4 – Enter, Commander
I feel like Canach is my bodyguard
Made it to the Verdant Brink
Saw the place, my heart did sink
Navigation is so freakin' hard
Minimap is a useless waste
Where the hell are these Mast'ries placed, yeah
How do I reach the canopy?
Guess I'll glide down from up high
Miss the updraft then I'll die
I'm a completionist lady
I'll do your fetch quest, baby
And I'll do it on my own time, yeah
.
I have it planned
I'll be your Commander
'Till Dragonstand
'Cross maps I'll meander
Right now I command you to /dance
I'll be your Commander
[repeats]
~ Tribute song composed in honor of Commander Atalanta Fiero, written and performed by Scout Acan
Ffeldy could barely even stand without assistance. He'd lost all his weapons in the crash save for a prybar and a handful of nails, if they even counted. Now he clutched the scrap-iron club Canach had given him and prayed to Dwayna for strength—though she was more of a healer than a fighter. His legs felt a bit stronger after he uttered her prayer. Perhaps she heard him…or maybe he'd just imagined it.
"Try Balthazar." Jasmina flashed him a wicked grin as she brandished her pistols. "He has the biggest ba—"
"Dwayna and I have an understanding," said Ffeldy quickly, not entirely sure if this was true. He admired Dwayna's tolerance for hopeless cases, but wouldn't blame her if the admiration wasn't mutual, exactly.
Three shadowy figures advanced toward them up the hill. Canach must have identified them as mordrem for he advanced with his crescent moon shield up, sword at the ready.
Ffeldy squinted at the sylvari-like figures. Their limbs appeared warped, their skin thick and bark-like. One of them wore Pact armor, and one a skyfarer's jacket like his own. His stomach dropped.
"Canach, they're dressed like allies. Are you sure—"
"What did I just tell you, Engineer? You can trust me as your 'Maguuma botanist's field-guide'. Don't overthink it."
"But I always overthink. It's in the job description."
Jasmina groaned. "I'm going to send the pair of you into separate corners in a second."
The three mordrem raised their weapons and charged.
Canach leapt forward to engage the mordrem with his sword—rather too cavalierly, Ffeldy thought. If Captain Diarmid, one of the strongest and most courageous silvari he'd ever known, could be turned by Mordremoth, how could this swaggering thistle assume immunity? Ffeldy vowed to keep an eye on him, and set the red target image to follow Canach on his monocle's heads-up display, just in case.
"You are definitely overthinking." Jasmina had noticed him adjusting the eye-piece settings. She raised an eyebrow at him as she lunged past, her pistols at the ready.
"Someone's got to." His eyes followed her pistols. "Umm…might I please borrow just one of those—"
"They were decorative ornaments aboard the Flyer, I think only one of them actually works. But Imagine a gentleman asking for a lady's armaments. Such cheek!"
Canach crossed blades with the armored mordrem, while Jasmina dodged the former skyfarer's riposte. That left Ffeldy exchanging a long stare with the third mordrem, a massive troll-shaped tree-creature wielding a club the size of an average human. Because of course.
"Dwayna? Sorry to bother. Mind putting in a good word to Grenth for me?" He gave the iron bar an experimental swing.
The mordrem's club slammed into the ground near Ffeldy's feet, knocking him backwards. His makeshift scrap weapon went spinning out of his hands and landed in the underbrush. He'd have given his right arm for a ranged weapon just then. Anything but that idiotic bit of scrap. His pulse hammered in his throat as he pushed himself up, just in time for the mordrem to take another swing.
"Just to clarify," Ffeldy shouted at his allies as he dodged and retreated at full speed from the massive club. "Melee is no strength of mine."
Canach was still slashing at his opponent. So far, so good—he hadn't turned, yet. "I didn't actually think the engineer would go full Logan on us. Did you, baroness?"
Ffeldy kited the creature for all he was worth. "I'm just going to improvise for a minute. Don't mind me." He'd noticed several sealed crates scattered all around on the ground, probably airship cargo. He sprinted toward the nearest one, putting some distance between himself and the mordrem chasing him down. Skidding to a stop, he fumbled for prybar in his belt and pulled it out, hands shaking.
Please please please be full of grenades.
He jimmied the lid open. Inside he found a jumble of airship maintenance materials: spare steel cogs, bottles of oil, rags and leather gloves.
"Right, never mind. Next!"
Ffeldy ducked another swing at his head. He dashed off in the direction of another crate. Meanwhile his lumbering pursuer struggled to keep him in sight. Adrenaline from the fight had overpowered the pain of his injuries at first, but now he regretted the vigorous exercise. His clutched the stitch in his side with one hand and swung the prybar with the other. A single whack, and the crate lid popped to reveal an assortment of fancy clothes.
"Third time's the charm." Ffeldy pivoted on his heel headed for crate number three. He was limping now, his endurance spent. The mordrem's next attack struck him between the shoulders and slammed him face-first into the ground.
"At least you've managed to keep it occupied," said Canach, the red targeting crosshairs still superimposed over his head on Ffeldy's display. "I'm on my way." The sylvari dispatched his own mordrem with a vigorous swordthrust. "Though I see you've unaccountably lost your weapon. Bashing Mordremoth's minions in the face is simple enough. I… really don't understand you."
Ffeldy low-crawled on his elbows toward the third crate, prybar clutched in his fists. When he reached it, he sat up on his knees and gave the lid a good thwack.
The crate opened with a hiss of mechanical hinges. Inside, he found a jumble of familiar-looking spherical devices—grenades? His heart rose expectantly in his throat, then sank as he realized this was just the box of spare airship gyroscopes, possibly from Thunderbreaker's hold. There was also a small packet of signal flares.
"Come on, you," he grumbled at himself. "Now's the time to overthink." In his peripheral vision he saw the mordrem's shadow advancing. "You've got three seconds, tops."
He shoved the flares and a handful of gyroscopes into his coat pockets. Then grabbed two more in each hand and set their internal rotating discs spinning.
Canach and Jasmina had each killed their (admittedly smaller) mordrem opponents and now hit the big club-wielder with everything they had, though their efforts had little noticeable effect.
Ffeldy dashed past with his hands full. "Keep up the good work, you two. Look at all that kinetic energy. Well struck, Canach! Right in the face! You took a full percentage point off its health just then—"
"YOU'RE NEXT, ENGINEER!" bellowed Canach as he hacked and slashed. Mordrem wood chips scattered the grass. "Unless you START. BASHING!"
"All in good time." Ffeldy felt strangely calm, now that he had a plan. He slid to a stop in front of the first airship crate containing the repair materials and dumped everything on the ground. Sure enough, a small toolkit was hidden among the cogs and bottles of airship oil. He knelt in the dirt, tossed his gloves aside, picked up a screwdriver and wrench, and started tinkering.
"By the Pale Tree's thorny backside, get off your knees and fight! Prayers to your half-dozen human idols are not going to bring down a fireball, much appreciated as that may be." Canach turned his head to Ffeldy as he spoke, opening himself up to an attack of opportunity. The mordrem's bludgeoner caught the sylvari and swept him aside.
"I don't suppose anyone has a light?" said Ffeldy, still feeling absurdly calm. The jerry-rigged mechanism in his hand popped its scrap-metal fins when he set the gyro spinning. He struck his wrench on a stone, and the spark lit the oil-soaked rag fuse. "Here, let's try an assisted launch." Ffeldy hurled the little mechanism into the air. It stabilized itself momentarily with a whir of little gears, then the attached flare caught fire, propelling it toward the mordrem with a loud hiss.
"Incoming! Five, four, three, two…"
Canach and Jasmina exchanged a glance, then took several large steps backward.
"ONE!"
The little mechanism bounced harmlessly against the mordrem's hard woody shell. The mordrem paused, stared at it in confusion, then swung its weapon back for a crochet-smash that would send the little gyro-thing into the stratosphere.
BOOM.
A flash momentarily blinded them. A circle of flames erupted around the mordrem. When the smoke cleared, only hunks of charred wood remained, along with the scorched metal bludgeoner. Now that the mordrem's weapon wasn't swinging at his head, Ffeldy realized it wasn't just any hunk of scrap, it was a large pipe wrench like the one he'd used to work Thunderbreaker's release valves.
"I've got some medic training," said Ffeldy, keeping a straight face with much effort. "Stand aside, I'll check it's pulse."
Baroness Jasmina strode toward him, cracking her knuckles. "You are turning out to be such a Hound."
Ffeldy winced, but she didn't clock him as expected. Instead she ruffled his hair.
"One of the Balthazar variety. Well done."
His cheeks grew uncomfortably warm, and he glanced down at his grimy hands. "Err…thanks."
Canach looked far less amused, though Ffeldy honestly couldn't read the expression on his bristly face with much accuracy. He had difficulty parsing sylvari emotions in general. Their body language occurred on an entirely different plane from human experience. Nonetheless, Ffeldy withered under his apparent glare.
"I fail to understand your antipathy for close-combat." Canach wiped his sword with a handful of leaves and sheathed it. "It's a good thing we were able to cover you." He gestured toward Jasmina. "To keep Spiny McSpineface over here from mashing you like cooked cassava root while you ran around like a complete fool."
"Yes, well…" Ffeldy grimaced and jabbed an elbow toward the charred mordrem remains. "It all worked out in the end, right?"
"Purely by coincidence, yes. You can't expect to replicate these results, especially without us—your very generous team—backing you up. And what if we had needed your support before you put the finishing touches on your peculiar little clockwork orange?"
"I'll admit the device could use some adjustments—the mobility could be improved with some internal self-navigation and hovering properties—but considering that prototype was the work of a few short minutes, plus lots of duct tape, I'm happy with how—"
Canach picked up the dead mordrem's pipe wrench weapon and thrust it into Ffeldy's hands. "You need to learn close combat if you are going to survive in the jungle. Even if I have to train you myself. Maybe you'll find this weapon slightly more to your liking."
Ffeldy hefted the wrench and gave it an experimental swing. "It does have nice balance."
"Hold on just a second, friend." Canach peered closely into Ffeldy's face.
"What?" Ffeldy analyzed the sylvari's face and tone of voice for any clue as how to interpret this. He leaned back uncomfortably.
Canach tapped the lens of Ffeldy's panasopic monocle. "Are you targeting me?"
That time Canach's ire was unmistakable. Ffeldy's hand flew to his eyepiece. With a click, he removed the red crosshairs setting on his heads-up-display.
"No! I mean, not anymore."
"If that clockwork bomb of yours had been properly calibrated, you might have killed me instead of the mordrem. Did that even cross your overthinking, distracted, squishy human brain?"
Whatever words Ffeldy intended to mumble as an excuse got lost on the way to his mouth. He opened his jaw and shut it again. Canach made an excellent point, though Ffeldy hadn't called an active target. However, it would have been an easy slip, especially since auto-targeting didn't always focus on the intended opponent. He should probably fix that.
"By Lyssa's knickers," murmured Jasmina. "I've never seen Canach that pissed."
"I'm so sorry." Ffeldy removed the eyepiece, stuffed it into his pocket, and wiped a sleeve across his damp forehead. He couldn't meet the sylvari's eyes. "I've just had one too many not-fun experiences with Mordremoth's corruption—"
"No." Canach put a hand on Feldy's shoulder, forcing eye contact. Thorns on his hands pierced the fabric of Ffeldy's coat and pricked his skin. "No. Listen. I'm not going to 'turn'. However, I need you to trust me. Just as I, too stupidly perhaps, have trusted you."
Ffeldy let out a slow, exhausted breath. He wondered if Captain Diarmid had been just as certain about her ability to hold off the dragon's corruption. She must have, since she'd willingly piloted the airship deep into the Heart of Maguuma.
"But I don't know how to trust you. You say you won't turn. How can I tell you're right, when others have been wrong?"
"Trust is not rooted in logic." Canach gave a casual shrug. "The right decision is not always the smart decision. 'Right' choices can be astoundingly idiotic. Ask, say, your neighborhood criminal mastermind. I guarantee they'd agree with that statement. Stop listening to your head. What do your emotions tell you?"
Ffeldy gave Canach a long, sober look. He was starting to suspect that this sylvari was a Frostgorge iceberg. The tip visible above the surface failed to suggest vast submerged mysteries. All he could see was the shadow in the water.
"That I should trust you. And I do." Ffeldy held out a bare hand, intending to shake on it, then remembered Canach's thorns and reached for the gloves tucked in his belt."
"No, no," said Canach with a dry chuckle. "We'll shake without gloves, per the human custom. I insist." He folded both his spiny hands—he'd clearly made them more prickly than usual—around one of Ffeldy's and gave it a good long squeeze.
"I deserved that," Ffeldy hissed through his teeth, enduring the longest, heartiest handshake of his life. "You're on, my friend. I'm so glad we could come to this agreement—ow."
Canach released him. "You are officially the most exasperating engineer I've had the displeasure to encounter."
Ffledy grinned sheepishly. "But you couldn't possibly have met that many of us."
The corner of Canach's mouth quirked up into—was it?—a brief smile. "Good point. Well, then. I'm looking forward to our sparring lessons. I think I'm going to find them most cathartic."
Jasmina stepped forward. "Now that you two have kissed and made up, let's get back to camp. Did anyone see what happened to Minister Merula? I lost track of her during the action."
"Right here, dear, we're coming." Merula trotted down the slope, flanked by a small contingent of servants and nobles armed with makeshift weapons salvaged from the wrecks. "I just dashed back to camp. My Getrude has brought her rifle, and look! I've brought the Commander. She's been such a delightful guest. She must have dispatched half a dozen giant beetles that were wandering about our camp."
Ffeldy had stooped to gather airship tools and gyros into a makeshift sack. He looked up, and his pulse quickened. There stood Atalanta Fiero, former Hero of Shaemoor, now Pact Commander. Stay cool, he told himself. He pulled at his collar, which suddenly felt far too tight. She wore a gauzy, elaborate gown in fiery colors, and circlet with a flaming jewel around her head. Her black hair was braided into a sophisticated loop around her head, and her dark bronze skin glowed in the dusky jungle light. Gem-encrusted dagger and horn adorned her belt. She'd clearly been busy since he'd last seen her. And successful, too.
Atalanta hadn't recognized him, but he hardly expected her to. Ffeldy thumped his chest in salute. Canach did too. Baroness Jasmina put a hand on Atalanta's elbow and soon they giggled like old friends. Of course they were old friends. Atalanta would have grown up among the nobility that had crashed in Faren's Flyer. It made perfect sense for her to seek them out in the jungle, come to think of it.
"…wait," Atalanta was saying. "Did you say Ffeldy? Von Ffeldy?" She glanced around the clearing. "He's here? Are you sure?"
Ffeldy coughed.
Atalanta's eyes swiveled to him. She stepped toward him with a quizzical expression while he held his salute and did his best not to break into an idiotic smile. "Ffeldy? You are…" she gently smoothed his skyfarer's jacket and straightened his twisted Pact badge. "…you look very different since I last saw you. You have, dare I say, matured."
Ffeldy knew this was true because of how successfully he held a straight, serious face while she spoke.
"You've even got a bit of scruff on your face and oh, look how it highlights those cheekbones. No longer the bare-cheeked lad, are you? And your shoulders have certainly filled out nicely. How long has it been? Two years? Three? Come, let's walk back to camp while you fill me in." She linked her elbow in his.
Ffeldy felt like a prize bull at a fair. His face began to burn, and he hoped she didn't notice in the fading light. Had she just publicly admitted that she found him…attractive?
"Well, Commander," he said, keeping his voice deep and serious. He remained painfully aware that Canach, Jasmina and half the passengers from Faren's Flyer looked on, "You and I were both aboard The Glory of Tyria during the attack on Zhaitan. So…three years ago. You were aiming the MEGA-LIT cannon and I was in the airship rigging somewhere, adjusting pressure valves so we could keep a stable altitude. You've always been an excellent shot."
"Why thank you, that's very kind." Atalanta's voice had a pleasant, cheerful lilt. Less…snobbish than he remembered. "And you've clearly taken to the airship life. Are you a captain now?"
"Chief engineer. Or…I was. On Thunderbreaker. And I saw Glory—" His voice cracked. "It's a long story that I'm not particularly excited to revisit. Canach here is going to insist that I give an intelligence debrief, so I will. But I'll have to be good and drunk first if you don't mind, Commander."
"I understand."
They walked shoulder to shoulder up the path. He'd grown a few inches since they'd last met, and now he felt strangely tall walking at her side. The bundle of tools and spare parts was heavy on his back, almost as heavy as the massive pipe wrench he'd slung over one shoulder. Tomorrow he'd probably wake with muscles so sore he'd barely be able to move. Oh well. Something to worry about later.
The sun had set over the jungle by the time they arrived in camp. Servants had set up a cluster of tents, and a cheerful-looking bonfire cast a warm, welcoming orange light around the clearing.
"I'll just set my pack here. I can sleep on the ground. It was kind enough to me these last few nights, heh."
Atalanta pulled him by the hand. "Leave your gear and come sit by me." She patted the grass next to her. "Getrude, fill a glass for my engineer friend, straight Ascalon whiskey. Yes, perfect." Atalanta clinked his glass with her own. "I'm glad to see you safe, considering the circumstances. Lyssa be praised."
"Glory to Dwayna."
They both drank, but out of the corner of his eye Ffeldy noticed Baroness Jasmina sitting alone with her own drink, watching. He couldn't tell if she looked more jealous of Atalanta…or him.
Ffeldy knew how it felt to get left out of things, so he waved her over. On the other side of the bonfire, a trio of servants with instruments struck up a jaunty tune.
"You'll have to excuse Minister Merula for the entertainment," said Jasmina, shaking her head as she settled next to them on her knees. "It probably seems a bit vulgar, considering the tragedy all around us. But I think she's got the right idea, trying to lift our spirits. Commander, I'm hoping to take a group deeper into the Jungle tomorrow. We still haven't found Lord Faren and many of the others. You remember the man. He's like a bad copper coin, and I'm convinced he'll turn up somewhere nearby. I reckon he's nigh-on unkillable."
Atalanta laughed. "I'll drink to that. And I bet you're right." She created a small fireball with a snap of her fingers and let it twirl around her fingers.
"Would you care to accompany us, Atty?" asked Jasmina hopefully. "It'll be like the old days in Divinity's Reach. When we used to swing our mothers' swords around in alleys, fighting off imaginary ghosts." She glanced at Ffeldy. "What about you? Did you play Seraph and bandits where you were a lad?"
"Not him," cut in Atalanta before Ffeldy could think of a tactful answer. She sounded a bit tipsy already. "When I first met him, he'd been arrested for avoiding the Seraph draft. He's lucky to be alive."
Ffeldy bristled at her words and though she leaned toward him in a friendly manner he withdrew slightly. "That's not really anyone else's business, is it Commander? I'm a life member of the Seraph now. So. It all…worked out, you might say." The words came out with a bitter taste. The whole Seraph saga wasn't something he cared to discuss in front of others. Time to change the subject. "How's Captain Thackeray by the way?" he asked Atalanta, remembering how giddy she'd always been around him. "I hear you two are still fast friends."
Atalanta stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "I thought you were there." The drink shook in her hands.
"What?"
"The Glory of Tyria went down. And so did Destiny's Edge. That's why I'm here, to search for them."
Ffeldy mentally slapped himself. Outwardly, he settled for an embarrassed face-palm instead. "Oh. Gods, I'm sorry. I was there, I saw—I've been trying not to think about it." He stood quickly. "Can I fetch anyone a refill?"
The ladies shook their heads so he retreated with a nod. He spun on his heel and almost ran smack into Canach. The sylvari stood just outside the bonfire's ring of light, drink in hand. He raised it in Ffeldy's direction.
"Is it true what the Commander said? About your arrest."
"I was very young, and the archaic Krytan laws weren't particularly flexible." The bitter taste in Ffeldy's mouth returned, but he found he didn't mind telling Canach. Maybe because he couldn't read the usual emotions of human scorn on Canach's face. "I had to join the Seraph as punishment, but I failed the training and should have died. Say what you will about Logan, he stood up for me. He's also incredibly good at finding legal loopholes."
"And you're still serving your sentence now?"
"A lifetime of Seraph duty. Yes. Why?"
Canach laughed. "I just realized we have more in common than I'd initially assumed, engineer."
"Oh?"
"A toast to the Pale Tree." Canach clinked Ffeldy's empty cup with his own. "Get a few more of those in you, and I promise to extract the Thunderbreaker story from you as painlessly as possible." He squeezed Ffeldy's shoulder, but this time without the thorns.
[Author's Note: This chapter's original song is brought to you by way of Kelly Rowland's "Commander" and seemed an excellent fit for Atalanta Fiero. Also fun to dance to. Ask me how I know.]
