"Radiance!"
Her Blade dashed forward with her as she cracked her whips along the ground. Shockwaves of flames shot out. Gunther jumped back.
She snapped the whips back into swords, unperturbed by the fact that she hadn't landed a strike. She'd caught him off guard, and that was what mattered most. Doubtless he'd studied her in advance of the duel—and anyone familiar with her normal combat techniques would expect her to default to the defensive. Now she just needed to keep him guessing.
I will not be underestimated. Not today.
Gunther retaliated with an Art of his own. A dozen tiny daggers of water zipped towards her. Brighid simply tossed up an ether shield and knocked them aside. After a few more long-range ether attacks, the three fighters drew close.
The air rang with the sound of crossed swords. Sparks flew. Those who watched the duel later described it as a deadly dance—one that the Special Inquisitor and Lady Brighid led. The Driver and Blade fought in perfect sync, passing their weapons back and forth without a moment's hesitation. And it was no surprise why: their entire bodies gleamed with the gold of their affinity link. One might even wonder if its brilliance alone could burn their opponent.
Gunther was no pushover, for sure: each strike boasted incredible strength. Her arms screamed from exertion every time her crossed blades caught the brunt of an attack. But thanks to her own natural agility—and improved speed after a healthy number of spars with a man who more than deserved his "Thunderbolt" moniker—she rarely afforded him the opportunity. And as his frustration grew, his attacks became sloppier. Right where she wanted him. Her left whipsword shot forward in a long-range feint. In the time it took him to block it, she had rolled around to his side and sliced. The weapon found purchase in his abdomen, cutting deep enough to show muscle.
First blood. Good. But not good enough. Not when he would stop bleeding in a matter of minutes. And the sight of his own blood stirred up new energy inside him; his attacks grew fiercer. All conscious thought left Mòrag's mind. Instinct alone dictated each strike. Each parry. Each Art. She was winning. She had to end it quickly before her own humanity could get in the way. Before he could—
She heard the rip of fabric and flesh before she felt it. Then the pain set in. Like stabs of ice from Jin. Blood dripped down her leg. She glanced at it—about three inches across, not too deep. But bleeding a lot thanks to its proximity to her femoral artery. Of all the places for him to damage first.
"Brighid, sear that wound closed. First chance you have," Mòrag panted.
"Must I?" Of course Brighid would protest the command.
"I could bleed out if you don't. Do it!"
Her Blade circled around to her left side and tossed a giant fireball towards Gunther, forcing him to vault backwards by several peds. During that window of opportunity, Brighid set her hand on her Driver's leg and dropped two small bursts of flame. Mòrag couldn't fight back the gasp of pain. Even though she was well-accustomed to Brighid's flames—so much so that she only felt the heat if she actually touched them—this intentional contact hurt, as if it was trying to burn even her bones.
But it was better. No more blood drained from the wound, and now the pain was from the heat, not open skin. That sort of pain she could ignore. And the cut wasn't deep too deep into muscle. The leg ached, but it was still usable. Now Brighid would just have to guard that side more carefully to compensate for her slight hobble.
Now it was time to reward Gunther with more wounds of his own.
"Whip shield," she said as quietly as possible.
Brighid didn't need to be told twice; it was a technique she'd been looking forward to unveiling. In the week leading up to the fight, they'd brainstormed the new Art, tested it alone, attempted it in training, and perfected it in a spar against Nia and Dromarch. All they needed was for Gunther to throw another long range attack.
She jumped backwards once, twice. Dared him to throw more water daggers.
He obliged. Fool.
Brighid shot up her usual shield. But this shield was slightly different. Two small chinks lurked in the armor—two missing hexagons. One on the right and one on the left. Both intentional and large enough for two whips to slip through.
Gunther's gaze was so trained on the follow-through of his last attack that he didn't notice both whips hurtling towards him. They lashed around his waist. The Flesh Eater jumped back instinctively, but that only tightened the grip, deepened the hold. Mòrag channeled Brighid's ether then. Flames sprinted along the whips until they reached her opponent. He squirmed and tried to break free, dousing himself with water to put out the flames. Steam boiled up into his face for his folly. Little blisters bubbled up on his cheeks and chin until the water overwhelmed the fire. Mòrag snapped her whips back and tried not to look too closely at the little chunks of flesh that clung to them.
Out of her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of Brighid's smirk. Developing new techniques together was always fun, but seeing them in action—nothing could replace the immense satisfaction her Blade drew from evolving and growing ever more deadly. It was a good attack, too. Its only true weakness was that a perceptive opponent could find the gaps in the hexagonal shield and counter through them. Maybe with enough practice, they could alternate which hexagons they left open. But that could come later.
While he's vulnerable.
With a mighty leap, she surged at him, pressing the attack. Every chance she got, she took a swing at his stomach. Brighid did the same with her flames. Gunther took three steps back, then a fourth. He was wavering. His ether-based attacks weakened, as if his body couldn't simultaneously repair itself and unleash full-force Arts.
"Flamebringer! Flamebringer! Flamebringer!"
The chant reverberated through the Ardainian ranks, and for a moment, it seemed that the fight might be won. Brighid's flames ate at his flesh again. Mòrag cut into his right arm, then his left leg. A double swing even broke through his ether shield. Now to move in for the kill.
Out of nowhere, a tidal wave of water knocked both Driver and Blade back several peds. Brighid shot a quick heat haze to dry herself off. But in the time it took her to do that, something...snapped within the Flesh Eater.
"TIme to show you the Flamebane," he growled.
Through her resonance with Brighid, Mòrag could often detect ripples in the ether when another Driver used a Blade in battle. But in that moment, the ripple felt like a tsunami. Gunther crouched, pulling as much of his body in towards his core crystal as he could manage without sitting down. A cloud of red, corrupt energy—something about the ether just felt rotten, like it had been siphoned off a dead animal—swirled around him. He threw his head back. His mouth opened in a cry of pain, but no sound came out.
And then all at once his body began to change. At first, it looked like he summoned a great orb of water to surround his torso. But that water began to morph and sway, taking a form of its own. A long, snake-like length of it broke off from the mass only to reattach itself beneath Gunther's arm. Another did the same beneath his left. Then another, and another, until each arm had four tentacles of water sprouting under each arm. The tentacles, now in place, hardened into something that wasn't quite ether or water. Not quite flesh, either. His skin stretched and pulled to cover the new limbs he generated. Stretched so far, the skin became almost translucent, revealing the intricate network of veins and muscle underneath.
Mòrag shuddered. These new appendages reminded her of the final fight with Amalthus; each tentacle gleamed a pale blue. But Amalthus's inhuman body had been generated from all the core crystals he annihilated; Gunther's came from ether and his own body. Mòrag hoped that counted for something, because the tentacles were the end of the similarities between the two. Amalthus, though power-hungry, had remained sentient until the end—perhaps not entirely sane, but in complete control of his own actions. But the look in Gunther's eyes now made him seem like a cornered animal, a grotesque man turned sea creature consumed by the intoxicating power of his own ether.
"What the hell is that?" Mòrag whispered.
Even if Brighid had an answer, she had no time to voice it. Both Gunther and his new limbs sprang into action. What once was a two-on-one battle now looked like two-on-nine. Mòrag and Brighid reverted to the defensive as tentacle after tentacle shot towards them. One from the front. Two from the side. Another looping around to their flank. And always, what was left of the man himself, coming at them with his weapon. Mòrag tossed one sword to her Blade. They stood back to back and batted away each attack.
Too much was happening at once. And worse, the tentacles didn't cut easily. Maybe ether reinforced them. The skin over them appeared paper-thin, but each time her sword made contact, it bounced away like she struck rock. Could they be weaker at the base? There had to be a way…
Water ether particles. Gunther's body had changed, but his element had not.
"Surround us with a wall of flame! All sides," Mòrag ordered.
"I'm otherwise engaged!"
"I'll cover you. Just duck and do it!"
Brighid passed the sword back and crouched. Mòrag felt the ether surge as the Blade set to work. The Driver snapped both weapons into whips and swung them in wild circles overhead—a wild cyclone of silver sword and azure fire. Each revolution was perfectly timed to block the assault of tentacles from overhead. Meanwhile, Brighid's flame circle rose from the ground. It grew in strength until it was thick enough to reach out and touch.
One of Gunther's tentacles made contact with the flaming wall. A loud hiss filled the air. The tentacle recoiled, steaming. One glance revealed that the burnt tentacle was visibly shorter than the rest now. And it showed no capacity to regenerate, either. Swords might not damage them, but intense fire certainly could.
Mòrag didn't even need to give her Blade a second command. Brighid unleashed the full force of her firepower.
"Blue flames, immolate my foe!" she shouted.
Even those seated far beyond the arena itself felt the sheer heat thrown from that strike. The air was nothing but fire and steam for several seconds. But then a faint scent of burning flesh joined the steam; Brighid's flames cut through Gunther's own water barrier and now tore away at as many tentacles as she could reach. The appendages began to shrink like icicles in a spring thaw. Gradual, but constant.
The Flesh Eater growled—a feral noise. For a second, Mòrag wondered if he could even return to his previous, tentacle-free form. Maybe this corrupted state was permanent.
But his retaliation tore that curiosity from her consciousness. The Flesh Eater threw ether of his own. A huge wave of water hurtled towards Mòrag. It wasn't enough to hurt her—or even force her more than three or four peds backwards—but it was sufficient to distract Brighid. Her flames flinched for a second. The tentacles pounced.
Mòrag flung one whipsword out to block his blow, but she was just out of reach. So she watched helplessly as two tentacles lashed around Brighid, pinning her arms to her side like a snake with its prey. Pulling her up, higher and higher. Higher than his limbs ought to be able to reach. And then they whipped her back down, tossing her to the ground.
The impact would have snapped a human's neck. But killing a Blade was much harder, Mòrag reminded herself. Brighid was still alive. Just unconscious. All she had to do was stay alive until her Blade woke back up. As long as Gunther didn't soak her with water, Brighid would regenerate quickly. But seven tentacles and one sword was far too much to dodge on her own. When she brought her sword up to block one, another took its place. In another second or two she'd find herself picked up and thrown, too.
She saw it coming in her peripheral vision. Hurtling towards her faster than she could block. Instinctively, she threw her arms up so he couldn't pin them down. Perhaps she could cut her way free from the snake-like grip.
Pain exploded in her side as the strike hit home, knocking her off her feet. She rolled to soften the impact. Not that it reduced the pain—her side felt like she'd been thwacked with a Titan's forefoot, not his limb.
It's a good thing I'm not pregnant yet, or that could have caused some serious damage.
No. No distractions now. He was still coming at her.
Get up! Ignore the pain or you'll be dead.
She stuck her left whipsword into the ground and used it as a crutch to pull herself back to her feet. Now she had a broken rib or two and a bruised side to match her cut and burned leg. And still no Blade.
Architect, there had to be a way out of this. But what was it?
"Brighid!"
It was a desperate cry—one that she never intended to make. But her subconscious forced it out anyway, as if it saw what was coming. Without Brighid's shields, flames, and backup, she was at Gunther's mercy.
Another tentacle hit the same, weakened side, flattening her. A third batted away her weapons like toys. The remaining four gripped at her arms and legs. They felt slimy, like they belonged to a sea monster from her nightmares.
Pinned.
Gunther's humanoid hands brought his sword high.
There had to be something she could do. Dying wouldn't be so bad, she decided. But to go like this was shameful. What was it Brighid and Mythra said to each other? "A Driver and Blade are one in body and soul." Profound, really. And probably true. But a lot of good it did her now. Unconsciousness still had her Blade in its grip. And she was lying here, helpless, watching Gunther make one last lunge with her limbs pinned and his weapon careening towards her head. If only he wasn't moving so slowly; at least, it seemed his figure inched forward at an agonizing pace. As always, the waiting was the hardest.
This is it, isn't it? I failed. Shit, shit, shit.
Once again, she faltered at the last second—let everyone down. Niall. Zeke. Brighid. Aegaeon. Rex. Pyra. Mythra. Nia. Dromarch. Tora. Poppi. Pandoria. Her countrymen. And dozens of Blades, including Theory, Herald, and oblivious little Finch. All those memories, all those people on the verge of being lost to eternity. Even Brighid might not be the same as Niall's Blade. Thanks to her journals, she'd know who he really was, of course, but would the new Brighid tell him about his mother? Or would she defer to her previous self's Driver? Maybe she should have told Brighid to write a cautionary note to her future selves. Architect, why did reincarnations have to be so complicated?
Only a few more inches before the blade found its mark in her neck.
A Driver and Blade are one in body and soul. One in body and soul. One.
Too bad "one in body" didn't mean they had the same talents. Then she could summon an ether shield and deflect this blow. Buy time to break free...Wait. Why was it that Drivers couldn't make shields on their own? Something about ether manifestation. The details of it were hazy; the fuzz of blood loss and exertion crowded in her mind. No shields for Drivers hardly seemed fair. But rules were rules.
All life emits and absorbs ether energy.
One of the first lessons Brighid taught her. But why was it coming back to her now? Blades used the crystals on their weapons to manifest ether energy, allowing the Driver to unleash Arts. But human bodies and Blade cores weren't all that different, right? And if her body had latent ether energy coursing through it—why couldn't she use that ether? Ether energy was tied to one's life force; perhaps using it herself rather than letting Brighid channel it would have adverse effects on her life expectancy. But with a sword barreling towards her chest, it seemed worth the risk.
One in body and soul. All life emits and absorbs ether.
I refuse to die here.
As one.
She tried her best to think of those moments when she was in perfect sync with her Blade—how it felt to be linked together, when their emotions rang in harmony. A lot of memories came to mind: the day Niall was born. Her commissioning ceremony as Special Inquisitor. The Emperor's coronation. When the Blade bots pinned their party down and she broke free. The morning they escaped Spirit Crucible Elpys. The day they finally found Elysium. The final fight with Malos and Aion. The common denominator to all of those moments was Brighid's loyalty through thick and thin, their unbreakable bond. Recall how it felt—how she makes a shield! How she manipulates ether. Use your own energy!
The sword was fractions of a ped away now. She clenched her eyes shut.
But the strike never came. It bounced harmlessly to the side, deflected by a blue bubble of flaming ether that surrounded her. It did not have the defined, gleaming hexagons of a typical shield. No, this looked more ethereal, as if the waves cast by her flames had solidified into unbreakable azure glass. Gunther took two steps back, stunned. He glanced to Brighid—still out cold—then back at Mòrag. For a moment, the two opponents stared at each other, both equally shocked by what she'd managed.
The crowd went completely silent, processing the technique they witnessed. Then the Ardainian host erupted in cheers all over again.
Gunther's tentacles pinning her to the ground had exploded in cloud-like bursts of vaporized water when the shield burst into being, so Mòrag managed to claw her way back into a crouched position. Fueled by the cries of her countrymen, she pushed more and more ether into the wall of flame she somehow created. It ached—as if each particle of ether stabbed her as it left her body. But the flame-shield grew in intensity even as the Flesh Eater brought his sword down for a second strike. Steam hissed where the weapon made contact. More ether. More. Pretending her body was its own core crystal to channel the energy through. Maintaining the shield. The effort left her dizzy, but the steam from his sword vanished, replaced by a bright orange glow. Gunther's weapon began to melt. His eyes widened in further shock, but he continued to press against her barrier, hoping it would yield.
Then in the blink of an eye, the sword clattered to the ground, white-hot from hilt to tip. Gunther's hands shone with raw, pink blisters. He scrambled away, trying and failing to summon water to cool the burns.
Right whipsword, then left. Armed again. Good.
She forced herself to stand and ignored the way the ground lurched underfoot. This ether circulation...it wasn't enough. She needed more. If she kept this up, she would exhaust the ether reserve her body had. Somehow she knew that. But drawing ether from the atmosphere—that she could not do consciously. Only Brighid could.
Brighid. Her Blade still needed more time to regain consciousness.
She lunged forward and grabbed Gunther's fallen sword. The metal still felt scorching hot, but it did not burn her flame-resistant hands. With as mighty a heave as she could manage, she threw it. It clattered outside the arena boundaries. If Gunther went after it now, he would forfeit the fight.
He growled angrily and immediately put his hand to his core crystal. The blues and the reds inside the crystal congealed, pushing out the hilt of another weapon. Of course he could generate another from his own core. It was stupid to ignore that possibility. Instinct took over. Her whipswords seemed to move on their own, lashing forward. Each extended blade lassoed around one of Gunther's hands and ensnared each wrist. Then both pulled tight. The steel and fire gleamed in unison. A slick, sickening slice. His hands fell to the ground. Before what she was doing could register in her mind, she used the last droplets of ether in the crystals on each sword to immolate each one. Now he couldn't simply reattach them. He'd have to wait for them to grow back.
That should buy enough time.
And it did. Gunther's agonized howl alone pulled Brighid from her stupor. The Blade shot to her feet, horrified. Her eyes darted back and forth from her Driver and the now-handless Gunther, who had a half-generated sword hilt still stuck in his core crystal. The sight didn't reassure her at all; her Driver looked just as battle-worn as the Flesh Eater—on the verge of collapse, really. She was hunched over, breathing too fast even for combat, wincing with each inhale. And somehow, fragments of her fireproof uniform were melted or missing. But where had she gotten the fire? Surely there wasn't enough ether reserved in the sword crystals to unleash that much firepower.
Brighid shot to Mòrag's side in an instant. She rested a gentle hand on the woman's back, hoping the warmth would be soothing, reassuring, empowering. But the touch felt wrong. Mòrag's person seemed...hollow, like part of her was missing, sucked away.
"Mòrag, what the hell did you do?" she asked. Gunther's continued screams nearly overpowered her voice.
"Not now. We have to...finish this," Mòrag wheezed. "Fast. I'm nearly...at my limit."
Mòrag handed one whipsword to her blade and gave the one in her right hand a quick snap, unfurling it into whip form. It quivered in her grip. All she needed to do was nod; Brighid read the rest of her plan in her eyes. Their affinity link reappeared, set alight by energy as Brighid pumped ether through it. One Soulfire. One last Art. A gambit.
Two whips snapped forward. The silver-blue weapons snaked their way across the battlefield, dodging Gunther's stubs. Each tip wrapped around the hilt of the sword stuck in Gunther's chest, clinging to it like an extension of the Driver's and Blade's bodies. In unison, the whips snapped back. Their grips on the hilt held firm, pulling both sword and crystal with it.
Tendrils of water slipped out of the core crystal, as if the stone itself made a desperate attempt to pry itself free from the whips trying to rip it away from its home.
"More fire, Brighid!"
Flames licked along the unfurled whips, dispelling the watery tendrils and eating away at the flesh that tethered the core crystal to its host.
With a chilling tear, the incomplete Blade weapon ripped away from the Flesh Eater's body, taking the core with it. Whips retracted in perfect unison.
Then a lot of things happened at once. The Ardainians and Urayans alike shouted, gasped, stopped short. Those looking on at the edge of the arena all jumped to their feet for a better look. Gunther cursed loudly, collapsing to his knees as he stared at the small gap in his chest. Mòrag untangled the weapon hilt from her own whipsword and grasped the now-dismembered core crystal in her hand. She swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat; somehow it seemed like she was holding a pounding heart in her hand. Even now, the last remnants of ether pulsed through it like a heartbeat. Could a Blade remanifest around a crystal if it was ripped from its chest? Maybe it was only possible with Flesh Eaters? No one had ever attempted this before. The thought that Gunther's body might vanish and then suddenly start regrowing around the crystal in her fist made her shudder. No use risking it.
She grabbed the hilt of Gunther's incomplete sword in her right hand, the crystal in her left. Pulled with all her might. Meanwhile Brighid enveloped it all in flames, hoping the heat would weaken the material.
The sound of shattering glass.
Gunther's cries cut short.
The crystal and weapon in Mòrag's hands crumbled—fell like dust into the ground beneath her.
The Flesh Eater's body crumpled, now a useless, etherless husk.
And then cheers erupted all over again. A short distance away, the sky rained Ardainian banners; no one needed to pronounce the outcome. Even the Urayans began to clap politely out of respect and admiration. Whispers about the sheer impossibility of what was just witnessed ran throughout the entire assembly. No one had ever seen such an arresting display of skill, ingenuity, and Driver-Blade affinity. And perhaps a bit of dumb luck.
"It's done. We ended the war," Mòrag sighed, her tone breathy and disbelieving.
Brighid grinned and pulled her Driver into a tight hug, for once unperturbed by a public display of affection. "I'm sorry I was so unconscious for so long. I left you vulnerable."
"Not your fault. I managed."
"To pull that off despite my being out of commission...you're a legend in your own right, Lady Mòrag."
"We—we did it."
"No, Mòrag. You did it."
But her Driver didn't hear her last statement; the Special Inquisitor went limp in her Blade's arms. With the adrenaline gone, the strain of the battle finally caught up to her, and she collapsed.
"There we go. She's starting to come around."
Nia's voice, surrounded by the hum of several other familiar voices. She could feel Brighid's heat to her left. That warmth was complemented by a sensation like cool water that rushed up and down her leg, pulling away the pain in a soothing current. But everything still felt hazy, like there was a Cloud Sea between them and her. The water seemed to move to her temples—one little fountain on each side. It pushed away the haze.
She immediately wished she could drop back into the cloudiness. At full awareness, she realized how badly everything ached, like Mor Ardain had clenched her in its fist. Clearly Nia hadn't finished.
"I feel like a Titan weapon ran me over," she groaned.
"One practically did," Brighid laughed. Judging by her tone and the way her flaming hair flickered, the Blade was already back at full strength. Unfair. "Well done, Lady Mòrag."
"Well done? That's all you have to say, Brighid?" Mythra scoffed. "That was some incredible skill she showed. I've never seen anything like it, and I've been around for a few centuries. So go ahead and lay the praise on thick. We all know you want to."
"Yeah. Did you see what she did? She made a freaking ether shield on her own!" Rex shouted. "Drivers aren't supposed to be able to do that! What the hell? Bloody awesome! Mòrag, you have got to teach me how to do that!"
"She's not going to be teaching that to anyone, bullet brain," Nia said firmly. "Because it was a bloody idiotic thing to do. She's lucky she didn't kill herself in the process. Honestly, Mòrag. Using your body's ether supply—just how foolish can you get?"
"I didn't think it would work. But I was desperate." Mòrag attempted to sit up and was rewarded with a sharp stab in her side. "I take it you haven't healed my ribs yet."
"Of course not, arsehole. I was too busy trying to keep your digestive organs from shutting down!"
"What?" Several of the tent's occupants chorused. The external damage to her body hadn't been too extensive, so the idea that their companion's internal systems were shutting down was shocking.
"Ether loss is a lot like blood loss: lose too much and your body starts to shut down," Nia explained. "It's not normally supposed to happen in humans, at least not in a self-inflicted way. But Mòrag, true to her near superhuman self, found a way. Now shut up and let me finish."
"How long have I been out?"
"Shut it, you."
"Nia, chill out. Talking won't kill her," Rex pointed out.
"Of course not. But your idiocy might kill me. I'm trying to make it so it won't take Mòrag three weeks to recover from this, so let me work in peace."
"What exactly do you mean?" Mòrag murmured.
"Just like with blood loss, I can restore some of your ether energy levels for you, almost like a blood transfusion. But it's not going to make you go magically back to normal in a split-second, either. Losing that much ether puts a big strain on your body's cells. Healing from that strain will take some time, even with my help. So you'll need to rest properly."
For once, Mòrag didn't want to protest that admonition. As Rex would say, she felt "all out of juice." At least now the pain was all but gone—even her ribs were whole again, allowing her to sit upright at last.
"How long has it been since the fight?" she asked. From the moment Brighid embraced her after the fight to the minute she awoke here in the tent, she couldn't recall a thing.
"An hour or so."
"I should go out there. The soldiers need to see that I'm all right."
Nia hissed. "Not now, you don't. Unless you want them to see you collapse again, because I'm not done yet. Oi, Pyra. Can you get her some food? That'll help get her strength up."
"You bet! I've always wanted to try making quoteletta, anyway."
"Not you, Mythra."
"Why not? Even I cook better than most Ardainians. She'll probably think it's perfect," the blond Aegis retorted.
"But it'll take too much energy to chew if you burn it," Rex shot back.
"Charcoal's good for you."
"Just go, you idiots!" Nia scolded again.
With Rex and Mythra traipsing off to get a decent meal, the tent quieted instantly. For a moment, the only noise was the sound of soldiers chatting outside. And of Rex still gawking over the azure ether shield phenomenon.
"Where's Zeke?" Mòrag asked after a brief silence.
"He helped carry you in here," Brighid explained. "And once he knew that you'd be alright, he went to help guard His Majesty. It appears that Uraya will abide by the terms of the agreement, but we can't be too careful while there are still forces in the area. Would you like me to fetch him? I could guard the Emperor in his stead."
"Please do so. But not quite yet," Mòrag said, stifling a shiver. "I feel awfully cold. Your infrared radiation is appreciated at the moment."
"You're cold because your body can't regulate its own internal temperature without ether, dimwit," Nia interjected.
"I get the point. My actions endangered my health. You can stop scolding me. I won't do it again."
Nia made a sound like an approving little purr. "Good. Do you feel strong enough to lean forward and scoot up a bit? It's time to fix some of that ether loss."
Mòrag nodded and did as she was instructed. The Gormotti clambered onto the cot behind her and put both hands on the Driver's back—one at the top of her spine and the other at the bottom. Her spine tingled as ether energy coursed through it, like water cascading down a cliff. And as the ether continued to flow into her back, Mòrag felt some of her strength returning. Her bones seemed to unfreeze, too.
"The ether circulates best from the spine. Something about the nervous system, I think," Nia murmured. Then she paused. "Sorry I chewed you out. It's just that, well, Elsie died from ether deficiency syndrome. Hers was from an illness, but seeing you like that stirred up some bad memories."
"I understand. It was rather reckless of me. It seems I owe you one again, though."
Nia gave a brief little laugh and then fell silent again.
"...Are you all right?" Mòrag asked quietly. "Seeing someone like yourself fall—that can't be easy."
The Flesh Eater spat. "I've met Gunther once before, and I say it's good riddance. He wasn't like me at all. Not like Patroka, Akhos, or Jin, either. Torna messed a lot of things up, but we all did right by our Drivers. We didn't kill them ourselves. I think that was the only reason we could stomach the stuff we did to people. But Gunther was one of those Eaters who willingly killed his Driver. The rumor was that he and his Driver agreed to do it just to gain more power, but still. Gunther killed him. Only a complete bastard would do that. So don't think I resent you for killing another Flesh Eater, or anything. He had it coming. Besides, for me it was more important that my friend lived."
"But if I hadn't ripped out his core crystal and just incapacitated him instead—Uraya might have agreed to that—you might have been able to save him," Mòrag pointed out.
"Queen Raqura might have agreed to an end like that, but something tells me Gunther wouldn't have. It's probably better this way. You were doing your job. Uraya called for a fight to the death, and you abided by the rules. So don't sweat it."
"...All right."
At that moment, Rex and Pyra came tumbling back in, food in hand (thankfully without any charcoal). Tora and Poppi trailed behind them, contributing to the chaos as they so often did. Mòrag ate and listened to them as they recounted the fight from their vantage point. Rex already managed to exaggerate the tale, which resulted in a mildly passionate debate about what really happened. Poppi settled that argument, thanks to her newest audiovisual recording and transmission mode Tora designed. Her eyes glazed over and became lenses, replaying moving holograms deep in the throes of the fight. Rex giddily gawked again at Mòrag's ether shield, demanding that the Artificial Blade replay it over and over again. She wondered if he would ever shut up about it. Clearly the story made Brighid uncomfortable; she squirmed every time she saw the visual of her Driver fighting alone.
Once Mòrag finished eating, Nia banished everyone from the room except the Blade and ordered the victor to take a nap. Mòrag didn't protest for long. Although Nia's healing and ether restoration had done wonders for her energy levels, it couldn't abolish her exhaustion completely. Between the incoming food coma and the post-adrenaline crash, she was struggling to form coherent sentences. Her head touched the pillow, and a second later, she was asleep.
She awoke to that groggy, disoriented sensation that often accompanied a nap. The shadows in the room all looked different, and the noise outside the tent had all but quieted. But now there was only one other person in the tent with her. That explained why it felt so peaceful.
"Hey, sleepyhead." Zeke's voice. But it sounded tired, annoyed.
She gave a small smile as she sat up. "Looks like you were right. I came back after all."
"Yeah." Another weak response.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"The duel was yesterday. It's nearly lunchtime now. So about sixteen hours, I think. If not for Nia, I would have worried that you might not wake up."
Normally, she'd feel guilty for sleeping in so long. But after collapsing in front of everyone, she probably needed it. At least now the adverse effects of what Nia called "ether deficiency syndrome" were mostly gone. Zeke, however, looked like he'd lost those sixteen hours of rest. He was hunched over, blankly staring at the wall of the tent. He twiddled a little turtle carving in his right hand.
Oh. So he found it after all. With all of the activity in the day leading up to the duel, she never found the right moment to give it to him, so she'd slipped it into his knapsack and hoped he would see it.
"I see you found the turtle I made for you."
"What was this supposed to be, something for me to remember you by if you didn't make it?"
"Not necessarily. I just meant it as a silly little gift, really."
"A wooden turtle. That's all I would have had left of you. How is that fair?"
She stopped short, unsure how to respond to that. She had expected a lot of different reactions to the fight, but this one...She thought he'd be more relieved than anyone. But he sounded disappointed, angry even.
"It doesn't really matter. I survived. I won."
"But it does matter, Mòrag. Or did you never bother to think how I would feel if you died out there?"
"We should be celebrating that I won. That the war's over. Why are you being like this?" Mòrag demanded.
"Because you bloody nearly died out there, Mòrag! And most guys don't like it when their wives get themselves killed, especially in a fight that they shouldn't have been in to begin with!"
There it was—the edge of that temper he struggled to keep in check.
"Oh, you think you should have done it instead? Uraya was very specific. It had to be me. It was a risk I had to take for Mor Ardain. For Niall."
"It wasn't a risk I wanted you to take."
"I'm sorry," Mòrag retorted. Now her own tone completely lost its guarded facade, her volume creeping up. "I wasn't aware I had to ask for my husband's permission to do my duty to my country! You forget that first and foremost, I belong to Mor Ardain, not you. If I'm not mistaken, at our wedding, we vowed that each of us would remain free people, both belonging to our respective countries. Or did you not mean that part of our vows?"
"I didn't mean that you needed to ask my permission. But Architect, Mòrag. Why didn't you at least consult me about it?"
"It wasn't your decision to make."
"But I would have liked to have been part of the conversation! Do you even give a damn about my opinion?"
"I know how you feel about killing, especially in circumstances like this. I didn't bring it up because I knew we'd just have a pointless argument about it. I was trying to be respectful to your views!"
"Respectful? By not even talking it over? Do you even hear yourself? How is it respectful to ignore my feelings about this? Not everyone can just bury their emotions like you can. Some of us actually have to do the healthy thing and talk about them!"
"You did not just say that."
If the fire in her eyes and her tone rattled him, he didn't show it. He kept talking. "You know how I feel about you, Mòrag. So how could you knowingly put your life on the line with absolutely no regard for my feelings? That's unfair to me, and you know it."
"It's my life, Zeke. If I want to put it on the line for my country, then that's my prerogative. Not yours. If you really love me, then you should respect that!"
His volume fell and he stared at his shoes. Something about the way he murmured his next words made her shudder. "Yes, it's your life. But when are you going to let me be a part of it?"
"You already are. We're married, for Architect's sake."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, from a legal standpoint. But you don't always treat me like your husband."
"Yes, I do. Or do you think I kiss other men regularly? Just invite random friends to bathe with me?"
"Of course not. But that's not the point, Mòrag. This isn't about physical intimacy. It's about your attitude towards me. You keep going back and forth. One day you trust me, and the next you don't. When are you going to actually accept me? When are you going to act like you trust me day in and day out?"
"I do trust you. I would never have told you the truth if I didn't."
"But you still hold me at arm's length. Sure, there are times when I think you might be getting better. Like when you asked me to shower with you back when we visited Uraya. I thought that you might finally be starting to really, truly trust me. But then you go and agree to this violent shit without even bothering to ask me how I felt about it!"
"I'm sorry, all right? I should have talked to you about it. It was insensitive not to. But I'm not holding you at arm's length."
"Then prove it. Tell me you love me. Don't just try to show me with a little kiss or a hug. Tell me."
Her face blanched. "What?"
"If you're truly not pushing me away, then prove it by telling me how you really feel. You've never actually told me outright."
"You know that you mean a lot to me—"
"For once in your life, say it bluntly," he interrupted. "No beating around the bush like a politician. Do you love me or not? Even if it's only a tiny bit, the dullest, faintest spark of affection, come out and say it. Don't give me this guarded crap that makes me wonder, Mòrag."
Don't say something you'll regret! You know this can't end well.
"I-you...ugh," she stammered, unable to look him in the eyes. "I can't."
"Can't or won't? It's three or four simple words: 'I love you' or 'I don't love you.' For the love of the Architect, just say them."
"Those words are really hard for me. I-I'm scared to say them," she admitted. "You see, I...I said them to Pachnall years ago. I realize now how foolish and stupid that was. But I was just a girl. I simply meant that I loved him like a father. That wasn't how he interpreted it. The day I said it...that night he started taking what he wanted."
"So it all boils down to him. Again. I should have known," Zeke muttered.
"Surely you understand."
"...No. I don't. I don't understand how a woman who's brave enough to attempt single combat to the death can't bring herself to admit how she feels. Damn your past, Mòrag. Quit being a coward about it and move on."
"How dare you! You have no idea what it was like. He abused me night after night. I nearly killed myself because of what he did. I lost my birthright because the child he forced on me ended up being a boy. And you just expect me to act like that never happened?"
"And you have no idea what it feels like to have the woman you love refuse to trust you," he whispered. "Mòrag, when are you going to get it into your head that I'm not him? I know how badly he hurt you. I get it. And I've tried to be respectful of that. But at some point, you're just going to have to accept the fact that I'm not going to hurt you like he did."
"Feelings are really hard for me, but I'm trying to do better. Why isn't that good enough for you?"
"When does it get to be about my feelings, Mòrag?" His voice broke, and tears lingered on the edge of his words. The air rang with the sound of that last demand. "...I-I really want this relationship to work. But it feels like you're constantly comparing me to him, and I hate it. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep doing this back and forth stuff. Especially not if you're going to keep throwing yourself into life-or-death situations with no regard for how it affects me. When he had you pinned, when he nearly killed you...you have no idea how terrified I was. I-I never want to feel like that again. I...look, if you want this to stay a completely professional relationship, if you want our marriage to stay political, then fine. Tell me as much, and I'll find a way to get over you. I'd obviously love for it to be more than that, though. But this halfway shit where you make it seem like you kinda care only to hold me at arm's length the next day—I can't keep doing it. You need to make up your mind."
His tears started to surface then, and he stood and slipped out of the tent. Little did he know that after he left, Mòrag collapsed back onto her little cot and cried, too. They were tears of anger, sadness, guilt, fear, and most surprisingly, disappointment that he was upset with her.
He's right to be mad at you. You're pathetic. You're a coward, and now he sees that.
She wanted to say something back, but her mind wouldn't form a coherent rebuttal. The voice was wrong; it had to be. But she couldn't explain why.
How long had it been since she cried like this? She couldn't recall. Years, maybe. Even as the tears kept welling up, she felt childish. And yet mature at the same time. Surely crying wasn't doing any good. This was just the strain of two very draining days. Maybe she hadn't finished recovering from the ether deficiency.
"Mòrag? What's wrong?"
Her eyes were blurred with tears, but the purplish-blue haze she saw told her that this was someone safe to cry around. "We—I—he—"
A hiccup cut her sentence off. Warmth enveloped her as her Blade pulled her into a seated position and wrapped two comforting crystalline arms around her. And then Brighid waited, ever patient, until her tears had slowed to a gentle trickle.
"Tell me what happened."
Mòrag tried not to tremble as the Blade listened attentively to her halting, sniffle-ridden explanation. By the time she'd finished, the worst of her sobs had quieted. With the tears drying, it struck her that she felt a little better.
"I've ruined everything, Brighid. Haven't I?"
"Oh, don't be so dramatic about it, Mòrag. You and Zeke simply had a fight. Quite frankly, I'm surprised it took you two this long to butt heads. But an argument doesn't mean that your relationship is doomed. All couples fight. It's only natural."
"Then why does it bother me so much that he's upset with me? Why do I even care?" Another sniffle punctuated her question.
"Because you love him. Or at least you want to," Brighid said simply.
Mòrag opened her mouth to protest only to shut it again. Her own mouth couldn't form the words, but when Brighid said it, it felt right. And what use was there in arguing with her Blade? Brighid understood her emotions intimately, perhaps even better than she herself did. Her Blade had simply stated the facts, and she had no evidence to the contrary.
"I...I wanted to tell him," she admitted. "But my own damn fear got in the way again. What that man did to me...I want to move on from it. I realize that now. But how am I supposed to do that when I can't even say it out loud?"
Brighid smiled. "That's a journey you've already started, my dear. And I believe the next step is to go find Zeke and talk this out with him. Don't let this argument fester between you."
"...You're right. As usual."
"He's out in the arena training. Do you feel well enough to go out there, or should I ask him to come in here?"
She took a deep breath and stood. No wave of dizziness washed over her. She felt alright—just terribly sore, like she'd overdone it during training. "I can manage."
It was a short walk from her tent to the arena, but the exertion left her unusually tired. Maybe Nia's prediction that the ether deficiency would force her to take a few days off from training would prove true after all. If Zeke noticed her arrival, he didn't acknowledge her. That left her standing with no idea how to begin. Instead, she studied his movements. Each false sword strike was calm, restrained, calculated. He must have calmed down some, too. And Pandoria wasn't around, either. That emboldened her a bit.
"I always train to cope when I'm upset, too," she called out. "It helps clear my head."
He stabbed his greatsword into the ground and left it there, sticking out like a toothpick, while he walked closer.
"We need to talk." They both stopped short; they'd said it in perfect unison. Hopefully that was a good sign.
"Zeke, I need—"
"Let me go first," he interrupted. "Listen...I'm really sorry about earlier. I was completely out of line. I was upset about the whole duel thing, and I let my temper get the best of me. I said some things that were unkind and untrue. I hope you'll forgive me for it."
"...You're right about a lot of it, though," she whispered. "I've treated you unfairly."
"That's no excuse for me to act the way I did. It's never right to talk to anyone like that, much less someone who's been through everything you have. Even less to someone I love. I'm sorry."
She nodded. "And I'm sorry that I never stopped to consider your feelings in all of this. You've been very patient with me. And you're right: I have been holding you at arm's length. I realize that now. I just...I've been protecting myself for so long by never letting anyone get too close. I was so scared to be hurt again, and now it's become an instinct. So to let down the walls I've built around my heart, to let myself be vulnerable again, well, you're right. I'm scared to. It's silly, really. I know you're not the kind of man who would hurt me. But knowing it in my head and letting my heart believe it...that's where I keep getting stuck."
"Thank you for your honesty. Then what do I have to do to earn your trust?"
"I think you already have," she admitted. "I just need to learn to accept you as trustworthy, I think."
He paused. "You can choose to, you know. Look, I...I haven't been through half of what you have. But I do know what it's like to be hurt by someone you trust. I know what it's like to have to learn how to trust again."
"What are you saying?"
"I've never shown this to anyone but Pandy, but…"
She watched intently as his hands moved up to his head before settling on the strap holding his eyepatch in place. With deft fingers, he undid the fastening. The leather fell away. She bit back a gasp at the sight underneath; the second contact was just a goofy story after all. The skin there was tight and pale, lined with scars from tiny cuts—so numerous that half of his eye had scarred shut. The eyeball underneath was probably equally scarred, but in that moment she was glad she couldn't see it. Her hand inadvertently went up to his cheek, quivering at the edge of the injury's remnants. He didn't pull away.
"What happened?" she whispered.
"Back when my mom died, my dad and I both took it really hard. He was different when she was around. Less cantankerous. More understanding. He hasn't laughed since. But...after she died, he couldn't cope. He took to drinking. A lot. So much that for a while, a regent had to rule Tantal. Turns out he's a violent drunk. I-I know now it was an accident, but well, I ended up on the business end of a wine bottle on one of his bad days."
"Oh, Zeke."
He continued on with his tale. "What he did scared him so badly that he sobered up right away, but the damage was done. I couldn't stand to be around him anymore. So when I turned fifteen, I took Pandy and bolted. My old man made up the banishment thing as a cover story for why I left. But at the time I had no intention of going back, so I went along with it. It took us a long time to work things out, but we did. I had to choose to trust him again, though. Our relationship is still kinda rocky, but I'm glad I finally gave him a chance again. He is my family, after all."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?" she asked quietly.
"I didn't want to trivialize what you'd been through, because my past doesn't nearly compare. But I do know a little how it feels to take those first steps back to trusting someone. At first, with my dad, I didn't feel like it was safe to trust him. I had to choose to. I had to force myself to think about the good things he's done since then, not the one bad thing he did a long time ago."
"...So you think I need to choose to trust you."
"I mean, that's what I'd like. But I don't want you to do it out of pity for me or anything. I...Those walls you've built, I'm not going to force you to take them down. That's your choice. But I do mean what I said earlier: I don't want to keep doing halfway in this relationship. Maybe it's wrong or greedy of me, but I'd rather have all or nothing. What is it you want from us, Mòrag? Do you want us to stay political? I-I'll back off if you do. We could be so much more than that, though. But only if you choose it."
"...I understand. But Zeke, this is a lot to ask."
"I know. I shouldn't put you on the spot," he sighed. If he was disappointed by another delay, he hid it well. "Look, my dad asked me to go home and help him with some trouble at the border. Something about bandit raids on our outposts. It should be pretty easy to take care of. What if I go up there and help? I'd probably be gone a week or two. That would give you some time and space to think. You could give me an answer when I get back to Hardhaigh. Does that sound fair?"
Just tell him now. Don't let him leave. What if he doesn't make it back? Could you live with yourself if you never got a chance to tell him? Don't put it off anymore.
Keep your mouth shut. You don't mean it. You're just tired from the duel. Not thinking straight. Don't lie to him. Not again.
"...When would you leave?"
"As soon as Pandy's packed. So later tonight."
"All right. Just promise me you'll travel safe."
He nodded. "I will, but only if you promise to take it easy once you get home. You still don't look so good."
There was no point arguing about that; her knees still seemed a bit shaky. "I guess that ether shield stunt really took it out of me. I'll follow Nia's orders for recovery. I promise."
"Good. I'll see you next week, then. But for now, are we good?"
"Meaning?"
"As in, you're not still mad at me. I don't want us to spend a week apart angry at each other. That wouldn't help anything."
"Yes, we're good."
A/N: Phew. Fight scenes are tough. But I really enjoyed this one. If the whole Mòrag ether shield thing seems like a stretch, I do have a long, convoluted theory as to why it *might* be possible within the Xenoblade universe, but...it's a long thing to type out. Let me know if you'd really like to hear it. ;) It's not strictly lore, but I could see Mòrag trying something desperate like this and succeeding because she's a queen.