The stars continue to burn as destiny is rewritten… See the first installment for all disclaimers/warnings. Sorry about the recent delay; slight case of writer's block…
~ * Faltering * ~
One loss should not have mattered so much.
It wasn't as if they suffered any major disadvantage. Zexen had been the one to take the battle directly to the lizards, after all. They had repulsed and reversed the traitorous assault during the peace treaty: the barbarians had paid for their treachery more dearly than the knights had, with the razing of Karaya.
With that victory, the council was better able to gloss over the losses their side had taken. Good men had died -- or come close to dying -- yet it paled in comparison to the blow they'd struck the Grasslanders.
Perhaps that was why their withdrawal from the Great Hollow stung so deeply; while there had been less serious injuries on their side, with more barbarians falling than soldiers, there was no major turnaround to wave in the faces of the public.
There were no prisoners taken, no especially powerful or well-known warriors killed… though there weren't exactly a great deal of Grasslanders recognized by the Zexens, anyway. The new chief of the Lizard Clan, Dupa, was already garnering a bit of a reputation, but that hardly helped matters, especially considering the circumstances under which he was developing that regard.
Shortly after the first soldiers returned to Brass Castle, word began to spread of how the battle turned out. By the time Chris and her fellows rode through the gates, the fortress town was already buzzing over her duel.
All the same, few citizens were prepared for the sight of blood marring their Silver Maiden's marble visage. Though the gash had been healed, there was no concealing the droplets of blood that remained in her platinum braids, evidence that refused to be washed away.
This was partly because Chris refused the offers of her knights to cast a spell on her wound. Better to spend their magic treating those who were more gravely injured, she declared coldly: hers was only a scratch, far from life-threatening, and there were many others who would benefit more from Percival or Salome's Water Runes.
What else could they do but obey? Their captain used regular medicine to treat her gash instead, ignoring that the salve might mend the skin, but wouldn't wash away other evidence of her injury.
She held her head up when they rode through the gates, tall and proud in the saddle of her snow-white charger, face cool and composed. She offered no acknowledgement of her injury, paid no heed to how the people stared as she passed by, frigid lavender gaze fixated on the gates to the main fortress.
After all, she was the White Hero, unfazed by whatever adversity she happened to face.
But the commoners, generally lacking such icy fronts to hide behind, whispered and murmured among themselves, worried and wondered.
Their beloved Silver Maiden had been defeated. She had stumbled, bled.
Living legends were not supposed to be vulnerable. They were untouchable, unassailable.
Chris Lightfellow was not supposed to get hurt.
Now, in the privacy of her own chambers, Chris found herself studying her reflection in the mirror. Sunlight poured through the open window, a deceptively light morning breeze wafting inside, doing little to relieve the stifling atmosphere.
Another day, and by all appearances the ill-fated skirmish with the Lizard Clan had done nothing to offset her balance. Her armor was neatly polished, her attire fresh and clean, sword already buckled at her side. Not a single strand of hair appeared out of place; once more her silver braids were neatly arranged, telltale scarlet specks long washed away.
If only it all were so simple.
Meeting her own gaze in the mirror, Chris silently gathered herself, bracing for the long day ahead. Much as she despised her repute as the Silver Maiden, she had to recognize, reluctantly, that it helped ease the minds of the people.
They were shaken enough by news of her loss in the duel. It was vital she keep up appearances, or else morale would only worsen. That was about the last thing she needed, on top of everything else…
Her lips tightened in a grimace as Chris recalled her defeat. She knew she was fortunate to escape with such a minor, if not inconsequential, injury: had she not dropped back when she did, the gride would have torn over her face instead of merely grazing her forehead. Dupa would have gladly killed her, and regardless of whether they lost the battle afterwards or not, the barbarians would have proclaimed him a hero…
…Just as the council had praised her for burning Karaya, despite the failure of the peace treaty and the loss of so many lives…?
The marble face hardened, lavender eyes narrowing slightly in distaste.
Strange, that the council hadn't summoned her back to Vinay del Zexay yet. Chris had almost expected to be greeted by a messenger upon entering the fortress. Even now, she kept anticipating a knock on the door, a nervous request for her attention by some fidgety envoy sent to retrieve her…
Tap, tap, tap.
"Milady? Are you there?"
The visage in the mirror softened slightly, touched by relief at the simple fact that Chris recognized the voice. The female captain strode over to the door, unlatched it, and allowed the young man standing there to enter.
"Good morning, Louis," she greeted him, closing the door without taking her attention off her squire. Picking up on his nervousness, she suppressed a sigh and stated, "I suppose the Council has sent for me?"
"…Well, um, milady, not exactly…" faltered the lad, ruffling the back of his hair with one gloved hand. Chris's expression must have reflected some of her surprise, for he quickly forged on, "Sir Salome departed this morning for the capital, actually. He said he'll make the report and sort matters out…"
"What?"
Having to deal with the stuffy merchants was not a task Chris wished on anyone. While she felt a flash of relief at the knowledge that she wouldn't have to stand before the pompous committee and try to explain her loss in the duel, she guiltily smothered it, mortified by her own thoughts.
"He didn't have to…" she began.
"He insisted," Louis cut in, briefly flushing red upon belatedly realizing he had interrupted his superior.
"Oh?" Chris arched an eyebrow, fixing her squire with a bemused look. She wasn't angered by his speaking out of turn, rather, more interested in what he had to say. "Is that so?"
"Y-yes," nodded the lad. "He said that it was important that we take the time to recuperate after that battle, and prepare for the next one… though he didn't say when he thought we'd have to fight again."
From the look on his face Chris figured that Louis had asked that question of the tactician himself, and didn't know quite what to make of the answer. Salome was brilliant, but even he was incapable of predicting every challenge their army faced.
Such matters were left up to the Zexen Council, usually. The guild expected the soldiers to follow whatever orders were handed down, be it something so paltry as holding a parade or ambitious as assaulting an enemy's homeland.
Not to mention, of course, that nobody could have foreseen the betrayal at the treatise signing…
Pushing darker musings out of mind, Chris shook her head and returned her attention to her squire.
"Louis… Shall we go check on him, then?" she offered quietly.
"Y-yes!" he nodded immediately, understanding whom she meant.
For his benefit, she managed an almost-smile, a faint curve along the slope of her lips that didn't last more than a few seconds and failed to touch her eyes. Then, regaining her noble bearing, the Silver Maiden turned and opened the door, striding outside with head held high and attendant close behind her.
~ * ~
Ideally, a pair of frosted lavender panes would have greeted his aching eyes when they finally fluttered open, and a silky soft voice would inquire after his health.
…Actually, that was partly a lie. In truth, Borus would rather he was never put in this position at all. This was hardly the place for the fabled Swordsman of Rage, laid up in some cot courtesy of some savage's pet!
He had hardly been comatose since that wretched battle. The near-constant throb of pain kept him company, accompanying him into his dreams and sharpening whenever the effects of magic and medicine began to wear off. That ebb and flow at least made him aware that he still lived, though that was small comfort to the knight.
When he slept, he remembered.
Things came into better focus when he dreamed, better than they had been during the actual events. Initially, everything was in a fog; all he recalled clearly was receiving the order from Salome and splintering off from the group, looping around the back of the village.
It was easy to light a torch for himself: the Sword of Rage rune was, after all, good for more than simply heating up his blade. He remembered hefting the piece of kindling in his hand, watching the flames burst into existence.
It wasn't until he began dreaming that he recalled the grin that split his face as he studied the blaze.
A chorus of screams resided in his memory: the mortal shrieks of barbarians as he and his men descended, cutting down all that stood in his path. The righteously furious shouts of his soldiers, meting out justice in its purest form. His own voice, loudest in his own ears, partly drowning out all others as he spat out acid commands.
- burn them all make them pay barbarian scum die die DIE I'll kill them all every last one remember Myriam and Lanchet traitorous Grassies see what you've done this is what you deserve die DIE die you've earned this treatment with your BETRAYAL this is not my fault… -
And the nightmares always ended the same way: with the unholy apparition of a flaming bird hurtling toward him, with the screech of metal and animal rage and tearing of steel and flesh, and the pain that gripped his body newfold as he reemerged from the hellhole.
This time, when he forced his eyes open, he was greeted by the familiar visage of a spike-haired knight, the first feature that came into focus being the other's slight smirk.
"Ah, and Sleeping Beauty awakens!" announced his companion, a twinkle in his feline eyes. "How good of you to join again, milady! Will you be staying this time?"
Borus knew exactly how he wanted to reply -- in fact, several choice responses rose to mind -- but didn't quite have the energy to put the desired force into his words. Instead, he settled for glaring narrowly at the Swordsman of Gale.
Percival's smirk widened. Good, at least Borus was reacting to his prodding this time. Before, Redrum had shown little acknowledgement of his words, drifting in and out with little regard for those present.
"We'll have you up and about in no time!" he declared lightly, patting the side of the bed. "Why, I imagine you're already looking forward to a rematch with those Grasslanders…"
At the moment, Borus was far more interested in making Percival shut up. His incessant chattering, well intentioned as it might have been, succeeded primarily in making his head throb.
The dark-haired knight abruptly quieted, though the way his head turned sharply hinted that this pause was due to something more than mere silent prayers. Borus moved his head slightly, just enough that he was able to catch sight of his friend's profile. He saw Percival's eyes light up in welcome, lips spreading into a warm smile.
"Ah, Lady Chris," Percival rose to his feet. "Impeccable timing, milady; Borus just awoke…"
Instinct goaded Borus into action despite his weakened state; his spine all but screamed in agony as he sat upright, managing to hold that position for about two seconds before the resulting burst of pain along his back forced him to fold over. What started as a cry of her name became a hiss of desperately suppressed discomfort, descending into a coughing fit that left him clawing at the sheets.
"Hey, Borus…!"
Percival sounded genuinely concerned, and Borus felt the unmistakable sensation of his comrade's hands closing over his shoulders, gently guiding him back down to lay upon the cot again. There was none of the usual humor or sarcasm to be found in his tone now, though the Swordsman of Rage was hardly paying any attention.
"…Borus…"
No, his attention was entirely reserved for every word that happened to pass through her lips. Even as he struggled to get his coughing fit under control, Borus gazed with blurring amber eyes in her direction, trying to read her expression -- a difficult enough task at times without the added hindrance of his fog-trimmed sight.
She stood a safe distance away, remaining near the closed door, while her squire hurried over to try and assist Percival in whatever small way he was able. Her immaculate hair and armor both gleamed silver in the sunlight streaming through the window; she might have been a statue wrought of marble and fine metals for how rigidly she stayed in place.
His eyes ached at the sight, and not simply due to her breathtaking beauty. Unable to bear it, Borus averted his eyes, instead focusing upon the much safer target of the ceiling directly above his bed.
"Hey, don't strain yourself, okay?" A hint of teasing returned to Percival's voice as he added, "After all, there's plenty of time for payback, right…?"
(Plenty of time for payback…)
The familiar sound of armor clanking as bodies shifted stance shortly interrupted the silence that followed that remark. Still Borus didn't turn back to face his visitors, not even when the voice he strained so hard to hear finally materialized, seeming too quiet, somehow.
"…I… am glad you are recovering, Borus. I'll leave you to rest now, I suppose…"
The shifting of weight and the click of a latch told him she was turning away, was already at the door. A part of him screamed he should move, ask her not to leave, tell her to stay with him, just a while longer… But that part was silenced by the protests of his aching muscles, his body rebelling against the notion of movement.
That was not all that kept him from trying, though it was certainly important.
The unseen door opened, and she was gone, the rapid tattoo of footsteps that followed signaling Louis's departure on her heels. A creak closer to where his head rested and the much slower, calmer steps that soon filled the silence confirmed his suspicions that the squire would not be the only one following after her.
"You heard what Lady Chris said; it's best you get plenty of sleep for now. We need you around more than ever…"
(I find that hard to believe,) thought the Swordsman of Rage bitterly. (I'm sure you're enjoying not having to worry about me…)
A muted click informed him without looking that Percival had shut and locked the door, leaving him alone with his harsh thoughts. Borus glared steadfastly at the ceiling, tracing grains in the woodwork until he had to close his eyes against the dull pounding growing in his head.
Behind closed eyelids, colors danced, breaking the monotony of darkness with flares of color, sunbursts of orange and red…
- red and brown and black and doesn't everything look better in red it suits the barbarians well don't you think I want to see them all broken I want to see them DEAD they all deserve it the MURDERERS they should all DIE yes for what they've done… -
Strange; it had seemed all so clear-cut to him then. With the flames growing ever brighter, the heat swelling around and inside, there had been no reason to hesitate or second-guess.
All that mattered then was vengeance.
And wasn't that still important, even now -- especially now, since he'd been nearly killed by that barbarian beast? So many good men were dead, and he'd nearly joined them…
…But somehow, he'd survived, and there were still so many killed, on both sides…
…What did that matter? Like he cared what happened to a bunch of Grassies! Nothing more than savages, the whole lot of them!
(…And woman, and children…)
…All barbarians, the whole stinking lot of them. A Grassie was a Grassie, no matter how old or young; their children grew up with daggers and bows for toys, training for when they, too, would be able to ride out and kill Zexens…
(…And how is that any different than the games young boys play in the streets of Vinay every day…?)
…There WAS a difference, though. Borus simply couldn't think of it in this state. He told himself this, and studiously ignored the twinges of pain in his gut that insisted otherwise.
…He was in the right. Revenge was a merciless art, but understandable, particularly under such circumstances.
Besides, that beast had nearly torn him apart! Surely his near-death experience was punishment enough for any overstepping of boundaries on his part -- if, indeed, he had crossed any while avenging his lost comrades.
Yet all his self-assurances rung hollow in the privacy of Borus's mind, a note of falsehood chiming in each word as, time and again, his circling thoughts returned to the memory of his lady's face, the indescribable emotion he'd seen etched faintly across her marble visage.
What was it he'd seen -- or thought he'd seen in those gorgeous lavender eyes?
Pity? Sympathy? …Disappointment?
No; he had to remain convinced that he was in the right. He had merely been performing his duty to Zexen and to his captain, protecting those still fighting the traitors by creating the needed distraction. There was justice in how he'd acted…
(…Justice allows the slaughter of innocents now…?)
(No, not innocents; barbarians, savages. Their kin killed my fellows, so I killed them.)
Another twinge of pain accompanied the movement as Borus shielded the top half of his face with his forearm. He failed to so much as flinch, even as gradually the after-effects of his latest round of treatment began to wear off and the ache returned to his bones. He didn't acknowledge it, for his mind was elsewhere, wrestling within himself for the answer to one simple question:
(I was justified… wasn't I?)
Somehow, Borus was no longer completely convinced that the conclusion he would eventually reach would console him.
~ * ~
The gold-trimmed hem of her robe swayed in time with the sharp rhythm of each step forward. Soldiers and civilians alike fell silent as she passed, whatever conversations they might have been embroiled in moments before falling by the wayside, discarded in favor of more furtive whispers long after they judged she was safely out of hearing range.
Some misjudged the distance, yet the Silver Maiden did not react when she heard the murmuring begin in her wake. Her face remained impassive, her posture straight and proud, eyes fixed straight ahead on some imaginary target.
"Milady…"
Louis fell into step behind her -- his initial dash to catch up might have been labeled 'scampering', except that was hardly a proper way for a squire to conduct himself -- and tried valiantly to mimic her demeanor, to act as if the doubtful whispers of the public had no effect on his self-esteem. But he was still unskilled at such deception. Chris watched him shoot a nervous glance at a trio of knights they passed when one of the men muttered something under his breath; she didn't need to catch all of it to comprehend that it was far from complimentary.
Well, what did she care? She despised being seen as the infallible White Hero anyway!
…Still, if there was dissention in the ranks…
"Louis, please go and prepare my horse for departure." Her voice was low and almost cold, and her attendant looked up curiously at the command.
"Yes, Lady Chris, but…" he faltered before asking the obvious question.
"To the capital." Was it really necessary for her to answer? No matter: she forged on anyway, gaze never wavering from the path ahead.
"Ah… But, Sir Salome is already…"
"I wish to speak to the Council myself. Is there anything wrong with that?"
She didn't need to look down at Louis to see how the young man blanched at her response, which had been a bit sharper than intended. He murmured assent and ducked away before she could apologize, scurrying off ahead.
Chris slowed her pace a fraction then, resisting the urge to rub her temples for just a moment. The day had barely begun, it seemed, and already a dull ache was forming behind her eyes, a tension headache that would hardly be soothed by rushing off to a meeting with the merchants.
But it wasn't fair that Salome should have to face their wrath, when she'd been the one to fall short of their expectations. Besides, she had several issues she wanted to raise with the board, problems she wished to address as soon as possible.
"…Are you alright, milady?" The soft inquiry to her health fell against the back of her ear, accompanied by the light caress of the Swordsman of Gale's breath. "You seem distracted…"
She turned stiffly to face him, pale eyes narrowing slightly, face still impassive.
"I'll be leaving shortly for Vinay," she offered by way of explanation. "Shouldn't you be watching after Borus?"
(Borus can take care of himself,) thought the darker-haired knight.
"I'll return there shortly; I only wanted to ensure you were well," he replied simply. "Are you certain you should be rushing off like this? Salome is handling the Council, and…"
"There are matters I want to discuss with them myself," she cut him off tersely. "Tell Borus I wish him a speedy recovery, and that I'll check up on him upon my return."
(Why not tell him that yourself, milady?)
"Of course," and Percival executed a half-bow towards her, folding one arm over his chest. "Swift journey, Lady Chris, and good luck with the Council."
(I'll certainly need that,) she mused acidly, mentally grimacing at the notion of the stern disapproval she would undoubtedly be facing.
"Thank you for that, Percival," she replied with a vague smile that didn't touch her eyes.
Then, both knights turned away and departed, the Swordsman of Gale heading back to check on his ailing partner while the Silver Maiden prepared to return home, each hiding their true feelings behind the carefully nurtured masks of stoicism and courtly demeanor.