Zeke felt an odd tightness in his chest as he watched the pair of siblings seated across from him. Not for the last time did he envy their bond, either. But was it because he'd always wanted a sibling? Or because he wished Mòrag would be even half as worried for his safety, too?
Ugh, stop it. This is just politics for her. She's only doing this because Niall needs her to. Pandy warned him that any feelings he developed for the Ardanian princess would be unrequited, but did he listen? No. He had tried and failed to mimic Mòrag's detached approach to the impending marriage. An unrequited crush was one thing—he'd had them before, and they'd gone away over time. But this crush was going to end in a wedding. Absence wasn't exactly going to make his feelings conveniently vanish. He knew Mòrag would marry him out of duty alone, and that almost scared him.
And yet, there were moments that made him wonder if she wasn't completely aloof after all. She had been the one to suggest they kiss again a few days earlier, with the cute excuse that they needed to practice for the wedding. Was it an excuse, though? Granted, Mòrag was all about appearances, and she would want to avoid an awkward kiss in front of her entire country during the ceremony. But something about her expression when she suggested it…
Regardless, judging by the way she looked at the small, sleeping Emperor, it was clear that he would always take second place after Niall. The way she ran a gloved finger through his hair, gently kissed his forehead—that tenderness made Zeke almost not recognize her as the same woman who'd blazed a path through her enemies an hour before. She yawned and pulled off her hair clip to make it more comfortable to lean against the wall of the skimmer. Her eyes closed, and the stern expression she wore all day faded. For a moment, Zeke debated about going to find Pandoria; just sitting here watching the siblings nap seemed rude. But he'd never actually seen her hair down; how nice it looked surprised him. It made her seem younger, more carefree.
Who am I kidding? Arranged marriage or not, she deserves better than a dork like me.
"What are you staring at?"
Her voice startled him—of course she wasn't actually asleep.
"Er, sorry. Didn't mean to. I was just lost in thought." He scratched the back of his head.
"About?"
"I...I think you'll be a really good mom."
Mòrag's eyes fell, and she looked back at Niall. "The thought scares me, to be honest."
"Because you have to have a kid for political necessity? Or because you're stuck with me as the father?"
"Don't put it so crassly," she replied. "I mean, yes, the arrangement will take some getting used to. But even if this were a relationship that I'd chosen and pursued of my own initiative, I'd still be scared about having children."
"Why's that?"
She hesitated. "The world can be a very cruel place. Elysium is beautiful, but she cannot change the people who live in it. I've seen firsthand how...how awful humans can be towards each other. That's why I've dedicated my life to protecting Niall, not just from attempts on his life but from the strain of his own birthright. And even with my best efforts, with my undivided attention, I've nearly lost him. Several times, in fact. If I can't protect one boy, how can I expect to do so with my—with our children?"
"You think I won't help?"
"That's not it. I know you'll help. But that doesn't make the monsters of the world disappear."
"...Mòrag, look at Niall. He's asleep in your arms."
"And your point is?"
"Niall understands how messed up the world is. Hell, he's seen it. And yet when he's with you, he's completely at ease. And you know why that is? Not because you made all the evil go away. It's because you make him feel safe in spite of it."
"I'm not sure how that applies."
"Look, I can't speak from experience, but I'm pretty confident every parent feels that way. If people waited until they felt completely fearless about having kids, the human race would die out. Providing a one-hundred-percent danger-free environment isn't possible. But what kids really need is a place where they feel safe and loved, where the dangers don't seem so big anymore. Niall had to grow up faster than most kids, but all along, you've given him that safety...so yeah. That's why I think you'll be a good mom."
"I hope you're right."
"Your...your hair looks nice like that, by the way."
"Brighid's always begging me to wear it down. But it's not conducive to my work."
"Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Deflect compliments. Especially about your appearance. You always change the subject or something. Why?"
"...It's been a long time since I thought of myself as pretty or beautiful. For a while I tried not to be. And after I became a soldier it no longer mattered."
"Does it have something to do with...well, you know." He tapped on his wrist.
She scowled, a warning gleaming in her eyes. "I think it's high time we changed the subject."
Welp, I've thoroughly ruined the moment. A tense silence passed as Zeke racked his brain for a suitable subject change.
"...Do you think Niall will give Raqura what she wants?"
"He can't. There's too much riding on the marriage. While the alliance is being formalized, the Senate is too busy to continue trying to replace the Emperor. Formalizing an alliance takes time, and by the time they've finished, an heir should be on the way. In times like these, a leadership change would cripple Mor Ardain. We can't risk a loss of Ardanach sovereignty simply because Uraya feels left out. But more importantly, Niall cannot be seen as acquiescing to Uraya's will, especially for such unreasonable demands. It would make him and our country look weak."
"So he'll just ignore her demands? What about Rex? Jolly bad luck for him, don't you think?"
"We won't abandon him. We'll think of something," Mòrag sighed.
"Why don't we just go rescue him?"
"We're already on thin ice diplomatically. Uraya would interpret that as another threat. It would be one thing if Rex were an Ardainian citizen. Then we'd have a legitimate reason to take him back by force. Uraya wouldn't like it, of course, but legally, we could."
Zeke rubbed his chin. "...Hang on. Isn't Nia technically Gormotti? Like yeah, she doesn't really live there right now, but she was born there, right? Both the human and Blade parts of her, as I understand it. So she's an—"
"An Ardainian citizen." Mòrag finished his sentence. "As is Tora. Niall would have to approve it, but rescuing them would be abiding by the rules of engagement. Good thinking, Zeke."
"So let's get planning, then. We both know Niall will approve it if it's you who's asking."
"One step at a time. Niall will want to attempt diplomacy first. And...after what happened today, I'm not leaving his side until he's back in the safety of the palace. He's too vulnerable here."
"I could go on my own. Me, Pandy, Wulfric, some of my other Blades."
Mòrag paused, considering. "...I can't risk you dying, either."
"All of our wedding invitations would go to waste if I snuffed it, right?"
"Th-that's not what I meant. I don't want to lose you."
The tightness in his chest returned. "That just might be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."
"Don't misunderstand," Mòrag added hurriedly. "I'm still not sure what my feelings are. But I do know this: when the explosion happened, it made me realize how much I've come to rely on you, even in the short time we've been engaged. Trusting others doesn't come easily for me. When I do find someone I can trust, I try to keep them around."
"I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
Before long, the skimmer rumbled into the outpost's port. Once Niall was awake—and "presentable" again, as he called it—they exited. Cheers erupted at the sight of the young Emperor; most believed he had been killed in the blast. And when the story spread that it was Zeke who saved him, any lingering doubts about the Tantalese prince disappeared as well. As a result, much of the remaining daylight was spent ambling among the soldiers to reassure them and thank them for their service.
Ever watchful, Mòrag saw the fatigue growing in Niall's eyes again. She tactfully requested leave to make a report with Captain Padraig. Niall, reading her silent invitation, insisted on accompanying her. The soldiers dispersed, and the Emperor's retinue entered the outpost's command center. As a military state, Mor Ardain outfitted most of its garrisons with exclusive apartments and amenities for the Emperor. Such luxuries had not yet spread to the newest outposts, however. Padraig seemed woefully aware of this fact, and he rushed about to get food, the best chair, and anything from his personal provisions that he deemed necessary.
"Captain Padraig," Niall began, "please do not overwork yourself on my behalf. I do not want for anything."
"But Your Majesty, your station merits—"
"Captain, there are urgent matters to discuss. Do not prioritize His Majesty's comfort over his safety. And as it so happens, he will not be staying long. We will be departing for the capitol shortly," Mòrag explained.
Niall nodded. "The situation here is precarious, and as such, I will be relying on you to act as our nation's first line of defense. I trust you will not let us down. As soon as we arrive in Alba Cavanich, the Inquisitor will make arrangements for the bolstering of your forces here. But before we depart, allow us to inform you of our current wishes."
Between Niall and Mòrag, Captain Padraig found himself assuaged by a host of new duties and policies for the outpost. Foremost among them was the strict order that combat with Uraya was to be avoided at all costs. Evaluations and reviews would also be required for every soldier, along with audits of every piece of equipment and each uniform issued by the Ardainian government. Mòrag intended to repeat those evaluations in every squadron as time allowed. By juxtaposing those audits with their meticulous supply records, perhaps they could find clues about Mor Ardain's turncoats. The Aramach had to obtain the uniforms from somewhere. Or someone.
And when she found out who, there'd be hell to pay.
Most members of the Aramach were, without question, quick thinkers. They knew how to read circumstances and events well enough that they could jump ship long before a situation turned deadly—or more accurately, before the military police showed up. Cor Baragh also possessed this mental dexterity. In other circumstances, and perhaps with a bit more food in his belly as a child, he might have made it as a prolific engineer or scholar. But prioritizing survival over studies led him to make some unsavory choices. Smart as he was, he'd largely gotten away with them, so joining up with the military hadn't proven too difficult once he came of age. Of course, even in uniform, his old habits died hard.
It started out as stealing, and getting away with it proved to be a greater adrenaline rush than battle itself. But soon theft didn't do it for him—not pilfering goods, anyway. Ardainian women did.
There'd been dozens of close calls, but for several years he'd managed to hide his criminal activities and keep his military job. And when the time came that he would inevitably be discovered, he deserted, proud that he'd found the precise moment to maximize his personal enjoyment and maintain his physical safety. He survived, living only as his wits and wants dictated. People might call him a disgusting bastard, but he was not stupid.
He followed his instincts. And right now, his gut told him that maybe the Aramach wasn't such a safe-haven for him anymore.
"You imbeciles! Months, years of planning, all ruined!" Pachnall roared. His sword twitched, unsheathed in his hand.
An Aramach captain, still clad in a bloodied Ardainian uniform, quivered as he tried to explain. "Boss, it was an accident, I swear! We were firing on the ship to ground it, like you told us. But somebody had the wrong shells in the cannons."
"Was I not clear? I ordered you to capture the stinking brat, not kill him!"
"We have it on good authority that he survived. That Tantalese prince smuggled him off before the explosion," the captain added.
Pachnall's sword flashed. The captain's body crumpled to the floor, beheaded. Every Aramach member in the vicinity shook, secretly glad they were not in charge of the failed mission.
The leader lowered his voice to a haunting warning. "You all are fortunate that he did survive, else I'd feed you all to the crows."
"We won't fail you again, Boss," someone murmured, nearly inaudible.
"Like hell you won't!" Pachnall shouted. "Because of your sorry mushes, our goal is set back for months, years even. All of the Empire will be on high alert. And do you even think that damned Inquisitor will let anyone near the Emperor now? It took thirty of you self-sacrificing as cannon fodder just to draw her off his ship! She'll hardly leave his side now, and when she does, she'll have his security unreasonably high for months."
Pachnall licked his lips before continuing his rampage. "And that's not the worst of it, either. Our man on the inside will have to lay low indefinitely. He'll be lucky if they don't catch him and execute him. That was a sacrifice he was willing to make, but if he dies in vain because you couldn't capture a whelp in nice clothes, his blood will be on your hands! All of you!"
"...I can live with someone's death on my conscience, Boss."
That talk-back was a mistake, but fortunately for the speaker, not a deadly one. Pachnall struck his kneecap with the pommel of his blade, shattering the bone. The man crumpled.
"Our spy's funding and protection is the very reason the Aramach exists. If not for him, you'd have already dangled from the hangman's noose, Harris. So show a little respect."
"...So how do we fix it, Boss?"
Pachnall shook his head and, much to the relief of everyone watching, sheathed his sword.
"For starters, we need to move the Artigo out of this area. They'll be combing this location in days, especially now that both Uraya and Mor Ardain are at each other's throats. We'll find a new spot to dock. And then we pray that the distractions of a certain wedding keep suspicions away from our benefactor. And us."
"Master."
Despite Pachnall's terrifying personality, only one member of the Aramach addressed him with such austere formality: Ciaran. The Blade dwarfed his Driver—and anyone, really—in both girth and height. He was so large that most people expected his weapon to be a greataxe or at least a greatlance, not the thin, gleaming rapier-like sword that Pachnall wielded so easily. But Ciaran's massive stature was the only thing about him that did not appear Ardainian, like his Driver. That and his deep, aubergine eyes, which matched his shimmering core crystal. Even though Ciaran himself said very little and maintained a thick aura of mystery, it was no secret that his deep purple ether, whether directed at an enemy or used to hide the Aramach, was deadly. As such, most of the Aramach avoided him.
"Ciaran," Pachnall said, some of his anger fading from his face. "Please tell me you have some good news."
"That remains to be seen. There's a call set up for you on our secured line. I cannot keep it untapped for long, so I recommend you accept it immediately."
"Right. Who is it?"
"Your brother, Master."
For the next several weeks, Alba Cavanich quivered with excitement, some of it good and some bad. The bad, nervous excitement stemmed from the current relationship with Uraya. Most citizens did not find it particularly worrying; after all, many had never lived in a time when "tensions" with Uraya did not exist. Had it not been for the fact that Uraya captured Rex, the public might have paid the conflict no mind. But since Rex had been kidnapped, the affair became something of a national talking point. News—or lack thereof—regarding his captivity echoed throughout the capitol. And the throne received daily recommendations on how to recover him.
Niall's counselors, as expected, refused Uraya's demands immediately. Uraya, in turn, refused to return Rex and his companions. This standstill left an uneasy excitement filtering through the capitol. That anxiety was tempered by the city's good excitement: anticipation for the upcoming wedding ceremony. Preparations began in earnest. Decorations appeared everywhere, including fresh flowers, all replaced daily to greet the stream of guests and foreign dignitaries that would attend. The Fire Dragons arrived in Mor Ardain with exotic ingredients and cookware in tow. Hardhaigh's symphony orchestra resumed rehearsals for the first time since arriving at Elysium.
Even if Niall had endorsed a rescue mission in Urayan territory, Mòrag would have been hard-pressed to execute one herself. Every day, countless decisions confronted her: some critical, some seemingly frivolous. She never predicted that in the span of a single morning, she would draft a letter of dismissal to a military supply master, finalize a banquet menu, select four new Drivers and Blades for Niall's personal guard (and convince Aegaeon that those guards' appointments were a precaution, not an affront to the Blade's skill or loyalty to protect the Emperor), and pick which napkins and silverware she preferred. When possible, she deferred most of the decisions about the wedding to Brighid; she had far more pressing matters to attend to. And the thought of sampling icings while Rex, Pyra, and the others waited in an Urayan holding cell made her sick to her stomach.
But for several weeks, Niall stubbornly attempted to negotiate with Uraya, and Mòrag juggled the contrasting responsibilities of her stations as imperial princess and Inquisitor. It left her with precious few moments to spare. The few free evenings she did have were spent in the gardens with Zeke. Typically, Mòrag said little, focusing on the soothing feeling of earth between her fingers or the calm rhythm of pulling weeds and planting seeds. Her focus came in handy, though, as Zeke often told stories complete with dramatic gestures (and very little garden work): how he escaped a den of one hundred Ignas, his three-day stint as a rookie in the Urayan military, the mass he interrupted while searching for Turters at the Praetorium—the list was endless, and each tale was funnier and unluckier than the last.
If not for a nagging feeling of guilt over Rex's delayed rescue, the pair of royals might have called those evenings perfectly peaceful. Neither was much of a gardener—true to his unlucky nature, Zeke once poured on weed killer instead of water, killing much of the flower bed. But two plants survived: a single dawn hydrangea bush and one moon flower plant. Little buds soon peeked out from among the leaves. The first flowers would bloom by the wedding day.
Roughly a week before the big event, Hardhaigh Palace began to hum like an anthill. People scurried about at all hours, working relentlessly. Historically, Mor Ardain's wedding ceremonies had always been stately, opulent affairs; emperors spared no expense. And Niall never explicitly told his staff how much gold and resources to dedicate to preparations for the ceremony. Most palace workers interpreted that silence as license to pour as much into it as they desired. And the capitol's master crafters, chefs, musicians, tailors, and artisans all utilized that opportunity to unleash their most ornate, inspired projects.
The seamstresses responsible for Mòrag's wedding dress were no exception; they managed to schedule her final dress fitting far sooner than she expected.
She sat at her desk, trying—and failing—to sift through piles of paperwork while the three seamstresses set up their supplies in her dressing room. Like so many staff members in the palace, they prattled on about the coming festivities. It was not a conversation she intended to join. Thankfully, Brighid chatted with them politely while they worked.
A knock sounded at the door. Great, another distraction.
"Brighid, whoever that is, please send them away."
The dull murmur of conversation told her that Brighid was attempting to abide by her request; the continued murmur, however, showed that she had little success. Mòrag sighed and went to the door.
"Hey, Mòrag."
"Zeke. What is it?" Mòrag asked as Brighid returned to the other room. Of all the interruptions she could experience, at least it was him. If she received another dumb question about wedding candles, she might just scream.
"I was just with Niall. He finally gave us the go-ahead to sneak into Uraya and rescue Rex and the others."
"That's good news."
"Yeah. I was beginning to worry that our friends wouldn't be able to come to the wedding. So anyway, I thought maybe we could plan out the rescue mission over lunch?"
"Can it wait until dinner? I'm a little busy right now," Mòrag sighed, not admitting that she would much rather go with him instead.
"I guess. What's going on?"
Mòrag rolled her eyes. "Edina is here for the last dress fitting."
"Sounds fun. Can I join?"
"I think you know the answer to that."
Zeke smirked. "Let me guess: Mor Ardain has a superstition that seeing the bride's dress before the big day gives scary bad luck, right?"
"Precisely," Mòrag said. A feeble laugh slipped out. "Although I suppose marrying you, I'm already doomed to bad luck, so I'm not entirely sure what difference it makes."
Zeke laughed. "Brighid would probably chase me out anyway. So I'll just wait for the big day. I'm sure it'll look great."
"There's only a week to go." Mòrag shook her head. A week. Where had the time gone?
"All of the chaos with Uraya made it go by really fast, eh? Honestly, I'm starting to get nervous."
Mòrag nodded. She could hardly believe what she said next. Perhaps it was the stress of the week, or the looming deadline of the ceremony itself. Or maybe she felt guilty that Zeke had saved Niall and she'd hardly expressed her gratitude properly. Or was it the look in his eye when he admitted that he, too, was nervous? Or that he had managed to make her laugh in spite of her stress? And then there was his smile when he laughed—had it always looked so warm?
Regardless of the reason, the sentence slipped out before she could stop it:
"You know, we never did practice that kiss for the wedding."
Her cheeks burned the instant the word "kiss" rolled off her tongue. And judging by Zeke's expression, he was equally shocked that she'd said it.
"I guess we are running out of practice time," Zeke replied. "D-do you want to—"
Her lips interrupted him. Her own aggressiveness startled her; it was not her intention to initiate the contact. And yet she didn't know which was worse: the awkwardness of talking about kissing or the actual kissing. She chose the latter.
It was sloppy and awkward...but not unpleasant. Warmth tickled in the base of her throat. But she pulled away as quickly as she began, the brazenness of her own actions sinking in.
What am I doing? Architect, this—I'm—he's—
"What's that scowl for? Is kissing me that bad?"
"No," she replied. Her voice was a pathetic-sounding whisper. She looked away. "I-I just don't understand, um, why I want to do that again."
Zeke gently pulled on her chin so she was facing him again. His lips curled into a small smile. "Maybe I can help you figure that out."
His lips found hers again, and this time, neither was in a hurry to pull away. The warm tickle in her throat soon spread to the rest of her body. You can't kiss him. You don't deserve him, the old voice nagged at the back of her mind. But for the first time, those taunts were overpowered by the pleasant feeling of his lips against hers, of his hand cupped against the back of her neck. She didn't understand the sensation, but she knew she wanted more of it.
A little whimper escaped her throat when Zeke finally broke the kiss.
"I gotta breathe, Flames." His laugh was quieter, higher than usual.
The warmth from the embrace quickly transformed into the heat of embarrassment. "S-sorry. I'm not very good at this sort of thing," she murmured.
"Nah, that was, uh, nice," Zeke replied, stroking her cheek. "We might wanna tone it down a touch for the kiss during the wedding, though. People might talk, you know?"
"Lady Mòrag, we're ready for—oh."
Brighid said nothing more, but her presence alone prompted Zeke to make a quick exit. After confirming that he'd see her for dinner, he scurried out the door. Once he was gone, the Blade's eyebrows shot up in an unvoiced, amused question.
"Not a word, Brighid," Mòrag hissed. "Just, ah, finish sealing some of that paperwork while I'm in there. Please."
Her Blade nodded, but the knowing smile didn't fade. Mòrag took a deep breath and walked into the dressing room, half praying that she wasn't still blushing. Brighid's reactions she could deal with. But a team of giddy, wedding-crazed seamstresses? She couldn't bear the thought.
Calm down, Mòrag. It was just a kiss, she told herself, trying to reassemble the passive, unreadable expression she wore for work. Yes, work. Responsibility. Even if kissing Zeke was nicer than expected, marrying him was still her job, her duty to Niall and Mor Ardain. That thought brought her back to the situation at hand: her dress for the wedding.
And that gown seemed to have materialized before her instantly. Wasn't it just a week or two ago that they'd measured her, pestered her with countless questions about the design? And yet here it was, mostly complete, despite the intricacies of its construction.
The head seamstress, Edina, beamed while Mòrag gawked at it. "My masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Shall we head behind the screen and try it on, dear? I want to see if there are any last-minute adjustments to make."
Mòrag nodded, but it would have made little difference if she did not respond at all; the seamstresses all pulled her to the changing area and set to work. Mòrag hated letting other people dress her; to her, it was one of the many excesses certain nobles and royals indulged in. But today, she was grateful for it. A few sections of the gown were still held in place by pins, and if she attempted to put it on without help, she would have pricked herself more than once.
A collective gasp echoed from the seamstresses when they stepped back to admire their work. And when Mòrag saw herself in the mirror, she understood why.
Every detail boasted masterful workmanship, from the flattering cut and understated train to the elegant, classic sweetheart neckline and every pure white stitch in between. Edina had, at Mòrag's request, ensured that long, lace-embroidered sleeves covered her arms. The master seamstress also pulled elements from the Peatopaz Reserve gown Mòrag wore at her birthday gala several weeks earlier; no doubt Edina wanted to stick it to her rival designer by "improving" on her designs. Most striking was the dress's same scooping back—a cut that was now all the rage among the Ardainian nobility—but rather than leaving her skin open to the air, Edina chose to frame it with a sheer layer of ornate lace.
Mòrag had never seen anything quite like that lace. At first glance, the white threading resembled the leaves and petals of traditional lace. But a closer look revealed thousands of tiny tongues of colorless flame, swirling about on the fabric in an intricate dance. No two fires looked exactly the same, and yet they all converged into a cohesive unit. The end result was a striking yet subtle tribute to the Empire's Flamebringer.
"Cora, go fetch Lady Brighid from the other room," Edina ordered. "Well, Lady Mòrag, what do you think?"
Mòrag truly did not know what to say. In truth, the dress was lovely. She never anticipated liking it. But something about wearing it now filled her with a complicated mess of emotions—anticipation, fear, nervousness, loyalty, regret, and perhaps now, a twinge of hope. But how could she possibly verbalize that, much less to the craftswoman?
Fortunately, Brighid's entry provided Mòrag an excuse not to answer. Her Blade, too, kept silent for a moment, gazing at her Driver with sparkling purple eyes. The corner of her mouth curved into a half-smile at the sight of the flame-lace encrusting Mòrag's sleeves. After she had walked a full circle and surveyed the entire dress, Brighid stopped and clasped Mòrag's hands in hers.
"That's my beautiful Driver," Brighid whispered. "If only the late Emperor could see you now."
If he were still alive, I wouldn't be wearing this, Mòrag thought. But she kept it to herself. "Please don't start crying on me, Brighid."
The Blade shook her head, smiling. "Of course not." She turned to the seamstresses. "Edina, you are a true paragon of your craft. Splendid, divine work."
The woman bowed. "I'm moved, Lady Brighid. The honor was all mine."
"Now, if you don't mind my asking, when you designed the gown, what did you have in mind for Lady Mòrag's hair and veil?"
"I assumed she would want to wear her usual style, so for the veil, I'd reco—"
"I think I'd like to wear my hair down, actually," Mòrag interrupted.
Every woman in the room raised an eyebrow, demanding an explanation.
Mòrag couldn't meet their gazes. "H-he likes it that way."
"Very well," Brighid replied. The flaming tips of her hair flickered. "Then we'll keep it simple. Perhaps a few flowers or a simple decorative pin."
Edina fidgeted. "Lady Mòrag, if I may, you haven't said much. Is the dress not to your liking? Do you need a spot altered?"
"It's lovely. You've exceeded my expectations, Edina. I just…"
She stared at the reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her—she was beautiful. But was she wearing lace or chains?
"Nervous? Well, my lady, who wouldn't be? It's your big day—lots of changes on the horizon."
"Please give us a moment, Edina," Brighid said, keeping her voice as polite as possible. Only when they were alone did the Blade speak again. "What's wrong?"
"...I'm not sure I can do this." She gestured to the gown, twiddling a section of lace in her fingers.
"You've never been one to back down from a fight before, Mòrag."
"This isn't a fight. Fights end. This marriage won't. For the sake of Mor Ardain, it can't."
"...You're feeling anxious because you haven't quite sorted out your feelings for Zeke."
Leave it to Brighid to cut directly to the core of her scrambled emotions. "Is it that obvious?"
"Mòrag, you're still as pink as a strawberry. Most people don't feel that embarrassed about kissing their fiancé."
"...You know better than anyone that I never really wanted to marry. I've always planned on doing so out of duty. But if I'm honest with myself, Zeke...he will be a better partner than I expected from an arranged marriage. He, well, he sympathizes with my past. He's far kinder than I expected. He makes me laugh. And for all his theatrics, he truly cares for his people."
"Sounds to me as though you like him after all. Perhaps just a little."
Mòrag sighed. "That's the problem. I don't understand how I feel about him. Am I a little fonder of him than I was at the gala? Yes. But are those feelings really mine? Or am I just tricking myself into feeling this way to protect myself, to make it easier to do my duty? I'm scared that I'm fabricating these emotions, and one day, I'll wake up and feel complete indifference towards him, or worse, hate him. Architect, how does anyone make an arranged marriage work?"
Brighid paused. "I have something I've been meaning to show you. Give me a moment."
Brighid walked into the adjoining room and sifted through the piles of her belongings. Normally, both she and Mòrag maintained a clean, orderly living space. But over the past several weeks, they began the process of altering their living arrangements. Brighid's belongings had been thoroughly upended—Mòrag's remained mostly intact, with a few pieces moved to accommodate minor renovations. Thankfully, Brighid had left the journal on top of an accessible stack, despite not writing in it for several days.
She leafed through the pages and found the entry easily. The spine practically fell open to the desired page. Just how many times had she herself read this section in the last week? She returned to Mòrag's side and set the book in her hands.
"Your journal? Brighid, I can't intrude—"
"Just this once, I'll make an exception," Brighid replied.
Brighid shared everything with her Driver. Well, nearly everything. Her journal was one thing she guarded closely. Judging by her entries, Brighid's former selves shared much of her personality: protective, loyal, calm, courteous—excluding her earliest interactions with Mythra during her resonance with Hugo—and terrifying when angered. Her relationship with each Driver was usually the same, too, with her public interactions being guarded and professional and her private ones unveiling her doting, almost motherly behaviors towards her partners. Reading her old journal entries, Brighid felt that she was intruding, eavesdropping on a relationship that wasn't quite her own. The thought of letting anyone else read them, even Mòrag, seemed wrong.
Mòrag had snooped once during the earliest days of their resonance. The passage she read was innocent enough, but Brighid overreacted. A twang of guilt still struck her for how she'd scolded her for intruding on someone else's privacy; Brighid had been too harsh on her, even though she was just a girl at the time. But Mòrag never touched so much as the journal's cover again.
And now, of course, there were more recent entries that she truly did not want Mòrag to see. This entry, however, was harmless, over a dozen pages ahead of the first Mòrag-era entry.
Mòrag frowned when she first looked at it. "This is your handwriting? But it can't be. Your script looks—"
"A lot like yours, or at least it does today," Brighid smiled. "As you know, Drivers influence their Blades a lot during resonance. It seems that my handwriting is one aspect of myself that changes. Penmanship was not a priority with some of my male Drivers. Go on, read it."
Amathatober 13, 4032
His Majesty is overjoyed today; his son Lord Eandraig has blessed him with his first grandchild, a healthy baby girl. At last, the royal family has another generation of heirs.
When His Highness Lord Eandraig married, I almost pitied him. He had never met Lady Morgan, and yet the Empire demanded that he marry for a strategic alliance. They married sight unseen. Oh, how they fought and bickered during those first few months. But over time, they resolved their differences and learned to love each other. They chose to.
That love was obvious on their faces when they first set eyes on their daughter today. They have chosen to call her Mòrag. The name suits her; she's beautiful. I can already see the strength in her eyes. I wonder if, someday after I return to my core, this infant princess will become my Driver.
I already feel the urge to protect her. But is that because I am her grandfather's Blade, and my Driver would protect her, too? Or is it more than that? Will we share resonance? If our futures connect, then I will not dissent. I believe a child borne from such unlikely yet fierce love would make a fine Driver.
Mòrag said nothing for a minute, processing what she read. "My parents...they were forced to marry, too? But I always thought—when my mother died in childbirth, Father was heartbroken. They always seemed blissfully in love."
"Because they were. Just not at first."
"...Thank you for showing me this."
"I have always admired your dedication to Mor Ardain, Mòrag. Clearly, your father instilled that in you. And I'm praying that someday, I can write another entry like this, but about you."
"Somehow, you knew that I'd be your Driver."
"I've thought about that a lot, actually," Brighid replied. "Do you remember when Azurda asked Rex if he was ready to be Pyra's 'True Driver?'"
"Just before we found the third sword. I remember."
"I've often wondered if that's a phenomenon limited to Pyra. But what if every Blade is destined to have one True Driver over the years? One whose resonance is more powerful, deeper, more meaningful and fulfilling than any other Driver's," Brighid began. "Take Jin and Lora, for example. My writings from that lifetime are incomplete, but I do know that they were truly inseparable, so deeply that he couldn't fathom losing her. Existing without her drove him mad. There's Pandoria and Zeke, too. Their relationship is similar; they keep each other alive. And while we can hope Pandoria's core will return to its normal state after Zeke dies, the greater likelihood is that he'll be her last Driver. And Aegaeon, well, he's never been very talkative, but judging by my journals, he was the most outgoing he ever was with Emperor Hugo. I'm sure there are others, too."
"And you think I'm your 'True Driver,' is that it?"
"Perhaps that's arrogant of me to say, but yes. I didn't write much as your grandfather's Blade. Your birth must have had quite the profound effect on me if I recorded it in my journal. Somehow I could sense that our fates would intertwine...And today, if I had to give up part of my core to keep you alive, I would."
Mòrag smiled and handed the journal back to her Blade. "I hope it never comes to that. There are still pages in that journal for you to fill. And I find it comforting to know that even after I'm gone, you'll still be here, protecting my country and my children, even if you don't remember me."
Brighid took back the book and clasped it shut. "Just promise me one thing, Lady Mòrag."
"What's that?"
"Promise me you won't let Zeke be in charge of naming your children. I refuse to resonate with someone named Zekenator Junior."
Mòrag let out a hearty, unrestrained laugh. Brighid's core tickled with warmth at the sound of it. Her Driver had not laughed like that in a long time. Brighid still disliked the thought of sharing Mòrag with anyone. But if Zeke could bring out more of those merry, almost child-like fits of laughter, then maybe it would be worth it.
