Author's note: Inspired by the manga version of Chris's assumption of command, but otherwise unrelated. This is game continuity, not manga.

Battlefield

Salome knew two ways to see battle – the plan in his head, groups of knights and infantry and foes, shapes and movement, and the bedlam of the actual battle before his eyes, roaring, clanging chaos. The strategist's plan always faded in the heat of the battle, when all he could easily see was the enemy in front of him and whatever comrades he could stay near, but he kept it in mind all the same, knew where he and the knights with him needed to be, knew where, if all was well, the others should be.

But when one of the Lizards' tunnels apparently went unmapped and the first charge of the battle crumpled in an ambush, when Leo rode back to tell them that Captain Galahad and Vice-Captain Pellize had fallen, the tactical map shattered, unrecoverable, and all he could do was turn to look at Chris.

Her eyes looked unfocused, unduly bright, and she was staring at nothing. "The Captain..." she said, her voice sounding hollowed-out. He turned toward the front line again, noting chaos – no shining silver line, just islands of armor, individuals or small groups, surrounded by a sea of Lizards and facing a fresh wave of Karayans. The Lizards were rushing onward, approaching the hill where the second line and the Six Great Knights waited, and on that hill some of the troops were readying weapons and runes, but more were unprepared, he saw, as the Lizard charge hit the foot of the hill. Chaos. He turned away from the deaths of men he knew, back to Chris.

"The news is spreading," she said, before he could speak.

"We need a leader." She didn't respond. "Chris— Lieutenant. Can you take command?" It wasn't a request, precisely, but he couldn't command her, even informally, not with consequences as far-reaching as this.

"Me? I'm— Lord Salome, I'm the youngest, I've barely been in the Six for a year—" She wasn't crying, but she looked as though she could. She looked dazed, pale, and younger than her years. And the enemy was getting nearer.

"None of that matters—" He broke off as he heard the cry of approaching Lizards, three of them on their way up the small rise. He turned his horse to face them, assessing the situation – no time for an ice spell, he'd have to attack them directly. Time seemed to slow, and then he heard a choked noise behind him, followed by a hoarse shout that he didn't immediately recognize as Chris's voice, and then she spurred her horse past him. In the instant she was even with him, he recognized fury in the set of her face, and he thought he saw tears, but she was already upon the Lizards. By the time he'd put spurs to his own horse to follow her one of them had lost an arm, and he saw her swiftly decapitate another before he could reach them. She struck the third without breaking her horse's stride, a body blow – he couldn't see clearly, but the Lizard fell to the ground, tail thrashing in pain or in death throes.

She looped back up the rise, seeking high ground before she spoke, and he reined in his horse to watch. Her sword was streaming blood as she held it aloft, shouting "Take up your swords, Zexen Knights!" The words didn't matter, he thought as she continued, it was tone, and hers was what they needed, confident, angry, determined. Surprisingly deep – he'd never really heard her voice raised before. The troops seemed to be rallying, many of the nearer disengaged men were drawing in closer. He realized it was true, what he'd said to Galahad before when the issue was still a mere eventuality – she should be the new captain, not just the hero of the hour.

"Lady Chris!" he shouted. She looked his way, and he continued, not waiting to see whose attention he'd caught besides. He held his mace before him, holding it with both hands level with his heart, and continued, "Captain! Use me as your shield! I, Salome Harras, pledge my life and loyalty to you!"

Her eyes caught his for a moment, and she saluted him with her sword. He heard cheers, and the word "Captain" among them, and sensed more than heard the thundering of his heart, so hard it should have been audible. The men closest to the new captain were regrouping around her, and he could see that the first wave of the assault on this position was being finished off. Roland was re-forming the line of pikemen, and he could see Borus and Percival rallying their men around them – he thought he heard Chris's name, several times. There was a thunderous clash as Borus's charge met a party of Lizards, but they prevailed, and then he heard Chris call for him. He rode to her side, trying to resolve the battle he could see into a new strategy, to improvise, with new priorities – Chris must be protected, this rise must be held – and yet he couldn't help feeling that the tide had already turned.

Salome had sometimes known euphoria at the end of a battle – not just relief, but a sense of triumph. Not this time. As he heard the Karayan horns and the Lizard drums signaling retreat, his first thought was to find Chris – there, sitting her horse, her sword gory and not yet sheathed though she'd dropped her right arm – and then the others. They were all filthy with mud and blood, streaked with sweat, tired, and no doubt many of them injured to some small degree, but the Six had made it through, at least. He took stock of the men, estimating losses, recognizing with relief the faces of some he knew personally who'd emerged unscathed, or relatively so.

"Is the field ours, Salome?" she asked. The words sounded odd coming from her – they were part of a ritual that Zexen, always eager to build up traditions instead of waiting for them to grow, had adopted from the old customs of more established forces of knights.

"It is, my lady."

"A victory for Zexen," she said, her voice hollow, then she raised her voice and repeated "Victory!" The repetition garnered some ragged cheers, which was the point. That done, Chris turned to him, saying "Pass along the order to withdraw to camp." He relayed the order with more specifics, half-aware that the others were doing the same with the knights they commanded, but mostly conscious that Chris was simply sitting very still on her horse, slumped and blood-spattered.

He managed to ride next to her as they withdrew. When he asked if she was injured, she only shook her head, but after a moment she roused herself to say "There's nothing you can do, Salome."

"My lady?"

"The captain..." Her voice died. Captain Galahad had been like a father to her, he knew – she'd begun squiring for him two days after her twelfth birthday.

"I'm so sorry, Chris."

She shook her head. "I do need to speak to you when we get back to camp," she said, with more energy. "I need to know— I need to wait and ask you then," she corrected herself, with the ghost of a smile.

"Now I'm curious, but I suppose I'll have to wait as well. Would you like time to refresh yourself first?"

"If I can. It's not as urgent as all that, Salome. I know you'll be tending to the wounded, and after that be sure to take some time for yourself. Rest if you need to."

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and Borus called out to her. He fell back, watching her ride ahead to join the younger knight. He thought Borus's voice was one of the first he'd heard crying her up, and Percival was congratulating her now. The three youngest of the Six had been squires together, at least in the later years of Borus and Percival's apprenticeships and the earlier years of Chris's. The corps could easily have been a lonely place for a young woman, but she'd thrived; if there'd been difficulties along the way she'd dealt with them before they grew severe enough to draw the attention of more senior knights. He'd tried to watch out for her, when he could, but he had his own duties, and Lord Wyatt's daughter wasn't formally his responsibility.

She had support from more than just the two of them. As men rode past the slow-moving group of officers they called out to her, and he saw Leo clap her on the shoulder and say something, grinning, before riding ahead. "You chose well, Lord Salome," Roland said, from beside and slightly behind him. While he turned in his saddle, the elf caught up.

"It's good to see the opinion is shared. She'll need our support."

"She's young," Roland agreed. "Even by your standards. But she'll have my backing." A group of muddy, bloodied infantrymen rattled past in a cart, and even though they were likely all wounded, they brandished shields and cheered at the sight of Chris. She saluted them, looking a bit self-conscious. "Everyone's backing," Roland amended. He was smiling, and Salome realized he was as well.

Back at the camp, he made his way to the infirmary tent, where a few of the badly wounded were already waiting, and began a very different kind of struggle. Healing depleted his mental resources in a way very different from the demands of strategy; he couldn't allow himself to focus on anything but the man facing him, he couldn't detach to think of a larger plan. In some ways it was easier, though hardly in all, and it was certainly a counterpoint to planning and dealing harm on the battlefield itself. A penance for it, he sometimes thought, but then, no knight could forget the consequences of battle. He just bore a greater share of the responsibility, or blame.

At some point Percival joined him, then, later, left again, having done what he could; they barely spoke. An academy squire brought him a basin of water at another point during his rounds, and after he'd finished setting a bone and called for one of the supervising medics to ask if they preferred to heal it or splint it, he splashed his face and hands before moving to the next patient. He tried to spare a smile or some words of comfort for each man, but it grew more difficult every time, as the emotional wear and physical weariness combined with the effort of focusing the rune's power and his own knowledge.

The sun was down by the time he emerged from the impromptu hospital. A torchbearer fell into step behind him, and he made his way to Chris's tent. She ought to be moved into Galahad's, if only to accommodate the meetings and visitors she'd have to manage from now on, but the loss was far too raw for him to bring up the idea yet, and they'd be so busy as it was that he could justify, for now, letting the business of moving slide.

The tent flap was open, and he could hear voices – Percival and Borus. He ducked his head inside to say "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"No, you're simply freeing us to leave her in your hands," Percival said. He looked little the worse for wear despite his time in the infirmary tent, but then, he would have seen to his appearance before visiting a lady, even one who'd laid him on his back in their last spar. Salome thought he should have done more, himself, but it was too late now. Chris was sitting in a camp chair, holding a glass of wine that looked untouched; Borus held the bottle and another glass. "Come, Borus, it's Salome's turn to monopolize our new captain."

"Acting captain," she said. "The promotion hasn't even been reported to the council yet, let alone made official. I'd like to check the wording of my statement with you before I send it," she added, to Salome.

"Of course, my lady."

"If we can compose it tonight, the messenger can leave early tomorrow. Borus, Percival, thank you," she added, and they immediately began gathering up gauntlets and helms. Salome hid his smile; he couldn't tell if she'd recognized her tone of dismissal or not, but this sort of thing came more naturally to her than he'd expected.

When the others had gone, he said in a low voice, "You manage your subordinates well, my lady."

She flushed a bit. "Hush."

"Had they been with you the whole time?"

"I think they didn't want to leave me alone." She rose, setting the wineglass down on a table that swayed slightly, and attempted to stretch, clanking a bit. "I should send for Louis, I suppose. Would you mind if I removed my armor?" Her gauntlets, helm, and sabatons were already on the rack, he noticed.

"Not at all, if you wish. You didn't need to speak privately, then?"

"I don't know. Do I? I wanted to ask you why you seemed to think I should take command." She began removing the left pauldron from her shoulder as she spoke. "I don't know that I would have had the courage to do it if you hadn't spoken."

"I suppose it could be counted a private matter," he said. "It's... difficult to explain."

"Impulse?" she suggested.

"Not really. Past discussions, and instinct."

"Both?" she asked, then "Could you help me with this?" He found himself unbuckling her cuirass, the proximity making the act seem more intimate than it really was – she was still fully clothed, after all. When he'd finished with the clasps and helped her out of her breastplate, he stepped back, and she took the armor from him.

"In a way," he answered at last, as she was settling it on the rack. "When I was asked, quite some time ago, you were the first candidate I could propose for the captain's position. I couldn't fully explain why. You were untested, new to the Six and to leadership of your squad, but there it was. It wasn't simply a process of elimination. And the captain— the late captain had been planning his retirement for some time."

"He was? I never knew." She sounded surprised, and a bit dejected.

"Not immediately, but we'd had discussions about who should succeed him, and how to prepare his successor." She sat down in the camp chair, but didn't speak, so he continued. "He'd decided on you – had been leaning towards that as early as your promotion to the Six, but thought he might be biased in your favor. That was why he consulted with me and with the Vice-Captain, to be sure his choice was sound. He looked on you almost as a daughter, and he was so proud—" He thought he saw her lips tremble, and he broke off. After a moment's hesitation, he put his hand on her shoulder, and was surprised when she reached up to cover it with her own.

"I'm all right," she said, looking up. "I just... hadn't realized. And it's so hard to believe he's gone." Her voice quavered at the last. He hesitated, wondering if it would be presumptuous to offer a handkerchief and if he had a clean one to offer, but she added, more steadily, "Go on."

"He'd planned to continue as captain until you were older and had more combat experience, but he had faith in your native abilities – not just as a knight but as a leader, with all that entails. Including paperwork," he added, wryly. He hesitated, uncertain if he should proceed, then added, "So do I. We all do, my lady."

She nodded, silently, her eyes bright again. She turned away and took the glass of wine from the wobbly camp table. He let his hand slip from her shoulder as she moved, and turned his attention to the sliver of night sky visible through the tent flap in the event she needed a moment to compose herself. "I'd never even thought of him retiring," she said, her voice nearly steady. "And now I have to think about recovering his body."

"I've already seen to that – arranged for it, at least," he said, turning back to her. "The men will report to me." And he'd spare her the details unless she asked. Possibly even then, if he could manage it. "If you have special arrangements you wish to make, I can see to those as well."

"State funerals for both the Captain and Vice-Captain, of course, once we return to Vinay del Zexay, but beyond that... I've never had to pay it much mind. I was just a little girl when the last captain died. Am I expected to play an active role?"

"At the funeral, of course, but not in the... the mortuary arrangements." Captain Aleyn, Galahad's predecessor, had been embalmed until his funeral could be held, but Pellize had described that as "gruesome," and Salome was inclined to agree. "A pyre," he suggested – better ashes at the state funeral than using his armor and medals alone to represent the deceased. Though that had been done as well.

She grimaced slightly, then nodded. "As you think best. I should write that letter before I have any more of this wine," she said. "And... send it under your seal? How should we arrange that? It can't look as though you put me in place, but at the same time your support is necessary – your public support, I mean. I know I can count on you here, but that's not what they care about."

"I believe I ought to send mine under a separate cover and seal but by the same messenger," he said. "You should certainly use your own seal. And we'll need abbreviated versions sent by bird as well... in code, I think, just for safety's sake."

She nodded, then stood abruptly. "You haven't eaten, have you? I should have sent for something when you first came in."

"I think I'll survive the delay," he said.

He spent that evening with her and with Louis, who'd been summoned and then dispatched with a mission. The squire had fetched a mountain of food, and Salome occupied himself with trying to recover the knack of toasting things over a camp stove, which he hadn't done since his first campaign, and answering her occasional questions about the letter – "'Dear sirs'? Or just 'greetings'? Really? There's no special address?" – and Louis's far more frequent ones about a range of topics, everything from squiring traditions in Matilda and Kamaro to the course of the battle today. The boy had initially looked overwhelmed at his lady's promotion, but stacks of bread and cheese and dried meat, toasted or slightly charred, had helped him to cope. There'd been ulterior motives for the abundance of food, it seemed. Louis wasn't quite fifteen yet, and like all squires he seemed to be a quartermaster's nightmare.

As the evening wore on, though, Louis began to drowse despite all the tea Salome kept brewing for all of them, and Chris began nibbling on her quill and fretting aloud over how to style herself in signing the letter. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I'll have to decide that myself, and I'm keeping both of you. Louis, go on to bed."

"Isn't there anything else I can do, milady?" the squire asked, sleepily.

"I doubt it," she said. Salome smiled sheepishly. He'd doused the stove hours ago, closed the flaps opened to ventilate the tent not long after, and had begun tidying stacks of papers and organizing reports she'd need after that. Roland had brought the papers from Galahad's and Pellize's tents, but they'd either been disarranged in the first place or had gotten that way at some point during a very long evening and night. "Go on, Louis," she continued. "You look exhausted. Get some sleep. Salome, I'll need you to stay just a moment."

"Certainly, my lady— Louis, take the torch outside with you, please? And douse it once you get to your tent. The camp should be on low light by now." It was a standing command, meant to conceal their location, though in practice it wasn't thorough enough to be truly effective.

"Yes, Lord Salome, my lady—" he broke off with a yawn, then rose, tried to be furtive about stretching, and ducked out of the tent, letting in a draft of the cool night air that set the candles and lanterns flickering.

Chris smiled slightly, but she squared off the stack of papers in her hands crisply as she stood. "You've probably realized you'll be my vice-captain," she said then.

He bowed rather than answer. In truth, he hadn't given it much thought.

"And I've realized I'll have to make a very ostentatious show of being forceful and independent. Being my own man," she added.

"I... suppose that's one way to put it..."

"This appointment... will look suspicious in Vinay del Zexay, won't it?" she asked, less certain now. Embarrassed, he thought.

It had been hovering at the edge of his consciousness all night, though he hadn't wanted to mention it. An older man promoting a young, attractive woman to a position of leadership over more senior candidates. However Chris might phrase her letter or he might phrase his, they'd both tell the truth and he knew the way the truth would look from outside. The council might not offer open opposition – obviously they'd claimed one victory, and he had faith there'd be more – but things might be said in private. "To the Council, very likely. Possibly to others as well. We should probably try to meet only in company for some time."

"Perhaps I should be fitted for a chastity belt," she said, with more than a touch of bitterness. "And let the news spread where it will. Do you think that would set their minds at rest?"

"I like it no more than you do, my lady," he said stiffly. "I don't wish to be thought of as a manipulative schemer myself." Or a lecher. And the notion of a handful of merchants speculating that she was his tool, his mistress, or both, smirking and assuming, made his blood burn, a fact he found curiously difficult to shape in words, let alone speak.

"At least they don't think you're a puppet or a— what business is it of theirs, anyway? My honor is my sword like any knight! No one would gossip if it had been a man, would they? And if we were lovers it'd hardly destroy our ability to fight!"

"I doubt they'll consider it seriously," he said after a moment. "Or care." They'd simply make their assumptions, smirk to themselves, and then return to their own concerns. Gossip was thoughtless. It really shouldn't make him angry. "You were a hero today, and the news will spread – the messengers we send will have other letters home too, you know."

"It's strange to think of it that way," she said. "I wasn't a hero. I did what was needed."

"No one else could," he said. "Heroism is little more than that, sometimes."

"It was just my duty." She sighed, set the papers down on her desk. "But it's not the time for that discussion. I'm sorry, Salome. I'm keeping you."

He shook his head. "If there is anything I can do to help you in this, my lady..."

"I wish there were," she said. "For the moment I'm on my own, though. I need to look over the letter and write out a fair copy. I need sleep. And I suppose I need some time alone, though I don't really want it."

He remembered Lord Wyatt standing at attention when he was knighted. He remembered a seven-year-old girl running up to him, asking about her father, and Lady Anna's face before he'd even spoken. He remembered her voice though not her words as she thanked him, with her hands on her daughter's shoulders, and that same daughter standing at attention before him in new armor ten years later. Gently, he said, "There's no shame in grieving, Chris."

"I know," she said. "I'm only worried I won't be able to stop." She rubbed at an ink spot on her finger, and the silence stretched out for a moment. Outside he heard the clink of mail – light armored soldiers, archers or mages, heading to their own quarters. "We should speak more in the morning," she said, abruptly. "There will be more to do, won't there?"

"More than I care to think of just now," he said, though he couldn't prevent himself from considering it. More papers, old reports that needed to be evaluated before they could be discarded, word from all of the officers after they'd mustered and assessed their men. They both needed more sleep than they'd manage in what was left of the night. "I bid you good night, my lady," he said, then saluted her, arm across his chest, and bowed. She returned the salute, and he turned and ducked out into the chill night air, letting the tent flap fall shut behind him.

He stood outside with his eyes closed to adjust his vision to the darkness, then opened them again as he began to fear he might drift off standing up. He saw that the light in her tent had been extinguished – no glow through the walls – and he could make out the shapes of things enough to return to his own field quarters. He was about to leave when he heard a rustle from behind him, and her whispered words, "Salome, thank you."

He turned toward her, but she was just a indistinct paleness in the night. "My lady, I made a vow," he said. "And even if your command were revoked with the next message from the council you would still have my oath."

"And you still have my thanks," she retorted, and he could hear a smile in her voice.

He could feel one on his face as well. "Sleep well, my lady. Captain."