Love and Lust

by FallenAngelCyril

Tactics Ogre: Let Us Cling Together. A series of unrelated one-shots featuring various characters and pairings. Most romantic pairings are non-canonical.

14. Acceptance: OzCerya

This story is a gift for a good friend of mine who drew me a wonderful OzOzma picture.

The prompt I was given, it might well be a summary, is as follows:
3C: A vengeful Cerya attacks and incapacitates Oz, only to end up hesitating at the last moment and sparing his life. To prevent further spoilers, I will only say that Oz was requested to be "redeemed" in a sense.
In other words, it is exactly the opposite of what happens in my previous CeryaOz fiction. I can't say how strictly I've followed the prompt, but I've done my best.

I regret to say that the end result is extremely cliché, but for those unsatisfied or disgusted with the previous CeryaOz, this might just be what you're looking for, as it is more traditional for a romance scenario, even if there might be some OOC.

As I've attempted to make Oz a "somewhat decent" ("good" is not in his vocabulary) person, I've tried something different with his character. Despite the game having him come off as cruel, which he is, I've also elaborated on his more vulnerable side which is shown primarily in the final battle of 3C and, to a lesser extent, his dialogue in both CODA and 3N. You'll also see some parallels to Ozma's recruitment in 4L.

Acceptance

---

"I demand vengeance for our fallen!"

Cerya's voice was filled with malice and hate as her spear pierced at the taller Knight Commander. His armor was dark and thick; Cerya worried her spear would be unable to penetrate it without an enchantment or magic. In spearplay, Cerya knew it was necessary to find and exploit the armor's weaknesses, possibly even remove or weaken it to the point where she could pierce into the soft flesh it hid. A quick glance over at the red-headed male who evaded the thrust, eyes roaming up and down his body in desperate effort to evaluate his capabilities, told Cerya hid underarms, hands, thighs, and neck would be effective places to maim. An attempt to strike at the Templar's boots, upper arms, or chest would cause an unenchanted spear to simply bounce off and like cause her a moment of weakness from the spear's rebound. The man followed her gaze and noted her goal before he drew his own heavy weapon and leaned it over his shoulders. To Cerya's anger, he smiled, a horrible look she had seen on him from when he and his Templars murdered the Front as his own eyes swept over her, searching for her own weakness. Cerya was not a heavily armored woman, but her magic and skill made up for her weakness in defense.

The halls were filled with corpses, bodies twisted in brutal ways, armor dented, and bloodied weapons, some with limp, dismembered hands still attached. From a few soldiers, groans still sounded, some releasing a distorted gurgle that signified they drowned on their own blood. Both sides had taken casualties in the battle, but to Cerya it was quite obvious at first glance that the Bakram had suffered the most deaths. The Resistance's losses had been heaviest when they tried to breach Phidoch's white walls, where the Bakram main force had been mobilized. Most of the Lodissians had fled; they left the Bakram to their fate at the hands of Denam's Resistance.

"Now there's a woman with flint in her voice and fire in her eyes!" Cerya barely hear his words among the echo of moans from the wounded, grunts from the soldiers on both sides, and, even louder, the clash of metal against metal and the songs of magic spells whirling in the air. Cerya's magic was channeled constantly, her own power added to the soft vibration and hum. The man took a step forward, ignoring the battle around them; it was as if they were the only two warriors in battle. Cerya took a deep breath in preparation, the smell of hot sweat and body odor filling her nostrils from the dirty men around her. The man seemed to enjoy leisurely caressing her with his rust-colored eyes; it made Cerya shiver in disgust to be leered at by such a monster. He was closer now, within range of her spear. Cerya needed to keep him at a distance, for if he approached he would have the advantage in strength. He whispered, but his words ripped through her body, twisting her innards and making the bile rise in her throat. "'Twould be a pity to scar such a lovely face. Perhaps I'll cut your feet off at the ankles instead."

"Disgusting." Cerya hissed in return and tried ignore the vivid image that came to mind at his words; her mind teased her with flashes of an abysmal future, where Cerya struggled on the floor as blood poured from the stubs that had once been her ankles and she attempted to crawl out of the man's reach. Cerya resisted the urge to shake her head and clear the thoughts, instead she allowed the horrible fantasy to fuel her hatred. Passion renewed, her disgust partially faded, Cerya again thrust at the Templar with her spear, her aim directed at his lightly armored thighs. With remarkable speed for such a large weapon, the man knocked the tip of her spear away. Cerya lost her grip temporarily and was forced to take a step forward to rebalance her own and her weapon's weight in her hands, speaking to him in attempt to distract him from her moment of weakness. Cerya knew he saw it, but to her surprise the man played along. I am Cerya, of the Liberation Front. You had your chance to kill me, but you let it pass. For what you've done to me, for what you've done to my people, I will have your head!"

"That's no way to speak to an opponent. Do you islanders know no honor?" The man laughed, a mocking sound. His question was not meant to be answered, for his tone was spiteful enough that he already made his decision. He shifted his balance between one leg and the other, almost bored. He was snapped out of his odd little game as a Resistance soldier tried to strike at him. The Templar's attention was immediately drawn from Cerya and onto the closer man. The man was wounded, his left arm hanging limply; Cerya applauded his courage for striking the Commander in his state. The commander blocked his attack with his heavier weapon, causing the man to grunt and swing broadly. Seeing the Templar's distraction, Cerya channeled her power quickly, the warm fire flowing through the air between she and her opponent, hoping to catch the man in a pincer attack. The Lodissian's eyes widened, realizing his predicament; his next action surprised her, instead of trying to block the magic, he instead focused his entire attention on the warrior, turning to the side to minimize damage. The strategy worked well for one thought up on an instant and though the red cloth covering his armor was singed and his right glove was burnt off, revealing the pale, almost delicate looking und underneath, he was able to block the other man's attacks and respond in kind.

Cerya tried again, channeling her power and directing it in a larger area around him. She knew she could not keep the casting up forever, but if she could distract him long enough to close in and pierce him with her spear, it would be worth it. As she cast, she approached the Commander, spear in front of her defensively, waiting to block the strikes in his direction. The warrior had recovered from the Templar's retaliation and about to attack when he saw Cerya casting. The Commander was an intelligent man, surprisingly familiar with the art of combat magic; she did not expect it from him considering his demeanor and larger weapon. He closed in on the unnamed warrior, getting close so that if Cerya was to hit the range around him, she would hit the warrior as well. Cursing under her breath, Cerya stopped herself from casting, but continued her approach, thrusting at him in time with the warrior's on powerful strikes. The Commander was able to dodge by a quick backstep and block the warrior's slash with his axe, but he had a frown on his face, knowing he was in danger. In an instant, darkness surrounded his body, a spell powerful enough that only one very skilled in magic could use. The power manifested itself outwards as it flowed in the shape of large tendrils that swallowed the light wherever they touched. From her position at a distance, Cerya was able to avoid the area effect, but the warrior was not as lucky, for he still locked weapons with the Lodissian. The darkness spiraled around the commander's axe in shades of deep red and black, surrounding the warrior and enveloping him. The wounded man screamed and fell to the ground in pain, unable to stand any longer. Cerya expected the Templar to kill him, but to her surprise, the Templar simply kicked his weapon away and stood over his neck. Cerya immediately drew her weapon and rushed toward him, but it was too late; the red-head brutally dismembered the man's other arm, his scream echoing loudly through the hall, shaking Cerya to her core. Blood flew about, spraying onto the floor, into the air, and onto the Commander's armor giving the dark metal a wet sheen. Cerya didn't see where the arm with the sword flew, but she was unsure she wanted to know. Almost immediately after, a large pool of blood formed around the man as he writhed under the weight of the Lodissian male, who finally released his weight and kicked him violently in the stomach, lips a sneer at the man's own contorted expression of pain. "Go. Crawl away like the pathetic worm you are."

Belatedly Cerya realized she had paused in horror to witness the cruel act. She had expected the Templar to give the warrior a quick death, not leave him in misery to get trampled on by unknowing soldiers. His actions showed immeasurable cruelty, but she was unsurprised given the brutality he had shown at Boed. Cerya quickly regained control and forced herself out of the shocked daze. Before she could move, the brave man, lashed out in attempt to kick the commander. Cerya was not a religious woman any longer, but if she were, she would have prayed to Philaha that the man get only peace and happiness for his sacrifice this day. The Lodissian easily avoided the warrior's man's squirmy kicks and quickly cast a spell down in his direction, paralyzing him. The wounded soldier's distraction gave Cerya the opening she had hoped for. Rushing forward, Cerya slashed with her spear in attempt to disorient him compared with her previous thrusts. As she did so, she quickly enchanted with her spear with Fire magic in attempt to more easily damage her armored opponent. His skill in magic was impressive and Cerya realized that if they only fought with spells, she would likely lose.

In an instant, the man's axe was up defensively and his attention fully on Cerya. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in annoyance as Cerya struck at him; her fire-enchanted spear met his enchanted axe and magic flaring between them, bright sparks of heat flying off onto the floor only to dissipate in an instant. Cerya grit her teeth in anger as the man calmed himself and caught his breath. He seemed to be calmer now that he only had Cerya to deal with. He finally spoke, the amused tone returning. "'Twas unfair of you to attack in conjunction with that man. I thought we had agreed to a duel, no?" Cerya was baffled at the question, for she certainly had not agreed to anything of the sort. She would have him dead, no matter the means. Perhaps the 'agreement' stemmed from Lodissian tradition, or perhaps he simply wanted a reaction. Cerya frowned and kept her gaze locked on him in refusal to reply. "I've realized my terrible manners, my lady. I am Oz, but that is irrelevant; when we are done and you beg on the floor beneath me, the only name you will know me by is 'master.'" He looked positively predatory.

"I care little for your name and less for who you are." Cerya stepped back, she kept her expression controlled and calm. The flow of their power between them stopped, but the tension only increased. She spun her spear into a more comfortable position, keeping the Commander at a distance. Her opponent obviously knew that spears had an advantage in their length, but he seemed to toy with her and allowed her to strike at him as if it were some sadistic game. "Enough with your games. One of us will die this day and it will not be me!"

"Such impatience. Very well. Hate me, loathe me, show me your rage - they make you all the more stunning." The Templar took the offensive, moving with speed that belied his heavy weapon and armor. Cerya found herself pressed to defend herself against the onslaught off attacks. Even without magic, the man was a formidable foe, and his strength easily overwhelmed hers. His advantage came at moderate and close range; Cerya needed to flee to where her weapon relied less on defensive slashes and more on sharp, direct pierces. The Commander knew Cerya needed the range, but pressed in on her, refusing to allow her the range she desperately needed to go on the offensive. Cerya focused only on her enemy, ignoring the struggling men around her. At one point, as she paced backwards, she ran into someone, her focus so intense on Oz that she had not heard or felt them behind her. She and the man she hit both grunted and she heard a loud scream in her ears shortly after, feeling wet blood splash against the back of her hair. Cerya felt a moment of remorse, but it was gone an instant later when Oz struck dangerously close to her hand, sending shudders through her wrist and elbows. Cerya almost lost her grip on her spear as she held the now-unbalanced weapon in one hand. The red-head's speed remained consistent and Cerya knew she would likely be unable to block the next attack.

A plan formed within her. It a brash, foolish plan, but it was all she could come up with to survive his onslaught. Cerya released her spear with her second hand immediately as Oz struck down on it. Cerya allowed herself to fall to the ground and grunted as her knees hit the hard stone floor. She rolled instinctively towards the Templar, focusing on speed. She could see little more than a blur as she twisted along the floor, but to her satisfaction, and likely a large amount of good fortune, Cerya was able to quickly re-obtain her spear before it clattered away into the midst of battle. To lose her spear in battle would have been preferable to her hand or arm; Cerya still had a dagger if she needed it, but against an axe and Oz's heavy armor it would do very little, but as a last resort she would be able to slit his throat, even at the cost of her own life. Cerya found herself sweating, not out of heat or even exhaustion, but out of stress, worry, and her obsession with vengeance. Her own goals were tore away at her and caused undue exhaustion. Cerya knew such focus only harmed her prowess, but she simply could not allow the villain to get away with his deeds, nor would she allow anyone else to have his head.

Though rearmed, Cerya needed to find an opening when she could stand. Oz again seemed amused, if a bit annoyed, at Cerya's continued struggle for victory. With one knee on the ground and the other vertical, Cerya was able to use her spear to defend against the next two of the Lodissian's attacksby raising her spear above her, but with some difficulty. She did not have her legs to support her, each hit almost knocked her backward, and on the second block Cerya's spear tip made a loud, screeching sound against the stone floor. Cerya cursed, for she knew her spear's length worked against her; if it caught on the floor in attack or defense, Cerya would be open to attack.

"Oz. . .brother. . .I'm sorry. I've failed."

The words were spoken from a distance and were little more than a whisper, the a weak, feminine voice cried out in pain. Cerya knew the words were likely amplified by the woman's magic in a moment of final desperation to touch her brother, who was apparently the man Cerya was fighting. Cerya was not the only one who heard the final words, for the battlefield had been, amazingly, swept into silence, both the Resistance and the Bakram-Valerian armies. Almost in unison, the heads turned towards the female Knight Commander, who was on the upper level. She was in the arms of a member of the Resistance, a blind man named Hobyrim, whose sword pierced through her neck. Cerya had seen the man fight before; he was a brilliant swordsman, almost frighteningly so. The Templar grasped at Hobyrim, her fingers clutched at his robes, in turn, he encircled her waist with his arms. Cerya couldn't be sure from such a distance, and perhaps it was simply her imagination playing tricks on her, but she could swear there were tears in the other woman's eyes.

As the woman slumped to the ground, cheers rose throughout the Resistance troops. Cerya herself smiled at the death of one of the monsters who destroyed the Liberation Front. She wished she could have ended the woman as well as her current target, but the man was just as guilty; he would have to do to sate the restless spirits of her comrades and friends. From in front of her, the Knight Commander had completely stopped his attack, his eyes wide and body seemingly paralyzed in shock. His lips were parted and sweat that previously not covered his face dripped from his hairline, darkening the hair to an auburn. He was shaking and Cerya could tell from his grip that he was nearly ready to drop his axe on the floor. It was as if he had forgotten Cerya existed. "Sister. . ." was the only word that came from his mouth, soft, desperate, lonely. He unintentionally released a gagged sound from the back of his throat. Had situations been different, Cerya would almost feel pity for the man, but as it was now, countless of her friends had been harmed by him, only to give similar death cries. He had not cared for their deaths, no, he only reacted when it was someone close to him. Her spite only grew at the revelation.

As the woman's blood flow slowed against Hobyrim, the warriors seemed to break out of their trance, only to remember where they were. Her opponent continued staring, his eyes dark and troubled. Cerya stood, a bit wobbly at first, and regripped her spear to point it at the red-head. He ignored her as Hobyrim slid the woman's body to the floor. The blond man leaned over her and Cerya could not tell what happened, but the motions were delicate and controlled. Hobyrim's manner was completely different than what she had seen of him while in the camp. The Lodissian in front of her shook and quivered in rage at the other man's actions. He pressed his eyes closed and Cerya could hardly believe she saw tears form. He turned towards her, eyes burning with hatred; the look likely mimicked the look in her own eyes when she had demanded vengeance upon him.

"You killed her! You. . .I will revel in your death!" His voice raised in pitch to almost a screech as he clutched at the grip of his axe until his fingers were white. He rushed heedlessly towards Cerya, as if he did not care for his safety. As Cerya would have done to him, he was now willing to do to her; he cared little for his personal safety. Oz wanted Cerya dead and he would do it, no matter the cost to his own health. Cerya spread her legs on the floor in preparation for the onslaught of attacks, but before the Templar could reach her, he gasped out in pain, falling onto one knee. Cerya withdrew and thought it perhaps an odd strategy, but immediately noticed a large arrow protruding from his left thigh. Cerya looked around quickly in attempt to find the archer, but with the bodies of warriors around her on all sides, she could not find anyone she recognized. The red-head was intelligent enough to not try and remove the large arrow and struggled to his feet. The arrow had torn through his muscle; his movements were stiff, weight unbalanced. His axe, too, had its weight forced onto his right side, but the desperate look in his eyes remained unchanged and he continued his approach.

Oz's motions were predictable, and Cerya found it easy to block even the full force of his attacks. Each hit caused the muscles in her upper arms pain, for she was not built to withstand such heavy attacks and her clothing did nothing to alleviate that stress. She was dressed for flexible movements and quick attacks, not fierce hits from a large, enchanted battle-axe. Fortunately, Oz's motions were sluggish and Cerya was easily able to determine his pattern. Looking over his body, Cerya waited until he struck at her again and guarded the attack with her spear before she again rolled away. She grunted at the rough motion from such a height, but recovered quickly out of necessity and immediately approached her opponent, thrusting from a distance quickly in multiple directions, knowing he would be distracted and unable to block them all. He did a very effective job guarding, but in his distraction, Cerya channeled her power, releasing a large swirl of fire. Unable to block both the strong fire and her spear, the Templar chose to block the more damaging flames with his axe, giving Cerya the opening she needed. She thrust her spear clean through Oz's leg, the flesh giving easily as the tip pierced it. She did not hit the bone, fortunately, and the man fell to the ground, releasing a loud grunt as he knees slammed into stone. He loosened his axe as he fell, able to land on his palms, but unable to stand. His grit his teeth and Cerya again noticed the tears had formed in his eyes. Was the man so weak that he would cry from pain? Cerya did not remove her spear, but she walked forward, twisting the spear around in his leg, damaging the delicate muscle and tissue before she ripped it out, laving a large circular wound that blood poured from. Though his legs were covered with pants, she could see the liquid encircled the wound quickly, the fabric darkened around it.

His breath came out in rasps and he reached again for his axe. Cerya watched his motion for a half-second before she pierced the spear through Oz's hand and into the stone floor. For a moment, he tried to struggle against the weapon, only opening the wound on his hand further. He soon realized that moving his hand was futile and Cerya could see his mind working for ways around it to damage her. He looked up meeting her eyes. Cerya found the position to be remarkably pleasant as she looked down upon the Commander. She sneered at him, and his eyes only darkened in response. His jaw was set and he grated his teeth. The sweat on his face, now thicker as he attempted to withstand the pain of multiple deep wounds, caused his hair to fall from its formal position and fall over his forehead. His chest rose and fell in anger. Cerya found her own breaths to be deep, but hers was from anticipation rather than pain.

Cerya again twisted her spearpoint in the Lodissian's hand, making sure he would be unable to wield any two-handed weapon. As she did so, she looked towards it, only to realize Oz had fallen over completely and released loud gasps. For some reason he had put his weight onto the hand she just wounded. As she removed the spear, Cerya belatedly realized what had happened and why he had fallen over; the Knight Commander had used his dagger to stab her in the calf. The pain immediately began and Cerya was tempted to tear it out, but she could not, knowing it would likely cause more damage. With the Lodissian was on the floor, Cerya knew she could not waste her chance. Kicking him with all of her weight and using the butt of her spear to knock into the chest of the heavily armored man, she fell on top of him, her own injured leg unable to support her weight. Oz gasped at the heavy new weight on his chest and Cerya hissed at the pain of hard metal digging into her stomach and legs.

The man lay on his back with Cerya atop him. Cerya was able to recover from the shock first and got onto her good knee, forcing it onto his armor. She knew her spear would be pointless at such a range and instead drew her dagger, leaning down over the man's face, meeting his eyes. She forced the sharp blade into his throat and spent a moment to revel in her victory. The man's eyes seethed in fury, but no longer did he struggle; he knew of his defeat. Cerya could almost taste the blood on her lips; soon the Front would be avenged!

But something was wrong. Cerya lifted her head away from his. The red-head watched her but not attempt to move. Cerya was surprised, for she had relented slightly on accident and he had not taken advantage of her moment of hesitation. Instead, it was as if he was dead and no longer had any desire to live. The reaction infuriated Cerya further. How dare he! For all the lives he had taken he should beg before her as he asked forgiveness, not simply wait and accept the death she would bring. It struck her immediately what had been so odd about the latter part of their battle.

" Why did you not use your magic? . . .Do you desire an end to your life?" Cerya did not release her dagger, but she grasped at the cloth below her, almost tearing it with the force of her grip.

Oz ignored her words. The only reason she knew he heard them at all was because he replied. "I've failed; my house and country are dishonored. My life is forfeit, my soul ripped asunder. Do away with me now, as you've longed to." His voice remained cold and detached, and though he could have kicked and squirmed, he did not. Instead, he lifted his hand, grasping at something Cerya could not see. She followed his gaze and realized what he wanted so badly; his sister, alone within the pile of bodies on the upper level. Cerya could not see from their lower vantage point, but she knew the floor surrounding her was covered in blood.

The music of battle around them seemed to be dying down. The clash of weapons was still loud, but it was no longer a roar. The moans that had once only scattered the room now completely enveloped it. At a quick glance, Cerya could tell the majority of the fallen still remained Bakram-Valerian, but Resistance members also were quite common. The Bakram and remaining Loslorien had put up quite a fight in their knowledge that it would be their last stand. Even as enemies, Cerya could acknowledge their strength and bravery. Around the room, Cerya more easily found those she was familiar with. Denam had made his way to the upper level, which was now cleared of soldiers. Archers, Cerya knew the women to be Arycelle and Sara, were with him, their arrows piercing targets from the height advantage. Hobyrim was nowhere to be found, despite the earlier scene; Cerya found herself desperately searching for Cistina, in hope to find her unharmed. Her sister did not seem to be close; a brief wave of panic flowed through Cerya, she would be torn apart if she lost her sister from her blind pursuit of vengeance.

In disgust, Cerya looked back down. The man remained limp, but his arm had fallen to the ground. His gaze continued to remain in the direction of his fallen sister. Tears openly fell and he squinted in attempt to clear his vision. Cerya again raised her dagger to his neck; Oz tensed, in his knowledge that the end was to come, but again she lowered it, before she regretfully put it back into its sheath. Killing him now would make her just as much a monster as he.

"Death is too good for you. You will not go to be with her, not yet."

Cerya got off of Oz and stood her weight onto her left, strong, leg. She picked up her spear and leaned on it for support to avoid further damage to the wound. The Bakram-Valerians and remaining Loslorien were routed quickly, but all Cerya could do was stare at the carnage as the desperate hatred threatened to overwhelm her.

---

Phidoch's "infirmary" bustled with life - or death if you asked the Clerics and healers. After the castle had been taken, Denam ordered the living to be gathered and healed by all available and capable of healing. The "true" infirmary had filled up almost instantaneously; with no room, many wounded soldiers overflowed the doors and were forced into the halls. Everyone who was unwounded avoided the crowded corridors as if they carried a plague, for they not only sounded of unpleasant moans and loud screams, but they smelled of decaying flesh, enflamed, infected wounds, and death.

Cerya had declined a visit to the healers. Her laceration was not serious, simply lightly debilitating. After she properly wrapped and cleaned it, Cerya wanted the painful wound to be left alone so she could pretend it did not exist. Denam, kind man that he was, refused to allow her to do so and had ordered her away until she received proper treatment. Cerya resisted the urge to scold their young leader for his lack of foresight; that the healers had many other life-threatening problems to deal with. Cerya's wound was light, but she was also aware that he meant well and only wanted what was best for her. After considerable dispute, Cerya finally gave in and went to the cramped hall. Her limp barely obvious to anyone who did not know she had it, but each step sent sharp pain through her leg. Cerya looked over all of the bodies through the hall; most were unfamiliar to her, but a few faces she recognized as those who she had commanded in-battle. Cerya lowered her head respectfully as she passed by the dead; she no longer served Philaha, but she wished them well in the afterlife all the same.

"So he sent you here, as well?" The voice was feminine, but also surprisingly deep. Cerya looked around, her head raised. A few paces from her stood a lean red-head, hair loose and falling behind her. Cerya found herself staring for a moment before recognizing it as Arycelle; she looked different when not in armor - younger, perhaps, more vulnerable. Her demeanor and tone revealed her maturity and she gave Cerya a half-smile as she approached.

"'Tis not only me that Denam harasses?" Cerya forced a smile onto her features, trying to show her good humor. She was not a woman to express emotions easily and it often made others uncomfortable when she spoke casually. In return, Arycelle held her hands out, fingers covered in large, thick bandages. One of the bandages showed signs of dark blood beneath it, as if Arycelle had accidentally opened her wound and it had not stopped its bleeding. The skin of her fingers had likely shredded from drawing and releasing the bowstring during the prolonged siege of Phidoch. Even with gloves, human flesh could only withstand so much stress.

"He means well." The women were not on a first-name basis, and Arycelle apparently felt uncomfortable addressing Cerya at all. Cerya nodded silently, hair falling beside her face over her shoulder; Denam was a good man, young, idealistic, revolutionary even, but good. He kept to the ideals that Cerya had rejected and, unlike her, would likely be able to bring peace to their country. He was so different than she remembered. In her memories, Denam was still a young blond toddler, quiet, delicate, often giggly as he ran through the gardens with young Olivya. Babysitting them had been more than a little difficult, Cerya mused. Now Denam was a completely different man, almost opposite who he used to be. He was taller than Cerya now, no longer delicate, instead toned, and with a firmer demeanor. He smiled often, but very few were true smiles, his emotions locked in a bottle. He was still quiet and very much resembled his father; Cerya wondered how no-one could tell he was Bakram.

The silence between the women dragged before Cerya, agitated, walked towards the line at the end of the hall. Arycelle followed behind her, footsteps surprisingly quiet despite her confident stride. It made sense; Arycelle was an Archer, she needed silence to ambush her opponents.

"That Templar, the one from Boed?" Cerya froze mid-step at Arycelle's words, eyes widening as she turned towards Arycelle behind her; her leg cramped from the fast motion. Arycelle's features held a confident smirk. "I hope you got the bastard. I was at a bad angle, so his thigh had to suffice rather than something more. . .incapacitating. I know you spoke constantly of landing the killing blow."

Cerya forced herself to turn back around. The motion was slower than she intended and she held in a shudder at the pain that spiked up her leg. She walked, or perhaps it was more a wobble, down the hall in attempt to avoid Arycelle's question. Cerya felt a mixture of rage and sorrow. She wanted to kill that man, to feel his life between her fingers, but to do so would be to give him what he wanted: honor in death and the ability to see his sister again. Cerya clenched her hands in anger. She felt dirty, disgusting, at even sharing the same feelings as that man, even if they were as common as simple love for their sisters. Her sister was missing, possibly wounded and most likely dead. The thought terrified her and Cerya was overwhelmed with guilt. If Cistina was dead, Cerya's own blind hatred and fury was to blame. Instead of protecting Cistina, she had focused only on the Knight Commander.

The line for those not badly wounded was long and slow. Cerya's strong leg hurt almost as badly as her wounded one simply from having her weight on it. Rather than the spikes of pain from her gash, her other leg pounded from the constant increased pressure. Cerya resisted the urge to slump against the wall; instead she worked hard just to keep her head held high and stature confident. Arycelle noticed her weakened position and attempted to help Cerya with an offered arm, but Cerya knocked it away with unintentional force. She would not rely on others for her strength. Cerya waited as patiently as she could for the Cleric to come to her. She watched the women and men as they worked, most looked exhausted, their skin pale and worn, and all looked like they had not slept in days. Many of the Clerics had blood on their clothes, some simply in splatters, others in large blots. Cerya closed her eyes from the scene and breathed deeply. The smell still penetrated the halls and the air was thicker this deep in, away from many open windows. Cerya hoped none of these men were diseased, for it would spread rapidly through the wounded troops.

Finally unable to stand any longer, Cerya leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. She pressed her legs together as to not expose her undergarments and spread her legs out in front of her. Arycelle kneeled beside her, hand on Cerya's shoulder to comfort her. Cerya did not push her away this time, instead looking down to the floor, hair falling in front of her face. She knew it only hurt her, to try and push herself to stand, but again she crawled to he knees, unwilling to submit, even to her own body. As she tried to rise, Cerya found herself pulled back down by two pairs of hands. She looked up and glared, seeing one to be Arycelle and another to be one of the Clerics. Cerya finally relented and without a word, removed her boot, and pointed to Cerya's home-made wrapping. Cerya grimaced when she realized her laceration had bled through the bandage, her own stubbornness causing her wound to worsen. Cerya looked to her boot beside her, half-expecting to see the mark of blood on the outside, but was pleased to see the blood hadn't soaked the leather entirely.

The Cleric quickly placed her tools on the ground and unwound the bandage stained bandage. She tossed the bloody material aside and looked over to her tool bag, where she pulled out a rag and a bottle. Cerya worried that the rag could have been used on past patients, but she also knew she had little choice in the matter; there were too many wounded and not nearly enough servants to keep all of the material clean. "A knife." Cerya bit out as the woman washed her exposed flesh with the alcohol, her hand ran a cloth over the wound as she soaked it. "I just need a light healing. Save your strength for those who desperately need it." The Cleric looked up at her with a tired smile and nodded before pressing the rag harder. The pressure stung, and Cerya shuddered involuntarily as the woman re-opened her wound with small metal items that seemed to be used entirely for this purpose of dissection. The Cleric poked into Cerya's wound, gently tearing and cutting away small strips of flesh. Cerya breathed hard to avoid showing any pain, but the muscle was tender and sweat dripped her face and hands. After a moment, the tearing stopped and with a small "clink" the woman ran alcohol over her tools and put them back in her small bag. She put her hands over Cerya's leg and the small tingle of healing magic burned through her. The woman was skilled in her art, but also tired; what was usually a pleasant caress was somewhat forced and uncomfortable, like rubbing velvet in the wrong direction.

The wound was not healed when the woman finished, Cerya believed the Cleric had simply quickened the process, possibly even just reversed the damage Cerya's own stubborn walking had caused. Cerya smiled respectfully as the other woman finished re-bandaging her leg with clean wrap. The Cleric returned the smile. "You need to avoid walking on this as much as possible or you could permanently cripple the muscle. If that happens, you'll never see the battlefield again."

"Thank you." Was Cerya's demure reply and the Cleric nodded, moving over to the nearby Arycelle. They spoke lightly beside her, but Cerya paid no heed to the words. Cerya did not particularly enjoy battle, but to lose her ability to fight for her people would be a nightmare. If, even for a few days, she must remain off her feet, it would be worth it to be able to continue her struggle for a better future. Cerya slid her boot back on, noting the sticky wetness from her previously-bloody bandage running up her leg. She would need to wash herself later. She brought her knees close and rolled them over onto the ground below her as she pushed herself up off the floor. Her legs were both still sore, but also somewhat relieved from the temporarily removed pressure. It would not last long, as Cerya soon began to feel the pounds return.

"I. . ." Cerya's words drifted off. The healer looked up from her ministrations on Arycelle's hand with a confused look on her face. "Never mind." Cerya turned away, her eyes downcast and expression somber. She could hardly believe herself; she acted like an insecure child!

"Is something amiss?" The Cleric's words were kind and gentle. Arycelle watched Cerya curiously as well; Cerya wished to tell the younger woman to mind her business, but she knew Arycelle was only worried and meant no harm. Cerya inwardly felt a warmth for the younger woman, which was quickly overshadowed by her annoyance born from pain and the foul mood brought with it.

"I'm looking for someone. A woman named Cistina." Cerya heard Arycelle gasp beside her and it was not from the pain of the Cleric's touch. The Cleric nodded and motioned for Cerya to continue even as she examined Arycelle's split skin. Cerya quickly described her sister to the Cleric. "If she arrives here, please" Cerya almost wanted to get on her hands and knees and beg, but her pride would not allow her to. Instead, she put emotion into her voice; even if only a little, the concern was more than she usually showed. ". . .Please send any news of her to Cerya Phoraena." Again the Cleric nodded and Cerya wondered if she cared at all. She knew there was no way to make the busy woman listen any more than she had; if no news of Cistina came within the next day, Cerya would search for her sister herself, regardless of what she might find.

Cerya walked slowly down the hall away from the line of wounded soldiers. She barely gave any acknowledgment to Arycelle's call of well wishes, for her own thoughts were cluttered and confused. Cistina was in danger, Cerya's own revenge was unfulfilled, her country was still not unified and Cerya was in no position to fight for it. The Resistance's control of Phidoch was a large blow to both the Dark Knights and Brantyn Morne, for it moved the border north and leeched a pivotal choke point from their grasp. It was also the first step in what she knew to be a longer, harder campaign; she wanted to continue her fight, not sit around weakly. She could never forgive herself if Cistina died; for a moment, a brief flash of memory engulfed her. Young Olivya, who smiled at Denam as they played in the stream, Sherri, as she walked through the gardens, Cistina, who always ran through the breezy fields. It had been a different time and place, but it was the reason Cerya continued her battle even against impossible odds. No longer would families be torn apart as hers was, she would not allow it.

The walk back towards her room was long. None offered her help, for they knew she would only reject it, but a few offered her a smile that she did not return. In one of the side halls, to Cerya's surprise, a group of soldiers rushed by her and knocked her into the wall and out of the way. They turned back and Cerya glared at them for their rudeness; they were young, likely new recruits, faces bright, childlike and armor untouched by battle. They looked at each other and shrugged before they continued on their way in a rush to get to wherever their destination happened to be. Cerya snorted in annoyance at the children's antics as she pushed herself up from the hard wall. She continued her slow pace until she saw a crowd formed and heard a loud bustle. The people, Resistance members, servants, and citizens alike pushed their way into the Great Hall. The castle was already warm and stuffy, but so many people in such a confined area made the heat almost unbearable as Cerya approached. She resisted the urge to cover her ears, the loud wave of voices created a pound in her already-pained head; grimace on her features, she pushed her way through, only to find more and more people. Finally annoyed, she stopped and tapped the first experienced soldier she saw on the shoulder.

"What is this?" Cerya demanded, her voice a tone she usually reserved only for commands. Her victim was a scruffy man and, in contrast to the children she saw earlier, she could tell this one had seen battle. The man took a step back in surprise; Cerya was familiar with his reaction, as her accent disconcerted many Resistance members. Cerya tapped her boot in annoyance only to regret the motion a moment later as she almost staggered under he own weight.

The man's reply was cautious, his face contorted in confusion and distaste. "Some of the newer recruits are being punished. They were caught torturing our prisoners of war." Cerya frowned, unsure why that would be such a crime. Was information not one purpose to a prisoner of war? She knew Denam to be soft when it came to such acts, and he would never approve of them, but this "event" that celebrated punishment was a bit much. The man noticed her confusion and continued. "Not for information, my Lady. If you would forgive my bluntness, they tortured for pleasure and for vengeance."

Cerya held back her revulsion. With Denam's rise to power, the popularity of the Resistance had grown. No longer was it simply a Walister movement, Galgastani, Xenobians, and even Bakram had fled to the cause under the charismatic youth. Such popularity also had negative side effects; many soldiers were inexperienced children who sought glory or were sadistic former criminals who lusted after blood. Cerya knew she could not expect Denam to reject new members, but he certainly needed to find a way to filter them out. Cerya mused that perhaps new recruits should not be allowed to serve under important captains without a preparation test that determined their mental stability. She thanked the man for the information and continued her push through the crowd; the smell of the men was unbearable, a mixture of dirt, body odor, sweat, alcohol, and even sex. She scrunched her nose; combined, the smell was almost worse than that of a decayed body.

Cerya slowly made her way through the bodies. They pressed tightly together and soon cheers started; from the sounds, she assumed the culprits, whoever they happened to be, were publicly flogged. She did her best to ignore the grunts and the sharp sound of the whip strikes, but they echoed through the hall and pierced into her ears. At each strike she vividly remembered the sound of the female Templar, Oz's sister, who had also massacred to Front. The woman had not been quite as sadistic as her brother, but she held blame just the same. Though whips were a common weapon, the sound of the cries of the Front was all she could associate it with – the sound of each strike brought upon vivid recollection of the other woman's attacks. Cerya pushed through the crowd more rapidly until she reached the opening into the hallway that led to her chambers. She fled, away from the cries and the memory of what she had been unable to prevent.

---

"Cerya, you must deal with him."

Denam's voice was weary and it only emphasized to his body's exhaustion. His face looked gaunt and his hair was brushed but not washed, the oil only reminded Cerya that he was much younger than he pretended to be. He had changed his armor; when he had been confronted about it, Denam simply sighed and murmured about how his old armor had been damaged in battle. Cerya knew he omitted information but let the subject drop, it was not her business and Denam looked a more capable leader in his new garb rather than like a naive youth who played at war.

Cerya sat across from her commander, the latter who stood near the window; she was not used to being ordered about and felt indignation rise within her. She no longer wore her tall boots, for the pressure and rub of them only caused her calf to swell, and her second pair had been damaged by the Templar's blade and could not be mended. She felt exposed without the cover, especially with some of the younger recruits and their lecherous stares over her legs.

"I want nothing to do with him. He is yours; they took your father, so you've just as much justification to keep him as I." Cerya held her face to the side in refusal to meet Denam's gaze. She heard Denam sigh across from her and watched as he put his head in his hands. It was rare for him to show such a reaction and he was obviously under a good amount of stress; Cerya empathized with him. Denam stood and turned away from her. His voice remained impassive and Cerya found it impossible to determine his thoughts or emotions.

"What you and I want is irrelevant. Word has spread about the Knight Commander's presence." Cerya jumped as Denam hit his hand against the stone wall. "A few younger warriors caused a fuss and some insubordinate captains punished them. . .severely." Denam seemed truly upset. "I refuse to allow such actions to occur in my army. Public flogging is not to be tolerated." Cerya's eyes widened as she understood the implications of Denam's words.

"A fuss?" Cerya questioned Denam, who turned back around and looked down at her, as she tried to better understand the subject. Cerya uncrossed her legs in an unconscious fidget.

"They tortured him. They were stopped before he could be killed, but they made no attempt to obtain information." Denam's story rang true, as it was the same she had been told by the unknown warrior. She had thought very little of it at the time, but the pieces fit together in her mind and she understood the purpose of that mob.

"Just kill him." Cerya's voice was flat and she met Denam's gaze with her own.

"I cannot do that." Denam turned away, though his gaze relented to hers, his words and body language spoke differently. Denam would keep to his morals; he refused to kill unnecessarily and, when he did, he did so only on even and honorable grounds. Cerya thought it childish, much like Cistina, but she could also respect his true desire to end the war; that passion was why she had followed him after her own defeat. Denam continued, his words tired: "We've received news. I am heading to Brigantys to speak with the Order of Philaha." Cerya gasped but quickly closed her mouth at Denam's voiceless question. She shook her head in refusal to continue. "I'm leaving you with the castle. Be sure to deal with our problem by the time I return. Dismissed."

Cerya found herself surprised at the sharp, firm tone Denam had used. There were moments he could pass as an idealistic child, yet other times he was a firm, capable leader who produced results in a way even Cerya envied. She nodded and stood, using the table as support. She accepted that her bandaged leg was the reason why Cerya was required to stay behind, even if it hurt her ego to do so. She wanted to be afield, not rot away in the castle like a pompous noble. She turned away and walked from the room, her steps slow and stiff in refusal to show pain. Denam did not follow behind her, instead he remained in the strategy room. Cerya desperately wanted to go back to her room and pretend the orders had never been given, but her sense of responsibility, and logic, told her it was better to deal with the problem head-on rather than let it linger. If she did not confront the Lodissian now, he would haunt her, more than he already did, until she finally chose to remove him from the world. But what could she do? He wanted to die. He had information, but Cerya felt hesitant to torture even a man she hated. She could not just leave him to rot. Perhaps she should sell him into slavery? She frowned at that, but kept it in the back of her mind as an option. Morals had not stopped her while she was in the Front; she had been willing to assassinate Ronwey, Barbatos, and Morne and would have felt no remorse, why had she suddenly hesitated in her means?

It was Denam, damn him. His righteousness had spread to her; Cerya cursed herself and how easily she had been influenced. Cerya walked back to her room slowly as she pondered on how to deal with the troublesome Lodissian who was now her charge. The halls bustled with soldiers; apparently, Denam had already given orders to some of his men. Many of them saluted Cerya as they passed and, while she acknowledged them, she did not particularly care who they were. Her room was nearby, fortunately, and the walk was not long. As she entered, she looked expectantly onto her table in hope that news of Cistina had arrived while she was away. As always, the table lay bare and Cerya felt a pang in her chest. Cerya allowed a bit of her limp to show as she shut the door behind her. She looked around cautiously for enemies and saw none before she finally relaxed and leaned over to remove her shoes. Her guest chambers were empty and appeared unlived in, with only a small table near the window and a rather large couch against the wall, across from her fireplace. To one side of the room was her bath chamber and the other side was her bedchamber. It was a remarkably odd setup and Cerya cursed whoever had designed it.

She walked into her bed chamber and picked up her small box of medical supplies she ordered from the town. Alongside her bed was a small pitcher of water that she picked up as well - she lacked any alcohol on-hand so water would have to do. Cerya knew the infirmary could not spare any of their stock and they already used up many of the supplies from volunteers in town, so Cerya had sent for her own to not burden the healers. Tools in hand, Cerya limped through her guest room into the surprisingly large bath chambers. In the chamber was a very large tub that had been emptied by servants earlier in the day, towels to the side, and a small table that held Cerya's wash. Cerya struggled into her tub sat on the edge so that she had full access to her leg. She removed the dirty bandage gently, for even a small stroll enflamed the deep wound. Cerya knew her own refusal to simply sit slowed her recovery process.

Cerya tossed the bandage on the floor below her and took hold of one of her newly-cleaned towels. The fabric was rough between her fingers, but it was all Cerya had. She wet it with her water pitcher and rubbed it down her calf. The large cut was heavily infected and it burned at even the lightest touch, the skin around it was pink and red, though some was yellow and even fell off when she ran the towel over it. Cerya picked off the dead flesh and scabs, her breath hitched in pain at the motions. Her fingers seemed only to cause more pain, as they were inefficient and drew away more flesh than she intended. Blood quickly dripped from her newly exposed skin and Cerya again wiped it down with her towel; blood was good, she had once been told, it showed the skin would heal and the region was not permanently damaged. The blood soaked into her thin white towel quickly and Cerya pressed it hard against the wound in attempt to stop it. If it persisted, Cerya knew she would need to deal with the infection at some point.

The flow of blood slowed after a time and Cerya finally released the pressure, her hands sticky with the life-giving substance that had soaked through the towel. Cerya again poured water over her hands to clean them and wiped the water off on her clothes, she would need to change into her battle dress if she was to face the Knight Commander, so she did not care if she dirtied her clothes. Cerya picked up the unused bandage she had brought from her room and wrapped it around her leg tightly, before she firmly tied the ends together. She did not have the tools to do anything more than a makeshift binding, but it would have to do. Cerya slid her leg back over the tub and picked up her used bandages. She tossed them all into a small pile in the corner for the servants to deal with before she walked back through her room into the bed chamber. She lacked clothing, as all she had with her was her battle dress and the informal dress set she currently wore, the latter of which was covered in diluted blood. Cerya stripped off her clothes, careful not to hit her leg, and tossed it onto the floor near her bed. If the servants would not clean it, she would get to it later. Cerya lifted her battle dress over her head and slipped her arms through the large sleeves. It was a bit dirty, but it was what she was most comfortable in and it would offer her the protection she needed. Cerya tied her belt around her waist and checked her dagger instinctively, even though she knew it to be there. Her spear was in the corner of her small bed chamber and she attached it to the belt over her back. Cerya would not look out of place armed as the soldiers gathered for Denam, so she needed to finish this quickly before she received odd stares.

Cerya put her shoes back on, again her legs felt exposed without her boots and even more so now that she no longer wore the lengthy dress,and turned out the door without a look behind her. She returned to her confident stride as she walked the halls; she did not allow her pain to show. The halls were not as busy as they had been previously, for many of the men had already gathered in the courtyard. The servants she passed were very respectful and kept their distance, even if some eyed her curiously. Denam's orders had already made their way through the castle, for when she passed by guards, they stood at attention until Cerya waved them away in annoyance. She did not lead because she enjoyed the power it gave, she did so because it was a necessity. Denam knew Cerya would be a firm leader in his place and Cerya did not intend to disappoint him. Already on her mind were changes she would implement: she would create strict regimens for the new recruits and send the more experienced ones on assignments into the countryside for materials or to scout and even into Rhime to obtain more supplies. Even more importantly, she would make trade deals with merchants so the Resistance would not need to rely on inconsistent war prices.

Cerya questioned one of the guards about the location of the dungeons; the entrance was easy to find with even the simplest directions, as the closer she went the less people she encountered. The halls went from somewhat loud to almost completely silent in a matter of moments, the only sound was the clunk of her boots on the floor. There were no windows in the hall and the door to the dungeons was simple, but also remarkably normal. Had she not known otherwise, she would expect the door to simply lead into a bedroom or meeting room. The door opened easily and was not locked. Cerya frowned at her easy entry; she needed to speak with someone about the passage, it no wonder the young soldiers had easily made their way in and out of the dungeons. She stepped into the dark hallway beyond the simple door and immediately noticed the changes in the atmosphere. There was no natural light in this hall, all of the light came from torches on the wall and, because of that, the hallway was smoky and the air thick. Cerya found herself nervous in such darkness and grasped her spear. Within a few paces she encountered stairs that led downwards. Using the butt of her spear as support, Cerya made her way, very slowly, down the steep stairs into unpredictable darkness. Her calf screamed at her in pain but Cerya ignored it. After what seemed to be a half-hour, though Cerya knew it likely closer to a fifth of that time, she reached the bottom. To her surprise, it was not as stuffy as the enclosed upper hallway and she immediately noticed that, unlike the upper levels, there were small windows in each small cell. There were no guardsmen, again Cerya frowned. What was Denam thinking? You simply do not have prisoners without guards!

Cerya peered into each cell. All were empty, yet were used in the past to varying degrees. Some were dirtier, Cerya was not quite sure she wanted to know with what, and others seemed to lack any modern use at all. One of the cells near the entrance was bloody; there was a large table inside with tools atop it. The blood was red enough that she could tell it had been used recently in comparison to the other cells, her assumption was that it was likely the Dark Knights' torture chamber. Cerya turned away and continued walking in attempt to ignore the vivid fantasies that danced through her head at the sight of the bloodied room. Spiders and their webs filled the hall as she progressed. To her surprise, she heard voices just ahead. It was as if the speakers attempted to be quiet, but Cerya could tell they were humanoid. No rat or small beast could make such a sound. Cerya hit her spear against the floor loudly as she walked, which showed she was not only armed, but aware they were there. The voices went silent other than a weak pant. Cerya's eyebrows creased and held her breath as she turned the corner into the room she knew them to in

Inside the room was three soldiers, two warriors with swords and the third was obviously a wizard. On the floor between them was the red-headed Lodissian. He no longer had the dark armor on, a quick glance through the room showed it to be in the corner, along with his weapons. The room was almost as bloody as the torture chamber she had earlier passed, but all of the blood here was new and very likely the Templar's. She was amazed he was still alive. His breaths were shallow and weak and his stomach had a large gouge. She could see the holes where her spear and Arycelle's arrow had pierced his legs; they were crusted over with blood and pus, obviously unhealed, but they had been widened by the torturers, with large cuts through his skin almost rendering his thighs flaps rather than connected muscle and flesh. His arms, still well toned, had large swords pierced through them, the blades stuck into the crevices of the floor. Cerya though that method to be particularly foolish, for if the Knight Commander truly wanted to he could sit up - they were not keeping him pinned down. All of the toenails on his feet were removed, but Cerya could tell it had been done some time in the past, since they did not bleed, only were covered in a dried crust. In the bottom of his feet were large spikes that dug upwards; Cerya felt most ill as she looked at that, despite the obvious brutality over the rest of his body, those spikes would likely take the longest to heal. Across his chest were large strips of bruised, raw, and tender flesh, as if they had both beaten him with a large mace and whipped him afterward. Burn marks and blisters covered the Templar's face and Cerya could tell it was likely from the wizard's magic. The Lodissian had not fought back and Cerya knew, from her own battle with him, it was because he waited only for death. He hadn't opened his eyes at Cerya's arrival, instead he focused on his breaths; she could tell he held back a grimace and possibly even tears.

"What is going on here?" Cerya was surprised at how quiet her voice sounded in her ears. She was filled with rage and disgust, yet her tone spoke a different language entirely. No matter how much she hated the bloodied man on the floor, to see what was supposed to be a civilized group of soldiers act so filled her with rage. The men looked at each other and then back at Cerya. She recognized the look; they thought her weak and wanted to take her for themselves. They were not the first to have made such a mistake in the past. Cerya's rage was amplified; though she was wounded, she would die before she allowed them to touch her. Cerya leveled her spear at them in warning and one of the men chuckled. It was a dark sound that provoked Cerya to knock him over with her spear thrust; he had been too distracted, or even inexperienced, to avoid the action. The man fell backwards in response, but the light attack caused Cerya's leg to shake from pain. The Phoraena woman ignored her weakness, there would be time for it later - these children had to be removed first.

"Leave now." Again, none of them chose to respond or move. Cerya saw the wizard prepare a spell and immediately put her spear to his throat. He was inexperienced enough that Cerya could see he lacked the power and skill to create anything that would cause permanent damage to her. The young man visibly gulped; Cerya glanced over his face, but he was unfamiliar to her, likely a new recruit. One of the warriors stood from his position on the ground and Cerya moved away in defense at his drawn weapon. He was not burly and was far too small and weak to wield such a large weapon with any efficiency. His hair was unkempt and his face smudged with blood. He lacked armor and, if she judged correctly, any skill with the blade he currently held. Cerya gave them a final warning, her tone firmer. "I want no infighting. If you leave now and never return, I will forget this ever happened."

"Hey, Albert." The sitting warrior sneered to his standing friend. "This lady looks like she can handle a spear, don't you think?" His accent was low-class and Cerya could only think to call him 'Slimy.' It fit, for his face was greasy and his beard ungroomed. He looked like a common pickpocket. His words held a not-so-subtle intonation; it was not the first time she had heard that "joke."

'Albert' responded as he took a step forward sword pointed towards Cerya's chest. It was a bluff, she could tell. "Indeed. Let's see how experienced, shall we?" The man swung in a wide arc downwards in attempt to remove her legs, but his sword was heavy and he lacked room to properly swing it with force. All he could muster was a weak slash that was hardly a threat and likely would not have even cut through her bone. Cerya did not bother with a parry, instead she took a step back. She used her superior range with a spear and ran the tip through the soft flesh of his neck. She twisted the end which caused the man to make an odd gurgle. He fell hard against the wall and to the floor, his hands grasped at the wound futilely in attempt to stop the blood flow. It was too late, Cerya knew, the man would die, for she had pierced him fatally. She heard a soft grunt from the direction of the Templar, a quick glance revealed that his eyes were open. Despite his obvious pain, he seemed as amused as Cerya at the pathetic excuse for a warrior.

The sitting warrior's, 'Slimy,' eyes opened in shock at Cerya's ruthless attack. The wizard she had earlier threatened got up and, to Cerya's annoyance, ran down the hall in terror. Cerya almost sent a weak fire spell after him, but she knew he would not come back. Instead she focused her attention on 'Slimy' who now stood, weapon drawn. His sword wavered in his hand as Cerya rebalanced her spear. The motion was not meant in threat to anyone who had experienced battle with a spear-user in the past, but it terrified the boy in front of her. Cerya sighed and shook her head. In a quick motion, Cerya used the butt of her spear to strike at his stomach, the man's lack of experience rendered him unable to block. He gasped and instinctively curled up, Cerya used the vulnerability to disarm her opponent, his small one-handed sword easily fell to the ground. She held her spear towards him and he shook, coward that he was. She tilted her head towards the door, but 'Slimy' ignored the motion. Cerya would not kill this one, instead she ran her spear through his thigh, similarly to how she had harmed the Knight Commander. Unlike with the Lodissian, she did not twist her weapon, instead she removed it quickly as he fell. 'Slimy' looked up with hatred in his eyes as Cerya put the point of her weapon to his neck. As he looked up at her from the position, Cerya could tell he was no older than 17. Though not much younger than Denam, their personalities clashed significantly.

"Go. The healers will see to you." Cerya expected the man to get up in attempt to preserve his pride, but the weak child simply fell to his hands and knees and crawled, dragging his leg behind him, his wound left a trail of blood . As he crawled away and Cerya's adrenaline slowly faded, her leg begged for relief and for her to remove her weight. She almost fell over in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, but caught herself on her spear before she did so. She breathed heavily as she recovered and looked down at the wound. Blood seeped through her bandages and she cursed her own foolishness. She would never be afield at this rate! With Cerya was caught up in scolding herself, she was surprised when the Knight Commander sat up. It was an amazing motion that she could hardly believe possible in his state. He painfully tore the swords from his skin and Cerya winced as blood gushed from the new wounds. Perhaps he thought to bleed to death? He spoke to himself, his voice hoarse and weak, his accent heavy and unfamiliar.

"Children." He was stopped by a cough fierce enough to wrack his entire body. "Inefficient. Unimaginative." He could not manage more than a word at a time. Cerya had no idea what he mumbled about and thought perhaps he had gone mad from their torture. Not that being insane would be any different from his normal mindset, she corrected herself. Cerya was conflicted; She thought to leave him on the ground to bleed to death, weakened from prolonged imprisonment with little food and water. It would be a fitting, painful, and dishonorable way to die and it was exactly what he deserved. His death would solve all of their problems and the Liberation Front would be avenged. Cerya resolved herself to turn and walk away, but as she attempted to do so, her body refused to move.

What would they think?

Would Mother be mad that Cerya had been so overwhelmed with vengeance that she left someone to die, no matter their crimes?
Some already compared her to her father, who left his family in pursuit of his political games. It was true; the Liberation Front had become Cerya's life and she lost much because of it. She did not think of her father's judgment, for she had followed his footsteps already.
What of kind Olivya, who refused to live for herself? She was not selfish as Cerya was, and wanted to help only others in the name of Philaha - a life Cerya had long discarded. What would she say if Cerya left a man to die?
Sherri. . .Cerya hated any thoughts of her broken sister. Death had shattered her soul; Sherri knew above all others that death never brought happiness, a lesson Cerya knew she should learn.
And what of Cistina? Cerya's heart lurched deeply at the thought of her charge. Cistina, the poor girl, would loathe that Cerya had become overwhelmed with vengeance. She had begged Cerya to calm herself before Phidoch, but Cerya had not listened. If Cistina was gone, Cerya would never forgive herself, for vengeance would have taken her away.
Cerya's mind even brought to face an image of Denam, who saw through Cerya's mask of confidence and shattered her resolve. She had given up her own goal to help him and to do so she had put aside her morals and take up his.

Cerya cursed her indecisive nature and her sudden empathy for the man bleeding to death on the floor before her. No, she would not let him die. She did not know what she would do with him, but to leave him to his death felt wrong in the very depths of her soul. Cerya walked over to the man she killed and kneeled. Her leg wordlessly thanked her for the relief of pressure and Cerya tore the man's clothes off. They would serve until she could find a healer. She sighed at her own hypocrisy; she had felt no remorse when she put her spear into this man's throat to save her own life, but she could not leave her sworn enemy to die before her eyes. It was a ridiculous conundrum.

As quickly as she could, Cerya tore the clothing into strips and then crawled over to the Templar, who examined her curiously with his weak eyes. He was a completely different man than he had been in battle, his features worn and dirty, his hair in every which direction, and his demeanor held less confidence and more caution - but the same arrogance. He did not attempt to move, for his own body was too damaged to do so and more than he had. Cerya pressed hard against the wounds where the swords had pierced. She almost wanted to scold him for their removal as he knew such was dangerous, but corrected herself before she did so – she could not simply scold the man as if they were friends. It had been a long time since she used the arts of Light magic, back before her mother had died and long before she had created the Liberation Front. The feel for it was still inside her, though she lacked skill. The most she could do was heal him lightly. She channeled her power and with embarrassingly clumsy skill at the magic - she did not trust her power enough to heal her own leg - and spread it into the Templar's wound. She knew she did not have the soft touch of an experienced healer and the magic was likely unpleasant, but both of them knew it was necessary. The Lodissian did not complain or even show any pain; compared to what he likely felt over the rest of his body, a rough tingle was nothing. After a moment, she stopped and caught her breath, her use was inefficient and she expended energy more quickly than she had intended. The wound would not be closed, but she had been able to restore muscle and torn blood vessels. She was pleased, for her ego's sake, when the Knight Commander had chosen not to mock her inexperience.

As she waited for her power to restore, she looked about and crawled over to the weapons and put them in a pile near the hallway. She certainly could not have him take his own life with them after she attempted to save it. She left his armor and large axe in the corner; the axe would be too heavy for him to lift in his state. The red-head's magic was still sealed, fortunately, but Cerya was almost tempted to paralyze him in order to prevent further movement. She soon went over to the dead man and checked his pockets, but fortunately found nothing that would be of use to Oz before she crawled back over to the Knight Commander and continued her work. He had opened his eyes again and was staring at her. Cerya did her best to ignore the look, but found his gaze increasingly uncomfortable. Even burned his face still held its pale aristocracy and Cerya doubted he would ever lose his aura of command; as she had learned, command was more than voice and expression, but body language and confidence, both of which he surprisingly retained, even as he rested in a pool of his own blood while almost naked. After she did what she could for his arms, Cerya stood, sweat on her brow, and leaned on her spear again. She looked back down and met her prisoner's eyes.

"Don't move." Cerya knew how foolish it sounded as she considered circumstances, but what else was she to say? The Knight Commander seemed perfectly willing to mock her for this particular misstep, if not for her Light magic.

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" His words were more controlled now that he was no longer actively tortured, but they still came out in abnormal bursts.

Cerya chose to ignore his remark and bit back her retort. If she played his game, she would likely want to kill him all over again. She quickly looked over his body in attempt to analyze him for any threat to his life and saw none; at a distance, it was more obvious that most of his wounds were not recent. The sight of the spikes in his feet made her ill for they were obviously new, her stomach rolled at the large black metal that dug deeply into his skin. They could not be removed easily, but fortunately they did not seem to bleed badly. Even if she could remove them, she lacked the skill in healing to even moderately heal the gouges.

Cerya turned away and walked through the door with confidence she did not feel. She used her spear as support to more easily make her way to the upper levels. The only thing that stopped her collapse from the pain in her leg was her determination to keep that man alive.

Cistina, this is for you.

---

"Captain, please! He refuses treatment."

Cerya put her face in her hands and ran her fingers through her bangs. With Denam gone, Cerya had to manage the remaining Resistance members within Phidoch. She quickly learned why Denam had looked so exhausted when she had last met him; she constantly ordered soldiers and servants alike as she sent messages and demanded information. She hadn't even had time for a meal.

The presence of the Cleric only made her day worse.

"I do not care what he wants. If you must, tie him down and force him into submission." Cerya snapped with unintentional harshness. She knew the Cleric was not the cause of her problems. "Her" Knight Commander, as the healers titled him, had only become increasingly difficult as he recovered; he even went as far as to demand food and water three times a day as well as water to clean himself with. She knew the Knight Commander tested the strength of his leash, but Cerya did not have the energy or desire to deal with him and his pathetic games. After she had first visited the dungeons, she ordered guards be assigned to posts outside in order to prevent further intrusions or unacceptable behavior. The dungeons were not underground, rather, they were off in a far wing on the ground level that was impossible to enter or leave through any other means but the steep stairs. Cerya's rule was firmer than Denam's and she had no problem with the capture and use of prisoners for information. Denam needed to grow up at some point and realize no matter how good he wanted to be, some darkness would always occur in a war. If Cerya had to cause the darkness on her own to keep Denam innocent, she would do so.

The Cleric looked horrified at Cerya's proposition. They were familiar with stubborn and willful patients and knew the best way to subdue them, but the thought of such force against one still wounded as the Templar apparently was beyond their logic. Cerya could feel the Cleric's lecture before it even began and she held her hand up to silence her prematurely.

"Fine. I will do what I can." Cerya motioned in dismissal and the Cleric bowed. She had originally called the other woman to see if there was news of Cistina, but the Cleric said, as they always did, that there were so many wounded that she could not possibly know every single warrior. Cistina might very well be in the wards, but Cerya would need to go through them one-by-one if she wanted to find her. To Cerya's greatest shame and regret, her duty prevented her search and she had not had much time to look. She had searched through the unidentified dead bodies, but as far as Cerya could tell, Cistina was not there. It had given her a temporary hope that Cistina was alive. She would have to accept the small hope until she was able to continue her search.

The rest of her day was spent on orders and reports. She silently cursed Denam, who was not expected back for another week - possibly more if the parley did not go as expected. In some ways, Cerya knew it was good for her; while busy, she did not have the chance to walk around or practice, so her leg had a chance to heal. The healers had been horrified at the damage Cerya had done to it when she had walked up and demanded their assistance with the Lodissian. She had completely undone any previous healing and had been required to spend the day in the her room for a more thorough healing. A few days had passed since then and she remained off her feet as often as she could. Even the small passage of time had allowed her leg to steadily make progress in recovery and it no longer oozed the yellow fluid and her skin of her leg was no longer as red.

As she put her last paper to the side, Cerya released a small sigh of relief, but also dread. She knew she had to go "deal" with the Templar. Had she her way, she would never see him again; to spare his life - not once, but twice - had taken considerable willpower. He haunted her dreams and the very thought of him filled her with not rage - not only at him, but at herself and her lack of strength. Cerya was almost tempted to send a few soldiers down in her stead, but thought better of it as he was her problem. Cerya's mind would not be put to rest until she dealt with both the man and the memory of the Liberation Front. Even if all that remained of the Front was in her very soul, they would not be sated until she came to peace with her inner turmoil. She had sworn she would not kill the Knight Commander; he had the answers to her questions - even if she did not know what her questions were.

Despite her constant complaints on the contrary, Cerya took the advice of the healers seriously. Her pace was slow and controlled. She did not allow her limp to show as she walked the halls, but spent the time to carefully prepare her steps to lower the pressure on her calf. The castle was cool and humid, a soft rain fell from the sky and mud filled the entrance hall from the soldiers' dirty boots. Cerya was not particularly fond of rain, preferring warm summer days, and the clouds served to darken her mood, but she admitted it was a welcome relief from the hot, stuffy crowded halls where she could only smell the odor of soldiers. As she walked the halls, she spent a moment near an opened window. The soft sound of rain was consistent and it calmed her, the mist on her face almost felt like a cleansing aura that she desperately needed. She remained as such for a moment before she continued her path; she did not close the window behind her, for a bit of fresh air would do the castle good. The journey to the dungeons would be stuffy and smoky, Cerya knew she would appreciate that air once she reached the stairs.

Cerya nodded in approval as she noticed her guards had finally set up posts outside the door and stairs that led into the dungeons. The door was now open, but it did not seem that the hall was any less stuffy or smoke-filled than it had been when closed, even with the passage of air. The men stood at attention as Cerya passed and she offered them a smile, if only to get their spirits up. She knew they were likely bored and felt unimportant doing such mundane guard duty, so acknowledgement would serve to alleviate the tedium and their spite. Cerya leaned on the wall as she walked down the stairs, her steps unnaturally heavy. For anyone with experience, they would recognize the sound of Cerya's steps as wounded and that she was a prime target to attack. She wished she had brought more than her dagger with her.

When she finally reached the bottom, the first thing she noted was the moistness that permeated the atmosphere, for many of the windows were open in the empty cells. Cerya was not sure how she felt about the windows in prisoner cells. On the negative side, they gave the cells a bit of light; total darkness and silence broken prisoners in ways that a lighted room could not. They could also hear voices far off in the distance, which gave them some sense of o the outdoors and less of total isolation. On the other hand, the windows were far too small to do more than stick an arm out of. They also subtly taunted and mocked the men and their lack of freedom. In some ways, Cerya could imagine a simple torture, with men constantly looking down from the windows at the prisoner during the night, the only thing they could see would be the whites of their eyes, the constant feel of their stare on their backs. The very thought made Cerya uncomfortable and mentally wrote it down for use in the future; perhaps the previous occupants of the castle had used the windows as such, as well.

The Lodissian's room was closed. Again there were no guards, but he seemed to have little desire to escape. The door was unlocked, but the Templar was chained onto the wall and would be unable to leave even if he wanted to. Cerya offhandedly noted that the carcass of the man she killed had been taken away. The male's eyes opened as Cerya entered; he looked broken, ready to collapse from exhaustion. He looked haunted and as if he had not slept since she saw him last. Many of his lighter wounds had been healed: the burn marks on his face were completely gone, in their place were the short beginnings of a beard. His thighs were thighs again and not simple flabs of skin and exposed muscle. He still had large scabs on his hand where Cerya had pierced him and both of his feet were heavily bandaged. His arms, too, were in better condition, Cerya's own magic and the magic from the healers had prevented any permanent damage, but any motion more than a simple gesture would open the skin. As the bandages were thickly coated with blood, Cerya assumed that the stubborn Templar had attempted to move on many occasions only to hurt himself more. His chest was still heavily bruised, but it did not appear as if he had any broken ribs. It had taken three healers almost a full day to get him back into this condition, but he would still not be walk for weeks. Even when his legs healed, the muscles in his arms and legs would have atrophied and he would no longer be as efficient in battle.

They stared in silence at one-another for what seemed an eternity. Cerya felt her chest rise and fall almost in-time with the Templar's, but rather than from exhaustion, Cerya's was from worry and irritation at herself. What was she to say? The man rejected further treatment, yet he was obviously far from healed. He wanted something. How dare he assume he has any rights? Cerya felt her anger grow again, her eyes revealed an intense hate before it slowly diffused. The Templar's gaze revived at Cerya's own fire and he looked less weary and more interested.

Cerya finally whispered, her voice little higher than the pound of rain outside the window: "Why?"

The red-head did not answer. He continued to stare up at her curiously. His look irritated her, for it showed no remorse or pain, both of which she desperately wanted him to feel. She clenched her firsts and turned away, head down and took a breath to calm herself. Cistina would not want her to hate, but that did not mean she had to accept him or any of his horrible actions. She looked back and screamed, her voice echoed down the hall; she and the Templar were both surprised at the show of emotion.

"I want to know why!" Cerya found it difficult to be calm and focused instead on her breaths, drawing them out in attempt to refrain from such outbursts again. She felt like a child, for she had not yelled such in years. In some ways, it was a cathartic release. The man finally replied, his tone dry and sarcastic; unlike their previous meeting, his words were more controlled and no longer were stalled by his gasps.

"You'll have to be more specific. I've a great many skills, but the ability to read minds is not one of them."

Cerya slammed her fist against the thick stone wall. The wall barely made a sound in response other than a quiet "thud" and Cerya only gasped in pain at her own foolishness. She ignored the painful throb and took a step forward, hair falling out of place and in front of her face at her ferocity. "Why did you torture everyone? You killed them all, even after you had the Abuna."

To her horror, the man chuckled. He closed his eyes and his chest and shoulders vibrated in silent laughter. He was stopped by a wince of pain from his wounds and opened his eyes, a sneer on his features and his eyes dark. "I wanted to."

"That is no answer!" Cerya bit back in return, her eyes fixed on his again. Her passion enlivened the man and, to her horror, he seemed to enjoy Cerya's fury. Cerya stepped back from him, eyes wide at the realization that her words had the opposite effect than she intended. She stumbled against the wall and looked to the ceiling. To her left, she heard a soft sigh from the Knight Commander. As she regained control, she slowly looked back over, her gaze calmed. His sneer was gone, as was the dark look, instead replaced with a subdued gaze and an expression she could not quite place.

"No matter what you think of me, Islander, my orders take precedence over my preferences. In truth, the assignment would have been better left to Barbas. I take no enjoyment from death; my sister and I were sent because the High Champion knew the Front would be difficult." Cerya noticed a prolonged hesitation before the word "sister." She did not know if it had been intentional, but she did know that her own words shared the same hesitation when she spoke of Cistina. She felt a flash of empathy that was gone in an instant, but it calmed her fury to only a burn rather than a rage.

Cerya's reply was cautious and she did not remove her gaze from the Lodissian. "You are. . .forthcoming with information." Again he shrugged. Cerya could see even the light motion caused blood to seep through his bandages.

"I have not told you anything you did not already know." He paused, perhaps for his own amusement at the dramatic effect it caused. "Nor will I ever."

Cerya turned away again as the entirety of the situation belatedly dawned on her. She had changed, in recent years. When she had lost her innocence and left the clergy she became ruthless, cruel, even. In her youth, when she was still naive, she would never have imagined she would be in this place. Cerya stood dangerously above a broken man as her chest heaved with hatred, she was apathetic and possibly even took pleasure in his weakness. As Cerya looked upon herself, she realized she was a woman no child wished to become. Even as an adult, she could not believe the monster she was. Cerya suddenly understood why Cistina had left with Denam; she would have done anything to accomplish her goals and used her ends to justify her means. In that, she was no different from the man in front of her. She hated him, and so she should also hate herself.

To know the problem was the first step she could take to fix it. She had taken this man prisoner with no intention but to make his life miserable and cause him pain in her revenge. It was too late to kill him and she certainly could not release him, but she could still use him for information and possibly to barter and deal with Loslorien. At least if she used him, his existence would have some purpose and Cerya's own cruelty would be exposed to none but her. She did not want to make the same mistake again, nor did she want to fall any further into the darkness. She heard Cistina's innocent song at the back of her mind and it sang only of Cerya's hypocrisy. Perhaps, the voice spoke, if they could talk things out there would be less death. Cerya snorted aloud, which shocked the Templar beside her. Such nonsense. Cistina's views were fantasy, no more, and the man proved it.

"You say you take no enjoyment from death, but you seemed thoroughly amused as you cut down my men." Cerya's conscience scolded her for the hostile comment. Had she just not told herself to be calm and to learn from him rather than to cause pain? The line of questioning would only provoke anger and she knew it.

Oz blinked. He seemed surprised at the question, but a smile crossed his features. Though it was not ferocious as his earlier one was, the words that followed, paired with such a calm expression, chilled Cerya to her core. "I do not lie. Death is silent, dull, final. My own pleasure comes from their pain, their screams, their begging, their quivers, their cries, their tears, the look in their eyes when-"

"Enough!" Her voice shook. The man continued that twisted smile and Cerya found herself unable to stand any longer. She slid down the wall, Templar to her left. She had not noticed her leg had been on fire the entire time, for her mind had been elsewhere. "You are a foul, disgusting man." Cerya gasped out the harsh words, for they were all that came to mind. Vivid images of her comrades filled her mind and she clutched her head at a migraine's approach.

The man's smile did not leave his features but his words were surprisingly soft and spoken quickly in response, as if he had used Cerya's previous hesitation to think them up. He used a similar tone as when he spoke of his duty. Cerya recognized it now as a sad responsibility, acceptance that he was but a tool, and a stubborn refusal to give in. "I find it hard to believe that a woman such as yourself would hate me simply for the lives I've taken. You, too, seem willing to put your duty ahead of your own wishes and care little for your means."

Cerya's hand dropped to the floor. She wanted to cover her ears and deny him. Instead she simply stared ahead, gaze flat. He had learned of her dilemma and he had barely spoken more than a few dozen words to her. Was she so open and easy to read? She hated that he was right - she should not hate him because in essence, they were not different. Cerya, too, had taken lives in war; she had wiped out much of his small unit and thought nothing of it when she did so. She had cheered when his sister had been murdered, would he have done the same for hers? Should she expect him not to? There was no doubt he was a sick, twisted man, but for his actions in battle she could not judge him. Perhaps, had she been in his place, she would have done the same. In one last attempt at denial, Cerya whispered her response:

"It is not only their lives, but my dreams you destroyed. Dreams of a better country for us all."

"Were my men any different?" Cerya deflated. Oz had found her weakness and exploited it. But he was not yet finished; he would shatter everything she felt to be true apart. "You, and the Front entire, do not have the power to bring forth a better country on your own. Even if you had succeeded, you would have only brought upon chaos and more civil war." Cerya felt Oz's eyes examine her. No longer was his gaze lecherous or cruel like it had been as they battled. His mask had fallen and, in her moment of weakness, Cerya understood the responsibility he held.

A small tinge of empathy would not lead to forgiveness. The man was cruel, but perhaps he was capable of the same understanding as she was. She found it difficult to view him as an inhuman even if his actions were monstrous. In some ways, Cerya conceded, perhaps Cistina was right. If more were willing to talk, even small understandings could occur. Cerya stood up after a moment and regained her self-control; she wiped off the back of her dress where she had sat and looked down at the red-head.

"You never answered my question: Why? The torture, the rape, was it all necessary? Did that fall under your 'orders?'"

"No." His reply lacked hesitation and remorse. Cerya was too exhausted to feel anger, instead without a word she opened the door and walked from the dungeons and away from the man who spoke only the harsh truth.

It was not until she returned to her room and was in a bath the servants had filled that she realized she had not even attempted to get him to be more docile with the Clerics.

---

For the first time in over a scale, Cerya had an uninterrupted night of sleep. Her dreams did not haunt her and the visions of death had disappeared. The memories remained, but no longer did she feel obsessed and overwhelmed. It was almost as if their burden had been lifted from her shoulders from a simple conversation. As she had come to understand, so she slowly came to accept. There would be no forgiveness, but perhaps there would be tolerance. The morning sky mocked her, for the rain had stopped and a large fog filled the area outside the castle, parallel to her emotions. It was cool, crisp, and refreshed, but the memory of the previous night's rain had subsided.

The Cleric did not return to her. Cerya could only assume their meeting had calmed Oz, but she did not understand why. To her relief, the day had been slow. With her constant reorganization, Cerya had been able to more efficiently run Phidoch, even to the point where she had times with little to do. In one of such moments, Cerya found herself in the dining hall, a location she rarely had a chance to visit. The servants had been shocked at Cerya's presence, given she was currently the highest ranked member of the Resistance at Phidoch, and had done everything they could to please her. They fawned over her as if she was an important noble; they bowed, they did everything she asked without question, and gave her no more than a few minutes alone without someone to ask if she was well or if there was anything she desired. She thought it was ridiculous, as she did not need such special treatment, but said nothing. Other than the nosy servants who disturbed her she had been able to finish her meal in a rare peace without the worries and stress that came from work.

"Cerya!" Cerya turned around quickly; the voice was familiar and the accent very Bakram. She recognized the face immediately, even if his voice hadn't revealed who it was.

". . .Folcurt." Cerya and Folcurt had not parted on good terms. The man was an excellent soldier and very loyal to his people, but his morals had clashed with her own; he did not share Cerya's ruthless nature. Even as Cerya looked back on herself she hardly felt like the same woman. She was willing to do what was necessary, yes, but as she saw the results of her actions, and began to understand her limitations, she had calmed internally. Denam had changed her for the better, as had Cistina.

Folcurt was out of breath and looked horrible, his eyes bloodshot, stance weary; he could most easily be described as simply tired. His clothes and hair were dirty and unwashed, both of which were out of character for the noble. His normally pleasant and respectful demeanor was replaced by a dark, lost mannerism that Cerya felt was decidedly unfitting. Cistina would hate to see him this way; she had always loved his calm personality and soft disposition.

"Cerya." Folcurt lowered his voice and refused to meet her eyes as he approached. The servants who had approached to once again inquire at her satisfaction immediately withdrew at Cerya's hard glare. She needed to be alone. Cerya felt dread well up inside of her and knew his presence had to be about Cistina. Cerya clutched the table with her hands and swallowed hard in attempt to prepare for the worst.

"Why didn't you come find me?" Cerya stood immediately as anger coursed through her. She stepped out of her chair and took Folcurt by the hand. The food and water on the table were ignored as Cerya dragged Folcurt out of the dining hall and away from the prying eyes of those who would spread nothing but rumors. She ignored the stares and whispers as she passed, her own mind already focused on its destination: the infirmary – there was no other reason for Folcurt to visit her, and she knew that was where he intended to take her. Before she could get beyond the first hallway, Folcurt stopped, and Cerya almost tripped from the jolt. She turned around and glared, but Folcurt's expression remained unchanged. Folcurt had waited long enough to pause so that they remained out of the public eye and could speak at their leisure.

"We did not want to worry you, there's nothing any of us can do. I've been watching over her, but her life is in the hands of the Clerics and the Great Father now. All we can do is pray she comes back safely." There was no question, to either of them, about who "she" was. Folcurt took the lead as he continued down the hall and Cerya allowed herself to follow. Folcurt sensed her worry and rushed down the hall at an uncomfortable pace. She openly limped and could feel her wound had opened, but her own body did not matter. Cistina! Cistina was alive! But for how long? She was upset that Folcurt had not come to her earlier, but Cerya knew he had reason to be cautious. Was it not she who told them to never return? Even with the Front destroyed, Cerya had previously made it clear they were exiled. Cerya gasped as her breath ran short from the pain that spiked through her leg, but she did not care, her determination led her on. The walk to the infirmary felt like an eternity when someone so important waited for her.

The halls no longer were lined with the wounded, but healers continued to rush about. The windows were open and a cool breeze ran down the hall, in contrast to the hot, stuffy humidity from when she had last walked the halls – she liked to pretend the time she had demanded healing for Oz did not happen. At the entrance to the infirmary, the Clerics allowed Folcurt and Cerya to enter. Cerya had been unpleasantly surprised to learn the healers recognized Folcurt; had she lost Cistina's trust as well? Though Cistina had cared for her and had helped her at Boed, was their relationship possible to repair? Cerya had chosen her battle over her sister as they had taken the castle. More questions filled Cerya's mind: would Cistina ever laugh and smile as she did before? Would she even open her eyes? Cerya's fears manifested completely as she saw her younger sister in a small room off to the side. Cistina was under a light sheet, her skin was pale and her hair matted. Her lips lacked color and her muscles lacked strength, at each of Cistina's shallow breaths she released a soft painful moan. The rest of her body was covered in large, thick dressing and, even with the constant attention of healers, she bled. It was amazing that so long after battle, Cistina could be in such horrible condition – she was amazed her sister was alive at all. Cerya noticed a particularly thick, bloody wrapping around Cistina's neck and reeled in horror. Her worst fears had come true; Cerya's own obsession for revenge had left Cistina vulnerable and had almost killed her. Cerya fell against the end of the bed, unable to continue. This was her fault. Her arrogance had killed not only the members of the Front, but her own sister! Cerya felt as if she wanted to cry, but no tears fell; she had sworn she would not do so long ago.

"Has she woken?" Cerya was amazed at the strength in her voice. It sounded no different from her normal tone. Even as she sat on the floor, unable to make her body respond, she hid her weakness from others.

"No. She remains asleep; the healers say she is lucky to be alive, even now. Infection spread through her and she almost bled to death on the battlefield." Folcurt stood beside Cistina and looked down in shame. Cerya wanted to yell and demand to know why he hadn't protected her, but she could not, for she continued to ask herself the same question.

Cerya pushed herself off the ground and simply stared at Cistina's weak form. She felt the urge to lean down and hug her, but controlled herself and only kissed her forehead softly. As her hair covered her face she allowed a tear to fall, the small droplet smudged against her sister's skin, but she could not bring herself to wipe it away. As quickly as she entered, Cerya turned away and hobbled back over the exit. What could she ever do to make it up to her sister? How would she face her without having to beg for forgiveness? To her horror, she knew someone who had the answer – even if she despised the thought of having to speak with him.

"Cerya, where are you going?" Folcurt's stunned voice broke the silence. He seemed angry. Cerya ignored the tone and answered as calmly as she could muster.

"I have something I must do." It sounded apathetic, even cruel, to her ears, but she could not let him know she suffered just as much as he, especially after she had said such spiteful words to Cistina. Folcurt was Cistina's life now and she hoped they would have a bright future together; Cerya's own time as her guardian had passed; she did not deserve a place by her sister's side, not yet.

What am I doing?

Cerya pushed her way out of the infirmary. Her face was severe and dark and every soldier she passed averted their eyes and did their best to scramble out of her way. Cerya could feel the sticky bandage on her leg but ignored it, her own internal pain much greater than any physical wound. Her steps echoed in time with her breaths and she fled down the empty halls. Cerya did not bother to look out the windows as she had previously, for she knew the mist still covered the area and there was nothing to see; she did not have her mind on what a lovely sight it could be..

The dreary hall was surprisingly familiar to her now, even though she had not visited more than twice, and she inhaled the torch's smoke as if it were natural. The guards did not even question her as she passed through the door and walked into the darkness. The crackle of the torchlight threatened her and she jumped at every sound; she felt almost ashamed at her actions, but could not bring herself to stop.

Why am I here?

At the bottom of the stairs Cerya increased her pace down the halls. The wet air filled the chambers, a chill against her bare legs. She slowed her pace as she reached her goal and put on a mask of indifference and confidence. She turned slowly into the room Oz was held and looked down at him, as if she did not care who he was. He stared at her oddly in response. Cerya examined him impassively; she could tell he had been obedient to the healers, as his dressings were clean and no longer soaked through blood. His entire mannerism seemed more alive, yet his expression was confused. He did not meet Cerya's bold eyes.

Cerya walked over and stood above the chained Knight Commander, her posture aloof and her face expressionless and stern. She would show him none of her pain, nor any of her weakness as she her on the last visit. Unlike their meeting before, she was the master and she would not be beg for information. "Tell me about your sister."

Emotions flickered across the Lodissian's face rapidly; first he expressed confusion, then anger, then sadness, and finally settled on a weary loneliness. His entire body looked tense and she could tell it was not a subject he wanted to breach. "Why?"

"You were close to her, were you not? Tell me about her." Cerya did not know shy she demanded such, but perhaps it was because the back of her mind was jealous. He had been so broken, so ruined when his sister had fallen. Cerya loved Cistina, but she could not bring herself to feel such empathy. She would be sad and she would blame herself, but her sister's death would not cause her to attempt suicide. A bond like theirs was special and Cerya found she wanted it. If she must, Cerya would recreate she and Cistina's former closeness; she wanted to feel such happiness once again.

The Templar still looked cautious, but his eyes were distant now. Cerya could tell he was lost in his memories. "You will have to be more specific." He finally murmured. His voice had softened again, that same tone she had heard the day before. It was not vulnerable or weak, but calm; it fit his now-serious demeanor.

Cerya felt like a fool. What did she want to know? She refused to say she envied his relationship, but how would she get the information she needed without at least a hint of the subject she desperately wanted to avoid? "Do you miss her?" Cerya finally asked. She did not particularly care if he did, but it would open the way to more intimate questions on the subject.

"Is it not natural to miss a fallen sibling?" His tone was wistful and Cerya stared, her glare demanded elaboration. He sighed in response, a pathetic sound. "If you want the truth, Islander, my soul has been shattered at her loss and I no longer desire to live for myself."

His words were carefully chosen; Cerya analyzed them silently. He had admitted he was lonely, yes, but he felt as if his life was not his own. He would continue his battle for Lodis as it was all he had left. Perhaps, too, he felt honor and pride for his family, but Cerya knew from her own experience that to face them again, if he ever had the chance to, would be difficult. As the Resistance's prisoner, he had no purpose and felt worthless, Cerya could see it ate him alive. She wanted to change the subject, for the more she mused on his struggle the better she understood him. It was easier for her to hate the Templar when he was simply an enemy and not a man.

"Did you argue often?" Cerya applauded herself. Her question was subtle enough that he would not understand its intentions, even if he would be able to tell she had ulterior motives.

To her surprise, Oz laughed softly. "All the time. I often wondered if her entire purpose in my life was to ruin my fun, for it was all she seemed to want to do." His laughter died and once again he fell back into his memories. She wanted to know more, but she supposed it would have to do. She had once been told the closer you were, the more you argued. Perhaps it was true.

Cerya pushed again for answers. She practically stood atop him now. "Do you hate yourself for being unable to protect her?" Cerya cursed her bluntness for she had not meant to ask such a direct question so quickly.

"You're acting strangely today." His eyes explored her. No longer did they hold the subtle annoyance they had when she visited him previously. Instead they held a genuine curiosity. The life had returned to him and Cerya found herself worried at his newfound fire, unsure of what it signified. "Perhaps you've a sister you miss as well?"

Cerya hissed at her transparency, the first emotion other than neutrality she showed him. "No." She countered, too quickly. Oz did not believe it, with good reason. He chuckled again, but it a darker sound, less one of amusement and more of uncontrolled anger.

"Oh? Then why the sudden curiosity about a woman whose death you took pleasure in?" His eyes had taken on that dark tone again and he struggled against the chains that held him. No longer was he respectful or remorseful, but furious and vengeful. It was a transition Cerya had seen in herself before, but she was surprised how immediate and severe it was in the red-head.

"I take no pleasure in death!" She spoke in the same firm tone that gave the illusion she was confident, but it was a struggle to remain calm. The Knight Commander was perceptive enough to realize she hid her emotions.

"You lie." He words were almost a deep growl and though Cerya did not take a step back, she wanted to. "I remember clearly your smile and my desire to tear it from your face! Perhaps your pleasure was simply product of circumstance, but nonetheless you felt satisfaction and happiness that Ozma died. Yet you condemn me for the same actions!"

"I am aware of my hypocrisy!" Cerya snapped; anger finally graced her features and body. The more she spoke with him, the more judgmental and immature she saw herself. She gasped lightly and locked eyes with the man, who would not give into her. They glared at one another until Cerya conceded defeat and lowered her gaze. ". . .That is why I am here."

"And I am to be sympathetic to your plight? Surely you jest?" His mask had returned. No longer did he have the vulnerable look he had earlier; he attacked her out of necessity to protect himself and, in truth, she understood the reason why he did so and did not hold it against him.

"I don't want your sympathy." Cerya's voice was calm, but internally she found herself all the more angered. She knew better than to lose the control, for to do so would be to allow the man victory. He wanted to provoke a reaction from and she refused to allow him to do so.

His voice was apathetic in response. "Then leave me in peace, or kill me. Do not keep me here simply because you enjoy my torment." Cerya cringed at his mockery. She looked back up, eyebrows creased together as she suddenly realized how absurd the situation was. Her prisoner not only ordered her around, but used Cerya's good-will against her. He had quickly realized she no longer felt the urge to kill him and wanted to see how much pleasure he could extract from his games. But Cerya would not have it; she, too, had learned how he played his game and she could exploit it in the same way he did.

Cerya calmed her entire body with a breath and smiled. Oz could sense the danger in the smile, she could tell. Her words took on a condescending tone. "Stop being such a child. You whine, you mope, you do nothing but complain. You speak loudly, but your words lack meaning and purpose; they exist solely to get a reaction. 'Oh, I'm wounded, it hurts!'" Cerya pointed to her leg where Oz had stabbed her in the battle to take Phidoch to indicate their contrast. "I would not be surprised if the only thing you seek is attention! Have you no mind of your own?"

Cerya was amazed at his short-sightedness. Denam was willing to forgive and he would not tolerate Oz in the castle for much longer. Cerya did not know if Denam would release him, but at the very least he would put him, chained, into a boat to be returned to Lodis. If only he would be agreeable, the red-head had a chance to return to where he wanted to be, yet all he did was squander it. It frustrated her that he did not grasp at the opportunity. She wondered if the idea of a captor treating their prisoner well was entirely foreign to him.

Lost in her thoughts, Cerya finally looked back down to the Templar. His eyes had lost their intensity and instead his face held an odd look that she couldn't describe. He had given her the look once before, but it had been fleeting, this time it remained. Cerya met his eyes and he immediately looked away. Was that shame? After a moment, he started to laugh, but it wasn't cruel as before, rather a sardonic sound.

"Oh, and what would you have me do? How would you have me act?"

For a moment Cerya continued to stare at him and considered, perhaps, that he understood a good deal more than she gave him credit for. "I want you to do nothing. Make the decision for yourself." After a moment, she turned away and walked from the room with her feigned confidence. Despite her anger, she had not allowed herself to show insecurity or weakness and was proud of herself for it. As soon as she exited the dungeons, she collapsed on the stairs as her leg spasmed from over-exertion. The woman sat there for a quarter of an hour as she pondered Oz's words and her mistakes.

Sometimes the shortest conversations were also the most meaningful.

---

Events out of control. Return is delayed, we head to the Hagia.
Olivya sends her regards.

Cerya read the brief encoded message over and over as she focused on the last line. Olivya. How long had it been since she last saw her sister? She was only slightly younger than Cistina, but even as children they had been vastly different. Cerya was loathe to admit it, but her youngest sister had a strength all of the others lacked; she had remained with their father when the rest had lost faith. Cerya was not sure what her sister's presence with Denam meant, other than that he had made an alliance with the Order; she worried more about the trip to the Hagia. She had her own hands full with handling the Resistance and she knew she should not worry over Denam's conflicts.

In her temporary replacement of Denam, Cerya had taken great cares to increase Resistance mobility and efficiency. The Resistance leadership had failed even before Denam took control and they lacked unity. Denam gave them unity, but it was impossible to lead both the home front and the armies in field at the same time - no leader could. Resistance numbers rapidly increased and Cerya had determined training regimens, new troop placement, guards and envoys or cities under their control, as well as more miscellaneous jobs such as information gathering and resource procurement. It was difficult, but unlike her first days on the assignment, she learned to better manage her time and no longer wanted to collapse after a day's work. Her main fear, of course, was that Denam would be so pleased with her work that she would never see the field again.

Her secondary fear just so happened to be the woman in front of her.

"The man refuses to eat and drink, Captain. He demands to see you."

Cerya almost wanted to simply tell the healer to let Oz kill himself, but she knew she would not allow it. Even if she did, her conscience would get the better of her and she would walk down to the dungeon later. With a soft sigh she nodded the Cleric and attempted to dismiss her. The Cleric continued to stand in front of her, much to Cerya's confusion. Had she missed something?

The Cleric not-so-subtly looked down at Cerya's bandage. Cerya had done her best to take care of it, despite a few episodes of over-exertion, and she felt it would heal nicely in time. The Cleric disagreed and continued the stern stare until Cerya, once again, relented. The Cleric smiled and brought her medicinal bag over. She kneeled and quickly unwrapped Cerya's bandage. Cerya watched the woman examined her wound, and mixture of expressions over her face. She saw worry, relief, and annoyance all cross the woman's features as she rubbed Cerya's leg down with an alcohol-dipped rag. Cerya's deep cut still remained large on the outside, but it had healed well internally. Cerya barely winced at all, for she had become used to the pain, her own unassisted stride caused more than the light pressure from the Cleric. The woman wiped her own hands in the alcohol to wash them and placed them atop the red gouge. Her Light magic poured into the wound; its tingle was not quite pleasant, but it did not feel uncomfortable, either. This healer was not very skilled but, unlike the others who had seen to her, she was not tired. Her work was efficient and thorough and Cerya could almost feel the recovered flesh. Her recovery process had been slow but steady and she was grateful to have magic at all, for without it she would likely overwork herself.

After she was done, the Cleric re-wrapped the wound and gave Cerya a warm smile. Cerya returned it half-heartedly and turned back to the table. She had very few papers to finish and most were complaints from the city guard about petty thieves and criminals. More dangerous ones, such as murderers and abusers, would remain imprisoned within the city; only the most dangerous were sent into Phidoch's dungeons or were killed outright. Oz still remained her only prisoner, as she did not have command over the city guard.

Cistina had not awakened. After the first visit, Cerya had been unable to return, but every day she asked of her. Now that she knew where her sister remained, she had been able to obtain frequent updates on her condition, which slowly seemed to improve. She had not seen Folcurt again since the day she left him, but nor did she wish to after her strange exit. She did not know what to say to him and so she said nothing at all. Cerya stalked through the halls; it did not hurt to walk as much as it had previously, but she still had to hide her winces. She had started to practice when alone in her room, the spear's weight pleasant again in her hands, even though she often had to massage her leg afterward.

The halls were quiet and clean; Cerya had started to think of them as familiar, even though she had not been in Phidoch for as long as many of the inhabitants. She was well respected by most, but she had encountered hostility from some of the citizens of the city. She ignored them, for what right did they have to judge her? For a time Cerya had worried that other cities would have reacted with hostility to the Resistance presence as well, but her shadows assured her that it was only Phidoch; the citizens had rejected Rhime's refugees, as well, and were remarkably xenophobic.

The dungeon's open windows made the lower floor remarkably cool. The breeze on her legs made her shiver; her replacement boots had not yet arrived, so she still had to wear shorter shoes that exposed her wrapping. Unlike her previous meetings with the uncooperative prisoner, she did not wear her battle dress. The Bakram woman scolded herself for her foolishness; her prisoner was far too dangerous to approach unarmed, yet she chose to do so anyway. It was too late to return and change, but Cerya felt he would not attempt harm her; why would he risk his life to demand her visit if he wanted to kill her? She still carried her dagger at her waist, as she always did, so if necessary she was capable of self-defense. Cerya knew better than to get too close, at any rate.

Color had returned to her prisoner's features and, apparently, the Clerics were quite fond of him. They had brushed his hair and groomed him and he had new trousers. He looked to have recently bathed, as dried crusts of blood did not cover his body. Cerya frowned at his clean, pleased look. He was a prisoner, not a guest! The young women would be punished for their actions later. No matter his flowery, flattering words, the Lodissian was not to have more than food, water, and healing without her clearance. Perhaps she would even declare a policy of "males only" when it came to his healers if the women could not resist him. She had not visited him for days; other than his cleaned look, his condition was much improved and only the deepest of the wound remained. Cerya was almost jealous, had she the attention of all of the healers, her leg would no longer be bloody and bandaged. Instead she stubbornly refused them and went only when necessary. As she judged his appearance, she noted that perhaps Oz no longer needed his healers as often; she made a mental note to reschedule how often they visited.

The Templar seemed confused at her formal, but non-battle, appearance and his eyes darted up and down her body. Cerya was not comfortable in the flowing dresses many women her age would wear, nor did she feel it appropriate for the Captain of an army and steward of Phidoch, and had instead chosen to wear the pants of a man and a loose shirt with long sleeves that she had recently ordered from town. Cerya cleared her throat, ready to demand to know what he wanted, but Oz spoke at the same time.

"I thought on what you said."
"Is there a point to this?"

They met each other's eyes, Cerya's filled with light annoyance and Oz's an odd confidence. He ignored Cerya's rude query and continued, almost in a self-satisfied manner.

"'Was it necessary?' you asked." Cerya nodded and vaguely recalled such, but it had not been the last time they had spoken. She had worries on her mind and the question, and her care for an answer, had faded into a blur; even her once-fiery hatred had dulled as she moved on. Cistina and the Resistance filled her mind now. "Yes, yes it was necessary."

"'Tis what you said in the first place." Cerya finally remembered the conversation, it had been about the torture and rape of the Liberation Front. Again, the Knight Commander did not react and continued.

"The cries define me. I discovered something, on my own, that I enjoy doing. I will continue to do it." Oz put emphasis on his central words. She knew he referred to their last conversation, where she had told him to think for himself, but why did he bother to tell her he chose to do such? Did Oz want her approval? The entire idea of it was absurd and Cerya scoffed it off, but somehow she felt as if she missed something. She took her eyes off of Oz, a dangerous move, she knew - what if the healers had given him a weapon? - and looked up through the small window. Cerya could not see what was beyond, but anything was better than the prison's drab walls or the Lodissian. She quickly went over her memories of the man, of his words and reactions to find any hidden meaning in his statement. She was frustrated when she found none, but she did notice an inconsistency.

"The way I remember it," Cerya stated factually as she looked back down to the now-curious Oz. "when we battled, it was quite the opposite. You are not particularly resilient, rather, you do not tolerate pain well at all."

Oz's curiosity turned into caution, as if worried he would give too much away. "Enjoying someone else's pain does not make me tolerant of my own."

Cerya continued her push. She did not know her goal, nor did she know if she would ever find an answer, but she found she could not stop. Speaking with the man brought her a sense of closure. "If it hurts you, why do it to others?"

"Because I enjoy it. Need I another reason?"

"By that justification, you should take no issue to my pleasure at your sister's death." Cerya hated to admit the truth, but she gave in. The female Templar's death had given her a sense of satisfaction and hope, and the male's reaction to it had exhilarated her. But soon after, once Oz had pointed out her inconsistency, Cerya mused on the subject. It had taken time, but Cerya had finally admitted to herself that personal grudges had no place in war, for they only caused more damage. Cerya resolved to never fight for revenge again - no matter how her hatred and disgust overwhelmed her. Perhaps, in some ways, Cistina and Denam had been correct, as hesitant as she was to admit it.

Oz did not answer her. He had turned his face away and no longer held the pleasant, satisfied smile it had before. His eyes were downcast and they stared at the floor. He looked almost like a child who had been caught by his mother and was being punished. He remained that way for some time, the only sound he made were soft, almost shaky, breaths. Perhaps Cerya had gotten through to him, or perhaps she had only hurt him more when she spoke of how his own decision surrounded him with the hypocrisy he claimed not to have. As he remained silent, not acknowledging Cerya's presence, she found herself impatient. He had demanded she come to him and had spoke with such utter confidence, only to turn her away as he thought on her words. She did not have all day to bow to his petty whims. After a moment more, she turned to take a step back towards the door, before he finally spoke again, his words little more than a whisper. His tone was almost timid; the admission was very difficult.

". . .I have never been much for thought. 'Tis how I was raised. A commander who thinks for oneself is dangerous. 'Show loyalty to one's family, country, and people, and care nothing but for results.' As long as the ends are met, any means are acceptable." In his bindings, Oz clenched his fists. His eyes, too, pressed close and he had a pained grimace on his features. She had never expected to see such emotion from the man. "I am not going to stop." His words were confident and firm, but the effect was ruined by his pained expression. "People do not change so easily, Islander. Logic does not dictate my emotions. I can admit you are correct, but I cannot stop. It's addictive, euphoria. I . ."

He trailed off and, from the way he stared at her, he had no intention to continue.

Cerya sighed, exasperated at his stubbornness. Power had ruined more than one man. Her own father had fallen under its sway. "Now I understand what you sister felt. You're impossible."

"Ozma." His gaze hardened stubbornly as he said it, it was his turn to sound annoyed - even offended. Cerya gave him a questioning look. "Her name was Ozma. Not 'your sister.'"

Cerya shook her head and turned again, she cared little for his sister's name, even if she found his admission to be curious. As if in desperation, Oz spoke. Cerya could hardly believe he wanted her to stay with him. "Tell me about your sister. Did you get into an argument?"

Alarmed, Cerya turned back around. She was ready to stalk over to him, dagger in hand, until she remembered she had unintentionally revealed she had siblings of her own in their last meeting. Cerya mused on the subject for a moment. What did he want with her sisters? Would he try and get revenge on them? Perhaps, Philaha forbid, he was simply curious and wanted to talk about anything that would make Cerya stay with him longer?

"Yes. . .you could say that." Cerya gave in and turned back around. She took a few steps in and leaned against the wall to get the weight off of her leg. Oz looked at her expectantly. "Which do you want to know about? I have three sisters."

"All of them." His mood had brightened, but she could not tell if he genuinely was interested or not. "You are Bakram?"

Cerya nodded. "Yes. I was born in Heim. I am the eldest of my sisters, but I've not spoken with two of them for years. The one I was upset about - " Cerya stopped herself as she realized how freely she spoke – so impassioned she was about her family that she temporarily forgot that her audience was a prisoner, not a friend. Oz continued his stare; she was amazed at how persuading he could be with the simple glance. Or perhaps it was just Cerya's mind playing tricks; she had wanted to speak to someone about her sisters for some time. Cerya even quietly admitted that one reason why she spoke so openly was because he was the only one she was acquainted with who had never met any of her relatives, but also could relate to her own experiences. "My sister was direly wounded in our battle to take the castle." She almost expected a flash of empathy from the Lodissian, but did not receive it. It seemed she did not know him as well as she thought. "She remains comatose. I spoke harshly to her and never apologized. I was so intent on you in-battle that I did not protect her. If she dies, it is my fault."

"We are alike in this." Oz's voice was quiet, almost submissive to Cerya. It surprised her, for it seemed out of place. Curious, Cerya opened her mouth to speak, but Oz silenced her with his own explanation. "Had I focused on defense rather than partake in my own revenge, my sister would still live." His own vengeance, she assumed, was for his defeat at Boed. Cerya met his eyes in a silent admission that, no matter how they conflicted or hated each other, they were not so different after all. She almost felt dirty as she did so.

"Are they all like you?" Oz quickly changed the subject, for which Cerya was thankful.

"No, and thank Philaha for that." Cerya smiled lightly. "I would not want them to be like me." Oz seemed to disagree, but did not vocalize it. Cerya was surprised at how easily he allowed her to read his body language
"My younger sister - second in age to me - I've not spoken to or heard from her in years. She broke all ties, more so than I did." Cerya did not mention the reasons why their family had been torn apart. It was not his business.
"The next was once a member of the Front and served under me. We had a disagreement on how to best serve our people and she left. She serves Denam now." Cerya's tone was an odd mixture of spite and sadness at the words. In Denam, Cistina had found shared ideals and the future she desired. Cerya had failed Cistina in every way.
"My youngest is loyal to our family; she is a ranked Cleric in the Order of Philaha. She follows in father's footsteps" Cerya had never understood Olivya's ability to remain passive. Even when Cerya had served the Order, she had traveled as a missionary. She was not the type to wait in one place as life passed her by. Though, to her it seemed that Olivya had come to the same conclusion, if Denam's letter implied what she assumed it did.

Oz seemed to muse for a moment. "You lived together in Heim?"

"No. Politics tore me from my home. As you are aware, I am no friend of Brantyn's." Again, Cerya did not speak more than was necessary. Oz seemed to want to know more, but she had told him more than enough of her past. That was certainly enough of that. "Is your curiosity sated?" Cerya pushed herself off the wall and gaveOz a firm look that said she would reveal no more on the subject. Her mood had turned foul at the memories and any more discussion would cause her to lash out in anger. Speaking of her family had not brought upon the relief that had intended, only more anger and sadness.

"For now, I suppose. Thank you for your time, Cerya." She turned away without a word and did not realize he had called her by her name until she was halfway up the stairs. Their meetings had only become stranger.

---

"I told you to deal with him."

Denam had changed. Cerya was unsure of what events had passed after he left Phidoch, but in demeanor he was a different person. He had a sad look, as if he had matured - Cerya might well compare it to the difference between she and Cistina. The idealism was almost gone, replaced with what seemed to be. . .calmness? To Cerya it appeared he had been broken and then rebuilt from the ground up, stronger than ever. He was a true leader now. She had accepted he no longer played hero when she joined the Resistance, but then Denam had been a boy. Now he was a man. Something had changed him drastically in Scale he had been gone.

"I did." Cerya started cautiously, aware that her tone bordered on insolence. "No longer does he cause dissent within the troops." She neglected to mention his demands for comfort, cleanliness, and even Cerya's presence at one point. Absently, she wondered why she defended him. "What would you have me do, Commander? Certainly you did not want to kill him." Denam watched her closely and said nothing. Had he really wanted her to kill Oz? She doubted it; he was not the type to mercilessly wish for someone's death. Cerya decided it had to do with whatever had happened while he was gone. Denam finally relented.

"You're right. Very well, I will speak to him. Come, Cerya." Denam looked down to his desk as if contemplating, before he finally searched one of the drawers. After a short moment of scrounging Denam lifted out a small pouch that Cerya could only imagine were the keys to their prisoner's binding. Whether it meant Denam meant to release him, or kill him, she did not know. Denam pushed beside her and motioned her to follow him out of the room.

Denam had returned the night previous, long after most were asleep. The entire castle had been roused by his return, as the troops were rowdy and happy to be back to safety. Cerya had been called in immediately and had given Denam a report on the status of the Resistance, both in troops and finances. At the time, he had seemed pleased at Cerya's support and assistance and approved of many of the changes and orders she gave. As her leg was almost completely healed, she expected to be allowed to return to the field, but when Cerya had mentioned it, Denam had nodded absently, as if not particularly paying attention. He seemed to hide something.

Their walk through the hall was enthusiastic, to say the least. Denam was much more popular than Cerya and the newly returned soldiers smiled brightly and attempted to get the young man's attention as they passed. Cerya was unused to being seen in a position under someone and felt a bit uncomfortable, especially given some of the soldiers ignored her completely. At one point Denam and Cerya had almost been mobbed until Denam finally pushed his way through. To see him as such, it was obvious to Cerya why he had succeeded where she had failed. She had been firm, harsh, even cruel at times. It had been her goals the Front followed, not her. In direct contrast, Denam was well loved for his goals, his dreams, and his means. There were times that, even though she had long been on her own, she realized just how much she needed to learn.

To Cerya's relief, Oz did not have the clean, groomed look about him. It seems her punishment of the healers had produced results and no longer was he pampered. The Templar's look had lightened as she entered, but turned dark immediately as he saw Denam behind her. He was completely healed now, but Cerya knew he would need some work to get back into the physical condition he had been. Oz and Denam stared at each other; the air between them could almost be cut with her dagger. Denam's facade of apathy and calmness almost fell completely and Oz looked ready to struggle against his chains in attempt to attack Denam. Cerya was tempted to politely excuse herself before events spiraled out of her control.

"You." Oz hissed. It was the same tone she remembered he used when his sis-Ozma, Cerya corrected herself, had died. It was dark, almost maniacal. In some ways, Cerya could not blame him, she would feel the same anger if someone had killed her sisters. But now was not the time, she knew, and angering Denam would not be the way to get on his good side. Cerya gave Oz a firm glare and, to her great surprise, Oz relented. His eyes still burned but his body had released its tense anger, as if he understood her intention. Denam, too, noticed the silent exchange and gave Cerya a long look that silently calculated the meaning of the red-head's response. She returned it Denam's look with the full knowledge that she had done nothing wrong.

"Sir Oz." Cerya sensed hesitation in Denam's voice. She also sensed anger, which was in firm contrast to the calm control he exuded earlier. "You are being held in accordance to your actions against our people, which go beyond acceptable behavior in war. Have you no defense?"

"So you are holding me for acting as any soldier would? Are all commoners such fools?" Cerya glared at the Templar, but it unfortunately did not have the calming effect a second time.

"To kill for defense of one's homeland I can accept, but Lodis and its actions are hostile and have gone beyond the 'emissary' they once claimed to be. Lanselot Tartaros has created a faction that has divided our people even further and attempts to control us. We will not submit to your rule." Oz snorted at that and Cerya clenched her fists in response to the elder male's aloofness. She completely agreed with Denam; the Lodissians should leave and leave the country to fix its own problems.

"So you hold the pet accountable for the owner's actions?"

"Your actions went far beyond acceptable, even for your country's twisted sense of honor!" Denam finally snapped. Oz seemed remarkably satisfied to have finally provoked a response from the calm Denam. Cerya turned away, not sure what to say, she felt as if she had already had the same discussion with the imprisoned Templar and had gotten no further than Denam.

"Calm, Denam." A voice from the doorway, quiet, almost submissive, sounded. The entire room fell silent and turned to look, as if the world mocked them, even the voices and birds from outside the window no longer called out. Cerya's mouth dropped open and she had to resist the urge to run over to the woman she knew immediately to be Olivya. Olivya had grown so much, but at the same time she had not changed at all. She still retained the calmness and her warm expression, but her body was that of a woman's now. Her blue robe was marked with adorations that signified her rank in the order of Philaha. She had her hands grasped in front of her as she walked in, seemingly oblivious to the tension - or perhaps she simply wanted to dispel it. Cerya shook with her emotions but controlled herself. Olivya had still not looked to her, instead she put her small hand onto Denam's shoulder. "Release your hatred, your father would not want you swallowed by it."

Denam's eyes immediately fell to the floor. The exchange was curious and confused not only Oz, but Cerya as well. She examined Denam, who breathed in quietly before he looked back up. Cerya gave the Lodissian another glare that silently demanded his obedience; he did not need it, the Templar understood it was a pivotal moment just as much as Cerya did.

"Forgiveness is not easy." Denam finally looked up, but it was to Olivya before he turned back to the prisoner. "You killed my father." Cerya held back a gasp, the Abuna had been killed after he had been taken from the Front? Perhaps Cerya had underestimated the severity of Denam's emotional situation.

"You killed my sister." Oz returned. Cerya cringed when she saw the beginnings of another verbal assault. "You've dishonored my family, mocked my country, imprisoned me without reason, and had me tortured!"

"You destroyed Golyat and manipulated my sister!" Denam snapped back. Both men acted as if they were children. Olivya looked ready to step in, but Cerya knew Olivya would not be able to solve this. The boys needed a firm hand and that was something Olivya could not give.

"Enough, both of you." She used her calmest, most formal tone, both men immediately turned their attention to her. "You've both committed great crimes against each other and yelling will not solve them." Cerya was surprised that she, above all people, was acting the peacekeeper. "The past cannot be undone. We must build the future over it."

Cerya could hardly believe her blatant hypocrisy; she spoke words that, at one point, she would not have believed true at all. It was she who had been overwhelmed with vengeance - but because of her vengeance she had only suffered the loss of Cistina. Before then, she had lived almost entirely to rebuild the past; her time in the Front had been solely to turn country around what it had once been, but she had failed. Now Cerya saw a new future, a brighter future, where the past simply remained the past; it did not need to dictate their future. She wished she had seen it earlier, for she would not have torn her family apart if she had. In her mistakes, she had the knowledge that could pave the way for Denam before he took a road he, too, regretted. Denam had lost his sister, but he still had a chance to regain her; Cerya would not let him stop until he found her.

Olivya stared at her oddly, her gaze a mixture of confusion and curiosity as she, too, recognized how strange the words sounded from Cerya's lips. Cerya attempted to meet her sister's eyes, only to receive a smile in return. Cerya felt her own mouth tug into a soft smile as well before she turned back to the men, who both appeared surprisingly humbled. Even the fiery Oz's glow had diminished as he mused on her words; she would not have expected it from him.

"I will not ask forgiveness, nor will I offer mine." Denam finally breathed out. "Instead I offer a chance for redemption." The others in the room were confused, but Denam elaborated. "I will not ask you to betray your country, instead I simply ask that you see us as people, not tools or sheep to be herded about. We 'rabble' are no different from you; I hope that, once you understand us, you will rethink the means to your end."

Oz looked horrified at the thought and, in truth, Cerya could hardly blame him. Denam's words were revolutionary and likely conflicted with everything Oz had ever been taught. Cerya watched his response, but was surprised to see that the Lodissian examined her. His eyes seemed conflicted as he met hers and held an odd, fleeting emotion that Cerya could not recognize. She unintentionally took a step back in response. The man confused her more by the day, why did it matter to him what she thought?

"I understand." Cerya was shocked at his response. It almost felt too easy, as if he plotted against them.

"But what will we do with him?" Cerya asked cautiously. Neither she nor Denam wanted a repeat of what had happened before, with the flogging.

Denam mused for a moment, but to both their surprise, Oz spoke up. "She could watch me." Oz motioned with his head towards Cerya, since his arms were chained. Cerya could hardly believe what she had heard! "She is in your trust and she has reason to hate me, just as you do." Cerya clenched her fists; what did he plan? She found his words remarkably suspicious and desperately sought the meaning behind them. Denam did not seem to agree, instead he looked at Cerya for a moment before he nodded. He opened up a small pouch he had pulled from his desk and picked out a key. Cerya did not want to play whatever game the Lodissian plotted.

"Cerya, do not take your eyes off of him. He is not to leave your presence. Arm yourself at all times; do not hesitate to use force, but I'd rather it not come to that." Denam spoke with finality and dropped the key into Cerya's hand. She almost wanted to throw it back. Denam's tone brooked no denial and while she had every intention to snap at her commander's foolishness, she noticed the warm, hopeful look on Olivya's face. It reminded her far too much of Cistina's own. So her sister sided with Denam, had she? Cerya sighed in submission and lowered her head. She owed it to her family to learn a bit more about forgiveness herself, it seemed. She grasped the keys tightly only to be given a half-smile by Denam, who patted her back and quickly walked from the room as if he never wanted to see the Knight Commander again. Before Olivya could follow, Cerya grasped her hand. For a moment they stood there, until Olivya gently removed her hand and spoke, her face no longer showed its smile, instead replaced by a subdued and somber expression.

"Cerya, I. . .we. . .Come to the dinner hall tonight, 7 hours past midday. We've much to speak of."

Cerya nodded and released her sister's hand. She turned back to the Lodissian prisoner; duty, once again, had torn her from her family, even if only temporarily. As the footsteps of Olivya and Denam disappeared into the distance, Cerya and Oz's eyes met; neither moved. "I can hardly believe this." Cerya murmured to herself as she cautiously approached the man. She grasped the hilt of her dagger on her belt as she kneeled, her breaths ragged from her nervousness. Oz kept his distance as well as he could with Cerya beside him and attempted to appear obedient and as if he was not a threat. He seemed to have something on his mind, but also did not wish to seem obtrusive.

"I wanted to kill him." Cerya paused and released the chain at the revelation. Oz shook his head at her reaction. "Worry not. I find myself alarmingly calm, as if the desire for revenge has temporarily been sated. I understand now how you feel." Cerya did not appreciate his assumption, but she could not deny he spoke the truth. She no longer loathed him, for the hatred had brought only more pain.

"Perhaps you two are more alike than you admit." Cerya offered. She had no explanation for Oz's change in feelings. Cerya slowly approached him again and unlocked one of his cuffs. He immediately moved his arm about, and placed the hand onto Cerya's leg. She swallowed and attempted to ignore it, but it distracted her as she lightly fumbled with the lock.

"No." His tone was firm "Had it been anyone else I would not have agreed. You are persuasive; only Ozma has made me think on my actions such before." Cerya was not sure what she thought about being compared to his sister. As she released the lock, Cerya took out her dagger and held it to his throat. He was submissive and did not attempt to struggle; Cerya offered her assistance to help him stand. His legs wobbled a bit, for he hadn't stood in some time. The healing magic had prevented complete atrophy, but the Lodissian would not run down the halls for some time - or ever, if she had her way. Cerya glanced at the former prisoner; she needed to find him some clothing and a proper place to bathe and groom himself. He certainly would not do so in her room.

Their pace was slow as they walked through the dungeons and up the stairs. Oz seemed to know where he was going, but she did not let him lead. She was tempted to flick her dagger in subtle threat, but she knew it would likely irritate both of them if she did so and instead remained close. It became obvious quickly that Oz was not as kind to others as he was to Cerya. They received odd looks and, while Cerya ignored them, her prisoner met their gazes with a hard, even hateful look. It was enough to turn most away. "What do you plan?" Cerya asked finally.

To her surprise, the Knight Commander seemed offended. "Do I need some ulterior motive?"

"You would not have agreed so easily without one." was her skeptical response. All Oz did was chuckle.

"I swear upon my honor that I've no intention of harming you."He seemed both quite serious and incredibly playful at the same time.

"It is not me that I worry for."

The rest of their walk was silent. As they entered the great hall, Cerya immediately called over one of the servants. She ordered the woman to bring a small shaving blade - Cerya would confiscate it whenever Oz would not use it, a comb, and other amenities for the "guest" that was to stay in her room. After some thought, she also ordered the servants bring her bathwater; she supposed sharing her bath would be acceptable as long as she changed the water after he used it. It would certainly be less hassle than to bring in a second tub and clutter her small chambers up. The servant ran off after her dismissal and she continued along the halls. One or two of the guards seemed to recognize the Knight Commander, but she could almost see their minds curl around the idea, as they knew that certainly one of their Captains would not allow such a dangerous person to walk at her side. Cerya desperately wished they were correct, but she was a greater fool than they.

As they arrived, Cerya pushed Oz into her room. Cerya removed her shoes quickly and noted Oz did not have any of his own. To her pleasure, the servants were already filling her bathtub with water, but still had some time to go until it was completed. The cool air from the hallways made its way from the open door into her stuffy room at the servant's continued presence. Oz examined Cerya's room in acknowledgement that it would be his home for some time, but she ignored him. Instead, Cerya immediately walked over to her spear, which leaned gently on the wall in her bed chamber, and held it somewhat defensively. Oz shrugged at the motion and sat down at one of the chairs by her table. He then proceeded to pour himself a glass of the wine that was on her table. Cerya's eyes widened at the absurdity of the situation; the man she would have given anything to have dead sat at her table and drank her wine without even asking her approval! After a sip, he poured a second glass and motioned for Cerya to sit across from him. Cerya didn't move. No matter how familiar now was and comfortable he looked, Cerya knew Oz was incredibly dangerous. It would be a disservice to the memory of the Front to sit across from him and jovially drink wine. He seemed a bit disappointed at her reaction, but continued the soft sips until the servants declared the bath was filled.

"Go. You may use my wash." Cerya motioned to her bath chamber to the side of her room. Oz placed his goblet down in response, stood up, and stretched energetically, as if pleased to finally be able to move on his own. He nodded to her and walked towards her bath chambers already untying his dirty trousers. Cerya blushed and looked away; despite having given up religion, she still found some of the morals to still be ingrained within her. She remained in her defensive stance for a time until she heard Oz slip into the water before she walked over to the table by the window. Outside, she noted the weather to be bright and pleasant, if a bit warm; the bright sun shined into her room and illuminated the small area that housed the table. She leaned her spear on the wall nearby and sat down across from where the male had previously been. The goblet the Templar had poured for her was still full; Cerya sipped at it without thought until she heard a knock at the door, some quarter of an hour later.

"I'm coming." Cerya called. Oz made an annoyed grunt at the disturbance but, as far as she could tell, did not get out from his bath. She opened the door cautiously and saw two people outside. One was obviously a servant, who held a small package out for her, the second was a man she did not know well, but had encountered on various occasions. "Yes? Is there something you need?" Hobyrim bowed in the direction of the servant and thanked him quietly. The servant seemed a bit disturbed by Hobyrim's seemingly abnormal intuition and quickly handed Cerya a small bag. A glance at the contents told her it contained the items she had called for on their way back to her room. Cerya marveled at their efficiency. Cerya tipped the servant with a few coins and looked over to Hobyrim, who had remained silent and respectful. He, too, held a package.

"Would you like to come in?" Cerya asked the male. He shook his head, his expression somber. With almost instinctual curiosity, Cerya looked him up and down, as it was the first time she had ever been close to him outside of battle. He wore the same torn robes he always did, but they appeared to have recently been washed. His hair was brushed back almost lazily and his face unshaved.

"You are the one who cares for Oz." It was not a question. Hobyrim's face was expressionless and almost terrifyingly impassive. She understood that he did not visually show emotions in his blindness, but perhaps if he did, he would be easier to approach.

"That's not exactly how I would put it, but yes, he has been assigned to me. Is there a problem?" Cerya relaxed against the doorway.

"Not exactly." was his enigmatic response. Cerya frowned.

"How did you know that I take care of him? Oz was released into my care little more than an hour ago."

To her surprise, Hobyrim blushed faintly. He seemed to carefully gauge his words. "Many of the servants concluded that you were not, ah, interested in males, so when you appeared walking through the halls with one, it caused quite a stir." Cerya was speechless. They thought what of her? "I happened to recognize the description of your companion. He was a prisoner; I assumed Denam had released him given his. . .circumstances." Cerya did not understand the last comment; her stay in Phidoch left her without knowledge of what Denam had encountered beyond what his letters spoke.

"You assumed correctly." Cerya nodded; even though she knew the man could not see her, it was likely he could feel her motions. If he was unable to read her subtle body language he would have been unable to continue his profession as a Swordmaster.

"Please, give him this." Hobyrim held out the small package. It was wrapped in a red cloth and was very small. He treated it as if it were the most important item he owned. Cerya, with more than a little discomfort, took the package and examined it. She could not tell its contents and would not risk a squeeze for fear it might damage whatever small treasures were inside. "Please tell him that I gave Ozma the proper rites and sent her body back to their family."

Cerya was speechless. Hobyrim had been the one to kill Ozma, had he not? Cerya's mind flashed over the battle, the memories had faded other than the most powerful ones, but yes, she remembered how odd the situation had been. Hobyrim had been gentle with her dead body, even though it had been his sword that pierced her throat.

"But-" Cerya spoke, but it was only to the wind. Hobyrim had slowly started back to his room without a word. She wanted to call down to him, but somehow it felt inappropriate, or even rude. Instead, she closed the door and walked back over to the table, where her goblet sat. She placed Hobyrim's small package down and called back to her "guest:"

"Sir Oz." it was the first time she had spoken his name, it felt odd. "The servants have brought your items. I am going to bring them in." Oz made a small "meh" in reply and Cerya took it as acquiescence. She kept her face down as she walked into the way bathroom and put the small bag beside the tub. The air was warm from the steam and it smelled of her soap. To the side of her vision, she unintentionally viewed a part of his nude flesh, likely his arm. "When you finish, you will give me the blade." was her firm command as she fled out of the small bath chamber, she did not care to listen to his response.

Oz continued to clean himself for almost an hour. Cerya downed two small goblets of wine by the time he finished and felt considerably more relaxed than she had earlier in the day. Her sleep had been interrupted by Denam's arrival in the early morning and she was exhausted, her mind did not work as quickly as she would have liked. She listened to Oz until she heard his footsteps behind her. Cerya cautiously turned to see Oz only covered in a towel; he carried his trousers in his hand and seemed to stare at them disapprovingly. His hair was brushed back and his face newly-shaved. A quick glance over him showed that his wounds were entirely healed, only the deepest had left small pink scars that would fade in time.

"I require clean clothing." Was all he spoke as he placed the small wet shaving blade beside her. Cerya bristled in indignation at his demand and flicked the small knife into her hand, away from him. They had given him freedom and now he demanded servants?

"You would be sorely mistaken if you assume I keep male clothing in my possession." She bit out. It earned her a laugh from the man, who seemed to enjoy her annoyance. Cerya did have one pair of trousers and a top that she wore to meetings, but it would be unlikely to fit the male. As if to further agitate her, the Lodissian tossed his dirty trousers he had worn when he was a prisoner onto the floor in the corner and poured himself more wine. Cerya instinctually looked over to the spear near her chair, as if its presence calmed her.

After a sip, he looked back up at her. "Call the servants, then. I will give them my measurements and my requests." He stated it with complete confidence and as if he expected to be obeyed. She wondered if he annoyed her intentionally or if it was simply his personality that grated her. Cerya was ready to deny him, before she realized if she did not allow him new clothes, he would walk the halls naked. Given that she was not permitted to leave him alone, it meant he would be beside her and it would only draw unwanted attention to them both. For a moment she considered the idea of keeping him naked; it might certainly be a good subtle revenge, yes. She smiled darkly at the thought before she released a sigh. No, she would not do such, she was not that cruel and she had sworn to herself to abstain from her revenge. Cerya conceded and got up from the chair. She took her spear from its resting position and slid it down her back into her belt.

"Very well. I'm going-" Cerya paused when she realized Oz no longer looked at her. His attention was focused on the small package she left on the table. Cerya inhaled deeply at the look in his eyes. Perhaps the object Hobyrim had given her was once Ozma's? "Sir Oz." Cerya's voice snapped Oz's gaze away from the object. "If you know them, tell me your measurements and size so I may request clothes of the servants." He answered quietly and Cerya made a mental note of the measurement, she lacked quill and parchment on hand so her memory would have to do. His style request was a simple "formal Lodissian style." and Cerya had been tempted to omit it. She finally continued: "That package is a gift for you. Hobyrim gave it to me as you bathed. He told me to tell you that he gave Ozma her last rites and sent her body back to your family."

Oz did not respond. He gently took the small package in his hands and ran his fingers over the top with halcyon strokes. Cerya felt as if she witnessed a sacred ritual of sorts and turned away. It felt wrong to intrude on his privacy, even if she had orders to do so. Cerya quietly slipped from the room, with her spear and dagger in hand there were no weapons for him to use. Despite her caution, she knew it did not matter, for Oz was too preoccupied to care about anything but what was in the small package. Cerya rushed down the halls until she found one of the servants who ran errands into town. She gave him the coin and the orders - she also ordered a pair of boots, though Oz had not asked for them, and the servant bowed deeply before rushing off. She hoped she had guessed Oz's shoe size correctly, but if she had not, she could always order a second pair. Cerya made note of the young servant's freckled face in case he ran off with the money, and turned back to her room. With the main force of the Resistance returned, the halls were no longer empty. They did not bustle as when they were on the move, but it was not uncommon for Cerya to run into multiple soldiers as she walked the halls. Her room was in was in a hall specifically designated for those of higher rank, but even it contained many servants who rushed to and fro on orders. They barely paid Cerya any heed as they went about their duties.

Cerya re-entered her room quietly only to see a very distressed Oz stare back at her. Perhaps she imagined it, but he looked almost as if he wanted to cry. Cerya tried to offer him a smile, but his dark mood influenced hers and she could not bring her lips to form more than a small upcurve that did not reach her eyes. She removed her shoes again and placed them by the door. As she took a step towards her prisoner, she noticed the small package was open and inside lay a few stray objects. From her distance, Cerya could only see a necklace, a ring, a small enchanted dagger, but she was sure there were more, as Oz seemed to hold one item as well. Cerya recognized and respected his need for space and walked over into her bedchamber as to not disturb him. She again removed her spear and placed it against the wall before she sat down onto her bed. As she lay still, she pretended to ignore she the ragged gasps that came from the other room.

Despite all of her internal warnings against it, she did not take the dagger from Oz.

---

Cerya gently pushed the door shut behind her, a bright smile on her face as she leaned against it. She slid down the wall and laughed softly, her knees were pressed against her chest, encircled by her arms. Her undergarments were exposed, but she did not care. Tears of happiness streamed over her features and almost wanted to giggle, as if she were a young girl again.

All of her fears, all of her hopes. . .

"Are you well?" Oz's voice was quiet; he had collected himself since his breakdown earlier in the day. Cerya looked up, not even Oz could sour her mood on this evening. The clothes she had ordered earlier in the day had arrived and he was no longer dressed in only a towel. Instead he had chosen to dress in his new nightclothes, which consisted of a simple top and dark pants. Cerya smiled to herself and pushed herself off the floor as she removed her boots.

"Yes, Yes, I'm quite well." Her voice was uncharacteristically high and she would even call it feminine. She walked past Oz, who gently took her by the shoulder and turned her around. He seemed cautious, as if Cerya was entirely foreign to him.

"What happened?" he looked surprisingly worried at her abnormal manner. Cerya could no longer hold it in.

"Sh-she's alive!" She gasped out before she fell into warm laughter.

Cerya pulled out of Oz's grasp. All of her sadness and all of her regret was gone, temporarily. Her obsession with vengeance hadn't torn their family apart a second time. During their evening meeting, Cerya had been struck silent at Cistina's bright, glowing visage. Folcurt had escorted her; apparently, they had kept Cistina's awakening a secret, as they wanted to reveal it at a very special moment. With Olivya's return, and their father's – who Cerya was slightly less pleased about - Cistina had thought it appropriate to finally show herself. She worked in secret to rebuild her body. She was nowhere near battle-ready given her extended coma, but the healers had done a magnificent job; that she could even walk, even if she required Folcurt's assistance showed her strength and determination. If Cerya had her way, she would never let Cistina see the field again; she hadn't realized how badly she missed her younger sibling until she saw her stand in front of her.

Cerya could not remember a time she had felt such relief.

"You should smile more often. A stern face does you no credit."

Cerya whipped around. Simple words would not harm her mood, but she was shocked to hear them from the Lodissian. He spoke them with a straight face and Cerya wondered if he mocked her.

Cerya's tone was light as she humored him. "How decidedly normal. What ever happened to liking screaming and begging?" Cerya turned back around and walked into her room, the small smile still on her lips. Oz did not follow, as he recognized she was prepared to dress down for the evening. He called to her softly, his own tone less serious than it had been earlier in the day.

"I am a simple man. I can appreciate a beautiful woman's smile."

"Beautiful." Cerya's reply was flat. She was surprised that she lacked annoyance; she felt quite the opposite, in her pleasant mood she found she could appreciate Oz's odd jests. "I worry that, from you, 'tis not a compliment." Cerya released the leather of her belt with practiced ease. She removed her spear and placed it beside her bed, and slid the dagger under her pillow, she immediately missed the weight of both. She pulled her warm dress off over her head, a motion that served to tangle her hair. Cerya was amused when she realized that her prisoner now had more sets of clothing than she.

"I am not one to compliment casually." He paused, his tone serious. Cerya slid on her nightshift and ran her fingers through her hair in attempt to bring order to the horrid mess it often became after hours without a brush. "Other than a woman kneeling in submission before me, I find very few things beautiful." Cerya walked back out into the guest room; she did her best to ignore the rather disturbing comment. "At home, I've a collection of beautiful slaves taken from my conquests." That caused Cerya to frown as she poured herself a glass of water, was his comment necessary? Oz seemed remarkably talkative; Cerya wondered if he had been lonely. It was an odd thought brought upon by an empathetic mood. "But in Lodis, there is -was- one who shined brighter than all others."

"Your sister." Cerya replied.

"Yes." No longer did he seem to speak in jest. Cerya looked over his face, which now held a frown. He did not seem interested in further conversation, despite only just a moment earlier he had spoke energetically. Cerya felt a flood of remorse. She had come back into the room with a bright smile and laughter and had thrown it into Oz's face that her sister lived, when only hours before he had received his sister's only belongings. Had someone done similarly to her she doubted that she would have responded similarly and instead likely with a cool anger. Despite his rather fragile exterior in regards to his sister, it seemed Oz was remarkably thick-skinned.

Newly-filled glass in hand, Cerya turned and walked away, to leave Oz to his memories. Cerya's mood remained high and she would not have a mopey Lodissian ruin it. Cerya sat on her bed and picked up her reports from the bed stand beside her; they were mostly orders that Denam requested Cerya to monitor. She organized them by importance, cost, and necessary resources. She did not have a quill in her room, which she cursed herself for on multiple occasions, but a quick glance over the papers made it easy to determine what she would request when she returned them to Denam in the morning.

So caught up she was in her work that Cerya did not hear Oz's light knock on her wall. She was only alerted to his presence when he spoke.

"Why did he kill her?" Cerya looked up, entirely confused by the statement until she realized exactly who he referred to. Cerya briefly felt a flash of annoyance; did Oz speak of no one but his sister? The annoyance faded into a soft warmth and even respect, for she someday hoped to do the same, once the war ended. Her sisters deserved more from her than she had been able to give. "She would not have harmed him." His voice quieted and was little more than a whisper. "She would have done anything for him."

Cerya found it odd that the Lodissian confided his worry to her. Even stranger was the revelation that Ozma and Hobyrim had such a close relationship. "It was battle. You could not expect Hobyrim to not defend himself."

Oz shook his head, almost violently. He had not entered her room, but he remained in the doorway. "She would not have attacked him, upon seeing who he was. For years she thought him dead; she would have given anything to have him back." Cerya piled her now-organized orders up and placed them back onto her nightstand. She felt almost like a mother who consoled her upset child.

"They were very close, then?" Cerya had not been aware that Hobyrim and Ozma knew each other at all.

"Yes. They were to be married, but he was exiled for murder." Oz had a disgusted look on his face, Cerya's mind wrapped itself around the marriage comment and stored it away for later questioning. She soon forgot about it as Oz continued his rant. "He shamed not only his family but ours! He rejected everything that Ozma was willing to give for him for his ridiculous 'morality.'" Oz hit his fist against his hand in anger. Cerya jumped, surprised; she had underestimated how emotional he was. "He showed no mercy in cutting her down, and yet still he had the gall to bring her items to me!" his words were almost a hiss and he had the dark, cruel look on his features again. She had seen him violent before, but his current countenance downright disturbed her.

Cerya slid off her bed, taking the dagger from underneath her pillow. Oz watched the motion as Cerya cautiously walked over to him. He was taller than she, and far more emotional, but Cerya clearly dominated the room with her calm presence.

"I do not know the specifics, nor do I believe it is my business. But I ask you this: Would she wish you to sit and cry about what you've lost?" Cerya had asked the same question of herself after her mother died. "I cannot say why Hobyrim killed her and likely we will never know. All I can say is that you should live how she wished you to." Her mother's bright smile filled her memory, as did a vision of her sister's faces. When she had thought Cistina dead, Cerya had been able to accept her views. Perhaps she would never entirely follow them, but she could accept them. "Be the person your sister wished you to be."

Oz was silent before he turned away. "Yes sister, I understand now." he murmured to himself. "Thank you, Cerya." were the last words he spoke to her that night. After that, he lay on the couch, with no pillow or blanket. He curled up lightly, but the night was warm enough that he would not be harmed by his lack of covers. She did not know how long it took him to fall asleep, for she quickly went back to her own bed and blew out her candle. Cerya's mood dulled lightly at his outburst, but Cistina's playful visage brought her only pleasant dreams.

---

"If I told you that I would only feel pleasure at your death and lust to hear your screams and cries, how would you feel?"

"Unsurprised. Annoyed, but unsurprised." To her great distaste, Cerya had grown accustomed to Oz's comments. She had quickly learned he only spoke such when he desired attention or was bored. The first time he had said such, Cerya had drawn her weapon and forced it against his throat. He had smiled as if remarkably pleased with himself, but made no attempt to see his threat through.

"Not offended?" He pressed, tone amicable. Even though Cerya did not look up, she could tell he smiled from his chair across from her.

"From you, 'tis practically 'Hello.'" Cerya put her quill down and moved to the next parchment. Oz's smile turned down a bit, as if sad at her lack of reaction.

As with before, Cerya had been ordered to remain in Phidoch and oversee administrative matters. Denam had been extremely pleased with her results and told her that she was more of an asset in governing Resistance internal policy than on the battlefield. At first, Cerya had been offended; she was a very capable warrior and one of his more experienced captains, but she had slowly conceded that had she allowed anyone else to oversee the bureaucratic work, she would only end up annoyed and be forced to change it again at a later point to something she preferred. She had given in with little argument, as Denam could be persuasive when he chose to be. Even her father, who acted as one of Denam's aides, followed her orders without question.

Oz had been a constant nuisance since Denam had ordered him under her care. It was not that he did anything wrong, quite the opposite - he had been remarkably well mannered other than his quips in ill-taste, it was his existence that made her work more difficult. She could not leave him be for any prolonged period; though he had shown no interest in escape, and had multiple opportunities to do so,it was difficult for Cerya to let old worries die. She could not bring him into the meeting room for fear that he would be recognized. Finally, Cerya had opted for a desk, quill, and parchment to be brought into her small quarters, where she would work on her reports.

While she worked, Oz would often exercise. He had quickly regained much of his lost muscle mass, though Cerya still refused to give him a weapon. Cistina would visit at times, with Folcurt. Oz would tease her younger sister until her face was so red that it looked ready to explode and Cerya had to step in. After doing such on three separate occasions, Cerya finally realized it had become something of a sport between them; she wondered if Cistina recognized the Templar or if she was simply forgiving and willing to give him another chance - the chance Cerya continued to deny him.

"I can assist in this." Cerya looked at the sheet Oz pointed at. She picked it up and glanced through it; a Bakram-Valerian spy had attempted to infiltrate the Resistance, but was caught. Information extraction proved difficult and it was requested Cerya decide what to do with the prisoner.

"Are you mad? Why would I allow you to do such?" She placed the parchment back down immediately.

"It would solve your problem and alleviate my boredom."

"Why should I trust you?" The Templar had a point, but Cerya was unwilling to give in without a fight.

"Have I given you reason not to?" To her surprise, Oz sounded truly offended. Cerya shook her head; he spoke the truth, he had not done anything that would cause her to distrust him. He had been obedient and quiet, as well as minded his own business until he fell to boredom. It was odd that she so firmly clung to the past when it was she who told both Oz and Denam to move on. As she mused on the subject for a moment, she realized how selfish she had been in that regard. If Denam could give him a chance for redemption, and Oz had wronged Denam almost as much as she, then perhaps she should as well.

Cerya finally nodded. "Very well. I will call for an escort. Use whatever means necessary, but we must be quiet about this." Oz nodded. It was not that Denam was against the use of torture for information - quite the opposite, his shadows employed it often and it was how he had learned of the presence of Hamilton in Heim and his own sister in Barnicia. Cerya was far more worried that people would learn of Oz's presence and spread word about; she hesitantly hoped that, for Oz's sake, the Lodissians did not learn he still lived.

Oz almost looked like a giddy child, his eyes bright and hopeful. Cerya held back her sigh and stood. As she used her guest chamber as a meeting room, she constantly had guards outside them during the day to prevent intrusion. A quick order to the guards and one rushed off in preparation of an escort. Oz paced about the room and Cerya motioned or him to exit. He kneeled by his boots, they were almost completely unused as Oz did not leave her room often, and put them on. Cerya stood by the door as Oz paced up and down the hall a few steps in anticipation. A few times, servants passed and stared at him, confused, but Oz had glared in return and told them to mind their business. After a few moments, a trio of armored Knights appeared and, which a quick order, Cerya sent Oz off with them. He gave them all an agitated look, but calmed into submission as he felt Cerya's glare on his back.

As Oz's form disappeared down the hall, Cerya re-entered her room. She released her soft sigh and walked back to her desk. The rest of the orders were mundane and Cerya glanced through them, head in her hand. Her hair fell over the desk and only barely her small inkwell, but she did not care. For some reason, she felt so exposed without the second presence in her room. It had been weeks since she last had time to herself and, now that she had it, she found she almost did not want it. Cerya did not understand herself at times.

At the very bottom of her pile was a small letter, addressed only with the word "Cerya" written in practiced calligraphy. Curious, Cerya cut the wax and read the short message. It was in what she knew to be Olivya's elegant script.

Sister,
We took a detour; our march began later than expected. Denam recently befriended the Necroprentice Cressida. As I write this, Sherri sits beside me. She is so severe, much like you, but I can tell she is happy to be at our side. When this arrives at Phidoch, we will likely be beginning the assault on Barnicia. Pray for us.
Send father my regards.
With love,
Olivya
(and Sherri, too)

Cerya inhaled. Sherri had been a subject Olivya and their father had been completely unwilling to bring up when they had spoken. Cistina had been the one to press about it, but she had gotten nowhere. The letter was short, but Olivya succeeded in her goal. Sherri had returned to them, and while Cerya found herself pleased to hear her sister was safe, she also felt so distant. Sherri and she had been close once, but with the rift, they had been ripped farther apart than any of the others. Perhaps someday they would share secrets over tea again, but Cerya knew it would not be any time soon.

---

Cerya did not like the Princess.

Which was entirely fair, as the Princess did not like her, either.

It felt as if reality hit her over the head with a mallet. Cerya had been passionate in her fight for the country that had been lost when Oberyth died, but when a successor had been found, only to be Denam's younger "sister," Cerya could not bring herself to feel any enthusiasm. The young woman had some skill in battle, but she lacked experience in command. She wanted to be more than a figurehead, but at the same time she did not seem to know how to. Sherri, too, shared Cerya's worries; though her younger sister did not openly admit it, she could tell Sherri was hesitant just from her neutral expression. Even after years apart, they could still read each other fairly well.

Cerya had been perfectly ready to accept the young figurehead, for the younger woman allowed Denam to retain his control over the army, at least until she had started taking control over Cerya's administrative manners. Her reasons were sound, she wanted experience before she became Queen, but the problems occurred when she refused to listen to Cerya or even her father, Mrueva, in matters where she lacked experience. Instead she made easily-avoidable mistakes. She not only contradicted Cerya's orders on several occasions, but had also nullified them. Cerya did not take well to others who attempted to do her job for her, especially when they did a worse job of it than herself. With the Princess' presence, Cerya had been demoted into the position of glorified babysitter.

The Princess tried her hardest, Cerya could admit, but she would do well to listen to others from time to time. Cerya knew the truth was that only felt as she did because she had, for so long, been seeking the past. When she finally obtained the past she sought, a ruler to replace Oberyth and unify Valeria, it turned out very different from what she had expected or desired. The past seemed to be a constant struggle with Cerya; when she thought she made progress, she only slipped back into old habits. To the younger woman's credit, after she became overwhelmed, she finally approached Cerya. They sat across from each other, almost painfully, until the Princess admitted, with as much pride as she could muster, that she respected Cerya's experience and would appreciate her help from time to time.

It had been instinctual to decline; she almost snapped out a "no" without thought. The only reason she had stopped was a quick glance at Oz, who sat quietly in the corner. He paid little heed to them, but it was what he represented that made her second guess herself. Cerya constantly belittled herself for her hypocrisy when holding onto the past, but at times she refused to take the first step on the path to change. In determination to begin her long walk towards acceptance, Cerya conceded to the Princess with a silent nod. The younger woman immediately asked questions about resource management and troop placement. She was an avid learner who had a good grasp on concepts, but she often lacked foresight or missed the larger changes as she focused only on a smaller goal.

Denam and his sister had not been back for long before he began to form a strategy to retake Heim. With the Princess of their side, the Resistance's numbers increased overnight. The Commander had made no mention of Cerya's duties yet, but he also seemed at a loss about what to do with their "guest." Cerya's reports had told the truth: he was obedient, respectful, and spent much of his time reading or practicing what little he could without a weapon. He did not disrupt Cerya or any others who visited – with the exception of Cistina, who only came on social calls. When Cerya had read her report she had been as surprised as Denam at her own positive notes. For all of her distaste, from a neutral perspective she could admit that Oz had not broken his oath and his actions went well beyond what he had promised. Cerya was even tolerant of his unpleasant comments, though they did making her ill at times.

It was a week after their return to Phidoch that the Princess finally recognized Oz. Cerya and the Princess finished their lessons and the younger approached the door before she stopped. Oz, as always, remained silent but he did not hesitate to meet anyone's, even Catiua's, eyes whenever they stopped to look at him. The Princess did not seem to know how to react but with shock.

"You. . .you are. . .What are you doing here?" Catiua was tired from the lessons and almost dropped her parchment on Cerya's floor.

"Tch." was Oz's only reply and he turned back to his book.

Cerya walked over to the Princess, but kept her distance as was appropriate for their difference in positions. "Your Highness, please do not disturb my charge." Cerya was almost as surprised as Oz was that she defended the man. "If you've any questions, speak to the Commander about them." Cerya could tell the younger woman disliked Cerya's tone, but she said nothing. Her face twisted into an annoyed frown before she nodded and left without a word. Cerya, too, turned back to her desk and sat back down to clear off the mess the Princess' presence had left.

Oz, however, was not so well mannered to silently go about on his way and took every available opportunity to tease Cerya. "That you would speak in my defense. . ." Oz put his book down and stood up. He approached Cerya's desk but stood a few paces away to remind her of his presence.

Cerya would not fall to his bait. "Enough. I've work to do."

"What work? Were you not upset before because the girl seeks to do your job?" Cerya refused to look at Oz, her face revealed its shock at his question. How had he known?

"How. . .?"

"You hold it in, but I can tell. You hurt because your purpose has dwindled. You dislike that, to your commander, you are less the person and more the soldier." Of course, Oz saw many of her meetings and orders. Cerya had been cautious to allow him to do so at first, but it had been the first trust she had given him; he had not abused it. He saw Cerya's facial expressions and heard her words, it made sense that he would be able to understand why she struggled. He had little else to do during the day except stare at her and muse on her actions.

"Don't make such assumptions." Cerya snapped, fully aware that they both knew he was correct. A frown was etched on her face and she unintentionally grasped at her dagger. She had no intention to use it, but its presence made her comfortable and calmed her. She looked back down at her desk, but did not attempt to work. The desk was a fine piece of woodwork, a light oak with a dark finish. It was heavy and large and had taken many servants and soldiers to carry in. Cerya was very devoted to her job - that she lacked motivation to work revealed to Oz that he walked the path to her inner self.

"They are not assumptions." Oz had not moved and his words held a familiar stubbornness. "I am neither blind nor deaf. I know you better than you know yourself."

"Is this your way of taking pleasure from my pain?" Cerya finally snapped in frustration and got back up, even though she had sat for less than a minute. Oz seemed to enjoy this game he played with her, even if he did not show it on his face. She almost wished he would sneer at her so she could hate him, but his words were austere. Despite her harsh reaction, as she stood in front of the man, she somehow felt she had misjudged him; he did not deserve such harsh words. But she had already made the first attack and she could not back down.

". . ." Oz looked. . .upset? Cerya could hardly believe this was the same Oz who she had wanted to kill just two Scales before. He almost looked vulnerable, but covered his face with that unexpressive mask he wore when defending himself. She had learned Oz's defensive tactics quickly, just as he had learned hers. Through their arguments, they had become closer than Cerya had been with anyone in years.

"Answer me!" Cerya's voice lost some of its strength, but contained the rest of her anger. She found herself deflated at Oz's continued silence, and even more so at his reply.

"It is you who makes assumptions of me." Oz did not turn away, but Cerya could no longer read him. Even his body language was controlled. His words served only to confuse her more.

"You speak nothing but riddles."

"Stop being so foolish, I've already told you. My entire life previous revolved around being nothing more than a soldier. I see the path you follow, the way you will break down and do what you must, for you love your people more than you love yourself. Just as you were willing to use any means while you led the Liberation Front." Cerya remembered what he referred to. It had been the first words he had spoken to her of what he truly thought, not simply what he wished people to think of him. At the time, Cerya did not believe she could relate, but now perhaps she understood him better than she would admit.

"Perhaps I want to be a simple soldier." A lie. Cerya could not image herself following commands without thought. If she found a way to be more efficient, even if they went against orders, she would do so. As Oz had said to her, it was not a soldier's job to think, but serve. Cerya served in her own way, even if it meant defiance of orders, so a soldier's life was not for her.

"If that is what you deign to tell yourself." Oz seemed annoyed. Finally, his mask broke and he looked down to Cerya. They met eyes briefly before Cerya turned away, she knew she had lost the battle. Oz's gaze lingered on her face; his eyes flickered up and down as he examined her. "You've lost your fire, your passion. I would see it rekindled."

Oz finally turned away. Without a word, he walked back to the small chair he sat in and picked up his book. Cerya watched him for a time, as she expected him to elaborate. Instead he chose to ignore her, his eyebrows drawn together in a crease as he turned the pages slowly. Cerya shook her head, expression confused and upset, before she went back to sit at the desk she had temporarily abandoned. Cerya stared at the parchment before her; after all of her moping about how she wanted to remain in her position, she lacked any desire to continue.

"There was one girl." Cerya looked up curiously in her prisoner's direction. Oz seemed amused, as if locked in a pleasant memory. His tone sounded as if he spoke to himself, but his words were obviously directed to at Cerya. "A young thing. She ran from home, likely, to join the Front." Cerya's full attention was on Oz now, her hand unintentionally clenched the armrest of her chair. "She was very expressive, even the smallest of emotions overwhelmed her face. I planned to kill her first, but such beauty should never be wasted. I would have brought her remains with me, had sister not scolded me."

"D-Disgusting" Cerya murmured to the delight of her tormenter. She shook in rage; Cerya had seen the girl before. As Oz said, she was young, inexperienced, but wanted nothing more than to save her country. Cerya denied none who shared her views, so long as they had been willing to do anything and follow her orders.

"But I've not yet gotten to the good part." Oz seemed sad that Cerya lacked his passion. "I did not kill her, not at first. The little creature made these delightfully pleasant gasps each time her comrades fell. She screamed 'No, no!' but did not step in to stop me; instead she huddled in the corner as she soiled herself in panic." Cerya did not want to hear any more and stood up ready to walk from the room. "Her eyes were so bright and beautiful, I remember the look clearly. Tears streamed down her face and those pouty lips of hers quivered in terror. She fell to the floor and begged on her hands and knees, but why would I spare one girl simply because she asked?" Cerya stood in front Oz now and grasped her dagger. She shook, barely able to contain her rage at his drawl. "Her fingers went first. At the first cut she made a high-pitched scream that resounded through Boed. By the last her throat parched and she could no longer make more than a squeak. After that went her toes; she squirmed so delightfully under my weight that I only found myself pressed forward to continue up her legs."

"Enough!" Cerya, no longer paralyzed, grasped at her dagger and straddled the sitting man to hold him down under her weight. Her hatred rekindled, she pressed her dagger to his throat and shook violently until she realized he did not struggle. Quite the opposite, he remained completely impassive as Cerya met his eyes. She had no idea how he could speak so casually of cruelty. He had a soft smile on his features as he looked up to her.

"This is a remarkably familiar situation." He laughed lightly, given the blade pressed into his neck. He seemed calm. "But no longer do I desire to end my own life."

For a moment Cerya stared at him. Oz's composed temperament and lack of continued mockery only led her to realize that, just a moment before, she would have reveled in his death. After all she had sworn to do, to learn to forgive and accept like Cistina, and to let go of the past like Denam, she still lacked the strength to do either. Oz's light laughter below her was not cruel, instead almost pleasant as he ran a hand down the side of her face. Cerya shivered at the touch and turned away, unable to face him as her mind danced around anger and shame in equal quantities.

"You. . ." Cerya understood. Oz had said those words to provoke a reaction. "I hate you." Despite the harshness, she felt tired and weak and the words lacked passion. She would even call her words pitiful. She lowered the blade from his neck and attempted to get off of him, but Oz held her with his arm, which he had slung around her waist.

"I don't think you do." He was more confident now, but his tone spoke of an odd understanding. "What you hate now is your lack of power and ability to act. But," He paused and tilted his head to the side. The rage had partially drained from Cerya's eyes as she met his once again. "If hating me will bring back your passion, then I will accept your fury."

Cerya again attempted to stand, but Oz did not release her. Had she put her strength into it she would have been able to force his arm off, but she lacked the motivation to do so. She hung her head and sighed in that she knew he was correct. She hated how she felt so useless, how the fate of the country was out of her hands. Though her family had reunited, a dream of hers, they, too, had all grown and did not rely on her. Cerya was alone in many ways. She disliked the direction of her thoughts and knew she needed to change the subject. Her words were hesitant, carefully chosen.

"So you've found a way to live on your own." It was rather pathetic, Cerya knew, but Oz mentioned he no longer desired to end his life. If he did so, it meant that he had finally accepted his sister's death.

"No." His tone was firm and Cerya was all the more confused. She looked back up in attempt to read his features but Oz's mind was already elsewhere. "I will not allow you to suffer the same fate as Ozma."

"I have no intention of dying." Cerya's answer felt more like a question than a response. She did not understand what Oz implied. After a moment, she felt her hatred dwindle away into the back of her mind. In a strange twist, she felt as if some had drained away permanently. Her release of the revitalized anger had only shown her how pointless, even childish, it was.

"Sister was dead long before you laid eyes upon her." Oz's arm fell, his words remorseful and his face haunted. With his arm no longer around her, Cerya stood up and put her dagger back in its sheath. Oz did not stare at her, instead lost in his own thoughts, but she continued to stare down at him, entirely confused. She knew he meant well, and that his harsh words were likely the only way he had to show it, but why?

Cerya knew the answer; Oz had given it just a moment before. The thought sent a cold chill through her. He no longer clung to the memory of his sister because he had found someone to replace her. In contrast to her earlier words, she found herself unable to hate him; his reliance on her only interested her more.

---

"I would like to march with you to Heim." Cerya declared. Denam didn't look up, instead his quill continued its scrawl along the parchment that contained orders. The room was pleasantly warm, but not overbearingly so. Denam had not taken his command back of many responsibilities he had given Cerya, instead his orders focused on communication with shadows and information he gathered.

"Then who will steward Phidoch?" Was his offhand reply. He hardly paid Cerya any attention as he signed the order and wrote a small note on a parchment to his side.

"Does not her Highness choose to manage the castle?" Cerya could barely contain the spite in her voice, but Denam detected it and looked up. He examined her for a moment before he continued; a brief sigh caused his hair to blow over his face.

"She will march with me, you know this. You do a fine job and I understand your desire for action, but who else would I trust with the castle? Phidoch is not only our base, but is in an extremely important strategic location. We need someone skilled to remain behind in case of an emergency. We cannot have our enemies strike at our backs."

"I feel as if I could do so much more afield, Commander." Cerya's logic told her she would lose the battle and it had barely begun. She easily understood Denam's argument, even if she did not yet want to accept it. Her role was important, and yet she felt as if she had been left behind.

"And what of the Lodissian? I've heard little of him and you trust him enough to leave him be, but the assault on Heim will take more than a few days, he will be alone for weeks. We cannot afford to let him free, not yet." Denam looked back down to his paper. His words were passive, as if Denam did his best to not dwell over the man.

"He has been well mannered, yes." Though Cerya was still unsure if the Templar wished to escape, he had shown no desire to leave; he acted quite the opposite, instead he followed Cerya around willingly. Whenever he was not with her, she found herself looking to her side, where he usually stood or sat. She knew could not tell Denam that their Knight Commander happened to be good company, despite it being the truth.

"If you've an idea on how to deal with him, I would hear it." Cerya could not refute Denam's point. Even though the war would soon end, if Oz returned to Loslorien it would be a morale boost that could quite possibly turn the tides in the Lodissian's favor. Obedient prisoner or not, he had to remain in Phidoch, even if that meant with her. A very quiet voice of the back of her mind was glad he stayed beside her, as her family had moved on and Cerya was alone without them. With some caution, Cerya admitted that it was nice to have the attention

"No, sir." Cerya relented. She was needed in Phidoch and she was not childish enough to leave her post at what could possibly be their decisive battle. Cerya knew that, had Cerya a good defense, Denam would have allowed her back afield. Given Denam and Oz's "agreement" they could not simply toss the man into the dungeons and leave him there, even if she wanted to.

"I'm sorry, Cerya. I know it must be-"

"Denam." A voice called from the side door. Cerya and Denam looked over in unison to see Catiua enter the meeting room. She walked with a calm confidence, but Cerya could tell she held in anger. If it was perceptible to her, it must also be obvious to Denam. Denam stood from his chair out of respect for his the Princess.

"Sister, is there a problem?" Denam asked casually; he, too noted Catiua's foul mood. Catiua's false smile faded as she placed a parchment onto the table.

"Yes, there's a problem, look at the troop placement!" Her voice was surprisingly high, despite her anger.

"I wrote this. What is the matter?" Denam leaned back against the table in an almost bored manner. Cerya had seen Denam's placement. There were no problems with it; quite the opposite, Denam's orders were identical to what she would have done, other than replacing Olivya with Catiua.

"Why am I with the healers, brother? Do you not think me capable of fighting on the front lines?" Catiua pointed at her name. Denam did not bother to look.

"Our troops are familiar with their captains, to change them around at the last minute would cause naught else but chaos." Cerya agreed silently, but realized that this was not really a conversation she should listen to. If word spread that Denam and Catiua were fighting, dissent could spread through the troops and, the worst scenario would be the formation of factions behind one sibling or the other. Cerya did not know whether to leave and risk knowledge of their argument leak into the open, or stay and feel as if she was an uncomfortable bystander in business that was not hers. The decision was easy; Cerya chose the latter and watched the siblings. As uncomfortable as she was, she could not risk discord at such a vital time.

"That is exactly why I must lead in the front lines, so that the troops have a chance to see the woman they will follow into the new kingdom!" Catiua slammed her hand on the table in stubborn refusal to give into Denam's logic. Cerya sighed at the foolishness, but both ignored her. It was enough that Catiua would tell Cerya, who was much more experienced than she, that she was wrong, but to tell Denam, a charismatic leader who had fought his way into power from almost nothing? Cerya could hardly believe her ears.

"The people love you, sister, but moreso, so I do. I cannot allow you to act so brashly." Denam released a sigh that mimicked Cerya's and turned away. He did not sit down, simply organized his parchment that Catiua's hand knocked over the table.

"I will not take no for an answer, brother!" Cerya almost wanted to slap the girl. In some sense, she was reminded of Cistina's stubbornness. Cistina had constantly put herself into danger for her beliefs and did not realize that, if she died, she would never see them to completion. It had been the cause of many an argument between them and Cerya empathized with Denam's exasperation.

"Nor will I. I am not changing troop placements. Stop being foolish, sister, I have given you exactly what you wanted. The healers are a beacon of hope to the warriors. They run through the field, tending to those drawing their last breaths, mending pain, and allowing the men to return home to their families. If you are head of the healers, you are the one who signifies that hope – that safety and relief!" Denam's voice had turned stern again, almost condescending. He had snapped the reply out, but unless one spoke with him often, as Cerya did, one wouldn't have noticed his impatience. It was times like these that Cerya realized how much Denam had changed from when she knew him as a child. She could hardly imagine that young boy, barely able to leave the side of his sire, had turned into the man before her now. She felt a surprising affection for him, not entirely different from what she felt for Olivya and Cistina.

For a long moment Catiua was silent. She stared at Denam whose face expressed its familiar impassive mask. Finally, Catiua turned her head down in remorse. Her bangs fell over her face and she could not meet Denam's firm gaze.

"I-I see now. Perhaps I am inexperienced, brother. I'm sorry. There's so much I've yet to learn, I should attempt to look at what is beyond my nose from time to time." Denam rewarded her with a soft smile and lifted her face up. They met each others eyes and, as if it were magic, all things were right again between them.

"'Tis fine sister, I apologize for my outburst as well. Hopefully we will not need to discuss troop placement after Heim falls, but if we do, I promise to listen to your input." Cerya nodded to herself and made for the door. The entire situation had begun to unsettle her. How could Denam simply forgive his sister so easily? She understood they had a close relationship, but Cerya's own anger could never be swept away in an instant. As neither of the two paid any heed to her, Cerya turned and quietly left the room.

"No brother, I see why you do what you do now. I am experienced in the arts of healing, as well. To simply jump into battle is . . . " Were the last words Cerya heard as she walked down the hall.

Cerya had a deep frown on her face. Her day seemed only get worse and worse; she was stuck in Phidoch and now, as she always did, she had to face Oz. Cerya had tried her best to avoid the subject internally, but the scene between Catiua and Denam only rekindled the flame of confusion, disgust, and curiosity. Oz seemed to think of her as he did his sister. Oz did nothing but tease her with his vulgar jests - there were times Cerya wondered if they were jests at all - and say she reminded him of Ozma, yet their relationship was nothing like Denam's and Catiua's, or even Cerya and her own sisters'. Cerya enjoyed her time spent with her sisters, but could not tolerate spending all day with the females as she did Oz, but in contrast, she and Oz's relationship was far more tense. It could be the product of Cerya's own remaining vengeance, but she and Oz constantly argued and -

Cerya paused in the hallway at the realization. Oz flirted with her. It was no wonder their relationship was so different than Catiua and Denam's, Oz did not view her as his sister at all! She may be similar to Ozma, but, despite the constant comparisons to her, Oz certainly did not treat her like a brother would. She wondered how she could have been so blind - naive, even. She had trusted Oz, as much as disliked the idea of it, and in doing so she had opened up a bridge between them. She had been so focused on her hatred, then her anger at herself for Cistina, then her work, that she had completely missed the male's intent.

Cerya almost turned around and walked back to Denam to tell him that no, their prisoner was absolutely not obedient and that he should go back to the dungeons immediately, but stopped herself. Certainly Oz wasn't that bad, despite his misguided attempts at courtship. She would need to simply keep her distance and let him do as he normally would, she just needed to be sure she did not accidentally respond in a way that could promote his behavior. There was certainly no need for them to not stop contact.

Cerya sighed; she could hardly believe what she was thinking. That she had somehow gained the interest of the Lodissian was confusing enough, but that she found she did not want him to stop was even worse! Her mind screamed of caution, curiosity, and horror. From behind her, she heard a loud, masculine grunt. Cerya turned quickly in surprise; she realized she hadn't moved from her place in the hall when a bulky warrior cleared his throat in attempt to alert Cerya that she was in his way. Cerya uncharacteristically blushed; she acted like a lovesick child, and she was not in love at all! She immediately took a step to the side to allow the burly man to pass and continued her walk back to her room.

Cerya found she simply did not understand herself when it came to matters related to the Knight Commander.

As expected, Oz remained in her room. It had been an odd moment when one day, weeks ago, that Cerya had come to accept and expect his presence when she returned. It had become a familiar part of her day and even her guards had come to expect him. Cerya kneeled and slid off her new boots. She had been glad to finally get a replacement for her older ones and, though they were not yet worn in, they still made her feel less exposed. She looked up to her companion; he had recently ordered more clothes and he wore one of his finer garments. He seemed to prefer silk and velvet, which were of rare commodity in Valeria. Cerya had scolded him about spending Resistance - and her - money for such petty items, but he had only stared in confusion. Oz was apparently used to obtaining anything and everything he wanted; cost had never been an issue for him. He had even gone as far as to order her a dress. It was not in a fashion Cerya would have bought herself, let alone normally would wear at all, but she appreciated the gesture and wore it when she had little to do, simply because she did not receive presents often. What annoyed Cerya more than Oz's constant desire for new clothes was his use of her soap and wash. She had asked him to buy his own rather than to simply use hers, but he declined, saying the smell reminded him of her. Cerya had thought it a bit odd at the time, but now that she understood his meaning, it disturbed her.

Cerya walked over to her desk; no longer did it hold all of the papers it once did, as much of her workload had been taken on by the Princess. She looked down with distaste and unintentionally sighed; not bothering to sit, she simply leaned on the edge of the sturdy desk.

"Your commander does not permit you to march to Heim." Oz's voice rang through the room; it was not a question. Cerya had learned more recently that Oz was startlingly adept at reading her. He had little else to do at times except stare at her, so it made sense, but she found it disconcerting that he could easily do so especially since it had been only a few moments since her arrival.

Though he could easily read her, she had learned to quickly read his body language as well. Even when he tried to hide his emotions she could see the small changes - his impassive masks usually signified that he was sad or distressed. When he was nervous he would shift his weight and often felt for a blade or axe that was not there. When annoyed, he would, oddly enough, frown. He would stare, almost boldly, whenever he desired something; he stared at Cerya often and Cerya now felt she understood why. Though he smiled often, his smiles were false and very rarely did they represent his feelings. Cerya believed she had only seen him truly smile once or twice, but recently he had begun to do so more often.

"You're part of the problem. I cannot just leave you alone." Cerya's reply was unintentionally harsh, but paired with her sour mood and the revelation that Oz desired her, she could not hold back the spiteful words. It was partially his fault, she would admit, but it was not he who had angered her.

To her surprise, Oz did not seem offended by her words. Instead, he had a self-satisfied smirk on his features "So I get you all to myself."

Cerya looked at him. His satisfaction remained evident and Cerya had no idea how to respond. Never before had she been so eagerly pursued by a man, nor did she have any idea on how to reject him. She wondered what her fallen comrades would say if they knew she dallied with the one who killed them. Cerya stopped the thought before it went any further; she would not obsess over revenge, it only caused pain.

"You go too far with your jests." Cerya finally replied, but she knew as well as he that they were not jests. She looked back down to her desk in attempt to pretend to work, only to find there was no parchment to look at. Instead, she walked over to her small couch, where Oz usually slept, and sat down. Oz had become bolder of late, she mused to keep her mind off of the discomfort between them. Though she was not keen on the idea of a relationship, she found his constant attention to almost flatter her, if it did cause a bit of worry. After a moment of discomfort, Cerya finally spoke, unable to withstand the tension. "Oz." Oz looked down at her from his standing position.

Cerya very rarely spoke his first name without the formal "Sir" in the front. She was unsure what provoked her to drop the formality, but it seemed to please the male. He quietly sat beside her, uncomfortably close. Cerya moved her legs away from his in attempt to increase the distance between them. Oz and Cerya teased each other and often spoke in a serious manner in a way they would to no one else. That Cerya even permitted Oz to get close to her signified a trust she had not realized she had for him; perhaps, in that way, they were as siblings.

"Why do you compare me to your sister? You and I are nothing like siblings." Her mind went back to how kind and forgiving Denam was with Catiua, and how both Cistina and Olivya loved and accepted almost unconditionally. Apparently, Sherri and Cerya had received all of the negative traits in the family.

"You are very much like her." was Oz's reply. He spoke it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Did you treat Ozma the same way you treat me?" Cerya pushed as she forced her tone to be light. The conversation quickly veered from its original direction and Cerya could not find a way to turn it back; she did not know if she was desperately curious or if she walked into a pit of dragons.

"Yes."

"I'm not entirely certain how to approach this appropriately, Oz, but. . ." Cerya hesitated. Despite her light, cautious tone, she was unsure where to begin. Incest was not uncommon, but when it occurred it was usually not openly spoken of. Again Oz seemed to take no offense, instead he laughed lightly, as if amused.

"I am well aware that my actions with Ozma bordered on distasteful. You needn't worry, she told me constantly." He smiled; Cerya supposed it was good he could joke about his nature, even if it disturbed her. Of more importance, he could speak of Ozma without that bleak look in his eyes.

"You. . .seek the same relationship with me as you had with Ozma?" Cerya finally asked bluntly. She disliked the game they played, she would rather have his thoughts out in the open than hidden behind seductive, playful words that hinted at more but promised less.

"And more." He ran a hand up her thigh, under the leather of her dress. Cerya caught his hand and put it back onto his leg immediately. She would not give in, no matter how much he lusted for her. She did not know if Ozma had allowed her brother to touch her so, but Cerya certainly would not tolerate it.

"I am your captor. I do not understand how we came to be in this predicament, but what you wish for is impossible."

"I think, perhaps, you understand me in a way you do not realize - in a way none have before." Oz explained and again put his hand on her, this time on her cheek. "And I see the person you hide - the kind woman you desperately seek to be and the impenetrable one you know you are not." Cerya resisted the urge to pull away, to do so would only cause him to continue. No, Cerya corrected herself, that was wrong; when asked, Oz gave her the distance she desired. She badly misjudged him before and continued to do so, even after she should have learned otherwise. He was serious with her; if Cerya said "no," he would listen.

"I feel nothing for you. No longer do I feel contempt or hatred, but nor I do lust for you as you do me." Oz dropped his hand and Cerya sighed inwardly in relief. She felt oddly empty after she said such.

"You acknowledge my advances." Cerya did not answer, nor did Oz seem to expect one. His voice was little more than a whisper.

Cerya and Oz remained on the small couch in silence; neither felt any desire to leave.

---

"I am going mad."

Oz walked into Cerya's bedroom. He had long since given up knocking and would often come in without warning. Cerya was fully dressed and ran a brush through her long hair. Her spear lay alone against the wall by her bed; some part of her knew she should be pleased to not have to use it, but another part longed for the field of battle where she was feared and respected. Often stories told of heroes who, after battle, disappeared from their country to go on a journey; Cerya understood them now, for she could not imagine the rest of her life in a dull castle, tending to servants, writing orders, and gaining fat instead of muscle.

"I thought perhaps you reached that point long ago." was her reply. Oz had just finished his morning bath. He had a pair of dark trousers on, but lacked a shirt. His hair was unbrushed, he did not intend to do so until he finished his morning stretches. He leaned against her wall expectantly as Cerya finished brushing her hair and ignored her response.

"I wish to practice with a blade." Cerya placed the brush down on her bedstand, unsure if she had heard correctly. All at once she was both shocked and completely unsurprised. For three scales he had been a prisoner, two of which he had been in her room, unable to do little more than stretch and strengthen his muscles. Cerya was amazed he waited as long as he had, but also worried that he again tested the length of his leash. Not that it particularly mattered; Denam marched on Heim, if he was not there already, and soon the Lodissians would be pushed back entirely. With the country united, Oz would be released and permitted to return to Lodis.

"I'm not sure that's wise." Cerya finally replied cautiously. She empathized with him; she felt her own skill rusty from lack of use.

"What am I going to do?" Oz shrugged, annoyed. "We've already lost and are prolonging the inevitable. The High Commander gambled with the Princess; we openly proclaimed our support of her position and cannot turn back now. Once Brantyn has been removed, the war will be over. I will be a prisoner of war without either a prison or a war."

Cerya did not rise from her bed, instead she stared longingly at her spear. Denam had not retracted his orders; Oz was to remain out of the public eye at all times, yet she also could not deny Oz was correct. She felt he deserved at least a bit of freedom.

"Very well." She complied. "I will reserve a private training room for you." Oz smiled brightly and, had he been a child, he would have danced from the room to finish dressing himself. Cerya shook her head, she certainly hoped she had made the right decision. She offered a small smile and she walked into the guest room. The servants had already brought breakfast. Oz, well mannered man he was, slid Cerya's chair out. It had taken her time to get used to being treated like a proper woman, but she now found she enjoyed it. One of the earliest things she had learned about her companion was that he was a remarkably picky eater. He disliked much of Valeria's native cuisine and instead only ate foreign foods. He had a taste for Dragon Steak and some particular fruits, but he disliked Valerian sauces. It was good that Valeria was an island where traders frequently stopped, for if not, she feared Oz would never eat at all.

Their morning meal was pleasant. They did not speak, but often they did not have to. On some days, Oz would ask Cerya if she had anything necessary to do, to which she would reply "nothing out of the ordinary." It had become something of a joke between them, they understood that both of them desired to do more with their lives than sit around in a castle. Cerya learned that Oz was intensely social; he enjoyed speaking and being spoken to, even if his words often drove those unfamiliar with him to anger. His isolation had likely been more of a punishment than even the torture.

After she finished, Cerya rose. She did not look over to Oz, who still picked at his food in attempt to separate the "acceptable" and "disgusting" parts. She no longer worried that Oz would kill someone if she left him alone; he had held a weapon for well over a scale - Ozma's dagger - and had not acted inappropriately with it. She had left her own spear in the room on multiple occasions and he had not touched it, either. Though she did not bother to bring her spear with her at all times, her dagger always remained on her belt. The Phoraena had not yet received any reports for the morning, so she had little work to do, best make preparations now, before work got in the way later. As promised, she slid her boots on and waved back to Oz, as she would go to reserve a private training room. He did not return the motion.

The training halls were almost silent, most of the Resistance army had left with Denam. Only the youngest and most inexperienced remained, but with Cerya's strict orders pertaining to training, they had improved greatly over the past weeks. Though Denam had made a fuss about the necessity to defend Phidoch, he lad left very few capable warriors to assist her. At one point, she had been required to go to the training halls to give lessons in magic to those who sought to become Rune Fencers or, more commonly, Valkyries. With the only other experienced Valkyrie in the castle ill, only Cerya had enough skill to adequately teach the trainees.

In Phidoch, the training halls were only second in the size only to the great hall. The inside was used for training with shorter range weapons, such as blades and axes. In one corner there was also an area for offensive magic, though in some places magical training came from families or from specialized schools. On the walls were racks holding weak weapons of varying sizes and shapes. Outside was a larger field, where whips, spearplay, and archery were practiced. In one corner was a small unused desk with large parchments atop it and an inkwell to the side. Cerya knew the parchment to hold the schedule for training over a week. Cerya moved the top parchment to the side to look at the private chamber schedules; very few were taken. Cerya chose a larger room for Oz, one that was often used in magical training. She wrote her name down with the inkwell and quill and turned.

How dull her life had become. It saddened her when it would be considered an "outing" for her to simply walk over to the training halls and write her name on a sheet of parchment. In some ways it was a relief from the constant bemoaning of the people of Phidoch that she had to deal with; as steward, Cerya found the worst part of her job to give audiences. Farmers, nobles, and commons alike all flocked to her on specific days to speak their worries or ask for coin. Cerya had little patience for any of them and often would snap in disgust. The nobles particularly annoyed her; they knew she was Bakram, her accent made it obvious, and their distaste caused them to constantly attempt to belittle or insult her. They disliked that the Bakram, once again, determined their fates. Once, in anger, she had thought to mention that Denam himself, and their beloved Princess, were Bakram, but caught herself in time. It was not worth it to snap at a petty annoyance such as them; it was not worth harm it could cause to the Resistance.

The walk back to the room was uneventful, she did not even encounter any young soldiers who inquired as to how her day was or if she enjoyed the bright, warm weather. Few servants rushed down the halls, for at such an early time in the morning many worked to distribute meals and clean rooms, such as bringing fresh bathwater or emptying chamberpots. Other than a distant call of voices from down the hall or the soft song of birds out the open windows, Cerya felt decidedly alone, only amplified by her familiarity at having a presence constantly by her side.

Oz was on the floor doing his exercises when she entered her room, he had removed his shirt and wore only his trousers and gloves. Cerya glanced at the folded garment, amused; he had only just put his shirt on for breakfast, before he took it off a few moments later. She slipped off her boots without care and placed them next to Oz's by the door before she walked over to her desk. Still the servants had not yet come to deliver her assignments for the day, and none of her patrols or shadows had returned, so she had little to do. It was not long before Cerya was bored. The small window was not near her desk so she could not peer outside, and there was nothing for her to do. It was arrogant of her, but Cerya knew the Resistance was well-managed under her guidance; no longer did Cerya deal with Denam's stress. Of course, for those under her, she was too efficient. Cerya had incredibly high expectations and was willing to remove Resistance members from their posts if they were not met. She would not tolerate anything but the best when it came to Phidoch, after all, that was what she expected of herself, she could expect no less from others.

Out of sheer boredom, she looked over to Oz, who was sweating from his strenuous exercise. His soft breaths resounded through the room and his hair had fallen out of place. If possible, his pale skin had become even paler from his extended time indoors. His scars were completely healed and, Cerya noted with some curiosity, his skin was delicate and almost feminine. The hair on his body was just as red as the hair on his head. She supposed it was his upbringing that allowed him to look so unweathered and clean. His muscles had redeveloped nicely from the terrible wounds they had endured; despite his confinement he looked much more the adept warrior than some of the children admitted to the Resistance troops.

"Enjoy what you see?" Oz stopped his push-ups to stare at Cerya, his voice a light tease.

"What?" Cerya was confused for a half-second before she realized what he implied. She blushed unintentionally, for she had not intended to gawk so. "No! I've nothing better to do than watch you." It was the truth, but aloud her excuse sounded pathetic, even to her ears.

"You could join me." Despite his playful words, he seemed quite serious about his invitation. Cerya mused on it for moment, before she politely declined.

"No, thank you, I've finished my exercises for the morning." Cerya always exercised before her bath, for she did not enjoy the feel of sweat under her clothes.

"Then why the odd look?" He pressed. He seemed to think Cerya hid something when in truth, Cerya was simply bored out of her mind. Cerya corrected herself: Oz very likely knew Cerya sought something to amuse herself with and was likely attempting to start a conversation. She smiled lightly, she would play along. There had been something she had thought of the night previous.

"Have you reached a conclusion?"

"About?" Oz stood up and stretched; he gave Cerya his full attention when she spoke.

"Us: the people of Valeria. Denam asked you to see us as more than sheep, more than something to simply dominate in your quest for power." Cerya was curious to see his answer and to see if it was simply her own perception.

"If you expect me to have changed my mind, you'd be remarkably mistaken. If anything, my captivity has shown just how foolish the Islanders can be." Oz paused as he looked to Cerya, very pointedly. He sat down on the couch and lounged back, arms spread over the top and legs lightly spread as he relaxed. "This little excursion has also shown me that there are exemplary specimens even in the most insignificant of peoples." Cerya nodded. She had expected such from him, but was also somewhat disappointed. In many ways, Cerya viewed Oz as an entirely different man, but she knew also that at heart, he had not changed. But it was not Oz who had changed, but she. Her hatred had burned away, her desire for vengeance sated, and in its wake had left understanding and acceptance. In some ways, Cerya finally understood what Cistina felt. For all the time she had mocked her sister, Cistina had shown more influence on her than either of them would have expected.

"How terribly cliché." Cerya held back her emotions with sarcasm. She did not want Oz to know how her views had changed, if he did not already.

"Meh." Was Oz's reply, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes lightly. Cerya found herself examining him again; he relaxed easily around her, they both did. No longer were they particularly tense in their shared space. It was an odd change; Cerya had never felt like that around a male before. She could accept her sister's presence, but even her father, who marched with Denam to Heim, would cause her some discomfort.

The rest of Cerya's day passed slowly. The servants eventually came with some work for her, but there was little of interest. A few Knights came in to exchange banter, but Oz glared at them and they all left quickly. Cerya was kind, if firm, and she was not entirely unpopular, but her guest was entirely the opposite, and he would drive anyone he disliked from her room. She spent over an hour in a meeting room with merchants to increase trade. Cerya was a merchant's worst nightmare; she did not haggle, she demanded. In wartime, she would not accept the raised prices for imperative supplies. An agreement to supply the Resistance was guaranteed profit for the greedy creatures and Cerya would not allow them to take any more from their coffers than absolutely necessary.

By early evening Oz was restless. He hid it well, but Cerya watched him fidget. He desperately wanted to leave the room and begin his practice session. Cerya was none too thrilled to have him excited about it, for she would have to monitor him. Unlike most days, where Oz would watch her, it was her turn to watch over him. If he made any hostile moves, she would need to subdue and incapacitate him. She doubted he would try to off her, but Cerya also acknowledged the necessity for caution, even when events seemed to proceed in one's own favor. After a time, Oz stared at her with this hopeful look in his eyes as if he begged to go early. The look was so ridiculous on him that Cerya had burst into an uncharacteristic giggling sound that she did not even know she could make.

"Very well." She spoke aloud. It was still early enough that there would be young trainees in the halls, but late enough that they would be exhausted and care little who Cerya's companion was. Cerya got up and walked into her room, where she slid her meeting clothes off. She folded them and put them in a pile at the end of her bed and walked over to her favored battle dress. It was not her night for training, but she would prepare herself - perhaps Oz would allow her to use him as a training dummy? The dress was a bit tight in some places and looser in others; Cerya had lost a bit of muscle mass in her arms, but had gained a bit of weight in her breasts and thighs. She looked more like a toned woman her age and less like someone who spent all of their time in battle; she did not know if she liked the change.

Cerya lifted her spear, its weight and feel familiar. She practiced with it every day, as much as she could, but practice alone could only prepare her so much. She slid it over her back and walked out to the room, where Oz awaited her. He already stood by the door with his boots on and remained unarmed. He offered Cerya an arm to hold her up as she put her boots on, but she ignored it. She would accept his assistance in some ways, but she would not allow him to assist her in actions she could easily do by herself. Boots successfully on, she opened the door, much to Oz's chagrin, and escorted her charge. Oz paid little attention to those who roamed the halls, though many of the servants gawked at him. A few young servants, both male and female, stared and pointed at Cerya and Oz; she could already hear the rumors and they had not even begun yet! Hobyrim had mentioned the servants spoke of her having a partner, but that had been over a scale before, now Cerya reaffirmed them, no matter how ridiculous it seemed to her.

As Cerya expected, the training hall was still filled, to an extent. It was humid from the hot weather as well as the sweating bodies of young warriors. She cringed at the smell and quickly walked over to the door that led to the room she had reserved. It was dimly lit with a single torch; Cerya took the torch and lit the rest of throughout the room in order to provide greater vantage. A small open window in the corner of the room allowed for vantage outdoors as well as allowed fresh air in so that the room would get neither smoky nor stuffy. In the corner was a small chair suited for one, and on the wall was a weapon rack with better quality weapons than those found in the main hall. Oz examined them with a distasteful look on his features.

"What of my armor and axe?" Cerya could hardly believe his entitlement complex! The man never ceased to amaze her with his ridiculous demands. In some way this was even worse than when he, in the dungeons, demanded food, water, and clothing.

Cerya did not bother to hide her agitation. "I cannot return your armor or weapons until you are released." She frowned at him and put her hands on her hips. Sometimes Oz was so childish and lacked foresight. "Certainly you do not expect me to allow you to walk around in the middle of the Resistance wearing armor that marks you as Loslorien?"

"Why not? If someone were to comment, you would put them in their place." Oz's words were completely confident, as if he did not doubt what he was saying. It was true, Cerya would silence the ones who spoke, but she was one for prevention; she would prefer if there was no reason for them to speak to her about her companion in the first place.

"Do not push me, Oz. Pick a weapon to practice with, I will watch." Oz grunted in annoyance at Cerya's firm words, but to her pleasure, he listened obediently. It had disturbed her, at first, that he would listen to her when to anyone else he would not flinch. She enjoyed his light submission, but also worried that perhaps he took it too far.

He lifted a few of the blades and balanced them in attempt to find one he preferred. To Cerya's surprise, he seemed skilled in many of the weapons on the rack, from swords and axes, which she knew he was familiar, to greatswords and even the smaller daggers. She was surprised when he even picked up a spear, only to put it back quickly. He looked at the large battleaxe with disgust before finally he finally chose a one-handed blade.

He was a bit rusty, at first, but Oz quickly found his balance. Despite his abrupt, brash manner when he had fought her, he was clearly skilled in the use of lighter weapons to the point it was almost an art. She did not know why he chose such a burly thing as a great-axe when he could use a sword to produce the same results. Perhaps he simply enjoyed how brutish the axe looked; a sword could kill someone with relative easy with a stab, but an axe always caused a painful death. Cerya cringed as her imagination brought forth the image of an axe that hacked people to pieces. The image quickly turned into a memory of the broken limbs ripped off Liberation Front members as they struggled against the Templars. Though she felt disgust and a remnant of anger, she had gotten over the hatred that had defined her being when they first took the castle. She simply felt a calm acceptance that she could not change what had happened; perhaps this was how Denam felt.

Cerya was skilled with a sword, but nowhere near the skill of the man who danced in front of her, not that she had any desire to admit that aloud. She had not admired him earlier, when he exercised, but she certainly was now. His body moved fluidly; she found she enjoyed the way he looked with the formal outfit far more than the armor, even though the formal clothing was nowhere near suited for battle. His muscles teased just below the sleeves and it allowed her to see his heavier, controlled breaths. Though Cerya saw him half-dressed every day, she found the Lodissian's appearance easier to appreciate when he did more than lounge about.

She watched him in silence; his breath relaxed her and his motions to hypnotized her. After a time he stopped and turned around to face Cerya. He seemed more alive than he had been in some time, as if he was rejuvenated by his partial freedom. It was more than just his appearance, his entire demeanor had changed.

"Are you not going to assist me?"

"I'm supposed to monitor you." Cerya pointed out, but it was half-hearted. She did not truly wish to decline, but felt she at least needed to make some argument, if only to appease her inner duty.

"One cannot practice effectively alone." Cerya knew the truth in Oz's statement, but it was not until he continued that she could not decline. "You know as well as I you need to spar as well."

"Very well." Cerya was almost disappointed that she had been so easy to convince, but she also knew there was no point in further argument other than denying him simply because she wished to. Cerya pushed herself off the chair and pulled her spear from her back. Oz frowned.

"No spear or magic." Cerya was confused. "Sword alone for both of us." Her confusion turned into a frown. As much as Cerya did not wish to admit it, with sword she would be at a severe disadvantage against the Templar. At least her magic would have allowed her to enchant her weapons. He might be stronger in his magic, but she was far more flexible. Oz seemed to want to level the field between them, but in truth it was decidedly unbalanced towards his victory. She was very unpracticed with a blade.

"Surely magic would be acceptable?" Cerya allowed Oz to take her spear. He placed it gently against the wall, respecting the weapon.

"We both lack armor" Cerya disagreed, she had always worn her dress into battle. "I fear we will overdo it and the magic will destroy both of our clothes. Besides, neither of us are particularly skilled with Light magic, if I remember correctly." Cerya silently grit her teeth at his playful reminder; he had not complained while she healed him! "Burns from higher level spells are particularly unpleasant."

She conceded his point. What would the healers say if both she and the Knight Commander came into the wards half-dressed and skin red from magic-related burns? It was not only their reaction that worried her, but if Cerya ended up badly wounded, it would likely be considered a hostile action by their prisoner and, even if the war ended soon, he would likely go back into the prisons or even be executed. Cerya did not wish to unintentionally be the cause of Oz's punishment unless he truly did something wrong.

"Sword it is." Cerya looked over the swords in the rack. There were not as many as there were in the larger hall, nor were they the usual quality she had come to expect from her short time in the field with Denam. The spear in the rack was almost a child's toy and she understood Oz's look of distaste. She picked up a medium-sized sword and tested it before she put it back and chose a smaller one. She was unpracticed, it would be better to be safe with a smaller weapon than risk utter, humiliating defeat with a slightly larger one.

As if pleased with her decision, Oz nodded and took on his stance. It was different from one she had been taught; she assumed Lodissians had their own style of swordplay, but she had never really had the chance to examine it. Before Cerya could even lift her sword, Oz began his attack. It quickly became obvious that their main preference in weapons determined their styles: Cerya preferred sharp, tight, evasive motions while Oz used his strength and larger range to his advantage. He was remarkably fast and could keep up with Cerya easily; had it been a real battle, Cerya would have died multiple times over.

Oz did not harm her simply because he wanted to. He showed her the weaknesses in her form and did not hesitate to strike at it in order to help her prevent future mistakes. Despite it being a "sparring" session, Cerya felt it more like a "training session," Oz purposely avoided permanent damage, but even light hits were enough to cause bruises. She could already feel a large bruise form on her abdomen and on her lower arm. She felt as if she might have pulled a muscle in the same calf that had been stabbed. Even with her inexperience, she had been able to land a few clean "hits" on Oz as well, each time she earned a satisfying grunt of pain; he rewarded her with a smile regardless.

"I've a question." Oz relented slightly and took a step back. Cerya did the same, but continued to hold her weapon defensively. Both of their chests rose and fell lightly from the exercise.

"Yes?" Cerya shifted her weight off of her sore leg unconsciously. As she realized she did such, she forced it back, for if she showed such weakness, Oz would take advantage of it.

"Your dress" Cerya frowned. "Do you wear it as a distraction?" Despite the ludicrous statement, Oz seemed completely serious and truly curious.

"What? I wear it because 'tis comfortable, easy to move in, and provides adequate protection. It is not bulky like heavier armor and, in an ideal situation, I would not be hit." Her reasoning was sound, but as she fought Oz, she quickly realized her disadvantages. When she equipped a shorter range weapon it was much easier for her to be hit and even her faster speed did not save her from someone of greater skill.

"So I see, but you seem to have misjudged its length." Oz looked her up and down, his eyes finally rested on her legs. "When you hold your weapon in that particular way, your thigh moves forward. You dress slides up your leg and exposes far too much flesh than is proper for any Lady."

Cerya immediately looked down and saw that he was correct - her dress did crawl up her leg and just barely covered her white undergarments. The red dress pressed into her skin and almost begged for attention from young men, especially with the height of her boots that disallowed her skin from showing other than in that short range. She had been so focused on her efficiency and ease of motion that she had not realized that men, especially adolescents, would find her clothing attractive and could possibly be distracted by the shorter dress. Cistina's longer dress had merit, Cerya had to admit, but she would not give into Oz's taunts so easily.

"For all you speak of 'proper,' you're the one who looks!" Cerya almost felt self-conscious as Oz continued to run his eyes over her. She should have been flattered to have such attention, but his blunt words made her realize that other men had likely done the same.

"I have not once claimed to be 'proper.'" Oz laughed and approached her again, in good spirits. He raised his sword and continued his strikes. They were more precise, as if he was finally warmed up.

Their spar continued for a time until Cerya found herself consistently losing to Oz's greater skill in swordplay. She could read his motions with relative ease from her own experience in battle, but to defend against them was difficult. She was frustrated and angry, not at Oz, but at herself. She felt so humiliated to be unable to do little more than react to the better swordsman.

"Stop." Oz's words were firm as he took a step away. He put his sword back into the rack and looked over Cerya, who had lowered her weapon. "You're skilled, but you wield your sword as if it were a spear when defending. Remember your lack of range, for you leave yourself open." Cerya turned away at the scolding. She appreciated the lesson, but did not enjoy having her weakness thrown in her face. Oz approached. "May I?" Cerya nodded with questioning look on her features.

Oz walked behind Cerya, his arms encircled her. He no longer smelled of Cerya's wash, instead he took on a masculine odor from his workout. It was not unpleasant, but Cerya felt odd at having him so near to her. He was remarkably warm and almost radiated heat as he held her arms and lifted them up, sword in hand. As Cerya held the position, Oz got a bit closer, he pushed his chest into her back until she could feel every breath he took. He lowered his head down beside her face and his arm went to her leg. He murmured something about balance that Cerya couldn't hear, too distracted by Oz's presence to care about what he spoke. She let her weight fall into the position Oz led her to; it was not uncomfortable or even unfamiliar, Cerya had simply started holding her weight as she did with her spear out of habit. No wonder she had such problems!

She was about to thank him when she felt Oz's hand slide up her dress, under the warm material. She did not pull away, for Oz's other arm still encircled her. Her breath quickened in shock and worry as his hand made its way over her left breast and down into the dress. She had not bound her breasts, as unless she was truly in battle is was unnecessary, so his hands were easily able to find her flesh. His hand cupped the breast and his fingers teased the nipple and areola, as well as traced gentle patterns that made her shiver. He rubbed himself against the side of her face and used his mouth to remove a stray hair that had fallen between them.

"Oz. . ." Cerya was alarmed at how breathy she sounded. Her confidence was shattered at the warmth that had started the spread through her abdominal region. She was embarrassed at how easily she was aroused, as if her body had sought this for some time. Cerya desperately wanted to continue, but her mind screamed otherwise. He is a prisoner! - He was her friend. I do not want him! - Her body told her quite the opposite. Stop being so irrational!

"I am tired of pretending to be obedient." His mouth was next to her ear and his voice was little more than a whisper. His tone was dark and possessive; she had not heard such from him other than in battle. His right arm had made its way up to her undergarments and slid them down a bit, which gave him access to her warmed clitoris. His left hand no longer remained down her dress, instead he ran it down her arm. Cerya felt odd, since she still held her sword. Oz seemed bored by the continued pretense of training and used his free hand to take it from her and toss it across the room. Cerya did not see where it landed, nor did she care. "You are mine." The words caused her to shudder.

"If you think I am just going to submit and -" Despite her body telling her otherwise, Cerya's mind took control for a moment. Her words did not hold their usual strength, instead they had a distracted tone. She closed her eyes for a moment as she firmed herself to Oz's touches. With her newly free hands, she placed them over Oz's in her undergarments in attempt to stop him. Instead of listening to her non-verbal cues, he used his own hands to take hers. His fingers were wet from their experimenting in her private region.

"I think quite the opposite. I do not want you to submit. Your struggle will make this more pleasurable for both of us." Cerya gasped as Oz pulled her across the room forcefully. Both of their hands slipped from under her dress as he pushed her against the cool stone wall.

"The moment I give you freedom you make me wish to take it away!" Despite their intention of showing frustration, Cerya's words came out without sting. Oz ignored them as he removed Cerya's boots, his fingers ran down her legs. She could almost feel the trail, as if it burned in response to his touch. Her mouth was dry and her eyes wide, her mouth lightly open from both her quick breaths and shock at Oz's actions. Cerya pressed hard against the wall, as if it were an escape.

"I tire of these games we play." As he stood, he again put his hand under her dress, this time he pulled it up and over her head, exposing her skin. She was not ashamed of her body in many circumstances, but she found the way Oz's eyes roamed over her pale flesh to give her conflicting emotions. It made her feel good; to be desired, wanted, and lusted for, yet she was also not sure how to react. Why did she enjoy it? What did she want him to do? How was she supposed to respond? As if mimicking her thoughts, Oz continued as he began to remove his own clothes, boots first. "For such a determined woman, you're obviously blind to your own desires."

"Do not assume to know how I feel." Her words lacked any intention but to buy time for herself. Events had quickly spiraled out of control; a moment ago Cerya had happily sparred with her companion, now he removed his trousers as he pushed her against the wall with his weight and she was powerless to stop him, if she even wanted to do so.

"If you did not want this, I would already be on the floor under your blade." The truth rang through her and she could not deny it. It was more than her body that desired this. She had long accepted Oz as a companion and, more recently, a friend. Even with her usual confidence, Oz was correct; Cerya would not have initiated the contact on her own, but if she was willing to accept it, it meant that she did not find the idea distasteful.

In response, Cerya put her hands under Oz's shirt and helped him lift it over his head. He breathed heavily and brought his forehead down to rest onto hers. They met eyes for a long moment before Oz ran his hands back down her body to her undergarments. Cerya cautiously put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Oz's skin was slick was sweat, likely from more than their spar. She ran her hands up and down his back, enjoying the feel of his firm muscles under her fingers. She stepped out of her undergarments with Oz's assistance. He made great effort to stroke her thighs as he brought the underclothes down, small tingles danced across and down her legs until they reached the floor. Oz tossed the undergarments to the side, but with her face close to him, she did not see where they landed, but knew it could not be far.

Cerya did not have a chance to help Oz with his own undergarments, as he quickly shed them while he kneeled below her. As he stood again, her arms encircled him. Finally naked, Oz pressed against her and put his hands against the wall above her head as he looked down. He was not intimidating, but the way he looked at her, with his lusty eyes and partially open lips, took her breath away. Cerya brought a hand to his face and ran her fingers down it softly until she reached his neck and shoulders. Oz, too, lowered his arms around her and pushed her more firmly into the wall. She could feel his arousal against her, but neither did anything about, for they were too interested in the exploration of each other's bodies.

Oz did not bother to meet her lips, instead his mouth searched her body and ran trails of both small nibbles and harsh bites across her. His hands roamed and Cerya's unintentionally did the same to him, in doing so they only provoked each other further. Oz seemed to enjoy Cerya's firmer hold on him, for it seemed like more of a command than his own lighter, feathery touches. For all he spoke of pain, he knew just as much about where to touch her to most easily produce a pleasant reaction. His touch sent a warm fire through her and caused her lower abdominal regions to tingle in pleasure that she could not stop.

Cerya's touches were shy but commanding. In a surprising bout of impatience, she ran a hand down between Oz's legs and grasped at his erection. She clutched her hand over it firmly and drew it back and forth. Oz immediately withdrew lightly and closed his eyes. His own touches slowed as he enjoyed Cerya's "massage." Cerya found Oz's hesitation more satisfying than his touch, as it gave her a control over him that she never had before. If she chose to, she could stop or continue his pleasure at a whim; to have such control, and to cause such a reaction, satisfied her. Never before had she felt so wanted or desired.

"Wait." Oz's voice lightly gasped out. Cerya removed her hand and Oz took it. In a surprisingly gentle motion, he kissed the hand that had been massaging his penis before he encircled her and pulled her from the wall. "I admit, I am. . .unfamiliar with such common acts as this." Oz's hand found its way behind Cerya's neck and he tiled her head up and lightly kissed it. It was not passionate or even heated, but instead the gentle, delicate touch held his emotions. "I've never taken these acts so seriously." Oz gave an uncomfortable chuckle; Cerya thought it terribly endearing. "I do not wish to make a mistake. Usually when I do such, I desire my partner to entirely submit to my will but with you. . ."

Cerya understood and nodded quietly. She had panicked at Oz's touch at first, but he, too, did not understand what went on between them. Lust was common and easily satisfied, but Cerya did not easily give herself up, no matter how attractive her partner.

"Perhaps it's best not to think on it." Did Oz not understand? She did not wish to speak; her body cried out to continue. But, as this seemed to be meaningful to him, she did not force him to continue.

Oz panicked for a moment and released her. His arousal was still evident by his red face and heavy breaths, but he looked about, as if something was on his mind. "My sister enjoyed taking a whip to her males." Oz's look was very serious. "I would allow you to do such to me, if you would like."

Cerya's eyes widened. There were many hidden implications in his statement. Did he assume she would want to cause him harm? Did he assume she took pleasure in punishing him? But, more than that, Cerya's mind focused on what was now an older memory. Oz disliked pain and did his best to avoid it. From Cerya, he had been willing to accept it; she did not know whether to be frightened or flattered at the sentiment, but she knew she did not care. Her lust made her thoughts thick.

Cerya pretended to not understand Oz's words. She could not handle the devotion he was willing to give. "I no longer desire revenge, Oz. Why would I want to hurt you?"

Oz's expression saddened for a moment and he laughed lightly before he again pushed her against the wall. Between kisses, he murmured as he put his hand between her legs and rubbed at her vagina with a finger. "I forget, sometimes, that not everyone takes pleasure in the same acts as I." Cerya's vagina lubricated at Oz's continued touch, and allowed his fingers a more slick massage. "But you will come to enjoy it, someday." Cerya doubted that very much, but declined to say any more, for his caress distracted her.

The wall was cool and hard against her back, but Cerya barely noticed it. Oz had removed his fingers and instead put a knee between her legs to spread them. Cerya balanced her weight over him and trusted him to not drop her. Oz used his free hand to guide himself into her, her weight caused the motion to be rougher than either intended. Cerya gasped lightly and squirmed atop his knee to get into a more comfortable position on top of his erection. Oz released his knee and used his weight to support her against the wall. In turn, Cerya's legs curled around his waist and pulled him close.

Oz did not bother with any more warm-ups, once he was inside her, he sought pleasure. Cerya had to move her head forward so that it would not hit the wall at his quick, fast motions. She gasped unintentionally and brought her arms up and around his neck. Her breasts pressed against Oz's chest and lightly moved up and down against him at their shared sweat. His fast thrusts quickly lost their independence, the feel of each merged into a hot pressure that overwhelmed her rational thought. She gasped lightly as her heart rate quickened. No longer did her body register the cool wall behind her, instead it focused on the sensations Oz caused: the way his breath came out heavily, in time with his pushes against her, how her hands grasped at his flesh and almost begged him to continue, and how her hips moved, instinctively in time with his.

Her body demanded release slowly, rather than all at once. She felt almost as if she were climbing a mountain, her breaths became more ragged and her gasps louder as she got closer to the peak of her climax. Her hair had long since lost any semblance of order and clung to her face in her sweat. Her legs stretched out and her feet contracted, muscles tensed as her aroused body completed its orgasm. Oz continued for a few moments after Cerya was finished, apparently well used to extended sex. More likely, Cerya admitted, he simply masturbated more frequently than she, for she had held her lust in for far too long. No longer did his thrusts bring in the warm tingles, instead they produced a rather raw pressure, but she did not wish to stop Oz. Along with her own satisfaction, and the light-headedness it caused, she found she enjoyed the soft sounds Oz made and the way his breath warmed her in the cool, dark room. Cerya allowed her body to move with Oz's as he finished, his own face and eyes closed in pleasure. His muscles tensed around her and she knew the moment he came just as he did, and he leaned his head back with a gasp. He removed himself slowly from her, as if he did not care to, the sticky semen dripped from the tip of his penis and down her leg.

Oz gently allowed Cerya to fall to the ground. She wobbled a bit, disoriented, and unintentionally clung to the red-head as she regained her balance. As she tried to pull away, Oz's arms once again held her close and refused to allow her to move. She did not struggle, as she found she lacked the will to. In the back of her mind, she questioned herself on why she had allowed such to happen, but unlike many times in the past, she had a reason for her actions. She used the same words Oz had, long ago:
"I wanted to."

---

The rumors started well before Cerya received any official word from Denam.

Heim is ours!
Brantyn is dead!
Lodis has withdrawn!
Loslorien has split - Resistance forces hunt remains in the former King's gardens!
Soon we will have a new Queen!

Even without an announcement from Cerya, the Resistance members in Phidoch rejoiced. Cerya had been cautious of the rumors, at first, before she finally gave in as they quickly became more and more frequent on a daily basis. It felt almost like a dream; Denam had finished everything Cerya could not. He killed Brantyn, saved Valeria, and most importantly of all, reunited her with her family. Though her sisters and father would not return for some time, perhaps they might even stay in Heim, it was as close to a fairy tale ending as she could expect. Cerya's biggest regret was that she could not take Brantyn's head herself. She supposed Sherri deserved it more than she.

Her other regret happened to be the man who lay beside her. After their first night together, if possible, Oz became even more possessive. He had snuck into her bed to sleep beside her on at least three occasions and openly threatened one of the Knights who had spent too long staring at Cerya after he had finished their reports. When Cerya worked, he would often touch her to distract her; much to her shame, it often worked and he quickly learned where exactly to stroke Cerya if he wanted her attention, even for simple things such as talking.

At one point, Cerya had been so frustrated that she demanded Oz answer why he continued to tease her so. He had replied with a simple "Because I enjoy it. Sister never allowed me to touch her, perhaps you understand why?" as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her and took great pleasure in it. Cerya long ago decided that Ozma had the right idea about many, many things that pertained to her brother.

In direct contrast to her pleasant mood and the wonderful news, the weather was fierce. During the night, thunder rolled through the hills and rain poured against their windows. In the day, the wind gusts were so powerful that Cerya feared trade would be interrupted completely due to wagons falling over. The sky was a bleak grey color and the castle halls were often humid from the wet exterior. The weather was likely the reason for the delayed news from Denam.

"Oz, 'tis time to rise." Cerya commanded. He did not remove his arms; he instead moved closer and pressed his chest against her to prevent her from leaving the bed. The only sound he made was a muffled "mph" that she took as disagreement. The early morning air was chill without her blanket and the dark sky just outside her window made her empathize with Oz's desire to remain, but unlike him, she had work to do and could not laze her day away. Cerya did not bother being gentle, for being gentle got her nowhere with Oz, she instead slid out of her side of the bed, even against Lodissian's grasping arms. It was a brief struggle, but the more awake and determined woman won the battle.

Cerya quickly poked her head out of the door and called a nearby servant to fill her bathwater. She shivered at the cold in her thin nightshift and fled back to her room where the remains of her fireplace's embers burned. She poured herself a glass of water that remained on her table from the night previous and took a drink. As she did so, she heard the quiet footsteps of the half-dressed Oz, whose eyes were slightly glazed and hair mussed, as he followed her. Cerya greeted him with a nod of acknowledgment until a loud knock sounded immediately after. Both she and Oz exchanged a look; very rarely did anyone disturb her so early in the morning. Oz fled back into Cerya's bedchamber in order to bring her a weapon for defense. After a moment, dagger firmly in hand, Cerya replied to the persistent knocking.

"Enter." She did not care that she was half-dressed, if someone was to disturb her, it was either someone who sought to kill her or someone with very important news that she could not ignore. Fortunately for both Oz and Cerya, this man was the latter; Cerya recognized it as one of Denam's shadows. He looked wet, tired, and downright miserable.

"News from the Commander, Lady." He bowed. Cerya acknowledged his bow with a nod of her own. Cerya and Oz spoke at the same time.

"Get out." His tone was venomous and dangerous, his now-alert eyes even more so. His aura was remarkably commanding despite his disheveled state. From him, this was not an abnormal reaction; Oz often spoke rudely to those who entered Cerya's room.
"Thank you. Please, go rest." Cerya could barely hide the excitement in her words; her pleasure contrasted with Oz's harsher reply.

The man looked back and forth between the two as if he registered what was going on. Cerya, too, understand the implications of a shadow, one who gathers information, seeing her with a Loslorien Templar. She would deal with Denam's scolding, if it ever occurred, later. Cerya did not bother with the specialized opener and instead used the tip of her dagger to remove the seal that marked it as Denam's. The words were expected, but very welcome nonetheless. She read them as the shadow quickly left the room upon her dismissal.

Heim falls, Lodis withdraws.
Loslorien split; rebels withdrawn into the Hanging Gardens, reason unknown. Will hunt them immediately, prepare for the main force's return. Heim will become future base of operations.
Await further orders.

A bright smile filled her features. Denam's writing was efficient and lacked elaboration, or even his normal encoding – which signified it had been written in a hurry, but the confirmation was reassuring. Cerya frowned as Oz looked over her shoulder at the note. It was her mistake, for not being more careful with the note, but she would have to scold him about looking at confidential information at a later point.

"A split?" Oz murmured. "What have I missed in my absence?" He spoke more to himself than to Cerya.

"Why would they have gone to the Hanging Gardens?" Cerya looked to him curiously, unsure as to whether or not Oz would answer. To her surprise, Oz greatly elaborated.

"'Twas our true purpose here. We care little who rules the isles, but great power rests in their depths. If the High Commander has fled and there is a rebellion, I can imagine the reasons for it. Martym and Barbas are the only ones who would do such; they care for little more than glory. Barbaric."

"You are surprisingly forward." Cerya replied cautiously. Another soft knock sounded and Cerya called for entry. This time, the servants waited with her morning wash water, as expected. Cerya fled back into her bed chamber and dragged Oz back with her. It usually took some time for their water to be filled and she did not wish for the entire castle to see her half-dressed state.

"I've no need to hide it. Marym and Barbas, if it is them, are brash. We could have returned and the Islanders would have had no idea why we chose to do so. Instead, in their greed, they reveal what we seek. They've made a bad situation worse, the fools." Oz paused, as if in thought. "Not that Barbas deserved the position anyway, he will be no loss to us."

Cerya was unsure as to how to reply. Instead she lightly placed the letter down on the bed and sat back down. Oz remained standing and paced the room. The air between them became tense and uncomfortable, both unwilling to discuss what came next. Cerya hated the hesitation, it was unlike her. As she had before, and she would many times in the future, she broke the silence and spoke words neither of them wished to hear, her voice quiet and eyes downcast.

"Loslorien has fled. You are no longer our prisoner. What will you do now?" Oz stopped his pacing, but did not turn towards her. Instead he slowly walked over to the window, which he pretended to take great interest in. Even from bed, Cerya could tell the weather remained unchanged and was not particularly interesting; the wind continued to howl and would not stop any time soon.

". . ." Oz did not reply immediately. Cerya thought he had no intention to until, a few minutes later, he finally spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. He did not wish for the servants to hear. "I am conflicted. I never expected this to happen."

Cerya knew what he referred to. She, too had, avoided thinking on what the future entailed. She had gotten so used to his presence, even his companionship, that it was strange to think of entering her room without him being there to greet her. For all of the time they had spent together, it seemed almost an eternity, in truth she had only known him for little more than three scales. In that time, Cerya's emotions had spiraled from hatred for Oz, to sadness for Cistina, to understanding, to acceptance, and finally to friendship. In contrast, Oz had barely changed at all; he still held much of his loathing and he had remained imprisoned, even if only loosely. Even the one thing Cerya had tried to change in him, his constant reliance on her and how he used her as a replacement for his sister, had not worked. Instead, he had only gotten closer and clung to her more heavily as time passed.

"You will return to Lodis?" Cerya replied, in hopes that he would move on with his life. She, and in turn Ozma's memory, could not be a central part of him forever; he was a grown man, he had to make his own decisions.

"Yes. No." He was obviously conflicted. "I must, but I cannot." He still did not turn to Cerya, but his head leaned down and he no longer looked outside, only at the stone that was the windowsill.

"You've betrayed no-one, you should be able to return without being labeled traitor." Cerya did not move over to him, to do so would have been to promote his attachment. She said the words in as apathetic way possible in order to push him away. Cerya admitted it hurt a bit to do so, but it was better for both of them if he returned home. Cerya, too, had unintentionally clung to his presence, but for the betterment of both of them, she would accept his departure.

"But if I do so, I betray you." He replied stubbornly.

"You are your own man. I am not going to keep you here any longer, you are free to leave so long as you harm no one." Cerya replied with firmness. Neither Cerya nor Oz were particularly subtle, and when Cerya spoke such, he did not understand the underlying meaning of her words. She desperately tried to convince him that he could not rely on her forever, but he either ignored her intonation, pretended he didn't understand it, or did not hear it all together. After another pause, Oz turned around, finally, as if he had made a decision. As he walked back into the outer, guest, room where he normally slept, he spoke his reply.

"Lodis will return, make no mistake. Your war is not over yet." From the room he called out "A moment, if you would?"

Cerya had little choice but to do as he asked. She heard him moving about and did her best to ignore him. Oz was so odd sometimes and, when he wanted to, he made it difficult to predict what he intended. Cerya's mind whispered softly that it was not that he made it difficult to predict, but that Cerya simply did not wish to do so.

Oz came back a moment later with something in his hand. He stood closely in front of Cerya and pulled her hand forward. In it, he dropped a necklace. Cerya examined it, the cool metal appeared to be a white gold. She did not recognize the shape or pattern, but Oz apparently did. The chain was well crafted and Cerya could tell an item of this quality was very expensive. Even more expensive were the memories that were likely ingrained within it. That Oz had handed it to Cerya held terrifying implications.

"This necklace. . .it was your sister's." It was not a question, for that was the only place he could have gotten it from. Hobyrim had given Oz the small package of Ozma's belongings.

"It was given to her by Hobyrim on the eve of their announcement of their engagement." Cerya was shocked; Oz had mentioned their engagement once before, but she had thought little of it then, for her mind had been on other subjects. What else had Hobyrim hid from them? Did Denam know? Oz continued despite Cerya's curiosity. He had a bright, confident smile on his face, which was entirely opposite of what she would have expected as she considered the importance of the object he had given her. "So you see, you now have something of Ozma's. I can't just leave you. Quite the opposite! I might just have to take you, a thief, back to my family and show them just how badly you've dishonored my sister!" Cerya stared blankly at Oz for a moment until she realized he was teasing. His smile turned serious as he awaited her response. Cerya swallowed as she understood the intention of his words and chose her own reply carefully. Her mind no longer screamed to try and have Oz leave on his own; he was beyond that now, instead she simply grasped lightly at the necklace.

"You said it yourself, Lodis will return. I will not abandon my people for this" Cerya hesitated. ". . .lust." Cerya refused to admit it was more than lust that drove her to share Oz's bed, even if she knew it to be a lie.

"I am not asking you to. Lodis will return; as will you. Think of it as an extended vacation, perhaps? For all of the tedium you endured in managing this ridiculous castle." Cerya finally released a light smile and she cursed him for understanding her so well. A vacation sounded nice, but she could not accept. She must help her country get back onto its own feet.

"I belong here."

"You belong with me." Oz was firmer in his reply. She recognized the tone, it was possessive and stubborn and it would likely be impossible to change his mind. As if to illustrate his point, Oz sat down beside her and put his arm around her waist. Cerya almost instinctually pulled away, but Oz held her back.

"You belong in Lodis. You dislike the isles and their people." Oz could not deny her point, Cerya knew, for he had said such himself.

"What if, by duty, I am required to return?" He referred to Lodis' return to the isles, she assumed. Oz leaned his head against her shoulder and pulled her close. Cerya's reply was quiet and subdued.

"Even against you, I will fight to my last breath, if I must." The thought of fighting Oz was almost unbearable, but to protect her family, she would do so.

"I will not allow it to come to that." Oz moved closer and put his other arm around her shoulder, he completely faced her now.

"You may not have a choice." Cerya pretended to ignore Oz's advances.

"If you fight, I will protect you." he replied stubbornly, his lips brushed her cheek. Oz was remarkably deluded at times, for his words made no sense.

Cerya did not want, or need, protection, or so she told herself stubbornly, but she knew she could not survive everything on her own. "Even against other Lodissians?" Cerya did not want Oz to betray his country. To her surprise, Oz stopped his gentle kisses and put his hand to the side of her face, turning her to look at him.

"Just as my honor requires me to fight for my country, so does it demand I fight for my wife."

For a moment, Cerya had thought she misheard. She played the words in her head at least three times before she fully grasped their meaning. A small blush covered her features. "What are you saying?" Cerya hissed as loudly as she could without disturbing the servants in the other room. She could not believe Oz's proposal; she was not yet ready to accept such a relationship with him. "You certainly don't expect me-"

"The conclusion is obvious. Your country is safe now and you have shown me your people as promised. It is only fair that I, too, get to show you mine. Perhaps you will come to love them as I do." The look in Oz's eyes was so hopeful that Cerya knew she could not say no. To see him crushed again as he was when Ozma died would tear her apart. "If Valeria becomes a target, I will return you to your Islands where you may continue to defend them." Oz's last words held a spite that she had not heard in her direction for some time. "But once you see my home, I cannot imagine why you would return to this miserable, dirty hovel other than to spend time with your family."

"You make it sound so easy." Cerya whispered. What would they think of her? Her sisters, perhaps, would accept her, as would their father. But Denam? Catiua? Would the entire country see her as a traitor to her people? What would the Lodissians think of her? That she was some exotic wench that one of their nobles took to satisfy his desires? Cerya did not want to live like that; she could live with spite and hatred, but to be mocked would be intolerable.

"What is so unbelievable?" Oz was no fool; he knew the social stigma that would likely be attached to her. But, as Cerya thought on it, he, too, was willing to accept the stigma. It would not only be her, but him who suffered as well. Oz was willing to sacrifice just as much, if not more, for her happiness - he would even risk his position by protecting her - in battle, if necessary. Cerya had been so selfish, how could she not have seen it?

"How do you expect me to react? Cuddle against you and profess my secret, undying affection?" Cerya finally smiled in return, but her words were sarcastic. Her mind had been made up when Oz had given her the necklace; she had only been delaying the inevitable. She had tried stubbornly to deny herself, but perhaps she simply wished for happiness.

"'Twould be a start." Oz pulled her head into his bare chest, finally enclosing her completely. "Besides, are we not already 'cuddling'?"

"How can you know you want to spend your life with me?" Her voice was softly muffled by their close proximity. The warmth of her breaths filled the small space between them.

"I can't. Unless I'm willing to take the risk, I will never know. But. . .I already took the risk. I remained with you when we both know I could have left long ago. The rest is up to you." Oz laid his chin onto the top of her head. In the distance she heard the servants close the door, which signified they had finished filling the bath.

"You're so confident." Cerya started, her own words surprisingly weak, even to herself, but as she spoke, they became stronger and she quickly reverted back to her normal, stronger tone. "I can't say I understand my feelings yet, but. . .you're right. Sitting around worrying about what "might" happen and what "could" be is pointless." Cerya had always been a woman of action, she would not let others do something if she could do it herself. Feeling more confident, she lightly pulled away from Oz, who released her with ease. She stood from the bed and held her hand out to her sitting companion.

"I-I've not hesitated like this before." Her light show of weakness told Oz more than any words could. "Without taking the first step, I will never complete my journey; I do not yet know the destination, but I think I would like to walk the path with you, even if only for a time."

Oz said nothing in return as he took her hand lightly. Cerya grasped Ozma's necklace in her other hand as she guided Oz to the steaming bath. The war had ended, but Cerya felt as if her life was only beginning.

---

Love occurs when you accept someone despite faults and disagreements. It doesn't happen immediately and, when it does, it's impossible to place when it starts.

I wonder how Cerya will react to Oz's collection of slave girls?