#unfortunately not dead but at least free of my constant scrutinizing gaze as i look over his relics disapprovingly

[hydrachea]

Final build, almost a year later! The last piece of the puzzle evaded me for a goddamn long time (it's always the planars) but I can confidently call this Blade's final form.

Feels good man.

[thanidiel]

Dominion

Sometimes, the soldier could force fondness to the ways of which Autumnvale has attempted to adapt to her world.

The pheasant, however, is braised.

The texture too soft and tender; less meat and more sodden. Neither is much appreciation to be had for the tang of white wine in its juices; a waste of drink, if she were to be asked. With every bite of fare, the grains of mustard within sauce had burst against her teeth; annoying, distracting.

Underneath, the cook, Dawnspire native, had attempted to appeal to her tastes. With her knife lifting up the side of the poultry, she discovers a bed of wilted and blanched dark-greens intermixed with a ‘rustic’ chopping of mushrooms - foraged from the woods along the mountainside, she thinks she heard some sod say.

It is, unabashedly, a homage to the woman’s tastes and the culture of cuisine in the colder regions of Quel’Thalas. Unfortunately, it is equally clear that the elves who fed the mouths of soldiers and officials to pass through this feast hall, had never seen such fare in their lives.

If such a combination of foods were to be prepared proper, the bird would have come charred and speckled with the mustard, crushed. On the side, perhaps, the vegetable and fungi would come raw or in a cloudy soup. And the wine would be in goblet than simmered down in a pot.

There is something to be said about effort, such as Thanidiel has preached when it was in turn to say something gracious, or morale-raising. And food, is food, after all.

She isn’t sure how much she appreciates the way this meal parallels with times of old, still.

Another portion to be slid off the curve of her knife and popped into her mouth - just for the etiquette of it - and the plate is pushed off towards the table’s center. A slow shifting of her digits like the movement of a piano’s hammers, and the blade rotates to a rest along the inside of her palm.

The handle is levered forward.

“Elinden, how many?”

Her gaze raises from underbrow to regard the man addressed. He looks tired. She can see it in the weight pressed upon his eyelids, even with the hacked red mussing around his head.

Good, he should be.

“Sixteen from the Thirteenth Regiment. Seven from the Southeast, Hallowleaf, they said.”

“Leaders ‘mongst them?”

“A former Knight-Master, Kielen Duskshield. From your people, they answered to a Ciril Farlong.”

“Aye. Stabled? Watered? Fed?”

“All being attended to, Captain. As of now, they sit cross-legged on the grasses outside of the Village, taking fill of the bread given.”

“Send them here; they will make their introductions to me before given right to make camp. In the meantime, the eastern-side should be cleared for their presence.”

“The whole of them as usual, Captain?”

“Aye. Be…” the Duskward draws off, the trenched gap between her brows closing into a knit. By now, the knife has been lowered the table. Still, her hand spreads over the blade.

“How many are we at now, Elinden? Last month was three-and-half-hundred ‘tween us and them.”

“With these additions, we number at four-hundred-and-six.”

“Growing a bit big for our britches, aye?”

“And the ovens.. and the grasslands, Captain.”

Thanidiel bows her head towards the mopheaded man standing at the table’s end, needing nothing more to convey the militant courtesy extended to the Lieutenant Brightvale. Again, the knife wheels in her grip; to be slid into breast from overhead with her comrade’s swinging hook of ankle around a stool leg.

“We’ll need to let the word spread. Another few dozens - less than a month’s time - and that is how many more I am willing to allow camp along the Village.”

“Twisting a cap on the jar?”

“Mm. I’m interested in maintaining an army, not a Great Herd.”

“S’that not an army?”

“Not my style, not my speed. Allow the Archon and his to lead thousands to battle. We’ll keep ourselves swift and effective for all of those death-defying stunts, aye?”

“You mean you will, Than– Captain. You do all of that, and it’s up to me and Harthen to calm the men behind us and assure them that we are, in fact, going to survive.”

“Give yourself some credit. It took the whole active company to fell the Reaver. If you’re willing to spread the rumour that I picked up and swung about chains the length of a warship twice-over, you are free to that ass-kissing, Elinden.”

“And Tyr’s Hand?”

“Your’s and the boy’s screaming spurred me on like dueling drums. Couldn’t have done it without you two.”

“One breath, you’re telling us both to shut our fucking mouths and keep quiet. Next breath, you’re saying our yapping inspires you. Which is it, Captain?”

“Whatever conveniences me to say at the time. For now? Shut it, duck your head, eat the vile they’ve been trying to feed me, and let’s both get back to proper work - Aye?”

“I can only shovel so much of it in my mouth at one time.”

“I’ve walked in on you placing at least three time’s the amount of breast on that plate, right in your mouth. Lying bitch.”

“Oi, watch yourself, Captain. Talk a lot of shit about who’s warming my bed; I’ve seen you want to shake your comrades bloody for even thinking about your’s.”

“The difference is that I have a woman and you have romps. Bring someone home to me and we’ll try some reverence.”

“Someone good for me?”

“Academy Diploma. Steady career. What else do those fucks at the top look for?”

“A certain paleness to the skin? A maximum of an inch of fat behind the arm?”

“Mm, toss all of that, then. Rubbish.”

The knife scrapes.

“–Eh?”

“Your attention span…” is drawn off. “Come on, get out. Bring them their first orders.”

“And the vile?”

“Give it to the hound on your way out.”

Thanidiel does not keep her eyes on Elinden with his exit from her hall. Her attention draws towards the knife. Coated in fat and spice, and pointed towards her own person. Out of place/misaligned. She grips unto its handle, and, carefully, wipes one of its two surfaces against the cloth placed to the right of her. Then, it flips as the action is repeated in another stroke. Idly, the thought passes on how the motions resemble Goose’s Formation.

In the midst of noise bubbling around her – Elinden’s stool scraping across rock and earth and weed; his footsteps aloud through even the soft dirt as it compresses under his boot; the voices of men and women filtering from the outside; the constant rumble of horse hooves vibrating underneath her feet – another thought materialises.

The Phoenix Guard wonders who, or what, would be caught between its wings.

Awaiting her answer, the tool is returned to the wood’s surface once more. There, it points outward in solemn welcome of every boot that begins to filter into the space before her.

She notes how they mimick army with the loosely packed southern volunteers at its fore, and the Knights at its back in rows. The number looks suffocated, sandwiched by the layout of the feast hall where its tables format in a folding flank. She can see how they shuffle uncomfortably as they are forced to settle over stone, coal, and ash, from the morning fire since-dead.

The audio of their march dies down to the shiftings of their clothing and roll of debris from underneath soles, then ebbs further into stagnant quiet.

And so it stays. For the Duskward does not immediately boom her greetings nor call forth the tradition of introductions to be made to her by each new head. Instead, she studies.

She studies the wear of their shoes, and how much the leather sags down their feet.

She studies how segments of plate strapped over chainmail, felt, and cotton, fit upon each new soldier’s person.

She studies the length of hair flying over their brows, speckling their cheeks and catching through beaming light.

She studies the roundness of them - the fat that builds upon their arms and bellies. Some look well-fed. Most, she can see how, already, the dwindling trade of Quel’Thalas has drained their bowls.

In particular, the soldier studies its leaders.

Such a thing has yet to be announced - nothing has been announced at all. But it is something Thanidiel finds easily determined.

The mountainpeople have not been trained in formal stiffness. They stood outside of the dutiful (painful, at times) parade rest the Knights beside them had adopted. Instead, those of her birth settle with a way known to her as vigourful, and to others, as defiant: a laxness to their shoulders, an uneven settle of the feet. ‘Round the one she has identified as Ciril, those close have all drawn back their adjacent legs. Protective, and hesitant to remove floor.

Kielen’s presence is louder than that. His garb is something bold and distinctive from ‘mongst the more uniform Knights. While his comrades were content with a single swordbreaker, or leather spaulder, strapped against their persons, she notes how plate layers along the length of his upper arms in broad, encompassing, pauldrons. Instead of a practical barbute hanging from underarm or belt like many others, an arrogant faceguard settles over his coif.

Loud.

Even idle, he is fucking loud.

She can sense the pacing of his breath from here; how it desynchronises from the calm of all those around him until the brute moves forward, like that would smear away the scrutinous glint underneath her brows.

“Former Knight-Master–”

“You are dismissed.”

“...Ma’am?”

“You may present yourself to Fury Company in a week’s time.”

The rest does not need to be given to the air between them. Again, the blade is in her hand, and, again, it is offered forth to the man opposite of her. Confidence removed, the Blood Knight reaches forward. It is an action hesitant and disbelieving as the bare iron is slid, and held, against rivets.

“Consider that your ticket.”

“The… men, ma’am?”

“Everyone here will be evaluated for entry. Grain, work, shelter, to be provided immediately thereof. Dismissed.”

The flicker of relief that goes through the harshness of his face is like a light through forest canopy. It is something redeeming to the butchery of his first presentation. Graceful, now, his surrender goes swiftly.

“Blood and Thunder, Kin’taris.”

“Sun at your back.”

With the turn of his body away from her, the Captain crooks her fingers towards the crowd.

“At random. I don’t care about any exploits or titles before you’ve stepped into this tent so I hope you’ve left it all in the field. Names first, then me and your two Lieutenants, Elinden Brightvale and Harthen Sunbright, will determine your skillsets, units, superiors, and standing orders.”

The small thing with as hastily shorn hair as Elinden, at the very back of Kielen’s former company.

“Yenette Sunshield.”

The giant with thick and loose coils, closest to Ciril.

“Byrran Morningheart.”

The man with copper red skin at the very center of the Knights.

“Oridren Bloodmist.”

The half-elf with an axe-bite on her jaw falling out of the southern pack’s formation.

“Shenuile Darro…”

[silvertonguedslavicwitch]

Πειρασμός | Peirasmós

Chapter 16 : Let Me Go

As soon as she entered her tent, she placed a hand over her chest, rubbing it intently a few times as she lets out a somewhat strangled breath. She struggled to even take a seat on her bed. The princess would never admit it but what happened earlier had scared her beyond oblivion. It frightened her. Growing up, Erika understood the price placed above her head. She wasn't supposed to live, no. There were never supposed to be living heirs to the throne. When her parents were assassinated, she was supposed to go alongside them, with her younger brother following suit. Closing her eyes, she could feel all the past memories flooding in to attack her. The recent incident had been a trigger to her. 

A catalyst.

Her breathing became very ragged and moved at an uneven pace, so much that Erika struggled to maintain her control over her own exhalation. A moment later, she could feel her chest tightening as the airflow were cut short and her windpipe felt crushed. Everything was closing on to her. Dragging herself to the corner of the space, she began to sob silently. Erikaterina doesn't cry often. There were three rules she had abided since a child.

One, don't ever cry in front of anyone else.

Two, don't ever show your weakness in front of anyone else.

Three, wake up, you're still alive.

Clearly the poisoning attempt had made her rethink her choices. She thought she was free from it when she left Wessex close to eleven moon ago. There was no assassination attempts while she was in Algeciras too. Neither did she have one while residing with the Northmen. Could you blame the poor girl getting paranoid from everything that is associated with her supposedly ‘friends’ if she kept being bombarded with such attempts on her life?

---------------------------------------

When Aethelwulf stepped inside, his eyes searched wildly for his friend, who he then found leaning by the corner with a tear stained face and a hollow look adorning it. Sighing to himself, he made his way towards her slowly as he kneeled down to greet her level and took a seat next to her. Poor girl was traumatized. Again.

He had wondered when it would stop for her. Unlike him, she had every reason to doubt everything and everyone. She did not grew a healthy life. But no one seems to see that. Nor do they seem to try and understand it. Memories of her past and the mysterious shroud she wore around her like a cloak, not one soul knew with the exception of Ecbert and his son, Aethelwulf. A secret passed through generation. A secret that his sons would one day possess just as well.

Because there is more to Erikaterina than what meets the eye. No ones knows but that's exactly the reason that drove them into trying to seek out the secret, which never ends up well for them. What was it about the Russian princess that the two generation of Saxon Kings kept from everyone's knowledge? What was so important that not one survived to live the next day if they had tried to pry in to find out? It seems that no one would know, unless it was spilled directly from the source herself.

“I'm sorry..” Aethelwulf started off by apologizing to the princess, who still had a hollow look eating her soul away. Her hues were emotionless and void of anything. It was like she was glass. A non-animated thing. A non-living thing. Soulless. Dead.

“I could've died today.. I could've died a painful death,” she trailed, her every words being slurred purposely. “I. Could. Have. Died. Today. And it would've all been because of you. You, who are supposed to protect me.. Dead at the hands of the person who knew everything.” Her voice got louder as she then laughed. The sudden change of mood surprised the Saxon King, who turned to face her. But then her laugh stopped. “You know I will never escape from this.”

“We'll find a way. We always found a way-”

It wasn't long after she had interrupted him by snapping. “Yes. A way that extended my surviving odds by what- three or four more moons? A year or two?! How long, Aethelwulf?! You tell me! How long do I have to keep living in constant fear?!” It saddens the King to see his friend breaking down in front of him. She's never had a meltdown such as this. At least she's never shown it in front of anyone. And for once, he wasn't sure what to say. He didn't have anything to say that will assure her in any way.

She then got up and started making sure all her daggers and sword were there, trying to get out but was stopped by him. “Let me go, Aethelwulf. I'm tired of running like this.”

“If you are tired of running, why are you doing the very thing you wanted to stop doing?”

Scoffing at him, she shook her head before lowering her hand that held her sword. “I'm going back to where I belong. With my husband. At least during my time with the Northmen, all I had to worry was if someone was going to kill me directly, instead of worrying if I will die after eating something. I will not die due to an assassination attempt.” The raven haired princess gritted her teeth as she clenched her jaw, once the words were uttered. She wasn't going to die like that. Her life wasn't supposed to be like that.

“And you will not. You did not undergo all the hardships of being trained and prepared your entire life for nothing, Kat. You think you might never become a Queen because your brother will take care of it. But no, you are the rightful ruler. You've always been that. You will die your own way, may it be of old age or a defeat on the battlefield.” Grabbing a hold of her shoulders, she looked up to him, who gave her a reassuring smile. “You are strong. Your weapon is your ambiguity. The mystery that shrouded you, that is your weapon. Use it.”

He was right. Erika wasn't a warrior queen like Lagertha nor was she a smart queen who relies on her wits like Aslaug. She wasn't a benevolent and kind queen like that of her late mother; who was known during her lifetime to be a graceful compassionate queen. No. She wasn't a queen. She was just a princess, who just so happened to be given the wrong unfortunate life. She had nothing to showcase other than her status and blood. Which is why, she was prepared for any possible outcome by Ecbert from the moment she came as a small child of 6. Unlike the known queens, she didn't work her way to her title. She was given them, and she has made good use of it. Her identity is all that she has.

“As much as I am glad to see you finally letting the shell broke, you're not going anywhere. You'll stay here as we march onto York the next morning.” The sudden statement had caught her off guard, to which she offered him a confused look.

“You're still going with it.” Aethelwulf nodded and led her back to her bed, where he sat next to her and caressed her dark locks and pecked her forehead. Until she felt a warm sensation gracing her wrist. Ropes. There were ropes tied around her wrist tightly, but not too tight to cut her circulation off.

“I love you Kat, but I can't trust you that you won't do anything foolish. I'll come back after the attack.” With that, he left her to struggle with her own self. She had let herself be fooled and caught off guard by her own friend. For the next hours, she had mumbled words of profanities towards herself as no one is allowed to visit her the entire night.

---------------------------------------

She was woken up by the rustling sound produced from Alfred's boots. He entered the tent alongside his older half brother, Aethelred. Possibly to bid her farewell as he marched into this pointless life sacrificing battle he didn't need to indulge himself in. Erika was still mad at Aethelwulf for bringing his sons with him, it was a suicide note. Why would you ever bring your legacy somewhere you might die together with? England still needed to repair themselves and rise again. That was what Ecbert would've wanted. It was what she wanted for them.

Crouching before the princess, Alfred gave her a small smile, reassuring her that he will survive this and come back to resume their pending stories together. Soon enough, the youngest Saxon prince took his leave, leaving the firstborn son with her. “Aethelred. Please, let me go. Let me tag along at least. You know it's very unlikely for you to come victorious from this. You will get yourself killed. And I don't want that to happen to any of you.” However many time the Russian pleaded, Aethelred shook his head every time and just gave her a reassuring smile. But shortly before he left her tent, she called him, telling him to loosen her ties as it was quite tight for her, fearing that it would cut her circulation, especially given her current status.

And he fell for it. He loosened up the ties before exiting the tent. That had given the princess an advantage to get herself out of the ties that had bounded he expressed over a night. After making sure they have left to March towards York, she wiggled herself out and succeeded. The raven haired princess rubbed and caressed both her wrists gently before sneaking out with a quiver strapped and her sword with her. She made sure no one saw her leaving camp, which was easy because everyone obviously had forgotten what it feels like to underestimate her.

She climbed over the walls that they had gone through the first time and saw the Saxons rejoicing in their ‘victory'. The whole town was deserted and it didn't make any sense for her. Why would Ivar leave like this so easily when it was clear the victory on within their grasps? It could only mean one thing and it did not take her long to understood his tactics. It was a trap. Again.

She perched herself on to one of the roofs and stared at the situation under her scrutinizing gaze. Where were the vikings? Where have they gone? Better yet, where were they hiding at? Her eyes wandered wildly as she tried to pinpoint their exact location, until her gaze falls onto the rats skirmishing the town. Wait, rats? Above?

Of course.

Ivar was a strategist in the making. He's already proved himself more than once, this wouldn't strike her as a surprise. She knew it by then, that the crippled Ragnarsson had opted to put the sewers underground to good use. It makes sense why the rats are coming up instead. She was the one who told him regarding the sewers in the first place. By the time she had figured it slowly, she saw the stones covering or barricading the small entrance from the sewers were removed and the vikings started to pile up, charging on the Saxon soldiers who were still in confusion. Hiding herself in the plain sight, she lowered her body and watched as one by one of the soldiers get slaughtered by the savage Northmen.

Erika tried her best to locate the two princes and only saw Alfred who was struggling to keep his stand.  Aethelred can handle himself, she thought. Alfred, on the other hand, needed all the help he could have. In the main alley, she saw Alfred fighting off a few vikings. This had caused the Russian born woman to take one arrow from her quiver and notch it on her bow before carefully aiming. As time went by, she began to pluck one by one of the vikings from above, making sure Alfred wasn't a target for more than two people.

Until she saw Hvitserk, of course.

The sight of her husband being covered in blood and fighting like the berserker he was, she cursed silently as she made her way down carefully. She needed to take care of herself more now. She was caring for two more little humans inside her. The flaxen haired prince was a savage when it comes to such combat, befitting his viking nature and heritage. Yelling out in anticipation, the adrenaline that drove the prince had resulted the death of multiple Saxon soldiers. She also happened to catch the sight of Hvitserk fighting with Aethelwulf. Dear God.

Erika rushed over toward their direction but made sure not to be involved directly as she etched herself towards the wall, watching as the scene unfolds before her. Thankfully, Aethelwulf evaded successfully and some of their own had separated their own rivalry. But of course, Hvitserk probably had a lot to vent to. Aethelwulf was the reason he had to leave his wife and the reason why he was humiliated; resulting the belittlement by his youngest brother, Ivar. He was as prideful as he can get, much like his wife as well. She saw a rather big Viking charging towards Alfred after crushing a few others.

“Come on, Erika. You can do this.” Slowly unsheathing her sword, she tossed the end of her cloak's hood go veil herself as she hurled herself into the fight, killing three vikings like it didn't bother her; let's be honest, it really doesn't. She didn't exactly grew fond of them overnight. But before she could get to Alfred, she was pushed towards the wall by a viking, who took the hood off her thus revealing her identity. But the man didn't have the time to say any time to accuse her of her traitorous act because she had drove her sword into his torso, bleeding him out as she left him there and went towards Alfred.

Again, another obstacle stood before her. But it was a way too familiar obstacle she wasn't sure she could go through. Before her stood Eron Sivgny, her own lieutenant, his face and armor tainted with blood of his enemies. “Eron-” However, before she could have the chance to even say anything, the Russian male dragged her with him into a much more secluded and deserted place, preferably inside an inn of sorts. Closing the door with a huge slam, he pushed her gently inside.

---------------------------------------

“What was that, Erika?! Why did you throw yourself in battle, killing your own people?!” It was clear that the male was frustrated at his commander's reckless actions. Just wait till he gets ahold of her pregnancy news.

“I was trying to get to Alfred.”

“Not today, Rika. You're staying inside here. Until I say otherwise,” he grumbled and gave her the look that said there was no point in fighting him on this. “That's final, princess.”

“Am I not supposed to be your commander and liege? Why does it sound like you're following my husband's orders instead of mine,” she rebuffed, obviously showing her discontentment over this matter. Well, she is under a lot of emotional strain lately.

“This is not about me following his orders. This is me protecting you. And when it comes to this, protecting Princess Erikaterina comes with the description where it also meant keeping you from being your reckless self. You're a remarkable person, Rika. But you're also very unpredictable and reckless. Let's not let that interfere for this situation, alright?” It never ceases to amaze Erika how Eron still managed to make sure everything was alright with her. Being stern but still redundant and caring at the same time.

“But Alfred-”

“I will make sure he gets out safely, don't worry.” With that, the tall bulky Russian male left without another word being said, leaving the princess in her own solitary confinement again. Sometimes she felt lucky having him by her side, but as she grew up, she hated the feeling of being so dependent occasionally. It was growing to be a pain towards the raven haired woman.

---------------------------------------

But of course Erika being Erika, defied the very instruction her own friend had given and sneaked out right after he left. It wouldn't be the first time, so she doubted Eron would actually find it in him to feel surprised when he comes back only to find her gone. It wasn't that she does not trust him; she trusts him with his life. He was probably the only person she allowed herself to be casual with, without any care in the world. But it still does not change the fact that in the many responsibilities that had been bestowed upon herself, keeping Alfred safe from harm’s way was one of them.

By the time she got to him, he was escaping with a fellow soldier. Not the best person she'd trust him with considering even she could defeat him easily and whilst she's a formidable opponent, she wasn't the most strongest or a warrior hardened person. Her strong points had always been underlying the battle strategies and tactics, alongside the political statesmanship and alliances. The only reason why she became their commander was because she needed to establish her root of power back then, since she was only regarded to be nothing more than a princess from title. A decoration of sorts.

She hurried back to the camp and straight up confront the Saxon King as she stepped into his tent, pulling the hood off and flashed him a disapproving look his way. “I told you it was stupid. But no, you didn't listen. Like you always did. And I will always have to prove my point every time. Does my say mean nothing to you? We've been working together for years long, Aethelwulf. But every time I thought up something, I can't help but to see how I had to work and show it despite knowing fully well it was viable.” It might have been the whole pregnancy signs where her emotional state is a little bit more wrecked on the inside. But she had always been placed aside like this all her life, it was starting to get to her as she grew up.

“I don't want to talk about this-”

“No, you don't. But since we don't always get what we want, you're still going to hear it.” She pressed and took off her cloak before tossing it aside, frustration radiating off her. She was beyond livid. “You risked the lives of your countrymen out there. Because of your ignorance. Now I might not care if you end up becoming a good king or not, but I know what I do care. Your sons’ well-being. Their health. Bringing them with you, I cannot fault you there. But to bring them again into a battle you know just as well that you might lose, now that is absurd and ridiculously stupid. Even for you.”

“Don't ever put your children's lives in danger again. If you cannot be a good King, the least you could do is be a decent father.” Not long after that, Erika stormed out, huffing as she got rid of all the venting she needed. She felt slightly better. Only then was she reminded that Eron was probably looking for her and was worried sick.

That night while they were eating dinner, she saw the tense looks on everyone's faces. They weren't telling her something. “Where's Bishop Heahmund?” The sudden question from Erika had made the silence more impregnable. It was an uncomfortable silence. “He didn't make it out, then.” As easily as the words came out her, she dismissed the topic of the Sherborne Bishop with a sip of her drink. Shame, Bishop Heahmund was a very great warrior. To lose such person so easily, was certainly a frown. “With that being said, you realize you shouldn't keep me here any longer, Aethelwulf. I don't know about Ivar, but Hvitserk is very adamant when it comes to getting what he wants. I wouldn't put it past him to let his wife go so easily. If Bishop Heahmund is still alive and held captive, you can exchange me with him, a far better selection of person you needed.”

“What is that supposed to mean.” The accusatory tone that laced her voice surely has managed to send the signals to the petulant King, who stopped every movement as his eyes glazed over to her.

Shrugging casually, she hummed. “We all know who's more helpful in rebuilding your foundation when you return to Wessex. You can't have me there too for there is no place for me. I was the treasonous traitor. As you accept your defeat with a heavy heart, you would rebuild Wessex to its former glory to keep the legacy going. While I, will return to where I actually belonged.”

“You belonged here. You've always belonged here. This is your home,” he pressed firmly, as he too was very adamant into getting his way. He lost a lot, but he wasn't about to lose her in the heaps just as well.

“I'm carrying his child.. Children, Aethelwulf. You cannot separate a cub from their mother and father. You know that.” It was one thing that Aethelwulf could fight against, for he deeply knew somewhere in him, that was the truth. He could never keep her here against her will. He couldn't bring himself to do it. King Ecbert's words rung in her ears every time; that Aethelwulf would always forgive her, despite everything.

“But I won't lose you.. I can't.”

“You never have. And you never will. You know a part of me will always be here. I grew up here under your wings. You moulded me into the person I am today. All the knowledge I gained and received, was an entrapment I relished in here. But you also knew, that one day you'll have to set me free. You took care of an injured bird, but alas, you know one day you will have to set it free. How can I fly when my wings are clipped and tied?”

Whilst it seemed like he was in a deep thought, she took it as a chance to reconcile and set their differences away as it does seem like it was going to be the last time she actually sees him. “You don't even have to send me back to my husband. But you have to let me go. Send me back to my brother in Russia, or even off to Sicily; even though that option is very hazardous to my current state,” she chuckled softly, clearly finding the joy in this. “But you know deep down where you should send me back to. All my life, people have conspired against me, Aethelwulf. Men have conspired against me. They don't like the fact that I hold more power despite not wanting it. My birthright is a curse. Powerful men such as them can't afford to lose to a girl, they say. You know that.”

Leaning forward to face him, her facial features softened and she sighed. “'I can't keep living like this. I can't be sheltered every day. I need to survive. For my brother. And for my people's sake. I may be fragile, but I fought wars with you despite having only half your number and you taught me how to wield a sword as early as 6. Your father taught me all the arts I needed to procure and master since a child. I won't die so easily, my friend. But you have to let me go.”

“Fine. I know I cannot keep you here against your will no longer. If I don't let you go, you will find a way to let yourself go. I don't want you to leave without saying your goodbyes.”

“It won't be a goodbye. Goodbye means I won't come back. Which I don't think I can help myself with.”

---------------------------------------

[vicscratchpages]

Oil Spills

"Still in love with the darkness after all these years."

The dungeon walls are made for candle light.  Tallow is precious in these parts though, and he would rather the cold silk of the moon to the fire that so often blinds eyes and burns souls. Sunlight will come soon enough, and a new change of guards along with it.  For now, the grave watch knows it is better for them to leave him unattended rather than watch his activities.  The day-walkers will learn soon enough that their light hides salvation.  The devil may come as a thief in the night, but the savior is a sneaky groom anxious for his bride.  What was the point of having friends in high places when they would all eventually be made low?  

Campbell looked up from his letters, a rueful grin curving his lips. He stood to greet his guest.  There was no reason a man such as himself shouldn’t have visitors.  He was more free than those who had the liberty of coming and going as they wished.  The guards knew it, and the others as well.  He wasn’t near any of the others, whether in comradery or physical proximity, but he was as close and as silent as their shadows.  

"You know me well, old friend," Campbell said, opening his arms. 

Jirus leaned forward just enough to be courteous.  He took two steps back before Campbell could fully embrace him. It was the awkward greeting of a stranger who had once been a friend. Campbell let none of this register on his face. He simply watched, and let himself be scrutinized in return. Let Jirus make of him what he would. In fact, Campbell was counting on it. He wanted to see where this might go.  This conversation was only one in an anthology of histories between them. Father and son, brothers in arms, teacher and apprentice—what would they be tonight?

"I know you well enough," Jirus counted, putting his hands behind his back. 

Looking for a dagger there, perhaps?  Jirus was all diplomacy, but Campbell wondered what lie behind the decorum and all those stoic smiles. 

"Have you come to refresh your memory?" Campbell asked, raising a brow. "You recall my nightly routine of scribing, at least."

"I have no cares for your habits, Campbell," Jirus said.

"You may, in time, care very much."

"I was not made to care, nor can I afford to. There are those such as yourself who do plenty of it for those of us who can't."

"I wouldn't consider myself among those," Campbell said. "You flatter me with undue honor. Your mother, on the other hand, was quite a virtuous soul--that is, if my memory serves me right.  How is she, these days?"

If Jirus had been stilted before,  he had now turned to stone. There was no fear in his expression, nor the hatred that it was so often coupled with. No anger, no bitterness. Only that solemn fortitude,  that strange, endless determination. A formidable opponent, was he.

"She died at your hand, you will recall."

"Will I? Well I suppose I must, if you're so certain about it.”  

Campbell casually waved a hand as he eased back onto the tree stump that served as a desk chair.  Nothing so regal as the cushions and thrones Jirus had succumbed to, but plenty for his scrawny skeleton to perch on.  

“I was only looking out for you, you know,” Campbell continued.  “She was going to kill you, and I thought you might like your life."

"If it had been my time, I would have died."

"If! That is a good word, that.  And I’ll take that as your gratitude for my intervention in that unfortunate happenstance which resulted in a dead mother and a lost son. Now tell me, why did you really come to see me?"

Campbell leaned forward as he asked, bathing himself in the moonlight that, although sharp, seemed to invite a cloak of shadows around his shoulders. Just the slightest tremor in Jirus' brow, a little tic on the left near his temple. Good. Campbell would break him yet. All in good time, and with there being peace in the land, time was all they had. Campbell wanted to see how long it would take for Jirus to go mad. Campbell might be in love with the darkness, but Jirus craved chaos. He thrived on the senseless hysteria of war time—all better to show his cool exterior and focus, block out the noise. But when there was no noise save the memories inside his own head—what would Jirus do then?  

"I have watched you grow," Campbell said quietly, prying ever deeper.  "We were brothers once.  In many ways we still are, yet you distanced yourself from me as if I were a rabid dog you can't shake off. What troubles you so now, that you seek my counsel?"

"I seek nothing from you." The ice in Jirus' throat strained his words to a whisper. "I only remind myself that your bricks and bars are still well in place."

"Ah, so it was comfort that you wanted?" Campbell leaned back on his stump, a small smile toying on his lips. "If what you need is to reassure yourself that I am locked without hope of escape, then believe your very eyes. You can even throw away the key.  Perhaps a rat will come crawling through the sewer and deliver it to me."

"Rhymes and rhetoric won't help you."

Jirus’ lip curled as he said this, although Campbell was certain the man was completely unaware of it.  Even better, Jirus hands had curled into fists.  Campbell didn’t need to see Jirus’ hands to know it.  The tension in the man’s shoulders gave it away, along with the bulge in his biceps.  Let Jirus stress himself into another streak of grey, and wonder why his locks were thinning in the morn.  Campbell withheld a titter of laughter, but a whistle of air escaped his lips anyway.  

"No, but the gods will," Campbell's voice betrayed his barely held delight, and he dropped his tone to a whisper, although he was no less excited. "Gods and galaxies both, their constant is the dark.  Light exists only in the heart, my friend. What does yours look like? Or have you set yourself aflame, burning for glory, nothing but vapors and embers dancing around an empty shell?" 

Jirus looked at him—steady gaze, tic smoothed back into place. The seams of his sleeves screamed a moment or two longer before Jirus forced his posture into something appearing like ease.  Campbell smiled to himself, content to wait. He could wait. He could save a little more pushing for another day. Pull up a memory, dust it off for Jirus to see clearly, and then twist his head until he questioned if he had done the right thing. That was all it took.  A second guess could lead to a thousand doubts. 

"You have your own hell," Jirus said. "Perhaps you should tend to it, and I will keep mine."

"I have my cares in order, Jirus.  But yours seem to be getting away from you. Best you watch out, lest you be ruled by what you were not made for, what you can’t afford."