresh pain of her death. Lip pulled between her teeth she chewed on it a moment to gather her thoughts before she continued, "She was like a sister to me. A true relative beyond blood but of the soul. I felt her death as before I even heard the news. It felt like a part of me had died."

Silent tears welled up in her eyes, though they dared not fall before a woman who was no more than a stranger at the moment. A stranger that she was still **** at to boot. After a few quick blinks, the tears were gone, "I do not regret what I did. Not entirely. I regret how it made Barth look, how it made our army look, but I will say that I would have done it again the exact same way had I had a chance to do it over again. There is no crime or punishment that he did not deserve and even the pain that I visited upon him does not even come close to the crime that he did to a person that I loved and cared for. Verana saw me as more than just a sword and shield to kill when ordered."

A sigh left the lips of the maiden who closed her eyes and shrugged, "In this war I doubt many of us will survive beyond becoming monsters. I expect that some of us..." her eyes opened once more to hold the gaze of Daria. "Will become monsters sooner than others," a sad smile then took hold of her lips. While Barth had said otherwise to her, she still felt like that was her mission in life to kill or be killed. Even with the thought and silent promise to herself and Verana, she could not see so far into the future. Beyond the world of blood, pain and death. It was what she had been born and conditioned to do. What else was she to be?

Daria listened, drinking in the words, and remembered her father. Not her Father, not the man who had truly raised her, but her birth father, the man who had sent her out into the world to die. The man she had killed. You stinking hypocrite, she thought to herself, you would have done the exact same, HAVE done the exact same. She shook her head. That was for different reasons. That was personal. But was this any less?

"I understand how you feel. At least I think I do. We have both faced loss before. That doesn't mean I agree with you mind, but I'm not going to preach morals at you. Not any more." She did raise an admonishing finger however.

"Do keep in mind that it was your actions that lead Skandrick to seek me out for his plan to kill Barth and you. It's your luck I at least have some morals. Be mindful of your actions. You can't just punch your way through life, monster or not. Otherwise the nobles will be lining up to pay me to do something about you and I doubt Barth would like that." That seemed to be the best place to put some pressure. She seemed to think very highly of the Prince and his opinion.

"In any case, I think we have made some progress here. Same time next week?" The jest was weak and poorly delivered, but she hoped Ausan laughed. It might mean something.

"Either way, I think we've reached an understand of sorts" Daria stood and raised her hand to shake.

"Peace?"

"You might try to do something to me," she said with a smirk. "But I would have killed you and a good portion of your men before I was taken down. I might not be able to punch my way through life forever, but I can do it for long enough," a small laugh left her lips and she shook her head. "If there is a next week I rather not come back to your tent. Your poor guard out there might actually **** himself next time," she gave the smallest of nods before she turned to exit the tent. "Take care, Miss Daria." Then she was gone off to muddle over the words spoken today. Not like Daria had not said anything she had not already known and still, even now she would kill any and all who got in the way of her loved ones. It was what she did. It was how she was a monster.

He finally pulled the flask away from his lips, choking but trying not to cough. Awful ****, it really was. He’d convinced one of the prettier camp followers to sell it to him, and as vile as it tasted, it said something about the alcohol tolerance of whores. A new glimmer of respect formed for them, right where the nerve endings of his throat used to be.

Rendir wiped his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, sliding the flask back into the little pouch on his belt. Derrald had been unbearable in the meeting. He knew knew knew it was a mistake to allow the old “veteran” to come with him, and if he hadn’t asked right in front of his lord father Rendir would have slammed arrows through Derrald’s shiny feet to keep him pinned away from the counsel tents. Shiny bastard. At least the meeting itself had been successful, from a professional standpoint; he and a handful of the other archers were more than capable of crafting their own arrows, but the vast majority of House Brigham’s (and others, he suspected) forces were not quite so adept. Perhaps he had placed too low a bet. Perhaps he should have asked for fletchers, blacksmiths, horses and some whiskey that didn’t taste like the inside of Derrald’s –

It was faint, so faint and fleeting that he almost missed it, but his ears caught the snatch of song in the way a man hones in on familiarity after too long away from home. It was a unique melody, a strangely eerie tone that he’d first heard the stablehands hum while they cleaned stalls or brushed the mounts, little known and certainly far from the bawdy or dramatic, repetitive tunes one usually heard in the city. Most folk from Lebidan found it too disquieting, but there was one person he knew that always loved it, always hummed it absently when she thought no one could hear her, who would sing it to herself when she couldn’t sleep.

“A hero, little sister?”

He saw her jump like he’d hit her with a cattle brand and whirl around, ugly braids landing like ropes against her shoulders. Her expression went from surprise to stonewall defensive almost immediately, body posture adopting a rigidity that looked almost unnatural on her storkish frame. She was the real source of his frustration at the moment, despite his mental attacks on the old armored bluster bag. “Much more than his sister” the commander had said, his tone broking no response to the contrary. There was only one thing that could really mean, and Rendir wasn’t sure if even Seniré knew it yet.

“What are you talking about?” she finally asked, warily eyeing him with her arms folded.

“The Prince called you that, not fifteen minutes ago. Essentially said you aren’t a Brigham anymore. Which would explain why you ignored me when I told you to go home.” He took a step toward her, focusing in on her strange pink eye rather than the unfamiliar silver one. Whatever had happened on that battlefield, her experience had been even less ordinary than most… and that was quite a claim. He had been rebuffed so succinctly in that meeting, over a request that he shouldn’t have even needed to begin to make; it was no wonder his father didn’t think him fit to fill Emmet’s boots. Well, boot. He knew his stare was a bit intense for speaking with a girl – she was hardly a “lady” at this point, she’d barely been one before all of this – but he didn’t want to let her walk off without him at least giving her an earful.

A soldier that had been moving some crates between tents set them down in the middle of the path, turning to face the conversation; it was the stationary nature that caught his attention initially, but he noticed quickly that the soldier was female. And taller than he was. And broader. His eyes narrowed, meeting her gaze over his sister’s shoulder and sensing the challenge in her stare. The woman took a few steps toward them as he continued, “You can’t be… all this. I know you aren’t happy back home, but Father has been doing all he can to find you a husband. They said a change of scenery would do you some good, but this isn’t what they meant.”

The woman was now hovering almost directly over his sister’s shoulder, though she seemed oblivious. Another female soldier (this one also broader across the shoulders than he was, filled with thick, ropey muscles) came into view from the corner of his eye, and he struggled to maintain a focused contact with Seniré. This was getting a little uncomfortable. “I won’t be able to keep this from him.”

The muscular woman came close, only a pace or so behind his sister’s other shoulder. Her arms were crossed, and she wasn’t facing them but her eyes were locked on his face with an icy sheen. “So… so you need to make a choice, Seniré.”

“Between what? Going home or being exiled? I left home.”

“It’s not the same,” he said abruptly, running over her last word and finding it difficult to avoid the two new sets of eyes (set in strong female faces, of course) that had fixed him with threatening glares. One of them appeared from behind a tent, fairly close, and the other appeared so suddenly that Rendir wasn’t sure she hadn’t just come down from the sky. “You wouldn’t be able to call yourself Brigham.”

He saw her shoulders rise with a deep breath, bizarre eyes closing. Another female soldier’s (another?!) burning gaze hit him, this one only visible whenever someone entered or exited a specific tent behind the siblings. He found himself hoping no one else would. He was now distinctly uncomfortable. How many women had Barth brought, exactly? And why were they suddenly everywhere? “Why… why are you doing this? Why are you here, little sister?”

Her eyes opened slowly, but with a new light of confidence. “For my home, and my family,” she said simply.

Rendir’s heart cracked, and a wave of emotion rushed to his face. “If you stay, you won’t have either.” He spun on his heel and strode away, still feeling heat from the multitude of dominating female stares coming from behind the delicate shoulders of his sister.

-----

The water didn’t do much to help, but the rush of cool air after was extremely refreshing. Sen stood there for a second, her eyes closed, sounds of flat teeth yanking grass and shifting hooves the only indication that the world hadn’t frozen. She tried to mute her own breathing, her own heartbeat, to preserve the stillness. If everything around her could be completely stationary, maybe it would at least slow the whirlwind in her mind… Verana’s teasing, playfully confident voice, fading into the roar of a Tutar and the somehow even the rancid smell of its breath, transitioning yet again into the impassioned command of Prince Barth, shifting all too easily into the anguished death-screams of a man burned alive. There had been a sort of stillness in all of those moments as well, though it seemed so different from this one. Sen could almost see the long, silky wisps of ribbon-like rain that had come down before, glowing a silver-blue against the backdrop of splattering blood and savage cries.

If you stay, you won’t have either.

The big gelding behind her nudged her from her musing, his rubbery lips smacking against the ends of her braids and back. She turned from his water trough, wiping the remnants of his drinking water from her face and nonchalantly picking a half-chewed bit of grass from her cheek as she stepped to the side. The trough was fairly long and she didn’t know why he hadn’t just sipped from either side of her, until the fleabitten grey’s face followed her, nostrils still flaring insistently at her clothing.

With a realization that brought a soft smile to her face, despite the tempest of memories that writhed behind it, she withdrew the thick chunk of bread from her pocket and let the old warhorse take it. He stood there, chewing, longish ears tilted lazily to either side as Sen rubbed along the crest of his neck. He really was too good for Derrald; she’d thought so since they’d met.

“Hey, you there.”

She wondered if the pretentious old man had even noticed that his horse was still miraculously well-kept, even though he’d yet to find a new squire.

“Hey, over here!”

Actually, she wondered if he even remembered he had a horse; the man seemed to only see most things until they were no longer in front of his blustery, self-righteous, over-polished –

“Hello! You by the water! I said hey.”

Sen glanced behind her. Someone was trying very hard to get someone else’s attention, pretty rude of them to ignore the person calling them for so –

“OY, BLONDIE.”

A face was directly in front of her own when she snapped back, sending her backwards and very nearly soaking her butt in the horse trough (she managed to tangle her fingers in the old grey’s short mane to avoid falling, though it earned her a vaguely reproachful sigh from the horse), and she stared up into the old horsemaster’s face.

“Pay some attention to the world around you, lass. Rune’s knickers, how did you survive this long?”

Why does everyone keep asking that?

“Anyway, haul some water to the stable ‘round the front. An’ no sass about it, either. Most lads I brought out to help got convenient promotions after the fightin’, so we’re workin’ with a skeleton crew and th’ fact that you’re out here means you might give a damn. Far side stable, ain’t far. Jus’ fill the buckets in the first few stalls.”

“Um…” He was gone before she could even finish the thought.

The world returned to its template of stillness and serenity with remarkable speed in his wake, but Sen picked up two large buckets and the carrying pole near the trough. She leaned into the ugly horse’s neck, whispered a quick “You’re twenty times the knight Derrald could ever be,” and skirted around the rest of his tether.

-----

The buckets seemed heavier every time she hauled them after a fresh refill, so by the seventh time, her bruised arms were starting to get more a little than sore and a muscle in her left shoulder had developed a fairly constant spasm. Her expression had gone from slightly confused but ready to help, to a very flat, cynical stare, warding off the few squires that had actually dared to make eye contact.

Just before she rounded the corner with the last haul, a voice halted her. The Commander? His voice was quiet but unmistakable, though she couldn’t make out any actual words. Just as well. The last time she managed to eavesdrop on Barth, Sen had nearly blacked out. She tried to take a very subtle, inconspicuous step backward to give him and whomever he was speaking with some privacy, wincing at the small crunch of dirt and hay beneath her boot. Why did quiet sounds get so loud at the worst times? Fortunately, the only response to her hastily-rescinded intrusion was the sound of departing boots and quiet. Good. Now she could just finish giving the fancier horses some water and get back to –

She rounded the corner and came face-to-face with someone who looked like he was born of the land, but then that same land had chewed him up and spit him out. Beneath his dark complexion and thick black tattoos, the flesh seemed tight and stretched, but his eyes seemed lit with a certain alertness that only accentuated his foreign nature. He must be the one they found on the outskirts of camp; Sen had heard a few casual rumors from her Sisters or other snatches of half-heard conversations, about the mostly-dead man with long hair and his exhausted but feisty mare.

Sen wasn’t completely new to Plainspeople; there were always at least three or four in the stables back at Helburg, and she knew her father had paid rather well to have even those few gifted horsemen in his employ. She had always thought them to be friendly, even if the other stablehands and horsemasters found them standoffish and quiet. Probably because they said the same things about her. Sen didn’t remember quite as many tattoos and she believed only the oldest one had long hair, but some shared features were unmistakable. A few of them had taught her a few words and phrases in their language- she was hardly fluent, but they had always been willing to teach her and it was a fun way to pass the time.

After only a few seconds of awkward staring, Sen slung the yoke from her shoulders and let the full buckets of water hit the stable floor, wondering if she should say something. She wasn’t sure if he spoke any northern dialect, although if the Prince had just been speaking to him he must understand at least some of it. She unhooked one bucket from the pole and rested her hand on the stall door of the horse next to his mare. She should say something nice, at least. It must be difficult to be thrown in a place so different, so completely alien to what he knew.

“Ah…” Damn, what were the words? “Um, yr w-wyf yn ffycin iawn yn falch, ah, eich bod yn teimlo’n,” she paused, tilting her head and offering a small, friendly albeit uncertain smile, “uh… llai fel pentwr o… hallt wain rhech?”*

Sen’s smile broadened slightly. It had really been a long time since she’d learned the few words and phrases; she was glad to have remembered them so accurately. Another person simply saying that they were glad he was feeling better might help him feel a little more welcome around here. She was certain that her countrymen weren’t doing anything of the sort, and honestly, she was pretty sure the ones that hadn’t heard about the Plainsman’s impromptu arrival assumed he was here to pamper their expensive war horses.



Rajah stood alone and solemn after Barth took his leave, listening to Emira’s quiet whickering as he stroked her muzzle. They’d done it. Rajah had done precisely what he’d been sent out to do, but why did that feel like such a hollow victory? It had been weeks, almost a month since he’d been expected to return with an army. For all he knew, his people were dead, slaughtered upon their escape. The Rapaii knew no mercy. If they thought they were in danger, they would cut the fruit off the tree and be done with it. Barth had reassured him that they would be taking out the Rapaii and freeing the Plainspeople, but how long was too long before Rajah had no one to return to? He was definitely relieved for the support, but he suddenly felt very, very ill.

Pressing his forehead to Emira’s, he quietly prayed to anyone that was listening. For victory, for safety, for strength. He only faintly heard the crunch of hay behind him. He would have paid it no mind if Emira hadn’t taken a cautious step back, prompting Rajah to look at her curiously before turning his head around. “Ah…” the woman started, offering him a meek yet polite smile. Rajah deeply exhaled a breath he hadn’t been aware that he’d been holding, nodding his head in the same polite manner. Until she continued.

“Beth’e?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and turning bodily toward her. His braid, which he’d wrapped around his shoulders in the same fashion that Radu had, fell loose and cascaded down his back in his sudden movement. She looked slightly confused, and that only served to irk him further. “Beth oedd chi'n dweud? Gwelaf nad y merched y Gogledd oes ganddynt foesau.”*

He stopped and looked at her. Actually looked at her, his brief rage no longer blinding him. The woman’s smile never faltered, and her eyes sparkled just enough to give an innocent gleam. Too innocent, in fact, to have said literally anything that just came out of her mouth. In Rajah’s eyes, there were a few facts that he’d just overlooked. One, that she was smiling and still looking at him very kindly - something he’d not received a lot of since he’d arrived. Two, she’d spoken to him in his own tongue, which was honestly a ****ing miracle since the few people other than Barth that he’d spoken with regarded him with distaste. And the third reason was just a reiteration of the fact that she still looked way too polite to talk to him like she had.

Rajah smiled then, though he had to bite his tongue from laughing. “Apologies,” he offered, raising a hand up in defense just in case she decided to slap him. He still felt lethargic and he was definitely thinner than he’d ever been before, so if she wanted to hit him he’d probably just fall over and lay down for a while. “Ah… you are right, I am no longer feeling like a..” He replayed her words over again in his mind, and that time he did laugh. “.. an-um... a pile of salty vaginal farts.”



Sen had stopped just shy of taking a full step backward when the thin young man wheeled on her, her long spine bending away from him as though a strong wind had shot through the stable. He sounded… upset? And he spoke just a little too quickly for her to keep up; apparently, her comprehension wasn’t as up to snuff as she’d initially believed. The words for “see”, “women” and “north” she recognized, and there was a negative context attached to one of the last words, but in the face of his aggressive tone she felt too pressured and confused to piece together what it all meant. Still, her smile faltered only a little, even if it was because her mental synapses had been forced down an emergency reroute. What was the word for “sorry”? For all the words that she, of all people, should know in every language, her memory came up with nothing but a tumbleweed.

Fortunately, it was only a few seconds of glaring before the fury in his eyes melted away, to be quickly replaced by a very genuine smile. So genuine, in fact, that Sen suspected he was close to a full grin. Her own returned with a bit more confidence, and softened when he apologized for the totally-uncalled-for outrage. Until he continued.

She blanched, mismatched eyes snapping open wide and lips parting slightly in surprise. She was hardly a stranger to coarse language (it was an army camp, not a finishing school, and she theorized that the Sisters were some of the worst offenders) but his word choice for that was just… well, it was just weird. The tops of her cheekbones flushed a light red. “That’s… that’s great.”

Just her luck. The one time she tried to reach out to someone other than a horse, and it just happened to be the one man with the strangest metaphors she’d ever heard. She watched him curiously for a few more moments as she opened the stall door, gently clicking and pushing to back the large gelding up before refreshing his water. He pinned his ears, aggressive as any well-bred warhorse should be, but she scratched around his throat and he dropped his head into her hand. It really made no sense, she decided, still wracking her brain for more words. He didn’t seem like an odd person, just newer than most to the northern cultures and language… perhaps he had simply misunderstood or misused a few words?

“Um… I’m Sen,” she started again, a little awkwardly, as she exited and re-latched the stall door. A short paused followed, and she tried again with a very hesitant, “… A oes gennych enw, neu ydw i’n galw titw siwgr?”** There! Something as simple as asking for his name… that should be easy enough, right?



“You are not needing to call me ‘sugar tits,’” Rajah laughed, trying to hide his grin with his hand. This girl’s - Sen’s - grasp on Plainspeak was… remarkable, to use only one word. She spoke it like it was a forgotten second language, just on the tip of her tongue, and yet... that word choice. “My name is Rajah. Miss Sen, where is it that you are learning Plainspeak?”



Sugar tits? A hot wave rushed to her cheeks and she coughed a little awkwardly, mostly to try and disguise the fact that she’d nearly choked on her own spit. That was very… forward of him, to put it mildly. She cleared her throat again, forcing herself to focus on the fact that this was clearly another… linguistic misunderstanding or cultural difference and that she should be more sensitive. Or maybe less sensitive. Honestly, considering how he very politely continued their exchange, she really wasn’t sure how to be or feel. He certainly wasn’t acting like any of the drunken assholes that she’d heard use that phrase, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit as though he were laughing at her, even though she had no idea why he would be.

“Some friendly stablehands, in my – um, just outside of Mileium.” As easy as she found it to talk to him (despite his odd nature and dubious-at-best grasp on her primary language), she didn’t want to bring her family (if she still had any) into the conversation. Entirely for her own comfort. “Is it not… not, uh… putainfeistr?”*** she finished somewhat hesitantly, lifting the second bucket of water toward the mare’s stall in a second, wordless question.



Had he not been as amused as he was, Rajah would have balked at the idea of stablemen using language such as that. Horses might have been only animals to the Northerners, ridden hard, traded in for fresh mounts and then forgotten about, but the Plainsmen revered their horses. Riding was their way of life in its entirety, and those who tended to them were some of the most respectable men in the Plains. The idea of someone that uses such detestable language tending to horses was bothersome.

And yet Rajah grinned anyway, not minding when Miss Sen did it at all. “Ah… perhaps? But I am thinking that the word you are meaning to use is cywir.” At least, he sincerely hoped that she meant to ask if it was correct. She was only the second person who actually talk to him, so he had to hang on to the belief that she was just very, very misinformed and that she wasn’t actually as crass as she was sounding.



Sen leaned over the mare’s stall door, keeping a respectful distance and a careful eye on the small brown horse as she deftly switched out the water buckets. “Cy-wir,” she said softly to herself, carefully imitating his exact inflections, “Rajah.” Her mind slowly turned over the dialogue, certain tones and questions fitting into place like slow, blind birds finding their way in a flock formation; if he felt confident enough to correct her Plainspeak, he was clearly not as confused with the Northern dialects as she’d thought… but that would mean that his strange responses and odd word choices were merely responses to the things that she - Her cheeks colored brightly again, spreading as far as her ears. Oh by the Gods above and the Gods twenty yards to the left, what have I been saying?

More to give herself a minute to process than anything else, Sen leaned her carry pole against the corner and rubbed the back of her head, loosening a few more braids.

A sudden energy lit her face, visible only in her bright, unmatched eyes. “Are you hungry?” Wait, no, what if that was too forward? He was still smiling that friendly, laughing smile, but what if… what if he really was laughing at her? He was pretty polite about it if he was, but still. Her sudden balk broadcast through her face and she lurched forward in a very old, familiar posture. “I-I mean, I was going to grab something to eat and I thought that since you got here in kind of a… state, and still look – well, better, but still…” Her tongue stilled uselessly in her mouth, the little insecure voice in the back of her head berating her momentary confidence spike.



Rajah watched the realization and embarrassment pass over Sen’s features, and he would have felt bad about it if not for the mention of food. “Yes,” he blurted out suddenly, decidedly oblivious to the way Sen had fumbled for her words. He let a few seconds of silence go by before realizing that might have been slightly rude of him. “I mean, I am wanting to join you if it is alright.” He hadn’t eaten today. He’d tried, but going days without eating and drinking had taken a pretty heavy toll. It probably still wasn’t a good idea to try anything solid, but that hadn’t stopped him so far and it wasn’t going to stop him now.

Sen was right, stammering or not. He looked awful – thin and gaunt and dead – but she and Barth had been the only two so far to offer help. A few men had given him sympathetic glances, but nothing more, and that was still better than he’d expected before arriving here. Notherners weren’t horrible, he decided as he took a few steps away from Emira’s stall, realized he didn’t know where he was going, paused and waited patiently for Sen to lead the way.



The Sister’s back straightened dramatically and a broad grin split her features, providing her eyes with a lively sparkle and erasing the lines of tension and unease that had begun to etch around her forehead. She started to follow him, more out of habit than anything else, and paused when he did. A beat passed. “Oh, right,” she finally said, her excited tone tempered with casual embarrassment, and she stepped around him to head toward the mess tent.



*“Um, I am very ****ing glad, ah, you feel,” ... “uh… less like a pile of… salty vaginal farts?”
*“What?” ... “What did you say? I see that the women of the North have no manners.”
**“Do you have a name, or do I call you sugar tits?”
***Pimpin'

Soluunar


“You wished to see me, Lord Captain?”

“Yes. I requested your presence at dawn, so you are at least several hours late.”

Keln grunted, nodding piously as the heavyset man scribbled illegibly on the sheet of paper laid out on the table in front of him. It was remarkable, actually - he didn’t think Lannit Paran even knew how to read, let alone write. “You know me, sir. Always keeping myself busy. Idle hands are wasted hands, as my Da used to say.”

“He was a pickpocket, was he not?”

“The man didn’t waste his hands, that’s a certainty. What did you require of me?”

Paran looked up at him, demonstrating the full prominence of his massive, beaky nose. He looked like a particularly ugly bird of prey, if a bird of prey could look both bald and unintelligent, anyway. “I have been informed of your desire to serve in the King’s company.”

“Yes sir. There can be no greater honor than to directly carry out the wishes of His Highness. I believe I can truly make a difference with that assignment,” Keln said, his eyes shining with what he believed to be a convincing light. “I hope to reclaim the honor I have lost through my connection with House Garth.”

“I see.”

The man’s voice was about as monotone as could be achieved by a human being, and the lack of inflection made it clear how he felt about Keln’s assurances. The knight pursed his lips, irritated but unwilling to reveal as much. Paran was no genius, but it would be best to stay on his good side. Particularly if he was going to be reporting to him during his time with the king’s company. “I was pleased to hear about your promotion, Lord Captain. Most deserved.”

“A hook-nosed puppet that somehow lacks the brains necessary to be an effective puppet,” the man replied without looking up from his scribblings, to which he had returned with great zeal.

“What?”

“That is what you said about me when I was promoted, Sasek.”

“Ah.”

The silence that followed then, broken only by the sounds of the quill scratching across the page, seemed to last for several lifetimes. Keln shifted, his anger rising again as the man continued his blatant power-play. Call a person to you and then make them wait - a novice level tactic if he’d ever seen one. Paran had a lot to learn about being an officer. He could also use several lessons in not being ugly, as well.

“If you don’t need me here anymore, I’ll be going,” he snapped, but when he was right at the tent flaps the man’s voice rang out.

“You were not dismissed, Sasek.”

“Then stop wasting my time,” he snarled, approaching the table with quick strides. “You wanted me here, and I’m here! So say what you intended to!”

The King’s representative within the camp smiled, as he sat back and watched him. “Still have a temper, I see,” he pronounced, his writing abandoned at long last. “You should watch how you address a superior officer, Sasek. We attribute great value to protocol in the King’s company.”

“I am sincerely apologetic, sir,” Keln replied, this time not bothering to appear sincere. It was pointless, just as it would be pointless for anyone to expect Paran to remember how to breathe. The man was stupider than a bag of particularly stupid nails. Ugly, too.

“Right. Anyway, His Majesty predicted that you would choose to join with us. In fact, he told me that I would be having this exact conversation with you.”

And I bet he told you everything you needed to do and say, you brainless pawn.

“King Sahir is an insightful man, sir. He knew my options would be limited in the wake of-”

“He knew you would seek to join his men in the hopes of blending in. He believed that you would be furious about Lord Garth’s fate, and that you would then take your first opportunity at becoming a problem, for him and for this army as a whole. He told me you and your lackeys would all opt for the same assignment, given that you would have more room to spread out. He also gave me some advice on how to deal with this,” the man finished, with hints of great amusement now evident in his tone.

Keln felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach, but he remained impassive as the futility of his plan was made clear to him. “I don’t understand any of this. We are all merely trying to do what is best for Lebidan, and we believe our services would be-”

“There is no ‘we’, Sasek. Your conspirators have been broken up into separate details spanning the length of this army, aside from Fenn Hewten. He has been tasked with helping to clear the remnants of corpses from the battlefield, as the crows have become a nuisance. An assignment befitting a man of his… quality.”

”How dare you! Sir Fenn Hewten is an honorable man!”

“He has been accused of fornicating with animals.”

“Those claims are unfounded!”

“He also has a history of violence, particularly against women.”

“Only when he’s drun-”

“Hewten’s fate is irrelevant, Sasek, as you have your own appointment to worry about. Beginning tomorrow morning you will be assisting me, and I expect you to report here at the crack of dawn, and not a moment later. I require nothing but crisp punctuality from my staff, but I believe you’ll find this to be a rewarding exp-”

“I beg your pardon? Assisting you? What mockery is this?”

“You will be given tasks that can help me in the running of this company. Mainly, you’ll be working in supply inventory, but you may also find yourself handling the occasional message delivery, if your services are needed in that regard. But fear not,” he appended, an infuriating smile now firmly plastered on his face, “for there is still glory to be had. You will also be fighting as a member of my personal retinue during combat. It is the King’s desire that you serve Lebidan in this manner.”

Keln felt a vein throbbing in his temple as a buzzing sound gradually filled his ears. “You can’t be serious.”

“You know, I was of the opinion that no amount of skill with a sword could make a man like you worth the trouble. I would never try to cross blades with you, Sasek, but that is the one and only area in which you do not fall short. You have no sense of morality or honor, and you remain a stain upon the great nation for which we fight. But His Royal Majesty insisted that I do what I can to avoid losing a valuable soldier to the gallows. You are dismissed.”

Keln, whose entire body was trembling with barely suppressed rage, moved to the exit, where he stopped. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, but every fiber of his being demanded that he do something about what was happening. This was beyond a mere insult, and to top it off, all of his plans had been crushed before they could even begin. Sahir’s cunning knew no bounds, but for the King to use Paran, who he knew Keln despised, was another level entirely.

“Garth is still hanging at Highborn Rock, you know. Give me a reason, Sasek,” Paran growled, “give me a reason, and I will make sure you join him. Now get out. I must meet with Commander Krinwulf and I will not be delayed by your insolence.”

I will shove my blade down your throat and make you **** three feet of steel.

“Yes, sir.”

He left the tent, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his fingers shook, and made his way in the direction of the nearest bottle. If he failed to drown his rage soon, morning or not, there was no telling what would happen. Sahir had a viper in his camp, and instead of killing it he had only made it even angrier - he would pay for this, and dearly.

“Do you have a moment, Sir Knight?”

Keln’s answering snarl should have frightened off anyone within twenty feet of him, but the old man didn’t even blink. He was gaunt, with sunken cheeks and long hair that was more grey than black. He was wearing faded black robes, and at his side hung an old sword with a tarnished silver hilt. Unimpressive as his appearance was, his eyes were glittering with a shrewd light the Lebi couldn’t ignore.

“I seem to have caught you at a bad time. But I assure you, if we speak for but a moment, your mood will improve greatly, Sir Keln Sasek.”

“You look familiar. Aren’t you…”

“I am Paetar Krinwulf, the last King of Linden,” the man said, as a smile appeared on his face that looked much more dangerous than regal.

”And I have an offer you won’t be able to refuse.”

Environmental Post

If the surface of Soluunar could voice its pain, it would have groaned beneath the foul, heavy feet of the group marching north from the darkness of the Ravine. Crude boots, blackened with soot, tarnished by congealed blood and heavy wear pressed into the ground, leaving large, deformed prints in the wake of Roumjain’s group. Heavy, bestial breaths, sighs that were more like snarls and the sound of fangs sliding impatiently over rough, curved tusks permeated the path they forged, but the weary squad was nearing its destination. The Tutari warriors hadn’t rested much since departing their ashen home, but they were not weighed down as they normally would’ve been. They carried no weapons in their clawed hands; instead, each of them held a single pole, sturdy but light, with a length of fluttering fabric at its end.

The tremendous specimen leading the small pack lacked intelligence in his eyes, but the lust for blood that had been firmly grounded within his race shone with prominence as the chieftain growled loudly. Roumjain held up a hand, and the clattering, scraping armor of those behind him slowed as the group’s sprint turned into a jog, and then a walk. The time had come for their task, although their knowledge of what was to come was lacking in every regard. The massive Tutar in the lead also understood little of what he was there for, but the promise of blood and destruction had lent its strength to his orders. He would not fail, not when plunder and savage slaughter awaited him.

And glory as well, for he would rise up as the greatest of the chieftains, boosted to new heights by the power of the All Knowing Flame.



Soluunar


The sword’s hilt was bereft of decoration, looking about as simple as they came. It had seen countless uses, from the beginning of the Tutari War and even before that, when Linden’s enemies were human and the wars were for borders and land, not the survival of mortal man. But whatever the stakes, whatever the foes it faced, the hilt and the blade endured. Ever ready for the next battle, the sword endured.

Barth grasped it, wrapping his fingers firmly around the handle before loosening them again, feeling the worn material beneath the calluses of his hands. It was an ancient weapon, but it was not a Krinwulf sword. No, it had once belonged to Olin, and his father before him. Olin, ever the romantic, had never settled down, and had no children to pass the weapon on to - as far as he knew, anyway. In any case, it was Barth who had taken up the man’s sword when he fell, swearing to wield it with the same fearlessness personified by its previous owner.

“You laughed with me, you joked with me, and when I needed it, you gave me the advice no one else would think to offer. You were harsh, even cold when you had to be. But you were also my friend,” Barth said softly, drawing the longsword a foot out of its sheathe to expose a segment of gleaming steel. “I miss you, Olin. But your weapon continues to slay the foes that overwhelmed you,” he added, pushing it back into the scabbard as he sat forward, hearing approaching footsteps. “Just as you continue to live on. Watch over me, my friend, and enjoy your new company. Verana stands beside you. I know it,” he whispered, and then he was rising from his chair to greet Lannit Paran.

“Lord Captain, it is good-”

He paused, frowning as he recognized the sweaty face of the man currently panting at him from the tent’s entry. It was Gahrin, one of the younger members of the Lindenian branch of the Allied army. “Prince Barth, the perimeter scouts have reported a group of Tutar approaching from the south!”

“How big?” he asked, the sword fully unsheathed as he moved briskly past the man into the camp, where the morning sunlight had given everything a radiant orange glow; it took him just a moment to see that there was already activity in every direction. It felt like he was striding along in the midst of an ants nest that had been disturbed, but his mind was curiously blank as he headed straight for the camp’s boundaries.

“A very small group, sir. They also seem to be unarmed.”

“Impossible,” Barth barked, but the man shook his head, now taking quick steps to keep up with him.

“Seliniya seemed sure of herself, my Prince, and those with her confirmed it.”

He didn’t respond, as by now they’d reached the outskirts of the camp where a large crowd had gathered. It seemed that everyone in the camp with even the faintest awareness of the situation had surfaced, clearly expecting the worst. “Form up!” Barth shouted, and order swept over the confused jumble as ranks materialized, seemingly out of thin air. Most of them weren’t even properly equipped for battle, and there were pink cheeks and bleary eyes that made it clear many drinks had been consumed the night before, but they were ready. An older gentleman was clutching a broken wine bottle with a dangerous gleam in his eye that made Barth feel a new appreciation for the valor of the hungover as he moved past. He spotted familiar faces waiting for him at the forefront, and he hastened his steps as his sense of urgency deepened.

“Lord Gaius.”

“Commander,” grunted the serious, bearded immortal with the staff, who had summoned countless tornadoes for them during the previous battle. “The Skyknights have surveyed the approaching unit from above.”

“Anything to report?”

“The Tutar come bearing white flags and nothing else. There are no weapons in sight.”

Once again, Barth’s mind played host to disbelief as he looked from the God to the tall men in the winged helms behind him. There was no doubting their word - if not for them, the last battle would have ended with Soluunar covered by a blanketing of mortal corpses. At the same time, what Gaius spoke of was… inconceivable.

“Tutar don’t surrender. I’ve never seen it, nor have I ever heard of such a thing,” he said, his eyes finding Ausan as Haman and several others reached the camp’s perimeter. “But it’s clear, what must be done. I will speak with them.”

“I'll accompany you,” Haman started, but Barth shook his head.

“No, Haman, I would have you remain here. If they have indeed come to treat with us, then I would not appear aggressive towards them. A small party will do, and nothing about you is small, my friend.”

“It could be a trap! You will need-”

“If there was an ambush lying in wait, would your Demigods have seen it from their vantage point?” Barth cut in, staring at Gaius. The man nodded solemnly, looking as neutral as he ever did, but Haman bristled, clearly not convinced. “The entire allied army stands here, with Gods and steel, and the group approaching is small and unarmed. You will remain here, Haman,” Barth added firmly, placing Olin’s sword into one of his massive palms. “And hold onto this for me.”

Seeing that further argument was pointless, the big man pursed his lips bitterly and stood in silence as Barth nodded towards Ausan and a few others standing among those in front. A small group would be best, and while he quickly selected just a few, a couple others came forward as well, eager to stand with him as he moved to what could very well be the first parley ever attempted with the Tutar. He nodded again, accepting their company, and then he walked forward towards the massive figures in the distance, who had finally stopped. They waited with unexpected stillness and patience, but Barth found himself unable to shake away a certain nagging feeling, one that he couldn’t identify or explain.

“Rune’s hand guide us,” he whispered.

_________________

For a long time, Alistair stood there watching her go off without saying a word. His expression showed a mixture of things, relief being one of them. It was a relief that had gone the way it had but he couldn’t help but feel somewhat annoyed by her parting words. He couldn’t really place a finger on why… No, no, that was actually a lie… If he thought about it, he knew exactly why it annoyed him. He just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Well, that was it then! She told him not to go out of the camp so he wouldn’t go out. Deep down, he had wanted her to talk him out of this and had not thought ahead about what he would have done if she had pushed him into going or actually suggested she go with him. That could have ended in a disaster, so in a way this was a win on his part. If Weylyn came by and asked him what he had been up to, then he would just say that he hadn’t been allowed out of camp. It was that simple, right? Surely the God of the Hunt couldn’t argue with that.

Alistair found himself thinking about his parents at that moment, mostly his father. He always went out on a hunt no matter how dangerous it was, no matter how much his mother would beg him, and always ended up coming back in one piece.

He was an obedient little boy growing up for the most part, following whatever rules were in place have always been he has been conditioned to. If his mother and father told him no, then he simply would not do whatever it was he was being told not to do. That wasn’t to say that he was always that well-behaved. Sometimes he would slack off or just run away, choosing to shirk his duties. Sometimes he would take all the credit for something he didn’t do.

Well… he wanted credit for the things he did do…

Sighing heavily, he turned back toward the camp. Tonight he would do as he was told no matter how much he wanted to just… What? Shirk duties? Run away? Maybe he wanted to leave camp not to bring back a few Tutar heads, but to run away and forget about this war, about everything… It would be a lie to say that thought was not there. If he was killed then… No. It wouldn’t be as easy as that, no, he couldn’t run away, because she had been right about one thing. This camp needed all the help it could get. People needed assistance, medicine, supplies, anything to prepare for the next Tutar attack.

The sun barely peering over the horizon made him realize just how long he had been awake. He was starting to feel a little fatigued, tired, ready to take a nap for a good hour or so. After that, who knew.

“There you are.”

Alistair nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned to face a man he recognized immediately. It was Jaron. Years ago, Jaron and Alistair’s father would go out on hunts together. His was a face that he was very welcoming to.

“Form up!”

Alistair jumped and glanced around at the people who had immediately responded to the request, Jaron, who muttered: “I guess we’ll talk later”, included, before settling into formation himself. He recognized the voice immediately, and could not help but stand in front so he could get in on the details of what was going on. Prince Barth stood before the group of formed ranks, speaking with a man he only knew by face and not name. He was one of the Gods who came to aid them in the fight. Alistair looked away, turning his attention to the group around him, who all looked eager to join the Prince, eager to fight.

He felt dread wash over him like a tidal wave, and he could do nothing to hold back a groan from escaping him. So, the Tutar were coming again, and if he was hearing things correctly they were coming to surrender! He silently cheered, relief washing over him. But that feeling faded quickly when he looked at the faces in the crowd. Some looked just as relieved but many others looked on in disbelief.

Alistair looked around for Jaron, spotting him amongst a group of fellow Lebi knights. They were talking amongst each other, just out of Alistair’s earshot.

Without realizing it, giving it no second thought, Alistair started moving with the group accompanying Barth. Maybe he wanted to know if it was too good to be true himself. If this truly was an end to the war, in his mind, that was something that anyone wanted to see. No more loss, no more suffering, everyone could put this whole thing behind them and look toward the future… If not for the request of a small group, he was sure more would have stepped forward.

Damn, he should just head back to the camp.

He tried his best to keep a face but, deep down, for the first time, he prayed. Let this be the end of the war.

_________________

Alone in her tent once more the warrior maiden was not sure what to do with herself. Be it rest, work on her armor or something more. The talk with Barth had gone as well as she could have hoped, at least this is what she told herself. Unable to just lie down and rest just yet, Ausan grabbed up her sword. The blade was in much need of some care, worn and battered the edge had now become dulled. It would do no one any good in its current state and she felt the simple act of care would help to settle her agitated mind and state of being.

Schink

Schink

Schink

The blade was passed across the stone before she paused to wipe the blade clean and continue once more. A metallic scent filled the air, tinged with the mixture of the metals was familiar and comforting in its own way. Just as she finished, there was a noise at the entrance of her tent. “Enter,” she called out without even a care of who it could be. The sword was gripped firmly in her hand when a pair of her sisters entered.

“May her fire keep you safe and fuel the speed of your blade,” the greeting spoke to her from the pair as their fist was brought to their hearts and a slight bow was given.

“As the fire burns within, so shall it burn without and consume the weak who threaten to extinguish the fire of the righteous,” Ausan answered back with her own bow and greeting. “Speak. What has you so worked up?”

Through the camp she strode, flanked on either side by the sisters who came to her, the maidan’s grip was tight on the sword at her side. It was not hard to find the man they sought. Surrounded by his men a company of archers who were hard at work on their arrows. “Sir Rendir,” her tone kept as polite as possible. “Might I have a word with you?”

Rendir turned from the conversation he'd been having with one of the archers, an older man with a dark complexion and weathered creases. He looked just a bit surprised when he saw the Maiden, but recovered quickly and acknowledged her with a stiff, "Lieutenant." The slim young man took a few steps toward her, face void of the usual guarded expression and instead displaying an openly calculating curiosity.

“Good, you know who I am so I don’t have to waste time with formal introductions,” she stated her eyes glanced behind him to the men who still worked. “So, I heard you approached Sen,” formed as more of an accusation than a question. “I just want to be very clear when it comes to her,” now the maiden took a step closer to make their space more personal and allowed for her to drop her voice so that just the two of them could hear. “She is not one for you to threaten or order around. She is braver than of the men you have behind you. You do not have the right to tell her anything. Save for thanking her for saving your asses,” tone a harsh whisper. “When this war is over she will be a hero and she will have a home with us where she will be honored and praised for all she has done…” her words trailed off, and she just leveled a glare at him. “A real man would be honored to share such blood with a remarkable person. Let alone having the privilege to call her a sister. Which is why she is one of my sisters and their sisters,” a nod thrown over her shoulder to the women behind her. “And the whole of our kingdom respect her and honors Sen for what she has given for us. Did you ever think to ask her about her eye? How she-“

"Presumptuous ****ing," he hissed over her, his words dripping with an uncharacteristic amount of venom. "You are in no place to tell me what my rights are." His cool veneer had slipped even further, face becoming darker and stormier as her tirade continued, his eyes smouldering like green embers. "If I know who you are, it is because you are the shameful mistake that forced a Commander to admit fault in front of men from whom he still needs to earn respect. It is because you are the brazen thug that stomps around, demanding allegiance when the only thing you have to back it up is a pair of knuckles. If there is a reason that the women of my kingdom -my actual kingdom, mind you, not a pile of bloodsoaked ruins that I could not give away as a country, let alone a home- are barred from military service it is because one in every hundred will become a soldier worthy of Lebidan while the rest, the ones that don't end up in pieces on the field, will become you." His words came quickly, though they were far from rushed; rather, they seemed spoken with a firm emphasis that came from a mixture of past contemplation and passion. "Is it 'bravery' to flee from one's duty? Is she a 'hero' for leaving her future, the future that was planned because of who she is and what her family -her actual family- needs from her?" He took a controlled step backward, clearly making an effort to rein in the simmering hatred and disgust of his expression. "Lieutenant," he said, a little louder and politer, "You are naive if you don't believe there have been and will be talks regarding Lebidan's involvement in the relocation of your people. It may not be wise to alienate the men of one of it's largest Houses. I advise some discretion."

“What men? I am merely speaking to a single man, who is more like a boy. A boy who wishes to be a man, who wishes he had a pair of balls even close to the size of your sister,” she spat out. “Everyone knows that you only want her home so that she won’t make you look as weak and pathetic as you know yourself to be,” tone louder without much care now. “Think before you call someone else a ****ing before you have had your chance to look twice at yourself. Your brother was something. He mattered. Sen is someone, and she matters. But when you die, and I guarantee you that you will die, no one will care. There is no honor in your words, no honor in your actions. I might be a thug, but I don’t go about threatening little gir…” she stopped herself with a grin. “Oh wait, maybe I am? But that would be an insult to girls everywhere so I take that back. Play pretend like your voice matters. I can and will say my piece to you because I do not fear you, just like Sen no longer does and never will again. She faced death. It took her eye, and she went right back in there to do it all again. So, yes. She is a hero, and you are not. Swallow what is left of your pride and deal with it, and stay away from her. When the war is over, I will personally ride up to the home of your father and present him a real hero. As I know, he will be sorely disappointed when he sees you,” the maiden smirked far too amused by this whole conversation. Honestly, she figured one of her knuckles were likely to be larger than his own balls if he had any.

“Anyway, Lord Rendir,” tone back to being polite. “Are we clear? Or will you threaten the lively hood and future of innocent citizens again because you don’t care for my words? Sen is no longer your concern. Correct?”

Rendir turned his back to the Maiden, his shoulders so taut with restraint that it was almost possible to pick out the outline of individual muscles beneath his shirt. He turned his face just enough to throw his voice over his shoulder. "My concerns are my own," he concluded, his words frigid and empty, and strode slowly away from Ausan. The older archer with the leathery skin took a step forward, his arms casually crossed, as though prepared to bar the way should any of the women try to follow the Brigham heir.

“Not when it comes to Sen. Not anymore,” she called after him not even so much as giving the old man a second look. Just as she entered the scene, Ausan left it flanked on either side by her sisters once again. Now to find Sen and check with her.



Sen left the tent, holding a strip of some kind of dried meat between her teeth. Her hands were full; one was wrapped rather gingerly around a old glaive, and the other held a small tied satchel. She took a few steps, then knelt down beside some barrels and leaned the weapon against them just long enough to give the last bit of meat to an ornery-looking tomcat. Her face seemed tired, but it had considerably less of the haunted, almost sick appearance that it had shown since Borim Garth's burning. The cat snatched the meat from her hand and darted away with an ungrateful growl, but she just chuckled quietly.

“If you keep feeding such creatures they won’t ever leave you be,” the maiden said as she entered the scene. “How do you think I got stuck with Barth?”

Sen sprang back to a stand and whirled around, obviously startled. Immediately upon seeing Ausan, her shoulders went back and her spine straightened and the alarm fled from her face, to be replaced by a slightly anxious expression. It didn't fade as she smiled. "At least he's more useful than that old fleabag," she answered, giving her head a little jerk after the ill-tempered feline.

“Were it not for the head jerk I would have thought you meant Barth and I would have said that you were far more accurate than you likely meant to be,” she chuckled. Though she allowed the silence to come between them for a moment as the maiden shifted her weight from one foot to the other before she spoke again. “Look, I wanted to come to you and apologize for my behavior. While what I did was called for, it was not right and I do not want you to think I am just going to go about doing that whenever I am ****,” she paused, hands at her sides fidgeting a bit before she finally spoke again. “Verana was family. My sister by more than just blood and losing her like that through the actions of a coward. It hurt and I did what felt right to do. Now, I know that to not be the case but I will not lie and say that I would not do it the same way if given another chance. It is who I am…” her armored shoulders rose and fell in a simple shrug. There was not more she could say on that matter and she figured if Sen thought otherwise she would either say as much or keep it to herself.

"There is no need for you to apologize," Sen answered after a few moments of quiet, her voice soft and rather gentle, mismatched eyes searching the Maiden's face. "You must know by now, none of your -our- Sisters find fault with your actions. I don't think anyone from Linden does, honestly, and the only reason many people from my country would accept your apology is because you stole from them the opportunity to end him themselves." She took a slow step forward, suddenly looking just a little hesitant. "She was easy to love," the younger woman started, moving a hand to set on Ausan's shoulder as though she were extending it toward a docile-seeming cobra, "I meant to say this earlier, and I know it might not mean much, but... I'm sorry for your loss."

“Thank you,” a half smile, nearly a smirk graced her lips as she ignored the bit of hesitation that was seen before she rested her hand on her shoulder. Though to be fair most would have hesitated and just stood there with a look of a fool on their faces. “Your words mean a lot, especially where you refer to the sisters as our and not mine. They are your sisters now as much as mine and well, I made that point very clear when I spoke to your brother a bit ago,” Ausan chuckled though a look of disgust did pass over her face before she continued. “I think I may be trouble later for what I said, but…” the maiden shrugged. “At this point, I almost feel like like I am on borrowed time and I am not about to waste any of it on being afraid of the likes of your brother. I will give him credit, though, the two of you share that fearless determination. That might be why you frustrate him so?”

A meow from below drew her gaze to the cat that felt the need to rub against Sen’s leg for more. The action caused something in her boot to shift just enough for a bit of light to hit it. From there is was not hard at all for her to know just what that was there. A chill, like a spike of ice, settled into the pit of her stomach.

A sigh left her lips her arms allowed to cross over her chest, a subconscious action to hug herself. “Where did you get that?” her head used to nod down at the knife in her boot.

"Hm?" Sen dropped her hand and glanced down, chest expanding with a deep breath as she looked up again. "The Prince felt that I should have it," she answered in a quiet but steady voice. "He gave it to me just before that last bit of Garth business."

Her tongue slid across her inner lip, heart, and soul torn by a sense of betrayal and heartache. “I see…” is all that was said on that matter. Ausan determined to not break in front of the young woman, for if she did Ausan was not sure that she could control herself. Throat cleared, she rocked back on her heels for a bit, “Tomorrow is likely to be hell. So, try to take it easy, alright?” Voice cleared again, “We all have to sleep at some point and if we do not rest we cannot be at our best for Barth. Which is what is important yes?” forced humor and friendliness in her voice, even though at that moment she just wanted to scream.

No wonder he had been so closed off to me. There was someone else. Why else would he give Sen a weapon that was so sentimental to them both if he did not favor her to some degree?

Sen tilted her head just a bit, obviously a little confused by the new tightness in the Maiden's voice, but she readily returned the smile. "Of course! You should try to get some rest as well, Lieutenant." She wrapped her long fingers around the old polearm and stared at it for a moment, her smile fading to sad introspection. Her voice came again, even softer. "Thank you... for not condemning my brother. I'm sure he wasn't exactly amiable or polite, but he's not a bad man." She turned her head up to the late evening sky, gaze strangely focused, as though she alone could see something in the empty air. "This fighting has changed him. Is changing him. The same as it's doing for everyone else, I suppose." The willowy Sister gave her head a little shake and flashed another smile to Ausan, the hand holding her satchel coming up to her chest in a sort of informal salute. "My apologies. Goodnight, Sister."

“Goodnight,” with that she was gone the salute returned in some fashion before the Maiden retreated to her tent.



Come the morning the camp was abuzz with news that there was a group of Tutar that appeared to be there to surrender. Dead inside is how she felt now that Ausan knew where his heart laid. It was Fiona all over again, only this time Ausan kind of liked Sen. At his side she stood like she always did. The bodyguard…the thug. There to do the hard things that Barth will not or cannot do. Until he was done with her and then he would be off to ride into the sunset with Sen at his side. At his nod, Ausan merely strode to where Cameron held the reigns to her mount. The old horse grateful to see her again, “Hi Symas…” she cooed and clicked to the horse who tossed his head in excitement. “Ready to go for one last ride?”

At Barth's side, she rode, without sword or shield. With practiced ease born of years in the saddle, Ausan swayed with the pace of her horse, eyes focused forward not even a look to Barth once they were underway. Toward an uncertain future that held far less hope and happiness that it once did for the Maidan.

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