#* arc iii.

they’ve  just  barely  gotten  settled  into  the  big,  creaking  house  dubbed  temporary  home  -  shady  belle,  in  all  her  glory,  feels  like  nothing  more  than  a  glorified  jail  cell.  plans  to  dip  into  st.  denis  are  in  motion,  and  only  now  does  eliza  have  the  chance  to  take  arthur  by  the  hand  &  pull  him  away  from  the  group.  “hey  -  i  gotta  talk  t’you  about  somethin’,”  she  murmurs,  tone  soft  &  panicked,  “alone.”  the  amount  of  times  that  she’s  allowed  fear  to  slip  visibly  into  her  demeanor  could  be  counted  on  one  hand;  present  time  proving  as  one  of  them.  “the  man  who  took  jack  -  we’re  sure  his  name  is  bronte?  angelo  bronte?”

there’s  a  sardonic,  bitter  laugh  that  escapes  her,  then  -  so  unlike  her  true  self.  eliza  is  hardened  to  the  bone,  worn  thin  with  grief,  loss  &  drive  -  people  are  dying.  hosea,  lenny  -  the  list  goes  on  &  on  and  no  one  seems  to  care.  if  money  is  what  they  need  to  get  far  away  from  a  society  that  doesn’t  want  them  any  more,  she’ll  do  whatever  she  can  to  get  it  -  including  appeasing  the  marbled  man  before  her.

He looks over the sea to the islands, dotting the horizon biting back the urge to sigh; storm clouds are lingering just beyond them swirling more violently than ever, and he even hears the winds starting to howl. They wouldn’t reach the shore, but it’s an unpleasant reminder whenever he sees them. Some of that sentiment fades when he hears footsteps coming from behind him, a set of heavy ones accompanied by a shallow set. From his perch, he only turns his head to greet them but presents himself befittingly. His back straight while his hands fold themselves into his lap. He looks over their faces, drawing his conclusion. “As many times as I insist you stay away from the barracks, you tend to wander there quite a bit.” She’s a warrior herself, so he expects nothing less, but there was nothing to find there. None of them could dream of competing with her without a century of experience under their belts. They didn’t need to worry about active duty outside of patrolling Inodal when their time came. He lets them sit on the lapels of sacrifices others made because that’s how the world works. 

Between the two guards, she looks so much small by comparison, but beneath their armor, he senses their hostility bleeding towards her. He’ll smooth over their egos when he finds the time, but there were more important things on his mind, and they could wait several days or so. Dismissing them with a wave of his hand, he watches them march down the hall until they turned out of sight. “I know it’s hard to resist a fight with them considering how much they love to boast, but they’re all green,” he admits, “But being part of the ‘Empire’ means they’re the best.” Thane knows them all too well; it’s a sense of pride just from belonging to something great. Her threat to them is outside of death. A shattered blade is easy to repair, but a shattered ego is nearly impossible. The greatest smith in the world couldn’t mend something so fragile. 

“You’re either stubborn, or you’re planning to earn my ire until I draw my blade against you.” He drew his knee into his chest, wrapping his arms around it. His words were fangless; there wasn’t any inflection in his tone or aggression behind his voice but instead a sense of detachment. “Which is fine with me, but then I wouldn’t be able to expunge all that debt you piled up before we met.”

“i  think  that  it’s  pretty  damn  hard  not  t’feel  at-home  somewhere  called  ‘the  heartlands’,”  eliza  quips,  smile  emerging  confidently  upon  her  features  as  she  nudges  abigail,  sitting  beside  her  &  presenting  her  with  a  fresh  mug  of  coffee.  “then  again  …  after  that  winter,  i’m  happy  t’be  anywhere  that  the  ground  isn’t  white.”

for  now,  all  she  can  focus  on  is  staying  warm  -  staying  conscious  &  alive.  jenny's  dead,  davey's  barely  in  the  ground  &  eliza's  doing  everything  physically  possible  to  keep  from  hurtling  into  an  all-consuming  pit  of  despair.  she  finds  arthur  at  a  dwindling  hearth,  still  providing  minor  warmth;  it's  enough  for  her.  "c  -  ...  can  i  sit  by  you?"  teeth  chatter,  limbs  tremble  with  shivered  syllables,  and  she  still  attempts  to  retain  some  composure.  (eliza  kardel  knows  not  how  to  admit  weakness.)  "i  can  barely  feel  my  fingers  anymore."

it's  meant  with  honest  sentimentality  -  adoration,  even,  in  the  most  genuine  of  ways.  the  words  that  dutch  speaks  into  the  space  between  them  are  meant  to  bring  eliza  comfort,  she's  sure  of  it  -  but  in  the  time  that  it  takes  her  to  etch  them  in  marble  along  her  heartstrings,  emotion  sits  steady  in  her  throat,  threatening  equal  measures  of  vulnerability.

"don't  say  that."  eliza's  reply  is  soft  -  barely  audible  with  her  head  downturned  to  the  grass  beneath  their  feet.  it's  definitive  intention  that  allows  her  to  speak  something  between  fear  &  self-preservation  as  her  focus  turns  upward  to  dutch;  "y'can't  say  that  -"  her  heart  poses  concern  under  the  guise  of  a  reprimanding  tone,  "-  it  sounds  like  you're  fixin'  to  leave  me  in  a  world  where  you  aren't  standin'  right  beside  all  of  us."  features  chiseled  &  sharpened  by  loss  turn  pointedly  at  him;  earnestness  blatantly  imploring  him,  pleading  him  not  to  leave  her,  too.  (she'd  give  her  own  life  ten  times  over  to  ensure  it.)

“i  don’t  wanna  talk,  oce  -”       she  starts,  swallowing  her  pride  &  hiding  her  face  with  her  hand  as  she  pushes  past  him  to  get  to  her  haphazard  pile  of  belongings,       “-  i  jus’  need  t’get  my  shit  an’  go.”

she’s  shivering,  and  not  succeeding  at  hiding  it  -  november  has  barely  even  started,  only  a  mere  dusting  of  snow  lays  atop  the  ground,  and  she’s  miserable  -  chilled  to  the  core.       “i  m-miss  th’sun,”       eliza  broods,  moving  her  hands  up  and  down  her  own  biceps  in  a  plea  to  keep  herself  warm,       “i’m  gonna  run  away  -  somewhere  warmer.  you  go  b-back  an’  tell  everyone  that  i  quit  bein’  an  outlaw  ‘till  summer  comes  b-back.”