ANGELWING
II
Whren had always loved the city of Jeuno. When she first arrived on one of her expeditions countless moons ago as a trainee soldier, she had taken one look at the artfully carved arches and the perfect harmony of brick red and white stone, and had fallen in love with the place. Since then, she had gone on countless missions for the Archduke, and because of that, had discovered unspeakable secrets about the inner workings of Jeuno that she had been sworn never to tell to the denizens of this splendid, enigmatic city. This was a place of much memory for her.
Today she limped out of the infirmary, to be greeted by the familiar stone walls watching protectively over the residents of the city. The sky was overcast, milling with grey streams and swirls as thunder rumbled softly through the heavens. It felt prophetic, almost. Whren blinked away some fresh tears and took a deep breath, heaving in the crisp Jeunoan air that she relished. It was an unusually quiet day in Upper Jeuno; normally there would be swarms of people gathered at the auctioneers right outside the infirmary (Monberaux had vented to her several times about his frustrations over the residual noise that sometimes disturbed his sensitive patients). Today only a handful of well-dressed merchants browsed the great wares.
Why did this have to happen to me? Whren screamed to herself. What did I do wrong to deserve this? Why me?
"Why…." She said aloud, and an adventurer who had been whittling at the price of a scorpion harness glanced behind him at her. She turned a slight shade of crimson, noting her sick clothes, limp arm, and a dangerous-looking sword in one hand, and began pacing several steps in an attempt to look busy. The first thing that came to mind was how far of a cry this was from her noble paladin's mail and surcoat, and how most people had used to watch her in awe and respect.
Finally she stopped and leaned against the corner of the infirmary building, out of sight of most of the auction people. Sighing, she looked down at her sword sitting dead in her hand. Slowly she grasped the hilt, and started to lift it. As expected, it felt strange in her left hand, like a foreign object instead of an extension of her arm and body.
Like a piece of wood, she thought bitterly. She had worked so hard to get to where she had been, and now everything was gone. By the grace of Altana, she would need help even getting into her armor! There was no way she was going to allow herself such a weakness.
And yet… what else did she have? If she retrained she would be doomed to forever be reliant on other soldiers and knights to even get her started on the battlefield, a disgrace so heavy and strong she recoiled at it. But if she did not she would be leaving behind everything forever, the one job she had come to identify and recognize herself as. Who ever heard of the name Whren and did not associate 'paladin' with it?
The weight of uncertainty loomed upon her, and she could feel herself buckling under it. She felt alone, more alone than she had ever been, now that she knew she would no longer wholly have the support of the San d'Orian knights who had once revered her. Moaning in anguish, she leaned her head against the rough brick edge, rocking herself in sorrow.
Suddenly there came a short tap on her shoulder, and Whren jumped and spun around as best as she could given her ailed condition. She half-expected some seedy man to be behind her, trying to get her to help him with a quest or some such other matter, but instead she came face to the white and grey patterns embossed onto the front of the traditional paladin's surcoat, stretched solidly over someone's chest.
"I heard about what happened," came a smooth, deep voice. Whren looked upwards, and recognized the same defined face, with its characteristic high-and-mighty gaze, and the two long ears.
"Fai…" she stuttered. Faianeux, another San d'Orian paladin, had been her colleague through many missions she had been on, and was famed for his 'proper elvaan ways', which often meant looking down the length of his nose at other people. Still, after they had both completed several arduous tasks together, most of which benefited the kingdom, it had been deemed by most of San d'Oria that they were to be wedded, and so it was more out of circumstance than anything else that they ended up engaged.
Even now he stood stoic and unmoving, his gaze steely and his eyes lowered to look at Whren far below him. She was inclined to lunge into his arms, but she knew it would not be proper. So she stood her ground instead, and strained to look up at his towering height.
"You know, Whren," Fai said, crossing his arms, "I really think you should listen to Curilla. What ARE you? Some Bastokan? You're a paladin, Whren. Holy knight of San d'Oria, keeper of the light and the divine, a sacred warrior. You're one of the kingdom's best knights, and here you are thinking about leaving everything behind because of a scrape on your arm." He gave a tccch sound and peered down at her.
Whren seethed deep within her. She didn't exactly feel in the right state of physical health to be angry, but she knew of her own arrogance and inner fire – which she always assumed was why she got on so well with the elvaans – and this made her blood boil.
"What do you know about falling off a cliff, my good sir?" she bit back, her tongue caustic. "Scrape on my arm? I'm surprised I'm even alive right now, aren't you even the least bit concerned about how I am?" She knew her voice was getting slightly shrill in the way she hated it to be, but she didn't care.
Fai snorted.
"All I know is that I know a paladin, and a hume who isn't actually a weed like the rest of them." He turned away, his eyes scornful. "What happened to all that talk about paladin spirit, and nobility, and all that that you used to live your live by? You used to march through the Chateau like no other; you were better than any swordswoman out there. I respected you. And I…" this time he spat out the words. "I do not want a weak lady."
Weak lady…
The words echoed like bullets in Whren's head and pacified her anger, only to drown and replace the angry flames with a kind of piercing stab she never felt before. This hurt was nothing like sword wounds, or slashes, or anything that drew blood. It wasn't so much betrayal, or even the lack of support she was getting from him – goddess knew she had had to support herself spiritually and emotionally in times of bloodshed – it was the fact that he was bringing her worst fear to life and giving it a voice, and to make things harder, it was the voice of the man she was supposed to be married to in a month.
She decided to try another tactic. Giving in, acquiescing to him. Maybe then he wouldn't frighten her so much.
"Alright, Fai, I have to think about this, okay? I… I just can't decide right now, I need some time for everything to sink in and settle."
"Think? What is there to think about?" His voice boomed loudly throughout the little square in the heart of the city, causing several passerbys to stop and stare. Whren hated their questioning gazes and hid her eyes as best as she could manage. Oh, what the world would think if she were to be made to look weak under public gaze.
"There is nothing to think about, Whren," Fai pressed on. "You're either a paladin, and learn how to use that sword again, or you're not, and you give up and go somewhere to be a hermit. I don't see what's so difficult about this damned decision; you're just being stubborn."
"No, I…" Whren tried to say. She felt desperate, caged, locked and squeezed into a tight corner with nowhere to run. And yet, despite the harsh words he was dealing her, part of her knew in the back of her head that he was partially right. It was a painful truth, and he being the one to spell it out to her was only worsening it.
"I've said it before, Whren. The king has deemed it so. The princes have. Every single knight in the kingdom knows that their stature is of utmost importance, and nobility cannot be compromised! You know this!" His voice had reached a high pitch as well, and Whren knew he must be getting agitated and angry as well. She knew he expected to see her old fighting strength, that was up for bickering and challenge, but her heart felt weary and raw with wound. She didn't feel like lifting her head to argue again, so all she did was revert her eyes downwards and stare at the smooth pavement.
"Huh." Fai turned away to leave, now that she had assumed a purely passive stance.
Whren watched as his armor clanked ominously on the ground. Step by large step he drew away from her, and something urged in her heart to be spoken. She kept it down, merely watching in silence as he strode away, but just as he was almost out of earshot she knew she could not win the welling of the emotions in her heart. The battle was over. The knights would hate her for breaching her own honor by doing this.
"I'm frightened, Fai!" she yelled after him, throwing her sword on the ground hard. It clanged twice, in tune with the heavy pounding of her heart. "I'm scared! I'm so incredibly scared of what I'll become if I go back to training! I'll never be the same paladin that everyone knows and expects! I'm scared! Did you ever think of that?"
The elvaan stopped, but did not turn around. Instead he tilted his head over his shoulder, looking in her direction but not at her. His eyes were a steel blue, his mouth set in a hard, straight line. There was no emotion on his sculpted face, no matter how charismatic it looked.
"I despise cowards."
And he was gone.
A lash of lightning split the clouds in a terrifying display of purple, indigo and cold, dark grey, and it wasn't long before peals of thunder came crashing through the skies like celestial chariots riding war mounts into battle. Whren bit herself back for a while, but it proved to be futile as her vision blurred, her ears rang with the commotion of both sky and crowd, and she felt whatever remained of her fury and fire submit to cold terror that washed over her. The embers would not even smoke now.
The rain began to fall, softly, poetically, the light drops matching the same tears that were starting to roll down Whren's rough cheek again. Within several minutes the rain had increased in pitch, pouring down, soaking her frame and short brown hair, splattering off the blue rapier beside her.
Slowly she sank to her knees, to the ground, the ultimate display of subservience to what Altana had wrought on her. This was the ultimate confirmation of her direction now. No paladin would ever perform such an act of disgrace; that she had done it was an unspoken statement, not just to herself, but also to the crowd beginning to gather around her inquisitively. Whren could care less now. She lifted her face to the looming skies, and opened two eyes that were now pools of sadness.
A mournful wail sounded through the streets of Upper Jeuno, the walls bearing full witness to this prostration to the silent goddess. It was a painful cry, almost song-like, as a small hume woman sat and proclaimed the death of her knight's soul on the altar. A death by fear.
Nearby, Curilla choked back a sob and quickly stuffed it down her throat. She began to stride away, knowing the decision Whren had made. Her gait was strong as usual, but as she turned the corner there was a tiny glimpse of wetness at the corners of her eyes.
