#ingvald

He bores quickly of it. Less than a full day goes by before he's bored of the raunchy novellas lying discarded around the manse. Nor does the housework afford him much opportunity to better himself. The dishes are dried and put away, the countertops swept clean of crumbs, the plants watered: his good conscience is soothed, but his body still wants for things to do.

By the second afternoon he takes up his rapier and sets a training dummy up in the front yard. Someone - mayhap a Riskbreaker - has decorated it with a goofy face reminiscent of a paissa. He decides immediately that he hates it.

For all its comical appearance, it is a hardy thing and weathers his spells well enough. That, or he hasn't perfected the art as well as he'd originally thought. The focusing crystal hums pleasantly when he inspects it for flaws, but he finds nothing that would cause his spells not to do so much damage. Idly, he thinks of the last time he was face-to-face with a training dummy; for sure, that first was a puny thing, and this one no doubt was built to weather adventurers aplenty...

It still confuses him, and he takes up a new goal. Delicately melt the paint off the dummy, or turn it into splinters.

By third day's end his arms shake with the effort of holding both rapier and crystal aloft, breathing hard with the exertion of casting over and over. The unblinking paissa eyes watch him mockingly; he has done not much more than turn a few splinters to the smallest sticks of charcoal despite his best efforts.

"Having trouble, old man?"

He turns to see Helisent, wrapped up in a travelling cape, a great grin plastered upon her face. She must be leaving for Gyr Abania once more. Her drive to help is admirable, if exhausting to think about - the Saltery has been mostly repaired and its workers brought back to live there, and she has finally set her sights upon other little hamlets in need of a helping hand.

"No," says Ingvald, not bothering to fight the smile that works its way to the fore. As they had worked together the teasing insults had been plentiful and somewhat of a comfort after a while. It is nice to hear them again. "Need someone to hold your hand back home?"

His only answer is a tongue stuck out in a decidedly miqo'te manner. "Orella'd kill you," she says happily, dumping her pack on the ground and bending to adjust the laces of her boots. "If you took off with a younger woman, I mean."

That earns a chuckle, though she doesn't say anything more, too busy making sure the leathers won't rub against her feet as she walks. Not one to interrupt such a process, Ingvald rolls his shoulders and tests the weight of the rapier; it doesn't feel as a block of stone yet, which means he can keep going. With a sigh he lifts the focusing crystal high as well, and it spins lazily in midair, barely glowing brighter as he casts a lackluster veraero at the abused training dummy.

"Wow," says Hel to his right. "Was that meant to be white magic? Come on, great-granddad, you can do better than that."

Ingvald grits his teeth. "Hush," he scowls, and tries again. This time his spell peters out before it even reaches his target; his jaw clenches in irritation, and Helisent bursts into laughter too loud for this time of night.

"Before I go," she says, and plucks the crystal from his hand. With his aether so extended down the weapon like an extension of his arm, he feels unbalanced, and the blade wavers. He lowers it, wary. "I think we better work on this so you don't embarrass me in the future."

"Red magic must be balanced," he protests, but doesn't reach to take it from her. "Don't overaspect it or you'll be paying for the replacement."

Without looking away from the crystal, Hel rolls her eyes and shakes her head, the tiniest motion, more fond than disdainful. "Please," she scoffs. "Overaspected. That'd be doing you a favour, as far as I'm concerned."

Something of his worry must bleed through, for he can feel the pulsing of her aether weaken as she tunes the crystal to her liking, and hands it back soon enough with a wink. Try as he might, Ingvald can feel nothing different about it, though he knows she must have done something - but when he opens his mouth to ask questions, she simply winks at him, slings her pack over her shoulder, and sets off.

*

Very quickly does Ingvald become irritable. He takes to practising harder, pushing himself further - not just at dawn and dusk but during the day, too, when it's more likely others will see him. Indeed, one elezen does stop to watch with fascination until he growls too loudly at the still-standing dummy one afternoon. She flees, long legs carrying her past the marketboard quick enough that when he looks over he does not see even the colour of her hair.

Between his mood and the locals it's clear enough he needs to rest. He retires indoors, sweat cooling on his lower back, and wonders if he looks hard enough whether or not he would find any books on magickal energy hidden around the Sandsea. He needs some sort of guidance, more than the paltry exercises Tia had taught him during their time in the Sagolii, and it is with no small amount of relief that he sinks into the chair closest to the fire. Maybe Helisent is right - maybe he is getting old. He certainly feels it, and the thought of getting up to hunt down a book that might not even exist is more draining than he wants to admit.

He falls into the story easier than he'd have thought possible, the chair comfortable enough that he is reluctant to even change position, the fire warm enough that his eyes feel heavier than they otherwise might. The tale he's picked up is engrossing enough - a young midlander convincing her Ishgardian beau to forsake his knightly vows for her arms (and if he rereads the passages detailing just how soft and pert the heroine's breasts are, that's between him and the fireplace) - that he pays no mind to the door when it swings open.

"Oh, how domestic," drawls an unfortunately familiar voice.

Gisfrid stands flanked by two women, nose freshly broken, looking just as smug as he ever has done. To his left, a woman he thinks he recognises but remembers not at all. To his right, Orella, looking as displeased as he's sure he feels.

Silence grows thick and heavy around all four of them until he snaps his book shut decisively. Gisfrid's brows rise almost high enough to meet his hairline when he sees the title.

"Bit racy for you," he says, and his words are swallowed up by the blanket of noiselessness. They all trade glances, all expecting an explanation, no one saying a single word to break it.

... Which means it falls to Ingvald to open the discussion. He sighs, keeps his eyes on Orella. She looks like she might develop a headache before the day is over.

"Explain."

She can't fully hide a little grin, at least. "I was waiting for you to kick off," she admits. "Tell me Ashelia isn't in."

She's not, and he says as much. Orella's shoulders relax, the tension visibly draining from her. Not for the first time, Ingvald wishes she could take some time for herself for once.

"Here," says Gisfrid. "That book-"

"Is it any of your business?" Ingvald snaps before he can carry on. He's as surprised as everyone else to find his tone as sharp as any blade, and forces himself to breath deeply, hold it for four, five seconds.

"... Let's go to our room," Orella suggests. It might be the most sensible thing she's ever said.

*

Their shared room is plain enough that no eyebrows are raised at the impropriety of the two of them sharing a single bed. It's a relief for, Ingvald suspects, both of them - he doesn't want to know how loud Gisfrid would become upon learning about their still-tentative relationship. It seems almost a stroke of luck that she'd forgone the simple copper band she's been wearing since the liberation before setting out.

At length, an explanation makes itself known to him. He sighs at every appropriate point, glares at their guests when he thinks it necessary, and suggests that they meet by the Brimming Heart when the moon's at its highest. Gisfrid shoots him an inquisitive look.

"You don't want us around?"

"Not really," Ingvald says, surprisingly mild for the way he feels. "I want to gather my things in peace before I have to spend weeks by your side again. Get out and we'll meet you later."

Milleuda is the one who shrugs and tells him to suit himself. Gisfrid does not look happy about the arrangement, but follows her anyway, clearly beholden to her rules, and Ingvald sighs deeply as the door clicks shut behind them.

"They're going to steal anything not nailed down, aren't they," he groans, and Orella snorts, amused.

"You don't have to come," she says, and looks weary when she looks at her. The circles under her eyes seem more pronounced than ever; he feels guilty, then, for not suggesting that they rest here tonight and meet them in the morning.

Whatever's going through her head clearly has her wanting to apologise for something or other, too, and he's having none of it. Before she can protest or chew him out or do aught else he crosses the three steps to her, takes her shoulders, and kisses her as firm as he thinks he can get away with: surprised, sh elets him.

"What-" she manages when he parts from her. Ingvald shrugs.

"I won't be able to when we're with them," he says easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I presume you want them knowing just as much as I do."

Irritation writes itself plainly across Orella's face as she contemplates that very real possibility. He allows it for one moment, two, before bending to kiss her again. This time she meets him, slides one hand into his shaggy hair. It's nice, until she's had enough, and she tugs him back easily.

"You don't have to," she says, and Ingvald doesn't know if she means this, or the search for Folles. "Ingvald-"

"Orella," he interrupts, "For once, be quiet."

If he knows her she has absolutely no intention of doing so. Rather than suffer through her complaints, he plants his hands beneath the slight curve of her ass and lifts; it's worth the strain in his arms for the little stoke to his pride that he can, and that flares into something more heady when Orella grabs tightly at his jacket. She's not heavy, but he could drop her easily, something they're both aware of.

"You thought I wouldn't leave with you?" he asks against her throat, and kisses the skin there. "You thought I'd let you go off with that shite and have nothing at all to do with it?"

She squirms in his arms, trying to steady herself. "No," she says simply. "Don't want to be dragging you into my dirty work all the time."

As if of their own accord, her legs wrap around his waist for extra balance. Ingvald takes one step, then another, and another, kissing her skin with every step he takes, before his knees bump against the edge of their mattress, and he dumps her unceremoniously. He follows her down, catches sight of the amusement in her eyes before he kisses her again.

"Alright," she murmurs when he pulls back, "What's all this about?"

Instead of answering her, he tugs at the laces holding her shirt closed, baring the skin beneath. As usual she's forgone any sort of brassiere, having always considered them a waste of time. He bends his head to take one dusky nipple between his teeth and worries it; when he pulls back it's ringed with toothmarks and perky.

"You aren't the only one who regrets things," he reminds her, and doesn't miss the way a frown begins to form between her brows. "He and I were the same. I'm making up for it."

"... You and Gisfrid?" Orella asks, lost, and hisses when he bites her other nipple harder.

"I," Ingvald mumbles, hands already working as his own laces. He's hard in his trous. "Would appreciate you not talking about him in bed."

He puncuates the remark with another sharp nip and sits up straight to glower down at her. Her eyes have gone dark, and they narrow when she sees him work himself roughly. "Folles," he clarifies, and feels a muscle in his jaw tense. His cock jumps in his hand, too. "Take these off," he says, hooking two fingers into her waistband when she opens her mouth to say something.

She swallows, wriggles beneath him to wrestle with the fabric.

"I have to make up for being like him for as long as I was," he continues, watching her. Her hands still at her smalls.

"That's-"

"pyr Bloodhound," he reminds her. "That's what they called me - or did you forget? I didn't get that by being nice."

It's taking her too long to undress. He hooks his own fingers into her smalls and tugs them down so sharply something in the fabric snaps loudly. She gives him an annoyed look but lifts her legs for him to pull them down further, and he finds he doesn't want to waste time undressing. With one arm he pulls her legs over one shoulder, holding them together at the knee where her clothes are gathered. When he catches her eye he stops, just for a moment, until she nods, just barely. Good.

"You're better than them," she says softly - more softly than he's used to from her, and rather than argue the point he pushes his cock between her thighs, gritting his teeth at the feel of her.  He does it again, and then grips himself, angles himself down as he pushes his hips forward, when when his cockhead slides between her folds and catches upon the hole of her cunt he growls, deep in his throat.

"Am I?" he manages, thinking of the past as he sinks into her in one movement. Orella sucks in a deep breath and screws her face up; for a moment he thinks maybe she needed more than what little he gave her, but when he pulls out his shaft glistens. "Could've been quo. Could've been rem. Could've made sas - would I be better, then?"

Instead of answering she grits her teeth. With every point he makes he fucks into her a little harder, a little sharper. With both legs held tight in place and her shirt undone, she looks like any other woman might've had he but dared ask during his time as pyr.

The thought shocks him: not once during their shared service did he ever indulge, though his authority would have afforded him the opportunity had he but asked to. None would have questioned him or looked down on him; he would not have been the first to take advantage of his position, nor would have been the last. Looking down upon her he knows Orella did not abstain as he had done - nor should she have, for pleasure was few and far between for both of them, and for her more than he.

"I did it for you," he growls, low and quiet as he sinks deeper than before into her, and she cries out, the first true noise she's made so far. "Agreed to fight for them for you. What does that make me? A coward- can't even choose for myself-"

"Ingvald," she gasps, and goes tight around him.

"I'm no better than any of them," he growls again, feeling a bead of sweat work its way down between his shoulderblades. Pulling out feels like a sin, but he cannot stop himself; his every movement is jerky and sharp. "Worse than plenty. Shit-"

He grits his teeth, holds her legs so tightly it must pain her for the way her knees are held together, and seats himself fully within her as he comes, breathing as though he's just run a malm.

Orella's hand cups his cheek. He leans into it blind; he can feel the hot prickle of tears begin to gather in his eyes and he closes them, willing them to stay put.

"I did too," she says quietly. He grunts to let her know he's heard and keeps his eyes closed, feeling the first start the slow path down his cheek. Her thumb wipes it away, and the next. "I swore the same. To serve in their name would be to save you."

He swallows heavily, and another tear slips out. Orella wipes that away, too, and runs the pads of her fingers over the stubble he wants to shave before they set out. All he can think of is how calloused her hands are. In another life she would maybe have enjoyed softer hands, softer clothes, softer words. She'd have hated every second of it.

"If I'd said no-" he chokes out, and finds himself pulled gently down, guided to rest against her bare skin, breasts a pillow for him to hide within. Here he can lift a hand to wipe at his eyes as subtley as he can; she ignores the movement. He loves her for that alone.

"We'd have been made to serve no matter what we'd said," she murmurs, and brushes chapped lips against his temple. She shifts under him, and he swallows: she's still hot and wet around him, and he cannot imagine she has found release yet. That fills him with as much shame as his past failings. "You know that as well as I do, and if you'd said no, I'd have been alone." She kisses the top of his head, and he feels her shift again, this time to hold him tight. "And I don't know about you, but I wouldn't have made twenty years by myself."

No, you wouldn't have, he does not say, because they both know she's right. Instead he turns his face up to meet her for a kiss, softer than any they've shared this evening, and chooses instead to reach between them to where her flesh is wet and swollen, and makes apologies with his fingertips.

*

Neither Gisfrid nor Milleuda look any different to how they did hours before; they are devoid of anything other than the weapons at their side. Clearly they've spent the day wasting time instead of putting a pack together.

"I presume you have a plan?" Gisfrid drawls as they approach. "Or is this to be a wild bhoot-chase?"

Ingvald and Orella share a long-suffering glance. It is going to be a long, long journey. As one, they shrug.

It’s Ingvald, of course, with his sharp eyes tired after a long day of making nice with Garlean mummers. He’s running out of excuses to escape with, especially when they call after him (“Make nice with your beau!” “Let us know if your bed isn’t big enough!”), and while he lets the comments slide right off him, it must be exhausting to endure them day after day.

They sup in silence, confined to the small room that has become their safe haven. Ingvald seems content enough to keep to himself, tongue tired from its incessant wagging, and Orella… cannot find even a moment’s peace to eat. Before long she’s frowning into her bowl, doing her level best to focus on the board than the bystander.

Her best isn’t good enough.

“What?” Ingvald asks the second time he notices her distracted glance over his shoulder. Orella doesn’t answer, but unlike Ashelia, he doesn’t let it go unanswered. “What,” he says again, and turns to look at the empty corner.

He meets Ingvald’s gaze full on.

“Orella,” he says, annoyed as he turns to face her, and she throws down her spoon.

“Am I not allowed even now to rest?” she snaps back. No stranger to her tantrums throughout the years, Ingvald lets her tone slide.

“You’ve been distracted all evening,” he explains patiently. “You don’t get distracted.”

“Well, I am,” and she cannot help the way it comes out of her, low and threatening. “What are you going to do, drag me to court?”

“I was only asking. What’s gotten into you?”

She cannot help but glance once again to the corner that is most certainly not empty.

“Don’t tell him,” says Lamont bas Aureus, youngest cousin of House Baelsar.

“Nothing,” says Orella, and drops her gaze once more to her bowl. No longer is she hungry, her belly full of some twisting darkness she’s not unfamiliar with. “I… must be tired. I don’t investigate murder on the regular anymore.”

“Hm,” says Ingvald.

*

Why don’t you work with us, for once?

The Roegadyn’s words echo in her dream. She is in Ala Mhigo as it falls; she is next to the broken body of her brother; she is on the Prima Vista, a far cry from its former glory, nothing but scrap and slag. She is the last thing left alive.

It sets her blood to boil once again. Orella takes aim and kicks the nearest heap of scrap as hard as she can manage. “I am,” she growls, and kicks it again. “I AM!”

“Are you?”

Lamont yet plagues her, even in this endless landscape of every ruin she’s ever been party to. When she looks, he wears the armour of his cousin the once-viceroy, the third pearly eye easily visible on his forehead. It is not the child she remembers standing before her but a man, slighter than most of the soldiers she’s ever set eyes on.

“Don’t you question me,” she snarls, and reaches for the blade over her shoulder. It melts as she draws it, the brilliant red metal twisting into something shapeless as she watches. When she drops it, it melts like ice on coals until nothing is left.

“You are as the rest of them,” Lamont says. Something about his matter-of-fact tone rubs her entirely the wrong way. “Withered within. Your heart knows nothing but blackness.”

The gaol below Ala Mhigo is as crumbled as the city above. The broken cells smell of ruin and decay, though no body remains down here. Curses linger like bhoots, drawn to the stench of her shortcomings.

Blackblood, blackblood, blackblood, they echo.

“What would you know?” Orella demands. “You’re just a Garlean.”

The jibe bothers him not at all. “I know how deep the well within you runs,” he starts, but Orella steps close enough to see her reflection in his eyes. They’re the same colour as Ingvald’s, as the deepest pool of water, of barren fields, of the low light of evening.

“You don’t know shit,” she snaps, and grabs his collar. The skull-like mask bleeds through his skin until it is all she can see, and she cannot feel her hands; when she looks down the darkness is winding its way up her forearms, pulling her in. No matter how she struggles she cannot pull away. The face looking at her is no face. Nothing but darkness looks back at her, a gaping maw pulling her in, pulling her down, a stranglehold around her chest, her neck, no escape, only--

Only--...

*

A hand on her shoulder startles her awake, and for a moment she can still smell the wreckage.

“---Ingvald--”

“I’m here,” he promises, and tears the coverlet from her. “You’re sweating like Azeyma put hands on you,” he mutters as she sits up. “Bad dream?”

She laughs hoarsely, mirthlessly, and rubs at her eyes, turns the movement into a careless raking-back of her hair. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore,” she manages, helpless. “What the fuck are we doing, Ingvald? Don’t,” she says, as he touches her shoulder gently. “Aboard a Garlean vessel, cavorting around with who fucking knows, looking for- for a single grain of sand in the desert. This is a fool’s errand.”

“Orella,” Ingvald tries, but she ignores him and stands from the bed in one fluid moment.

“Why do I care about Dalmasca? Why are we here? Chasing after the overeager dreams of some chit who doesn’t know-”

“Doesn’t know what?” Ingvald says carefully. She turns to face him, and he’s on his feet too. The shirt he wears is rumpled from sleep and his hair is askew, but his eyes are alert. She recognises that look on him, but it instills no caution in her this time.

“Anything,” she hisses, and tastes the black again. “Just how deep the darkness in this world runs. Why are we here? Why are any of us here?”

Not even her bare feet give her pause as she takes a step. Ingvald stays where he is, but watches her closely. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” and she stalks past him, not even bothering to take a shirt to hide her breastband. “Don’t follow me.”

Beside her, Ingvald snuffles in his sleep. She envies him, untouched by demons as he seems to be, can't help but watch him even though she knows it to be an unkindness. His hair, usually so neat, is rumpled from the pillow they share, and he seems comfortable enough even though they lay shoulder-to-shoulder. Orella knows she thrashes at night.

The shock of waking from a nightmare has her reluctant to try to sleep once more. No; she will sit for a while longer, watch over Ingvald carefully as though trying to commit his features to memory, on the off chance she does indeed doze off once more and wakes to find him too far

away from her. It's painfully clear he's not used to the idea of his promotion yet; he walks with the standing army as though he is yet a part of them, though his plate is markedly different, and only he is permitted to bear the griffin upon his back.

She lets him walk with them without calling attention to it. They were his mates before she and hers adopted him into their ranks, and 'tis his first excursion as Kingsguard. There is time enough to mould him in their image. Time enough for him to become used to his new role, and to all the accolades it comes with.

Accolades such as a room to himself, and a bed he needs not share with any other. He was accustomed to life in the army before he ever joined up, one half of a set of twins, and it was clear even at his induction that he knows not how to deal without company. Orella was different. She'd had everything to herself, had left home long before her brother's birth, is no stranger to solitude, does not care for the skinship the army forces upon its rank and file.

They stop with the Seld in sight, the palace dominating the sky, and mete out roles for the men under their command. 'Tis the height of summer, and yet the nights are cold enough that a body on its own would easily freeze. No stranger to this, Orella settles upon her bedroll easily, Ingvald beside her, and the shadow of Ala Mhigo's many hoodoos blankets them from sight of would-be hunters.

At her back, he shifts, again, and again, and again, unused to a hard salt mattress after so long climbing his way to the top.

"Stop fidgeting," Orella snaps, eyes closed. "Or do you want

something to eat?"

Most of what's stocked in the manse's stores, Orella caught herself. She'd had to ask for the icebox's expansion to fit her catches in fully, and now there are two tucked behind the bar. One is full of fish, gutted during the long sleepless nights, and the other she's begun to fill with Ul'dahn game.

She's opening it all now to show Ingvald as he sits at the bar, wordlessly offering him everything. He shakes his head at the fish - thank Rhalgr - but raises one brow at the rabbit.

"You're sure?"

"Of course," Orella says, knowing how that apprehension feels. "You saw the pen outside, too. Go take a look for eggs."

His soldier's blood forces him to his feet before his anxiety can get the better of him, but he still hesitates.  He looks almost plaintive, desperate for some reassurance that they're allowed to be here. After so long on the run, she finds she cannot blame him.

"Is it really okay to take

whatever I want?"

"Whatever you want," Orella agrees. She's showing entirely too many teeth and finds she cannot help it. She understands finally how Zartosht must have felt upon her induction, when the same thing was offered her. "I'm good for my wagers. Ask Berend, if you don't believe me. I'm not looking for an answer here and now," she adds as she stands from the bench. Ingvald makes to rise with her, but is waved down easily. "Stay. Eat. Think on it, ser. Whatever you want."

With that she takes her leave, cloak swirling about her ankles easily. The empty seat is filled almost immediately by Ser Einar, who smells of ale even this early in the day. Whether it's the drink or his natural manner, he's enviably relaxed. Neither the plate nor his shield looks as though it bothers him, and he steals a piece of farl from Ingvald's plate as though they've been fellows for years.

"Forgive me my indelicacy," he starts, and tears the bread in three. Ingvald doesn't believe for a moment he knows how to be delicate. Einar pops one piece in his mouth, and talks while he chews, beard waggling all the while. "But I could have sworn I heard Orella offer her blade 'gainst yours."

Ingvald's not hungry anymore and pushes the plate away. Let Ser Einar take the rest of it. "Aye," he allows after a moment of careful silence. "She did, and I

would not dare to presume," he says, handing her one and then two warm eggs, voice level, "But have you truly given up the kilij?"

Orella is silent as she finds a pan and cracks the eggs into it, which means he's either offended her or asked her something that requires great thought. He doesn't want to meet her eye to find out which. The longer the silence stretches out for, interrupted only by the spitting oil, he thinks perhaps he has caused offense, and opens his mouth to take it back-

"... I have," she says. She's as careful as he is with his words, no need for detail between them after so long surviving on secrets and silence. The greatsword she's taken up rests against the bar, in easy reach, and they both look to it at the same time. Ingvald has only been in the manse a day and has yet seen it strapped to Orella's back enough times to know she finds comfort in its great weight, though he can't imagine her using it in battle. He'd never say it, but she is not the soldier she once was. The years have worn her down.

"I thought," she continues, and Ingvald lets his gaze tear from the sword to her back, "that a change was in order."

"You said you were making amends."

It's not a question. "It seemed... disingenuous of me to say so and still try to be the woman I once was." She reaches out - for the hilt, he thinks, but then her hand moves past it to take an errant spoon. "I needed to change."

Still she keeps her back to him, focuses her attention firmly away from

his sword, a gift from his parents, the result of many a pouch of hard-saved gil. It hangs upon its stand, yet sheathed, yet to be used for anything other than ceremony. He can't quite imagine its fuller red with blood, can't imagine using it for anything other than something that fills him with pride.

Certainly not this. He can't believe he's considering it. Sparring with a senior member of the Kingsguard, simply because they both have a curiosity as to how long he'll last? Utterly foolish, and a waste of time. He doesn't need to test his blade against hers to know the match will be over in less than a minute.

And yet...

He thinks of the fortune his parents must have invested in its creation, how little they must have been left with after commissioning it and dealing with his fool brother. It's sheathed, but he can see the steel in his minds eye already, can see his intials graved into it.

He could turn her down, of course. She'd think not at all of it, he's sure, and no one would judge him for not wanting to face down Ser Steelhand, woh thunders across the field like a herd of jhammel, who roars with effort, whose sword is an extension of her own arm.

In one fluid movement he rises, the plate not so heavy on his shoulders with this newfound determination, crosses the room, grasps

the plate they'd shared. She cooked, so he washes, as it's always been between them, fair and equal. As fair and as equal as it could be.

The weight of Orella's gaze is heavy upon his back. It's been long enough that it's an unfamiliar feeling once again, but still a comfort, knowing that she watches him so intently as a product of her own guilt. He does not know if she realises, but she stares a lot.

Then again, she likely is guilty often enough to warrant it.

Once the plate and the single fork are clean and put to one side, he turns to rest his back against the cabinet, and crosses his arms to better regard her.

They stare at one another in silence. Ingvald, wondering where to begin, and Orella, fingers laced together, face half-hidden behind her hand. It's not long before she breaks first, and slumps with a sigh.

"You've questions." She sounds tired. Perhaps he oughtn't- "Ask them, Ingvald. I'm no mind reader."

"Amends for what? If this is about you leaving Limsa..."

The noise Orella makes sounds as though it borders on annoyance. "It's not. Well," she adds, quieter, "Perhaps a little. But I've bigger things to atone for than leaving you by the sea. ... Proverbial bodies to lay to rest. Anger to- to overcome. You know how it is."

He does.

"I do," he says, gentle enough that even Orella's temper is quelled. "But we aren't to blame for Garlemald, Orella. You know that as well as I."

The way she looks at him makes him think she won't ever believe that. Her eyes are haunted, heavy with memories of the occupation, and she

is waiting at the ring's edge, as relaxed in her full plate as though she does not intend to fight him.

She's chatting with Ser Gisfrid, but they put a stop to their conversation as he approaches. Zehirli hangs heavy at his side, and his back aches already under the shield even as beads of sweat trickle down his neck and under the armour. He hopes Ser Steelhand feels the same-

She steps forward and grasps his hand firmly. All thoughts of her nervousness disappear with the touch.

"Full glad am I to see you here," she says, and the smile she gives him is genuine. Beside her, Ser Gisfrid is smiling too, and Ingvald's heart skips a beat as he realises that there are many other faces lining up, as eager as these two, all waiting, all watching. "Are you ready to

fight?"

He's taken aback by the suggestion. It must show on his face, for Orella shrugs and unlaces her fingers. "I understand if you'd rather not. I simply thought you'd want to practice."

"To practice."

The words feel heavy on his tongue. Orella has always been pragmatic, has never minced her words or shied from letting her thoughts be known, but somehow he'd forgotten how she spoke while he was in the desert. A very different partner for conversation was Tia, but he- has he really forgotten, after twenty years serving alongside her, trusting her, building a kinship on par with Wilhem, forgotten how she speaks?

Orella is privy to none of his guilt and barrels on in typical fashion. "I've not seen you hold a rapier since Theodoric's day," she explains, and reaches over to let her own hand fall upon the hilt of her greatsword. What was meant to be a careful, gentle touch, to reassure herself of its presence, he's sure, ends with her gripping so tightly he can see her knuckles turn white. "And I've a ways to go before I feel comfortable letting this lead me."

"I'm surprised you can lift it at all."

The smile she directs at him doesn't reach her eyes. "As was I. I don't doubt I'll last barely a minute, if that. Surely it's about time you

best me?"

It doesn't escape Ingvald's notice as they face each other that Ser Steelhand is almost two heads shorter than he is. The height difference doesn't bother her at all; he doesn't know if it's the way she holds herself or knowing who she is makes her seem taller, stronger and more confident than he feels he could ever be.

Their swords remain sheathed, shield yet upon their backs, and the ring is surrounded by guardsmen and soldiers alike. Some faces he recognises. He tries to ignore them all. Ser Steelhand has told him that no matter the outcome, this is between equals, between friends, and he is repeating those words to himself as though they are a lifeline. They're hard to believe. If he wins, he'll be lauded by the rest and cursed by her. If he loses, he's just another faceless soldier, easily forgotten, easily knocked into the dirt.

So lost is he in his thoughts that Orella takes a full step forward. "Ser Bloodhound?"

"Yes!"

He snaps to attention immediately, and flushes as a chuckle runs around the ring. He's thankful they haven't yet donned helms, for she looks at him not with pity, but with understanding. "Name your terms. What would you have of me, should you best me?"

His mouth goes dry, and he swallows desperately, hopes that his voice does not break. "A day of my choosing to sleep late, Ser," he asks, and there is considerably less laughter than he expected. Some watchful knights murmur and nudge one another, but more faces than not smile at his request.

"A fine choice," says Ser Steelhand. "For my part, I would have you walk the night patrol in my stead."

He'd been expecting a worse request. Been expecting her to ask him to kneel for her, to debase himself somehow, even though he knew the Kingsguard to be above such childish hazing. But covering a patrol? Easy work, if exhausting, and he nods in answer.

Ser Steelhand smiles again, and turns her head to call; "Zartosht! If you would

come outside, at least," Ingvald grumbles as he stands. Like Orella, he's taken to carrying the rapier with him, though he has no scabbard for the blade, isn't sure if he'll even be able to find one for something so thin. There was no cause to put it up in the desert, but he feels less certain of carrying it so brazenly within the manse.

Not so for his partner. She takes a moment to strap the greatsword to her back, struggles with the strap holding it all together, and straightens as he is about to offer assistance. She opens the door for him, closes it with a click as they leave together.

She knows the area better than he does, and leads a half-step ahead. There's greenery enough to be surprising within the lot, carefully curated gardens that look as though they must needs be attended to every day to be kept so pristine, but it is the great red cliffs that steal his attention. So different are they to Gyr Abania's sandy mountains, but familiar enough that he feels almost at home.

He's led down many a path he does not recognise but Orella has obviously trodden before, and he smells the water before he sees it. It's a square, devoid of people, surrounded by peaceful pools, and-

"Gods," and his voice is hoarse, "Is that a waterfall?"

He doesn't think he's imagining the amusement in her voice. He can't tear his eyes from the sight to check on her. "Oh, aye. I had much the same thought as you, the first time I saw it. A veritable jewel in this bastard place."

Ingvald flinches at the first sight of movement at the corner of his eye - but it is only Orella stretching her arms in front of her, rolling her head to and fro that her neck might crack satsifyingly. She shoots him a knowing look.

"Well, you'll need to work on your stance, at least," she says. "Anyone could kick your legs out from you, the way you are now. You need to be-"

"-ready for whatever comes," Ingvald finishes for her. It's been twenty years and he still recalls Ser Zartosht's manner, constantly vigilant, repeating those selfsame words before every duel. "I know. I've not fought a person since... Gridania," he says after thinking. Has it truly been so long since he was engaged in proper combat? Their escape from Baelsar's cursed Wall, the backdrop for his last battle?

One look at Orella makes him think she cannot say the same. He hasn't yet asked what her travels from Vylbrand held for her. He's not sure if he wants to know.

"Alright," she says, "Draw

your piece."

They've donned helms, affixed shields to arms. The spectators are ready. The judge is ready. They've laid out the terms and shaken upon them. Naught remains but to clash.

As Zehirli is drawn free, it winks attractively in the sun. Ingvald holds it high a moment, notes his initials engraved at the ricasso; opposite him, Ser Steelhand does much the same.

Idly, he wonders what she named her blade.

For one moment - two - they stand, ready, shields high, swords up. Ingvald's pulse beats so hard in his ears that he cannot even hear himself draw breath. He can't stand the waiting, the tension, and every fibre of his body screams to

move into the square proper. He's looking for bystanders as much as inspecting it, but it's entirely empty. Not even a single vendor has set up here, though he imagines it's a most attractive place to peddle wares.

When he turns, Orella is attempting to unsling the sword once more. It's a slow process, but she brushes off the help he offers. He expected nothing less of her. It takes both hands and the better part of almost five minutes to free it, and she tries vainly to lift it aloft. The muscles in her arms are thrown into horrifying relief as she does, and Ingvald can't help but wince. She most certainly is not the woman she once was.

"Damn," she swears. The blade clatters to the floor, and she bends to pick it up with both hands. "I thought I could - nevermind."

It takes another few minutes before she adopts a stance she's comfortable with. Ingvald passes the time by not watching her carefully, by testing the weight of his own sword even though he knows how it balances already. When Orella grunts, he looks up to find her half her usual height. In order to offset the mass of steel, she's hunkered down with her legs wide and knees bent - a position that must be hell to bear, but grants her enough gravity to keep the sword off the floor.

"We don't have to do this," he says, not bothering to ready himself. The laugh she chokes out sounds strained.

"Yes, we do. I'll manage. Don't make me wait."

Her tone brooks no argument, and there is nothing for it but to lift first his free hand, in the way Tia had shown him, and then his blade to

catch the blow. The shock carries up his entire arm, and he thinks the match is ended already, but then he still holds the sword, and his feet haven't yet been kicked from underneath him.

He takes one step back, two, puts as much distance between them as he dares. Almost too slow, he brings his shield up to bear, catches her next blow and lets his other arm go numb with the force of it.

And then she steps back, suddenly defensive. Perhaps she thinks he will press the advantage, or test his reach against her.

Not so. They flaunt the griffin at one another for what feels like hours as they circle one another with sure steps, waiting for the other to trip or to look away or-

There. She glances down, and he presses forward immediately. Sword held high, he brings it down with as much weight as he can put behind the blow, and she doesn't even bother to raise her shield. Instead she takes one elegant step aside, lets his own momentum carry him forward, and as he goes flying by he looks up, for she still hasn't struck, and why would she

struggle with the oversized blade. Twice already she's had to adjust her grip, once because of a gentle glissade from Ingvald's own blade. It shouldn't have been enough to push her back.

Privately, he thinks this weapon does not suit her, but he keeps his mouth shut. He knows Orella's temper, knows saying nothing is the wises action. She grunts as she tries to find a hold that suits her best, and he wonders how long she intends to carry on this life. He can picture her doing naught else, but full obvious is it that her soldier's days are well behind her. The Garleans made vicious mockery of her, and she will never recover. Even he can see it, plain as day.

"Godsdamnit,” she swears after a moment longer, and throws the greatsword down. The noise it makes is incredible as it clatters against the stone, part ringing metal and part broken tile. The expression she wears is complicated. "Gods- damnit."

Something in Ingvald pulls tight with sympathy. "Orella..."

"Don't," she hisses, looking as though she could start swinging her fists or burst into tears any second now. "Don't you dare pity me, don't you fucking dare-"

He lets his point fall to the floor as she bares her

teeth, putting her shield up once more. She's done away with the helm completely; the leather strips holding it in place were worn and weak. Back on his feet, Ingvald is ready once more, testing his reach, testing hers.

Be relentless, Ser Einar had told him, and so he is relentless. He steps forward, forward, only forward, never lets Ser Steelhand have a chance to look for his openings or even to chance at them. He knows not whether she is content letting him press forward or if she is truly struggling under his blows, but it doesn't matter; he presses the advantage over and over and

He pauses minutely, to draw breath before he continues the barrage, and that is more than enough for her to see something worth striking for. She springs forward, puts her whole weight behind her shield, and it is enough to knock him off his feet.

On his back, he's trapped. Under the weight of not only his armor, but hers, he feels more vulnerable than a toppled adamantoise, and she must know something of the feeling, for she moves quickly enough. She uses his own dead weight as leverage to get back to her own feet; he grunts, but weathers it, for he knows she will help him in kind.

As he thought, he stoops to offer her hand, and pulls him up with one single, fluid motion. That alone belies just how strong she truly is. Not for the first time he's

shocked at the display. He's always known Orella to have a temper, but never for her to lose it at herself. She looks a half-second away from trying to hit herself, and Ingvald throws his rapier down without a second thought, to cross the distance, to grab her wrist, to put a stop to it before it can begin.

"Enough," he says firmly. "Enough."

The strength bleeds out of her in a second. Under his fingers she feels so frail, suddenly, and it's so at odds with who he knows Orella to be that he feels guilty for not having noticed it sooner. It scares him, a little, makes him think that she could just snap under his grip, and he looses his hand about her. Her hand drops to her side, and her head droops, too. "I can't do this anymore," she whispers. She's never sounded quite so lost.

"You can," Ingvald tells her. "You just need to-" "Practice? Are you going to tell me just to keep trying? I can't do that, Ingvald, I can't - I don't have the years left in me to keep trying, and I-" "Enough," he says again, but gentler this time. "Why did you choose this if this was going to happen at all?"

She goes silent, aims a measured glare at the greatsword lying still and innocent upon the flags. "I needed to change," she says after some time. She doesn't sound convinced. "It- it seemed right," she amends a moment later. Ingvald is quiet, lets her talk. "I might not have the strength to lift the bastard thing, but I don't- I can't hold a shield anymore. There's no cause, no flag, no- nothing that's worthy enough. And I can't just stop fighting. Not after... everything."

He believes that. She's always been stubborn, but he thinks it is perhaps best not to push that, and decides to try something else. "Why the two-hander? You could have picked up anything else."

That earns him the smallest of small grins. He has to bite his tongue so the word stubborn doesn't fall out of his mouth. "Aye, but nothing else felt right. It was - it was Ser Ashley's suggestion. Well," and she shifts her weight, unfolds her arms to run a hand through her hair. She seems less like she'll fall apart, now. "He didn't specify what, but he told me of other disciplines. Ones that draw on one's inner strength. I thought... I thought that could be me."

"It can be."

Ingvald bends to take the hilt of her greatsword, to lift and present it to her as once she did his old blade. It's heavier than he expected, but she takes it easily from him. He ought to give her more

credit," Ser Einar calls from outside the ring. "He's weathered your charge not once but twice, and on his feet both times. I'd say that's enough."

"No," Ser Steelhand calls back. "Any fool knight can get knocked off his feet. I want to see him fight."

Elsewhere from the ring, Ser Berend hefts a sigh. "What are you hoping for, Orella? Is this just an excuse to kick a raw guardsman while he's down? Put an end to this and let the boy go."

Ingvald has already seen enough of Ser Berend's fights with his mentor to know how this will go. Steel will be drawn, a challenge issued, and the two will clash to jeers and cheers until their indiscretion is discovered and they both get in trouble.

He puts his sword up instead, wrist trembling a little from his most recent fall. "I'm ready," he says, and at least his voice is strong. Orella laughs.

"You say raw, but I'm not so convinced, Berend," she says, and sounds for all the world as though she lives for nothing more than to be challenged. "Come, then,

Ingvald," she says, and the sword clatters from her grasp again. She's shaking her head even as she straightens. "It's too much. I'm not ready for this."

She'd kept her guard up almost a full minute before the strength had failed her. "You are," he insists. "You're as ready for that as I am for my magicks."

"Oh, hang your pity," she says, but without venom. She's sighing even as she stoops to pick the sword up once more. "I don't care how unattuned you say you are, your spells come to you easy as breathing. I won't have that kind of skill until I've a couple years experience, at least, and I don't have that sort of time."

He doesn't have an answer for that. Of course she'd need to practice, and whatever she's been doing in the months they've been apart, he doubts very much that a new sword form has anything to do with it.

"You said Ser Ashley told you of other disciplines," he says instead. Orella considers her answer before he's even asked the question. "What were you thinking of?"

She doesn't explain immediately, chooses instead to think over her words carefully with pursed lips. "The clergy keeps their people in line, up north," she explains slowly. "When they step out of line, they have knights that put them back in place. Dark knights, they call themselves. I do not know how they achieve their power."

"Have you met one?" "No," Orella admits. "Then why not find one? Get one to tutor you?"

She sighs, and her  tone is tinged with something he can only hope is amusement. "Rhalgr take you, Ingvald, I'm not travelling to Ishgard to learn how to use a sword. I'll cope," she says, and makes to heft the sword again. Not once does she meet his eye.

"Find someone," he says. "I guarantee there's more to it than you think, and there can be no harm in-" "In what? Admitting mine own flaws?" "In asking for help, I was going to say," and that's enough to quiet her. "I had help picking up my magicks again. Twelve know I'm going to keep needing help."

They stare at one another. Orella looks less than impressed, but that's not enough to give Ingvald pause, not after so long of knowing her. "There's no shame in asking for help," he adds carefully, for he knows how Orella is with her guilt. Before she can protest further - "Consider it, at least, for

me. If you keep charging the way you do, I'll be able to knock you flat every time."

They've long since moved on from sparring. The rest of the Kingsguard scattered once they realised the battle between them was over, as had happened for Orella once long before.

This was the purpose, he'd been told. To test what he already knew and to build upon it. To make him better, bit by bit, until he was the best he could possibly be.

I swear to make you into that man, Orella has told him,

Only Ser Zartosht remains to watch them now, and even his attention is not focused on them. Both Zehirli and Merhemete rest in their sheaths at his feet, and he has papers aplenty within his armour to pull out and peruse.

"Here. Mimic me."

Orella raises her shield - scarred by Ingvald's blade - high enough that most of her face is covered. He follows her lead and immediately feels the ache. Something must show in his face, for she nods, satisfied, and flourishes her blade.

His voice comes as a grunt. "How long do you keep this up for?"

"Until my foe can bear it no longer. It hurts, no? Keep it up. Hold it for as long as you're able, and then hold it some more. Keep it thus high until you can do it at length. And then..."

She pushes out with her shield arm, once, quickly, brutally. It's a sudden motion, meant to shove one's enemy off-guard;  judging by the way Ingvald drops his own shield and raises his brows, he wasn't expecting such raw strength from the off-arm. She does it again for him, slower this time.

"You're almost crouched, so you're low enough you won't be knocked aside without some effort on their part. With your shield up, you can block most anything. Your sword is free and loose. Zartosht!"

The lone would-be observer starts, stuffs his paperwork back into his breastplate. "You called?"

"Step into the ring," Orella asks of him. "I want him to see from another angle."

Even as far away as he stands, Ingvald can make out a wince on the other man's face. "I'm sure his own bruises will attest to how it feels on the morrow..."

"Please, ser," Orella begs, deterred not at all. "If he only feels and doesn't see, how am I meant to

teach you?"

She's talking to keep her mind off the ache her kenes must be feeling. She's kept admirably low without shaking or complaining, but she does keep needing to pause, to remember how low to stand, to change her grip upon the sword to stop one wrist from taking the brunt of the weight.

He has an answer for her, at least. "Lady Riot's mother," he says, and follows up with a shrug. "At least, she taught me the way to balance this sword with the magicks themselves. I'm still trying to adjust to-"

"You're holding a piece of shit," Orella says with her usual lack of finesse. "Naturally you're struggling to balance it. Look through the armoury later, or scrounge some gil and buy another." She pauses fixing her own sword to cast a critical eye over his. "It looks as though it'll snap straight in two if you jab too hard with it."

"It does not," says Ingvald petulantly, knowing it does indeed look bad after all its time spent mishandled in the desert. "Are you almost ready? It's hot out here. One last bout, and then I'm going back to the manse."

"Agreed." Orella nods, lifts the sword high enough that not one part of it droops unto the stone. "Give me - one moment more."

And then she breathes deeply, steadying herself. She pushes the idea of pain from her forearms, from her knees, remembers only to be ready for whatever comes, to be someone that draws on her own strength-

Although whatever strength that might be completely eludes her. So many years at the hands of the Garleans has left her sharp and jagged, pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit together.

"I'm

ready?"

With the demonstration over, they return to facing each other once more, griffins held high, swords still discarded to one side. So close, Orella can see his fingers itch, uncertain without the comforting weight of his weapon. Still, he looks determined enough.

"Forward, then. Don't put your entire weight behind it. Just your-"

He strikes before she has a chance to finish her words, and cuts herself off with a gratifying oof. She staggers - she actually staggers! - but doesn't lose her footing, and she's never looked more proud than when she straightens.

"Good. Again."

Having lost their earlier wager, he knows every part of him will ache when he takes her place on the night patrol. He's already resigned to repeating the movement until his body can do it in his sleep, but for the way she lights up with satisfaction with every correct movement, he finds he minds little and less.

At the very least, he wants to bash her hard enough that even she drops her shield before they stop. His determination must show on his face, and she nods, raises her arm again and spreads

her legs a little wider to compsensate once more for her blade. The longer she sticks with it, the easier she finds it to wield, uncomfortable though it is.

"I'm ready."

She doesn't give Ingvald the chance to strike first. She needs to know she can spring at a moment's notice should the need arise. One hand slips on the hilt as she moves, but nothing that better gloves won't fix, and she forces her arms to extend, to bring the sword up to bear. He has to step back, out of its reach, and underestimates how many steps he must needs take, has to bring his rapier up to attempt to slow its arc, finds the attempt useless.

She stops the moment she hears his grunt, knowing she's won, and steps back, gives him enough room to raise his blade once more. This time it's his advantage, and he takes it without fear, now they both know how capable she can be.

She might not have fought alongisde his magicks before, but she knows his tells. Her eyes fix upon his fingers as his free hand raises, waits for the telltale way they curl into a fist, jumps aside before the air around her crackles to life and fire sparks itself into existence.

Her eyes are drawn to the heat naturally and they water; not for the first time she wonders what it must feel like to bring magick to bear. Ingvald takes the distraction in stide, as he ought to, and forces her back, away from his point. She doesn't even bother trying to deflect each riposte as they come. That's not what her blade was meant for.

With each jab she realises he's aiming somewhere between her throat and her sternum, and something about that knowledge is enough to annoy her into movement. She knocks the next jab aside with her forearm; the false edge slides through the thin leather of her gloves and against her skin, but it's enough for him to hesitate, enough for her to push it away. With only one hand on her own hilt, she doesn't have enough strength to swing with the greatsword.

She thinks of all the broken bits of her trying so desperately to fit back together and thinks well, if Rhalgr Himself wants to stop me from fighting dirty, He can talk to me when I'm dead, and then she's reaching forward to grab and

lets go of the man's collar. With her blade freed, he slumps to the ground. She can smell smoke. Under the helm her brow sweats, but she ignores it. There's another man that jumps to clash blades with her, and she turns to meet him.

All at her feet lie dead men of Abanian and Garlean birth both. Weapons litter the ground. This one that's jumped forward has no armour other than the leather he's wrapped around himself and seems assured of his victory from the way he dances about her. Not so. Two steps forward and one strong chop down and she steps over him as he sinks. He screams, but not for long.

Battle rages around her and suddenly she is so very, very weary. She wants nothing more than to pull off her helm, to wipe at her brow, to drop her sword, to turn tail and run, to do something other than what she is doing, and she can do none of those things. Another Resistance member charges her; she kicks their legs away easily, drives the point down as if the sword she holds is a butter knife, pulls it free with a wet noise. None of these men or women are tried or tested or even trained. This isn't fair. It's butchery, plain and simple, Garlemald's specialty.

She is glad Ingvald was not assigned to this mission also, for things had been bad enough under Theodoric's rule, and this was worse - if that was even possible -

And one cry, younger than the rest, makes itself known to her ears. She flourishes the blade in her hand once, turns to meet her new foe, and there's a wink of blue, steely eyes, fists of fury that launch themselves at her, and her breath comes short, her heart thunders, she opens her mouth to say something, anything, and what she does instead is

blink.

Ingvald is nowhere to be seen. At her feet lies his rapier, and the blood is rushing in her ears, and-

One thoroughly soaked blonde head surfaces from the pools. Ingvald spits out water, swims to the edge, and pulls himself out. His hair is plastered to his skull and his shirt clings to his ribs.

"Alright," he says, and regards her very seriously. Orella's hands are shaking, her own sword- where? When did she drop it? "What was that?"

"What was- what?"

Ingvald bends, takes his rapier from the floor and slides it through the loop he's cut into his belt to holster it. "I've not seen you come over like that since... for a long time," he amends. "You looked like you didn't see what was in front of you."

Orella's silent. She's frowning at Ingvald's chest, mind spinning, trying to remember how to breathe evenly. "Why were you- in the water?"

"You pushed me in," is the response. "You grabbed me, hit me like you were trying to break my ribs. Then you dropped your sword, hit me again, and near enough threw me into the pools." He pauses, and looks worried for the first time. "I thought you were going to lift me clean from the floor."

"... I hurt you," Orella says, and her lips feel numb with the shock. Ingvald's already shaking his head. "I'll live," he tries to say, but she stumbles back, away from him, puts both hands in her hair and draws in one long, trembling breath. "Orella-" "I hurt you," she says again. "I don't remember - I didn't mean to - I was going to knock you off balance, and that was it - I don't remember hurting you."

Gently, Ingvald takes both her wrists and pries her hands from her head. His grip is firm enough that she doesn't think he'll let go anytime soon. "Orella," he says again, and she looks wildly, desperately up at him. She can't read his face, can't tell what he's thinking. "Whatever that was, you need to get to grips with it. You need a mentor."

She wasn't counting to begin with. The moment the Garleans burst into the throne room she'd known all hope had been lost. Not when there were so many of them, and only two left to defend the city.

Berend had been among the first to flee after they'd seen the king. The Kingsguard had argued, then, cursed each other and exchanged choice words and choicer insults for their king and country

- and then they had made their choices

- and so many of them threw down their arms without further thought

- and even those she was closest to only spared a glance back at their home

- and if she had been possessed of more sense she'd have done the same

But she had not been possessed of anything other than fear and anger, and with Ingvald's desperate plea still echoing in her mind, she had drawn her sword and waited for them to come instead.

- and it had been the two of them alone against the Empire

- and no longer was there a king, nor any reason to keep on fighting

- and Theodoric was so tiny in death, pitiful, cowardly

- and the noose he'd made for himself left much to be desired

- and she found herself wishing that her hands had choked the life from him instead of the hempen rope

- and she had followed this man, and proudly

So soon were they overwhelmed. At their best, the Kingsguard may well have had a chance against a legion or two of Garlemald, but so far were they from their best. They had nothing. They had a knight and the man that served under her, fresh from arguing, and a dead tyrant twenty yalms from where they stood.

She'd thought herself good at swordsmanship once. When the plate's weight became normal to her shoulders; when she'd taken part in a tourney; when she'd been given her own understudy - all these things served to bolster her confidence.

- and then the sword had been knocked from her hands so quickly

- and so soon was Ingvald subdued also

- and then it was over

Ingvald had suffered less at first. Less sure with a blade, he was disarmed easily, and then just another body to force to his knees. He'd removed the helmet to better talk Orella down of following her coward brothers out of the palace, and she'd seen them push him down before the world went dark. There had been two of them, one on either side, one gripping his hair as though he meant to rip it out, the other with steel at his throat. He'd been pushed so far forward he was almost kissing the tile.

That selfsame tile had known her well. Orella woke upon it, fingers still numb from the shock of her blade having been torn from her grasp. Everything felt wrong. The taste of blood was strong on her tongue, her head heavy, the world spinning, everything wrong, wrong, wrong.

And then the pain had made itself known. It beat its way through the fug that surrounded her mind - and no stranger was she to a little pain, a little hardship, and then the Garleans had their awful way with her. Heavy sollerets found their way to her face, to her ribs, and the pain was like no other she'd ever known. It blossomed in her head like some kind of warring rose, exploded into something worse than a migraine, took over her mind and her body, and she could not cry out or inch away or beg or plead or

- and when they stopped she barely had the strength to breathe

- and Rhalgr's own lifesblood beat in time with her raging pulse a tattoo of rage, the destruction twisting her up from the inside, the shooting pain his streaking star

Having had their fill, the soldiers dragged them unceremoniously from the chamber. Her charge, so young - too young - had at least left on his feet, with some semblance of dignity intact. Soldiers remained at his shoulders, twisting his arms behind his back, their fists still in his hair, and far more distinguised than she. The guttural Garlean tongue forced its way behind the agony, into her ears before they took her, too, limp and unable to resist, bowed and beaten and bleeding freely.

So fierce was the pain that she kept her eyes closed against the throne room as they dragged her from it, and never did she see the way her blood smeared behind her on the tile.

- and then no longer was she Ala Mhigo's

- and yet Ala Mhigo yet knew her

- and the men and women thrown into the cells because of her recalled her name with startling clarity

- and they called for her as ghosts she never knew she had

(how far you've fallen, Steelhand, blackblood, king's own cur! suffer with us! suffer like you made us suffer! see how your cursed royal cape protects you now!)

- and then she'd been alone

Left in the dark to rot, she had nothing to do but think. At first she counted every breath, every heartbeat, wondering why they had not yet come for her.

- and then she'd heard the screams

After that, all she'd been able to think of was Ingvald. His agonised cries were bad, but not so bad as the silence, for her mind laboured hard to fill in the gaps. She could imagine only the worst, could not banish the thoughts from her mind, worried they'd pushed him too far, that they'd hurt him irreparably, that they'd murdered him-

But then they'd start anew and she'd hear him scream and the relief was heavily tinged with guilt as she heard them chip him down piece by piece, hour upon hour, day after day after day

- and she could put a halt to none of it, could not even be there

- and she ought to be, as his commanding officer, as his equal, as his friend

- and they would tell her nothing more than who the screams belonged to

- and when they finally broke him they came for her

Orella learned humiliation in that cell. They stripped her down and bled her further, tore the breath from her lungs and banished all thoughts of peace from her mind. Soon enough, she stopped caring about anything. It did not matter they made her sleep upon the very floor they made her soil. It did not matter that the Empire took over the palace, or her home, or that the Kingsguard were cravens.

Nothing mattered except remembering how to breathe once they were through with her.

Each battlefield upon her skin is revisited time and again, each war replayed until she's certain the map will never fade.

When they have taken everything from her - every part of herself, every whispered plan the Kingsguard had been prive to, every tiny detail no matter how minor - they start again.

- and it goes on

- and on

- and on

- and then it stops

They make her scream so much that it takes time for her voice to return. The soldiers do not come for her in that time, and she does not know what to make of the respite. She thinks perhaps they will kill her when they return, and finds she does not mind the thought.

But that does not happen. She is not permitted to die, and instead forced into an accord. Once the idea would have rankled her, would have made her sick to the very stomach.

No longer. Once, she was strong, with her shield, with her sword. Once, she was proud, with the crown at her back. Once she was young, unbent, unthinking, unashamed. Now she is nothing.

Nothing.

Beaten. Broken. Shattered into a thousand thousand pieces and outfitted in Garlean steel to boot, once they have her word. A mockery of her former self. Less than a shadow. Less than nothing.

- and forced to dance to a Garlean tune

- and is made to build herself anew

- and she has nothing with which to build with

So she starts with her name.

Orella aan Steelhand. Aan. She's reminded of the addition so many times a day. When they call her for food, when they tell her to step forward for duty, when they give her poorly made arms and armour. They call her by her new title as they would a dog, and she, useless, worthless, responds without a fight. They stop short of needling it into her skin, and that is something of a relief, for looking into mirrors is bad enough now.

The time spent in the cells did her looks no favours. Never was she beautiful, but once was she at least bright-eyed. Alert. Ready for every day. No longer. Her eyes now lay sunken in her face, the skin below them dark as though bruised. Creases wrinkle the corners of her eyes and her forehead in a way she does not remember, and her mouth feels tight when she tries to grimace at herself.

Not once does she bother attempting to smile.

An aan at the mercy of her Garlean overseers, she is made to work herself to the bone each and every day. Garlemald does not seem to know the concept of a day of rest, and it does not take long before her cheeks are ever more gaunt, the bruised skin under her eyes ever darker. She is made to sweat and bleed with the other raw recruits, and mentions not a single time her suffering. When she strips off at the end of the day, too often are her tunics too stained to save.

- and not a single person knows

- and she keeps her mouth tightly shut

The aan sleep together as Eorzean anchovies, shoulder to shoulder after a day's drills. too often, Orella lays awake long after the bodies either side of her snuffle and snore, cataloguing every ache and pain, wondering what it means to be alive now. There is no pride, no comradeship within the Garlean ranks. Instead there are bruises aplenty that she presses her fingertips into; many shallow slices from old wounds and new; grazes and welts and weals too many to count.

- and she wonders night after night if she will survive

- and if she does, for how long will the scars remain?

Two moons wax and wane before she breaks again. No Garlean hands are involved this time - not directly. It comes and goes in fits and starts until she lays there between two conscripts, in too much pain to fall asleep despite her desperately tired mind, and she thinks:

I can do this no longer.

It comes to her unbidden, but she knows it to be true. She has lost count of the days since Ala Mhigo fell, lost count of the beatings, of the snide remarks and the side glances and of being under Garlemald's thumb so tightly that she can barely breathe.

The more she thinks of this - and she cannot wrest her mind from her predicament - the more her throat tightens, the more her vision fogs. Hot, dangerous tears slide down her cheeks before she can stop them.

No longer.

No longer can she stay here. No longer can she remain wedged between these soldiers. No longer can she pretend that being broken suits her.

With difficulty, she gets up and pulls her shoes on. She yet cries, but silently, that she does not wake either man beside her, and takes a moment before she stands to wipe at her eyes. She cannot be seen showing weakness. Not around the Empire.

And the Empire is everywhere. To and from their drills are they marched, and watched while they sleep and eat and clean, besides. It came as dull surprise not to be accompanied to the privy.

For how many green aan slumber together, there is only the one Garlean on the night watch, behelmed and armed as though expecting all of Gyr Abania to march upon this very room. He steps aside to let her leave without a single word. She does not want to know what he sees that he does not feel the need to mock her, however softly.

- and the hallways stretch ahead of her, endless, empty, like her future

- and she walks them, feet numb, mind number

- and despite the late hour there are yet Garleans on patrol

Habit keeps her back straight and her eyes forward, marching as though she has somewhere to be. No man stops her, nor demands to know her route, and she does not think of how wretched she must look as hard as she can possibly manage.

Her feet stop of their own accord outside the washroom to let two men pass. She can smell the soap on them and knows it to be the same hard cake that she tossed to Gisfrid not three weeks prior to the invasion by the scent alone. The memory is strong enough that it roots her to the ground.

- and then she must needs enter the washroom, must relive the memory as best she can, must pretend she is not who she is

One shower yet pumps out water hot enough to steam, and the tiles are slippery despite her shoes' grip. It's hot enough to make her sweat anew, as though the day's drills were not enough to exhaust her, and she feels a dull ache strike up residence behind her brow.

She is not alone in here. Nor would she be. These showers are for all to use as they see fit, for the aan and oen and even the pyr to come and go as they please. Even with the moon high above the land there are bodies to wash, people readying for sleep or for duty.

Garlemald is much like Ala Mhigo in that regard.

She does not think the body will give her trouble. It's a Highlander with skin a touch lighter than hers, lying on the tile curled up on his naked self as though to ward off beatings. She stares at the man's back for one moment, two, and then turns her attention away from him to strip off. She cares not for her nakedness. Shame was ripped from her in the cells, after all, and she was not so modest before this life that she worried over the baring of her breasts.

The water is hot enough that it stings on contact. Each wound she bears hurts under the spray; she ignores every protest her body makes and puts her head under the water, drowning out the rest of the world. With her eyes closed, she can pretend she is anyone but herself. No aan is she, nor Garlean soldier, nor even of Abanian blood. All she can hear is the rushing water. Her lungs sting for breath, and she does not move, keeps her head under the spray, thinks that maybe she could drown herself and be better off for it.

A hand startles her out of the shower and her thoughts. It's warm. Broad. Gentle.

Heart hammering, she looks up, up into the face of Ingvald Bloodhound.

- and for a long second she thinks her own heart might stop

- and the breath catches in her throat and her vision swims

- and they do nothing but stare

- and stare

- and stare

He looks like hell. His nose is bloodied from someone's attempt to smear it across the rest of his face. He's lost bulk, as she has; she can see his ribs, and plenty of scars that she does not remember seeing in the showers before. Little wonder she did not recognise his frame upon the tile. His eyes are haunted, no longer as warm and welcoming as once they were, and deeply lined, besides.

He was too young to join our ranks.

The thought hits her like Reaper cannonfire. Without thought to her nakedness - or his, she realises dimly - she pulls him close, holds him carefully, rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes tightly against the world again.

She does not know what to say, nor does she trust her tongue enough to say it. There is so much she wants to apologise for. For not giving into his request to retain her honour. For not cutting him down in kindness instead of letting the Garleans take him. For what the Garleans did to him. For not finding him sooner.

The embrace hurts, and she must let go. The shower on her back is still hot enough to steam, and no amount of feeling wretched will cure her.

"You're bleeding," Ingvald says, and she would laugh, if she could remember how. His own blood lines the cracks of his lips. Slow and gentle, as though he thinks she might break under the weight of his fingers, he brushes beads of blood from a graze on the top of her breast. His thumb is bright red when it comes away, and he takes the time to cup his hand, fill it with water, splash it gently against her skin to wash the cut.

Orella lets him do all this before she wipes his mouth against her wrist. She succeeds in smearing his blood against his cheek; it does nothing to improve just how beaten he looks.

Orella nods to Ashelia Riot.

Orella Steelhand: "You requested our presence, Ashel- Grand Steward," she amends quickly. She knows the score, and is willing to dance to the tune. "Urgent enough you wanted to see us both with due haste. Has aught happened?"

Ashelia Riot shakes her head. "Not since last we spoke," she admits. "But that is precisely why it is so necessary to strike."

Ingvald has only met Ashelia once before; this time, he sees much more of her resemblance to both of her parents.

"... to strike," Orella repeats. "Pray explain." her expression remains carefully neutral, though it is obvious she is holding something back. Shock, mayhaps.

Ashelia nods. "The time has come to begin to begin our strike. The Resistance have managed to secure a portion of territory leading up to the Lochs, but they cannot hold the region and retake the capital. They will need our assistance, and we must provide it."

Once upon a time, Orella would have held her disbelief in check. Not so now. She laughs, utterly taken aback. "The Lochs? That far? Nymeia's tits, I owe you an apology. I never thought you'd push past East End." She shrugs. It's an apologetic, small movement. "Very well. What had you in mind for us?"

Ashelia Riot: "I need to ensure the capital itself is ready to receive us. For that, I need someone on hand to keep the people calm."

"Calm." Orella says it with such incredulousness that her lips feel numb. "You... do know who we are, yes?"

Once again, Ashelia nods.

"I know that no matter what you may have been, during or before the occupation, you performed much the same tasks on a regular basis. I am asking that you do what you have always done - this time, as an Ala Mhigan."

Orella Steelhand mulls this over for a moment. Slowly, her forehead creases into a frown. "... It doesn't seem wise," she says eventually. "Even if the people do not remember us, the Garleans will. We are deserters, and not exactly low-profile. And what if-"  she swallows, forces herself to take a deep breath. "If word gets out," she says carefully, "Your entire operation will be at risk. I do not think you are asking us to spread the word, just to... observe. Listen. Keep peace. Report. Is that so?"

Ashelia Riot: "Yes," she replies. "That is so." She hesitates, then continues. "I doubt there are very many others whom I can trust with this responsibility. None who wouldn't stand out, that is."

Orella Steelhand takes another deep breath, considering. She looks conflicted, and turns her head to shoot Ingvald a concerned look. "... What do you think?" she asks him quietly.

Ingvald speaks after a moment. "It should be easy enough to avoid suspicion for a few days," he replies.

"Days." The word is followed by an equally quiet, bitter laugh, and Orella shakes her head. "There you have it, Grand Steward. Days is all we can give you, and even then we make no promises. Are you sure you want us there? I understand this entire operation is a risk, but..."

Ashelia Riot: "I promise," she says, and her voice conveys her sincerity, "that we will not fail you."

Ashelia Riot stands, very unsteadily, garnering concerned looks from both the Ala Mhigans before her. Orella Steelhand takes one deep breath and a frown begins to crease her forehead, which quickly deepends when Ashelia stands. She takes a full step forward, one arm hovering, ready to catch, just in case.

"... Taking a linkpearl would be risky," Orella says after a moment. "Aan aren't allowed luxuries like that. We'd be questioned within a heartbeat. But I do not know another way to keep in contact with you, unless... " She worries at her lip this time. "I will not assume you know faces in the Resistance that can move freely in and out of the city. Shit. Shit."

Ashelia Riot: "None that we can contact at this time."

"Orella," says Ingvald. "We can blend in."

Ashelia Riot: "Tia and Rosenheim will be performing similar work in the villages around Gyr Abania. They should be able to join you well before we make our move toward the capital."

Orella’s panicking, and she knows it, but that doesn't stop the room from feeling a little too small, a little too closed off. She closes her eyes, takes measured breaths, and nods. "I'll speak with him, then. Set up a meeting point. The Saltery, mayhaps. We'll - we'll find a way. Failsafes. We won't be able to contact you, but you'll know if it goes wrong. We can- we can do this."

She gains a little strength with every word. Not enough to convince herself fully, but enough that the dizziness recedes.

Ashelia Riot smiles at that, a look of utmost relief.

Ashelia Riot: "My thanks to you both."

Orella Steelhand: "When did you- want us to leave? Immediately?"

Ashelia Riot: "If not immediately, as soon as you are able."

Orella Steelhand: "I'll speak with Rosenheim shortly." A pause, and she looks to Ingvald. "Will you be aright to leave before dawn?"

He thinks only for a moment, then nods.

Orella nods back, holds herself stiffly, and catches his eye. When she speaks next, it is in the Garlean tongue. She doesn't want Ashelia to understand. "I won't let them take you again. If it comes down to it, I'll..."

And she can't finish that thought. She trusts he knows what she means. Trusts he won't hold it against her.

He's taken aback by the language she's speaking; his eyes widen but he says nothing.

Ashelia Riot, too, looks a little shocked. She's recognized the Garlean tongue before, whenever she's had to rely on her father's connection; now, she is only herself, and she can make no sense of the words.

"Go," she says, in Mhigan once more. "Pack. Bathe. Rest. I'll join you within the hour. If Rosenheim is to be our contact, I want to plan with him before we... ah.

Orella Steelhand realises she still has the linkpearl about her. She plucks it from the pocket it's been living in, and drops it on the desk. With another look at Ashelia--- "Is there anything else you need us to know?"

Ashelia Riot shakes her head. She would have recommended that Orella keep her linkpearl, but neither will she insist on it if it will lead to more anxiety.

"Nothing. My thanks to you both, once again."

Ingvald, for his part, nods his thanks to Ashelia and then does as Orella suggests.

Orella Steelhand waits until Ingvald has turned and left the room, and then-

-folds her arms around Ashelia carefully but firmly, and holds her gently, knowing she yet aches. "Thank you," she whispers. "For everything you have done for us."

Ashelia Riot looks more than a little surprised and has to steady herself against Orella, but she softens into the gesture.

and just like that, the careful intimacy seems to embarrass Orella. She steps back, clears her throat, and offers what looks like a half-assed salute before nodding once more and leaving the room.