A/N: Sorry for the longer wait. Updated two other one-shots in the meantime. These are all written but now with Beta'ing they need a little more care. Paradoxically, this one is not Beta'd but I think fanfic. addicted01 would give a grave warning that this one-shot is incomprehensible. However, I like to write ambiguous stuff every now and then, so too bad and beware. :D

Muse wrote this almost alone. Bless her. We mainly get the chance to see Jacob's interactions with the people in Lara's life, so I wanted to try the opposite.
While appearing different on the surface, this belongs to the same AU, further into the future. A companion piece will come up in Q.

Ps. Makaria (or Macaria as in she who is blessed) in Greek mythology can refer to two people: the daughter of Heracles who sacrifices herself to the gods to protect her people, or the daughter of Hades who is an embodiment of blessed death for those whose courage endangered them. (Thank you, Wikipedia.) Went through dozens of names, and not sure of the choice, but oh well…

Howlingthemoon: Thanks!

H is for Hilt

She becomes aware of her surroundings in a rural field in a place where she has never been before. The land is flat as far as the eye can see in every direction except for the sparse forest stands in the east. The village on the edge of their camp is not large by any means but she can see that this flock of people has made their camp next to it by reason. Water must be difficult to come by here, and the villagers must have wells in order to be able to survive. How they have received all these people is still a question though.

She is dressed in the elite guardian's outfit. The prophet's insignia shines on her chest plate. There is a bow on her back – even if it's not her usual recurve bow –, and there's a sword on her hips where the climbing axes normally lie. She looks at her hands to ensure that it's her skin and bone that peeks from the fingerless gloves.

The question of what she had been doing before zoning out is hazy in her mind. The only thing that she can piece together from the evanescent, incoherent thoughts and memories is that she is looking for Jacob. Yet, something else is trying to take the realization's place, tying her to the present.

She walks among the tents, fires, and horses before a woman in her thirties with a toddler in her arms stops her. The woman doesn't dare pull her hand to get her attention and looks at her appreciatively as one of their guardians, "Tell the Prophet that Pavlos requested to speak with Master Horseman about the hay supply."

She nods at the woman to signal that she undertakes her quest and moves on. She has literally no idea where the Prophet's tent is located in this sea of people and temporary shelters, so she stops another guard making his rounds, and asks for directions. He guides her towards the outskirts of the area instead of the center and she passes by families, elderly people, and the young, many of whom speak different languages and dialects from one another, before she sees the ensign rising moderately above the tents.

They have a small band of merry men and women in their 20s to 50s, sitting in a circle around the fire, and she makes no mistake that she is interrupting their evening. The mood is far from festive but it's obvious how well everyone gets along; 'cordial' is the word that comes to her mind.

They are strangers to her – except Jacob – whose unnaturally pale eyes she could recognize anywhere. Seeing him alive and well elicits a small huff of relief from her. The group and a few guards near their tents turn to look at her when she arrives but she isn't unwelcomed, rather, they are all waiting for what she has to say. She gets the impression that she is either really early or untactfully late.

"Pavlos had asked for Master Horseman about the hay supply," she starts officially and stays a respective distance away; her left hand is loosely on the sword's hilt, and her posture is straight like is expected from an elite guard. There is something in Jacob's posture and gaze but she finds him hard to read. Not only is his attire completely different from what she is accustomed to, but his face is less marred and more carefree. Still, she cannot say if he recognizes her and there are too many people to risk the question. The others in the circle, however, wear their feelings on their sleeve but it's of no help because she doesn't know them, doesn't know how to place the merriment and the expectations they stare at her with, only to momentarily steal glances at Jacob. She makes the brief connection that he is the Prophet, their leader, but still, her gut is becoming more vocal that making the distinction is crucial.

"You heard the lady's order, Filippos. Go, and come back with more wine," one of the men says to another in Greek and regards Lara next with far greater heartfelt sincerity than the simple message delivery would require, "Thank you, Makaria."

"Lara," she corrects the Greek name even if she doesn't know why. Maybe she should be more watchful of her manners, and it normally doesn't even matter what name or title she goes by, but somehow it matters here: she wants to be regarded as Lara among these people.

Her rectification makes a small forlorn smile tug on Jacob's lips and a few of the people in the circle chuckle appreciatively at her answer. She shifts her weight from one foot to another. The way everyone's attention is on her, like waiting for her next circus trick, reminds her of the posh parties and unwanted company where she has been looked down upon. However, in contrast, these people don't feel threatening, but they are judging, not in an ill way towards her, but their looks tell her that they have assessed her already, far before she opened her mouth.

She doesn't necessarily want to be at the center of attention and desires to return to her post. However, she has no idea of the five Ws and her gut doesn't whisper of any other place where she should rather be.

The fire crackles in the middle of the clearing and the smoke rises into the open sky where the Via Lactea is visible with tens of thousands of stars.

"Pass her the wine," one of the men tells the woman closest to Lara.

"No, I'm on duty," Lara immediately refuses while keeping the polite edge.

"Nonsense, you'll need it, trust me," the man argues jovially and motions her to sit down in the circle.

"Kokkos," Jacob warns quietly and Lara feels she should know the man, but the name remains only as a whisper in her memory.

"The whole ampoule," the man next to Kokkos mutters and he, too, nods at Lara to sit down like trying to persuade and beg a stubborn horse.

Stubborn is what she can excel at, so, she simply shakes her head and smiles to dismiss the request, making the man sigh and her smile to widen an inch.

The men give up at least momentarily, but she hasn't been dismissed yet, thus, she stays on her vigil and tries to ignore the silence that she brought upon this group. Jacob is here, though, under her protection like he should, so that's good.

A glimmer of something in the north steals her attention abruptly. There's nothing there, nothing anywhere outside this camp and the village, but she moves her head to make the possible light source hit her eyes again.

The people around the fire crane their necks to follow her gaze and only Jacob ignores her inquisitiveness. She is just a guard here and it's probably nothing, but something calls her to go and check. It might be a possible threat; maybe the nobles around the fire have deemed it as irrelevant in the barren landscape but her instincts aren't so sure.

"And we hoped you could have stayed at least for a little while. You don't ever really stop do you?" One of the women comments on her neutrally, understanding but a tiny bit exasperated, like they had lost the fifth one from their poker party.

"What's out there?" she asks, nodding towards the north. It's not really her place to question these people but they seem to know, and she has people - Jacob - to protect.

Silence is the only answer she receives.

She doesn't mind, not really, and circles to the other side of the camp to get a better look with her fingers finding the hilt of her sword again. The encampment has enough guards to survive without her, she'll only need a horse and she'll be back the next day, or she'll wait for them to catch up with her on their journey.

"Makaria," Kokkos calls her, and to the sad, knowing smiles of the group, she doesn't care to correct him this time around, "There'll always be a place for you here when your shift ends."

She turns to look at the man and is met with a look of hospitable invitation. Only Jacob looks downcast with his head bowed and shoulders hunched to ponder the cup of wine in his hands.

She doesn't stay though, she never does, and they seem to know it. Nonetheless, she bows her head in gratitude before leaving, "I will keep that in mind."

Maybe one day, but for now, something else is calling her.