#isrun

This dress. With this color.

Tagged by @cahli-tia

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"Even if you have to go through hell - go without hesitation." -Albert Einstein

They came with the light of dawn.  An army unlike the polished, prestine unit that was the Garlean army.  They came wearing piecemeal uniforms, a motley crew of colors. The red, black and yellow of the grand companies from the allied city states of Gridania, Limsa Lominsa, and Ul'dah, and the dusty leather of resistence fighters.  Thamaturges, conurers and fighters of all stripe wielding axes, lances, swords and pistols.  

Isrun watched them from the wall, sipping her cup of tea.  She'd monitored their firelight all night.  No need to send out an envoy, she'd already made prepartions.  There was nothing to do but wait.

When they arrived the doors opened without force or fanfare, without a fight of any kind.  Their armies gave pause, a murmur of uncertainty heard in the silence of morning.  

Isrun and Fasstwulf, the two acting Decurios, stood in front of their soldiers in the courtyard.  Their fortifications surely would have lasted them for some time.  The resistence armies would have had a bit of a siege, time wasted on one small outpost when they had bigger targets in mind.  So it was curious why the gates had been opened to them.  Was it a trap?

"Lay down your arms," Isrun ordered.  Fasstwulf conveyed the same to his cohort.  In tandem, the two Decurios laid theirs down at their feet, then stood at attention.

Resistence fighters parted like a scythe through wheat.  A tall Highlander and a much smaller lalafell moved through the opening.  They looked at one another, their doubt clearly written in their countenances.  

"You would give up without a fight?" the Highlander said.

Isrun nodded.  "My soldiers are nearly all conscripts.  We come from Dalmasca, Ala Mhigo, Doma, and many other territories forced to bend to Garlean rule.  We have no love for the Empire, and surrender our armaments.  I only ask that you treat my people well.  Any punishment, any revenge, any justice doled out should be on my shoulders."

The highlander chuckled.  "Nay, girl. Many among our number were freed from the Empire, just as you are now.  Now is not the time for punishment. Pick up your arms. Come with us, fight for your freedom.  For the freedom of all!"

A cheer rose up with those last, shouted words. Isrun could barely contain the emotion welling up in her chest.  She picked up her gunblade, turning back to her cohort.

"Today we no longer fight for our oppressors!  Today we fight for-"

She cut off as an immense shadow darkened the outpost.  Above them an airship came into view, humming ominously.  They had given up the outpost without a fight.

Thunder pealed in the distance, followed soon by the soft patter of rain.  Isrun lifted her head and blinked in the darkness.  A flash of light, followed almost immediately by a stark crack of thunder made the entire structure jitter.  She reached out instinctively to grab a plank and hold onto it.  

The tree house had been constructed carefully, while the watchful Wood Wailers were not patrolling nearby.  She used wood she chopped herself, and commandeered a space at the Carpenter’s Guild to cut and finish what she needed.  Beatin had been a little unsure of her at first, then invited her to join the guild once he watched her work.  

Isrun wasn’t sure what to say to him.  At first, she declined politely and hurried back to her chosen work site.  But after returning several times, the elezen managed to break down her excuses.  So she became an official member of the Gridanian Carpenter’s Guild.  

It did grant her a bit more status, just slightly above common adventurer.  People began to recognize her, the Wood Wailers tolerated her and when they saw her dragging lumber out into the woods they didn’t hassle her about it.  They just scratched their heads, shrugged, and returned to their patrols.

It was nowhere near as grand as the tree top villages of Miret-njer.  But it served its purpose well enough.  All Isrun needed was shelter, and a place to store her things where bandits wouldn’t likely find it. Once finished, she fell asleep to the sound of rustling leaves and the creak of tree branches.  

She dreamed sometimes of home.  A dream she was having before the storm woke her.  Disoriented for a moment, she felt for the familiar cool metal of her gunblade.  Then it occurred to her it was just another Gridanian storm.

“A friend is the wax that keeps the flame lit, an enemy is the wind that blows it out.” ― Anthony Liccione

Fasstwulf never made it to Gridania.

They were so close, approaching Castrum Velodyna.  The Ananta occupied it now, and Isrun was sure they had decided to rename it.  She just didn’t know to what.  It was morning, the heat of the day had yet to reach them.  He smiled at her.  This was their first taste of real freedom in years.

Now she cradled him in the dust, trying to stem the bleeding from a wound she knew he wouldn’t survive.  His gun blade, broken, lay in pieces beside him.  She wasn’t sure where her own gunblade was.

“Go,” he rasped. “Survive. For both of us.”

Her voice broke, “No, we promised we’d go to Gridania together.”

He reached up with a bloody hand, touching her cheek.  Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he did his best to smile at her through the pain.  “I will always be with you, Isrun.  I love you.”

The the light in his eyes died.  

“Oh, what a pity,” the interloper said, denying her her grief in that moment. 

Her tears froze in her eyes, glaring up at the elezen in resistence fighter gear.  “Why?  Your people are free now.”

The man laughed, throwing his head back as if she had just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard.  When he looked at her again, his eyes ere frenzied, his expression utter madness.

And that was when she knew.  “Zenos... how? They said you were dead!”

Zenos sighed.  “A temporary condition, I assure you.  What piques my curiosity is how you even survived.  You should be as broken as your companion.”

Then his eyes lit up, as if the answer had come to him.  He laughed again, delighted at his deduction. “Oh, oh yes! You’re one of them!”

She glared at him, wondering what madness he prattled on about,  “You’re as mad as the old king.”

“Madness or greatness?” he grinned, “It doesn’t matter.  You and I play on the same stage.  A plane greater than most of these rabble.  I look forward to meeting you again.  In the meanwhile, do grow stronger.  I do like having more prey to join the hunt.”

Then he simply turned and walked away.  Isrun stuffed down the urge to chase after him.  She looked back down at Fasstwulf’s body, brushing white hair as it rustled in a warm breeze.  

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

“The search for a scapegoat is the easiest of all hunting expeditions.” ― Dwight D. Eisenhower

“How did you let the prisoners escape?!”

Sejanus quo Flaviun’s voice echoed down the hallway, the door to his office partially open.  Isrun could picture the Centurio’s face apoplectic purple, meaty fists pounding on his desk.  But what was normally amusing left a cold pit in her stomach.

Fasstwulf clenched a fist in his lap.  Inside they both knew Iotus pyr Maximus had to weather that storm, alone.  It was not his fault, of course, but Flaviun needed someone to blame, anyone but himself.  

“If he hadn’t sold off our supplies we’d be fine right now,” Fasstwulf muttered under his breath.  

Isrun reached over and put a hand on his, “Shh. There are ears here.”  

They shared a look.  Expressions tense, apprehensive.   Flaviun’s voice had lowered at that point, which only worried them more.  The man was cruel, stupid as a sack of coeurl dung, but uncannily talented when it came to saving his own arse.  

Both of them knew the truth of the situation.  Flaviun felt he should live like royalty.  When supplies arrived, he often put them to his own personal use, or sold them to black marketeers.  One such thing had been new locks to their cell doors, the old ones having rusted out.  The Centurio had them melted down, turned to ingots, and sold them so that he might use the gil toward his stockpile of rare wine vintages.  

Of course, this lead directly to the escape of several Ala Mhigan rebels brought to the outpost several days ago.  It was only a short interment, they were to be taken into the city proper that day.  Except they broke the rusted locks sometime in the night. Then they waited until daybreak, at the changing of the guard, to make their getaway.  

Technically this was Isrun’s responsibility.  It began on her watch.  But it ended on Maximus’, so the Centurio called both of them to his office.  

Silence finally filled the hallway, not even a whisper from Flaviun’s office.  Isrun heard feet shuffling.  She would be called in next, to suffer the same tongue lashing. How many times had she sat there, in his office, listening to him yell at her in the past?

This was different.  They could get away with small infractions, snickering at the Centurio’s ineffectual rage.  Losing three prisoners meant to be presented to Prince Zenos was another matter.  

The door opened suddenly. Isrun and Fasstwulf rose to their feet in tandem.  Maximus came out in shackles, sparing a look toward them with his expression grave.

Say nothing, he mouthed, and then he was taken away.  To what fate, Isrun couldn’t be sure.  Her throat felt dry.  Flavian stood there smirking, looking very pleased with himself.  He gestured to Isrun sharply.