No matter how many days pass, Merden can't quite believe that this is how the world works now.
Life in Ala Mhigo was never easy, but the difference between hard and gruelling is stark. At the heart of it all: the Garleans. It was they who were responsible for all of this misery and hate, for the hardships, for the endless trudge from village to village trying to find someone worth selling to.
Only once has he asked about his sister since the occupation began, and the looks on his parents' faces were severe enough he knows never to ask about her again. So, like any good Ala Mhigan boy, he asks Rhalgr instead.
Not that it does him much good, for He never responds. Idly, Merden wonders if the rest of the Twelve might know of her - perhaps Nymeia, if he asks nicely, because hadn't Orella had to swear to a new god on her blade in front of the whole kingdom? He had been there, he knows that's what happened, even if their parents had muttered about the whole debacle privately at home. Merden didn't understand what the fuss was about - still doesn't, for that matter. Surely it was for the better they spoke to the Spinner rather than the Destroyer? The clue was in the name.
But no, his parents had said. We know you love your sister, but she does not know everything - and besides, wouldn't Rhalgr be angry if he stopped all conversations with Him? And for a while it works, playing on the boy's fears of being struck down, but teenagehood went hand in hand with natural rebellion.
Around the time he starts appealing to Nymeia's better judgement he hears about an entirely different rebellion.
He's fourteen and three moons, quite old enough to be helping around the house, and collecting a sack of meat from one of the hunters that migrated with them when Ala Mera collapsed. He waits in the square, in the overbearing afternoon heat - for there is no pause in the heat, no shade, no clouds - when a man he doesn't recognise approaches.
"Hello," he says, for he was taught to be polite, but warily, for there are plenty of Garlean sympathisers that already walk among them. He's civil, not stupid.
"How old are you, boy?"
It isn't an uncommon question. At sixteen he could enlist to the Garlean army, if he wanted, and he's a little taller than the average boy, for his age. He isn't sure if that's what his parents want: they've never said one way or the other, and they're polite to kinsmen and invaders alike.
Something of his wariness must show on his face, for the man raises his hands, palms up, as though guilty. The cut of his jaw marks him as a native of the Peaks - not that that means much, anymore.
"I mean no harm," he says, and leans in close. "Do you like the way things are now, boy?"
Merden doesn't need to think too hard about his answer, though he keeps his mouth firmly closed. He might not remember what it was like before the Mad King ruined the place, but even he knows the difference between fear and powerlessness, though after all this time he still isn't sure which he'd prefer, if given the choice.
Still, he must needs be careful. That's what his parents are always telling him - what Orella had always told him, too, though he cannot imagine her gentle chastisements were anything more than simple concern shining through, no matter how reticient she always was.
"Why?" he asks instead of answering directly. "I have food to eat and a roof to sleep under. Things could be worse."
"Aye, that they could. Say -" and the stranger shrugs, as though all this means nothing much. "Some few of us are meeting by the river's edge later, when the sun goes down. Would be nice to have a new face join us."
"Join you? What for?"
He never forgets the toothy smile flashed his way, altogether too encouraging. It fosters an excitement in his belly he's never felt before, that he knows not how to tamp down or contain, and it courses through him like a flashflood. It promises better things than this: meat throughout the week instead of once a sennight; no more stooping to hide his growth spurt from every recruiting soldier that walks through Ala Gannha.
"Payback," is the answer, and Merden agrees before his brain can catch up.
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Such is it every Heavensturn. At nineteen, Orella has worked her way steadily through the ranks, besting those who think little of her and steadfastly ignoring those who attempt to undermine her efforts. As a woman she has found an unfortunate amount amongst the rank and file who attempt to do so, and gleefully, at that. Not once has it stopped her from pressing ever onward - to their chagrin, she hopes viciously.
But here at home she is no soldier but a weary maid at her mother's beck and call to aid in running the home and sitting for her infant brother, who can at least string together sentences now, even if all he knows to do is demand sweets. It is not the company she would prefer - she longs for the boisterousness of a tavern, for the loud mouths of her brothers-in-arms - but there is naught she can do about it.
Thusly does she chase her mother to and fro around a home no longer familiar to her, which she privately thinks has outgrown its occupants. She hoists aging wicker baskets full of laundry, scrubs the squeaking floorboards with lye and vinegar, dusts endless webs from every dark corner.
It is, Orella decides four days into her week long leave, a life that she is glad to have left behind, for it was never made for her. And it is as glad to be rid of her as she is it, she knows: the wary eyes of boys-turned-men that used to mock her for wanting to join their rough and tumble games satisfies her; the wailing of babes in the arms of girls who refused to braid her hair once upon a time bores her. When she follows her mother with her brother upon her hip and a sack of vegetables upon her back she sweats and tries not to sigh.
At least her father offers some modicum of escape from this life, and bless his aging bones for it. He rescues her from chores with a request to carry his bags to the mountain stream that trickles down the red clay to the Velodyna proper, and though she expects to be sent away, he pats the ground beside her.
"Open the bag," he says, eyes twinkling, and her eyes grow wide at the bottles nestled within the leathern depths. "Take one. Stay and keep an old man company as he fishes."
She's glad to. Together they bait the line and throw it to the water, set the line upon its stand, and settle down to watch the sun trudge its way across the heavens and behind the Peaks' peaks. As Ala Mera is blanketed in evening the air grows chill, but with beer in her belly and a chance to relax, Orella finds she minds the gooseflesh on her arms not at all.
***
Opening the door and stepping into their home is like stepping into a different world altogether.
Together, Orella and her father have filled a crate almost to the brim with fish - enough to dry and salt as well as eat fresh, and plenty enough to sell and trade. Her mother is on them in an instant, berating them gently for daring to stay out past dark, for there are dangers lurking and here's her only daughter without the protection of a nice young man--
She pretends not to notice when Orella gestures at the dagger on her hip, and presses instead the crate into her arms along with a request to clean them. Tedious work, to be sure, but not difficult, at least: she shares a rueful glance with her father as they're parted once again. It's almost as if her mother thinks that by keeping them apart Orella won't run off back to the capital as she had done four years previously.
At least she gets to work in the kitchen by herself. It isn't enjoyable scouring fish scales from their cold, clammy bodies, but moreso than listening to her mother prattle on about what a life she could be leading - the one she doesn't want. She doesn't want a husband, not least one who could not keep up with her own physical prowess; doesn't want a babe crying for food at every turn; doesn't want a house that protests her every step.
As if fuelled by her own irritated thoughts, the knife slips right through the fish and into her finger; as she curses and drops the blade, drops the fish, she hears a small voice.
"'Rella?"
Of course it's Merden, here to play witness to her mediocrity at even the most basic of tasks. Unkindly - and she knows it's unkind, can no more help it than she can her height - she wishes he would toddle right back over to their mother and give her some Twelve-damned peace of mind --
"Present," he says in his small voice, and holds out for her a boiled sweet in his grubby hands. It has dirt on it, and he's presumably dropped it once or twice along the way, but 'tis clear enough the boy's been holding onto it for most of the day to give to her rather than devour for himself.
All unkindness melts away like butter, and Orella smiles.
Wiegraf had returned to his rooms with the intention of removing his armour, stepping into a hot bath, and possibly calling for a bottle of liquor or a girl to please him. Maybe both. The idea alone was bliss: steaming water to soothe his aches, and wine to soothe his tongue. A bottle spiced with cloves sounds perfect to round off the day.
But it is not to be: he'd gotten as far as the vambraces before noticing the envelope waiting for him, innocently laying on his writing-table, sealed with a single blob of wax as red as the wine he was hoping to drink. The handwriting, though simple and without flourish, had stood out to him as recognisable.
Brother, I cannot in good conscience remain in Ala Mhigo under your command any longer. Despite your assurances otherwise, I know it was by your hand that the gates were opened that fateful night. I know Gisfrid alone could not have orchestrated an insurrectionof this scale, or any scale for that matter - he has not the foresight to make such alliances, nor the inclination to do much other than march with the status quo. I have spoken with him at length and know now that his actions were born of stupidity and fear, neither of which are a crime.
How terrible of you, Brother, to make me believe that a stupid man is a cruel one. How unjust of you to pass off that crown to the first man to happen across your path, and how terrible of you to have carried your plan all the way from childhood upon your back.
The longer he reads on, the more it creases under his fingers. Wiegraf finds he must put it down to marshall his breathing like he does his men: slowly and with great effort as it disobeys him.
More unconscionable than even your betrayal of the crown is your betrayal of me. I have grown up alongside you, followed you if not to the Kingsguard then to the army, and gladly, and the thanks I have been given is deception and silence. Did you think even for a moment that had you been found out that I, too, would have been in danger? Did you care that I, your sister, your blood, might have hung as so many others did in your wake had you misstepped but once?
I do not for a moment believe that you hold me in the same esteem that I hold you, and that is the only thing that keeps me from being angry that you did not confide in me. I confess, I do not know how I might have reacted, but you did not think even to warn me of the approaching storm, and the longer I think on it the more I realise I cannot forgive you for this. Treason is one thing, but your blatant disrespect of me is entirely another.
I hereby announce, then, that I leave my things to you. You will find in my room the armour of my station, my blade, and every thrice-damned scrap of Garlean chattel--
The letter is bound for the flames, of course, and Wiegraf tosses it there rather than finish reading Milleuda's curses. Nothing of real value is lost, of course: she would not reveal her location in a letter and he finds he cares not at all where she is running to.
He notices idly as he reaches for his vambraces once more that she has used his own writing-pad to pen him this message, and damn the cost of ink and vellum.
His plans for a quiet evening are dashed in the face of the Legatus' temper, and not for the first time since the King's deposition, feels a bone-deep weariness settle upon him.
Most of the Sandsea's regular residents have been absent for some time, off attempting to liberate Gyr Abania from Garlemald's iron fist under Lady Riot's supervision.
Their excursions have left the manse almost entirely silent. One or two regulars remain: Rosenheim's hammer rings from the armory on occasion, though she does not follow its sound; hurried footsteps cross the foyer every so often, though she rarely sees their owners.
The oppressive silence makes it hard to sleep. There's too much to dwell on, too many thoughts that make themselves known to her during the deep dark of night for her to find any kind of peace in sleep.
She wakes now, breath coming quick, cold sweat prickling at her nape. It's not unusual for her to wake from a nightmare, and she buries her face in her hands, willing the thoughts away, wishing not for the first time that she were anywhere but here, anyone but herself-
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."
But my mentor is gone, she wants to say. Zartosht's face rises to mind, and she misses him so keenly, misses Gyr Abania and all it has to offer, and does not think she can make it in this new world.
It did not take long for Orella to lose count of how many hours she spent in the cells.
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.
"I'm sorry," she whispers thickly. The sound of the shower disguises her words, but from the way Ingvald's expression softens, she suspects he gets the meaning. "I'm so sorry."
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They've been planning frantically for days. An exodus had been in the cards for years, to be honest, but nothing ever seemed possible until Tesserarius pyr Bloodhound was transferred to Baelsar's Wall.
The Wall, uncomfortably close to Gridania, was further than she cared to lose him. Out of respect for their prior titles, the Legatus had told them once upon a time, they were afforded a luxury no other conscript was allowed: to stay within the occupied territory they had grown up in. Newly inducted soldiers are oft moved past borders, the better to prevent rebellion, but as Tribunus tol Decumius had laughed, it wasn't as if two disgraced members of Theodoric's Kingsguard were going to stir the hearts of the people.
But it had been his promotion, not hers - never hers - and the move had come with the position, and it had been entirely out of both of their hands. He'd sought her out to tell her the day it had been offered him, and he couldn't pass it up. Even she could see that.
"I'm coming with you," she'd said, and made good on her word. The day after the rumours of Bloodhound's promotion reached her barracks, she'd packed her things and marched to East End by herself. It had been the freest she’d been in years.
It had almost been worth it for the look on his face when she'd appeared on the Wall before him, his small unit shuffling around to give her room to stand at attention with them. And then the Centurio had appeared, had demanded to know why an extra face was amongst Bloodhound's men, and dragged Orella away.
It had been four days of answering their questions, of taking their blows. And she had stayed true to herself, over and over.
Why are you here?
I was promised to remain by Bloodhound for our service.
Your presence was not authorised.
I care not for authorisation. I am serving, thus I am staying.
Desertion of your post means a court-martialling.
So hang me and be done with it!
In the end, they had allowed her to join Bloodhound's regiment on a temporary basis. She knew then her time was close. She'd argued and twisted the truth until it sounded as though her conscription had been dependent on one very simple condition. In truth, she knows not if the Legatus that had originally offered her Bloodhound's life for her service yet lives. There seems to be so much backstabbing the higher up the Imperial Army one climbs; so many wars on so many fronts. It will take them time to check, even via long-distace linkpearls, and so she salutes her junior with the rest of them, marches in step with them, surveys Gyr Abania and Gridania both and thinks desperately, furiously, heart hammering so hard it hurts.
On the sixth day of the Wall, she approaches Bloodhound and tells him lowly they need to leave. He meets her gaze with a blank stare and for a moment her heart stops and she thinks -
but he cannot have truly changed allegiance -
but he sighs, short and quiet and resigned, and nods.
"My quarters after dark."
The plan is laughably simple. Pretend they're shirking duty for a tryst and run once they're in Gridania. They both know the patrol routes, know where the Eorzeans keep their watchful gaze and where is mostly unguarded. Orella has no qualms about killing one or two to make it out safe and alive, and she tells Ingvald as much. He regards her with doleful eyes before nodding his agreeal.
No matter. She can work on his sympathies later.
The only thing they can't decide on is when. Too early and their absence will be noted. Too late and the night patrol will raise the alarm. And if they spend too much time dawdling altogether the risk of Orella being dragged back to the capital to face her punishment - and if they don't hang her it'll be a surprise.
Most men are at their evening meal when Orella stands at attention, eyes on the horizon where she knows the Velodyna twists and turns malms below. The dusk's haze is thick enough that the Gridanian side looks much as Dimwold does, and she has no desire to cast her eye over a land that might well be haunted. They've all heard stories of the Elementals.
Then, by her side, Ingvald. He stands far enough apart that she must strain her ears to hear, and his words make her gut curl tight.
"We have to go now."
She has nothing ready. Still, she keeps her eyes trained carefully on the far castellum. "Ser?"
"I overheard the Centurio," he says. "They're preparing a Claw for you, to take you back to the city. I don't know what their plan is. We have to go now," he says again, and Orella breaks stance to turn. He's looking at her, not the landscape, and she's only seen fear in his eyes a handful of times before.
She sees it now. It scares her.
"I don't have-" she begins, and he shakes his head.
"They will be coming for you within a hundred hundred heartbeats," he hisses, and the urgency finally kicks her into gear. "We have no time left. Going together would be suspicious. I'll meet you by the Dimwold gate. Understand, aan Steelhand?" he adds in a louder voice, and her body moves to salute him of its own accord. They both have played these roles for far too long.
Her heart beats in time with every harried step she takes. Soldiers sated from their meal pass her on their way to their positions and she avoids eye contact with them all. Every step closer to the 'wold makes her think of all the ghosts that must surely haunt her. Their feet fall in line with hers, and she imagines a whole army of men and women, boys and girls, walking in step with her. Their ghostly footsteps are a deafening cacophony of failure, failure, failure, and-
It's too much to bear.
Her hands sweat in their gloves and her mouth is dry. She thinks if she stops she'll throw up, or cry, or both. For once she's thankful of the helm, of the way it covers her face. She can frown at ease, doesn't need to worry about someone seeing her anxieties writ clear as anything o'er her features.
Knowing their plans are already in motion is the worst. If she stumbles, if she falls or fails, Garlemald's Claws are ready and waiting for her.
No second chances.
She doesn't see Ingvald at first. He's tucked expertly into some portcullis' hold, grabs her wrist as she walks by and covers her mouth with his hand.
"Quiet," he hisses, and the scream dies in her throat. She must look terrified, for his grip loosens almost immediately. "I'm sorry," he adds, and lets his hand fall. Her heart beats so hard within her breast she thinks he might be able to hear it. "This gate is less abandoned than I thought. We have to go, quickly. Are you ready?"
Despite herself, she turns to look behind her. The hall is empty right now, but she can hear the echoes of footsteps and conversations carry down toward them. She swallows heavily.
"Don't try to change my mind," she says.
Once they are free of the compound - and aan Steelhand, with her head bowed low, looks suitably abashed that she might be being led elsewhere for a dressing-down - they both find it difficult to keep a steady pace. There are sentries everywhere.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Remember to breathe.
"Evening, Tesserarius," one salutes, and Bloodhound nods at him. "Evening walk?"
"Shut your mouth," says his companion, and elbows him in the side. Orella is barely listening to them, too intent on how many paces she is from the sentries, how quickly they might draw their blades. How quickly she can draw hers. "None of your business whether he's walking or not. Accept my sincere apologies, Tesserarius."
Then comes another salute, and Ingvald hestitates for a second too long, and they know something is wrong.
"Tesserarius?"
Orella's head jerks up, and she must be wild-eyed beneath her helmet for the way the sentries' eyes snap to her. One starts to lift their hand to activate the linkpearl and she knows, in her gut, that this is it.
She is not the only one that draws her sword.
Both sentries mirror her movement, but she has been doing this for far longer than they. She knows their faces about as well as she can speak Hingan, but even with the helms she can tell their faces are unlined.
Older she might be, but faster, too, and desperate. They have passed the point of no return, and her steel sings for Garlean blood.
It sprays warm through the air when it bites deep. She's gone for the one with the linkpearl, and she sticks him just in time. She tears the pearl from his ear and throws it as hard as she can manage with a single arm, as far from them as she can bear. Something in her shoulder pops with the effort and she grunts with pain, pushes the blade deeper.
And Ingvald - blessed, beautiful, wonderful Ingvald - steps in to take care of the other in her stead. He has to pull her from the man she holds, who, she realises belatedly, is gripping at her sleeves so hard the seams tear.
"Oh," she says, over and over, and she's ashamed to find she's trembling. Ingvald pulls her sword free and she thinks he means to hand it back to her -
but my hands are shaking, she thinks, but he does not turn back to her, and instead cuts the throat of the sentry cleanly. When he turns to face her again he keeps the blade.
"Quickly," he says instead, and then he is pulling her along by the wrist.
The cart jolts.
With it, Orella is shocked awake.
She's been sweating. Hair sticks to her cheeks, to her forehead, and she brushes it away impatiently. Her hands and neck are sodden, and she can feel her heart jumping as though she's run malms and malms.
"You alright?"
No, she wants to say. She rubs her eyes, fakes a yawn. "Yes," she lies, and slumps back against the wooden slats. "Bad dream. It'll pass."
They've had money enough to rent a chocobo-drawn cart, and it has made the approach to the Wall both easier and quicker. Only three days prior had they seen the Riot's griffin soar through the skies above, had followed the beat of its wings until it disappeared unto the horizon.
Ingvald's silence is telling, and she can't look toward him. Instead she bows her head, fiddles with the silver ring that feels foreign on her finger.
Somehow he'd heard of their faux-marriage before she'd even seen him again, in the mere hour she'd been apart from him after speaking with Ashelia. He'd not been angry, at least, but even now she feels like he would prefer if she had come up with an altogether different plan.
"Once more," she says, and takes a deep breath. "Let's go through it once more. We get to the Wall..."
Ingvald casts a look at their chocobo's driver, a Miq'ote with heavily freckled skin who hasn't tried to talk to them once since taking their coin. It seems the Ul'dahn way is to keep to oneself after payment has been rendered, but that doesn't make them feel any less cautious.
"We pass through the Wall," Ingvald says in a low voice, "And make our way east until we get to the Peaks. We'll try to avoid people until we're at Ala Ghiri, and from there pose as traders until we get to the city proper."
"We'll have to find something to trade while we travel," Orella adds, and sifts her fingers through her hair. She doesn't like the way it sits against her face. "I was thinking skins, if we can get them without puncturing them. Plenty of beasts still roam the wilds, and we've skill enough between us to take a few down. Jhammel, mayhaps."
"Here's you without a sword. What are you going to do, wrestle one to death?"
That earns Ingvald a slap to the arm, worth the price of Orella's amused smile. "Very funny. My name is common enough, but yours and mine together are going to draw attention, no matter if we adopt false surnames or not. Did you come up with another?"
"Wilhelm," he answers without hesitation. "Common, unassuming, and I at least have the face to put to it if pressed. I presume you plan to ditch your title."
She nods. "I don't think too many people will remember Steelhand's birth name, and Ala Mera collapsed long enough ago that they can't question it. Traders, traders... which preposition is that, again? Cen? Aan?"
"Bas. You realise if we're pressed for proof of citizenship..."
"Ingvald," Orella interrupts, "I do not think proof of citizenship needs to be so high on our list of worries. We're committing enough crime as it is with everything else. If we're being questioned that much, we've already failed."
One of their driver's ears twitch at the mention of crime, but she says nothing. Money really does smooth out every indiscretion in Ul'dah.
Ingvald's silence persists and taints the air with his worry, so she pats him on the arm gently. They're both wearing clothes better suited to peasants; roughspun cotton that near enough scratches the skin and is entirely devoid of colour or embellishment. It's a far cry from the rich but simple shirts Ashelia had loaned them during their time in the Sandsea, or from the warm furs they'd clad themselves in returning from Dravania.
"Orella and Wilhelm bas Demircinin," she says, and makes a face. "Bas. It feels wrong."
"Wronger than aan?"
At that, she falls silent. Baelsar’s Wall and an uncertain future draw ever closer, and the army of ghosts yet haunts her.
Este novo semestre, indica o começo de um novo ano e também de uma nova temática que será explorada para a cadeira de Design de Comunicação IV.
Foi-nos apresentada uma introdução desta nova era que será o nosso novo objeto de estudo, com isto, foi-nos explicado como o design se insere neste período e as alterações que sofreu.
| pós-modernismo, contracultura, utopia e revolução |
Esta época foi especialmente marcada por ter sido a primeira vez que as marcas deixadas pela história e pelos eventos que ocorriam, começaram a ser vistas como o que eram, algo que iria mudar as suas vidas e o futuro do mundo.
Começam a ser procuradas maneiras de descontinuar o que as pessoas acham que está errado e devia ser mudado, havendo assim um clima de “revolta” e “revolução”. Isto é feito através de vários meios, sendo alguns deles, a música, o cinema, o design, para além de os movimentos criados nesse âmbito.
“Everything unbelievable was possible”
Na década dos anos 60, foi o momento mais alto de um movimento conhecido por contra-cultura. Envolvido neste movimento estavam os jovens, que questionavam os valores centrais e culturais implementados pela sociedade e queriam ver a diferença que conseguiam fazer.
“Os momentos de grande significado cultural muitas vezes só são apreciados em retrospectiva. Os anos 60 são diferentes (...)”
Para verem esta mudança que tentariam causar, foram feitos variadas manifestações, houve movimentos a favor do que acreditavam ser o melhor. Há algo que diferencia esta época de todas as outras onde mudança também aconteceu, e isto é o facto dos envolvidos não sabiam o quanto estavam a marcar a sociedade da altura. O quão grandes eram as suas acções. As mudanças foram imediatas e levadas muito mais além devido as comunicações em massa.
Com a exploração deste tema, na cadeira de Design de Comunicação IV vamos conseguir perceber qual foi o papel do design neste período contemporâneo, sendo importante porque nos dá uma visão para como é que podemos utilizar o design duma outra maneira.
