This story is an assemblage of short snippets that cover relatively unrelated events that occur pre-game regarding Arycelle, Leonar, and her brother and gives a look at the possible the relationship between them. This isn't meant to go over every time they interacted, just a few key ones, nor is it meant to really elaborate on the "hows" and "whys."

Information was gathered primarily from 2L and 2-3C, but I've still had to stretch it a bit. In 2L you learn Arycelle's brother's name is Sydney. There's no real path this story takes place on, but it might be appropriate to assume it's N or C, given the relationship isn't mentioned in L.

Please note that I did skip over the large time frame of Almorica's Galgastani occupation.

Inevitable


She had a new title, or so she was told. Thunder Maiden, the young men of the Resistance called her. Arycelle scoffed the name off, for 'twas a farce that showed she had gained some infamy in the eyes of her troops rather than something she was proud of. What made her 'Thunderous?' Was it that the battle for Tynemouth, where she had stormed and raged and somehow, by some miracle of the Great Father, she and her Archers had been able to cut down the Galgastani despite the overwhelming odds against them? Unlikely - though perhaps there was some truth to it. More likely it referred to her personality, one that demanded instantaneous responses and her orders, which were bellowed loudly and demanded rapid precision only the best could offer. How nice 'twould have been if 'Thunder Maiden' referred to something simple, such as the speed her arrows destroyed the enemy. No, no, titles never worked as such; the appellation was meant as a mockery as much as 'twas a symbol of respect.

Arycelle walked alone through the bustling streets city of Almorica; with Ronwey's rise to power and the newly formed Resistance, the streets were filled to the brim with people, soldiers, refugees, and merchants alike, even as the sky was a deep grey and was obviously ready to release its rage. There was a chill in the air, but it was welcome, far moreso than the overbearing heat that had enveloped her in her recent battle in Tynemouth. She held her hair up above her neck and lifted her face to the sky to allow the cool breeze to touch her exposed neck. She ignored the annoyed sounds of the passerbys and simply savored the moment, a luxury she did not often have. Even having her hair down had become a rarity for her, as she kept it tied away from her face when she fought so a small moment, even one so insufficient as looking at the sky, held meaning for the Archer. After a moment, Arycelle lowered her face back down to the street in front of her with a deflated sigh and let her hair fall back down her back as continued her casual pace through the crowd in Almorica city. She had sent a missive to her superior through a messenger the day before, as soon as the battle ended, so she would not be expected to make an official report until tomorrow, so the Archer had the rest of the day to herself. It just so happened that the one day that was devoted to her happened to soon be filled with miserable weather. She almost pouted, for there would be no practice or shopping for her, but knew better; she would much rather be at home with her brother, near a warm fireplace and in good company than out in the battlefield when it rained. 'Twas a small sacrifice of personal time for comfort.

Like many other Walister, her family had fled under the protection of Duke Ronwey when he formed the Resistance. Almorica was crowded, far busier than her native Krysaro; despite the large size of the city, each and every house was filled to the brim with residents and their close relatives. With the burst of refugees, new houses were being built and the city had expanded well beyond its walls with remarkable speed, but the houses were incomplete and not resistant to weather. They had no fireplace, but they did provide beds and protection against the wind, if anything, yet they were all already claimed and occupied, many by large families who could not afford a new house in the city, or held orphaned children. 'Twas certainly better than in the custody of the Galgastani, at any rate, and Arycelle could not blame the young ones. More positively, trade in Almorica had increased tenfold and there were more merchants than ever, their prices competitive, and even the poorest of families could afford food and amenities, such as blankets and clothes.

Many young and impressionable youths who wished for a better island for their people, including both Arycelle and her brother, joined the Resistance and moved to Almorica. Most had started with no knowledge of war, of weaponry, of death other than the loss of their family, but all had learned very quickly the realities of war and what was expected of them. The Walister were not a weak people; they were stubborn, determined, and had a will to live. For many, the Resistance was the dream they had waited for – it gave them a chance for freedom of oppression and the ability to truly make a difference on the Isles. Arycelle was no different. She and her brother had moved to Almorica from Krysaro and enlisted as soon as they knew they would be accepted. Unlike her brother, who had spent some time with the city guard back home, Arycelle lacked any experience in battle and had not been permitted on the front lines at first. Instead, she had practiced and experimented. Swords, spears, magic, axes - they had all been studied at some point, for both knowledge of the weapon and to learn what she had particular proficiency with. Certainly, Arycelle was no master of the bow when she first picked up the object; in fact, many had laughed at her clumsiness. The Walister woman had never been known for her dexterity and when she shot the first time, she had barely been able to hold the large weapon properly, let alone hit the target. But a true Walister never gave up; she practiced until her hands bled and until she collapsed in exhaustion, only to get back up once she caught her breath and practice more. It took Arycelle more than three scales of continuous repetition every day before she had proven adequate and that she would not kill her allies. The young woman smiled at the memory; how her rivals viewed her now! They had been pretentious, condescending, and had told her she stood no chance at ever holding rank. Yet her persistence showed what happened when one rested upon their laurels, as they did. 'Twas Arycelle who held the rank, and they remained on the practice fields, empty and arrogant, their battles with their own incompetence rather than the Galgastani.

As Arycelle had risen through the ranks through persistence and stubborn refusal to give in, Sydney, too, gained popularity. Unlike Arycelle, who was hard and stubborn and progressed through sheer willpower, Sydney was open and friendly, but also willing to listen, a trait Arycelle could admit she often did not particularly share. Her brother had not been as inexperienced as she, and soon his skill had been noticed by the upper echelons of the Resistance. The day before Arycelle left for Tynemoth, he had come home in brand new armor, finer than all who lived in their neighborhood wore, paid for by the Duke himself. He had a bright smile as he spoke of how had been promoted to serve under Sir Leonar, Commander of the forces. Sir Leonar's troops were some of the best the Walister had, and she had never been more proud of her sibling, even if it meant he would be in more danger. A darker part of her was envious; Arycelle had command of her small group, primarily Archers and those meant for distanced battle, but she was still nowhere near the rank of her brother, who served the Commander himself.

As Arycelle pushed her way through the central portion of the residential area, which bustled with Walister more heavily than even the busiest market in the early morning, she was stopped by the loud echo of thunder in the sky. She blinked as it rumbled around her and she could almost feel the tenseness in the air; to the surprise of all around her, the Archer laughed in response to the sound. Thunder Maiden. Not bloody likely. Maybe she'd speak with a Rune Fencer or Valkyrie and have them teach her some Lightning magic, just to amuse the troops who had given her the name. The Walister woman continued through the dirt and much; the roads were still muddy from the last rain and Arycelle was a mess from her march back from Tynemouth, her trousers soaked halfway up her leg past her boot, covered in dried mud, and her face and hair were almost as dirty, the latter unwashed. She probably looked disgusting to those around her, but she didn't care, nor did any soldier who returned home. Let them judge. Even as she walked through the dirty bodies, the muddy streets, and took in the smell, a mix of sweat, cow, pig, fecal matter from the homeless, and mud alongside the crisp soon-to-rain air, Arycelle knew she would have it no other way. These people were who she fought for; they were normal, just as she had once been, and they were the future. They deserved their smiles, not the looks of fear and pain one often saw on those persecuted by the Galgastani.

The rain started almost instantaneously, no more than five minutes after the first rumble of thunder. From beside her, Arycelle heard the agitated voices of women and the dissatisfied grunts of men who were disrupted and stopped from any work they might do. As if by magic, all of the Walister in her residential area moved quickly in a rush to get warm and away from the water. Arycelle, too, increased her pace. Her house was not far; 'twas a small thing, not meant to fit more than two and definitely smaller than most other houses on the street. She and her brother has only been able to afford it after they'd been paid by Ronwey for almost six full scales; before then, they had lived in the barracks in Almorica castle when they had not been on the field. She and Sydney were lucky enough to have a house at all, else they might have ended up like those who came later and were forced to live in the construction area outside of the city walls. 'Twas a plain building, not particularly well taken care of because both of its occupants were away at war most of the time; from the outside, its only prominent trait was a small garden of herbs in the back that Arycelle used to make poultices and tea so that she did not have to buy them from the local merchants. Given some of the shadowy activity that came from having more people in Almorica, Arycelle was surprised that thieves had not stolen the plants in the time the house was left unattended; perhaps they simply did not know any better.

The Archer pushed her way through the front door with little more than a knock. She frowned; the door had not been barred in any way, Sydney was careless again. She shook her head, yet more to scold her brother about. Arycelle was soaked, even from the short time in the rain, and she was likely a disaster to look at. In the back of her mind, Arycelle was reminded, not of her parents, but of Abuna Donnalto and how he would admonish her every time she ran inside the church after a long time in the mud and rain; she had never been the feminine type, Sydney had been too large of influence in her life for that. Arycelle's hair was not completely wet, only its tips, for that she was lucky, and her top under her cloak thick cloak, as well as her undergarments, remained relatively dry, but her boots and trousers were a lost cause. Arycelle barred the door behind her and leaned down and unbuckled her boots and put them in the corner near the door; she would wash them later, to clean them when it rained served no purpose but to waste time. Arycelle pulled off her trousers and rolled them up into a ball. She tossed them into a corner, along with her boots; those would be cleaned after she had some time to relax and warm herself, perhaps after some food and rest. She removed her hat; the small thing served no purpose to her indoors when she was not on duty, and her thick gloves, specially made to allow flexibility, but also protect her fingers from the bow's twine. Both articles suffered the same fate as her trousers and socks. With more delicacy, Arycelle walked through the center of the room and lifted her bows off of her and placed it on the appropriate rack, which Arycelle noted held her brother's sword. As if to confirm her thoughts, from the room to her left, Arycelle could hear voices; she had expected Sydney to be at home when she returned, but she had not expected a guest. Perhaps he had finally found that proper Walister woman to court she harassed him about? She smiled and quickened her pace. She unbelted her dagger sheath and removed the leather strap from her shoulder that held her quiver, as she did such, she untangled the mess of armaments from her cloak, and tossed the latter into the corner with the rest of her dirty laundry.

Half-dressed, but far more comfortable than she had been moments before, Arycelle walked through the kitchen only to find the source of voices not there, as she expected. She looked around quickly, almost in worry, but nothing was out of the ordinary. It looked, and smelled, as if it had been used earlier in the day; the trash had recently been removed and there were some fresh herbs picked and placed in a bowl on a small table. As she looked the right, Arycelle's smile faded; on a small fire, unattended, was a teakettle that was warmed. Mother had certainly not taught her children such irresponsibility, 'twas up to Arycelle to set matters right in her stead. Arycelle walked over to the pot and very carefully pulled it from its place above the fire; she was displeased to find that there was no dirt that she could put the fire out – Sydney seemed to want to burn the house down! There was only one place her brother could be, as their small house was only three rooms large. The Archer headed into the last room, the guest chamber, head held high with a dark glare on her features.

"Sydney!" Arcyelle called out in the tone that had made her known as 'Thunder' as she stomped through the open doorway into the dining room, her voice filled with anger that spoke of an incoming scolding "What have I told you about -". Before she could take more than three steps into the room, she ran straight into something solid and hard, something that was not normally in her living room. Only her greatest of balance and practiced coordination allowed her to remain upright and not spill the scalding water over her legs and chest, but the breath was still knocked from her in shock. "Oof!"

The "thing" she ran into made a similar sound of discomfort and Arycelle realized it had not been an object, but a guest. The Archer blinked as she regained her composure. She almost dropped the kettle in shock two seconds later when she realized there was a male guest in her house and she had nothing but her top and her undergarment chemise that covered nothing more than her upper thighs. She made a low hiss, but 'twas too late, the man had seen it too. There was no point in modesty after what he had seen and Arycelle walked, with as much courage as she could muster, head held high with feigned pride, into the room and forcefully slammed the kettle onto the wooden table her brother sat at. The force shook the items on its top, but she did not care, her brother had made a fool of her, even if inadvertently.

"Ah. . ." Sydney coughed and looked away from his sister; they both knew she was far too old to walk around so bare, but it had never stopped her before – perhaps 'twas well past time she grew up. She had grown up with her brother, he had seen her nude on more occasions that she could count, it almost felt as if there was no point in her modesty. The guest, however, kept his gaze firmly to the side; at least he was something of a gentleman. Sydney's voice echoed quietly through the room, as if he held the embarrassment that Arycelle knew she should have felt. "Commander, allow me to introduce my sister, Arycelle." Sydney turned to his sister, but kept his eyes to the table as he spoke. "Sister, may I introduce Sir Leonar?"

Commander. . .Arycelle felt the color rush to her cheeks. 'Twas perhaps the worst person she could have run into, and unclothed, no less! The guest had the grace to be embarrassed where Arycelle was not, but even the Archer knew she had made an already-bad situation even worse with her brashness. If this man was Sydney's commander, then there was no question he was that Sir Leonar. He was the very man who might well run the Resistance, as Ronwey had no hand in the troops themselves, where Leonar was the one who commanded battle strategy and formation. Other than the Duke and the nobility that backed the Resistance, Leonar was quite possibly the most important man they had. It amazed Arycelle that Sydney had been deemed important enough that he visit the Dania household. Such. . .normal interaction between commander and subordinate was unheard of; it seemed that Sydney had truly risen in importance in the Resistance. If Arycelle was not so mad, she would have given her brother a congratulatory hug. Instead the woman turned towards their guest, a false smile on her features.

"S-Sir Leonar." Her words were quieter than she intended and almost held a shred of shame that she did not feel. Perhaps some girlish awe of one's superior still remained within her.

"Arycelle. . .Arycelle. . . ." Leonar had a confused frown on his face, as if he recognized her name, but did not quite know it off hand. He looked toward her after a moment, and made sure to keep his eyes high and above her neck to remain appropriate. "You wouldn't happen to be the Arycelle who recently led the host in Tynemouth?"

"The very same." Arycelle raised an eyebrow. From the side she felt her brother look at her in surprise, but Sydney knew when to remain quiet – sometimes. She retracted the judgment an instant later when he spoke up; 'twas simply too much to ask, as her brother's obnoxious voice split the air between them.

"Sister," Sydney's voice held back laughter at the uncomfortable scene. "Perhaps you should serve our guest some tea and-"

Arycelle immediately turned to her brother and gave him a long, hard glare. He mocked her, she knew it, he knew it, and if she judged by the commander's amused eyes, 'twas very likely Sir Leonar knew it as well. He very openly poked fun at how she was not only a bad host, as she neglected her duty to the guest, but appeared before her commander in entirely inappropriate attire – or lack thereof. She might well have just given up her next promotion – if not been demoted from command entirely. Arycelle clenched her fists; Sydney could take care of his own bloody guest - if anything, he should have served her! The Archer stomped from the room in rage and humiliation. If that was her brother's vengeance for her short verbal assault about the teakettle earlier, he had most certainly made his point and embarrassed her three times over. Damn him.


He was late.

'Twas well past supper, a special one that Arycelle had prepared in hope that Sydney would return. With their increasing responsibility in the Resistance, it was rare when both Arycelle and Sydney were off duty, let alone both in Almorica at the same time. Word had been sent in earlier in the day that Sir Leonar was victorious in the field and would arrive later in the evening, but Sydney, who had been afield with him, never came home. As a rare treat for his victory, Arycelle cooked with all of the little skill she had in the art, not just a small meal of fruits, but she had went out and bought meats and ingredients for stews with a majority of her salary in order to prepare the best meal she was capable of. The Walister woman had waited for hours, in hopes that Sydney would return home safe, yet he had never knocked in that enthusiastic manner that always let her know 'twas him. Instead, the only sound in the house that evening had been the crack of the wood burning in the fire and the shallow, rapid breaths of the only inhabitant in the small, comfortable Dania household. The Archer hadn't said a word as her former excitement turned to dread, then to fear, and then to sadness as she came to the realization that her brother's luck might have run out and he probably was not going to return to her.

Arycelle did not respond to her body's demand of sleep; she remained at the table in the kitchen, face turned down at her hands, hair dropped around her and obscured the view of the corner of her eyes, as the Walister woman attempted to hold back tears. She was not a child, she did not cry. 'Twas war, Sydney knew what he got into when he joined the Resistance, just as Arycelle did. There was not greater honor for their family than for him to die on the path to their freedom. Even as she thought the words, she pressed her eyes closed as tightly as she could, until the lids shook from the pressure; empty propaganda, spewed by Knights and nobles to force the commons to fight for them. No matter the cause, death was still death. There was nothing noble about war, about killing. Arycelle had taken enough lives that she knew that, as did any soldier.

The food was long since put away, even Sydney's, and the tallow had burned down. The only light in the room came from the fireplace, which still burned only because Arycelle was awake, not from any chill. Their small house was not expensive enough to have windows, so the Archer kept the front door, no more than three paces from her, open to clear out the smoke. The woman had already done everything she could think of to amuse herself. She had washed her clothes, restrung her bow, and even mended the hole in her cloak that had been there for almost a year that she had not bothered to deal with before. She was fortunate she did not have an assignment in the morning, for she knew her work would have suffered at the expense of her sleep. Even as the hope drained from her, the woman kept her eyes, now half-closed in grogginess, on the door. Every once in a while, through the small crack, she saw a guard pass by, torch in hand; each time her hopes would raise, just a little, only to fall back down, crushed anew.

'Twas well over three hours into the new day before Arycelle knew she could not remain awake any longer. Her eyes continued to fall closed and her breaths came slowly and deeply in the warm, comfortable room. The exhausted woman pushed herself off of the well-worn couch that was the only furniture in the entryway and stumbled through the darkness to the fire, which had mostly burnt down to a few to only a few warm embers over the hours, and tossed the bucket of dirt over it to stifle it so that the house would not burn down as she slept. As she always scolded Sydney for his lack of concern about the fire, she would be a hypocrite not to take care of it, even in a half-dozed state. The Archer was far too amused by the thought than she should have been and giggled as she fell onto the couch. She was asleep no more than a minute later.

How long she slept, the Archer did no know, but the young woman was woken by a loud, persistent knock against the door –she had forgotten to close it, damn! - and cries of "Miss Dania! Miss Dania!" Arycelle's eyes snapped open, fully awake from the tension and fear, her nerves on edge, breaths rapid. She clenched at the dagger she still wore on her waist, as she had not undressed before she fell asleep, and cautiously approached the open entrance. She could vaguely see the form outside from the crack in the door, as the form held a torch, but she could not judge anything about the intruder. The voice said the speaker was female, but she knew 'twas no reason to underestimate them. Arycelle stayed behind the door, hidden from view, knees bent in defensive posture.

"Who are you? State your purpose!" She hissed, all traces of her sleep gone from her voice, as her body ran on its adrenaline.

"Arycelle Dania?" The voice quieted as she knew she had Arycelle's attention.

"Speaking." The Archer snapped out, still tense. The room was pitch black and her eyes darted around to see if there were any other invaders, thieves or intruders that had entered while she rested. There were two things the woman would be at Arycelle's residence about if she was not a thief, namely: an emergency attack that Arycelle was summoned for and she was to report immediately, or, what distressed her more, any news about Sydney.

"Miss" Here it comes. Arycelle closed her eyes, suitably satisfied that there was no one in her home and willed herself strong in anticipation for the news she knew was to come. She could almost feel the wetness and blinked it away as best she could. "We've news on Sir Sydney."

". . ." Arycelle gulped loudly, but said nothing. She shivered, if not from the night chill than from anticipation and fear. The woman on the other side of the door seemed to await a reply, or at least for her to open the door and address her properly. Arycelle did not care what she wanted; the woman could stay out there. The back of Arycelle's mind scolded her for hiding her emotions behind rudeness to others, as Sydney would have.

"He was wounded in battle. He's in the castle infirmary" The Archer gasped in shock before she allowed a small smile to grace her features. She opened her eyes and allowed the few droplets she had desperately tried to contain to fall; Sydney was not dead! If he had made it to Almorica's infirmary from the field of battle, it most likely meant he would survive. "If you'd like, I will esco-" Arycelle turned around instantly and slammed the door closed. She barred it and turned around before she ran as quickly as she could through the small, pitch black house with touch as her guide through the familiar rooms. She did not bother with her boots as she pushed open her back door, in too much of a hurry to bar it, and ran around the house to the front. The Archer cried offhand thanks to the woman, apparently a Cleric if Arycelle could tell by her manner of dress and she sprinted through the darkness, the moon and torches on the houses and walls as her only guide. She ignored the wet, muddy ground that likely held other filth against her bare feet as she made her way through the alleys, dagger in hand in case someone tried to prey upon her. The Archer would not be an easy target, with her reactions and skill with the weapon, but as her rationality slowly returned with her heavy breaths, she realized that if someone tried to molest her, she would only be delayed, and time was something she did not have. The safer routes would be a longer run, but there was also less likelihood of an assault.

Even the more-traveled roads of Almorica were dark, but as she reached the mercantile district, there were frequent guards on patrol. The first three she saw drew their blades in defense and the Archer had to slow her pace and show that her hands were empty to pass, but she continued with a light jog, more controlled than her earlier sprint in order to not draw attention again. She was relieved when she finally passed over the bridge and was acknowledged by the guards of Almorica castle. Over the past few scales, Arycelle had become popular and influential enough that many of the castle occupants knew her, almost as if 'twas a dream. She had gone from a homely girl in an orphanage in Krysaro, cursed by Walister blood and the death of her parents, to one of the pinnacles of the Walister Resistance, well respected by those who followed her, even if she did not hold the highest of ranks and would never be known as a hero. She slowed her pace to a walk as the Knights opened the door for her and gave them a nod as best she could with her chest heaving as it did.

Compared to the pitch darkness outside, the castle was well lit, with at least four torches in every hallway, and many more in the more open chambers and passages. Every member of the Resistance knew where Almorica's infirmary was, as at some point they had all gone there. All of the Walister's best Clerics and healers remained in the same wing of the castle, which had turned entirely into an area for healing. Rooms that once held guests now held multiple beds for the wounded, barracks were turned into large rooms that acted as hospices for the soldiers who had no nearby home to rest in. If Sydney was being treated, he was likely in the main infirmary, which was in one of the large side halls converted into a medical facility and was monitored by Clerics of various backgrounds during every hour of the day.

For the late hour, or perhaps 'very early' was more appropriate, there were quite a few soldiers and Clerics about in the hall. It seemed Sir Leonar's unit had arrived later than expected, as Arycelle saw bandaged men limp to and fro, but most looked healthy enough, they probably went to bed to rest for a few days before the next assignment from their commander. Arycelle smiled at them as best she could, but she was too mixed with her own relief and worry about Sydney that she found she cared little about those nameless men she passed. It was cruel of her, perhaps, to be so apathetic, and she knew her brother would scold her for it, but Arycelle was not Sydney, she could not pretend to be. Though they shared many good traits - loyalty, strength, resilience, stubbornness - empathy was not one of them.

The infirmary did not quite bustle, nor was it loud, but there was a quiet hum of voices in the air as the Archer entered. Most spoke under their breath and there were many soldiers who cried out or moaned as the Clerics cleaned their wounds and used their magic. The room was very chill, with windows open to filter out the smoke and the smells of dirty soldiers laced in disease, dirt, gore and whatever foul substances that spread upon them after battle. If Arycelle was to explain the room to anyone, she would call it white: White sheets, though many held a deep red that was stained with blood, white clothes on the Clerics, white rugs, even white tapestries and curtains -'twas too much, bright, almost a mockery, as white would most clearly show blood and infection. Almost as soon as she took a step, the newly-arrived woman was set upon by a male Cleric.

"State your business." the man's voice was annoyed, as if Arycelle had interrupted him from whatever he had been doing. She bristled; he had been the one who stopped of his own free will.

"I'm looking for someone. Dania. Sydney Dania." Arycelle kept as quiet as she could in order to be respectful and not disrupt the patients who rested, but her voice was naturally loud, and quiet words from her were often normal tone from others.

"Ah. . .yes." The man thought for a moment before he replied, his words cautious. Arycelle did not like it one bit, it set her on edge. "Please, follow me." As immediately as he appeared before he made his way through the room. Though he did not appear particularly nimble, the way he swerved around the other busy clerics was impressive. Arycelle was not nearly so graceful and she bumped into at least three people on her way through the room. The Archer was led to a busy corner, with at least three clerics around the bed. To Arycelle's surprise, it seemed her brother had another guest - Sir Leonar, who had a troubled look on his face. Arycelle pushed past the male cleric who led her to her brother and ignored Sir Leonar all together until she reached Sydney's side.

"Brother!" Arycelle's eyes widened as she saw her brother's condition. He had deep bruises all over him, and one of his eyes was swollen closed. His hair was matted with blood and his arms, legs, and chest were drenched in sweat, so thick almost as if he had bathed. The sweat served to cause dried blood to drip over his body, and the skin on his arms and chest was streaked red. His clothing and armor had long since been removed and he lay in bed in only some short undergarments that covered his private region, but even they were cut up his left leg to expose the wounded flesh of his thigh. As Arycelle's gaze was drawn down, she withdrew in shock at the sight that awaited her. Sydney's leg was gone. More accurately, the leg was still there, but 'twould not be used for scales, if ever again. Arycelle could tell the clerics had spent some time working on it, but she was still able to estimate what occurred. It seemed a very large weapon, a great-axe, perhaps, had hit the middle of his thigh and had cut all the way to the bone - not through, but deeply enough that a large chunk of flesh was displaced and the muscle had been torn apart entirely, but the wound did not stop there. It seemed he had been hit again, in the lower leg, but a smaller weapon - a sword or a large dagger - that cut all the way down, as if in mockery to attempt to prevent him from walking or escaping. The Archer shivered in disgust at the exposed white of the bone;Galgastani beasts! 'Twas a miracle her brother had not bled to death, likely the only reason he was alive was from quick work done by healers on the field. He could yet succumb to infection, but, even in her horror, the woman had to be proud of her brother for his strength.

"Arycelle." Her brother's voice contained the same warmth it always held, but she could tell he bit back pain in order to soothe his younger sister.

"Sydney -" Said woman cried out. She resisted her baser urge to take hold of his hand and instead shook in terror as she looked over her brother's form, unable to act. "Sydney, what happened?" Perhaps 'twould have been better to ask his commander, who had moved up behind her, but Arycelle would rather hear it from her brother; 'twas not the commander who was wounded!

"Ha!" Her brother's laughter was forced and painful, but he still had a smile on his features behind the more obvious grimace. "Don't worry, this isn't mine." He did his best to motion to his chest; Arycelle assumed he meant the blood, but given the state of his leg, she found it difficult to believe.

"Sir, you musn't speak." One of the clerics who worked on him demanded. The women worked together, some cleaned, others held flesh, and all worked in their own way to repair the nerves and muscles to that he would, hopefully, not be permanently damaged.

"Brother. . ." Arycelle wanted to take a step forward to take his hand, but was stopped by the glare of the Clerics. On the bed, the Walister woman saw her brother wince, eyes pressed close and mouth open as he gasped in pain. Arycelle's fists clenched in anger, in hate for the Galgastani, and in sorrow at the sight of her brother. He released a low, loud moan and immediately he stopped his verbal responses. The change was almost immediate - or perhaps he had always been in such bad condition and Arycelle had simply not noticed it before. As the women manipulated the flesh on his leg and massaged the alcohol in, Sydney released a loud cry of agony and Arycelle turned away. She could face death, but the sight of her brother was too much. "Sydney!" She cried in time with him, her own face a grimace.

In an instant, another man was in front of her, hands on her shoulders. The Archer had forgotten Sir Leonar was behind her and as she had turned around she had not realized that she looked directly at her commander. Arycelle breathed heavily as the man kept his distance, but his hands, still gloves and armored, held her shoulders as if in some odd form of comfort, the most a Knight could do without seeming inappropriate. Had Arycelle been less upset, she would have pushed him away, but the man gave her space and his weight kept her from falling onto the floor as her body fell into exhaustion from her lack of sleep and the rush of emotion she felt when she had awakened. Only after so long did her adrenaline fade and she felt like she wanted to collapse.

"Arycelle. . ." To her surprise, the commander spoke. The woman looked up to the man who held her shoulders, his face almost as troubled as hers. ". . .the Thunder Maiden, isn't it? Your brother speaks of naught but you."

"Aye, for what it's worth." Speaking helped. Arycelle found herself calmed by the words, and she no longer felt so ill. It cleared her mind of the immediate weariness, but her body still screamed that she needed sleep. "You're Sydney's commander, Sir Leonar. We've met before. Twice." Arycelle's words did not quite mock, but they held the subtle annoyance she usually used on her troops. "What happened? You return and my brother is half-dead!" Though she knew Sydney's wounds were not the commander's fault, she almost wished he would take responsibility for Sydney's wounds so that she would have some outlet for her anger.

". . ." To her surprise, the commander averted his gaze and his hands fell from her shoulders. Arycelle's anger invigorated her, as much as it could given her exhaustion. "He spoke the truth - the blood isn't his." The man motioned with his head towards Sydney, who had fallen into unconsciousness. The healers had moved his leg a bit and Arycelle saw that the damage went far beyond the flesh; unlike her judgment earlier, it seemed his bone had been damaged. 'Twas not shattered by the blow, but it might as well have been. "I fear he will never see battle again."

Arycelle turned entirely towards her brother again, and Leonar followed suit. "What. . .?" She could not bring herself to speak the words. She moved took a step towards the wall and looked on from the distance. The bone was still exposed and she felt her stomach churn anew, the short-lived anger replaced again with distress.

"He protected me." To Arycelle's surprise, Leonar's tone change. It hardened, but she recognized the action; the altered demeanor was meant to harden him, to protect his emotions and prevent Arycelle from seeing that he, too, was troubled by the events that had transpired. She used the defensive maneuver herself; it helped her appear strong when she was troubled or terrified. "We were desperately outnumbered. I would have been killed had he not taken the blow." Arycelle watched the commander's gaze as it fell on the large wound on his upper thigh.

"Brother. . ." Arycelle repeated again, the only word that she could bring to mind. Her strength left her and she slid down the wall, onto her knees and allowed her face to turn downwards toward the stone ground. You will not cry, Arycelle - but her body did not listen to her mind's order and small droplets slid down her cheeks. The Archer let her hair fall down over her shoulder to obscure the view of her face. Such weakness was not to be shown in public; with what little self control she had, the Archer stopped her body's shakes and sobs, even if she could do nothing for the tears that now flowed freely. She should be happy - Sydney was alive! Perhaps he could return home until the war was over and be safe. The thoughts did little to comfort her, as she knew he did not wish to sit to the side and have others fight for him.

Leonar had moved towards her again. For whatever reason, he stood above her and spoke, words quiet enough for her ears alone. What purpose did it serve for the commander to sympathize with her? Arycelle was not child enough to think that she and Sydney were anything more than simple soldiers in the elder man's eyes. He probably had countless men who would give up their bodies to save him. "Your brother may lose his leg, but all of the Galgastani on the field lost their heads."

Anger again flashed through the Archer and burned away the sadness. She was too tired to stand, but she snapped her face up, without care that her tears were visible and she snarled at him, incapable of vocalizing her thoughts. 'Twas not good enough. A few Galgastani heads would never be worth her brother's vitality.


Arycelle tapped her fork on the edge of her plate and glared at the young man across from her. Sydney refused to meet her gaze and instead kept his eyes on the bowl of soup that Arycelle had prepared for them for the midday meal. Though she had requested leave to care for her brother until he could care for himself - and truly, he had learned very quickly how to move about on his own, even if he had a very heavy limp – she had been able to do little. She had once been told, when she had been sad after her parents died, that the ability to heal was determined just as much by one's mind as 'twas one's body; Sydney proved the adage correct. The healers had done their best to recover his leg and, though he had not lost it entirely -the Clerics did not wield the power of miracles after all - they had not been able to entirely heal the bone. The most Sydney could do was walk about with most of his weight on a large staff that Arycelle had ordered for him. Almost three scales later, Sydney was still somewhat reliant, but the Archer had officially returned to her assignments. Every time she would come home, usually dirty, wet, covered in blood and muck and water, he would greet her with the same smile he always did.

That was the problem. Though he would always smile and greet her, he often even attempted to give her a hug, his emotion never quite reached his eyes as it used to. At first Arycelle had not noticed it; she had taken his pleasure at face value before, one day, she saw him watch her stretch for her morning exercises He had a lost, distant look on his face, one of longing and pain. Arycelle knew, then, that he hated her - or perhaps not her, but what she was capable of, what she represented. He would always love her as a person, of course, but he loathed that she still held the ability to fight, something no longer could do, and he held back his spite because of it.

Arycelle knew what her brother wanted to say; he'd attempted to speak the same thing every morning but had not found the words or the strength to do so. He no longer wished to remain in Almorica. Perhaps he feared how she would react - a rightful fear, as Arycelle did not know how she felt about his plight and internal conflicts either. She wanted to pity him, but she knew Sydney would not tolerate it directed towards him; she wanted to help him, but there was nothing she could do. Arycelle was almost as troubled about the subject as Sydney was and she, too, had started to regret her actions, almost as if she had unintentionally shoved them in his face in mockery.

"I'm returning to Krysaro." Sydney's voice was quiet, barely above the soft rain patters against the roof of their shared house. He stirred his spoon about in the soup; Arycelle could admit 'twas not very good, but his disinterest had nothing to do with the flavor. The Walister woman kept her eyes on her food, as Sydney did, not sure how she was supposed to react. As expected, it had come down to this. Krysaro, the only home they had ever known; Almorica had suited them well enough, but no longer did her brother have a place in the Resistance. As if her brother read her mind, he continued. "I can't do anything in Almorica, but I can still help the Abuna raise the children and spread the word of the Resistance." He laughed, the sad, desperate kind, not one of happiness. "Perhaps I can even learn some magic, so I can protect the city."

"Are you sure?" Arycelle's voice was just as quiet as her brother's and, if she judged by his reaction, he looked up from his food and his eyes widened, he had certainly not expected such a passive response. She did not wish him to leave, but she could understand; were their positions were reversed she had no doubt she would have felt the same as he. Her baser, childish instinct, the one that was still the younger sister who wanted to be protected by her brother, wanted to clutch at Sydney and refuse, but 'twas a weak demand by a part of her that had long since grown. No matter what she wanted, she needed to do what was best for Sydney.

"I'm sorry." Still Sydney did not look at her. Arycelle raised her eyes and forced a smile onto her features. She, rather rudely, moved her arms across their small table and lightly stroked her brother's hand, as if to give him the reassurance he desperately sought.

"There's no need to be sorry." Arycelle stood and leaned over the table entirely, not caring if her hair dripped into her soup, as she lifted her brother's chin with her fingers, to make him look her in the eye. Her smile brightened as she looked into Sydney's eyes, as familiar as they always were; eyes that had held her and comforted her, yet that had scolded and taught. 'Twould be so hard to give him up, but he had his life to live; Arycelle would only have to fight twice as hard, for his sake. 'Twould be worth it. "I've been selfish too. I neglected to think on how you must feel. If you'd like, I'll go make a reservation on a guard escort to -"

"No need. I spoke with Sir Leonar already. He was the one who helped me make the decision." Sydney interrupted and lightly removed her hands. Arycelle withdrew to her side of the table and sat as she attempted to ignore the well of anger within. She had just finished telling herself that she did not control her brother's life, yet she still felt upset that he had not chosen to come to her about it. She detested her hypocrisy. "I wanted to tell you now, because I'm leaving tomorrow."

". . .I see." Emotion flooded through the Archer, so many at once that she could not pin down what she felt. Her mouth went dry and her words and thought faded into a blur. She had so much she wanted to think, to say, but she could not find words for any for it. One emotion stood out above the rest – "You seem quite fond of the Commander." Arycelle was jealous. She could hardly believe her childishness, as if she clung to her brother's leg and demanded he not leave her in the morning to work.

"He has taught me more than I can ever repay him for." Sydney had no intention of elaborating and instead he started to eat. His shoulders no longer slumped, but the air was still tense - or perhaps 'twas only Arycelle's imagination. Sydney seemed entirely obvious to her emotions and instead he seemed to simply enjoy her company in the comfort of their shared home. He had the right of things; 'twould serve no purpose for her to be angry that he had not shared his thoughts and plans with her, but she was still miffed. The archer was not child enough to bring it up, but she firmly believed that Sydney had repaid his debt to his commander tenfold. He had lost his leg and his purpose, his goals. It might well have been his life.

The silence between them dragged as Sydney ate and Arycelle hesitantly sipped on her soup. Her appetite was gone. She was emotionally going in circles, thoughts repeating over and over in her head, arguments and rationalizations and words she wanted to say but could not. Perhaps Sydney was correct in thinking she would be angry, but she was angry for a different reason entirely! She was glad he had made the decision to withdraw from the front lines, but she only wished he had spoken to her first.

"Enough of this dreary talk." Perhaps Sydney did not think the discussion was dreary, but the Archer most certainly did. "If you're leaving for Krysaro tomorrow, we must make the most of our time today!" Arycelle chose her words carefully. She wanted to avoid any implication that they would not see each other for a time, and dreaded to even think they would never see each other again The Archer ignored the confused look from her brother as she stood and pushed her bowl to the side. She gave him the brightest smile she could muster before she placed a light kiss on her brother's cheek. They only had a few hours left and she could not waste it being emotional. She wanted to have the most pleasant time she possibly could, and to make sure he remembered her happiness and smile.

'Twas not until almost a week later that Arycelle learned her brother's escort had been set upon by Galgastani and he had been taken to Balmamusa.


Arycelle's first impression was that Sir Leonar's house was remarkably warm and well lit. Her last impression, as she stood in the entranceway, was that it felt far too bright, as it allowed the insightful man to read every emotion on her face. Leonar's house was not exactly what the young woman had expected and when she first entered she had almost laughed aloud at its disarray. Sydney had never been able to keep a clean room, let alone house, in his life, not that Arycelle was any better, but she had certainly expected the commander of the Resistance to be more organized. There was a fine dust layer over most everything, as if he rarely entered the house and instead spent much of his time in his room in the castle, and the floor of the entryway was muddy from the commander's boots. The rest of the house was more cluttered and disorganized than actually dirty, but Leonar knew where everything was - a disorganized organization, Sydney had once called it.

"Thank you. . .for the dinner. I've not had a meal that large in years." If ever. Arycelle was not good at giving thanks and her words were uncomfortable and stilted, she was nowhere near a fine noblewoman, but her parents had taught her at least a modicum of manners. The Archer did not understand the commander's fascination with her; ever since her brother left the elder man saw her every other day, even if only for a moment or two, when she was not on assignment. Worse - and Arycelle knew she did not dream it up – it seemed that she was no longer assigned risky and dangerous missions. She had been given rather simple sweeps, kill a few Galgastani and thieves here and there, and patrols along the roads, almost as if he wanted to protect her. Even if Leonar felt remorse for what had happened with Sydney, Arycelle found it offensive that he would treat her as if she was a doll to be protected to make up for what happened. It had taken time, but she had come to embrace her title of Thunder Maiden and, if she must, she would damn well make sure that Leonar understood that she could make important contributions to the Resistance's cause. Her purpose was to kill Galgastani and free the Walister, not sit about and patrol the area around Almorica.

"You parents?" Leonar sat down on the nearby couch as Arycelle took her cloak down from the nearby rack and covered her shoulders with it. She was no 'proper' Lady; she did not need a man to lift her clothing articles down for her as she knew the Knight wanted to do.

"They were killed by the Galgastani." Her voice was flat. She was not offended by his question, but clearly Leonar was; he looked embarrassed and averted his gaze, as if he felt he had treaded into inappropriate territory. 'Twas no secret that Arycelle and Sydney were orphans, and though she doubted she would ever get over the pain of loss, she had turned her anger and hate into the more constructive determination and desire for a better future and, in the process, vengeance. The commander looked like he wanted to apologize, but seemed to think better of it, and changed the subject as gracefully as he could.

"Where are you staying?" Asked by anyone else, the question would have been offhand and curious, but the commander's tone was not only inquisitive but the Archer could have sworn she heard worry behind his feigned apathy. Pretend all he liked, Arycelle had seen enough of the man in the last scale that she recognized he felt some emotion.

"My house, where I've always been. Why does it matter?" Arycelle looked up from her boots, not sure what he wanted from her, before she shook her head. She was simply over thinking matters and certainly could not assume she knew him well enough to read his every emotion. The times they had even spoken informally could be counted on both hands, after all.

"Listen, Arycelle" Leonar stood from the couch and approached her. He had a dark expression on his features, and the flickering light of the candles only amplified his firmness. "Stay here."

"You must be joking." Arycelle successfully kept the shock from her reply, instead replaced by a cool sarcasm.

"I'm serious. My house is large and, though it may be inappropriate for an unwed woman to share living space with an unwed man, you'll find that I do not come here often enough that it will be an issue." Arycelle almost laughed. He was most worried about how 'appropriate' it was to do such in the eyes of the public rather than how utterly outrageous his invitation seemed? Only with the commander would she have seen such foolishness.

". . ." She could not bring her mouth to speak the words of reprimand, of shock, of how ridiculous she felt the man was.

"Please." Leonar's voice was quiet and had lost all of its traditional firmness. She dared not think it was vulnerable, but damned if that was not how she would describe it. "I, er, Sydney asked me to protect you." The woman drew her brows together; she heard his mistake, but was unsure what it meant. He certainly held some hidden message, but it remained indecipherable.

"I don't want your sympathy, nor would Sydney wish for his sister to be treated any differently than the other soldiers." Arycelle bristled in annoyance. Many had died in the war, not only her parents. Were they any different than she? She did not wish for special treatment simply because her commander had been closely acquainted with her brother. She could fight - she did fight - she would rather be thought of as a soldier of the Resistance than a civilian.

The normally-calm man's expression turned annoyed. Not angry, but frustrated, a look Arycelle knew her face shared. The man's irritation faded almost as quickly as it had shown itself and in an instant replaced itself with an overbearing calmness that caused the Archer to take a step back in worry. He had a pleasant smile as he spoke. "'Twould be truly a shame if the Thunder Maiden was taken off the field by her commander for insubordination."

"Y-You wouldn't dare!" Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief. He said so with such confidence, such resolute assurance that she did not doubt he would go through with the threat. His reasons baffled her; she was just another soldier, what reason did he have to threaten her with demotion? The man made no sense.

In an instant, Leonar crossed the paces between them and pushed Arycelle back against the nearby wall. It was a light shove, more to knock her off balance, and he held her there, hand grasped at the cloak around her neck. His voice was low as his eyes met hers. "You've been on assignment constantly since Sydney was captured by the Galgastani, without even a single day of rest." Arycelle turned her face to the side; she knew what he spoke was true, but 'twas nothing to be ashamed of. 'Twas not shame, but his manner that made her turn away; she could not face the accusation in his words, as if he knew exactly why Arycelle had chosen to devote herself to her work. Certainly he could not know - "You're going to get yourself killed and, if not yourself, your troops will collapse from exhaustion." His breaths were shaky, as if Leonar was not used to such emotional outbursts. When Arycelle had first seen the man, when he was at the head of the army, impassioned, as he spoke of freedom, she would not have believed him capable of it, either. "Stay in Almorica - for Sydney's sake, if not your own."

The commander did not release his grip, as she would have expected. His breaths were warm against her cheek and his presence so close distracted her in a way she did not understand. He was right; Arycelle had been obsessed. One emotion had been on her mind since she heard the Galgastani had taken her brother to that camp in Bamamusa and 'twas, to her humiliation, not Sydney's freedom, but death. She wanted to kill every Galgastani she saw. She wanted to avoid the pain, so she immersed herself in war and was awash in blood. She ran away, as she could not face reality. Was that what Sydney wanted? Did he wish her to die, enraged, alone on the battlefield, because of some blind mistake she made in her search for vengeance? No - Sydney would have much preferred her remain in Krysaro, he had said as much. When he left, she had promised to take care of herself; the Archer could not even fulfill that simple, but important, promise. Leonar spoke truly, as much as she did not wish to accept it.

"Ugh. Very well." The Archer nodded. At her words, Leonar released her gently and rearranged the cape around her to its proper position. 'Twas a surprisingly intimate motion that would have seemed out of place were either Arycelle or Leonar more experienced in the subject. He gave her an uncomfortable smile as he walked over to the door and held it open. At least he did not plan to escort her; some Knight he was! Arycelle laughed at the thought, which earned her a strange look from the commander. She shook her head and offered as much of a smile as she could. The woman was surprised; she felt drained, but some part of her was relieved. Arycelle had not realized it, but she cried out for help. Finally, someone saw her suffering - yet it had been the last person she expected. She cursed her commander for his perception as she passed by him and offered him a nod of goodbye.

The Archer walked slowly through the streets, almost in a bubble. She smiled at all of the bored guards who passed by and even spared a word for them. For a woman known for her temper, Arycelle Dania proved that when she was happy, she was pleasant to be around and her 'Thunderous' reputation was quite over exaggerated. As the woman approached her house, she finally released a sigh she did not realize she had held in. Leonar would likely come early in the morning - knowing him, well before the sun was fully in the sky- in order to assist in the collection of her belongings.

As the Walister woman walked behind her house to enter through the back door and grasped her knife in case any thieves awaited her, she mused; 'twas not particularly bad to be acquainted with the commander; once she went afield again, she would have the first choice of Galgastani to kill.


It was over in an instant. Leonar's weight fell on top of her and their mutual gasps came in rhythm.

"I'm sorry." He continued to rest atop her as their breaths slowed. The heat between them was uncomfortable and she almost wished to push him off, but could not bring herself to put any distance between herself and Leonar. From her position below him, she pulled him as close as she could, until his face met hers. He smelled very. . .Leonar-like. Though he sweated heavily, it did not smell, as many men would, and kept himself clean and groomed. His wash lacked any scent, even the soap - very professional for battle perhaps, but Arycelle preferred a stronger wash for both hair and body; perhaps she'd buy him some, since he obviously would not obtain it for himself.

"What for?" Arycelle ran her hands down her lover's back in a gentle stroke as she nuzzled into his neck. Leonar returned the motion and embraced her tightly, the stubs of hair on his cheek rough against her skin.

"I. . .did not withdraw." Arycelle almost sighed at his foolishness. He always worried about the smallest things. Was she comfortable? Did he hurt her? Did she enjoy the way he touched her? Was that a gasp of pain or pleasure? The Walister woman was not a doll and he did not need to treat her as such. Though, she could admit that an unexpected child outside of marriage was certainly quite a bit different than any of his other fears about their lovemaking.

"You make such a fuss every time. Nothing will happen." She whispered into his ear. They'd made love many times in the past and this little 'accident' happened almost every time. Perhaps 'twas time for Leonar to stop pretending 'twas an accident and tell her that it had been intentional the entire time. She knew she did not necessarily speak the truth, for she certainly had no control over the conception of a child, but she spoke to ease his worries. The commander had enough stress on his mind that he needn't worry about as bastard child and its political consequences as well.

"We musn't be too careful. Just because we've been lucky so far does not mean we will remain so." He spoke her thoughts almost perfectly. The elder man pushed himself off of her and rolled over to her side, but still kept his hand grasped in hers. Arycelle released his hand and pushed herself up into a sitting position and pushed the remains of the sheet off her; she was far too hot for any covers. The Archer turned towards her Knight, who had turned away, head on the pillow.

"I don't think either of us are ready for a tiny Leonar yet." She spoke lightly and brought her hands, worn and calloused from battle, onto his back. She could not say she was skilled in the art of massage, but even with her inexperience she still could tell the tense muscles from the relaxed ones. She massaged her fingers into his upper shoulders and back in circles against the taut muscles, her grasp difficult against the sweat that still covered his body. He did not lean into her grasp or even thank her, as he usually did, instead he remained silent and rolled his shoulders in response to her touch, the only evidence he felt her at all.

He was certainly acting oddly. Arycelle had pretended not to notice it, when he had come to their now-shared home with a troubled expression on his features and the way he had forced her against the wall in a fit of passion more desperate than he had ever shown her before. Something had happened and he did not wish to worry her. The foolish man did not seem to realize that when he hid his burdens, it only distressed her more.

"Leonar. What troubles you?" She removed has hands and sat up fully behind him, on her knees, hands on her hips as she demanded an answer. Her tone was firm, but both of them knew 'twas how she showed she cared.

"Nothing gets by you, it seems." The Walister woman heard soft laughter from her lover's direction, but he did not turn over or answer her question. Instead he released a long, deep breath that spoke of the weight of his duty that he felt. He got like that sometimes; they had lived together for long enough that she saw his weakest moments and she recognized all of the symptoms perfectly. On some silent cue that Arycelle did not understand, Leonar rolled off the other side of the bed away from Arycelle. She watched his expression, but only saw it etched into the firm lines of a frown as he walked through the room, as if in search of a specific goal. When he reached his small dresser where he kept his common clothes, Leonar dug through them quickly.

"Arycelle, my love." Arycelle could not stop her breath; he had never called her such a title before. She felt a put of warmth in her stomach, and a girlish blush crossed her features, she did not doubt her entire body was red from pleasure. 'Twas only a word, but she did not know why it made her so happy, but emotions were rarely rational. As Leonar returned, he held something in his fists. His breaths were deep, as if he was nervous as he sat by her, still as naked as she was and took her hand. "When this war ends. . ." He paused and as the woman looked to him, she saw him swallow, as if not sure what to say. Was it any other man, she might have thought the nervousness adorable, but it felt so out of place on the strong, secure Leonar that is almost worried her. Almost. His took her hand, left, and to her shock, he slid a ring, his hands shaking and covered in the thick sweat from his anxiousness, the most beautiful she had ever seen, onto her finger. His words were more confident as he spoke, as if he had lost his insecurity. "I want you to be my bride."

"What brought this on all of a sudden?" Arycelle withdrew her hand almost instinctively. She knew she should be happy - and she certainly was - but confusion, even fear, set itself in. Certainly his odd actions would not have been from nervousness; he hid something else from her. It hit the woman hard, like a hammer to her gut. Leonar did not think that he was going to return from his next assignment. The warm pit in her stomach was replaced by one of dread.

"Do you decline?" Leonar looked away, as if he truly thought she was horrified by the idea. Oh, Leonar. He was a competent commander and a wonderful companion and, someday, he would make a fine husband, but he was so ignorant of social cues at times. She supposed 'twas because he was always 'Duty, Duty, Duty!' He looked almost like a broken child at the thought that Arycelle rejected him that she could not handle it. She smiled and moved herself close as she kissed his cheek.

"Of course not, I would be honored." She took his hands in hers and smiled at the relieved, even satisfied look on the Knight's face. 'Twas a shame for Leonar that Arycelle would not be deterred so easily. "But you will not avoid my question!"

She did not receive the chuckle she expected, instead his only response was a deflated sigh as the smile that had graced his features for a short moment evaporated away. His voice was quiet and Arycelle had to lean in to hear him.". . .I am going on a mission to Balmamusa." The Archer's eyes widened in shock. What purpose did the Resistance have in one of Galgastan's Walister camps? It would be considered an act of hostility and could provoke an attack on Almorica, if Balbatos had the numbers for it. "When I'm there, I'll be sure to tell Sydney of our engagement." Before she could reply, Leonar turned to her and pulled her back on the bed so that they lay side- by-side. He enveloped her in his hot embrace and pulled her head into his chest, as he toyed with her hair.

He still hadn't answered her question, but Arycelle was too content in the arms of her new fiancé to care.


Belated apologies about Arycelle's characterization; she wrote herself more than I wrote her.