"Set me on fire."
"Excuse me?"
"It's exactly as I said," Mòrag says, jaw set and eyes blazing away. "Set me on fire, Lady Brighid. Th—that's an order."
"…"
How… cute. Brighid folds her arms and tilts her head, trying not to smirk. How could she not, though, when Mòrag looks so serious about it? Their bond may still be fresh and there are still many things she needs to (and wants to) learn about her new Driver, but that just means she'll get to enjoy these little moments when Mòrag surprises her with unexpected acts for some time to come, before they become expected.
It's all about making new memories, after all. Depending on how whatever this is goes, she may need to write it down in her journal. Mòrag uncomfortably shifts her weight from one foot to the other when her Blade doesn't respond, unable to feel where her gaze is aimed (sometimes, she wishes that Brighid would open her eyes), and clears her throat a bit too loudly.
"My burns from our first training session have all fully healed. I need to learn how to control your flames, if I am to be a Driver worthy of your strength. Don't you agree, Lady Brighid?"
"Yes, but," Brighid sighs. "I'd really rather not return to my Core Crystal again so soon."
"No need to worry. I'm much more durable than I look."
She can't tell if Mòrag's bragging or just being matter-of-fact.
"So how does setting you on fire fit into that plan?"
"To build up tolerance," Mòrag responds without hesitation. "There's no time to slowly ease myself in, not with the recent surge in anti-imperialist activity and the Senate eyeing Uraya. Would it not be more efficient if I were to take it all in at once? Those burns would heal, just as my previous ones did."
"Absolutely not."
"Very well, then we may begin by setting just one arm on fire."
"Absolutely not!"
Brighid turns and marches away. She's not sure where to, maybe just anywhere to get away and put an early end to this ridiculous conversation. But predictably enough Mòrag follows, jogging to keep up.
"Lady Brighid—"
"I also told you to drop the title. I am your Blade, Mòrag."
"No. I haven't earned that privilege. I'll address you by name alone after I've become immune to your fires."
She's so serious that Brighid almost can't stand it. Not in any sort of bad way, though; maybe she just wants to pinch Mòrag's face to make her stop talking, or something. Once again, she's reminded of Mòrag's youth, full of energy and vigor at the ripe age of eighteen, determined to become something that she's not quite ready to be.
It must be the pressure of already holding that title of Special Inquisitor. In that regard, Brighid can't quite fault Mòrag for being unreasonably hasty when it comes to trying to get stronger, but she also can't agree with Mòrag's methods.
Honestly. Immolation? She never took Mòrag for a fool.
And Mòrag really isn't a fool. Which means she only has the utmost confidence that she'd be able to survive such a trial. ... Or she's just a fool.
If anything, Brighid must admire her steadfast determination. She stops walking and Mòrag just about crashes into her back.
"Do you really think I'd willingly set my Driver on fire? The girl I'm meant to protect? Watching you get burned the first time was more than enough."
Mòrag realizes her words all too deeply, and looks away in shame. She fiddles with her hands in silence before mumbling, "I'm a woman."
"Of course. My mistake."
But Mòrag didn't miss the point. Her frown is downright sheepish now. Almost guilty.
"I'm… sorry, Lady Brighid. I had failed to consider your feelings on the matter. I won't make a mistake like that ever again, I promise."
Brighid feels her heart thump hard within her chest. She hadn't had the opportunity to read through every single entry in her journal yet, but the ones she did had told her that those previous Emperors and Empresses often left her to her own devices. They respected her, but always at a distance, and so life was apparently quiet and lonely during those lifetimes.
When Brighid looks at Mòrag, she sees much more than basic respect in her eyes. It's as though Mòrag wants to please her, to protect her, to fight for her. The kind of sentiments typically reserved for a Driver, not a Blade. There's a great depth of passion behind her steely gaze, and Brighid has to wonder just how deep it goes.
Hesitantly, she lifts a hand and gingerly places it on Mòrag's bare arm. Mòrag winces at the touch, but doesn't move away.
"It still hurts, doesn't it?"
"It's… fine."
"You don't need to put on airs for me, Mòrag," Brighid says, removing her hand and taking a step back.
"Please." Mòrag closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and grasps Brighid's arm. Brighid softly gasps at the sudden action. "Being unable to touch my own Blade without getting burned is unbearable. I can't stand it. How much longer must I wait?"
"You need to let go of me. Your hand—"
"The pain is nothing. It's… nothing, compared to that pain of knowing I'm still unfit to wield you."
"Mòrag!" Brighid yanks her arm away. "You're my Driver. Have you considered that the only thing holding you back are your own self-doubts?"
Mòrag stares at her with wide eyes, stuttering out something but failing to put together a cohesive sentence. The skin on her palm is an angry red. She's on the verge of becoming lost, and Brighid can't let her lead herself astray with all that passionate urgency that's driving her to run faster than her feet can carry her.
"You already know you have potential," Brighid says, softening her tone. Instinctively, she reaches to touch Mòrag's face, but stops herself. "All you need to do now is decide what kind of potential that is."
"What kind of… potential…" Mòrag repeats, brows knitting together. "Forgive me, Lady Brighid, but I don't quite understand what you're saying."
"Meet me at the training grounds before the sun rises, tomorrow. That should give you plenty of time to think it over."
She leaves. This time, Mòrag doesn't run after her.
Mòrag is already there by the time Brighid arrives, sitting cross-legged at the center with her eyes closed in meditation. The grounds are still charred from their first training session, and Brighid mentally winces at the memory of Mòrag screaming as blue flames consumed her hands.
Frankly, she had been more than relieved and just a bit surprised that Mòrag had been so determined to get right back to it after that. It took a good deal of pleading from Niall to have her wait for the burns to completely heal before going for another round. Fearless was another word she had used, in her first entry about Mòrag.
She declares her arrival with a gentle surge of ether; Mòrag lifts her head with a smile, and stands.
"Lady Brighid."
"Good morning, Mòrag," Brighid nods.
"You'll be pleased to know I spent the entire day and evening thinking about what you said," she says, hands folded behind her back. Then her arms slacken and her shoulders slump, and for a split second Brighid is afraid of what she'll say next.
"You weren't the one who burned me. I only burned myself."
"… Huh?"
"I was afraid, I admit." Mòrag bows her head. "The stories of your power frightened me. How could I, a woman with no agency in life, ever hope to wield the Blade of Emperors and Empresses who lived before me? I thought… that perhaps it'd been a mistake, that you were meant to be Niall's after all, and so I…"
She swallows, and forces herself to look directly at Brighid. "All along, I never truly believed in my own strength and worth. I had hoped that perhaps I could mould myself to your strength, that I was only meant to adapt to your flames, but I understand now. Depending entirely on you will be both our downfall. I must adapt your fire to my power, as much as I must adapt to yours."
Brighid softly exhales. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. Mòrag steps closer to her, eyes blazing with something new and unfamiliar.
"You are my Blade, Brighid."
She takes her hands. Mòrag doesn't flinch, nor does Brighid pull away.
"So, please. Set me ablaze."
"… As you wish, Lady Mòrag."
The flames erupt and embrace them both in a rising column, swirling high and dancing around them in a storm of brilliant azure and pure heat. Dust is burned to nothing, the sky is touched by blue, and golden wisps pour across Mòrag's skin to intermingle with the fire. It's the ether— they're connected now, wound like unbreakable wires, the bond between Driver and Blade affirmed for the very first time.
The fires roar like a living thing. Mòrag opens her mouth and takes a deep breath, feeling the flames filling her throat and lungs. It burns her, and yet the pain is entirely absent. She squeezes Brighid's hands and allows the fire to envelop her entire being, inside and out, overtaking all her senses but never overwhelming.
It gradually dies down. Her vision is darkened with the absence of the intense light; Mòrag blinks several times, unable to see but able to feel as Brighid holds her in a tight embrace.
"Ah— my clothes."
They had been burned to almost nothing. Brighid pulls back, holding Mòrag by the shoulders, and laughs. The sound is like silk, as is her touch, no longer painful.
"Come, Lady Mòrag, let's return to your quarters before a guard spots us."
"Yes, of course," she breathes out, her chest almost cold now without the fire. Mòrag stays close to Brighid's side as they leave the training grounds, her previously unbearable heat now a comforting warmth. They walk in silence the entire way, words unneeded.
You are mine, and I am yours.