#I blame Sinna

[sinnabee]

here are most of the mermaid au doodles from the stream!! we've got baby sun and moon, aka guppy sun and minnow moon, teen sun and moon, and then on the last page a compilation of the rest, featuring TRAUMA and - at long last - mer eclipse!!! :D

[copaceticjillybean]

"Blitz ya say?" Jillian asked, as a look of amused understanding crossed her face, and she pointed towards the back wall, "Well, I *have* been expectin' ya, afta ya left such a sweet message on my wall ova there." she said, the tone of her voice playful and teasing, with just the lightest note of scolding mixed in. "I admit, I was jus' a little steamed when I saw the mess. But I can' lie, it was rather excitin', gettin' a note like that. Ya sure do make an impression, doncha?" she asked, before pausing as she heard him say he didn't know what the place was originally. "Well, I've been here the las' half century or so. But I know that not many imps come aroun' Pride much. An' considerin' some of the skeezoids what live in these parts, I can' say I blame ya much." She admitted. Blitz's nervous request for books caused Jillian's eyes to brighten, and her smile to widen and create an almost child-like excitement to appear on her face, "Oh hon, we have so many books like that! All kinds, too- romance an' mysteries' an' thrillas' an' horror, an'- oh you get the idea! We got plenty of books for beginna readas. An' we got some things that can help ya, if ya get ya lettas or numbas mixed up sometimes!" Jillian said, and she was already prepared to run off and grab a whole armful of said books...only to wilt into a state of confusion and worry, as Blitz suddenly seemed to change his mind. Normally, Jillian might allow him to go unchallenged- she understood that it could be hard, to risk failure in order to improve something that was a struggle. And she respected that people had to be ready, before they could try it properly. 'I don't think I'm your kind of people.'

THAT stopped that thought though, as her lips pressed into a frown. She reached a hand out, gripping Blitz by the chin and forcing the smaller imp to look her in the face. "Doll, I don' have a type'a people. But if I did, I have a feelin' you'd be closa to that 'type' than a lotta the sinnas I see on the day to day." Jillian said, her frown shifting to a warm smile, as she allowed her hand to fall from Blitz' face, motioning him to follow her. "So, why don' ya lemme show ya a few page turnas, an' we can find somethin' that might interest ya?" Jillian suggested, as she walked over to where some early young adult fiction was, picking up a paperback book with a rather frightening picture of someone wearing a horrific green mask on the front, the words 'Goosebumps: The Haunted Mask' printed on the front. "I have a buncha imps who come in from time to time, an' this series in one'a the mos' popular ones with 'em. An' this one has gotten an especially good reception, so I think it's a good place to start." She said, holding out the book to Blitz. "Ya can take it home with ya to read. Or, if ya like, I have some chairs ya could use an' jus' take a load off in. They're pretty comfy, if I do say so myself."

“It’s been a haaard days niiight, an’ I’ve been workiiiin’ like a dooog-~” Jillian’s voice sang along to her radio as she moved between the shelves to replace the returned library books, always flipping through the pages first, just to be sure they hadn’t been returned with anything too nasty left/written inside them.

“-but when I get home to you, I find the things that you do, will make me feeeel alri-woah!”

So caught up in her work and her singing, that Jillian hadn’t noticed someone had entered her library. Not until she’d been nearly knocked over. Luckily the book cart stopped her from falling over completely, but her books did still fly out of her hands and scatter loudly on the floor.

Placing a hand to her pounding heart, Jillian took a breath before turning to look at who’d bumped into her. She realized after a moment that what she'd bumped into had been a person. A person who was apologizing to her, and even asking if she was okay! "No worries doll, I'm jus' fine. Heck, if anythin', I should be apologizin' to you- I was so up in the clouds, I didn' even hear ya come in!" she said, an embarrassed flush to her cheeks as she kneeled down to begin picking up the books. "Heh, well, talk about startin' the day with a bang, huh?" she asked, chuckling softly at her own joke as she placed the gathered books back on the cart. Once she'd finished that and dusted off the front of her green wool pencil skirt and cream colored satin blouse, she held out her hand for the polite stranger who'd entered her establishment, her shiny red nails catching the light. "Well, now that we're both upright, lemme introduce myself an' welcome ya to Bibliotheca Pandemonium. My name is Jillian's Fitz, an' I'm the owner an' librarian of the place." Motioning around them, are the many tall and well-labeled shelves that held books of all genres and subjects, both fiction and non, Jillian folded her hands in front of her tilting her head to the side curiously. "So, ya have anythin' in mind I could help ya find, or wouldja like to jus' browse around?"

[dwellordream]

“…There is a real belief on behalf of a not insignificant subset of society that the medieval Church was a shadowy organisation dedicated solely to suppressing knowledge and scientific advancement. This is not true.

The Church was in all actuality the medieval period’s largest benefactor of scholars of all stripes. Initially, in the early medieval period much learning was focused in monastaries in particular. Because monks took a vow to eschew idleness, they were always looking for new ways to work for the greater glory of God, or whatever. Sometimes this took the form of doing manual labour to feed themselves, but as monasteries such as Cluny rose to prominence they did more and more work in libraries as well.

Monks copied and embellished manuscripts and kept impressive libraries. Sometimes this work took place inside what we call “scriptoria” where more than one scribe is working at a time. They saw themselves as charged with transmitting knowledge. A lot of that knowledge was, of course, pagan, because they were extremely into classical thinkers. They were also reading this work of course, and writing their own commentaries on it. Many of them took the medical texts and used them to set up hospitals within their monasteries, as we have talked about before.

Lest you think this is all one big sausage fest, women were also very much about that book life within nunneries. They also had their own scriptoria and were busy scribbling away, reading, writing, and thinking. If you wanted a life where you strove for new scholarly heights, odds were that in the early medieval period you did that inside a monastery on nunnery.

As the medieval period moved on, scholarship eventually moved out of the cloister and into cities when the medieval university was established. The first degree awarding institution to call itself a university was the University of Bologna established around 1088, though teaching had been going on there previously and students had been going to Bologna from at least the late tenth century. Second was the University of Paris, which was established in 1150. Again teaching had been happening there from much earlier, and at least 1045.

Medieval universities weren’t like universities now, in that they didn’t have established campuses or anything like that. They were, more or less, a loose affiliation of scholars who would provide lessons to interested students. The University of Paris, for example, described itself as “a guild of teachers and scholars” (universitas magistrorum et scholarium).

In Paris there were four faculties: Arts, Medicine, Law, and Theology. Everyone had to attend the Arts school first where they would be asked to learn the trivium, which was comprised of rhetoric, logic, and grammar. Basically that meant all undergrads spent their time learning to argue, which is how the whole Abelard thing comes about. Then if they wanted more they could go do medicine, law, or theology. Theology was considered the really crazy good stuff, as medieval theologians were sorta held up in the way we worship astrophysicists like Neil de Grasse Tyson (ugh) or Stephen Hawking now. But if you wanna be a dick and super modern about it and think that nothing is more important than science, you will note that medicine is there and actively pursued.

So what, what does all of this have to do with the Church not being suppressive? Well literally everyone, both scholars and students in a medieval university was a member of the clergy. That’s right. Are you a Christian and you wanna learn about medicine? Well you need to take holy orders first. So every single scientific advancement that came out of a medieval university (and there were plenty) was made by a man of the cloth.

The quick among you might have spotted that the thing about unis is that they were just for dudes though, and that is lamentably true. Women weren’t able to take the same orders as men, which means they were excluded from university training. Plenty of them got tutored if they were rich. (See poor Heloise who just had Abelard, like, do himself at her.) Otherwise there was plenty of sweet stuff going on in nunneries still and always, as the visionary natural biologist Hildegard of Bingen can attest. Monasteries were also still producing good stuff as Thomas Aquinas would be happy to let you know from the comfort of his Dominican order.

Given that all of this is the case, it’s hard to square that circle of “the Church is intentionally suppressing knowledge!” with the fact that everyone actively working on acquiring and furthering knowledge was a member of it and all. The Church was a welcoming home to scholars because it was a place where you got the time needed to contemplate subjects for a long time. If you have your corporeal needs taken care of, then you can go on to think about stuff. The Church offered that.

Having said all of this, there were, of course, plenty of Jewish and Muslim scholars at work in medieval Europe as well. The thriving Jewish communities of the medieval period had their own complex theological discussions about the Talmud, and produced their own truly delightful sexual and scientific theory that I will never tire of reading.

I’ve also talked at length about how Islamic medical advances were very much taken on board by medieval Christians in Europe. The fact that the Christians in holy orders beavering away at the medical faculties of universities across Europe were very much looking to a Muslim guy called Ibn Sinna for medical knowledge makes it hard to see the Church as an oppressive hater of all things non-Catholic. I’m just saying.

What else is at play here? Meh, society writ large. A lot of us in the English as a first language speaking world, and in northern Europe more generally have been raised in a Protestant context even if we ourselves are not Protestant. The thing about that is Protestants, famously, is that they are not huge fans of the Church. Big news, I know. In the Early Modern period this could get kinda wild, with things like the Great Fire of London being blamed on a nefarious “Papish plot”, for example, becoming a nice early example of a conspiracy theory. (That conspiracy theory was still written in Latin at the based of The Monument built to commemorate the fire until 1830 when the Catholics were officially emancipated in Britain. LOL.)

When the whole Enlightenment thing went down, generalised distrust of Catholics was then later compounded by the fact that “serious” thinkers aka Voltaire’s ridiculously basic self began to categorise the accumulation of knowledge specifically in opposition to religious thought. This is the old “Age of Reason” which we currently allegedly reside in, versus the “Age of Faith” idea. The Church as an overarching institution from the age of faith was therefore thought of as necessarily regressive, and it became assumed that it has always been actively attempting to thwart advantage for vaguely sinister reasons that are never fully articulated.

…Now, plenty of people were killed for witchcraft because they were doing medicine. The witch trials were a very real thing, and you know when and where they happened? In the modern period, and usually with a greater regularity in Protestant places. Witchcraft trials peak in general from about 1560-1630 which is the modern period. The most famous trials with the biggest kill count took place in Trier, Fulda, Basque, Wurtzburg, Bamberg, North Berwick, Torsåker and Salem. You know what was going on in most of the places? The Reformation. Witch trials sort of reflected various confessions of Christianity’s ability to effectively protect their flocks from evil. Did Catholics kill “witches” oh you bet your sweet ass they did. So did Protestants, and it was all fucking ugly.

What is important to note is that in countries where Catholicism was static witch trials were largely unheard of. Ireland, the Iberian Peninsula, and Italy, for example, just didn’t go in for them even though they were theoretically in the clutches of a nefarious Church bent on destroying all medical knowledge or something.

Now, none of this is to excuse the multifarious sins of the institutional Church over the years. In many ways my entire career as a medieval historian is a product of the fact that I was frustrated with the Church after 16 years of Catholic school. If you had to go to a High School named after the prosecutor in the Galileo trial, you might also end up devoting yourself to picking intricate theological fights with the Church, OK? (Yes, this is my origin story.)

And that brings us to the crux of the matter: if you make up a bunch of stuff that the Church did not do it makes it harder to critique them of the manifold things they actually did do and are doing right fucking now. We need to be critiquing the Magdalene Laundries; the international cover up of pedophile priests; signing an actual concordant with Nazi Germany; the regressive attitudes towards abortion and contraception that happen still, now, and endanger the lives of countless women. All of this is real, and calls for the strongest possible condemnation.”

- Eleanor Janega, “JFC, calm down about the medieval Church.”

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 56

Masterlist

A/N: We're so close to the end, guys!!! I can't believe this is almost done.

----

The dinner has been going on for over two hours already. It is a formal event, with everyone dressed in their finery, even though there are only four people in attendance.

Nakia’s chosen successor, a woman named Zarina, died in battle three weeks ago, and now that Nakia has chosen a new successor, tradition demands that she introduce the woman to her fellow queens. She announced her choice yesterday, and now, for the five following evenings, her and her chosen heir will dine with each of the other queens in turn. With Angolere being one of the most influential human countries alongside Scythia, it is Andromache the first dinner is held with. She was allowed to bring one companion, and as her own successor, Ania, is busy elsewhere, she chose Mor.

The dinner has been a tense affair so far, though more because of the nature of the meeting than because of the company. It’s meant as an opportunity for Andromache to get to know Elmira, Nakia’s successor, and so the conversation is more of an interrogation.

“And how do you feel about the treaty for after the war we are currently working on?” Andromache asks between bites of her dessert.

Elmira shifts a bit in her seat, whether from a show of nerves or restlessness, Andromache cannot tell. Either way, diplomacy isn’t her greatest strength, as Andromache has been quick to notice. It isn’t necessarily a problem – Scythia’s main role within the human realms is traditionally a military one – but it is of concern to Andromache, whose country is far more involved in foreign relations. She needs to know how well she will be able to work with Elmira, especially since the younger woman seemed rather brash even if she tries to hide it.

“I am unsure,” Elmira says. “There are many good things about it, but I’m other parts worry me. For example, I am in favour of the freed humans being granted territories of their own, but I worry about them being so far away from each other. Our countries all border each other, but these new countries, while relatively big, will be scattered throughout Fae territory. Should they be attacked, getting help to them will be difficult.”

Andromache nods. That has been a common cause of worry amongst the human leadership, and it makes sense for someone as involved in the military as Elmira to bring it up. “And what would you propose instead?”

Elmira hesitates. Very clearly swallows the reply she had on the tip of her tongue and instead says, “I have no viable alternative, I am afraid. It’s just something we will have to keep in mind, but I don’t like how this leaves us at the mercy of the Fae.”

“A valid concern,” Andromache says. “Ideally, human and Fae countries are supposed to grow together more closely over the next years through trade and diplomatic relations.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Elmira mutters. Nakia shoots her a disapproving look and she quickly adds, “I mean, it’s not necessarily a bad idea, just very optimistic? Don’t get me wrong, I have worked with Fae in the cavalry, and they aren’t all horrible, but it’s the Loyalists who worry me.”

“We’ll certainly have to remain on our guard,” Andromache concedes. Elmira makes good points, although Andromache probably wouldn’t take her along the Alliance meetings anytime soon. “What would you suggest as possible precautions we might take?”

From there on, the conversation continues in the same manner for about half an hour. Elmira does a good enough job. She raises many valid concerns, although she tends to miss out on nuances and the reasons why certain ideas are not viable, but she always listens when Andromache corrects her, which is the important thing here. Being wrong is no problem – insisting on an opinion after having been proven wrong would be.

As the dessert is being cleared away, Elmira takes her leave so that Andromache and Nakia can discuss the meeting in private. Mor is about to leave as well, but Nakia motions for her to remain seated.

“Stay,” she says. “I have another subject to discuss with Andromache, and your input might be needed.” Mor sits back down, and Nakia turns to Andromache. “What do you think?”

“She’s talented enough,” Andromache says. “A good leader, from what I hear, and she already seems to have more talent at military strategy than me.” Elmira spent the last few years of war leading one of the flanks of Nakia’s cavalry and made quite a name for herself doing it. “She’s a bit too brash, but given time, I’m sure she will grow out of it.”

Elmira is not necessarily the choice she would have expected Nakia to make – too wild, too young, for the other queen’s taste – but Andromache has no concerns that would be major enough to withhold consent.

“If you want to choose her, you have my blessing,” she says. “But Nakia, are you sure you want to leave your country to someone this young? She’s only twenty-five.”

“I don’t exactly plan on dying tomorrow,” Nakia replies dryly. “Besides, Elmira is fully qualified. She studied and served her time in the army.” She picks up a cup of tea and takes a sip before glancing at Andromache again. “And twenty-five is the age you were when the war began, Andromache.”

Andromache sighs. She knows this and certainly doesn’t want to imply that Elmira is incompetent, or that Nakia chose badly. It’s just that Elmira is so young. It might be that Andromache first met her when she was still a teenager, but she has a hard time imagining her as a ruler.

“The age Miryam is now,” Mor adds unhelpfully, making Andromache wince.

She generally tries to ignore the fact that Miryam is actually almost seven years younger than her. Miryam certainly doesn’t act like it, and thinking too hard about it only makes Andromache feel bad about… well, a few things, really.

“Now that you mentioned Miryam,” Nakia interjects, firmly shifting the subject away from her chosen successor’s age, “that was actually the other subject I wanted to discuss. You two wouldn’t happen to know what her plan for the Black Land is, would you?”

Andromache quietly shakes her head, Mor mirroring the movement. Miryam and Drakon announced their plan to march on the Black Land earlier today, causing no small amount of confusion in the council. It is no secret that Drakon won’t ever be able to muster enough soldiers to take the Black Land, yet they didn’t request aid from the Alliance, which was enough to raise alarms with Andromache.

“Great,” Nakia says. “And you have no idea why she’s refusing the Alliance’s help either, I assume?”

“I’m sure she has a plan,” Mor says.

“It doesn’t matter how good her plan is – she should still have enough soldiers with her, if only as back-up,” Nakia replies. “She spent nine years working for this. I simply don’t believe that she would start getting cocky and throw all caution to the wind this close to the end. There’s some reason behind this, and I want to know what it is.”

“You could ask her?” Mor suggest. Her tone is just light enough that Andromache can’t quite tell if she is being ironic or not. She decides to interpret it as irony and grins at her.

“Or we could try to track down a seer somewhere and see if they can tell us. Might be more likely to get us answers.”

Nakia snorts and Mor seems hesitant for a moment before smiling back at her.

Andromache grins as well, but quickly sobers up. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she says. “I wish I could come along.”

Truth is, she doesn’t know why she is this worried. Maybe she shouldn’t be. Miryam is acting strange, yes, but it’s hardly the first time, and so far, she always got herself out of any trouble she landed in. Maybe it’s some lingering guilt for letting Miryam deal with so many parts of politics (mainly the ones Andromache doesn’t want to deal with).

Or maybe it’s because Miryam and Jurian are painfully similar, and if this story ended badly for Jurian, there’s no saying the same won’t happen to Miryam.

“You are needed in Hybern,” Nakia says. “We can’t have you running around on the other side of the Continent, and we can’t spare anyone else, either. At least not anyone Miryam would listen to.”

“I could go,” Mor says.

“You?” Nakia raises an eyebrow.

“Why not?” Mor shrugs. “I’m not really needed anywhere, Miryam and I are friends and I’m powerful enough to be able to protect her. I could make sure nothing happens to her.”

Nakia shrugs. “Good idea. Why not.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mor,” Andromache agrees.

And it is a good idea.  Mor is a brilliant fighter, more than capable of protecting Miryam if necessary, and on top of that, she’s trained enough in Continental politics to be able to possibly figure out what reasons Miryam has for not wanting anyone from the Alliance with her.

Still, Andromache is a bit uneasy about this idea. Part of it is worry for Mor, but the other part… She hates to admit it, but she doesn’t feel like Mor if best-suited to this task. The problem, she thinks, is that Mor tends to be fooled quite easily by any act Miryam puts on.

She doesn’t blame Mor, really. Miryam is very good at pretending that everything is fine and she is perfectly in control – what happened with the wall spell effectively shattered that illusion for Andromache, but it’s still easy to fall for. And anyways, it probably won’t matter at all. Chances are everything will go well and she’s just fretting needlessly.

----

The timeline for their invasion ends up being far tighter than Miryam would have liked. The spell she plans to cast (hopes she won’t have to cast) needs to be cast at a full moon, so by the time the preparations are done, they have exactly eleven days left to get to the centre of the Black Land, or at least close to it. Either that or wait another month, possibly losing their advantage in the process.

It is a right timeframe, but Sinna says that it is manageable, assuming that Ravenia will withdraw her soldiers to protect her capital instead of trying to defend the outer towns – which is likely, since the majority of Ravenia’s army is still in Erithia and she will likely want to wait for them to return before risking battle. So eleven days before the full moon, Miryam, Drakon and two thirds of the Seraphim army leave their hideout in the mountains.

They reach the border of the Black Land a day later. Mor joins them just as they set up camp, dressed in ornate golden armour and with a bag slung over her back. When she spots Miryam and Drakon, she waves.

“Nice armour,” Drakon calls out to her. It is indeed. With the breastplate inlaid with gold and the shimmering swords Drakon gave to her for her birthday, she looks truly luminescent.

Mor grins broadly and hurries over. “Thanks. My uncle gave it to me.”

Miryam arches an eyebrow. “Your uncle not only allowed you to come along to this, but also gave you this fancy armour?” She laughs. “Are you sure he wasn’t replaced by some shapeshifter?”

“Yes, well…” Mor blushes. “I may have implied that I would report back to him on… you know. Things that might interest him.”

“Ah.” Miryam tugs a strand of hair back behind her ear, smile fading. “So you’re here as his spy.”

Mor blushes an even deeper shade of red. “Sorry. Yes, kind of. But if there are things you don’t want him to know, I won’t tell him.”

Miryam looks around to see if anyone is close enough to listen. Fortunately, no one seems to be in hearing distance. What is Mor thinking to address this subject out in the open? On the other hand, her uncle’s spymaster is one of her best friends, so maybe she doesn’t need to worry about being overheard.

“It’s no problem,” she says. “I doubt you’ll stumble upon any secrets I don’t want your uncle to know during this trip, but we can still talk it over once everything is done. Just to be sure.”

Mor nods, a relieved smile spreading over her face. Fortunately, that is also the end of this rather absurd conversation as Mor turns to Drakon and begins to ask about how things are going back in Erithia.

They cross the borders that night and things go smoothly for the first couple of days. Like Sinna estimated, Ravenia decided against defending her borders with the few soldiers she has left and withdrew her army to the capital. She probably hopes that Miryam will be busy working her way through the countryside long enough for her to bring up the rest of her army from Erithia.

Unfortunately for Ravenia, the local governments of her cities don’t seem particularly happy to be serving as a distraction for an enemy army. Undoubtedly, they know what they stand to lose if they fight, and that Miryam has a reputation for being extremely lenient with anyone who agrees to let their human slaves go.

Most of the villages they reach appear to be abandoned, the citizens likely fled from the approaching army, but when they reach the first city, it already has white flags hanging from its walls. The delegation the city sends to negotiate with her is all bows and pleasantries and they nearly fall over themselves in their haste to accept Miryam’s offer.

There are well over eight thousand slaves living in the city and every single one of them makes it out unharmed.

Miryam stands and watches as they walk out of the main gate in a huge group, crowded tightly together like they hope their numbers will offer security. They look so scared. Miryam certainly can’t blame them. They may have been told that they are being freed, may have heard of Miryam, but they still see an army of Fae soldiers waiting for them when most of them have no reason to associate Fae with anything other than death and suffering.

Miryam did her best to instruct the Seraphim soldiers on how to behave around the humans in advance – unthreatening, careful, polite and respectful being the key terms. Don’t touch people without permission, make sure to be clear that requests are requests and can be refused, keep your power in check. She has faith that the Seraphim will try their best, but she certainly doesn’t expect it to work out without problems.

As it turns out, she was right. For all that she tries to help, to calm people down and mediate, she can’t be everywhere at once and wherever she looks, things aren’t quite working out. She can’t even blame the Seraphim for not doing everything quite right, even if she occasionally feels like snapping at them for speaking too loudly or not keeping enough distance. The only humans they ever spent any amount of time around are the human soldiers fighting for the Alliance – Jurian’s soldiers, for the most part - and they are anything but scared of Fae. Besides, the Seraphim are soldiers in the middle of a war being made to deal with a group of terrified civilians, which would be difficult even under normal circumstances.

She really should have found a way to bring some humans along. But all the human armies were otherwise occupied and she didn’t want to put any civilians at risk by asking them to accompany her to a war front.

The only solution, Miryam and Drakon decide after the first hour made it painfully clear that their current approach isn’t working, is to mostly split the two groups. The army camp stays an army camp, and they set up a second camp for the humans next to it to mostly run itself. Miryam lets the humans select their own leaders, and then helps them with setting up a way to run their own camp – distributing food, sewing tents, digging latrines.

From there on, things get easier. Really, Miryam should have figured out this would be the better approach right away. Of course, these humans would prefer to be able to run their own camp and organize their own lives than to be helped by a bunch of faeries they neither know nor trust. Miryam would certainly have preferred it that way if she had been in their situation.

Things continue the same way as they march on. Each new group of humans integrates itself more easily, mostly because there are other humans to help them along. Miryam meets with the leaders the humans elected thrice daily to see if any problems come up, but there are hardly any, and if there is anything, the humans usually deal with it without needing any assistance.

Miryam spends most of her time in the human camp now (usually without Drakon, who doesn’t want to intrude on the humans). There is always some fire where she can sit, some people who are happy to accept her into their company. In the beginning, they treat her with a strange almost-reverence, which is more than a little uncomfortable, but things quickly get easier. She is one of them, after all, no different than they are. She isn’t special, she just happened to be the one lucky enough to get out.

While she is with them, it is easy to forget what is about to come. She is so happy, so relieved and so proud that there are times when she finds herself forgetting entirely where they are. Now, here with her people, it is so very easy to imagine the world they will build once Ravenia is defeated, and the idea that they might lose seems outlandish. Besides, everything is going well and with each day that passes without problems, it seems more and more like this luck will last forever.

Reality rears its ugly head on the seventh day when they meet the first resistance. They reached another city, this one called Rahine, set up their camp a mile or so away from the city walls and send a messenger to the city heads.

After a bit of back-and-forth, they decide to meet in the middle ground between the army and Rahine. No guards, four people from each side meeting in the exact middle. Miryam and Drakon choose Sinna and Mor to accompany them (the decision made partially because together, they should easily be able to fend off any attackers). Rahine sends four members of the city council, all of them High Fae and all glowering even before the meeting begins.

The introductions are done quickly enough, and Miryam recites the usual terms of surrender. The members of the enemy delegation let her continue before one of them shakes their heads.

“We have no interest in your offer. We will not surrender.”

Miryam knew it had to happen sometime. Still, her stomach twists. From the first day, she was scared of what would happen when the first city resisted – of the danger it would put the humans trapped in the city in, and of what she would have to do after the battle.

“Allow me to be entirely frank,” she says, “you don’t stand a chance and we all know it. We have more soldiers than your city has people, you cannot expect to win this. The terms I offer are beyond generous. You’d be mad not to take them.”

“Better to die than to surrender to mortal scum,” one of the councilmembers hisses at her, and, as if to emphasize her words, spits at her feet.

Miryam sighs. “If this is your problem, you are free to surrender to Drakon instead. Or surrender to Mor, if a faerie isn’t acceptable either and you will only accept defeat from a fellow High Fae. I don’t particularly care as long as my demands are fulfilled.”

This is completely ridiculous and unnecessary. It doesn’t matter that Miryam knew it would have to happen – some city was bound to test her resolve before they reached Lako, the Black Land’s capital. Still, Miryam hates this, hates that she already knows that this will only ever lead to hundreds of unnecessary deaths.

“No.”

Nothing she could say will change their minds, but still, Miryam gives it one last try. “You realize,” she says, “that you are the first city to fight back, and once we’ve defeated you – which, I guarantee you, we will – we’ll have to make an example out of you.”

“We will fight,” one of the councilmembers simply says.

Miryam nods, turning back towards their camp. “Then you will die.”

----

The battle is over, the outcome as predictable as the casualties were unnecessary. Drakon’s army lost less than two hundred soldiers. Enemy casualties are at least six times as high, plus several civilian deaths. The city leaders refused to surrender far too long, way after it was already clear that they didn’t stand a chance and it caused hundreds of people to die needlessly. Even worse, their insistence to fight a hopeless battle now forces Miryam and Drakon to make an example out of them.

They sit together with Sinna in a tent outside of the city where Drakon’s soldiers are just busy securing their position. The city council is already in custody and has been brought into the Erithian camp for safety, the captured enemy soldiers have been tied up and are kept under guard. Now, all that’s left to decide is what to do with the city.

“There’s a number of options,” Sinna says. She sounds casual, but Drakon knows her well enough to see the tension in her stance. She doesn’t like this either. “You could torch the city.” Drakon flinches, and she lifts her hands. “Without the people in it, obviously. Just the buildings. Or at least get the people out and allow the soldiers to loot for a few hours if that’s what you’d prefer. The soldiers would like that, I think. Of course, executions are always an option as well, but I thought you’d rather avoid that.”

Miryam doesn’t even turn from where she is standing at the tent’s entrance, staring over at the city. Drakon can’t tell if she is listening.

Sighing, Drakon turns back to Sinna. He knows what’s expected of him: To pick one of the options and do so quickly, without a fuss, the way a good general, a good leader would. Not to flinch from a hard choice. What would you suggest? That’s what he should ask, that’s the question that won’t make him seem like a child unable to make the necessary decisions to Sinna.

But it feels so wrong. There is no practical reason why this city needs to be destroyed – it’s just punishment, a political show of power. And Drakon doesn’t think that’s a good enough reason at all. If it was necessary to save the humans living in the city, he’d do it without hesitation, but they are already freed. They aren’t facing enemies there – this is a city full of terrified civilians that completely at their mercy, and Drakon doesn’t want to be unnecessarily cruel.

Still, wouldn’t some sort of punishment be fitting? These people are slave owners, they have committed such atrocities and never once faced consequences for them. They would deserve punishment. But because there are so many of them, there is no way they can ever be punished, no way any justice can ever be just.

There just isn’t a good option. Their ideal outcome would be that no one gets hurt. They leave with the freed humans, the Fae in the Black Land get to continue on with their lives, Ravenia gets exiled. But even that isn’t just. The Fae will just get away with everything they have done. How can that be justice?

The other option though… Well, Drakon tries to tell himself that if all goes well, no one will die. They will be uncomfortable, sure, but they won’t die. (Unless something goes wrong. Unless Ravenia decides to be unreasonable. Unless the spell Miryam has planned doesn’t work the way she intended.)

There is no perfect outcome, that much is sure. But randomly punishing the people living in Rahine certainly won’t make anything better.

“Is there no other way?” He asks.

Sinna sighs through her nose. “If there isn’t some sort of retaliation for this, nothing will stop the other cities from trying to resist as well. After all, why wouldn’t they? And while I am fully aware that this war isn’t about us, many of the soldiers do feel that this is some sort of revenge for them losing their homes.” She glances at Miryam who still doesn’t seem to be listening. “I know it isn’t, of course,” he says, “but that won’t keep them from growing dissatisfied if they don’t see their enemies punished in some way.”

He knew this was pointless, of course, but still he had to ask. Now he has his answer, though, and he can’t push further. Asking once is forgivable, but doing so again, knowing he’s risking more death and mutiny, would not be a show of mercy but of stupidity.

Only what is he supposed to do next.

“I can deal with it in your stead if you’d prefer,” Sinna says. “It will bother me far less than it would bother you.”

“No, I – “

“I’ll do it,” Miryam says from her place at the tent’s entrance, finally turning to face them. She presses her lips together, face grave. “This is my war. It’s only fair that I should deal with the fallout.”

-

They hold judgement the next day, on the battlefield between the camp and the city walls. The captured soldiers have been herded into a group at the camp’s border, the other prisoners – including the members of the city council – stand a good distance away, all of them chained up. The civilians have been ordered to watch, some standing on the walls, others down below. Drakon’s soldiers are positioned throughout, making sure that no one gets any stupid ideas. (The freed humans aren’t in attendance, although many of them are watching from their own camp, a safe distance away from their former masters.)

Drakon stands at the front of the assembled crowd, flanked by Miryam and Sinna. His role in what is to come is minor – all he has to do is watch without letting on how uneasy this entire situation makes him. It should be manageable.

Miryam waits until everyone is assembled, then steps forward.

“I will not bore any of you with unnecessary introductions,” she says, “as I assume everyone knows what happened yesterday, and why we are here today. Hundreds of people died needlessly,” she says. “I assume it goes without saying that there needs to be some sort of repercussion.”

Rahine’s civilians seem to get more nervous with each word. By the time Miryam comes to the word repercussion, many of them seem downright terrified and Drakon really wishes Miryam would make it clear that she doesn’t intend to kill any of them.

“But I realize, of course, that most of the people here did not have a say in this.” She smiles in a way that can only be interpreted as mocking. “I am sure that many of you were in fact fiercely against the choice your city council made and would have ended slavery years ago already if it had been up to you.” She pauses before continuing, serious this time. “And considering that we did manage to liberate the humans living in this city, and the large majority of them is unharmed, I have chosen to be lenient.

“The only people who will be punished are those who actually made the decision to resist.” She turns to face the members of the city council. “My lords and ladies,” she says. “I believe that decision was yours. I also believe that you made it knowing fully well that you stood no chance, and thereby deliberately caused any deaths that followed. Youare therefore sentenced to death.”

Drakon had told himself that he wouldn’t look at Rahine’s nobility as their death sentence is spoken, but he still finds his eyes straying towards them. They look so shocked. Some of them manage to keep their faces blank, but most seem caught somewhere between disbelief and terror.

Most of them, this much is obvious, didn’t so much as consider this outcome. Understandably so. While it is common in the aftermath of a successful invasion to punish cities or territories that resisted, that punishment doesn’t usually hit the nobility. It is the general population that suffers, while nobles are often offered a second chance by whoever defeated them.

Drakon finds Miryam’s approach far more just. That way, at least, the punishment hits the people who actually made the choice instead of the hundreds or thousands of people who weren’t given a voice at all. Horrifying as the entire situation is, this is the most merciful option by far.

Many of Rahine’s citizens don’t seem to agree. Muttering rises amongst the people on the walls, amongst the captured soldiers. Then, one voice rings out over the rest.

“This is unjust!” Someone shouts.

The muttering dies down, heads turning, eyes searching the crowd of captured soldiers for the speaker. Hustling ensues, then, a young man steps forward. He is trembling so hard it’s visible even from where Drakon is standing, but keeps his head high.

“This is war. We were fighting for our freedom,” he says. “You don’t get to name us murders, execute us and call it justice.”

Drakon looks over to Miryam to see how she reacts. She is watching the young soldier, not a hint of anger on her face. If anything, she looks vaguely curious.

“No,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “You weren’t fighting for your freedom. You were fighting for your perceived right to own other people as property, to take away their freedom and their lives. You are murderers and deserve to be punished as such, and the fact that you don’t see that only goes to show that you refuse to acknowledge an entire group of people as people for your convenience.”

She tilts her head to the side ever so slightly. “I’m not surprised by this,” she says. “However, I still thought you might agree with my judgement, if not for the sake of what is right, then at least as some sort of retribution for what happened during the battle.” Stunned silence falls. Miryam lets a few moments pass before she abruptly turns to the chained members of the city council. “My lords,” she says with a mocking incline of her head. “Would one of you be so kind to inform these people of what terms I offered to you during our meeting yesterday?”

The lords remain silent for a moment. Most of them don’t even seem to hear her, too busy staring at the ground or looking around for some kind of help. But then, one of them lifts her head.

“You demanded we free all slaves living in and around our city,” she says. Drakon remembers her from the meeting – she was the one who spat at Miryam’s feet. “We were to allow them to take any goods they could carry as compensation and sign a contract to never own slaves again and to not offer Ravenia assistance against you.”

Miryam nods slowly. Around them, the enemy soldiers and defeated civilians begin to mutter amongst themselves. Drakon frowns slightly at them. Could they not have known what the terms for surrender were?”

“Yes,” Miryam says. “That would have been the terms.” She turns back to the soldier who first addressed her. “Far more pleasant, I think, then getting killed in battle. And you lost more than two thirds of your numbers, didn’t you?” She asks. “And over two hundred civilians on top of that. And yet, it looks to me like your city heads who sent you to die in a pointless battle, knowing you could not win, are all still alive. As are their families.”

The muttering grows louder, making it sound like Drakon is standing in the middle of an angry swarm of bees. Now, most of the people seem angrier with their own leaders than with Miryam.

“You don’t seriously mean for us to believe that you are doing this for our sakes,” the soldier says, but he sounds unsure.

“No, of course not,” Miryam says, voice hardening. “In fact, you may rest assured that I will never do anything for your sake, or that of any other slave owner. I do not wish to harm you, although that is more out of personal kindness than anything else, and you might want to thank the god of your choice for this. Still, I guarantee you that we wouldn’t be having this conversation, or any conversation at all, if you had harmed the humans living in your city.” She looks around the crowd. “You are alive because they are, and because I do not enjoy repaying suffering with suffering,” she says. “It’s simple as that.”

No one questions her this time. Drakon doesn’t know if it is because the people are angry enough at their leaders that they now agree to their deaths, or if they are scared that Miryam will have the next one to argue executed alongside them. Either way, chances are word of this will spread. If all goes well, the leaders of the next city they reach will think twice before refusing them.

The city leaders are brought up to the city walls, nooses tied around their necks. Drakon knows he should be watching – this is as much his order than it is Miryam’s – but he has little experience watching executions and isn’t sure if he’ll be able to hide his unease, so he instead keeps his eyes trained on a spot on the city walls slightly left from the soon-to-be-dead Fae.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Fae be pushed forward. The bodies twitch for a while. Drakon very stubbornly does not look. Soon enough, they fall still.

Miryam is silent for a moment longer. Then, she raises her voice into the ensuing silence. “You may take them down and see to it that they get a proper funeral,” she says and turns away without waiting to see if anyone will follow her order. Drakon follows after her.

As soon as they are in their tent, Miryam rushes over to the bowl of water that has been set out on the table. She sprinkles a bit of water in her face, then starts rubbing at her hands like she is trying to wash off some invisible stain.

“I hate this,” she finally says, voice small. “I hate having to act like this.” She spins around, water splattering to the ground, and shakes her head. Strands of hair are coming loose from her braid. “I don’t want to act so indifferent, so cruel. These people deserve it, they do, but I…” She shakes her head. “Just because they deserve death doesn’t mean I want to play executioner. But if I don’t, they’ll think me weak, and then, things will just get worse and even more people will die.”

“I know,” Drakon says softly. He is well aware that Miryam needs to show resolve now so that later, when they negotiate with Ravenia, she will take any threats Miryam makes seriously. “But it’s almost over. We’re so close to winning.”

“I know, but I’m scared,” Miryam says softly. “Of what Ravenia might do, of what I will have to do if she refuses to surrender.”

Drakon doesn’t have a response to that – it scares him as well – so he just takes her hand.

----

The next cities all surrender without a fight, so what Miryam did in Rahine must have been enough to convince the leadership of the next cities that surrendering is the smarter option. (Miryam is glad. If another city had resisted, she would have taken more drastic measures, and she is certainly glad to have avoided it.) The further they advance, the bigger their group becomes, and the bigger it becomes, the slower they travel. They started out with a few thousand Seraphim soldiers plus a few hundred people working around the army camp. By the time they approach Lako, they have almost ten times as many people, far more civilians than soldiers by now.

Even better, the further the march, the more things seem to calm down between the humans and the Seraphim. The faeries are beginning to learn what they can and cannot do, while the humans grow more confident with each day that passes without incidents, and before long, the first mixed groups are sitting together by the fire, still tense but talking.

They move as fast as the size of their group will allow. There are other cities and villages to either side of their path, but they never try to take those. Much as leaving the humans there behind pains Miryam, they need to get to the centre of the country as quickly as possible. Then, things will either work out or they won’t, and no amount of fighting they do in advance will change anything.

They make it just in time. Having marched through the night, they set camp half a day’s march away from Lako on the morning before the full moon. While her tent is being erected, Miryam finds a messenger and hands him a letter he is to deliver to Ravenia.

Miryam already wrote it long before they ever got to the Black Land, but the rules demand that she only sends her request for a meeting now that battle between their two armies seems imminent. While Miryam was simply taking city after city, it would have been up to Ravenia to initiate negotiations, but now, Miryam is free to take the initiative.

Ravenia’s answer arrives within three hours. As expected, she agrees to hold the meeting and invites Miryam and Drakon to the palace come sunset.

Miryam nearly sags with relief. Had Ravenia decided to only receive them tomorrow, she would have had a problem. Holding the meeting before the full moon is vital to Miryam’s plan. Well, perhaps not vital, but it will make things easier in the long run if the assembled Black Land nobility heard the offer she made Ravenia as well as the queen’s refusal. Besides, she really wants to at least offer a surrender before having to resort to more drastic measures to get what she wants, even if she doesn’t truly believe Ravenia will take it.

There isn’t much left to do in preparation for the meeting, so Miryam and Drakon invite Sinna, Nephelle and Mor to their tent for a late lunch. It’s a light lunch, mostly vegetables and some corn bread to go with them. Still, Miryam only picks at her food, eats a few bites but hardly tastes it.

“So,” Mor says. “This is it.” She sits cross-legged on her pillow, golden hair tumbling loose over her back, and is currently wolfing down her second helping.

“Looks like it.” Miryam pushes a piece of paprika from one side of the plate to the other.

“Now that we are here, are you finally going to tell us what you have planned for when the negotiations go wrong?” Sinna asks.

Miryam shakes her head, even knowing that she isn’t being entirely reasonable. But she is nervous enough already, and having to talk her plan through with people who might not agree, possibly getting into an argument over it, will only make it worse. Besides, there is always the risk of being overheard.

Sinna must be thinking about that as well, because she rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Miryam returns to pushing her food around on her plate, leaving Mor, Nephelle and Drakon to hold the conversation, the latter evidently distracted as well.

After half an hour, Miryam gives up on her attempt to eat anything and pushes her plate towards Sinna who already finished her food. “Want mine?” She asks.

“Sure.” Sinna quickly switches their plates and starts wolfing down Miryam’s food as well.

“Are you sure you don’t want anyone to come along when you go to the meeting?” Mor asks. She had been eying Miryam’s uneaten food, worry drawing lines onto her face, and now looks up at Miryam.

“All the guards in the world won’t be able to protect us if Ravenia decides to attack us in the middle of her palace,” Miryam says. The words draw even deeper lines onto Mor’s face and she is quick to add, “She won’t, though. She’s far too attached to her particular brand of honour.”

Drakon nods. “We met with her before, and she never did anything.”

That settles the matter. Mor refills everyone’s glasses, then sits back down in her chair.

Sinna, Nephelle and Mor leave two hours before sunset, leaving Miryam and Drakon to get ready alone. They do so in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts. Miryam assumed she would be shaking with fear, but somehow, she is strangely calm, almost distant. She spent so long working towards this moment – it finally being there feels just as unreal as the idea of marching straight into Ravenia’s palace.

Drakon is quicker to finish dressing up, but his clothes are less complicated. Miryam chose a human dress, long-cut and with lots of layers, and she ends up needing his help to get into it. She vastly prefers the more modest human fashion to the revealing dresses the Fae tend to favour, although she usually wore Fae fashion to any political meetings. No longer, though. She is past the point of needing to play by their rules, and today, she doesn’t want to dress up as a faerie.

With half an hour to spare until sunset, they leave their tent. Both Seraphim and humans stop to stare as they walk towards the edge of the wards surrounding the camp. It seems like word of where they are going has already gotten around. Miryam takes Drakon’s arm and he winnows them both away.

They reappear one of the inner courtyards of Ravenia’s palace, one of the only places you can winnow into and reserved for foreign dignitaries. There are guards standing all around, hands on their weapons, but they make no move to intercept them. Still, just being back here is enough to make Miryam’s earlier calm evaporate. She grips Drakon’s arm a tad harder and can feel him tense as well.

One of the guards steps forward, their face obscured by a helmet, and inclines their head. “You may proceed to the throne room,” he says. No address. Chances are he isn’t sure which of them to address first, or how to address Miryam at all. “Her majesty says you know the way.”

Miryam gives him a curt nod and brushes past him towards the door leading into the palace. Ravenia likely meant to insult her by not sending an escort to bring her to the throne room, but she actually did her a favour. At least this allows Miryam a few moments to catch her footing before she faces the throne room.

The hallways they walk through are deserted, not a single Fae or human to be seen. Miryam glances over at Drakon who is walking next to her, wishing she could have kept holding his arm. She badly wants to say something to him, but she doesn’t doubt for one moment that they are being watched.

They pass the door leading down to the dungeon and Drakon’s steps falter. He pulls his wings closer to his body as he stares at the door. Miryam decides that she doesn’t particularly care if anyone watches and puts a light hand on his arm. Drakon tears his eyes away from the door.

“It’s fine,” he whispers, straightening. Miryam nods and they continue on towards the throne room.

There are two guards posted in front of the huge double doors. They do not stop Miryam and Drakon, merely reach for the doors, moving in perfect unison, and pushing them open.

Nervousness quickly shifting to fear, Miryam has to force herself to keep walking, to not pause in the doorway and take in the throne room she hasn’t seen in almost nine years. Back straight, pace unhurried, she walks through the doors and into the throne room, Drakon following half a step behind her.

She resists the urge to look around the throne room as she makes toward the dais, instead keeping her eyes trained on Ravenia. From what she can see from the corner of her eye, though, the room hasn’t changed much since she has last been here. The murals and carvings on walls and pillars are still the same, as are the courtiers. Fashion seems to have changed a bit, moving towards looser clothes, but the faces are familiar. Everything is just like she remembers.

She wishes it wasn’t. Maybe if everything looked different, this would be easier.

With each step she takes, her body seizes up further. Every instinct is screaming at her to cower, to duck her shoulders and bow her head. She manages to keep her back straight, but her posture ends up far too rigid and she doesn’t dare relax for fear of losing control of her body. Even her power seems to have disappeared, like it’s hiding from the woman sitting on the throne at the other side of the throne room.

This was a mistake. On neutral ground, she might be able to face Ravenia, but this is the heart of Ravenia’s territory. Here, Miryam doesn’t know how to be anything but a terrified slave girl.

She stops in front of the throne, just below the dais. Ravenia is lounging on her throne, absent-mindedly picking up dates from a plate a human slave holds out to her. All the while, though, her dark eyes remain focused on Miryam.

Drakon, who stopped half a step behind her, shifts a bit closer to her, either sensing her discomfort or feeling uncomfortable himself. His presence calms Miryam a bit – at least enough that she no longer feels like bolting.

“Go on, then,” Ravenia finally says, sounding almost bored. She crosses her legs at the ankle and rests her chin on her hand as if to show the entire world that she finds Miryam and Drakon only marginally more interesting than two bugs crawling at her feet. “Say what you have come to say.”

Miryam swallows. Her eyes travel away from Ravenia and towards the group of human children standing behind her throne. (Ti, the human boy they met when they were freeing Drakon, isn’t among them. Miryam didn’t expect him to be – she knows how quickly Ravenias slaves tend to die – but it still stings.)  All of them have their heads bowed, eyes downcast. Miryam could easily imagine herself standing there in their place.

The silence drags on too long. Miryam knows it is up to her to say something now, but the words won’t form. Behind her, the court begins to whisper, clearly wondering why she isn’t saying anything. She has to say something, but she just can’t –

“We’re here to accept your surrender,” Drakon says. Miryam makes to turn around to him, then stops herself.

Ravenia’s mouth twists into a smile and she lets out a soft laugh, her court quickly falling in. “Have you, now?”

It should have been Miryam answering Ravenia’s challenge, Miryam stating their demands. Damnit, this is not the time for her to start messing up. She breathes in. Breathes out and looks around the room, searching for something that might steady her.

What she finds is dozens of humans watching her. They are standing by the walls of the throne room, all of them dressed in servants’ clothes. And all of them are staring at Miryam, eyes wide and shining with hope.

They believe in her. They trust that she’s going to free them.

For them, Miryam can be brave.

Slowly, she looks back at Ravenia. “The terms the Alliance offers to you are favourable,” she says, actually managing to keep her voice even. “You will free every single slave living in your country and sign a contract that the Black Land will never again practice slavery. Every human will receive a certain amount of money or other goods as compensation, and a proportional part of the Black Land will be given to the humans to live in under sovereign human rulership. As for you…” Miryam falters, choking on the next words.

You will be allowed to live. Those are the terms she is to offer to Ravenia. She will be exiled, never to return to the Continent, but she will live, and this, Miryam isn’t sure she can bear.

She wants Ravenia to die. She wants her to die the way Clythia did, painful and slowly, and then, she wants her body burned, the ashes strewn into the wind, the bones dumped into the ocean. For what Ravenia has done, to her and so many others, she deserves that and worse. And Miryam cannot bear the idea that she will instead spend her time in exile on some pleasant little island, tended to by servants, while Miryam wakes up screaming every night for the rest of her life.

But this isn’t about revenge. It isn’t about Miryam at all. The reason she is here is to free her people, to get them out of this alive. That is the only thing that matters, the only goal she can consider. What does it matter if she will spend the rest of her life feeling Ravenia’s shadow looming as long as she manages that?

“You will abdicate,” Miryam continues. The words burn in her throat. “And you will be sent to exile. You will never again step foot on the Continent, but you will be allowed to live.”

If Ravenia is smart, she will take the offer. For a war like this, it’s highly unusual to allow the leader of the losing side to live. The only reason the exile is being offered is that Miryam knows that Ravenia would never take a deal that includes her own death.

“And you expect me to take this offer?” Ravenia asks lightly, as if she is amused by the mere idea. It seems her strategy for this meeting is to make it abundantly clear to the entire world that she doesn’t care what Miryam has to say, doesn’t take her seriously at all.

Not smart, then.

Some courtier behind Miryam snickers. She ignores it. Let them laugh. Should Ravenia refuse the surrender Miryam is offering, their laughter will die soon enough.

Today, they might mock Miryam, might laugh at the foolish mortal who dares challenge their leader. A few days from now, it will be Ravenia they think a fool for not taking the offer when she had the chance. Miryam gives them five days at most until they hate Ravenia for being too proud to surrender.

“You should,” Miryam says. “You won’t get a better one.” Slowly, she starts walking towards Ravenia. The guards standing in front of the throne tense but make no move to stop her. “You’ve lost, Ravenia,” she says softly. “I have beaten you at every turn. My Alliance has defeated your Loyalists, more of your allies surrender to me every day, your High Witcher is dead at my hands. I told you that you would lose, that you could only ever lose, that I would win against you, and I have. I also told you I would destroy you. I suggest you take my offer now, or I can guarantee you, I will do that as well.”

Now, no one is snickering anymore. Ravenia is still lounging on her throne, but her posture no longer seems relaxed. It’s more like she is frozen in place. After a moment, she stirs.

“A nice little speech,” she says. “I might even be impressed, if only you had the soldiers to back it up.” She offers a small smile. “Really, Miryam, if you were going to sell yourself for an army, you should have picked someone who at least has enough soldiers to pose a threat to me.”

Drakon tenses, but Miryam ignores the jab. It is a cheap attempt to get a rise out of her and as far as she is concerned, it isn’t worth a reply. Does Ravenia really think unfitting slavery-allusions will be enough to get her to snap.

“What makes you think I need an army at all?” She asks instead.

Now, Ravenia laughs outright. “You grossly overestimate how scared I am of you,” she says.

Miryam shrugs. Let her laugh. “This is over, Ravenia. You cannot be too blind to see it. Just take the offer while you still can.”

Not quite daring to breathe, she stares at Ravenia. Say no. The thought comes unbidden but all the stronger for it. Come on. Give me an excuse.

A heartbeat later, Miryam’s mind catches up and guilt rises, strong enough to drown out the anger. What is she thinking? She knows what will have to happen if Ravenia refuses, the lives that will be at risk and the ones that will be lost. No revenge in the world can ever be worth this. She didn’t mean that. She didn’t.

Ravenia rises. Slowly, she walks over the dais towards Miryam until there’s only a few feet separating them. Miryam resists the urge to take a step back and instead stares unflinchingly back at her.

“There seems to be some confusion on your part, so let me be entirely clear,” Ravenia says. Her voice is soft, but in the silent room, she might as well have shouted for how loud her voice rings. She takes another step towards Miryam who remains standing where she is – whether out of bravery or fear, she can’t say. “I will kill every single human under my rule before I let a single one of them walk free.”

“Is that your answer?” Miryam asks. Her voice is a tad breathless; her heart is thundering in her chest.

“Yes.” The word snaps through the room like a whip.

Miryam nods. “Then what comes next is on you.” With that, she turns around and walks back to Drakon. He nods to her and together, they walk back through the throne room. At the door, Miryam pauses and turns back to face the assembled crowd.

“Remember,” she says to no one in particular, “that I made the offer. Some of you might wish to reconsider your stance soon enough.”

----

The moon is full tonight. It hangs high in the sky as a silver orb, not a cloud to be seen, casting its cold light down on the sand below. It is the only one to watch as Miryam and Drakon walk away from the noise and activity of the army camp and out into the desert surrounding it. They’ve ordered their guards to stay behind, ignoring their complaints. For what’s about to come, it’s better if they are alone.

Miryam could have gone entirely alone, of course, but she wasn’t quite brave enough for it. She doesn’t want to be alone for this. Besides, should she lose control, Drakon is probably the only one who stands a chance of talking her down.

Miryam turns to him now. “You know what you’re going to do if things go badly?” She asks.

“I think it works best if I improvise,” Drakon says. The ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “A pity there aren’t any mountain goats around.”

Miryam laughs shakily. “If you’re lucky, you’ll find some antelopes.” She stops and looks around. They have reached a small river, branching off the bigger Klei river that supplies the entire Black Land with water. “Here, I think,” she says and lets the bag she packed slide off her shoulder.

She brought all of her spellcasting supplies, candles and bones, gemstones and salt. She takes care when setting up the circle, checking the position for each piece twice and drawing the symbols with steady hands. It takes twice as long as usual, and by the time she is done, her left arm is entirely stained in blood. Miryam double-checks everything one last time, then turns to Drakon. He has been sitting in the sand outside of the circle, watching, but now, he rises.

“Ready?” He asks.

Miryam nods, unable to speak. He nods back.

“You’ll manage,” he says. “I know you will.”

Miryam nods again. She has to manage. There is no other plan to fall back on.

A whispered word activates the circle. The flames flicker to life all at once, the gemstones start glowing. The moon has reached its zenith now, and Miryam can almost taste the power in the air.

She closes her eyes and thinks back to the throne room. Then, she pushed the memories away, locked them up. Now, she asks them in. For the first time, she truly allows herself to remember, remember each moment of pain and despair and suffering, all the death and blood. It hurts. It hurts so badly that she feels she might fall apart, but pain is fuel, as is the anger that comes next.

So Miryam lets herself burn, hotter and brighter. Only when she is so full of pain and anger that she feels she might combust right there, she opens her eyes and begins to speak.

The beginning of the spell is unusual. Normally, you start with a demand, some kind of declaration for what you want. This time, though, Miryam begins with a story. She begins with a feeling.

The strings quiver around her, shaken by the force of her emotions, waiting for her to tell them why she calls upon them. She bids them to listen. The story she tells isn’t a pleasant one. She speaks of death, of suffering and pain. Of injustice and slavery. Blood drips from her hand into the sand as she speaks, swallowed up far more quickly than natural; the words burn her throat.

Around her, the strings grow restless. Tell us what you want, they seem to ask, confused, but it isn’t them Miryam is talking to.

Under Miryam’s feet, a tremor seems to run through the ground. More and more strings manifest, glowing in the air around her, and Miryam feels like something is rising around her, watching, waiting. The power in the air increases until it feels like tons of stone are pressing down on her, until a frantic energy runs through her body.

Miryam barely dares to breathe. It’s working. It is truly working. She has called – and the land is answering.

The Fae might claim this land, this world, belongs to them, but it doesn’t. Maybe it belongs to the humans, or maybe it belongs to no one at all, but either way, it has a memory. And this land is drenched in human blood, its earth bursting with their suffering, the sand full of skeletons of humans. Their anger lingers, as does their pain, a restless energy that has never been let loose.

It remembers. It recognizes the story Miryam tells. And it answers.

She could have sworn there are eyes watching her. It is a comforting thought – that all these humans who came before her are here, watching her, helping her. Maybe finally getting their revenge.

The strings are still waiting, impatient. There are more of them than Miryam has ever seen, the air so full that Miryam can no longer make out her surroundings. Miryam pauses for a moment to look around, to take in the power thrumming through the air, the anger and pain cursing through her, echoed by the land.

Miryam draws her knife from her belt and runs it over her arm, causing fresh blood to well up. It drips into the sand, red on gold, and the earth that is so drenched in human blood already rumbles in answer. Miryam can’t tell if it’s truly the spirits of dead humans answering or the land itself, but whatever it is, it is angry. It has had enough.

When Miryam finally makes her demand, the strings jump to do her bidding. They move into place more easily than ever before. All it takes is for Miryam to nudge them and they move into the right direction, the land still rumbling under her feet.

It’s so easy. Miryam doesn’t need to turn the land against the Fae because it already hates them. Its anger overshadows even her own, the sum of millions of people, millennia of suffering. All she needs to do is point its anger into the right direction, tell it what to do, weave helpless fury into a plan.

The power around her surges. Miryam is vaguely aware that there is blood running out her nose, out of her eyes and ears. Power is thrumming through her, drenched in pain and anger and a revenge that never happened.

Again, blood runs down Miryam’s hand and drips into the sand. This time, it isn’t swallowed by the earth. Instead, more blood seems to well up from there, like a great wound is bleeding under Miryam’s feet. It runs over the sand in a small stream until it reaches the river below.

The water turns red. It spreads far more quickly than blood normally should. Miryam blinks once and the stream is entirely red, like the earth is spitting out all the blood it had to soak up over the years. It runs down the small river, turning it red as it goes, until it reaches the river Klei. From there, it continues to spread.

By the time the circle around Miryam flickers out and she slides to the ground, Drakon rushing over to catch her, every stream and river in the Black Land is already running red with blood.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @femtopulsed @aileywrites

[copaceticjillybean]

Jillian's patient eyes grow hard, and for a moment, it's clear how tired this kind of talk makes her. It's a never ending circle of blaming one side and never even making a token effort to see the other. Black and white with no middle part of gray, all anger and hatred with no compassion left. ...but she didn't yell, didn't get angry. Because that wouldn't work, not with someone like Adam. Not with someone who's anger clearly came from a place so deep down inside him that it had formed deep roots. Roots that had stitched through him and rotted into a festering infection of hatred and bias. "...I'm not Eve." Jillian said the words calmly, but the warmth had been tempered, "Ya keep bringin' Eve eatin' that damn apple up as though we all were there cheerin' her on. But not a single sinner here was there pushin' her to do it Adam- only Lucifer, Lilith an' Eve deserve hatred for THAT little hiccup in the plannin' of mankind." Jillian said, before her frown deepened. "An' I genuinely am sorry ya girls died. I can' imagine how it musta hit ya. But I wasn' in that fight either- I wasn' stupid enough to go fightin' angels if I didn' have to." Jillian paused, taking a deep breath before looking the first man dead in his eyes. "But it's foolish for ya to be angry at people defendin' themselves. When ya were booted out of Eden, did ya lay down an' accept the earth tryin' to kill ya? Did ya not claw yaself through that life tooth an' nail, despite it bein' a Hell compared to what ya had in Eden?" Jillian asked, narrowing her eyes. "Humans got that too- we fight, even when we're in Hell. Ya may disown us as jus' dirty rotten sinnas who don't deserve to be spat on by you an' ya girls, but ya gotta be outta your mind to think we'd ever lay down an' show our bellies for death. An' I know ya got more smarts than that in ya head." Jillian tossed the rag down, never breaking eye contact. "Every sinna isn' Eve. Every sinna isn' Lilith. Every sinna isn' Lucifer. An' the Princess bein' happy that YOUR people didn' kill quite as many of HER people as they usually do, on a surprise Extermination no less, isn' some huge spite against ya- it's how people who survive a war act."

With a huff, Jillian walked off, gathering a good half dozen cookies and setting them before the first man, before plopping onto the floor and crossing her arms over her chest. "Well mission accomplished- ya got me poutin' now."

" Eve hates the Exterminations, but guaranteed, the sinners would piss themselves with joy if they came up with the Exterminations first.

They're not innocent, they're damned for a reason. They won't hesitate to kill someone to save themselves.

This is the price they pay for having free will. They chose Hell."

[miranda1x1s]

“I’m so sorry I’m jealous… It’s such an ugly feeling.” sinna

It was really frustrating for Sinclair that they were in this situation at all. Obviously he knew when he started dating Nina that they were just going to be dating, but he had never expected to grow such strong feelings for her, and he’d never thought she would return them. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, and here he was, feeling like he’d done just that. He didn’t blame her for being jealous. Between all the feelings she had towards his wife, and the incident with Vi, at this point, he was really just glad she was talking to him as anything other than a business associate. 

A soft sigh slipped out of his lips, and he ran a hand through his hair. He turned from the door of her office to look at her, a soft expression on his face. Sinclair smiled at her a bit, an apologetic smile. He moved to sit back in the chair in front of her desk. “I’m sorry I’ve put you in a situation where you feel jealous. I never meant for you to have to feel this way. I don’t know what I thought would happen with us, or with this, but I promise you, I never meant for all of this to happen.” 

[afishtrap]

The literature that takes these women as its subject consistently ascribes agency to their actions, depicts them with a will to participate in (or orchestrate) their movements. This, I think, is an instance of what Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe has called “phantom agency.” In her discussion of Gunhild, a silent abducted abbess from the late eleventh century,5 O’Brien O’Keeffe cites Anselm of Canterbury, who wrote two letters to Gunhild after her abduction by Count Alan Rufus, in order to present “Gunhild to herself as a woman who has chosen an inappropriate love, having abandoned her true spouse, Christ, for a mortal lover.”6 O’Brien O’Keeffe argues that this constitutes a “‘phantom agency,’ an agency that has only a rhetorical existence and functions solely to indict her for collusion in her own rape.”7 The writers of the texts which feature Derbforgaill and the three Gormlaiths as characters attempt something similar: while they argue that the women have been complicit in their abductions, this is the authors’ own fictional construct, and one designed not simply to blame the women for collusion in these movements, but also to ascribe responsibility for actions that have “national” consequences. This article is an attempt to separate the literary representations of constructed female characters from the historical reality of the four women. As part of that historical reality, I further propose that Derbforgaill and the three Gormlaiths were used as political hostages, thus making the “phantom agency” ascribed to them in literary texts even more spectral.

Lahney Preston-Matto, “Queens as Political Hostages in Pre-Norman Ireland: Derbforgaill and the Three Gormlaiths”, The Journal of English and Germanic Philology, Vol. 109, No. 2 (April 2010), pp. 141-161.

Generally, hostages were male, but there are several examples of females being used as political hostages in the medieval period. In the early ninth century, Kosto mentions that the mother of Andrew, Duke of Naples, was used as a hostage.9 In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, there are more examples of women and girls being used as hostages. During the first Crusade, King Coloman of Hungary allowed the Crusaders to cross his territory only if he had as hostage Baldwin of Boulogne, along with his wife and family.10 Count Joscelin II of Edessa handed over his daughter Isabella to the Emperor John II Comnenus in 1142; Balduk was killed by Baldwin of Edessa in 1190 when he delayed in handing over his wife and children as hostages; and King Baldwin of Jerusalem handed over his four-year-old daughter Iveta as a hostage in exchange for his own ransom from captivity.11 Closer to Ireland, John Gillingham notes that Henry II castrated and/or mutilated both the sons and daughters of Welsh princes as political hostages in 1165.12 And there is the famous case of Nest, the Welsh princess who was abducted from her husband Gerald Fitzwalter by Owain ap Cadwgan and held by him in the early twelfth century.13

In Ireland itself, only one female political hostage is mentioned explicitly in the annals: in 1165, the daughter of Eochaid Mac Dunnshléibhe was given as a hostage, along with a son of every chieftain in Ulster, to Muircertach Mac Lochlainn, an aspirant to and sometime high-king with opposition of Ireland.14 But Anthony Candon has recently argued that in the eleventh century, Mór, wife of Conchobar Ua Mael Sechlainn, king of Mide (Meath), was also used as a political hostage in Conchobar’s ongoing contention with Diarmait mac Máel na mBó, the king of Laigin. Candon argues that Mór was being held as a hostage for Diarmait mac Máel na mBó by Gilla Pátraic Mac Donnchada, king of Osraige, and that when Conchobar Ua Mael Sechlainn retook his wife in 1053, this was in violation of Mide’s fealty to Laigin.15

In early Ireland, hostages were mainly used by Irish kings as markers of their status and to reinforce the hierarchical nature of the various kingships in Ireland: for example, the high king of Ireland would take the hostages of the king of Mide to ensure Mide’s continuing submission to him. If the king of Mide rebelled against or otherwise broke any contract with the high king, the high king could enforce a penalty. Fergus Kelly claims that this penalty included killing, blinding, or ransoming the hostages in question. The annals do show evidence of this, but the entries referencing these punishments are fairly late, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries.16 Still, regardless of the severity of the penalties, the taking of hostages was “a means of asserting political power” from the ninth to the eleventh centuries (and perhaps later).17 In essence, a hostage was a physical symbol of political subordination, held by the subordinator. One law text, as Robin Chapman Stacey remarks, “equates the taking of hostages with the ability to claim royal rank: Ni rig laisna biad geill i nglaisib. [. . .] He is no king who does not have hostages in fetters.”18 The Irish law text on hostages, De Gnímaib Gíall, is fragmentary, but the parts still extant do not specify that hostages must be male, and therefore do not rule out women being used as hostages.

In the annals, hostages are referenced using two main terms: aitiri (singular aitire) or gíall (singular géill). For many years, scholars did not make a distinction between these two terms. The texts discussing hostages are fragmentary and remain obscure; further, the distinction between the two terms seems to have collapsed by the eleventh century or so, meaning that many of the annalists referencing hostages after the eleventh century (and possibly before) may not have been particular about which term they used. Robin Chapman Stacey, however, has argued that these two terms had distinctive semantic values before the eleventh century and that the aitire and the géill would have been used to enforce different kinds of contracts between kings and their over-kings. The aitire, she argues, was a high-status member of the community who would have been associated with a kind of contract called a cairde, a compact that existed between two kings or two túatha which involved no loss of status to either party. “[T]he aitire developed out of a need for a hostage-surety who could stand ‘between’ tribes or kindreds of relatively equal status—who could, in other words, guarantee the terms of relationships in which political subordination was not to be implied.”19 On the other hand, the géill implied a loss of political status; gíall were more often associated with contracts known as cána, which could be statutes on the local or inter-túath level, or they could be a type of tribute owed by one túath and its king to another. As Stacey argues, “the obligations for which the gíall stood surety were those associated with subordinating political relationships that were conceptualized, both on the domestic (aicillne) and intertribal level, as forms of base clientship, and that therefore entailed a certain loss of independent status for the client or client-tribe involved.”20 That loss of independent status could be made manifest by shackles: gíall could be held in chains, but this was not acceptable for aitiri.21

Stacey goes on to argue that since so many Irish kings lost their independence during the ninth to the twelfth centuries and were encompassed within larger kingdoms, it is hardly surprising that the distinction between gíall and aitiri disappeared.22 The disappearance of a people’s free status should mean an increase in the exchange of gíall rather than aitiri, although the annalists sometimes seem to use the terms interchangeably. But if gíall are indeed representative of a loss of independent status, then using women as gíall can be seen as an overdetermined literalization of a political metaphor. In the same way that females were legally dependent upon males, “defined as ‘legally incompetent, senseless’ (báeth, éconn),”23 and therefore domestically dependent, so were the gíall representative of political dependence.

[...]

The second Gormlaith has a better-developed literary character than the first Gormlaith; historically, she was the daughter of high king Flann Sinna mac Máelsechnaill, who reigned from 879–916. She was certainly married twice—to Cerball mac Muirecáin of Laigin and Niall Glúndub, high king of Ireland—but those marriages may have been preceded by another, to Cormac mac Cuilennáin, the king-bishop of Cashel, who supposedly sent her back to her father because he chose the Church over her.29 With the assistance of Cerball, Flann Sinna then attacked Cormac in 908 and defeated and killed him at the Battle of Belach Mugna.30 According to the Book of Leinster, Cerball took great delight in reliving the defeat of Cormac to Gormlaith, his current and Cormac’s former wife, upon which she uttered a mild reproof. Cerball’s response was to kick her to the ground. She left Cerball and went to her father’s house, but Flann Sinna returned her. At this, another king, Niall Glúndub, son of Áed Findliath, gathered an entourage to remove her, an action negated because she initiated divorce proceedings. Sometime after her divorce, she married Niall Glúndub, who went on to become high king.31

As opposed to the first Gormlaith, who is referenced only in annals and the Banshenchas, a text that takes as its focus the famous noblewomen of Ireland and their illustrious progeny, the second Gormlaith was the subject and potential source of contemporary and later literature. The second Gormlaith appears as a character in the Book of Leinster (twice), as mentioned above, and several poems collected in Osborn Bergin’s Early Bardic Poetry are attributed to her.32 Most of the literary texts that refer to her are dated to the twelfth century or later. Máire Ní Mhaonaigh has catalogued the many references to and by Gormlaith in the various texts, in order to shed light on how these references helped create a complex literary figure out of a historical woman.33 The literary character created is active, critical, and ethically-minded. She is also represented as a political thinker, one who understands the cascade of reactions that can follow one small action. While none of the literature mentions hostages, one poem attributed to Gormlaith depicts her as cognizant of the responsibilities due a family member held captive...

[...]

Thinking of Gormlaith as Cormac’s hostage instead of his wife offers an attractive and plausible solution to the many questions raised about the actuality of their liaison. It explains why she may have gone to him in the first place; here, Gormlaith may have embodied her father’s political authority in the same way that the first Gormlaith carried her husband’s authority with her when she was taken. Fundamentally, hostages are embodied promises, speech acts made physical. Gormlaith might represent her father’s brief submission to Cormac, which could then also explain her return to Flann Sinna; there needn’t have been any repudiation involved if the prescribed terms of her hostageship were met. This does not explain, though, why later interpreters desired Gormlaith to have some agency as shown in the characterizations of her as active figure. These interpreters wanted her to be responsible for her own actions, to have chosen her movements from Cerball back to her father or from Cerball to Niall Glúndub. But this is not in keeping with the status of the gíall. Since her movements mirror those of gíall exchanges so precisely, it is more likely that she had little choice about where she went. The “phantom agency” ascribed to her in the literary sources was mirrored in her lack of agency as a hostage.

[writingknb]

*** Hello, Sunshineeeee... can I ask for SNK, story/scenario? thank youuuu 😘

Alright. You sent me a specific scenario, so I think the story will be flowing that way. 🌸

Thank you for requesting! 💋

This is very long! 

“This is (First Name) (Last Name). She will be patrolling with us Survey Corps from now on. She acquires great skill, so in the meantime, don’t judge her from the noble white dress. You’ll be on duty with Levi’s squad.” Mike instructed, scanning the vets and motioning at Levi as he did so. 

For a while, they locked eyes. He still had that fire in his eyes like when they first met. Though Levi was short, she was shorter by an inch, but like it mattered. But why was her heart pounding nervously? This is what she has waited for so long. 

Levi didn’t know how to react to that. It was a bit awkward seeing someone who who was the first on making your heart beat after years. She didn’t change too much. She still had a long, white dress, her hair tucked in a braid (or something related to a braid, if your hair is short), a kind smile, and warming eyes. 

Their minds wandered off to the past. 

– 

“(Name).” her father said sternly, looking into her eyes. She crossed her arms, glaring up at him. She was past 20, who could blame her? And after everything her father has done to her.. “Stay here. I gotta do my job.” 

She nodded and felt a pang of relief once he was gone. She was to take the opportunity of running away from him. After all the experiments he has tested on her, she wasn’t his daughter in his eyes anymore. She was a test subject. It was all after her mother died. She was sick of everything. 

Risking it, she unsheathed her blade from the holster hanging on her waist  and darted off to the shadows. As she ran, she couldn’t help but be aware that she was underground. Who knew such a place existed? 

Her father took her everywhere he went. Here he was, his friends thinking he’s a one of a hell good guy, but at home, every night, he was some mad scientist. Sure, she lived at Wall Sinna, under the protection of the mighty walls, nothing would bother them, but to think that something even walls couldn’t stop, your own blood, hurting you, that was something else. 

She stopped as she turned to a corner and landed her eyes on one person, flying around with a 3D manuever gear so skilfully. And he all did it without harming anyone. Talk about skill. 

The man landed beside her, and for a moment, her mind has gone blank, then she realised he was cornered. Two people, a guy and a girl, landed beside them. 

“Father.” she stepped up, glaring at him. She had no idea whatsoever what was happening. He confidently stood in front of the trio. “What’s happening?” 

“(Name), oh god, what are you doing there with the bad guys?” he joked, and for a moment, she gritted her teeth. But she had to play good girl every time his friends were there. “Come er.” 

She eyed the trio. The raven haired man glared at her, though it didn’t seem to be hostile. In fact, it seemed to be glued on his face. I don’t know. 

“Why? Explain to me how these people are on the bad side.” she reasoned. Her confidence was rising, and her mask was cracking. If there was anything she could do, she could bring her father down and save these people. 

“They’re thieves.” he said plainly. “We got orders from many different commanders and corps. This is big money. Now be a good girl and come here, if you don’t want to get hurt.” 

She sighed and glanced at the people again. Her father’s comrades shifted uncomfortable as she started to make her way towards her father, her eyes locked with his. And with a swift motion, stabbed the blade in his gut. 

Blood poured on her holy white dress, smoothly and stuck to it like glue. 

It all happened so fast, no one made a sound. “Go!” she yelled. “I’ll hold them back.” she pulled the blade out of her father’s stomach and faced the stunned men, taking her opportunity to take them. 

She didn’t get what she wanted. Turns out she was on the right side. The trio started helping her take out the enemies. And soon, they were panting and standing around corpses. 

The man glared at her. “Could your idea be anymore stupid?” 

“Y-Your father..” the girl stuttered. 

She smiled warmly. “It was nothing. I regret none.” 

“You’re.. You’re from Wall Sinna, are you?” the brown haired man said. “I could tell just from your dress and those people. Why would you want to stay here?” 

“I’ll explain everything later.” she promised. “In the meantime, I hope you’ll teach me how to use those gears.” 

The raven haired man clicked his tongue. “You’re annoying.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I think you guys should learn to live with that. (First Name) (Last Name), nice to meet you.” 

“Levi.” 

Things went on from that. 

Levi taught her how to use the gears, how to clean, and other battle strategies. She had skill for knives and mental strength. I guess you could say the same for the dual swords. 

The four of them had a close relationship, until the survey crops straddled along. 

She eyed as they were cornered from each side. Erwin stepped up and his eyes widened. 

“(Name)?” 

Of course they knew each other. Her mother and brother were part of the survey corps before, before they.. 

“Erwin. Stop this now.” she said sternly. Erwin had a strong mindset, maybe even stronger than hers. He was fit for being a leader for that. 

“(Name), I have no choice. We’re gonna have to bring you back to Wall Sinna-” 

“Oi. If you’re going to drag us into your scummy corps, you better bring her along.” Levi defended. 

Her heart pounded. For the few months they’ve been together, she couldn’t help but admire Levi.. more than a friend. But this isn’t the time for romance. 

“I have no choice.” Erwin sighed. She knew he was only doing his job, but it still hurt her. “Take her.” 

She unsheathed her knife. 

“Please don’t.” Isabel begged as the men inched closer. 

She bit her lip and grabbed a man by his elbow, twisting it. In the end, she lost the fight, her knife dropping to the floor with a clank. 

“Why can’t you just take her with us?” Furlan growled. 

She didn’t hear Levi. Not a single word from him. But the fact that Furlan and Isabel stood up for her, that was enough. She was taken away, back into Wall Sinna.

–

She managed to get out of Wall Sinna with the assistance from Commander Pixis. He was drunk that time. 

Once she was done changing into her new clothes, she couldn’t help but enjoy the fact that the clothes were far more comfortable than a dress. 

“Listen up.” Mike announced as Erwin took his place. 

“There are titans emerging from the west. Levi, assist your squad and take out all of the titans. Don’t let them get to the middle.” 

Levi nodded, and for a while, she swore she saw him glance at her. “You heard that? Don’t retreat unless an emergency flare has been fired.” 

And with that, he jumped from the building. 

Things went rougher than (Name) imagined. There were couple of times wherein she was almost squashed and grabbed, though this kid named Eren saved her countless of times. Levi didn’t even mind to wait as he took down titans her and there. 

He was.. amazing. 

Well, you couldn’t blame her. It’s been quite some time since she last used those gears. She sliced a titan’s nape open and landed on a building, eyeing their work, but who knew something plain as that would cause trouble? 

But she was too late. Even Eren was. From behind her, she heard the sound of an abnormal closing in, but her gear broke. Just the right timing, eh? 

And everything went black. 

– 

Her head felt heavy. But she was tired of sleeping, and finally, her eyes fluttered open. It took her a while to realise her body hurt like hell. 

To the left, someone was beside her. Once she opened her eyes, Levi looked away and inched back. 

“Did you ever learn how to use your head?” he growled lowly. She forced a scoff, but it kinda hurt. Especially her ribs. 

“Aren’t I the strategy maker?” she shot back. “And besides..” she turned her head, her sarcastic smile turning into a frown.  “You really don’t want me hear, do you?” 

“I don’t.” he gritted his teeth. 

“And I still don’t get you.” she spat. “I’ve always been trapped. I hated living inside Wall Sinna. People would think I’m crazy, but..” 

“I don’t want to die without doing something memorable in my life. I don’t want to die with just the memory of my father hurting me, or the corps taking me from you..” she trailed off. “If I were to die, if it’s something that’s worthy, something that at least helped someone, that’s fine with me.” 

He glared at her. “You being heroic now?” 

“It’s honesty.” she grumbled. 

“I don’t want you here.” he said again. “To know that those who get past me would come for others, like they did before.. it sickens me.” 

Her hand finds it’s way to intertwine it with his. 

“Don’t make me your weakness, please.” she smiled warmly. 

“Fine.” he grumbled, gripping her hand tighter and kissed her forehead. “Just don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Here we go again!” 

[agentcherricola]

I was seriously awake at like 5 this morning for whatever reason and it took me like an hour to fall asleep because I was thinking about newsies fighting in WW1

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 48

Masterlist

A/N: This chapter took ages, I'm really sorry. Last week week was kind of bad for me, so I didn't really feel like writing much.

----

Mor sits on a fence in Jurian’s camp and silently glares at Jurian, who is talking with one of his captains. Andromache’s army has been stationed here for over two days now, which means that Mor spends more time than she wants to in Jurian’s company.

As if sensing her attention, Jurian turns around to look at her. Mor quickly averts her eyes, but Jurian is already walking towards her. He leans against the fence next to her. Mor turns her head away and pointedly ignores him. Unfortunately, he seems intent to ignore the hint.

“You got a problem, Mor?”

She presses her lips together and makes herself turn around to him. “Yes,” she says, voice sharp, “I actually do have a problem.”

He is the problem. Him and his stupid nonchalance. He doesn’t even pretend to feel bad about what he did.

Jurian gives her a small smile, sharp as a knife. “If my presence is so unbearable to you, you are free to leave. No one forces you to sit around in my camp and glare at me as if my presence personally offends you.”

Mor bristles. How dare he act like she is the one in the wrong? When he is the one who did such terrible things to Clythia and doesn’t even feel bad about it. She jumps off the fence and turns her back to Jurian. She is about to walk away, but she can’t do so without further comment, can’t let him have this victory.

Over her shoulder, she snaps, “And you wonder why Miryam left you.”

She stalks off, but before she makes it more than a few steps, Jurian grabs her by the arm and spins her around to face him. His eyes are dark with anger. Mor rips her arm out of his grip and glares right back.

“You think this is why Miryam left?” Jurian asks and lets out a sharp laugh. “You don’t know her at all, do you?”

Mor presses her lips together. “She would never stand for torture.”

“Miryam,” Jurian says, each word clipped, “understands what is necessary.”

And if she gets tortured and killed because of you, will she understand that as well? Mor thinks. She longs to throw the words into his face, but both Andromache and Drakon told her to never, under any circumstances tell Jurian the true reason why Miryam got captured. So she swallows the words and merely turns around, walking off towards Andromache’s tent.

The guards waiting at the entrance are proof enough that Andromache is inside. Mor walks past them into the tent. She firmly closes the door behind herself, then turns around to the queen who is sitting in her desk.

“Why are we coddling him?” She asks, each word biting.

Andromache puts down the letter she was looking through. She looks tired – as far as Mor knows, she hasn’t slept since Miryam vanished. “Jurian?” She asks.

“Yes, Jurian,” Mor snaps. “He is the reason Miryam might be getting tortured and killed, yet you and Drakon have nothing better to do than coddle him like he’s some innocent child.”

It’s infuriating. Who cares about Jurian’s feelings? He caused the trouble they are in right now, yet all everyone seems to care about how he might suffer under the truth. Even more infuriating is that Andromache simply shakes her head like she is being unreasonable.

“Jurian,” she says, “is suffering and you know it. And making him suffer further won’t save Miryam.” She frowns at her. “It’s unlike you to want to make him unhappy just to punish him.”

Mor taps her foot against the ground in annoyance. Now, the problem is her? Jurian tortures and slaughters a woman, and somehow, she is the one to blame for being angry with him for it? Has everyone lost their mind?

“Maybe I simply do not like men who nail women to things,” she snaps.

Andromache taps her quill against the table, wincing slightly. “Sorry,” she says. “I get that this situation might be… difficult for you.”

“I simply don’t understand why you treat him the way you do!” She says. “It’s bad enough that Jurian is terrible now, but I don’t understand why everyone insists on acting like he’s the victim in this!”

It’s driving her crazy. All the lines are getting blurred, and nothing makes sense anymore. Even Drakon seems to be mostly concerned with making sure Jurian is well, and Mor just doesn’t understand.

“But you must realize that this is not the same thing,” Andromache says. “It’s not like Jurian went and murdered some poor, innocent girl. Clythia was a Loyalist commander. She killed and tortured thousands of humans!”

“This isn’t about her actions, it’s about Jurian’s.” Mor glares at her. “That she was horrible doesn’t make what Jurian did acceptable.”

How does Andromache not understand this? It doesn’t matter that Clythia was terrible, Jurian shouldn’t have done what he did. He is meant to be the good guy, a member of the Alliance, her friend. One of them. Yet what he did to Clythia wasn’t good at all, it was terrible, and he doesn’t even have an explanation for why he did it.

So that must mean Jurian is an enemy now. He did a terrible, unforgivable thing, after all. Yet she seems to be the only one who sees it that way.

“It doesn’t make it right,” Andromache replies, “but it certainly means I don’t feel a lick of sympathy for what happened to Clythia. I’m never in favour of needless cruelty, but that doesn’t mean I don’t also think that Clythia got what she deserved.”

Mor shakes her head. She can’t believe this. Clythia was the one who got murdered. She cannot, by definition, be the one who was in the wrong in that situation. Andromache shouldn’t be saying this, she shouldn’t be defending what Jurian did.

This entire situation blurs the lines. It blurs the lines in all the wrong ways.

“No one deserves that!” Mor snaps. “Just because she owns slaves – “

“Just?” Andromache cuts her off. Now, any hint of understanding, of sympathy, is gone from her voice. “Just slavery? That is how you see it?”

“No!” Mor wildly shakes her head. Dread shoots through her body, turning her blood to ice. “No, I didn’t mean that. It came out all wrong, I was just trying to –“

“And anyways,” Andromache cuts her off, “it wasn’t just owning slaves, either. She actively fought us to keep owning slaves. She spent centuries torturing humans with delight. And don’t get me started on how absolutely fucked her interest in Jurian was.”

Mor lifts her hands. Her heart is pounding. She has seen Andromache this angry before, but not with her. Never with her. She shouldn’t have said it like that. Cauldron, why did she say it like that?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Andromache shakes her head. “I think I’d rather be alone right now,” she says. “I’ll talk to you later.”

----

Drakon can’t sleep.

In fact, he hasn’t been able to sleep much ever since Miryam got kidnapped. He keeps jolting awake, drenched in sweat, unable to shake off the images of Miryam tied to the ceiling in a torture chamber, Miryam bleeding and screaming in pain as a faceless man approached with a knife.

According to Sinna’s sources, Miryam isn’t being tortured, but that knowledge barely manages to ease his worry. So he keeps tossing and turning in his bed, shifting from one position to another. The images keep rising, and no matter how hard he tries, he doesn’t manage to chase them away.

A few hours past midnight, he gives up. If he can’t sleep anyways, he’ll go for a walk around the battlements. There will surely be some night guards around and they usually appreciate having company.

But when he opens the door to his rooms, the guards waiting outside step into his way. They exchange nervous glances. Lisi, one of the newest captains in his guard, seems to be in charge of the team tonight, and she looks entirely uncomfortable in her skin.

Drakon arches an eyebrow at her. “Am I grounded?” He asks jokingly.

“No, of course not, Your Highness,” Lisi says, stepping from one foot to the other. She seems distinctly uncomfortable in her skin.

Drakon looks between her and the other guards for a moment. This behaviour has only one possible explanation. And it means that Drakon needs to have a conversation with Sinna about which orders she can and cannot give his guards. Right now.

“I’ll go visit Sinna,” he says and shoulders past his guards. At least they don’t try to stop him, although Lisi looks more than a little uncomfortable in her skin.

The room Sinna and Nephelle share is just a few doors down the hall. Drakon only remembers that they are likely sleeping after he already knocked sharply at the door. To his surprise, it flies open almost immediately. Nephelle stands in the doorway, already fully dressed.

“Drakon,” she says. Surprise colours her voice and the smile she gives him is half-hearted at best.

“I wanted to talk to Sinna,” Drakon says.

“Oh.” Nephelle winces slightly, eyes drifting over to Lisi. “Uhm.”

“Nephelle.” Drakon looks between her and the guards, who suddenly seem to find huge interest in their shoes. “Where is Sinna?”

----

Lying flat on his stomach, Rhys stares down at the fort below. His army is waiting behind him in a ridge, safely hidden from the eyes of the guards standing along the walls of the fort. But Rhys wanted to get a good view of the terrain before the battle begins, so he climbed up the side of the ridge and found a viewpoint behind a small boulder.

From up here, the fort doesn’t look like much. It’s carved into the mountain, sure, but it doesn’t seem to be much better protected than the average castle. At least the mountain is nowhere near as massive as the one the Hewn City is built under. Really, Rhys doesn’t know what all the fuss is about. Even the wards aren’t that great, at least as far as he can tell from up here.

The Heseia Fort, he decides, is far less impressive than its reputation.

Carefully, Rhys slides down the slope, wings flared to keep his balance. Little stones loosen under his feet and roll down the mountain. His soldiers stare at him as he walks past. He can feel the anger boiling under the surface, but the Illyirans under his command have learned not to question his orders by now. Strength and brutality are the only languages they care to understand, and Rhys spent the past years teaching them in that exact language that he doesn’t care to be questioned. (Sometimes, Rhys feels a stab of embarrassment at it, but it is necessary. Even if most of his current friends probably wouldn’t understand, but that’s just how they are – too soft.)

His captains are standing together by the edge of the makeshift camp. They are mid-conversation, but fall silent when Rhys approaches. They even incline their heads, although he can see the anger in their eyes.

“Is the army ready?” Rhys asks.

“We are Illyrians,” one of his captains says gruffly. “We are always ready for battle. But you had the army flying for ten hours straight to get here. Giving them rest before battle would improve their performances.”

“And any moment we wait increases the risk of being discovered,” Rhys counters. “The moment of surprise is our biggest advantage.”

Amarantha likely knows by now that the Alliance chose not to save Miryam, so she won’t expect any action from them. She’ll likely keep tabs on both Jurian and Drakon, but with both of their armies still firmly at their intended positions, she’ll have no reason to suspect an attack. And that is exactly why Rhys will succeed where no one else would.

“We attack now,” he says firmly.

His captains exchange looks. “And you are truly asking us to risk our lives to save that…” His lips curl in disgust. “…that witch?”

That is perhaps the one detail of the plan that angers his soldiers the most. They don’t fear death, but apparently, dying for a witch is a dishonour. Rhys couldn’t care less for their stupid superstitions. There’s really no difference if they die in this battle or in another.

“I’m not asking,” he says in a voice he copied from his father and that usually gets people to do what he wants. Just to top it off, he also flares his power. “I’m ordering.”

“You, or the council?” A second captain challenges. “Because so far, you’ve never been put in charge of a battle on your own. Why now?”

Rhys doesn’t have a convincing lie ready to explain why the council suddenly gave up its absurd dedication to keeping Rhys condemned to the side lines, so he simply stretches out a hand. Dark power shoots from his fingertips and wraps itself around the captain who spoke up. The man grits his teeth, a vein bulges at his temple, but he bears the pain in silence.

“Last I checked,” Rhys says coolly, “I did not need to explain myself to you.”

He might need to explain himself to the council when they find out, though. And to his father. He doubts any of them will be pleased to find out about what he did.

But it won’t matter. Once this battle is over and he freed Miryam, no one will care that he went against orders. He will be a hero. After more than six years of war spent as a grunt, following orders and never being allowed to do anything on his own, this will be his moment. After that, everyone will know him as the one who freed the leader of the Alliance, who managed to do so against all odds and when even the most brilliant generals like Jurian and Sinna did not dare.

This is his chance. And he won’t let anyone keep him from it. Not his captains or his father, not the council, and not Sinna and Drakon with their exaggerated caution.

Even if he really doesn’t understand why Sinna refused to act. For Drakon, it makes sense – although Rhys would have thought his mate getting captured would be enough to get him to give up his usual caution. But apparently, Drakon entirely lacks the edge it takes to lead an army, or a country for that matter. One of the biggest mysteries in Rhys’s life remains how someone like Drakon ever managed to get this popular amongst the young Fae (if not amongst the older ones). It’s not that Rhys doesn’t like him, but he’s… well, not quite sharp enough for his taste. But Rhys was sure Sinna would press for action.

Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he needs their approval.

He releases his hold on his magic, allowing the captain to sag to the ground. “We attack,” he says. “Now.”

----

“I don’t believe this,” Drakon mutters. He stops his pacing and turns around to Nephelle, who sat down on the couch. They are alone in her quarters, the guards happily remaining outside. “You didn’t.”

Nephelle shakes her head. “Sinna left four hours ago, together with ten of her best soldiers.”

A part of Drakon is still waiting for her to laugh and tell him that this is a joke. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.

“You mean to tell me,” he says softly, “that my High General takes a group of my soldiers on a mission to save my wife, and no one thought to tell me?”

Nephelle winces slightly. “Sinna didn’t want you to worry,” she says.

She didn’t want him to worry. Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? Slowly, he lets himself drop to the couch next to Nephelle and presses his hands against his face.

“How does she even plan to get Miryam out?” He asks, face still pressed in his hands. “Not even Sinna will be able to take the Heseia Fort with only ten soldiers.”

“There will be a diversion,” Nephelle says. She shifts around in her seat. “I wanted to go with them, but Sinna wouldn’t let me.”

On another day, Drakon would have tried to comfort her. He is about to do just that, but then, he remembers that Nephelle helped Sinna and his guards and everyone else with lying to him and remains silent.

“What kind of diversion?” He asks instead.

If Sinna took part of his army… But no, she couldn’t have. The ability to winnow is rare amongst Seraphim – it is actually not a Seraphim ability at all, but people with distant High Fae heritage sometimes get it – and Sinna would never have been able to get more than a hundred soldiers to the Heseia Fort this quickly. Which means that somehow, she got her hands on another army.

Nephelle winces slightly, looking more than a little guilty. “Rhysand and his army,” she says.

----

It takes exactly thirteen minutes from the first arrow being fired for Rhys to lose control of his army completely. It all happens so quickly that he barely understands what is going on, let alone give orders to avoid it.

The first five minutes went well. Rhys ordered the attack, and from there, everything worked flawlessly. He did everything just right. And really, he couldn’t have known that there was a trap woven into one of the wards around the fort. How could he have known? Breaking the ward was the logical choice, and what happened afterwards was not his fault.

Still, the blast of pure energy it set off killed a good fourth of his soldiers in one go and sent the rest into complete panic.

“Reform the lines!” Rhys roars at them, but now, arrows are raining down on them from the fort. Their tips are made from a blueish stone, and they pierce Rhysand’s shields easily. “Get back into formation!”

No one listens. Rhys isn’t even sure if his captains are still alive. They were likely at the front lines and got hit by the blast, while Rhys himself hung back to provide magical cover. Not that it did them any good so far.

He raises his hands and sends a wave of dark power crashing for the fort walls. It sizzles out uselessly against the first layer of wards. Their enemies don’t even bother with open combat, they just keep raining arrows, boulders and cans of burning oil down on them.

“Commander!” Someone yells far too close to Rhys’s ear. He spins around and comes face to face with one of his captains. Seems like at least one of them survived this far. “We need to retreat,” the man pants.

“No!” Rhys shouts back.

He can’t retreat. He can’t. Not after everything he risked to get here. If he returns with half his soldiers – maybe more by now – dead and nothing to show for, he will be done. They will put him on trial for disregarding a direct order, and his father will make sure he gets the highest possible punishment.

Another volley of arrow comes shooting down from the fort. One of them hits Rhys, slipping through a slit in his armour and burying itself in his arm. He hisses in pain.

“We need to retreat!” His captain repeats. “Or we will all die.”

No. No, he can’t do this. “There’s no honour in retreat!” He doesn’t care about honour, just about the consequences this might have for him, but this might convince his soldiers to keep fighting.

“There is no honour in stupidity!” The captain shouts back at him. “If you don’t order a retreat right now, we’ll all be dead within minutes!”

Rhys looks around the battlefield, then. All around him, his soldiers are dying. They aren’t even attacking, can’t manage to get through the wards, but they can’t run, either, not without his permission.

There are so many dead soldiers on the ground. Half his army. More.

The realization hits Rhys like a punch to the stomach. They aren’t getting into that fort. It is completely and utterly impossible. This entire mission is doomed, has been from the beginning. And if they stay her for a moment longer, they will all die.

“Retreat!” Rhys shouts. His voice barely manages to rise over the general noise, but his soldiers pick up the call soon enough. “Retreat!”

There’s nothing orderly about the retreat. They simply turn and run.

They don’t even make it a hundred feet before the first soldiers slam into an invisible barrier. A ward – one that surely wasn’t here before. Rhys sends his power barrelling into it. The air shimmers for a moment, but the ward doesn’t shatter.

And still, the arrows keep flying. Rhys looks around wildly, searching for a way out, but there is none. He is trapped and now, he and his soldiers will die.

Suddenly, the onslaught of arrows stops. Rhys looks up, startles, just as a woman steps onto the battlements of the fort. She is wearing black armour and a helmet, but her red hair is unbound underneath and it flies in the wind like a flag. General Amarantha, if Rhys’s guess is correct.

“Look at what we got there,” she says, voice carrying easily over the crowd. “Not quite the quarry I hoped for. But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Silence is her only answer. The Illyrians that are still alive – a bare third of the soldiers Rhys arrived with – seem to relish the pause.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Amarantha calls down at them. “Whichever idiot is in charge of this army should probably announce their surrender now, before I decide to let my soldiers use you sorry lot for target practice.”

----

“Your Highness,” a muffled voice says through the door. “General Sinna is back.”

Drakon tries to sit up too quickly, gets tangled up in his wings and nearly falls off the couch. He manages to flare his wings and regain his balance just in time. By the time he manages to get his feet back under himself, Nephelle is already on her feet and halfway to the door.

She rips the door open so hard it slams against the wall with a bang. “Where?” She asks the servant who brought the news.

Drakon is glad she asked, he doesn’t think he would have been able to get a word out. Sinna is back. That must mean she’s alive. But Miryam… She has to be alive as well. It must have worked – Sinna’s plans always work. She is simply too stubborn to fail.

“In the medical wing, My Lady,” the servant replies.

Nephelle nods and sets off at a full sprint. Drakon follows, easily keeping up with his longer legs. His heart is racing. In running, he catches a glimpse of a pink sky and the rising sun through one of the windows. Sunrise. Him and Nephelle spent the last six hours trying and failing to control their rising panic as they desperately waited for a sign from Sinna.

They round a corner and Drakon narrowly avoids colliding with a guard. “Sorry!” He calls over his shoulder, but he doesn’t stop running.

The medical wing is five stories down on the other side of the castle. By the time Nephelle and Drakon arrive, they are both out of breath and Nephelle’s wings tremble.

There is a small commotion in front of one of the treatment rooms. At first, Drakon can’t make out individual people in the chaos. Him and Nephelle just stand frozen in the hallways, desperately scanning the small crowd.

Then, Nephelle surges forward. “Sinna!” She shouts, voice rising over the noise.

A figure breaks apart from the group. Drakon barely catches more than a glance at Sinna before Nephelle crashes into her arms. Sinna catches her, stumbling back a step under the impact.

“It’s alright,” she whispers to Nephelle. She says something else after that, but it is too quiet for Drakon to hear.

Nephelle keeps clinging to Sinna, as if she’s scared that she will vanish if she lets go. Sinna runs a hand through her hair, then kisses her on the spot between her eyebrows.

Drakon remains rooted to the spot. He wants to walk over, wants to see if Sinna is alright, wants to ask after Miryam, but his body won’t obey. He is completely frozen, unable to move or speak. Even when Sinna gently frees herself from Nephelle’s grip and turns to Drakon, he doesn’t manage to get the question out. Did you succeed?

Sinna simply looks at him for a moment. Then, she inclines her head towards the room to her right. “She’s in there,” she says.

And just like that, Drakon snaps out of his stupor. He is at the door before he truly realized he is moving. He rips the door open and comes face to face with three startled healers.

Miryam lies in the bed behind them. She looks scarily frail under her white blanket, frail and far younger than she usually does. There is a fading bruise on the left side of her face. And other injuries are hidden by the blanket someone draped over her.

Slowly, Drakon steps forward, but one of the healers steps into his way. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” they say. “But you can’t be in here.”

Drakon slowly shakes his head. “But I need to…” He needs to be there for her, he can’t just go and leave her on her own. Not while she is hurt and he doesn’t know if she…

“You can wait outside, Your Highness,”

“No.” Drakon tries to step past them, but the healer gently takes him by the arm. “No, I need to… I need to see…”

“She isn’t going to die,” the healer says firmly. With a start, he realizes that he’s trembling. “None of her injuries are lethal, Your Highness, she will be fine. But I generally do not permit family to be in the room while I work unless explicitly demanded by the patient. So you will have to go wait outside while I do my job, and I will come talk to you after I am done.” They smile at Drakon. “Is that alright with you, Your Highness?”

Drakon nods numbly and allows the healer to gently push him out of the room. Sinna and Nephelle are both gone from the corridor. Somehow, Drakon ends up sitting on a chair somewhere on the hallway, staring down at his feet.

Miryam looked injured. Their spies might have reported that she didn’t get tortured, but maybe they were wrong. They might have been wrong. And then…

A pair of leather boots appears in his line of vision, making Drakon look up at the owner.

“You alright?” Sinna asks. She is still dressed in her armour, the grey leather splattered with dried blood. There is a bandage around her left arm and a shallow slice marring her cheek.

Drakon nods slowly. He isn’t sure if he can speak right now.

“We should probably talk,” Sinna says. “But not here. Come on.”

Drakon wants to object that he can’t go, that he needs to wait for the healers to finish, but he has been waiting for at least an hour now and no one came to talk to him. For all he knows, it might be several more hours before he gets any news, and he assumes that should the healers finish their work while he is gone, they will simply send someone to fetch him.

They don’t go far, anyways. Sinna pulls open the next best door and steps into a supply closet. Neatly stacked boxes line the walls, each with a label marking its contents. Bandages of varying sizes, alcohol to disinfect the wounds and dried mushrooms against the pain.

“We used our contact to get inside,” Sinna says. “It was rather easy, with everyone so focused on the attacking army that they didn’t even notice us. We had to kill a couple of guards, but that was it. In and out within just over an hour.”

Drakon just stares at her. He has no idea what to say. How is he supposed to react? What kind of reaction does she want?

“Rhysand’s army has been defeated,” Sinna announces. “Half of his soldiers are dead, the rest captured – him included, if my sources are correct.”

Drakon slowly shakes his head. “Seven hundred soldiers,” he says. He can’t manage to keep the shock out of his voice. “You sent seven hundred soldiers to their deaths?”

“I did no such thing,” Sinna says. She sounds far too detached. How can she talk about this so neutrally? “I did not tell Rhysand to take his army on some suicide mission trying to take a fort with less than half the soldiers that would be required to actually pull it off. I told him not to. I told him they would all die, and Miryam with them. But it was painfully obvious that the idiot boy wouldn’t listen. And if he was already going to get himself and his soldiers killed, why shouldn’t I at least make sure they don’t die in vain?”

Drakon can’t stop shaking his head. “You could have stopped him,” he points out, even though he doesn’t know if he would have wanted her to.

All of his morals tell him that it is wrong, completely and utterly wrong, to let hundreds of people die to save one. And Rhys might have chosen to risk his life, but those soldiers certainly didn’t. Sacrificing them was wrong. But at the same time, selfishly, Drakon is glad Sinna acted the way she did. Sacrificing hundreds of lives for one seems far less wrong when the one live belongs to the person you love and the hundreds are mostly strangers.

Only those strangers will have families and friends, too. People who care about them, people who lost their loved ones tonight.

“You’re right,” Sinna says. “I could have. But I didn’t. I chose to save Miryam, because she is important to this war and important to you.”

Drakon just stares at Sinna. He doesn’t know what to do, whether to hug her or yell. He is torn between gratitude and anger, both feelings so intense that he is nearly choking on them.

“Would it help if I apologized?” Sinna asks.

“Are you sorry?” Drakon asks.

Sinna seems to consider it for a moment. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” she says. “But as for the rest? I would do it again.”

“Then no, an apology wouldn’t help,” Drakon says drily. Now, anger is winning over gratitude, if narrowly. “You should have told me.”

“Possibly,” Sinna agrees.

“Certainly. You can’t just…” He shakes his head. “You can’t just go behind my back like this. On purpose. It’s not like I require you to discuss every little detail with me – we both know you’re better at this than I’ll ever be – but this, you should have told me about. And you knew, since you conspired with my guards to keep me from finding out.”

Sinna crosses her arms. “I didn’t conspire,” she says pointedly. “I merely asked them to keep you in your room for the night, if at all possible.”

This is decidedly the wrong detail to focus on. “You should have told me,” Drakon repeats.

“But I didn’t,” Sinna says. “And because I didn’t, you will be able to look Miryam and Morrigan and anyone else who might ask in the eye and tell them that you had no part in sending Rhysand and his soldiers to their deaths and it will be the truth.”

“Well, I’d rather be able to tell people that I’m in charge of my own country and have it be the truth.”

Doesn’t she understand this? Drakon might not care much about his reputation and what the other royals think of him, but so far, he could always safely say that the things they said about him were lies. But if Sinna is ready to go behind his back so easily…

Sinna presses her lips together. “But would you have wanted to make that choice?” She asks. “I did not send the soldiers working for Rhysand to their deaths, but I willingly accepted it. I traded hundreds of lives for one. Is this the type of choice you would have liked?” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Trading lives like this is never easy, and these choices always stay with you. Forever.”

Drakon’s stomach twists, but he shakes his head. “But making those choices is my duty.” It’s not about choice, not about what he wants. And maybe it’s stupid that he has the final say on military matters when Sinna is so much more experienced – maybe he will change it one day – but for the moment, this is his duty. “You do not help me if you try to shield me from it.”

“You are too young,” Sinna says. “You shouldn’t be forced to make these choices.”

Drakon doesn’t say that Miryam and Jurian are also young, and Andromache, Mor and Rhys aren’t that much older than the three of them. “But you can’t change that,” he says softly. “I am Prince, whether you like it or not. These choices are mine to make. Just as any guilt they might bring is mine to bear.”

----

Andromache knows she has been too sharp. She knows that what her father did to her still haunts Mor, knows that it sometimes makes her snap. When that happens, her emotions run wild with her, making her say things she doesn’t mean. Maybe a better person than Andromache would have taken it with grace, would have let the comment slide.

But Andromache also has her sore points, and one of them is Fae – especially High Fae, and especially High Fae nobles – so clearly favouring Fae over humans. And for all she knows that Mor didn’t mean what she said, she also can’t shake the thought that no one says anything like this without meaning it at least a little bit.

“What did the two of you argue about, anyways?” Yanis asks. He is lying sprawled on Andromache’s bed, which is probably his unique interpretation of being on guard.

Andromache shrugs. “Jurian,” she says. “Mor doesn’t like what he did.”

“You don’t like what he did, either,” Yanis counters.

Andromache crosses her arms and turns around to him in her chair. She doesn’t have a reply to that, at least not one she can properly articulate, and she hates not having a reply. The thing is, she doesn’t have a problem with the fact that Mor dislikes Jurian’s actions, she has a problem with the how.

“She can just…” She shakes her head. “Sometimes, she’s so…” She gestures around in the air, searching for words. “Fae,” she finishes, hoping that Yanis will know what she means.

She doesn’t fault Mor for being Fae, not at all. But sometimes, she does things that make it painfully clear that she isn’t quite like her. Which, again, Andromache wouldn’t mind, if she wasn’t so…  

Yanis sighs. “Anny.” It’s her childhood nickname, and one he hasn’t used in years. At least since she became queen. "Do you really think that Mor's problem with what Jurian did is that he's human?"

Andromache makes a face. She doesn't think that, not really. Probably. At least not consciously. Mor certainly isn't like Shey and these other bastards on the council, but still, the way she judges Jurian doesn't sit well with Andromache.

"She doesn't have a problem with torture when Azriel does it," she says. "Or when Rhysand beats his soldiers because he's too incompetent a commander to get them in line through other methods."

And that's probably the core of the problem. (Well, that and the "just slavery" comment.) She would have no problem at all with Mor judging Jurian if she was consequent about it. But she is completely fine with torture when her Fae friends do it, even though their actions are arguably worse since they keep doing it and don't have the excuse of not being entirely in control of their own actions.

"Why is she fine with it then, but has a problem when Jurian does it?" Andromache asks.

"Because she can pretend that they only act that way because they don't have a choice and that they aren't actually like this," Yanis says. He has always been the more perceptive one of the two of them, the one who managed to look at things from all angles. "Rhysand has this entire thing going about how him being an asshole is only a mask, and Azriel can claim he's made to do it by his High Lord."

Andromache snorts. Of all the excuses she heard, 'I was just pretending to be an asshole' always seemed like the most idiotic one. If you torture someone, saying that you were just pretending certainly doesn’t make it right. You can’t just pretend to hurt people, you actually hurt them, and your reasons will never be able to ease the pain you caused.

“Mor,” Yanis says, “likes clear lines. Good and bad and little in between. And stupid as her friends’ reasonings might be, they allow her to still place them in the Good category. What Jurian did blurs the lines, and she doesn’t like that.”

Now, Andromache feels really stupid. Yanis is right, of course, and she can’t believe she had to let him explain her own partner to her. She knows that Mor generally sees people as either good or bad, no in-between. Anything that blurs those lines tends to make her upset, so of course she wouldn’t be fond of what Jurian did.

“Talk to her,” Yanis says. “Unless you are so upset that you want to end things, that is.”

Andromache flinches at the notion. “No!” Of course she doesn’t want to end things. It was one argument – one she already feels stupid about, if she’s being honest. She certainly isn’t fine with what Mor said, but she should have just dropped the topic instead of allowing it to escalate.

“Can you winnow me to Telique?” She asks. She originally hadn’t meant to leave the camp, but Jurian has been remarkably civil in the days since Miryam got kidnapped. He seems content to wait around for Amarantha to arrive, and he shows no sign of wanting to change his strategy, so she can probably risk leaving him alone for an hour.

Yanis slowly climbs out of her bed, yawning. “Sure,” he mutters.

 Mor is in her suite in Telique, as some of the palace guards inform Andromache when she arrives. Yanis leaves her behind to go visit his sister who works in the stables, and so Andromache is alone when she stands in front of Mor’s door. She allows herself a moment’s hesitation before she knocks.

Mor opens after only a moment. She freezes in the door when she sees Andromache, then gives her an awkward smile. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Andromache echoes. “Can I come in?”

It occurs to her that this is their first real argument. They had smaller disagreements, like the one about Mor’s interest in her powers, but they never really argued until yesterday.

“Sure.” Mor steps aside.

Andromache enters the spacious receiving room that belongs to the emissary’s suite. Mor closes the door, and then, they both stand around awkwardly, staring at each other. Andromache opens her mouth to apologize, but after the just slavery comment, she actually feels like it’s up to Mor to make the first step. Which she fortunately does.

“I’m sorry,” Mor says. “That comment I made… I didn’t mean to say it like that, it came out all wrong.” She shakes her head. “I was trying to say that torture is never okay, no matter against whom.”

Andromache sighs. “I know.” Even if that comment still echoes through her mind, and will likely remain with her for a while yet. “And I’m sorry, too. It’s just… I spent the past few days trying to get the council in line, which really isn’t easy without Miryam. And all the Fae who went on and on about how horrible Jurian’s actions were only seemed to have a problem with it because he’s human.” She offers Mor a half-hearted smile. “So you kind of hit a sore spot there.”

“Oh.” Mor winces. “I didn’t know that. Sorry.” She gives Andromache a tentative smile. “So we are still fine?” She asks in a small voice.

Andromache takes her hands and squeezes them. “Of course we are,” she says softly.

Mor smiles, eyes glittering wetly. Then, she throws her arms around Andromache and hugs her. Andromache absentmindedly trails her fingers through her light hair.

Perhaps Jurian isn’t the only one who’s slowly falling apart. They are all struggling, all desperately grasping for any ways to make this world of theirs more bearable. And if Mor likes to divide things into neat categories, if she doesn’t like to see that order interrupted, maybe that is fine.

A knock sounds on the door. Mor quickly lets go of her and steps back, putting some distance between them. She discreetly wipes her eyes.

Andromache waits until she composed herself, then calls, “Come in!”

To her surprise, Yanis steps inside. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, glancing between them. “But I thought you might want to hear this.”

“What?” Andromache asks. Her throat suddenly feels tight. If there’s one thing over six years of war taught her, it’s that urgent news are usually bad. Mor silently takes her hand, as if she, too, is bracing herself.

“I just got a letter from Drakon,” Yanis says. “He didn’t give any details, but apparently, they somehow got Miryam out of the Heseia fort. She’s alive and safe.”

Andromache is silent for a moment. Slowly, she turns to look at Mor, who seems equally shocked. Then, she slowly begins to smile. Andromache begins grinning herself, and then, they are hugging, holding each other tight.

Some good news. Finally some good news.

“There’s something else,” Yanis says. Now, he is looking at Mor only. “I’m sorry, Mor,” he says, “but your cousin got captured by Amarantha.”

----

A/N: I don't like Rhys, and I hope the veiled criticism came across in this chapter lol. (I also wasn't very enthusiastic about the entire storyline of Miryam getting kidnapped, so I'm glad that's done now.) And I DO like Mor, but I still felt like I needed to hint at her having some characteristics (a certain tendency to divide into “good” and “bad” and ignore the nuances) that allow her to be a part of a government like the Inner Circle later on.

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @femtopulsed

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 44

Masterlist

----

Miryam is alone with Drakon in his suite. Nephelle and Sinna left them, the latter only grudgingly, to allow them some privacy. Now, Miryam and Drakon are sitting together on the couch, awkward silence between them.

“I can’t ask you to do this,” Drakon finally says.

“Well, you didn’t,” Miryam says. “I offered.”

Annoyingly enough, Miryam’s stomach choses that moment to let out a low growl. Fortunately, Drakon seems to be too caught up on his worries to notice. She looks around the room, hoping to find something like breakfast anywhere, but there’s no food to be seen, not even a glass of water. Asking seems unfitting, considering what they are just discussing, but she hasn’t eaten in almost a day.

“It was my mistake, Miryam.” Drakon shakes his head, frowning. “Knowing or not, I signed that contract. I agreed to the engagement. And I can’t… I can’t let you suffer for my mistakes.”

Miryam crosses her arms. “I didn’t know I would be suffering.” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Don’t you think I considered what I want before I went to talk to you?”

She spent the majority of the night thinking about it, while she worked on the spell to create the mating bond. She is fully aware of what she is doing, what it will mean for her.

Unfortunately, Drakon doesn’t seem to see that. “No,” he says, “I just don’t think you place much value in your own wellbeing and wishes.”

There’s little Miryam can say to argue with that. She could insist that she is fine with this, that it doesn’t make her unhappy, but she isn’t entirely sure if Drakon would believe her. Her own fault, of course. Several years of lying about being fine certainly impacted her credibility.

Drakon rubs a hand over his face. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he says. “That you’re willing to do this… I can’t even tell you how much it means to me. And I love you. But because I love you, I cannot agree to this when I know that it’s not something you truly want.”

Miryam sighs. “Even if you didn’t want to marry me, it would be perfectly fine,” she says.

Maybe presenting herself as the logical first option was a mistake. Their relationship is at a stage where most people don’t even think about marriage, and Drakon is a prince, which means that he always has his country’s best interests to consider. She couldn’t blame him at all if he decided that he didn’t want to marry her. It wouldn’t even be judgment of their relationship.

“And your choice certainly isn’t between me and Ravenia,” she adds. She hopes he already knew that, but she still feels the need to say it. She wants to do this, but not if Drakon thinks the choice is between him and Ravenia. “I could create a bond between you and any other person if you’d prefer that. But I think we should at least talk about this before making any choices.”

Drakon reaches for her hand. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you,” he says, then smiles shyly. “I mean, I don’t want to marry at all at this point. But if I have to get married, I’d want it to be you.” He shakes his head. “But Miryam… You don’t want to get married, and unlike me you don’t have to. And you…” He gestures helplessly. “You want to live a quiet life after this war is over. And if you marry me, you’ll never have this. You will be Princess, and even if you decide to stay out of court life for the most part, there would still be expectations. For the rest of your life.”

Miryam nods. Presses her lips together. This, she considered as well, sitting in Drakon’s beautiful roof garden. It forced her to face more than once bitter truth, but face it she did.

“This quiet life is an illusion,” she says softly. “It always was.”

Even if she believed it for the longest time. And it was such a beautiful lie, too. No matter how terrible Miryam’s life might have been, how much she might have hated it, there was the idea that she could eventually live a normal life. A quiet village, working as a healer. But that future became impossible the moment Miryam stepped out on the balcony in Telique and started a continentwide war.

“I’ll still step back from Continental politics,” she says. “Reduce my role as far as possible. But you don’t get to lead half the Continent and then go live in a small village somewhere in the countryside. It simply isn’t how the game is played.”

If the Fae leaders are truly this scared of her, they will never allow her to vanish off the playing field. The position she currently has might grant her some small level of security – although even that isn’t enough if Zeku is to be believed – but if she gives it up and retreats to some unknown village, she will lose even that. It won’t be more than a month from then until someone decides to tie up loose ends and has her removed quietly.

“But you always said…” Drakon begins, then shrugs a bit helplessly.

“I spoke to Zeku yesterday,” she says. “I was going to tell you directly, but, well…” She smiles. “He told me I have to marry into a royal family if I don’t want to get murdered before the war is over.”

Drakon’s eyes widen. He even lets go of her hand in surprise. “You mean…” he stutters. “But you are leader of the Alliance! They can’t… That would be honourless.”

She snorts. “Apparently, they care more about the danger I might pose to their positions than they do about honour. Zeku thinks that if I were to marry, become royalty myself, that would tip the scales in my favour again.” Fae royal families on the Continent only very rarely murder each other. What Ravenia did to Drakon’s family was the exception, and it was what gave many countries the final push to turn against her.

“So you have to get married too?” Drakon asks.

Miryam nods. “I’m told in most cases, it’s more of a political contract,” she says, “But I can’t bear it. None of these people give a damn about me, they only want me to advance their own power. And if I were to agree, it would feel like I’m selling myself.”

Drakon doesn’t try to tell her that she is over-reacting, or that she’s being ridiculous. “And it doesn’t feel that way with me?” He asks.

Miryam smiles and shakes her head. “No,” she says simply, “It doesn’t.”

If her and Drakon marry, it isn’t about power, or about political positions. He doesn’t want her simply because of the position she holds in the Alliance, doesn’t want to collect her. Politics and such things might play a role in their marriage, but they will never be the sole reason.

“I don’t want to get married either,” she says softly. “But if I do have to, I’d want it to be you.”

Drakon takes her hand again. “So we’re actually getting married?” He asks like he can’t quite believe it.

“I think so.” Miryam smiles at him, more freely now that they’ve made their final choice. “And imagine all the things we might change that way.”

Slowly, Drakon begins to smile back. “You think we could find a way to establish human communities in Erithia?” He asks. “I know we were planning on separate countries, but just imagine…”

“I was thinking just the same thing!” Miryam grins at him. “Imagine if we actually got that to work! Humans and Fae living together in peace.”

Drakon pulls her to her feet, whirls her around. “It would be the first time in history,” he says. “And it will be difficult. But if we got it to work, it would change everything.”

Miryam laughs, suddenly giddy. Right now, in this moment, they can do everything, face everyone. “And imagine the look on Ravenia’s face when she finds out!”

A knot forms in her stomach, like every time she thinks of her, but this time, she doesn’t let it deter her. Ravenia lost, she lost once again, and Miryam will not allow that victory to be dimished by fear.

“Do you think she’ll know?” Drakon asks. “What we did, I mean.”

Miryam grins and squeezes his hand. “If she doesn’t, I’ll have to tell her,” she says. “It wouldn’t do to have her think this was chance and not our actions.”

----

Sinna listened to Drakon’s explanation in silence. She doesn’t comment, but her mouth tightens further with each word he says. When he is done, she shakes his head.

“I don’t like this,” she says. “You’re too young to get married.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Drakon says. “I have to get married within three days whether I want it or not.”

The one choice he does get to make is who he wants to marry, and he meant what he said to Miryam: She’s the only person in the world he could actually imagine marrying.

This doesn’t seem to soothe Sinna. “But why Miryam?” She asks.

The question takes Drakon aback. “Because I love her?” He says, question and answer in one. “Because she is the only person I could actually imagine life with.”

Sinna doesn’t seem satisfied. Not at all. But for once, she hesitates before speaking. It’s enough to make Drakon worry. In all the years he’s known Sinna, rarely ever hesitated before speaking.

“What is it?” Drakon prompts when she remains silent.

“Before I go on,” Sinna says, “I would like you to remember that I never interfered with your relationship to Miryam. I only have the biggest respect for her and what she’s accomplished. But I don’t think she is the type of person you should marry.”

Drakon frowns. Of all the reasons Sinna might have offered, he never considered that she might think he might disapprove of him marrying Miryam.

“Miryam is…” Sinna hesitates. “I don’t doubt that she is a kind woman, but she is far more similar to Jurian than she is to you.”

“I don’t see how that is a bad thing,” Drakon says. He understands Sinna is worried for him, but he doesn’t like the direction this conversation is going at all. “I’ll remind you that Jurian was one of my closest friends.”

Sinna sighs. She gets up and walks over to the window. Leaning at the window frame, she looks out of the city below. “It is admirable,” she says, “for someone who comes from the very bottom to rise as high as Miryam did. To start out a slave and end as one of the most powerful people on the entire Continent. But it takes a certain amount of ruthlessness as well.”

“And you think this is news to me?” Drakon asks. He can’t quite help sounding incredulous. “You think that after more than five years of friendship, I don’t know Miryam?” He shakes his head. “Have you ever considered the option that I might actually know her better than you do?”

He is perfectly aware that there is a duality to Miryam. That while they are very similar in many ways, they are fundamentally different in others. He knows that Miryam has an edge he always lacked, knows that she would always be able to make choices he would shy away from. If it came down to it, he doesn’t doubt that she would do what’s necessary to win this war.

It doesn’t make her kindness any less genuine, though. Doesn’t mean they don’t dream of the same things, don’t share the same ideals and visions for the future. If anything, it makes it more beautiful to Drakon.

“Don’t you think I might actually know her better than you do?” He asks.

“I’m not doubting that,” Sinna says. “And I’m not claiming she isn’t a good person, or a good friend.” She turns around to face him. “But are you entirely sure about her intentions when it comes to this marriage?”

Drakon blinks at her. It takes him a moment to understand what Sinna is implying.

“You think she wants to marry me for power?”

“And I wouldn’t blame her for it,” Sinna says with a shrug. “It would be the smart thing to do, for a woman in her position. And there are worse reasons to get married.”

Drakon shakes his head. “This isn’t why.”

The very idea is ridiculous. Miryam received marriage proposals from all of the Alliance’s most influential families. If she wanted to marry for power, she would pick Zeku. Drakon would love to tell Sinna as much, but he isn’t sure if that information is meant to be shared.

Sinna walks over and sits down next to him. “Then look me in the eye and tell me you are absolutely certain that you are not being played. If this is what you believe, without a single doubt, then I will drop this subject and never bring it up again.”

Drakon nods. He meets her dark eyes without blinking and says, “I am sure, without the shade of a doubt, that Miryam pursues no intentions with this marriage beyond the ones she told me about.”

Sinna holds his gaze for a moment, then nods. “Then that is settled.” She nods again. Straightens. “As far as people you want to marry might go, Miryam is a good choice. She isn’t from Erithia, which is a problem, but her talents and yours complement each other.” She nods a third time, as if to reassure herself. “Having her on the ruling council together with you will be good.”

Drakon nods, thinking of the plans they made.

“You’ll have a contract, of course,” Sinna continues. “Apart from the basics and the power divisions, is there anything specific you want, or can we tell the people who will negotiate that contract for you that they should allow Miryam to choose?”

“Miryam can choose,” Drakon says without hesitation. Marriage contracts are important for both sides, of course, but generally more important for the person who is marrying into a different country’s royal family.

Sinna nods and gets up. “I’ll pass it on,” she says. “And now that this is done, we should get going. There’s a lot to do if you truly want to get married tomorrow.”

----

A day is far too little time to prepare a royal wedding. Even a month would be too short, as an advisor whose name Miryam doesn’t know tells her. There are a million things to be done, and far too little time.

She barely sees Drakon. He is busy talking to his council, trying to help organize a wedding in a day. Meanwhile, Miryam is stuck in negotiations for the marriage contract. Drakon has people doing it for him, but Miryam lacks the advantage of being royal and doesn’t have any people working for her. She sent a message to Andromache, who came over from her camp to help, and Drakon got a lawyer from the city for her, which is a good thing because Miryam is completely lost when it comes to legal texts.

The meeting drags on endlessly. They aren’t even debating the contents of the contract – for the most part, Drakon’s people simply explain the options and ask Miryam after her preferences. For the most part, she even gets what she wants. But there are just so many things to consider, countless clauses they need to fulfil.

After three hours, they take a break. The Seraphim lawyer they have working for them nods at Miryam and Andromache, then withdraws.

“You’re crazy,” Andromache says as soon as he’s gone. “Just so you know it.”

Miryam shrugs. She still doesn’t quite realize what is happening. Ever since she heard about the contract, she has been thrumming with a frantic energy. She doesn’t feel tired, even though she hasn’t slept in well over a day.

“Do you think I’m being stupid?” She asks softly.

“Depends,” Andromache says. “I may not be entirely aware of the reasons behind this… spontaneous decision, but I assume you both have your reasons. And Drakon is a good person – it’s obvious that you love him, and he loves you.” She picks a rice ball off a plate one of the servants brought. “But have you truly considered the consequences? This is a very permanent decision, and you are still young.”

Miryam looks down at her fingers. She is perfectly aware of how permanent her choices are. The contract they are currently writing guarantees her many liberties (not to mention that it basically makes her the second most powerful person in all of Erithia). She can have lovers whenever she wants, can spend her time where she wishes. But if she choses to marry Drakon now, she will always be tied to Erithia. As its Princess, she will have duties. Always.

Still, she is nearly certain that this is what she wants. She can imagine life with Drakon, imagine it easily. She doesn’t have any doubt about that. It’s being Princess of a Fae country that worries her more, but even that will probably be bearable. As far as Fae countries go, Erithia is quite nice, and as Princess, Miryam will be in a position to make some changes together with Drakon. Maybe they’ll truly manage to establish human communities, a peaceful coexistence for humans and Fae.

“I’m sure,” she says. “This is what I want to do.”

Andromache nods. “That’s good.”

The meeting drags on. Another three hours later, the contract is finally ready. The Fae who oversaw the meeting informs Miryam that the text will go straight to a scribe to be written in its final form and will be ready for signature within a few hours. After that, Andromache has to head back to Telique, and Miryam is presented with a seamstress who needs to take her measurements for appropriate wedding clothes. As soon as the seamstress is done, a courtier appears to shoo Miryam into another room where an elderly Seraphim walks her through the protocol for royal weddings.

By the time Miryam is finally free to go, the sun has already set and the palace halls are lit by faelight. The courtier who sent her to her last meeting is there again, but he seems at a loss for where to take her next.

Fortunately for both of them, Nephelle appears in time to save them. “I’ll take her,” she says to the courtier, links her arm with Miryam’s and starts walking.

“Do you mind if I take you to Drakon’s quarters?” She asks softly. “You will have quarters of your own once you are married, but they aren’t ready yet, and I thought you might not want to spend the night in one of the guest suites.”

“Sure,” Miryam says absentmindedly.

The frantic energy that kept her going so far has vanished, leaving her completely drained. She stumbles over her feet and Nephelle grabs her arm to keep her upright.

“You look like you were run over by a cart,” Nephelle says. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Miryam mutters.

“Quite hectic, right?” Nephelle grins and nudges her in the side. “I’ve always dreamed of seeing a real royal wedding sometime, but I never considered that it might entail this much stress.”

Miryam smiles. “I imagine most royal weddings have more than one day to be planned.”

“True words.” Nephelle’s smile fades. “I know this is a very short timeframe,” she says. “And as someone who has known Drakon from his childhood and considers him a younger brother, I’m beyond grateful that you are doing this. Still: You’re sure that this is what you want?”

“Yes,” Miryam replies, this time without hesitation. “I’m sure.”

“Good.” They have reached Drakon’s quarters and Nephelle lets go of her arm. “Do you want me to stay?”

Miryam shakes her head. “Thank you, but I just want to sleep.”

Nephelle smiles and leaves her behind at the door. Miryam quietly closes the door behind her. She barely manages to pull off her shoes before she falls asleep on the couch.

Soft voices wake her. Miryam stirs. Still heavy from sleep, she yawns and sits up.

“I’m sorry,” Drakon says softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He’s still dressed in fine clothes, although they seem a little ruffled after an entire day spent running around. Sinna and Nephelle are with him. A look at the clock reveals that it’s three hours past midnight. With a start, Miryam realizes that she’s getting married today.

“Still awake?” She asks with another yawn.

“Yes.”

Miryam draws up her knees and motions for Drakon to sit down next to her. He does, Sinna and Nephelle sitting down on the other couch. Nephelle leans her head against Sinna’s shoulder.

“They’ve got the contract ready,” Drakon says and holds out a scroll. “I already signed, but you can read through it again before you do if you want to.”

Miryam nods and sits up. Her dress is hopelessly crumbled, but she still tries to straighten it before taking the scroll from Drakon. Simply signing a contract is distinctly unromantic, but for royal marriages, it has little to do with the actual ceremony. Contracts are signed upon engagement, and during the actual marriage ceremony, vows are exchanged.

“And I still need to cast the spell,” she says. “So that we can officially ‘accept’ the bond tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes.” Drakon hesitates. “Do you want to do it now, or…”

“Now is fine.” Miryam yawns again. “Just give me a moment to wake up fully.” The last thing she wants is to mess up with a spell as important as this. She reaches for Drakon’s hand. “I’m confident that this spell will work,” she says. “But you should know that there’s always a chance that it won’t fool the contract.”

Drakon frowns slightly. Sinna straightens. “How big a chance?” She asks.

“One out of ten?”

Drakon nods without hesitation. “Then I suppose I’ll have to take that risk.”

“Talking of risks,” Sinna says, “I think it would be best if news of that spell didn’t leave this room.”

Miryam frowns and Nephelle jumps in to explain. “Many Fae believe that mating bonds are sacred. They are seen as gifts from the Cauldron. If it became public that you cast a spell to recreate one, people might take it amiss. It could be considered to be blasphemy.”

Drakon makes a face at the word, but Miryam has a different problem.

“That won’t work,” she says.

“Why?” Sinna asks.

“I have to tell Jurian. The entire story.”

If she doesn’t, it will make it so much worse for him. No doubt the mating bond will be made into some huge romance by the Fae, who somehow think there is nothing more romantic than some cosmic bond tying two people together. And if Jurian thinks she married Drakon over a mating bond, that would be a hard blow for him.

“Of course.” Drakon winces. “He doesn’t even know about our relationship yet, if we marry without explaining…”

“And what if he tells?” Sinna asks sharply.

“Jurian is already suffering enough,” Drakons says, “I refuse to make it worse unnecessarily.” He turns to Miryam. “Do you want me to come when you talk to him?”

Miryam would love nothing more than to say yes. She is scared of talking to Jurian – not out of any fear of him, but because she knows how much this will hurt him. And she cannot bear to see Jurian hurt, least of all because of her. But she knows that taking Drakon along will just make it worse for Jurian, and she would be the worst kind of coward if she chose to make this easier for herself at his expense.

“I’ll go alone,” she says. “It will be easier that way.”

Sinna frowns at her, but doesn’t comment. Drakon simply nods.

Miryam straightens. “I think I’m ready for the spell now,” she says. “I’ll go to Jurian afterwards.”

She gets up and stretches, then goes looking for her notes on the spell. She finds them on a small table at the edge of the room.

Nephelle leans forward. “I’ve never seen a witch spell,” she says. “This is exciting.”

Miryam shrugs. “I’m afraid this spell won’t be very flashy.”

Few witch spells are, to be honest. Fae can sense the power occasionally, but unless it’s something really big, the effect isn’t generally visible to anyone who isn’t a witch. This one certainly won’t be.

“I need you to cut your arm,” Miryam says to Drakon. “We need blood for the spell.”

Drakon winces slightly at the thought, but draws his knife and holds it over his palm. Miryam grabs his wrist before he can cut himself. “The arm,” she says. “Hand cuts get infected far more easily and are more painful.” Drakon angles the knife over his arm. “But not too deep,” Miryam adds.

“I know,” Drakon says with a wry smile. He slices the knife over his arm, wincing as he does. Miryam takes up the knife and runs it over her own arm. It hurts, but not much.

“Good,” Miryam says softly. “We need to press our arms together now.”

They grasp each other by the elbows and press their arms together. Miryam grips the paper with the spell with her free hand. A drop of blood falls on the paper.

“I’ll start now,” She says. “I might feel… I don’t know. Strange.”

Drakon nods. Miryam holds his gaze as she begins the spell. They burn in her throat as they always do, but her power plays along just fine. Smaller strings appear in front of her and weave together to a tight cord. With each of Miryam’s words, it tightens. She finishes the spell and the cord snaps into place between them. Miryam looks up and finds Drakon, Sinna and Nephelle staring at her.

“It didn’t work?” Sinna asks.

“Of course it worked,” Miryam says. She curiously looks down at the small cord that now connects her and Drakon.

“But nothing happened!” Nephelle exclaims.

“Not very flashy, like I said.” Miryam grins and tugs at the cord that now connects them. Drakon flinches.

“Was that…”

Miryam takes his hands and grins broader. “A mating bond.”

----

Ever since the battle, Mor’s life has been in a steady downwards spiral that shows no sign of stopping. By now, she is nearly certain that some higher power is trying to punish her for wishing for powers beyond what any person should reasonably have. Arrogant, that’s what it was, and now, she’s paying the price.

Part of that price includes facing her uncle’s questions.

“And you’re absolutely sure you cannot do it again?” He asks.

It’s the same question he has been asking over and over again since their meeting started, ever since Mor described what happened. It is becoming tiresome. Especially because her uncle is a talented liar himself, and lying to him is a challenge.

“I don’t even know how I did it,” she lies. “It just happened. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I was to replicate it.”

A lie, of course. Mor knows exactly what happened and would be able to do it again quite easily. She won’t, though. Even if it was her life at stake, she would never use her powers again. The very thought terrifies her.

“But have you tried?” The High Lord presses.

“Yes.” Mor sighs. “Nothing happened, though.”

And so they restart their game of question and evasion. By the time he finally allows her to take her leave, Mor is completely drained. She only barely manages to winnow back to Andromache’s camp.

“Evening Mor!” Yanis calls out to her from where he’s standing with some of the guards. “Had a fun meeting?”

“Sure,” Mor mutters, sarcasm dripping in each word. “Where’s Andromache?”

“Erithia.” Yanis shrugs. “Something’s up with Miryam. Or Drakon, I’m not sure.”

Mor frowns. “Something bad?”

“Not that I know of.”

Mor sighs. She briefly considers winnowing to Erithia to find out what this is about, but she doubts it would be any use. If she is allowed to know about what’s going on, she will be told sooner or later. Otherwise, asking around after secrets that are not for her to know will lead to nothing.

In her tent, she lies down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling. Even days later, the words she heard when she used her power still echo in his head. She wonders if they’ll ever go away. If there will ever be a day when she doesn’t need to hear that horrible voice.

She should never have used her powers. Some truths are simply too horrible to face.

Almost an hour passes until Andromache arrives. She steps through the tent’s entrance, dressed not in her armour but in fine council clothes. When she sees Mor lying on the bed, she smiles and sits down next to her.

“Did your uncle leave you in one piece?” She asks.

Mor nods. “I think he suspects I’m not telling him everything, though.” Considering that, her uncle was surprisingly polite. “And you? Any trouble?”

“No.” Andromache says. “Are your free tomorrow?”

“Yes?” Mor arches an eyebrow at her. “Anything specific?”

“Miryam and Drakon are getting married.”

Mor stares at her, not quite comprehending the words. “Miryam and Drakon are…” She begins, then breaks off.

“Getting married, yes,” Andromache finishes for her. “Don’t ask me why, though, because my guess is as good as yours.”

Mor shakes her head. “They are getting married,” she says slowly. “Within a day. And you don’t know why?”

“The obviously false reason is that they are mates,” Andromache says.

Mor yelps. “Mates?” She lets out a startled laugh.

Miryam and Drakon – mates. Who would have thought. They are hardly the typical pair, not as closely matched in power as mates usually are. Mor still finds the pairing fitting, though. They are both kind, both share the same vision for the future of the Continent.

“And you’re surprised they decide to marry?” She asks. “If they are mates?”

Andromache shrugs entirely too nonchalantly. “So what? That’s hardly a reason to marry within a day.”

Mor laughs and grips her hands. “Of course it is,” she says. “It’s a mating bond.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t see anything particularly romantic about some strange bond dictating your life choices,” Andromache says. “I’d much rather be chosen by someone who loves me than have magic make the choice for us.”

Mor frowns. She never heard anyone express a view like that. Most people she talked to saw a mating bond as the epitome of romance. “But it means you belong together,” she says hesitantly. “That you were meant to be together.”

“I’d still rather choose,” Andromache says. She smiles at Mor. “We chose each other, after all. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Mor can feel herself blushing. “Of course, I…” She pauses, hoping that Andromache didn’t take her words the wrong way. It wasn’t what she meant. “I love you.” She leans forward and kisses Andromache on the nose.

She doesn’t say that she secretly hoped for quite a while that her and Andromache would turn out to be mates. That she thought it might fit, considered it to be romantic. She never considered that Andromache might not feel the same way.

The queen tugs her legs up to the bed and snuggles in next to Mor. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing,” she says. “A difference between humans and Fae.” She leans her head against Mor’s shoulder. “I think Miryam would feel the way I do, though,” she says. “Which is why I don’t believe that this is about a mating bond – whether it actually exists or not.”

Mor considers telling her that there’s no way to fake a mating bond, that Fae can sense if it exists, but she is tired of this topic. It makes certain differences between the way Andromache and her view the world become all too apparent and Mor finds that unsettling. She won’t want to be with you forever, not when your opinions differ so much, the voice whispers in Mor’s head. She will realize that deep down, you don’t understand, and she will leave.

Mor shakes it off. She smiles brightly at Andromache. “So there will be a wedding tomorrow?” She asks. “In that case, may I ask for the first dance with this beautiful lady?”

Andromache laughs and leans forward to kiss her.

----

Miryam leaves Erithia at dawn. Tasia arrived from Telique at late evening and brought some of her spare clothes, so Miryam is now dressed in a light tunic and pants. After running around in a dress for most of yesterday, wearing more covering clothes again is an immediate relief. It doesn’t quite manage to soothe the anxiety she feels at her conversation with Jurian, though.

This early in the morning, the camp is still mostly asleep. The guards on duty are at their posts and a few other soldiers are slowly crawling from their tents. Miryam calls out greetings to a few of them.

Jurian is in his tent, which saves Miryam from having to search for him, but also forces her to confront him right away. Remembering his reaction from last time, she knocks before entering. Jurian is sitting at his table. His eyes are bloodshot and there’s something wild in his gaze as he looks up.

“Miryam.” He jumps to his feet, knocking over his chair as he does. “You’re back!”

“Yes.” She tries to smile, but doesn’t quite manage. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Of course.” Jurian walks around the table. “I wanted to talk to apologize. What I said last time. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

Miryam shakes her head. He doesn’t want Jurian to apologize. He had a right to be angry then, and he has it now.

“It’s alright,” she says. Summoning all the courage she can muster, she begins, “I need to tell you that – “

“I was just so angry,” he interrupts. “I don’t know how you could ever suggest anything like this. I’ve always done my work, you know it! You can’t take that away from me.”

Miryam should probably reply to that, try to explain that she isn’t suggesting this to harm him. But she cannot open up another argument, not today. “I know,” she says as soothingly as she can manage. “But this is not what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m going to – “

“And I’m going to fix it all soon, anyways,” Jurian says. “Just trust me. A few days and it will all be fine. You’ll see.”

But Miryam doesn’t want to see anything. She wants Jurian to stop interrupting her, she wants to finally get the chance to tell him what she has come here to say before she loses her courage. It is already getting more difficult with each passing minute. Jurian is done, she sees it in his feverish eyes, in his too-thin frame. How can she put another burden on him?

“Jurian, I’m…” I’m getting married today and I don’t know how to tell you.

“I know you don’t like this,” Jurian says. “But you have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. I have a plan.”

“Jurian, would you listen to me?”

“I’m sorry.” Jurian runs a hand through his hair. His fingers tremble slightly. Miryam wonders if he’s drunk, or if he’s simply so close to the edge that there’s little difference anymore. “I’m sorry, Miryam. But I’m very busy today. I have an important meeting later today, you see, and I need to prepare.”

Miryam shakes her head. “But this is important.”

“I really don’t have time right now, Miryam,” Jurian says. He’s rambling now. “But tomorrow, yes? Tomorrow, it will all be better. And then, we can talk. It will all be fine, you’ll see, just give me a day.”

Miryam is still shaking her head. Tomorrow, it will be too late. She’ll be married tomorrow, and telling Jurian after it already happened will just harden the blow. She can’t wait for whichever idea Jurian is chasing after currently, they have to talk now.

“No,” she says, racing to come up with a way to convince him.

But Jurian is already pushing past her. Miryam almost thinks he’ll leave right away, without a goodbye, but he pauses. Slowly, carefully, he reaches for her hand. She lets him.

“Don’t be angry,” he says softly. “I have to do this. For us, for our people.”

Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes. “I’m not angry,” she whispers, voice breaking. She is so very far from angry. There is a terrible tightness in her chest and she cannot get herself to speak the words she knows she should be saying. “Promise that you’ll be careful,” she chokes out. “I know things between us have been difficult, but I still care. I’ll always care.” She wants to say that she still loves him, but that would come across wrong. She can’t make him any hope where there is none, even though the lack of romantic feelings doesn’t mean she loves him any less. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Jurian says. “I’ll fix this. You’ll see.” He lets go of Miryam’s hands and walks over to the door.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” Miryam calls after him. If she arrives early enough, news of her marriage to Drakon might not have broken yet. She might still be able to be the one to tell Jurian. It might still be fine.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks

[elemental-pop-terri]

"I know mama, but I wanna know why you do it? Why did you blame both Sinna and Artemis?" she seemed a bit upset knowing how bad her past was even before she met Sinna or her step family.

Unstable Rp) Terriana walked into a murder scene as she saw Artio holding an axe "What did you do?!" she cried out. Seeing a bloody mess cause her to get wary.

Artio was shaking violently, the peace within his mind was gone. He took him a good while to realize what he done to Candle and Light. He just stood there sobbing but screamed when Terriana stepped inside. Gemma was there as well, bleeding out but was still breathing.

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 46

Masterlist

Tw: mentions of torture in scene 2 & 3

----

A knock sounds on the door, making Miryam jolt awake. She blinks up at the ceiling, trying to place the artfully carved wood that most certainly does not belong to her room in Telique. A moment later, she remembers where she is. Sajeo, Erithia’s capital. Her new home.

She pushes herself up on her elbows and looks over to Drakon, who is pressing his face into his pillow and seems to be fighting against waking up. Miryam smiles and crawls over to him. (They left some free space between them at night. Since they never spent the night together, before, they opted to take it slow and start by simply sleeping in the same bed with a bit of space between them.)

“Good morning,” Miryam says and presses a kiss on Drakon’s neck.

“Morning,” Drakon says into his pillow, but he lifts his head to kiss her back. He looks cute with his hair all mussed from sleep. Her husband. She’ll have to get used to thinking of him as that.

The knock on the door sounds again, more insistent this time. Drakon picks up a clock from the bedside and groans.

“You’d think they could at least leave us be until midday on the day after our wedding.”

Miryam nods. It’s seven in the morning, which is far later than the time she usually wakes, but they only returned to Sajeo four hours ago. They spent most of the night on Cretea, wandering around the island, sitting by a lake with silver water and talking.

She pushes her blanket away and sits up straighter. “This might be important.”

Drakon sighs. “I’m sure it is,” he says, sounding defeated. (After six years of war, they are both used to short nights, but unlike Miryam, Drakon is actually fond of sleeping.) “We’re coming,” he calls to the intruder at the door. “Just give us a moment to get dressed.”

Miryam is already on her feet, searching for more suitable clothes. Her nightclothes aren’t exactly unsuitable, since they are not so different from some of her day clothes, but she knows that they are nightclothes and that means she needs something else to wear. She finds a tunic, pants and an overcoat laid out on a chair and quickly changes. By the time she is done, Drakon at least managed to get out of bed.

Still barefoot, Miryam walks over to the door, turns the key and opens it. Sinna is already dressed in her armour and stepping from one foot to another in the corridor. When she sees Miryam, she inclines her head.

“Princess.”

Miryam frowns. “Why do you call me Princess?” She asks. “You don’t even call Drakon Prince.”

Sinna shrugs and grins. “Didn’t know if you’d care. Makes it easier that you don’t, though.”

Miryam smiles and steps aside, allowing Sinna to enter. She feels the General watching her – not that she can blame her. Her and Sinna don’t know each other all that well. Most of their meetings have been brief, and Sinna isn’t nearly as approachable as Nephelle. What she knows of Sinna, she respects – and she knows that Drakon considers her family – and she is sure that they will get to know each other better over time.

“Morning Sinna,” Drakon says from where he’s sitting on the bed. Miryam closes the door again and goes looking for her shoes.

“Had a good night?” Sinna asks and musses Drakon’s hair in passing before throwing his wardrobe open.

“Very.” Drakon smiles at Miryam. “We spent most of the time walking around, talking.”

Sinna nods. She picks a tunic and a coat out of the wardrobe and tosses them at Drakon. Pants follow. “You need to get dressed,” she says. “We have a problem.”

Drakon is already reaching for his clothes before she has finished the sentence. Any traces of tiredness are gone in a heartbeat. Standing on one leg, shoe in hand, Miryam pauses.

“What happened?” She asks.

“Ravenia’s army marches north, led by Artax” Sinna says. She keeps her back turned to them, presumably to allow Drakon privacy while getting dressed. “Our forces have been ordered to the Callian Pass to intercept them. We are to hold them back until reinforcements arrive to ambush them from behind.”

Drakon closes his coat and fishes out his boots from under his bed. “Have you already informed the other generals?”

“Yes. And I’m going to join them in a moment.” Sinna taps her foot. “You two are needed in Telique. The council is meeting and your presence has been requested.”

Miryam’s head is whirring. Ravenia’s army on the march, Artax with it. She wonders if this is in response to their defiance, or if she always planned it and had simply meant to wait until after the marriage. Either way, it will mean a busy day. And she had meant to meet Jurian in the morning.

That meeting is already impossible and she knows it. There might have been a time when she could have ignored the council, or kept them waiting, but that time is long gone. If there is a meeting, she has to be there. All that’s left to do is to go see Jurian afterwards and hope that it won’t be too late by then.

She sighs. “I need court clothes,” she says. “Give me a moment.”

 The council chamber is buzzing with noise by the time Miryam and Drakon arrive. When they enter, all eyes turn to them, which is generally a bad sign. People only stare like that when there’s a reason, and in Continental politics, those reasons are rarely good. For a moment, silence reins. Then, Zeku steps forward. His face is serious and he doesn’t even bother with an introduction before getting to the point.

“You married?” He asks, looking between them. He sounds nowhere near as pleased as he should, considering that he spent the past months trying to convince her to do just that.

“Yes, I – “

“Now that we are all here,” Shey interrupts from where he is already sitting at the table, “perhaps we ought to begin.”

Miryam and Zeku look at each other for a moment longer, then Zeku inclines his head and stalks over to his seat at the table. Miryam exchanges a look with Drakon, who seems bewildered, then walks over to the table with him. They sit down side by side.

“Before we begin, Drakon and I would like to make an announcement,” Miryam says and reaches for his hand.

He smiles back at her. “I’m sure some of you already heard the news, but Miryam and I got married yesterday.”

Murmurs rise around the table.

Miryam gives the assembles crowd her best rueful smile. “We apologize for not inviting any of you,” she says, although they technically did invite Andromache, “but the decision was made quickly. We found out we were mates and didn’t want to wait. As soon as this war is over, we will hold an official celebration.”

She knew in advance that not sending invites to the other Alliance members would border on a political affront. But the short timeframe would never have been enough to prepare a celebration of the necessary scale. Being able to point to a mating bond should have helped with the fallout – the number of things that suddenly become acceptable when one has a mating bond is stunning – but it doesn’t seem to work. The stares continue, as do the murmurs.

The meeting in itself is unspectacular. They go over the plans concerning the Callian pass again to make it official, then deal with a few other minor annoyances. However, the way the other councilmembers keep looking at her more than worries Miryam. Something is clearly wrong, but usually, she can at least tell why the council is annoyed with her. Today, they are worryingly upset over something that, by all accounts, shouldn’t be that big a problem, though.

The moment the meeting ends, Zeku appears next to Miryam’s chair. “A word,” he says. His tone is clipped and his blue skin looks dark as a storm-swept sea.

Miryam exchanges a look with Drakon who has half-risen in his chair. She is about to ask him to accompany them – now that they’re married, she’ll have to involve him more in her political struggles – but Zeku speaks before she gets the chance.

“Alone,” he says with a pointed look at Drakon.

Drakon seems torn between confusion and hurt, but he nods. “I’ll wait here.”

Miryam is inclined to tell Zeku that he can have a word with himself if he’s going to be so impolite, but she really shouldn’t offend her closest Fae ally right now. She allows Zeku to lead her out of the room and pretends that his grip on her arm isn’t far too tight for her liking. They choose the nearest private meeting chamber. Almost as soon as the door has closed behind them, wards snapping in place around the room, Zeku whirls around to Miryam.

“What were you thinking?” He snaps.

“With what?” Miryam asks back. “Because right now, I have no idea why you are acting like I did you some grievous injustice.” After all, she did exactly what he wanted her to. He really has no right to be this angry with her over it.

“Oh, don’t play games with me,” Zeku snaps. His voice is getting louder. “You married Drakon.” He shakes his head. “Why? Do you have a death wish?”

He is almost yelling, now and Miryam has to fight against two opposing instincts to the situation of being yelled at by a Fae. The first is to cower, try to become as invisible as possible, which experience taught her is the best way to survive situations like this. Unfortunately, her power isn’t one for cowering. Sensing her unease, it stirs and begins to push back against her hold.

Since Miryam neither wants to shrink back before Zeku nor attack him, she suppresses both instincts and straightens. “The only thing I’m wishing for right now,” she says as calmly as she can manage, “is for you to stop speaking to me that way. You told me to marry into royalty, I did.”

Zeku shakes his head, skin turning a greyer shade of blue. At least he seems to get his anger more under control, and when he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “Not Drakon, though,” he says. “Anyone else. But surely you must have realized that it could not be Drakon you married.”

Miryam’s stomach drops. No. This problem was supposed to be over and done with, at least for a while. Marrying Drakon was supposed to get the Alliance off her back at least for a while. It can’t have made it worse.

“Why not?” She asks in a small voice. “I love him. He’s my age, and he’s someone I can actually imagine…” Someone she can imagine spending the rest of her life with. But none of these arguments hold any weight in Continental politics. Only one thing might. “We are mates,” she says.

“And you expect me to believe that?” Zeku asks and shakes his head before Miryam can reply. “You aren’t this blind,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “There is no way you can be this blind.” When Miryam doesn’t reply, he slumps down on a chair. “You know,” he says, “the impression Drakon gives off.”

Miryam lifts her chin. “I know that Drakon is kind and brave and brilliant. If there is anything else, you’ll have to tell me.”

Zeku shakes his head like she is being difficult. “Drakon is a child,” he says. “Brilliant in his own areas he might be, but he is also naïve and hopelessly overwhelmed when it comes to Continental politics. And believe me, that counts far more here.” He gives Miryam a sharp look. “Most people don’t even believe he’s truly in charge of his country as it is.”

Miryam crosses her arms. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

She hates when people act like Drakon is a naïve idiot. Just because he isn’t violent or particularly outgoing doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of thinking for himself. And just because he chooses to see the good in people doesn’t make him too blind to see the fact that there’s also bad.

“He isn’t stupid,” she adds.

“No, but I’m beginning to think you might be.” Now, Zeku’s anger is back, although it’s less forceful than last time. “What kind of impression do you think this marriage will give off? That of all the people you could have chosen, you pick the one who is youngest and easiest to manipulate.”

Miryam stares back at him. “I’m not - You don’t think that – “ She shakes her head. “You can’t think that I manipulated Drakon into marrying me.”

Zeku shrugs. “Me and the entire Continent.”

Miryam gapes and shakes her head again. People can’t honestly think that. Yes, she may not always be honest, and yes, there is more to this marriage than Drakon and her are willing to tell, but she could never be this cold, this calculating. (Well, if she’s being entirely honest, she probably could, if it ever came down to it. She wouldn’t do it to Drakon, though.)

“You just effectively put yourself in charge of a country, Miryam,” Zeku says. “And you expect me to believe you didn’t realize?”

Miryam, embarrassing as it now seems, really did not realize it. With all that was going on in the past few days, she didn’t exactly wait around and consider the implications of her actions. In all honesty, she still finds the entire problem ridiculous.

“It’s not like Drakon simply disappeared, you know?” She says. “He’s still Prince, with more political power than me.”

She doesn’t even plan to hold much political power in Erithia. She will be expected to be there for a few official functions and Drakon and she assumes she will be helping him with some of his plans. But that doesn’t mean she actually plans to rule. It’s Drakon’s country, Drakon’s people, and while she will not neglect her duties, she doesn’t feel like she has any right to truly rule over them.

“And of course,” Zeku says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “you would never be able to get him to do what you want.” He arches an eyebrow at her. “Or are you trying to tell me you couldn’t.”

Miryam presses her lips together. She hates the direction where this conversation is going, and she hates it even more that the way Zeku asked the question allows only one answer. Of course she could influences choices Drakon makes if she truly insisted on something. But she is sure that he could also influence her choices. It’s called trust, and part of that trust is believing that any advice the other gives is genuine and not manipulation.

“I wouldn’t,” she says.

“So it all comes down to what you would and wouldn’t do.” Zeku smiles bitterly. “I’m sure you see the problem people might have with that. You married into the Continent’s oldest royal family, effectively put yourself in charge of an entire country.” He shakes his head. “If you wanted to prove to the world that you’re trying to set yourself up as leader of the Continent, you couldn’t have done a better job.”

----

“What did Zeku want?” Drakon asks when Miryam returns to the council chamber.

He spent most of the time she was gone sticking close to Andromache and pretending to be involved in their conversation, which is a sure strategy to avoid people trying to start conversations with him. Normally, there are a few other councilmembers he can safely talk to, but today, they all look at him strangely. It’s like they are angry with him over something, but he can’t quite figure out why. Maybe not inviting any of them to the wedding was a bigger insult than Miryam assumed. Perhaps he should apologize.

“Later,” Miryam says softly. She seems distracted, keeps scanning the room over his shoulder. “When we are alone.”

Drakon nods. From how tense Miryam’s posture is, whatever news she received weren’t good, but a room crowded with so many Continental leaders is probably the worst place to talk about it.

“I need to go to the Callian Pass,” he says. “See if Sinna needs help with anything, make sure that the soldiers are settling in alright.” He takes Miryam’s hands. “You probably need to speak to Jurian now?”

Miryam nods. “I don’t want him to hear about us from anyone else.”

“Then I’ll ask one of our soldiers to take you there. And maybe you can come to the Callian Pass afterwards? So that we can announce our marriage to the soldiers together.”

Speaking of their marriage still feels strange. They have been together for such a short time, thinking of Miryam as his wife will take some getting used to.

“Of course.” Miryam smiles. “Then we’ll – “

“If I may interrupt for a moment, Your Highnesses,” Shey says from behind them. From the look Miryam gives him, Drakon is nearly certain that the interruption was not exactly polite.

“What is it?” Miryam asks. That was most certainly impolite.

Shey hands her a letter. “Apparently, Kehne is considering leaving the Alliance. They requested your presence to discuss.”

Drakon frowns. Kehne is a small country in the north of the Continent with little importance to larger political decisions. Its King, Johno, wasn’t there for today’s meeting, but Drakon thought little by it. Not ever councilmember if there for every meeting. (He himself only started regularly going a few months ago, and Jurian hardly ever turns up for meetings anymore.) But if Johno is really considering leaving the Alliance…

“Why would he do such a thing when we are only months away from winning this war?” Miryam asks.

Drakon is asking himself the same thing. Besides, Kehne is closer to Erithia when it comes to political leanings. Drakon doesn’t know King Johno, but his daughter and heir is only a few decades older than Drakon and they met a few times at university.

“The letter did not say. It is possible this is simply an attempt to negotiate better conditions for when the war is over.” Shey shrugs. “I suppose you’ll have to find the details out for yourself.”

“Isn’t Kehne your trading partner?” Miryam glances down at the letter, then back up at Shey. “Perhaps you should be the one to deal with them.”

“They requested you specifically.” Shey gives her a small smile and shakes his head. “Unless you want it to become known that the Alliance lost a member because its leader was…” He nods to Drakon. “…otherwise engaged and refused to go deal with them.”

Miryam tenses even further. Drakon may know very little about the details of Continental politics, but he does know that Miryam can’t prioritize private dealings over the good of the Alliance. And he understands Miryam well enough to know that she would never do anything that could endanger the war.

“Should I cover for you with…” He pauses, glances at Shey. Is it public knowledge that Miryam has not yet spoken to Jurian? “With what you had planned to do?”

Miryam straightens and shakes her head. “No, I’ll do it myself after I’m done with Kehne.” She stands up on her toes to kiss him. “Good luck with the Callian Pass.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Miryam smiles and, with a curt nod to Shey, walks off. Drakon wants to follow after her, but Shey steps grips his arm.

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to marry her,” he says. His tone is light, like he is making some kind of joke, but hiss eyes are sharp as shards of ice.

Drakon blinks. “I don’t see how that’s stupid,” he says. In hindsight, it probably isn’t the most intelligent reply to give, but even beyond the first surprise, he cannot think of any reason for why marrying Miryam would be stupid.

“Of course you don’t,” Shey says with a small smile and a hint of irony in his voice. “Well, regardless, you probably ought to be careful around General Jurian.”

Drakon was just about to excuse himself, but pauses at that. The thought of Jurian finding out about the marriage is indeed unsettling, but not for the reasons Shey is implying. Drakon isn’t scared of Jurian, he’s scared of how the news might hurt him.

“After what he did to Clythia,” Shey continues, “you should probably consider reinforcing your guard.”

“What do you mean, what Jurian did to Clythia?” Drakon tries and fails not to sound nervous. He certainly isn’t scared of Jurian, and Shey is an idiot for implying it, but he worries for him. In his experience, anything that involves Clythia is bad news.

“You haven’t heard?” Shey shakes his head. “You should replace your spymaster, Prince.”

As far as Drakon knows, he doesn’t have anyone spying on Jurian. (Unless Sinna went against his wishes and sent spies behind his back, that is.) Why would he spy on his friend?

Before Drakon can decide if he wants to wait around for Shey to answer or find a more pleasant source of information, Andromache steps up next to him, giving Shey the barest nod.

“Interesting conversation?” She asks with more than a hint of sharpness in her voice. She likes Shey as little as Miryam does and usually tries far less to conceal it.

“I was just telling Prince Drakon about how Jurian murdered Clythia,” Shey says, tone far too smug.

“What?” Andromache asks. “Jurian killed Clythia?”

Drakon remains silent. He can’t claim to be particularly shocked by the news. As far as he knows, it was always Jurian’s end goal to eventually get rid of Clythia. It is strange a strange coincidence that he did so on the day Miryam and Drakon married, but Miryam did mention that he was acting strangely yesterday. Perhaps he couldn’t take the game he played with Clythia anymore, finally wanted to bring him to an end.

“He didn’t just kill her,” Shey says. “He spiked her to an ash cross and took his sweet time taking her apart. Left her corpse for Amarantha to find once he was done.”

Something cold settles in Drakon’s stomach. Jurian couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have tortured anyone, not even a Loyalist commander. Killed them, yes. But not this, not Jurian. Drakon barely hears what Andromache says to Shey, but he assumes it is some kind of excuse because she pulls Drakon out of the meeting chamber a moment later.

In the corridor outside, she looks around then says softly, “I need to go speak to Jurian. If this is true, Amarantha won’t stop until she killed him. I need to make sure he stays safe and doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Drakon nods. His stomach is twisting in an entirely unpleasant manner. Part of it is worry, but there’s also something else.

He can’t stop imagining it. What Jurian must have done. He knows Clythia is one of the last people he should be pitying, and he doesn’t, but he can’t stop himself from imagining it. It’s not even about Clythia, but about the fact that it was Jurian who did it.

“That means you need to deal with the council,” Andromache says.

“I can’t,” Drakon says immediately. His stomach is still twisting. He feels sick.

“Well, you have to, because I will be busy with Jurian,” Andromache says, voice tense. “It won’t be that difficult, really. You just have to ease their minds a little. And I doubt the fuss will be big.”

Drakon shakes his head. He starts drumming around on his leg, tries to focus only on the rhythm and not on the thoughts running through his mind. Not to think of burning hot iron and small, vicious knifes. He doesn’t want to think about what it feels like to be burned and cut and for the pain to never end.

“I can’t,” he repeats.

Now, Andromache is annoyed. “Oh, come on, it isn’t that difficult,” she snaps. “I know you don’t like it, but this is an emergency.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Drakon’s fingers are shaking now and he keeps messing up the rhythm he is trying to drum. “I can’t… You know why I can’t…”

Andromache frowns at him for a moment, then, understanding dawns on her face. “Shit,” she mutters. “I’m sorry. Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Drakon says, although he really isn’t. Maybe Miryam is rubbing off on him. “It’s stupid. I know it isn’t the same, I’m not trying to compare, I just…” He just can’t stop imagining it. “Just give me a minute.”

He turns away from Andromache while he tries to compose himself. Takes a deep breath and focuses only on the rhythm he’s drumming for a moment. It’s fine, it’s all good, nothing is happening to him. What Jurian did to Clythia is nothing like what happened to him.

Besides, he doesn’t even know what Jurian did. It’s entirely possible Shey exaggerated the situation to cause this exact reaction. For all he knows, Jurian never even tortured Clythia. And even if he did… As far as Drakon is concerned, torture is never excusable, but what Jurian did is still nothing like what the Loyalists of even some members of the Alliance do. If he snapped under the pressure – after years and years of watching his friends die, of fighting against monsters who want to enslave him and his people – he deserves to be helped, not demonized.

If what Shey says is true, if Jurian was truly capable of doing this, he must be faring worse than even Miryam guessed. They should have tried harder to help him, or maybe truly gotten him away from the war for a while. And now, Amarantha will be after him. She might have hated him before, but if he truly murdered her sister…

Drakon turns back to Andromache. “I’ll go speak to Jurian. Then you can deal with the council.”

Andromache frowns. “You?” She asks. “Are you sure this is smart? Because last I checked, the two of you didn’t exactly get along, and I doubt you marrying Miryam will have changed anything about it.”

Drakon flinches slightly. He has forgotten about that detail. And with Miryam off on a diplomatic mission, she won’t be able to break the news to Jurian. Besides, they haven’t spoken in almost a year, and their last conversation lasted barely a minute. Drakon desperately hopes it will go better this time.

“I…” Drakon hesitates. “I won’t tell him.” Not when Miryam explicitly said that she wanted to be the one to do it, and not when he so desperately needs Jurian willing to listen. “And if you have to stay here to deal with the council, I’m the only one who has a chance of getting Jurian to listen.” At least as long as Miryam is gone.

“And what are you going to say?” Andromache asks.

“Your army is stationed close to his, right?” Drakon asks. “If I convince him to allow your armies to join camps, it would offer additional security. And you could make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Andromache purses her lips. She seems dissatisfied with the solution, but in the end, she nods. “Alright,” she says. “Good luck.”

----

Jurian’s army is ready. The patrols are doubled, everything is on high alert. They have their camp fortified, have chosen the perfect position to defend themselves. When Amarantha attacks, they will have every advantage.

Now, all that’s left to do is wait with bated breath for Amarantha to arrive. Because Jurian is certain that she will come. After what he did to her sister, she will want his head – and he is convinced that the day she comes to get it will be her last.

The first Fae to turn up in his camp isn’t Amarantha, though.

Jurian sighs and leans against the stake he was just ramming into the ground to form a fourth line of defences. “What do you want, Drakon?”

The Prince is stepping from one foot another in the dirt. His white wings are tugged in closely to his body, the tips of the feathers trembling slightly. He seems nervous – as he has every right to be, considering how their last conversation went.

“Can we talk?” Drakon asks.

Jurian is inclined to say no and return to his work. He doesn’t want to talk to Drakon, certainly not about what he did to Clythia, since he is sure that this is what the conversation will likely be about.

“Why isn’t Miryam here?” He asks. “I assumed she would be the one to come.”

It’s usually Miryam who gets stuck with dealing with him whenever he does something the council doesn’t like. Besides, she promised she’d come visit today. They said they would talk. Then, he’ll be able to explain why he had to kill Clythia, that as soon as Amarantha is gone, too, everything will become better.

“She’s stuck on a diplomatic mission,” Drakon says. He started drumming a quick rhythm on the side of his leg and shoots a look at the soldiers around them. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

Jurian rolls his eyes and passes his stake on to the soldier next to him. “I don’t have much time, though,” he says. “Amarantha can attack any moment.” Together, they walk over towards the centre of the camp. “So, let me guess,” Jurian says. “You are here to tell me how absolutely horrible and unforgivable it was for me to do what I did to Clythia.”

Drakon shakes his head. “No, I wanted to – “

“So you don’t think it’s horrible?” Jurian asks. Drakon looks away. Gotcha. “You don’t think what I did was as bad as what the Loyalists do?”

“I don’t think that,” Drakon insists. He actually seems genuine. Maybe he has gotten better about lying in the time they haven’t seen each other.

Jurian snorts. “Of course you don’t.”

Because there’s no way Drakon could ever understand what he had to do. How could he? He never understood that sometimes, you need to do what it takes. Even if it’s ugly. If everyone in the Alliance was like Drakon, they would have lost the war years ago. It’s people like Jurian and Miryam that will win them this war. So why would he care what Drakon thinks of him, of what he did?

“You don’t get to judge me,” he says.

“I wasn’t judging,” Drakon says. He doesn’t even get sharp. Why can’t he ever snap back at anyone? Doesn’t he understand how infuriating this is? “But if you killed Clythia, Amarantha will be after you. You’re in danger and – “

Jurian takes a quick step towards Drakon, making him flinch back. Jurian lets out a joyless laugh. Taunting him is far too easy. “Scared?” He asks.

Drakon squares his shoulders. “Of course I’m not scared of you.”

“Of course not. Just like you are completely fine with my killing Clythia, right?”

He just wants Drakon to admit it. Why can’t he just be upfront and say that he hates what Jurian did? Then Jurian could call him an idiot who doesn’t understand anything and they would be done with it.

“You heard what I did to Clythia, didn’t you?” He asks and stops walking to look at Drakon. “That I dosed her with ground ash wood and spiked her to an ash cross?”

Drakon takes a step backwards. “Don’t do this,” he says softly. (On another day, the tone in his voice might have made Jurian pause, might have made him reconsider, but today, he barely listens and certainly doesn’t think.)

“But that wasn’t enough to send a proper message,” Jurian continues. He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this. He isn’t proud of what he did, it was just what was necessary. “You remember what Tia looked like after Amarantha was done with her, don’t you? Well, I made sure Clythia looked worse.” He smiles humourlessly. “Can you imagine how she screamed when – “

“Yes,” Drakon snaps, cutting him off. Now, he does sound sharp, far sharper than Jurian ever heard him. “I can imagine perfectly well, as you know.”

Jurian blinks. It takes him a moment to understand, to remember. A dark cell under Ravenia’s palace, the way Drakon looked, hanging limply from the ceiling.

And just like that, it’s like the time turned back by a few years. Jurian is back in that cell, trying to comfort Drakon. Back in their camp, some other day, yelling at him for stepping in front of an arrow meant for Jurian. And suddenly, he remembers that they were friends. Ready to kill and die for each other. What happened to change that?

“Drakon,” he whispers and reaches out for him. Drakon turns his head away. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s alright,” Drakon says, although it’s clear from the look on his face that it isn’t. He looks like he might throw up.

“I’m sorry,” Jurian whispers.

It’s his own fault, really. He wanted a reaction, and now he has it. Just not the one he wanted. He can’t stop thinking of that damned dungeon, of the Fae who tortured Drakon for Ravenia. But he isn’t like that. Not at all, what he did was completely different.

“You don’t think…” Jurian swallows. “I didn’t enjoy it, you know I didn’t. But I had to do this, Drakon. I just couldn’t catch Amarantha and making her angry was the only way. And she did the same to Tia and the others, her and Clythia both. I just…” Payed them back, he wants to say, but that will just make it sound worse. He shakes his head, hectically runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not like them, you know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that,” Drakon says softly. He sighs. “I won’t claim that I like what you did,” he says, “but I don’t hate you for it. And while I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you felt it was necessary to…” He makes a vague gesture. “I at least understand that I probably can’t ever fully understand the position you’re in in this war.”

Jurian isn’t sure why hearing this is such an immense relief. He knows that what he did was necessary, he shouldn’t need Drakon’s absolution. He knows that it doesn’t make him like the Loyalists. He shouldn’t need anyone to confirm this to him, least of all Drakon.

“Yes,” he says. “And you’ll see, it will all work out. I know my methods were… unfortunate, but once I’ve defeated Amarantha, it will all turn out to be alright.”

Drakon seems doubtful, but Jurian doesn’t care. He’ll see. And maybe then, things between them will become better as well. The reasons for their falling-out seem so ridiculous now – come to think of it, it was also Amarantha’s fault, in a way. Once she is gone, it will all become better.

“About that,” Drakon says and Jurian tenses. “I actually came here to suggest it might be good to reinforce your army a bit if you truly mean to beat Amarantha. My soldiers are busy elsewhere, but Andromache could come.”

Jurian frowns. The offer is good, more soldiers are always better, but he hasn’t had a co-commander in a while. Not since Miryam, and even with her, there were difficulties. He is sure she only wanted to help, but she kept interfering with his military decisions especially when it came to Amarantha, and he can’t have anything like this happening again.

“My army is ready,” he says. “I think we can make do without help.”

“But wouldn’t it be better to be sure?” Drakon asks. He seems worried, which is actually quite nice of him, even if it is unnecessary. “To prepare for any surprises Amarantha might have prepared.”

Jurian really doesn’t think he needs the additional support, but maybe, Drakon has a point. Either way, Andromache has experience leading soldiers. Unlike Miryam, she will likely understand necessary military choices.

“Fine,” he says. “Then tell Andromache to get her soldiers over here as soon as possible. I’ll make sure there’s room for them.”

----

Looking back, it was probably the smarter choice for Andromache to be the one to deal with the council. She guessed that the news of what Jurian did to Clythia might cause trouble, but she never expected it to be this bad. The council is in upheaval and Andromache cannot for the life of her understand why. She isn’t exactly fond of what Jurian did herself, but everyone else seems to be blowing it ridiculously out of proportion.

“I say we remove him from the council,” one of the Fae councilmembers suggests. “His behaviour has long since been a problem, but now, he has really crossed the line.”

“If that was crossing the line, this council would probably lose a quarter of its members,” Nakia snaps. She is annoyed at being dragged into a second meeting in one day and has been showing it ever since the meeting started. (Even beyond tradition, there is a reason why Andromache is in charge of politics and Nakia of the military, not the other way around.) “Starting with the Night and Autumn Court.”

The High Lords in question glare at Nakia, and many of the others seem equally displeased. Andromache sighs. Ten minutes into the meeting and she already misses Miryam.

“You can hardly compare what Jurian did to questioning prisoners for information,” Shey says. “This was disgusting, and it was inexcusable. There have to be consequences.”

Andromache searches for Zeku’s gaze, hoping he might help her, but the Grand Duke avoids her eyes. Great. Simply great. She presses her lips together. To resolve this problem in a way that doesn’t deepen the lines running through the Alliance, they would need Miryam, who seems to be the only one who is capable of getting this council to listen to reason. But Miryam isn’t here, and probably won’t be for hours.

Andromache can’t help but think that Shey might have sent her away on purpose.

“Aren’t you blowing Jurian’s actions a bit out of proportion?” She asks. “Let’s not forget that Clythia was not opposed to using torture on enemies and any humans she got her fingers on herself. She was a commander for Hybern as well as a slave-owner. I, for one, cannot say that I feel particularly bad about what happened to her.”

“I’m surprised to see you defending torture,” Shey says, blue eyes narrowing to slits.

Andromache levels a flat look at him. “It’s not torture I’m defending.”

“Good. Because considering that your little faction pressed for action against commanders who allowed imprisoned enemy soldiers to be tortured more than once already, that would be quite hypocritical of you.” He gives her a small smile, the kind that seems pleasant but is clearly a taunt. “Or are you others just going along with Miryam’s stance on torture?”

Andromache knows she shouldn’t play along. If she reacts now, she will only create more rifts in this council. Miryam would probably let the comment slide. But Andromache simply cannot leave it unanswered.

“Hypocrisy,” she says, “is my exact problem in this situation.” She looks around the table. “Why is it that all of Miryam’s attempts to actually enforce the ban on torture in the Alliance have only ever been met with indifference, yet now, a single instance warrants a full council meeting?” She shakes her head. “The Night Court armies torture prisoners, as do the Autumn Courts’, and no one ever batted an eye.” She turns back to Shey. “Even your soldiers, Emperor, have tortured prisoners more than once. Where was your enragement then?”

She really should not be doing this. It is an open secret that even in the Alliance, many of the Fae care little for humans and only barely see them as equals. The humans tolerate it as long as they still offer their armies, and usually don’t call attention to it. Andromache’s actions now go against that unspoken rule. Miryam would not like it.

Shey glares dagger at her. “I did not approve of their actions,” he says, tone clipped, “but they were not members of this council.”

“If you say you did not approve but still allowed it to continue,” Andromache pushes, “does that mean you were powerless to stop it.”

Shey’s yaw tightens. “No,” he snaps. “But we were at war. There were more important things to consider.”

“So you did not care,” Andromache summarizes. “And if you did not care then but do now, I can only conclude that it is not the torture that enrages you, but the fact that it was a human torturing and killing a Fae noble.”

Now, the entire table is staring at her. A few Fae shift around on their chairs, Nakia nods with approval. Zeku glares at her.

Andromache idly wonders how much trouble she just caused. Many Fae members of the Alliance aren’t actually so far away from the Loyalists in their mindset, but they certainly like to pretend they are better. Calling attention to the fact that they are not causes only trouble, and Andromache can’t help but feel that she just made Miryam’s job to hold the Alliance together a lot harder.

----

Miryam is annoyed. Annoyed enough that even the beauty of Kehne’s royal palace can’t change anything about it, which is saying quite a bit, because the palace is truly beautiful. It’s carved from ice, walls and towers shimmering blue in the sunlight. Normally, Miryam would not have been able to stop staring, but today, all she can think about is that she shouldn’t be here. She should be talking to Jurian, not dealing with some minor royal who got it into his mind to pressure the council into giving him more power.

King Johno greets her at the entrance to the great hall. Miryam inclines her head. “Majesty. Thank you for receiving me.”

“Thank you for coming, My Lady,” Johno says. He seems tired, face drawn, but he offers her a smile. “May I invite you to lunch?”

Lunch is the last thing Miryam cares about right now. She needs to speak with Jurian, or at least decide on what she will say to him. She needs to come up with a way out of the political nightmare she landed herself in – she hasn’t even managed to tell Drakon about that yet, damnit, she should have found time to tell him. And somewhere in between, she still has to do her day-to-day work with the Alliance, which she has been falling behind on lately. What she absolutely does not have time for is eating lunch with some dissenting noble whose tiny army only barely makes a difference in the scope of a Continent-wide war.

“It would be my pleasure,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to try Kehnese food for ages. I hear it’s delicious.”

Johno’s smile falters slightly, and he quickly turns around. “This way, please. I’ve had lunch prepared in a private meeting room.”

Miryam follows him through the halls of the palace. As they walk, he keeps pointing out artworks to her. He talks almost without pause, only occasionally waiting for Miryam to nod or hum in agreement.  Normally, it is considered somewhat impolite for only one person to talk the entire time, but today, Miryam is content with not having to put any effort in the conversation.

As soon as this stupid meeting is over, she will have to go find Jurian. If she is lucky – which admittedly doesn’t happen often – he won’t have heard about the wedding yet. Then she will get a chance to explain and this time, she will start out with what she has come to say right away. If –

Johno pulls open a door at the end of the hallway and motions for Miryam to enter. Inside, a long table has been laid out. Miryam expected to be alone with Johno, but a few courtiers are seated around the table, engaged in vivid conversation. They pause when Miryam enters with their king.

Once the introductions are over, Johno points Miryam to a seat at the head of the table and sits down opposite her. Miryam smiles at the servant who pours her a glass of blue wine, then turns to Johno, who has raised his glass.

“Let’s drink to the Alliance,” he says, “and to swift victory.”

It seems like a strange thing to drink to, considering the reason for this meeting, but Miryam raises her glass nonetheless. “To victory,” she says and takes a polite sip.

The wine tastes unusual, sparkling and clear. Something about the taste reminds her of cold water and ice shimmering on the mountains. Still, she takes only a small sip. She never much enjoyed alcohol or being drunk, and she has no idea how strong this drink is, so it’s better to be careful

“Your daughter won’t be joining us today?” Miryam asks. She knows the other woman briefly from Alliance meetings where she occasionally represents her father. “I was hoping to meet her again.”

“I’m…” Johno clears his throat. “I’m afraid she is busy elsewhere today. But she sends her regards.” He gives her a nervous smile, then turns his attention to his plate.

Miryam hardly knows Johno well, but she doesn’t remember him being quite this skittish. Maybe he already regrets his political power play. If that’s the case, it’s all the better for Miryam. All she’ll have to do is offer him a way out without losing his face, and she’ll be able to return to the Alliance with an easy victory. It might even be enough to somewhat restore her standing.

Servants arrive with plates, offering a snow-white fish and some orange vegetable Miryam doesn’t know as well as green mushrooms. The smell makes Miryam’s stomach lurch. She was at least somewhat hungry until a moment ago, but now, the thought of eating makes her feel sick. She looks around for a glass of water, but finds none. Hesitantly, she takes another sip of the wine.

Speak to Jurian, find a way out of this mess she ended up in. She’ll have to think of a strategy for damage control with the Alliance before these suspicions the other members have against her destroy her position. Or destroy her. Normally, she would ask Zeku for advice, but he’s angry with her for marrying Drakon and she doesn’t know if he will help her now. He certainly didn’t offer.

She is so damn tired. A total of six hours of sleep in the past three days is beginning to take its toll. Her head is swimming and focusing is becoming harder.

“How are you enjoying the wine?” Johno asks politely.

“It’s very good, Majesty” Miryam says and drinks a bit more to emphasize. She would really rather have water, but maybe it’s against etiquette here to offer it with meals. “So, regarding the reason for this meeting,” she says. “May I ask what has caused you to contemplate leaving the Alliance?”

“Well,” Johno begins, smile fading. He takes a bite from his fish, as if to buy himself time. Miryam realizes she still hasn’t touched her food, but her stomach rebels at the very idea. “I’m afraid I have some concerns regarding the way this Alliance is being run,” he continues.

She frowns. Concerns with how the Alliance is run sounds like there’s a problem with her. If that’s a case, and if it becomes public, it might just make her problems even worse. She needs to tread carefully now. But her mind is strangely fuzzy, moving far too slowly and she has a hard time forming a coherent thought. This goes far beyond normal tiredness.

But she didn’t drink that much, did she? Unless this wine is insanely strong, there’s no way she should be drunk. Damnit, this is exactly why she hates alcohol.

“And may I ask what kind of concerns?” She asks, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear her head. It doesn’t work.

“Is the fish not to your liking, Lady?” Johno asks instead of answering her questions. Something about the way he looks at her is off, but she can’t quite place it.

Miryam makes herself smile. “Oh, I’m afraid the conversation simply distracted me from eating.”

Now, she really has to eat something. She picks up her fork, but it is shaking in her fingers. The table is swimming in front of her eyes and sweat beads at her temple. What is wrong with her?

“I’m…” she begins, but the ground shifts under her feet and she drops the fork. She needs to get out of this room, now, before she throws up all over the table. “I’m sorry,” she manages, “I’m not feeling well. May I excuse myself?”

She only barely manages to get to her feet, and once she’s standing, she has to grip the back of her chair for support. It’s like she’s standing on the deck of a ship caught in a hurricane. Getting to the door seems impossible. Strangely enough, neither Johno nor any of his courtiers make a move to help her. They merely look at her.

“I’m sorry,” Johno says, still sitting on his chair at the other side of the table.

Why is he apologizing? It’s not his fault that… Pain shoots through Miryam, making her double over. This isn’t the alcohol.

She reaches for her power, but it slips from her grip. She tries to take a step towards the door, but her legs give out from under her and she stumbles. Desperate, she reaches for the chair for support, but she misses it and then, she’s falling. She doesn’t even feel herself hitting the ground anymore.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks

[nicosansama]

My own gyu don~ 🤤 (I didn’t have the same problem as Sinna)

And a picture of our view at the panel that we got to meet the Hazbin Hotel voice actors of Angel Dust, Alistor, and Charlie Morningstar respectively. (They’re all really sweet and down to earth. Also yes it’s a crap shot I’m sorry)

LAST DAY OF KAMICON AND I DRAFTED @nicosansama TO COME WITH MEEEE LETS GOOOO

come say hi if ur here too!!!!

[sinnabee]

LMAO. casualty of war (forgor to change my cricut from business cards to this sticker sheet when i made the cut oops)

ahh that’s alright, it gave me a chance to take a break and eat lol

y’all are feral and i love u guys so much.

i managed to restock the emoji stickers last night, but they are almost gone again! i’m planning to print some more today, as well as some more of the plushie stickers, since they’re going fast too! :D

might do a sticker-making stream later if i’m feeling up to it, too ^^

[nicosansama]

My haul shot (ignore my awesome Halloween blanket) the San’s sticker is actually for Sam but we forgot about that XD

Again I spent more than I would’ve without Sinna. Never ask her to be your impulse control over spending money at a con…she will betray you.

LAST DAY OF KAMICON AND I DRAFTED @nicosansama TO COME WITH MEEEE LETS GOOOO

come say hi if ur here too!!!!