13 | This Exclusive Dance

mutually exclusive events (n.): two outcomes for a (usually random) variable that cannot happen at the same time.

The next day, a carriage from Trost to the premier Military Police outpost in the land. Camille was familiar with Fort Bergen's staunch brick façade and wrought iron fences; it had never looked like a military fort so much as a gentleman's club for the Police, and the stories that drifted to Wodan about its eternally lit halls did nothing to ruin this impression. It was all velvet drapes and richly embroidered carpets; muffled footsteps and revolving conversations about dice, women, and drinking from men who would have you thrown out if you looked at them askance.

But not at this moment: Pixis was with her, and every MP who happened to be in their way seemed to shrink back from his merry gaze.

"This place isn't worse for the wear, I see," The Commander commented as lightly as if he were asking the MP what he'd had for breakfast that morning. "You could almost forget we were having supply shortages."

When the MP helplessly looked at her for – what? Support? A joke to diffuse the situation? She lifted her brow. Well, get on with it, don't leave my boss hanging.

"Oh – yes, sir – we uh…"

If there was anyone that could make an MP burn up in shame for once, she supposed it would be Pixis. The MP babbled on, though it was clear that the Commander could really care less for anything the man had to say. They were soon left alone in a hallway; they'd be welcomed into the great wooden doors in front of them when the inquiry would formally begin.

"Must be something in their food," Pixis yawned. "Top of their class, every single one of them, but every time I pay a visit to Fort Bergen they get duller and duller."

"You didn't have to come with me today, sir."

She'd meant in consideration of the tiring journey and how busy they'd been recently, but Pixis turned to her with narrowed eyes. "And make you face the consequences of my decision alone? What kind of man do you take me for?"

"In all honesty," Camille swallowed her hesitation. "A good one. You didn't have to go, sir. So thank you for coming anyway."

Pixis's forehead creased, eyes softening. He shook his head, looking more than a little sad. "The world is in a bad state, if you expected nothing of the people who led you directly into danger."

"I didn't know what to expect," She uttered lowly. "But I'm sure they expected me to arrive alone."

The Commander chuckled. "Of course." He crossed his arms, the wrinkles on his head deepening. "Taking responsibility for something is foreign to an MP. They wouldn't do it themselves, let alone for a subordinate.

"I hear the new Commander of the Scouts is more like us in that regard."

She fought the absent urge to nod. Us, them; the divisions in the military ran deeper than official designations. Pixis protects his own, but you could never say the same of any MP officer you met.

Where were the Scouts in all this? With us, Pixis seemed to think.

Like they were children choosing teams she could have said, Erwin's on our side, sir, don't worry, because while the world she grew up in crumbled when Wall Maria had, one of the few things that stayed the same was the fact that she'd know her friend anywhere.

But they weren't children anymore.

Even if they persisted in playing more dangerous games.

"That Erwin Smith, eh?" The Commander plucked his name out of her guilty mind like he could read it. She was sometimes convinced he could, then he would he begin talking about how much he wouldn't mind being eaten by a titan as long as it was a pretty one. "Every time I send someone over to check on him, they always mention his fine looks."

"Respectfully, sir, maybe you shouldn't send a woman over every time. People talk about how our staff always has at least one woman on it, you know."

"That's not a complaint I hope. You didn't comment on Smith's blue eyes."

"I only repeat what I hear," Camille shrugged. "But I will say this about Commander Smith: those brows."

Pixis roared with laughter. The sound echoed in the hall, like it was coming from everywhere all at once, and you could be sure Pixis was hidden somewhere in the walls, ready to guffaw at a passing MP's stupidity. Her mouth twitched with a smile.

Now: footsteps, light shifting underneath the doors. The Commander spoke firmly. "Allow me to do the talking. You were a clueless junior officer that only wanted to do what the King would have done for his people."

Never mind that she doubted King Fritz would have done anything so common as join the military, much less face down with an abnormal titan salivating at the chance to eat her. "So I was an airheaded idealist who was eager to please. Got it."

He caught her gaze, his amber eyes looking straight at her. "I'm sorry, Camille."

She looked away, caught by the genuine sorrow in his glance.

They weren't children anymore, but she was sniffling, inconsolable. The little girl inside of her curled a fist in her skirts, wiped her damp eyes with her knuckles, and her small voice repeated no, don't say sorry; it's okay, I'm okay… "It had to be done."

"And no good deed goes unpunished."

The doors groaned as they slowly swung open. Thank you, Commander.

I wouldn't know what I'd do if I was here alone.

"Stay sharp. Follow my lead."

The chamber was small, outfitted with one long table and one lonely seat across it. One MP officer presided; Dok, his flak jacket read. He sat, pale and careworn, as he introduced the pair of noblemen on his right and the bishop from the Church of the Walls on his left.

"Commander Pixis, please, take a seat," Nile Dok's tone was almost pleading. They'd been right on the money; no one had expected Pixis to put in a personal appearance. "We had no idea you were accompanying Specialist Leto."

"We've been stuffed to the gills with work at the Garrison," Pleasant as ever, the Commander smiled but blithely made no effort to sit at the chair a harried looking MP had carried into the chamber. "Nobody's been home in weeks. I didn't see why Leto could make a pleasure trip to Mitras when everyone else was about ready to fall over."

Upon mentioning her, everyone seemed to remember this inquiry had been called in her name. They looked surprised to even see her sitting on the chair in the middle of the room, just at Pixis's right hand.

"I'm merely exercising my right to participate in the Specialist's disciplining," the Commander continued. "I'm her commanding officer, after all."

Dok's throat bobbed. Nervous, it seemed, to be in the same room as the Commander of the Southern Territories when he was in a careless mood.

"Let's not be hasty, Commander," Bishop Garlan, who'd up at this point watched the proceedings the way one would watch an amusing play, spoke up. "This is merely an inquiry… nobody has brought any charges or is accusing the girl of anything. Truthfully, I only want to hear the whole story!"

Pixis didn't miss a beat. "Well then, gentlemen, we could've resolved this under more comfortable circumstances. I'm known for my hospitality."

"Good, good!" Garlan only grew more gleeful. "Count me as one of your guests, though I wish you would come call on me instead. The Mitras Cathedral, you know, we've lovely apricots this time of year…"

"Apricots! Candied, I hope. Or baked into some delicious pastry – "

" – You still owe me a plate, bishop; don't invite the Commander before you make good on your old promise!" One of the nobles cried. Lord Lenberg; a senior peer, she remembered from her cadet days, whose lineage extended to the first Fritz King.

Dok coughed into his hand. Only seconds and Pixis had already muddied the waters. "Please, my lords, we gathered here to discuss an important matter."

Bishop Garlan waved a lofty hand. It glittered with gems as it slowly swayed in the light, like he was bestowing an ancient blessing only a man of the Church of Walls would know. "Yes, yes the incident on the Ister; dreadful business, or so I've heard. Not until I learned of the – what was it? – Specialist before us, and her feats on the field."

"To be frank, I'd imagined," The other noble's thin lips finally moved above the stiff lace collar he wore. Lord Metternich, considerably lower rank, but still influential in the House of Lords: "someone else."

"The soldier you see now is the same as the one who repaired the Ister ferry, I assure you," Pixis cut in even before Dok could open his mouth. "She acted on my orders, but her genius is entirely her own."

"Specialist Leto was a student of Wodan University," Dok managed amid the chattering. "You – ah, attended…"

All eyes turned to her once more. Camille cleared her throat. "Pascal College, sir."

The Bishop smiled in that way all priests seemed to do – all priests except Pastor Kircher, that is – his jowly face stretching wide with benevolence, inviting the speaker to be more open in their speech. "That must have been an enlightening experience for you. How fortunate you were to be able to go."

"You had some kind of sponsor, I'm sure," Lenberg grumbled. "My son, that wastrel; you've completed your schooling twice over while he goes about every night with his friends spending his fortune!"

Pixis gave a languid shrug. Oh, the foibles of the young and the rich, whatever could you do? "Send him over to me when you have the time. Everyone straightens out in the military."

Metternich's brow twitched. "Mark what he says, Lenberg, you've met Lisle's younger brother."

"That's well and all for a second son, but…"

Not good enough for my son, evidently. And to say it in front of three members of the military – two of them at the top of the chain of command no less – a servant would have had more tact. Were these supposed to be the exemplars of society? Society would have gone to pieces long ago.

Finally, Dok stirred from whatever stupor he'd been in, looking more and more like he regretted even waking up this morning. "Let's return to our objective today."

Pixis met her eye. If it was possible to wink without winking, the Commander managed it in that short moment. Camille tried not to smile.

Dok led them through the outline of what occurred that day: there was a gas explosion in the Ister ferry's engine room. The Captain told the Garrison soldiers to send for help from the MP's.

"Word reached me," Pixis supplied. "Thousands of civilians were stranded. My soldiers wouldn't stand by while the titans would coalesce around their area in hours."

There was the careful omission of the 2nd Brigade's Combat Engineers taking it upon themselves to try and repair the ferry. Something about this seemed difficult to grasp for Dok. "So you… ordered Specialist Leto down to the river?"

"I ordered her down to the river," Pixis repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world to do.

"And you, Specialist," Dok glanced up from a paper. She wondered what was on it. In her half-year of service with the military, how big could her file be? Miniscule, she hoped. "You happened to know how to do this?"

This was easy: "I didn't know for sure if I could do something," Camille admitted, her voice steady. "But the Commander ordered it. I had to try, at the very least."

"You're aware that tampering with Royal Ferries is punishable by the law? When carried out by a member of the military, the Military Police retains full jurisdiction over the matter. Disciplinary action," Dok stressed, "when merited, can also be left to the discretion of the Military Police and the Royal Government."

Of course she knew. These were the same warnings given about tampering with ODM gear, but that had never stopped her or her mother from repairing Erwin or Levi's gear from the secrecy of their own home. To say it on record, though – the words danced on her tongue. It would be impossible not to. They'd taught her this in Pascal, then in cadet training… it was a lie that would have been easily seen through.

"Ye – "

"You're scaring her, Nile," Garlan sighed. The Bishop shook his head as if to say, this is poorly done and I'm sorry to see it. He cast a sympathetic glance in her direction: this has all been a big misunderstanding; really, we're wasting our time here.

Camille couldn't believe it. What was this all for? The worry, the doubt? She didn't think they would've tossed her into a cell from one deposition alone, but still. She watched the Bishop continue to speak: her unlikely savior. "How you can even think she would harbor a single treasonous thought?"

"I'm just following the pro – "

"It's clear she meant no harm," Garlan added, growing more insistent now. "Quite the opposite. How many lives do you think she saved that day by her selfless act? I for one can count on my hand the number of men who would willingly go to the frontlines at such an hour, let alone a young woman like herself!"

"Let him speak, Bishop," Lenberg sat back in his chair. He tossed Dok an impatient glance. "But this had better be quick, Nile. I agree, she meant nothing by it."

Mercifully, Metternich only gave a meditative hmm as his eyes shifted around each occupant of the room. With apparently nothing more to investigate, they were sped through the formalities. She could not speak of anything inside the engine room, and neither could the squadmates that had accompanied her; when asked about the events of that day, she must politely decline or otherwise refrain from sharing what she'd done.

"This is for the benefit of everyone, you understand," Dok spoke. "If just anyone was able to get ahold of the ODM gear, we wouldn't be able to protect everyone. The same goes for these ferries."

She didn't understand. But she understood that the Royal Government, and the Military Police as their dogs, wanted certain materials and the exact nature of these materials out of the reach of everyone save for a select few people.

Who were these people and why; that was the name of the game.

Camille nodded her assent. "We have as witnesses to this inquiry and your agreement to these terms the Duke of Lenberg and Baron Metternich representing the House of Lords; the Bishop of Mitras acting in the name of His Majesty King Fritz; I, Lieutenant Colonel Nile Dok, acting on behalf of the Military Police Brigade; additionally, Garrison Commander Dot Pixis of the Southern Territories…"

Garlan was the first to rise from his seat with a triumphant groan. He wore the swirling black cassock but made of a deep, lustrous velvet that was by grams and inches far beyond the means of any common priest – what sunlight filtered into the chamber rippled over him and glistened his deep sleeves of ebony. He was coming over; even as Metternich and Lenberg filed out the doors with Dok, Garlan was approaching her, the bejeweled chain that hung over his chest swaying with the eager movement. Pixis didn't budge from his place by her side.

"Ah, child," Garlan held out his hand – the same thick paw, the one that could've cast spells and granted wishes, and was weighed with rubies and sapphires. Camille instinctively understood. She knelt and received the blessing, eyes trained down, fingers lightly grasping Garlan's and lifting them to touch her head.

The jewels were cool on her skin. The Bishop made a noise of approval. "Bless you. Piety is always so becoming, especially in someone young."

She relinquished her hold, careful to stand a little behind her Commander. "'Outside the Church there is no salvation,'" Her lips quoted, the words coming from a recess hidden deep inside of her.

It was hard not to stare at Garlan's chain of office – the heavy collar of gold, set with the insignias of the three Walls that represented the three aspects of God. The Bishop was a large man, wide for every inch that Pastor Kircher had been tall; his collar was nothing if not proportionately sized, with its elaborately carved links that shifted soundlessly against his velvet robes. "It must have been difficult for you, to witness the destruction of the Wall. But your acts preserve us, just as God preserves us, in the end."

Our God preserves us, but not the poor people of Shiganshina, nor the countless men who gave their lives to secure Wall Rose. Camille kept her gaze low; she understood religion's twisted logic, she did, but only when Kircher explained it to her first. "Please, don't say any more, Bishop. I only wanted to help."

"Indeed," Pixis finally spoke. She already knew from his measured reaction that they would be having a talk about this later. "Specialist Leto was brave. But if I had a thousand soldiers who could do what she did, they would've done the same. The Garrison doesn't take the protection of humanity's last sanctuary lightly."

"Oh, not to say that you don't, no, certainly not!" Garlan smiled. "We must come together, now more than ever, and protect each other. These are trying times."

"Were you anywhere near Wall Maria when the breach occurred?" Pixis slipped on a more conversational tone. "I only ask because I've been feeling a little lost in my faith myself these days, Bishop."

"No, no… I was administering to my parish in Mitras, by some stroke of providence…"

She snuck a look at Pixis, his wide amber eyes miming interest and nodding along to what the Bishop had to say.

"Truly? Do you have any interest in seeing the damage for yourself? I've only heard accounts of the breach, but it's something I want to see with my own eyes one day. That hope, strangely enough, strengthens the trust I place in God..."

"That is good to hear! You are not alone in your questioning, Commander, I assure you…"

The two men turned away from her to speak more, as all men were wont to do when they decided they had something important to speak about. Pixis made a small motion towards the doors: we'll be a while.

Never pegged you for a religious man, Commander, her faintly raised brow replied.

A singular twitch of his moustache was given in return. Speak for yourself, Leto. He continued with his conversation, retreating to the far side of the room.

She closed the doors behind her and left the Bishop to his fate with the Commander.

Nile Dok lingered outside the chamber, still at the mercy of the two lords. What was the military protocol for saluting a higher ranking officer of a different branch when in the presence of two peers of the realm? It wasn't sufficiently covered in her training. Countless days in Wodan, however, supplied her with the wisdom that a duke would expect to be given the most deference.

She bowed lightly in the general direction of the noblemen. "My lord of Lenberg," She uttered, "Lord Metternich." She nodded at Dok. "Lieutenant Colonel."

"Good work," Came the unexpected praise from Metternich. His flowing russet hair was piled over his lace collar in waves. With his sober vermillion cloak wrapped around his thin figure he gave the impression of a centuries-old sword, passed from generation to generation, the pride of his house. "You did the people a service. But heed the war – "

Lenberg interrupted by tapping his foot loud enough to be heard on the carpet. He was a squat man whose eyes were fixed on some invisible spot down the hallway, sweat gathering on his brow. "Is Garlan still inside with the Commander? We've places to be, damn it. We spent enough time with this pointless questioning."

She was inclined to agree, seeing as the inquiry had not even lasted an hour. Rigidly, Dok said, "Respectfully, my lord, I was only following procedure." Lenberg stalked away even before he finished.

"Pay him no mind." Metternich muttered. "He must be expected at the card table today."

Camille had to credit Dok on his bravery. "With the Bishop?"

Metternich examined the MP. A slow motion of his eyes, roving from Dok's head to toe.

Gravely, he then said: "He came on the Bishop's carriage, Nile."

Oh, went the thought in both their heads. Metternich, however, seemed to have an uncommonly light hand for a nobleman: "I'll take my leave; write if you should have need of me again."

"O-Of course. Thank you, Lord Metternich." She watched Dok's awkward limbs stretch into a bow.

Camille followed the action with considerably more ease.

"It was a pleasure, Specialist," With two neat motions, the baron pulled on his gloves. "Please give the Commander my regards."

Nor was there any hint of insincerity when she replied: "An honor, my lord."

A grim nod. "May we meet again."

And there went their betters. Duke Lenberg, clawing his way back to the gambling table. Baron Metternich, ambling away with all the sober grace of a prince. Strange how these things turned out.

At last left to themselves, Dok addressed her, soldier to soldier. "Don't forget the proceedings today. They may have made it a small thing, but the laws are in place for a reason."

I wouldn't dream of it. "Yes sir."

The older man turned to her, brow wrinkled. "Glad we straightened all of that out. I remember you. You're… the junior officer from the recent batch."

"Yes, sir, I was." Camille replied, purposefully displaying a little surprise. "I didn't think you would remember."

Dok shook his head. "Hard not to. Almost nobody is given officer candidacy these days. But you're here," He continued, his voice betraying some bemusement. "With Commander Pixis. You made your choice, then."

Well. What was there to say? Of course she did. Nobody savored the opportunity to be toyed with by more important men, the way Lenberg and Garlan just had.

But there was something in the older man that seemed to crave for some normal conversation after the circus that was the inquiry. The military was a brotherhood – some people would say. Camille tried to be diplomatic. "It… was a difficult choice."

Dok huffed. "Brought you all this trouble, didn't it?"

Camille dutifully remained quiet. As if struck by a thought, Dok caught her eye. "And the Scouts? Did they ever try recruiting you? You ever thought of joining with them?"

Her mind stilled. What an odd question; she lied through her teeth. "No, sir."

Dok took it without thinking. "Mm," He said out loud. Then, he gave her a weak, commiserant smile. "If there was anything to be learned from today, then it was Erwin Smith's loss, eh?"

The offbeat silence lasted moments. Because he then gazed at the other end of the hall, "I should get back to work," as if his thoughts continued to run ahead, thinking of whatever still remained of his too-busy day.

Oddly enough, she imagined a desk piled with paperwork for him. The nod he gave her was just as absent, and he left, seemingly unaware that as an MP he need not have bothered with any kind of work at all; he wandered away, the man that was just as out of place as she was in Fort Bergen.

"They not lopping off your head then?"

Brotherhood? The military was more like a brood of gossiping hens with the way word flew from unit to unit. Camille shook her head at the carriage driver while she smoothed her uniform. "Seems not."

"The Commander not with you?" He spat at the paved Mitras road. Their driver was a Garrison man too, and obviously had no love for the capital city and its wide, clean lanes seen nowhere else in the Walls.

"Busy at the moment," She swept her gaze over the early afternoon crowd. Fort Bergen was situated well: the artisan's district was only a block further, with the banking district in the opposite direction. Mitras Cathedral and Wodan were only a short carriage ride away; men in dark tailored suits strode past carved stone facades while talking in low voices. "He said to wait."

"You?"

"Heading home." She decided. She hadn't been to Belcastle – to Mitras, even – in years; where had all the time gone? "I'll be back in Trost tomorrow."

"I wouldn't want to find myself in a town like this," The driver said with a questioning glance. "Where to? I'll go back for the big man."

She cracked a grin. "You worry too much. I can find my way 'round these parts."

Still: he wouldn't take no for an answer, which was how she found herself being dropped off at the banking district. She gathered some money from the pile of her earnings that had sat untouched since she began her military career. Then, she walked to the artisan's district, taking in the sights: how time had passed, the titans had killed off a third of the human population, and yet Mitras managed to stay its glittering, opulent self.

She stopped at Gutberlet Writing Instruments; after leaving an order for a fountain pen to be delivered to the Scouts' HQ at Trost, her feet brought her to The Smoking Cat without so much as a pause.

Amid the dozens of storefronts hawking their new wares for spring, The Smoking Cat stood on the corner of the street, its wicker chairs and tables overflowing into the sidewalk. There were a few patrons already seated with their afternoon tea; she received a few curious looks as she came inside the brightly lit interior and chose to sit at a quiet table that gave her a view of the bookshop and florist across the street.

A waiter came and took her order of tea and a bowl of soup; when they arrived promptly, she ate her first meal of the day with her mind latched on the day's events.

Outside the Church there is no salvation.

Camille had spoken the words without thinking. Like a candle in a dark room, her mind lit with a memory; she'd read the phrase in the pages of a book, but it was Pastor Kircher's voice that now narrated it to her: without the Church, we are nothing; without the Church, we have no hope of a better world. The Church is our salvation, our one sure path to paradise.

So the traditional teaching went. Kircher had disagreed. Neither priest nor any other intermediary mattered. The first Fritz King, blessed by God, had spoken these truths: that each man must love others as he loves himself; that he must be compassionate in his every act; that he must not bring harm to his fellow man.

These core tenets made up the body of the true Church – nothing and no one could come between man and God, but only belief could connect the two.

It had been one of the points where she wondered why Kircher even bothered to keep his title as Pastor; he was a man who didn't even believe in the Church as a worldly institution, and certainly derived no pride from his place in it.

The Church of the Walls; Bishop Garlan who'd come to the inquiry in the King's name. Was that often? Two nobles had been there as well, representing the House of Lords. It had been a whole lot of formality for a meeting that had ended on Garlan's whim. Writing to two lords; writing to the Bishop; arranging the meeting, summoning her, reviewing her file, and preparing questions to investigate the incident on the Ister – this could not have been for nothing.

Her tea had grown cold. She took it in hand, swishing it lightly. The price of tea had only grown exorbitant in the wake of the titan invasion, but here she was anyway, eating at a Mitras café like she was still a student and didn't know any better.

She gazed into the bottom of the cup where the few bits of loose leaf that had escaped the strainer gathered. What did the future hold?

Camille downed the rest of it, savoring its bitter taste for once.

When she set the cup down, she was surprised to find a slice of cake beside her empty soup bowl. Piled high with fruit and covered in artfully piped buttercream, she looked up and found her view blocked by another man.

Camille blinked.

"Utopia?"

The smirk on his prodigal mouth twitched.

"I got a name, you know." His dark eyes darted towards the cake. "Best thing they have. Guaranteed to put a smile on your face." Then he raised an insolent brow, not at all being subtle with the way he eyed her uniform: "Looks like you need it right now. Had a run in with the pigs, eh?"

She held in a scoff. Oh, how she'd always disliked him. "I'm here on other business," She lied shamelessly. She looked behind him, searching for who he'd come with and wondering why he was even speaking to her. "I didn't think I'd run into you here."

The heir to the East of Utopia Company – the man that she remembered as Jeremia Beintman's best friend or something approximate to it, the rich boy who'd gone berserk on another rich boy at a bar and was suspended from the college for a month because of it – that man gave her a crooked smile. "I can't help being wherever I am."

She didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead, she gestured at the seat across her, mind made up. "Pull up a chair," since you're staying too damn long anyway "I was just about to leave."

And yet, all Utopia did was wave her off. "No thanks. You enjoy yourself, now."

He pointed at the cake one last time and winked. In his honeyed tones, famous from the Wodan alehouses to the Quinta gambling dens, he said, "Consider it a gesture of gratitude. I believe the words go something like 'thank you for your service, officer'?"

When she later asked the waiter for her bill, she was just as surprised to find that it'd been paid for already.

She hired a carriage and the ride to Belcastle was quick. She arrived just as the sky darkened and grey clouds rolled in.

What was this feeling, driving past the silent town square and into the row of timber-framed houses – nobody out and about, windows shuttered, and rainwater splashing over the cobblestones. Mitras's splendor now seemed like a distant dream, and neither could any of the activity of Trost be found anywhere.

Then there was the familiar two-story house at the end of the lane. The clock shop's storefront was shuttered as well, and with her key she found that neither was the inside lit with any candles. Another key, and the back door swung quietly:

Soft light; the fireplace was blazing. Warmth stole over her, turning her insides into fuzz. She saw Lotta as she rounded the corner into the drawing room – she choked back a cry as the older woman ran into her arms.

"It's you," Lotta sniffed into her neck, her strong arms wrapped around her middle and holding tight. Camille breathed in her smell – herbs and spices, the scent of something she didn't know she missed until it was right in front of her. "It's really you. Camille, you're home, you're finally home."

"Yeah," Camille whispered. "Yeah, I'm home."

Another shout; Camille looked up and saw Iris and Soren in the doorway to the kitchen – "You! You!"

Lotta gave a laugh as she let go, and Camille faced the full brunt of her mother's fury alone.

"Of all the ungrateful!" Camille began to stammer. "Insolent!"

Soren put his cigarette away, eyes wide.

"Cruel children!"

Camille took a step back, but there was no dodging Iris as her mother's long arms struck outwards and snatched her into another hug.

"You stupid, stupid child," Her mother commanded fiercely. "You have no idea how much we've worried about you."

That was it; she grew limp in her mother's arms and let herself be held.

"I wrote," She defended lamely. "I wrote every two weeks! I told you I was fine…"

Iris pulled back, and Camille was shocked to see even her mother's red-rimmed eyes. "Not another word! That doesn't even begin to make up for all the pain you've put us through."

Then she found her father, and the curve to his lips that couldn't be hidden – like he was frowning but smiling at the edges. "Listen to your mother, Camille."

He put his hand on her shoulder, and it inevitably climbed and found its way to cup her cheek, his thumb softly brushing away a tear. The way he always would, when he was home from the mining season and living with them. He'd been away most of her life, so it always surprised her, this large man with the rough voice, capable of something so tender and quiet.

She closed her eyes.

Now the gates to Krolva were closed, its mines abandoned, and her father would always be home. The past few months had been hard – so much loss, and destruction; land and lives lost as easily as if the wind had carried them off. She'd done herself no favors with the life she chose either: working so close to Pixis, she was given a bird's eye view of the how costly, how slow, and how long it would take to rebuild.

The future, that variable thing, remained shapeless.

But her family was safe – they were here, together.

She opened her eyes to find all three of them looking at her with slight worry.

Iris was the one to ask. "What's wrong?"

She gave her own smile. "I'm fine, I swear."

Night came to pass and she sat for dinner with her family for the first time in 3 years. Candles put out and bedding down for the night, Camille bid Soren and Lotta a peaceful sleep. She remained in the drawing room, sitting by the fireplace with her lap desk and an unfinished letter slowly drying on the page.

"Finishing a report this late? The Commander should be displeased." Iris came by, empty mug of tea in hand. She never used to need any tea to go to sleep – Camille learned it was a habit brought by the titan invasion. Too much time spent worrying about my irresponsible child, Iris had snipped.

Camille twirled her pen, gazing into the flickering hearth. "I finished all my work before leaving for Mitras this morning. This is just a letter…"

Iris leaned against the wall and clicked her tongue. "I thought so. You came in here in the afternoon, wearing your uniform but on a civilian carriage. Erwin did the exact same thing if he was visiting from Mitras."

She blinked and lowered her pen, slowly realizing her slip of the tongue.

Her mother snorted. "You two think the same." Camille watched her lean forward, squinting at her letter.

"Pastor Kircher," She said, looking away again. "Requesting books of his."

Iris walked into the kitchen, her voice trailing. "Seems an awful lot of thought just for some books…"

Camille pinched her pen.

If there was anyone in the world – if there was anyone in the world who should know –

She sat up, and put the lap desk away. "Mother?"

Iris came back without her mug, a blonde brow raised. Camille fought the reflexive urge to lift a hand and massage her own brow – the villagers in Belcastle loved to remark about how much she looked like her mother.

"Something happened today," Camille gripped her hands together, eyes on the floor. "I… I think you should know. And I need your advice, I think."

She was startled by Iris's slender hand on her back. Long fingers, lightly calloused; hands used to light tinkering and fine tuning, the mark of a clock maker. If heavy repairs were ever needed, a villager always volunteered to carry out her bidding, but otherwise she saved the delicate jobs for herself. "Just say it. I'll listen."

Camille told her about the Ister, how the MP's had heard of it and she'd been summoned for an inquiry that morning. Lords Lenberg and Metternich. Pixis's unflinching support. Bishop Garlan's unexpected words in her favor.

Of all the things that happened, it was the Bishop's intervention that worried her the most.

"I'm surprised you'd do something like that and in such a public manner," Iris mused. "But I can't say I'm not proud. It may have been unwise, but it was the right thing to do."

Camille tried not to grow too red. "I – I wasn't alone, remember? I was the only one called in, but I had a squad with me."

"What would 'your squad' have done without you? It would have been better if the inquiry was carried out fully. They might've disciplined you, but that would have been the end of it. I imagine."

Camille held her head, letting out a sigh of frustration. "Exactly. Maybe it wouldn't have – but this feels worse. I… don't know what to expect. I don't know why the Bishop wouldn't even let me, or the MP's talk. He swept everything under the rug."

Iris crossed her arms, her mouth forming a thin line. "One thing about the Church. They'll expect something in return."

"I think so too," She confessed, fingers curling in her hair now. "But I don't know what they want. Or why me."

"Think harder, Camille." Iris leaned forward. Her mother's eyes – this cool grey that always managed to convey the full extent of how terribly clever her mother was – dug into her. "You're young. You came from Mitras before joining the military. You know their ways, their religion. You said Pixis told you to be obedient during the inquiry?"

She nodded.

"They'll try to convert you," Iris said. "The two lords, Nile Dok - I don't know about them. But the Bishop, for sure. No priest becomes so influential without the ability to know which people are useful to him and the King's needs. And you can bet right now that the Bishop is wondering if you can be persuaded into his service. How vulnerable you are. How pliant."

Camille swallowed, her throat growing tight. "Convert? For what? There are plenty of nobles and Churchgoers who'd happily do what the King would want."

"Do you see now?" Iris didn't flinch. "I asked myself the same thing. Kircher – you know we used to be friends. But then he began insisting on bringing me to masses. Making me pray at the chapel in Wodan in my spare time. His superiors in the Church would invite me to dinners. They'd talk about their God, how great the King was, and if I ever wanted more 'enlightened' work that would bring me closer to the two."

Iris tilted her head. "Stunned, are you? Them too. They were shocked that I wasn't interested in being around Royalty and other important men."

This was more than twenty years ago – centuries, it might have been, except Iris could talk about it like it was only yesterday.

"Is that why you left?"

"Absolutely." Iris broke her gaze, and looked into the fire. "…Simon always blamed it on him."

Something irked her about the familiarity in Iris's voice, the tinges of regret. "All three of you knew each other?"

Her mother turned deadpan in an instant. "Quiet, or you'll wake up your father." She rolled her eyes. "But for a while, yes. We were young people who happened to be spending a lot of our time in the same place. Of course we were. But Simon didn't stop being friends with Kircher. I don't think he ever knew what was happening other than Kircher was royally pissing me off."

Camille sat soaking this all in. "It's a wonder you're still friends – or that you can still stand me talking to him. To Pastor Kircher, I mean." She gestured at the lap desk she'd set aside earlier. "I'm even writing to him to request some of his commentaries on religion."

Iris shrugged. "He left the Church eventually. I've read some of his books too; his eyes cleared. Not nearly as insufferable as before. When I wrote to him about you going to Wodan – he scrambled to get on his knees. What can I do, what does she need, what's your daughter like, is she anything like you? It wouldn't stop."

Then: her mother's grey eyes traced the air. Remembering the outlines of a memory. "It never looked like he wanted to do it, honestly. When he would try to make me go to those masses, see his Church superiors. Whenever another priest would speak to me. He never liked it."

And the memory filed itself away. Her mother blinked, and sneered. "But he did it anyway. That's what I hated the most – he was doing what someone else told him to do. It went against all his fancy philosophies. His elegant writings about the inherent freedom of the human will. All of it, everything he believed in. He did it anyway."

A long silence.

Iris stood, and plucked the unfinished letter from the lap desk. Handed it to her. "Finish it. I never found out what the Church wanted me for. But if there's anyone who can help you – it'll be Kircher. Changed man that he is."

As she made to leave, she left another light hand on her back. "Camille…"

Camille looked up.

"I can't tell you," Her mother's voice rang uncharacteristically soft, eyes not meeting hers. "How proud I am of you. Just… be careful, okay? Use your head. You're my daughter. My only one."

Camille put her hand over her mother's. "I will. Promise."

"Good."

Another moment, and Iris shook her head a little. Gave a small laugh. "I knew it. Whenever you say 'I'm fine' or 'I'm okay' like that, you know? You're never just fine."

Notes:

(1) to describe iris and camille, a few lines from a poem about the death of a famous female mathematician written by another female mathematician:

I followed you and saw you choose

between mathematics and other romance.

For women only, this exclusive standard.

(2) 'outside the church there is no salvation' = nulla salus extra ecclesiam. it's some catholic doctrine from the 3rd century bishop, cyprian.

it's been a while. i'm trying new things in this chap. not sure how they land, but i like that i'm growing as a writer and it feels much better than feeling stuck. this is also an OC and worldbuilding heavy chap... much to my shock. comments and constructive criticism are welcome as always! i love hearing what you guys have to say :)