A/N: And so begins another story, this one a long one. Headcanon will abound, as this particular story is about the Followers, and we know virtually nothing about this part of their journey. So will some lore spoilers, unfortunately and unavoidably, simply because of how important to parts of the Arknights story these characters are. Any major spoilers will be marked as such in a preceding note in the chapter.
The sun blazed down out of a cloudless sky, shining on the long trail through the plains of Kazmierz. A figure, alone as far as the eye could see, strode down the trail, head held high. The figure bore a heavy mace, and was armored, but this wasn't entirely unusual for the trails and roads that wound through Kazmierz, though it was less common now than it had been long ago, when knights walked the highway, keeping the peace and upholding justice. Or at least, that was how the legends told it.
The woman walking the road believed in those legends. Hers was not the naïve belief that a child might have in a fairy tale, thinking that the knights had truly all been paragons of virtue, serving others and not themselves. Instead, she believed that their modern heirs should measure themselves against those ideals. She believed that the knights of Kazmierz had a duty to others, and that most of the current generation of knights had abandoned that duty in pursuit of personal benefit. And she had fought for those beliefs. Her victory in the Major had carried her message to the citizens, threatening the system of knightclubs, chambers, and nobles… and the system had fought back. When her Oripathy infection became known, they had forced her into exile.
And thus, Margaret Nearl was leaving Kazmierz in disgrace, at least in the eyes of the Chamber of Commerce, the Knights' Association, and the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi. She hoped that she at least would be remembered well by the citizens. Perhaps her example would still inspire others, and Kazmierz would change without her. Perhaps… but she doubted it. Nevertheless, she refused to disgrace herself and her family by fighting their decree.
Besides, it was not as if they could make her any less of what she was. A knight was a knight not by the approbation of corrupt men and women out to make money, but because of her commitment to the good of others and her willingness to stand against evil. If she could not be a beacon to lead Kazmierz back to the right path, at least she could do her duty as a knight wherever she found herself.
Still, it hurt. Her face was stern and calm as she walked, but it hurt that she had failed in her goal. She had hoped against hope that she could lead her fellows by example, overturn the corruption she saw so clearly, and make Kazmierz a better place than it was, but it had not been so, and that failure pained her. She had not been able to save her nation's soul. And she missed her little sister Maria, her aunt Zofia, her grandfather… unless things changed, she would never see them again, unless they came searching for her and put themselves in danger. A tear rolled down her face, and she dashed it away.
The sun continued to shine, and she followed it west as it set towards the hills. She knew of the wars in Victoria and Kazdel… and where there was war, there were innocents in need of the protection of a knight. And the Radiant Knight would be there for them.
The sun was hidden behind the clouds. The palace in Kazdel was shrouded in fog, and lit dimly in grey, as rain fell, hushing all sound, as if Kazdel itself mourned the death of Theresa. A lone figure moved quietly down the steps of the palace, keeping to the side as if to hide in the muted shadows. Robed and hooded in black, the figure held a slender staff that at closer inspection would have revealed itself to be a sheathed sword, if anyone had been there to see it. But nobody was, and nobody would have dared to halt her for such an inspection if they had been.
She was notorious even among the Redeemers that her robes marked her as a member of, related in some deliberately concealed way to the Confessarius himself, and one of the most powerful members of an organization known for its agents' power almost as much as its dread reputation. Her departure would have been remarkable only in that she was deemed necessary for whatever mission she was sent on, had anyone noted it and wondered why she was leaving. But she was not leaving for such a purpose.
Theresa was dead. Her last hope for the unity of the Sarkaz, for someone to bind up the wounds of her people, had been murdered. By who, and for what purpose, she could only guess at. But she could not forgive the Redeemers, or the Confessarius, for having permitted it. Their duty was to preserve Kazdel and the Sarkaz, and they had let the best hope, the brightest light the people of Kazdel had had in history, die. And so, she was leaving them behind. Let them try to support Theresis, that coward, or prop up some other in Theresa's place. Her hope for her people's future had died along with her queen.
She turned her face upwards, seeing a faint brightness in the clouds to the east where the sun rose. The rain on her cheeks felt like the tears her training had left her unable to shed. She would head east. Perhaps somewhere there she would find someone, something worthy of her devotion.
At the very least, she could follow on with the work her queen had pursued. Babel had, at least in part, been an organization that aided the Infected. Oripathy was a scourge that the Sarkaz, with their affinity for Originium and Arts, suffered from greatly. And, after all, what had led her to be a Redeemer was her belief that she had to work for the good of Kazdel and its people. Had she done so in the past? Perhaps not, but she would do so now.
She lowered her head and pulled up the hood of her robes, leaving the city. The faint light of the sun behind the dark rainclouds led her eastwards.
The sun was invisible in the rooms and corridors of the research facility. One test subject was mercifully alone in the near-featureless room assigned to her. The subject wore a simple white hospital gown, sufficient to the needs of modesty. Her hands were empty, and restrained, bound by white fabric cuffs to the rails of the bed where she lay. Such a valuable subject could not, after all, be permitted to attempt to escape, or to harm herself.
The woman on the bed was silent, and one could have been forgiven for thinking she was asleep. Her skin bore the fine white scars of surgery, along with the marks left by the testing equipment used by the facility to monitor her Oripathy infection, the performance of her Arts, and her brain activity. A stand by her bed held an intravenous tube, fed by several bags of unlabeled solutions. The woman's eyes opened briefly, resting on the bags incuriously, before closing again.
She was not sleeping, whatever her appearance might have been. Instead, she fought to recall her memories. Whatever was happening to her, it was wiping them away, like bleach cleaned a stain from fabric, eroding their presence inexorably. She no longer remembered her name, her family's faces… it was even becoming hard to recall where she was, or what had happened to her yesterday.
A memory surfaced. She was sitting in a grassy field with someone, looking up at the sky. Who it was, she could not say, but she remembered how happy she had been to be there with them, listening to the songs of birds, watching clouds race by. A single tear gathered in the corner of her eye and rolled down her face.
I wish I could see the sun again.
