#nourval

In its place now sits confusion, and a sense of loss - the loss of an identity he'd carried his entire life. What, then, is his future? He'd been prepared all his life to lead Gridania into a war a century in the making; a war to avenge his ancestor, slain by treachery and cowardice. What becomes of him, in the absence of that war?

And what becomes of him if he becomes a kinslayer, cutting down the very man who taught him all he knows?

He could turn on Sanson, he supposes.

It might very well get him back in his family's good graces, if he kills off two of the men responsible for finding and concealing the truth of Vainchelon's murder. If he can aid his uncle in making it look as though the Ala Mhigans slew them - for that must be Astarnaix's plan - then surely, he'll be welcomed back with open arms and accolades: his family's golden boy once more. Vainchelon reborn, here to once more lead Gridania into a golden age, independent of its ties to the Alliance, and... and...

I can't do it. I cannot do it.

It's a question of honor - Vainchelon's, Landrenel's. His own. Aye, and his family's, too, though they won't thank him for it. They weren't there that day, when that damnable bard sang the song writ in stone upon Vainchelon's grave; when the old man stepped forward to tell him of Landrenel's latter days. They weren't there when, suddenly, a great deal of Nourval's life began to make a horrible kind of sense, pieces sliding into place.

If he has a chance to... to do what Vainchelon himself might have done, to stand up against a great injustice... and perhaps reclaim some of his own lost honor in the bargain-

"Nourval!" Sanson.

It's time.

He lifts his head, rising from his seat on the bed. Sanson, yes - and another Wildwood man, in a Serpent Commander's uniform. "You convinced him, I see."

Vorsaile Heuloix gives him a nod of acknowledgment. "He was quite persuasive... and is quite convinced of your merit, might I add."

"We haven't much time." Sanson kneels before the lock, fiddling with a ring of keys. "The guard will grow suspicious if we take long."

Vorsaile, ludicrous though it seems, begins to strip off his uniform. "I fear you may find my clothes a poor fit," he says, by way of apology. "You've a few ilms on me, unless I miss my guess."

"I expect I'll do well enough." He begins undressing - far less work than getting in and out of one of those overcoats, but then, the bulky nature of the overcoat is much to their benefit tonight.

Sanson gets the door open at last, and the two elezen exchange clothes, dressing hastily in the unfamiliar garments. Sanson keeps his gaze fixed in the direction of the guardroom, though whether it's to grant them some semblance of privacy or simply out of practicality (someone must keep watch), Nourval doesn't know. The tension in Sanson's every movement speaks to his anxiety; and how not? Even now, as they carry out this desperate plan, it may all be too late.

"The guard thinks we need to search your cell for hidden evidence," Sanson explains, while they dress. "It took a good deal of convincing for him to agree to let us do so unaccompanied."

"I'll owe the fellow a bribe somewhere down the road, like as not," Vorsaile says cheerfully, now fully garbed in prisoner's drab garments - he turns his attention to helpfully assisting Nourval with the many buckles and clasps on his coat. "There you are, keep your hat on and your head down, and no one's the wiser."

People see what they want to see, he thinks, doing as instructed. He affixes the Serpent Commander's lance securely to the harness at his back, wishing he had more time to familiarize himself with the new weapon; he can only pray his skills haven't gone to rust.

"We must be going," Sanson says, closing the heavy cell door... but leaving it unlocked, the better to allow Nourval to return to his cell at the end of the night's doings.

Nourval takes a deep breath. "Thank you for-"

"Don't," Sanson says, shaking his head. "Prove to me... prove to me you deserve this chance, and that will be thanks enough. Provided I don't lose my rank after all is said and done, anything that lies within my power to grant is yours. Only..." He blinks quickly, swallows hard, turns away. Begins walking. "Only help me save him. That is the only thing that matters."

Commander Heuloix pats Nourval's shoulder through the bars. "He means it, you know."

Still, despite her brother's repeated efforts to encourage her to retreat and go home, the girl doggedly trudges on - long after her presence is necessary; Nourval has, by now, determined which of their uncle's (evidently many) hideaways must be their destination, and has taken the lead. Sanson follows, praying all the while that he's not made a mistake; that he's not walking into a trap.

And praying, always, that Guydelot yet lives.

They will wait for the opportune moment, he assures himself, swallowing against anxious nausea. They cannot kill him until the time is right. Never mind that he isn't sure what time that might be... nor that it might not have already passed, and all that waits now is for someone to stumble upon Guydelot's body... slain, to all appearances, by Ala Mhigans.

He prays, again, that they will not be the ones to stumble upon it.

They walk. The walk is lengthy enough that Sanson has time to more thoroughly consider how reckless he's been - breaking Nourval out of prison, getting Commander Heuloix involved! Bringing the girl, too! He ought to have found a healer to bring along; surely someone could have been persuaded to join his cause. Perhaps the rest of his own unit, the better to have more allies on their side... but he has perhaps already condemned himself and Vorsaile to be stripped of their rank (to say nothing of what may become of Nourval); it would be selfish and irresponsible to inflict his men with it as well.

Worth it, all worth it, if only Guydelot survives this. Sanson is certain he can survive any disaster, any personal calamity, if only he has Guydelot to help him weather it. If he must... if he must walk away from the Order of the Twin Adder, away from all he has striven for, away from all he has built, then so be it; he does not question, even for a second, that Guydelot will walk with him.

If he lives.

If he only lives.

"We're close," Nourval says, drawing his lance. "Rai, stay back."

"But I-"

"Stay. Back."

Sulking, she stays where she is, arms crossed. Sanson readies his own lance, following Nourval deeper into the brush, toward a weather-beaten old shack. An old hunter's hideaway, Sanson supposes - fallen into disuse since the Calamity, as many have... but this one is surrounded by armed men. And they certainly aren't hunters. Their gear is old, but well-tended; the sort of gear that might have been passed down from father to son since... well. Since the Autumn War, perhaps.

They don't trouble to hide their approach; there is no cover here. But the men clearly recognize Nourval, despite his Serpent Commander coat - though two watchmen nock arrows as they draw closer, they hesitate to take aim; they are uncertain what his presence here might mean.

Sanson is uncertain what Nourval's presence here might mean. If the man means to turn on him, it will be here, at the heart of the enemy's trap, where Nourval will be welcomed back with open arms.

He hears Nourval take a deep breath. And then the man lunges forward, lance at the ready-

And what follows is carnage.

The men are slow to react, unsure as they were of Nourval's purpose - and they pay for it with their lives, falling swiftly under the man's relentless assault. The time spent in his cell has done little to dull Nourval's innate skill; Sanson watches for a moment, stunned, before recalling that they are here on his errand. He joins the fray, eager to cut his way through to Guydelot, and swiftly.

It's good, at last, to take his frustration out on something. Sanson has never been one to relish bloodshed, but sometimes-

"Uncle!" Nourval calls, swatting the men aside. "Uncle Astarnaix, I've come to duel you one last time!"

Many of the remaining men back away, wary of Nourval's lance and Sanson's fury. Sanson himself breathes hard, hands white-knuckled on his lance. "Where is he," he demands of the men shrinking away. "Where is Guydelot?!"

"You're late," a voice says, from the dark interior of the old hideaway. A man emerges, wearing a proud smile - and carrying an old lance, keen and sharp. "Had you arrived perhaps half a bell ago, you might have interrupted our plans."

Terror. Disbelief. "Then- he's-" No. No.

"You'll not have killed him," Nourval says, flat. "Not here. This is land that may be too easily traced back to our house. So where have you taken him, then, Uncle?"

"I am no uncle to you, traitor." The word is careless, but Sanson sees how Nourval tenses at it, all the same. "No, not here. But he's being moved to a more ideal location - one on the route the Ala Mhigans must take, passing to and from Gridania. By dawn, his corpse will be ready to testify to their brutality."

"Your brutality," Sanson says, his ears ringing with rage. "If Ala Mhigans were the monsters you claim, you'd not need this duplicity-"

"That they have been cowed by Garlemald's leash does not make them docile. Give them time to grow teeth and claws again, boy, and you will find them at our throats."

Nourval steps forward. "Where have you taken him, Astarnaix? I will defend the honor you've allowed to grow tarnished."

"You!" Astarnaix laughs. "You. If you'd had a care for our family's honor, this milksop wouldn't be alive." He dismisses Sanson with a wave of one hand. "And if you would pursue my men, if you would thwart my plans, I cannot allow you to live." He readies his own lance, sinking into a fighting stance. "You will first have to go through me, traitor, and I will not die at your hands."

"We will see," Nourval replies, and then-

Sanson wants nothing so much as to run, to give chase to the men Astarnaix claims have taken Guydelot - surely if he only follows the road between Baelsar's Wall and Gridania, sooner or later, he must stumble upon them! There are only so many bells until dawn, and Guydelot's life hangs in the balance; if he only hurries... but he finds he cannot look away. He brought Nourval here; he all but forced this duel. How can he leave?

It's like a dance. Sanson has heard battles described as such a thousand times, and always it has sounded overly poetic - having been in battles, himself, he's never found it to be anything like dancing, only sharp and brutal. This, though, is strangely elegant. It's clear, now, that Astarnaix trained Nourval; their movements are similar in their grace, as though every thrust, every strike, had been carefully choreographed.

And then one of Nourval's thrusts strikes home, and blood spatters the grass.

It's less like a dance, after that.

Only a glancing blow, though, finding a weakness in the old armor. Astarnaix grins as he fights, like a beast baring its fangs; his grin is undiminished by the wound. He circles, keeping his weak side hidden, and Nourval must circle with him, darting in with quick thrusts, seeking an opening.

At first, Sanson thinks them evenly matched - Astarnaix may have trained Nourval, but Nourval has the benefit of youth on his side, and knowledge of his opponent. Nourval lands a dozen small blows, leaving blossoms of blood streaming down his uncle's armor, a dozen small wounds that, given time, will make him weary and slow.

But Astarnaix isn't wearing a too-small overcoat that hinders his movement, and Astarnaix hasn't spent all this time in a cell.

Nourval is tiring.

He makes a final lunge; an impossible strike, aiming for the older man's heart. It misses, of course; it had to miss - Astarnaix turns, lets the thrust pass him harmlessly by...

And then he plunges his lance deep into Nourval's back, piercing him through.

Raicheille, having crept up unseen, lets out a shriek.

As his nephew collapses into the grass, Astarnaix straightens, panting. He turns to face Sanson, but lets his gaze slide away from him, to Raicheille: pale, wide-eyed, gazing in stunned horror at her fallen brother.

"It's a pity, truly," the man says, coolly, as the blood drops from his lance. "In your grief and denial at finding your bardly friend slain, you then turned your lance upon my poor nephew... after kidnapping my niece. One might almost believe you had a personal vendetta against my family, Captain Smyth. Perhaps it was this vendetta that led you to argue for the suppression of the truth of Vainchelon's murder."

Sanson's sick. "Or at least you mean to frame it as such."

He's walking briskly now, leaving the prison well behind before anyone thinks to check Nourval's cell. If an alarm should be raised, if they should be caught... gods, he can be of no help to Guydelot from inside a cell. Nourval hastens along at his side, keeping his hat tugged down.

A part of Sanson, guiltily, is surprised the man seems to be keeping to the plan. Other men would have bolted at the first taste of freedom - and however this night should end, Nourval will find himself once more behind bars, with no one but Sanson, Vorsaile, and - gods willing - Guydelot aware of his heroism.

Well. And his sister.

"We're to meet Miss Raicheille at the docks," Sanson says, softly, under his breath. "From there, she swears she will tell us where your uncle has taken Guydelot."

"And we must hope he may still be found there," Nourval replies, equally quiet, pale beneath the brim of his borrowed hat. "Sanson... what will you do if Astarnaix has already begun putting his plans into action? If-"

"No." He's louder, sharper than he means to be. He shakes his head. Quiets. "No. Nourval, I cannot do this thing and entertain the possibility that I waited too long to realize something was wrong. I'm defying every rule I've ever held dear for this, and likely throwing away my career in the bargain; if I allow myself to think it's all for naught, I-"

"There you are!"

Raicheille bounds out of the darkness, nearly startling both men half to death. She marches directly to Nourval, peering up under his hat. "It is you! I was worried-"

"You," Nourval says, steering her away, back the direction she came from. "Were meant to wait for us at the docks, I have been informed! What you're doing here, I can scarce imagine."

She wriggles in his grasp, stubborn. "You were taking forever! I thought-"

Sanson stops listening, letting the siblings bicker as he follows; his thoughts are too much in turmoil to do more than let it wash over him. It's a blessing the streets are empty tonight - the very last thing they want is for someone to wonder why two officers of the Twin Adder appear to be accosting a young girl.

Guydelot would find the whole thing tremendously amusing.

I'll tell him all about it, he thinks, clinging to hope. Every bit of it, if only he lives.

"Now," Nourval says, as they reach the docks at last. "Where has our dear uncle gone?"

Raicheille folds her arms, pursing her lips in a way Sanson doesn't like. "I'll take you there," she says. "Take me with you."

"Absolutely not," her brother replies, in a tonne that - to Sanson's ears - suggests he's not surprised by the demand. "You must return home immediately. Doubtless they know you've run away by now; can you imagine the chaos you must have sown? If it should come to light that Captain Sanson was visiting me in gaol today with you in tow, how swiftly do you suppose our plans will unravel?"

She flushes, but stands her ground. "Without me, you'd still be in that cell!"

We're wasting time Guydelot may not have. Sanson fights the urge to shout; makes himself speak softly, evenly. "You truly won't tell us where we need to go unless you are permitted to come with us?"

She tips her chin up, defiant.

Sanson eyes Nourval sidelong. "Now, where have I seen that particular stratagem before?"

Nourval has the good grace to look abashed. "I'll remind you I was not a girl of fourteen summers, my good Captain."

"No. But I daresay we'll be just as successful at convincing her to stay behind as I was at convincing you. And the stakes are far higher." He sighs. "She comes. I'll see to her safety myself; you have my word... but we must be off. Every moment we waste..."