#commander-triangle

--- prompt: we’ll face this together kiss

--- Dragonstorm, 1334 AE

The battlefield is strangely quiet and empty. It feels as if yesterday she was flying in the faces of the twin dragons, watching people die for Tyria’s future, listening to shouts and yells and screams of people around her and likely adding some of her own too.

Now, there aren’t even traces of blood. Not even Ryland’s. She personally oversaw the taking of his body for burial, even if the protruding wound from his belly triggered uncomfortable memories of Balthazar’s sword hanging over her before it delivered the final blow, because her discomfort was nothing to Rytlock’s pain. And she couldn’t subject him to that. Now, even that is gone.

Nyra is happy, yes. Nyra is happy she’s won, she’s happy the world is safe and that Braham is fine and that they aren’t dragons’ meal. But it’s a kind of happy she knows all too well, one laced with grief, with loss, holes that can never be mended again. It’s a painful happy, but better that than murderous rage she’s felt towards Phlunt, the Arcane Council, for even letting the war drag as long as it has.

Coldness bites her cheeks but she doesn’t mind it. Forgal often reminded her how resilient she had to be to the weather, because most of wars don’t happen when you wish them to, when you feel most comfortable.

Forgal. She smiles tersely. Icebrood killed his family and now she helped bring Jormag down.

“He’s dead,” she whispers, as if he can hear her. A shiny, icy remnant of Jormag’s power catches her attention and she walks over and crouches to pick it up. “They’re avenged, Forgal. What did you say their names were? Alfhild, Einar and Bodilla?”

“Commander!” a voice tears her from her thoughts, familiar but unexpected, and she turns around to see Laranthir waving at her, Trahearne by his side. “Nyra!”

“Laranthir?” she asks, heading towards them. “You’re back?”

“I may be small, but I’m here too!” a new voice adds firmly.

“Efut!” She stares at Trahearne. “Did you bring them over?”

“In a manner,” he confirms, studying her expression. “We all happened to come see you at the same time.”

“Warmaster Efut, if you will, Commander,” Efut corrects without any real grievance. “I still outrank you.”

“If we’re doing titles,” Nyra salutes, “Grand Warmaster, Warmaster, Marshal, sir!”

“I’m no Marshal,” Trahearne murmurs, a little laughter shaking in his throat. Nyra’s heart grows a little bigger. He’s healing. “And technically, you outrank me, Lyss. I’m only your second-in-command.”

“How roles change,” Laranthir muses gently. “You’ve grown since then, Nyra. You’ve earned the right to be in charge.”

“Laranthir, if this wind wasn’t killing the skin of my cheeks, I’d blush.” She knows she has, but it’s still different to hear others admit it. Almorra did, two years ago. Nyra doesn’t boast, she doesn’t brag, lets her achievements speak for themselves, mostly because then doubts stay safely in the confines of her mind when they arise.

Almorra. She has yet to attend Almorra’s proper burial. They didn’t have the time to during the war. “Laranthir, Efut,” she says, weightily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t reach Almorra in time. She was murdered by-”

“I know,” Laranthir offers sadly. Judging by Trahearne’s gentle, worried expression, she knows his sorrow is deeper than he lets on. It has to be. She knows how it’s like to lose a friend.

Forgal, Apatia, Eir, Trahearne, Blish, Aurene...

“Jhavi told me. Nyra, it’s not your fault. You can’t have known before you were lured here and that was too late.”

“That’s the problem! I was too late! Champion of Tyria, Champion of Tyria, what’s a champion that’s too late to save the world!” Her voice breaks, unable to withstand the assault, and you’d think she was used to this by now, to loss, to grief, it’s not new but it hurts all the same, and she knows what that stupid fucking asura told her, but she doesn’t know what to do with that information at the moment so she turns away, walks to where Ryland died and chokes on a scream.

“Lyss, shh, shh,” Trahearne engulfs her and it feels safe to shake quietly. “It’s alright.”

“Don’t tell me it’s not my fault,” she says, swallowing her own tears. “It doesn’t help.”

“I wasn’t about to,” he replies simply and she looks up, suddenly wondering if it’s humanly possible to love someone as much as she loves him right now. “I may later, but not right now.”

“At least you’re honest,” she says in a strange voice.

“I have no reason to lie to you,” he says. “So trust me when I say, we’ll face this together.”

“What the fuck did I do to deserve you?” she asks incredulously and lets the remaining words die on her tongue as their lips meet and she hugs him close, eyes closed and thanking the Alchemy, or gods, or whatever is willing to listen.

“That ditch you asked me to dig you 9 years ago is still around, I think,” Efut informs against the cold, loud wind and Nyra turns to stare at her. “The one you wanted to throw yourself into if your crush on Marshal dear didn’t work out, you must remember it.”

“I do,” Nyra extracts herself from the embrace unwillingly, tears freezing on her cheeks and she’s aware she looks a little silly, “and you can  fill it up. Because... How to tell you... It did work out?”

“There was a ditch?” Laranthir and Trahearne ask in unison.

“Nine years ago, yes,” Nyra deadpans. “When I was a strikingly big number of 19 years old.”

“Noted,” Efut says.

At least you have time to note, Nyra thinks. We have time to joke like this. A week or so ago, we didn’t really think we did.

“Boss, come back,” the comm springs to life from her backpack with static, but nevertheless making Rox’s message clear, “envoys are already here and they’re asking for you. We’ve been trying to reach yo- but sta-ic there is just -ful.”

“All in a day’s work,” Nyra comments under her breath. “I’m coming, Rox! Will you keep me in suspense as to who to expect or will you- oh, signal’s lost. Still. Laranthir, Efut, I’m sorry for the interruption, but we can talk later?” Distractions, Nyra, you’re just making distractions. “And, Trahearne, would you like to come with me, or?”

“I would. Snow doesn’t quite appeal to me either, I’m afraid.”

“Our rens?” Ia asked. “Or ‘Rene?”

“Hmm…do you want to hear about how ‘Rene got big?” Rhi bounced the twins a bit, and they giggled. “Or how Mom met Uncle Rel, or how Ren grew up in the jungle? Or how Dad—” They froze. “Um, maybe not that one—”

“What about Dad?” Tev tilted his head to the side.

“Um…” Shoot. Rhi had never tried to come up with a kid-friendly version of this particular story before. “How…Dad became a weapons specialist for the Pact.” Sort of. I’ll go with that.

“Spe-cee-a-list,” Ia said, sounding out the word. “What’s that?”

“It means he was good with weapons,” Rhi answered.

“But there are lots of weh-pons,” Tev said slowly. “Like Mom’s bow. And Auntie Cay’s knifes.”

“Knives, Tev,” Rhi corrected. “But yes, you’re right.” They bopped his nose, and he batted their hand away, making a tiny, happy sound. “Dad’s good with lots of weapons.”

“Does he have a fav-rit?” Ia asked, bouncing up and down.

Before Rhi could answer, Tev’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Dad likes, um…” His eyebrows scrunched. He brought his hands together, clenched his hands into fists, and opened them again with a pshh sound. “Those!”

Rhi blinked. “Wait, who told you that?”

“Can we make pshh things?” Ia said, suddenly excited.

Oh, great. “No!” Rhi said quickly and a bit too loudly. In an attempt to both dissuade them and be honest, they blurted, “Not till you’re older.”

“But how much older?” Ia asked. “A week?” Her eyes got big. “As old as you?”

“I’m not that old!”

Tev blinked in the way he specifically did when trying to be cute. How he’d learned to do that, Rhi had no idea. “Small ones?”

“Even small ones are dangerous—they can hurt you,” Rhi explained. “So no pshh, okay?”

Tev nodded, but his sister’s brow furrowed. A tiny glowing ball appeared in Ia’s palm. “But…I can make pshh?”

“That’s fire!” Rhi’s voice cracked. “That’s different!”

“Why?” Ia cupped the ball in both hands, making it larger. “I can make it go pshh, too!”

“No no no, not inside the house!” Rhi grabbed a pitcher of water that was on a nearby table and dumped it unceremoniously over Ia (and directly into their own lap). The sprout spluttered as the fire went out, blinking at Rhi in shock, and there was a beat of silence. Rhi winced internally. Oh no, I hope she doesn’t cry—

Tev giggled, breaking the tension. “You look funny, Sissy!”

Ia made a disgruntled noise, turned to him, and shook her head rapidly, covering both Tev and Rhi in water droplets and making Tev shriek-laugh. Rhi grabbed Ia and lifted the cackling toddler up in the air before settling her back on their lap.

“I’m sorry I dumped water on you,” Rhi said, just to make extra sure no one was too upset. “I actually have a better story—do you want to hear about the time I went to Divinity’s Reach instead?”

Tev stopped messily trying to dry his face with his hands and jerked his head up. “Okay!” Ia looked less enthusiastic, but she nodded.

Rhi sighed, standing up and helping both her siblings to their feet. “Okay. But let’s dry off first. I’ll go find towels.”

Ia tugged at their hand. “Ri-Ri, I can—”