The Sword.

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

After everything that had happened in that prison they had been held in, Afshin had wanted to simply crawl into a hole and stay there until Iskaldrik was up and running again. That was highly unlike him though. As much as he hated to admit it, his fear would never prevent him from getting back up. He could just put on a mask to get people to think he was perfectly fine when he wasn’t. The easy solution would have been to just let Eldar be that mask. That was the easy solution though and he didn’t want to take the easy way out. Not if he had the blood of kings running through his veins. What king crumbled at the first sign of conflict? No, that wouldn’t be him. It could never be him.

Rest came at the fountain's edge, solace as Afshin came into view before the prince settled in beside him. Torsten didn't know what value he could possibly have to the other now: he'd failed (too many times) to ask after redemption, he could no longer swing a sword with any proficiency - let alone challenge the woman who'd taken his arm, and he would not live long enough to see Iskaldrik again.

It was here, in Eterna, where the Kingsguard was likely to live out whatever years he had left. Perhaps he'd take a pupil - or find some other way to distill meaning from the rest of his life. The hand he had left found Afshin's - threading through his fingers - because at least they might still have each other.

After everything Juneau had been right the kossith had been so resolute that there wasn't away to avoid the inventible not matter how hard they tried. The news had gutted her like a fish but she wasn't ashamed of her attempt. It was going to take more then failure to dim the new found light in her soul. It had been frantic trying to piece some kind of defence together but it was never going to be enough.

The last memory she had was being struck in the head by a piece of shrapnel, it had knocked her out cold into the contrastingly cold water. Water that now pooled in her mouth as she lied on sandy shores. It was like her body knew she was no longer in the sea as it spluttered from her mouth allowing air to gain passage to her lungs. She wasn't the only one there. Slumping onto her side she recognised the cruelty of fate as she was yet again beside the spellbreakers Torsten. A weak fist was raised to slam into the others gut in order to try and squeeze the others diaphragm to force whatever air they had left in the system to expel the water.

Kingsguard. Torsten pulled himself upright, he had to find Afshin. Looking out at a skyline he was far too familiar with at this point. Ingrid was here, but they were alone. With anguish, Torsten reached for the prosthetic and tested it but found only that however lightweight, it still held weight, and when he reached for his antimagic, he found only pain.

"Are you alive, Queensguard?"

"I am Ikaros, of Avalon." He held the dagger out towards Torsten, looking over the now freed Kingsguard. He seemed to be in decent shape, as well as they all could be. "This will have to do for now. The Kossith by the door has an axe. When we finish with him, you will have your sword." The shadows was where he thrived, and the Kingsguard could fight, "We should open the rest of the cells. The more who know their names, the more we have to stand with us. Come." He was used to being bossy, moving past Torsten with a nod. Another Kossith remained at the far end, on guard for the stairs that led up.

Torsten wouldn't claim to have benefited from this situation, but the Kossith had pushed each of them to their limits and while the a'dam was gone, he still knew the shape of what the witcher could do. He'd left Lathander's temple behind only to end up in chains, the Kossith wished for a demonstration and as the witcher's frame was wreathed in light and antimagic - hardening into a plate - Torsten longed to show them firsthand.

"Gratitude." Came the resolved witcher, though he wouldn't follow the elvhen up when those he was prioritizing were deeper within. His mithril armament, alight and burning with radiance, was upon the Kossith in an instant - wrapped neatly around the horned-man's throat. For a moment, Torsten indulged and despite himself he relished in the sickening sound of the Kossith's throat collapsing before the dagger he'd been gifted was buried deep enough in the man's chest to rupture his heart.

With a slump, the Kossith fell and whatever blood landed on Torsten's gleaming plate seemed to burn away. He knelt and wrenched the Kossathi longsword from the guard's belt and now - at last - felt complete again, brandishing the dagger still in his offhand.

There were three that Torsten's priority: Afshin, Ormir, and Freydis - they were deeper within, he knew this to be true and he pressed forward in search of them.

It's like the first breath of spring, following from branch to branch within Avalon. Mythal's Glade and the first frost, or the garden in Arvandoril and the roses that would bloom. Or the apple tree where his grandmother's pegasus would sit, a stark shadow in the bright light.

Perhaps that was the best example for the Prince, as he stood against a wall. His eyes were covered, but his mind was finally awake. Had been for hours as he waited for his chance. The a'dam sits heavy on his chest, heavy only from the lack of awareness that he'd been forced away from for weeks. The visions sit with him, they will never leave. A mind is a powerful thing when returned, and Ikaros hears the name they'd associated with the oracle. Some broken word, seer-unmade, but he was more than just his visions. He was the heir of Avalon, and the a'dam would do nothing, now.

Weightless, he never needed his sight to see. Moving in the shadows was his specialty, and without his daggers, he would improvise. The large Kossith in front of him was not silent as he moved, and Ikaros moved in a swift movement, his eyes free and his hand upon the dagger in the creature's belt. In fluid grace, the dagger met the hollow of the Kossith's throat, between the gap in the armor as the horned creature went down.

Ikaros stood, bloodied dagger in hand, the a'dam sparking lifeless upon his chest. Another figure had come, but the light step of a rahaat told him all he needed to know. "Do you know your name?" Ikaros turned, the dagger in his hand as he considered the soul in front of him. Death would be a kindness, but he would give them a chance. They had a rebellion to begin.

Ikaros raised his Kossathi dagger at Torsten but the collar fell between them, clinking against the ground a few times before the circlet ringed the metal beneath them and fell flat.

"Torsten." He started, "Son of Ragnvald, Sivhild, and Gunnar. Kingsguard." His fists tightened reflexively because somewhere in this hold Afshin, Ormir, and Freydis were still being kept prisoner. In natural fashion, the blademaster's brow deepened impossibly further, something deeper than anger or rage bristling like a second skin. "I'll need a sword."

EMILIO SAKRAYA

Even so, when she heard Torsten’s voice, she lifted a single finger as if to sooth and silence him all at once. Torsten had been a steadfast ally for over a year, his loyalty inscrutable and his mettle tested over and over again. He didn’t need to speak for Freydis to know he was in her corner. She swallowed hard as she watched him snap into rigidity like the cracking of a belt. He was met with a look of small appreciation in Freydis’ eyes, but a subdued shake of her head. Do not put your neck out for the sake of mine. 

No command was necessary for Freydis to understand the task expected of her. But she did nothing for as long as the sul’adam behind her would tolerate it. Several moments passed in agonizing silence before Freydis’ hands flew to her head, gripping white-knuckled in her own hair as she clenched her jaw and groaned in agony. What she experienced was not the punishment of the a’dam, it was the torment of her fighting her own magic to keep itself at bay and how the fey magic within her refused to be bridged, all edged with the searing punishment of the a’dams capabilities. 

At first, a few petals bloomed and fell from her hair. They were nothing but desiccated, crumpled specs of color by the time they met the deck of the ship. Then, a moment later, a keen eye would be able to spot precisely what it was that she was covering with her hands–prongs seemed to protrude from her, growing slowly and forsaking the cage of her balled fists. A clearing of the sul’dam’s throat–Freydis was apparently unworthy of language–and the a’dam choked Freydis with blinding pain. The pallor of her skin changed, flowers twined in her hair and died just as quickly, and antlers, half grown and still velveted, spring from her scalp. 

The transformation was not complete, but rather halted by the sul’dam, though this was not an act of mercy. The Veil Maiden’s face was stoney and colorless, her every intention and fiber of her being fighting back against that which she was being compelled to do. But still, one hand, shaking and unsteady, found its way to an offshoot of one of the antlers. The texture of it was soft, the downy coating of youth still covering it as it was not yet formed, not yet hardened. Freydis looked as if she might pass out as she lifted her other arm, her palm of her left hand fitting into the crook of her right elbow to try to pull the arm away. 

Instead what came was a stomach-souring crack.

Freydis’ face was devoid of color, the pain so intense that her knees gave out and she thought she might faint and vomit from nausea all in the same moment as she stared at what she held in the palm of her hand–a portion of her own antler ripped from overhead. Where it was still attached to her head, a thin trickle of blood snaked down the rest of the prongs finding a new home in her hair until it slipped down the peak of her cheekbone and off the slope of her jaw. The transformation was not done, Freydis not pushed as far as the sul’dam intended, but an intermission was offered to allow the foolish little Veil Maiden an extended moment of horror of what she had just done to herself.

The sound was one that Torsten would hear for days - weeks - to follow. Wet, fibrous, a sickening pop-crack that tore through the charging silence like a whip. It didn’t belong to anything alive but was one he’d heard before: he’d seen wars, torturers, interrogators and worse but this was a horror that the Kingsguard couldn’t help but commit to memory. Personal, deliberate, and made with a hand that still shook with refusal. 

The blood in her hair, the horror and pain on her face, the way she held the broken shard of herself. Torsten’s gut was molten, helpless. Stilled into a stoic, statuesque posture, every inch of the witcher was pulled and restricted - it was only after a beat that Torsten realized the practiced posture, though it was one he knew well, wasn’t done on his own accord but instead was forced upon him. He couldn’t look away from Freydis if he wanted to, couldn’t move toward her, couldn’t run.

Ingrid was next to be tested, her Sul'dam violating the threads that connected her to the world. reaching for a power that wasn't even her own but Akanis', Ahsan's accessing the fire of a soul that was tied with hers. They accessed a flame that didn't just harm but healed. But the connection to that magic they were trying to access was unstable and they didn't get the result they wanted, instead of a beam of flame, Ingrid's body ignited before there very eyes. Her Sul'dam was quick to shut the flames down. Suddenly Ingrid was struck across her face brining her to her knees "Defiant." she uttered as it was easier to blame the Rahaat then herself.

Shoved back in line with the rest, Ingrid didn't let the sting from the struck reflect on her face, she wouldn't give her Sul'dam that satisfaction. "I will join you in that Kingsguard" she whispered between them.

Still, Ingrid was the human half of the flame-bound changeling, he hadn’t expected Ingrid to have any magic at all - let alone that demonstration. The ire of the sul’dam was clear and Torsten quietly relished in it as the a’dam bristled through their shared connection, they were not happy and their displeasure was one of the Kingsguard’s few moments for entertainment. 

“Wild magic?” Torsten asked rather than stated, or some semblance of it. Maybe as a means of distracting himself or making conversation he pressed.

where: why the kossith ship of course

when: current timeline

note: long overdue uwu, lmk if you need any changes

There was relief mixed with the acrid taste of dread to know there were others like her within the mix - other witchers, those specifically who'd taken the very oath within the temple Torsten had led them to. She felt the ring of the damned, embedded deep within her flesh, seemingly apart of her bones, her marrow, but the dark thoughts seemed to have ceased, blocked off by the command of the a'dam and all its suppression. Resilience, the construct of their very identity stripped to being a mere rahaat.

Celaya tried to remind herself that she had had her identity stripped before and she'd built herself again, piece by dreaded piece. She'd not let the Kossith strip away at her very self again, she would hold strong, and she would hold true, no matter the invasive nature of the a'dam which tried to sway her towards obedience.

She'd barely spoken to Torsten since their capture, it was wise to have allies, but it felt even wiser not to reveal them all at once. At the end of each wretched day, they were all allies, each sharing the very damned fate of being on this abhorrent ship, chained to compliance by the a'dam slung around their necks. Still, Torsten was one she felt she could trust when it came to tactical guidance, when it came to freeing them from what had been and what was to come.

She had sidled up to the other witcher the moment darkness swept over them. It would be ignorant to presume they were not always being watched, listened in on; but she was equally as certain that even the Kossith could be overly confident in the forced obedience their a'dam created. Even the strongest of bonds could be broken and Celaya would hold strong to that.

Day by day it became harder to tell who remained and who was falling through the cracks - Torsten thought of the dawn, to the light he found in the north that resounded within his breast. The mark on his chest, hard earned, but tested even now. As the sun rose over the deck, Torsten let the dark of his gaze rest idly on the horizon as his lips parted in a solemnity. “Bearer of the first Light, though lies surround me, let the truth remain within. Grant my honor, though my hands remain bound - and as this darkness gathers - I will stay your faithful blade.”

Torsten’s muttering was halted and stunted by Celaya’s approach before he looked toward his fellow witcher at the sound of her voice. “Where despair festers, we will be their flame.” He thought of the vuldak in the kennel, of Freydis’ broken antler, and the screams of the island that was behind them. His eyes went from the horizon to his hands: the flesh was scarred, burned, frostbitten, and the mithril appeared duller now - lifeless in its own way. 

“These Kossith claim to serve the Light.” Torsten stated, hands curling now around the railing, “As the Vanguard does, as the Tower does.” As the Kingsguard did now. “I wonder if it’s the fate of all orders to fall to corruption.” 

If they were in a safer place, she might have asked what the experience had been like. It wouldn’t have brought her any satisfaction to hear of his suffering. She was certain Torsten would know that. But if there was any hope of resisting, however futile and fleeting that resistance might be, his experience might have provided the briefest of advantages. She was certain the Kossith knew better than to allow such an opportunity. 

“Fuck,” she muttered beneath her breath, judicial when it came to the utterance of expletives. But the situation seemed appropriate. 

The barely audible curse seemed to be enough to garner the attention of the Sul’dam testing their unwilling recruits, and Freydis’ gaze was like ice when the Kossith’s eyes locked with hers. No verbal invitation or command was required, a simple gesture of the hand illuminated the expectation that Freydis step forward. She resisted, digging in her heels on the deck of the ship and in every corner of her mind. 

The air dissipated from her lungs and the iron of the a’dam seared at her as if she were being smite on her feet. Pain was not unfamiliar to Freydis. It was something she was used to and capable of enduring. This was something different all together, on an echelon all its own. To Freydis it felt like hours that she resisted, to Torsten beside her, she lasted all of three seconds before setting forward from the line and taking her spot where the Witcher had just stood.

She was resisting. Good. 

“Fight.” Came Torsten’s voice, a ripple of agony stuttering up the length of his spine at the singular syllable. His knees buckled and the witcher felt the sharp pang that came from his resistance, bile bubbled in the back of his throat as he repeated the word. “Fight.” He said again, the corners of his vision darkening before his body was pulled taut again - moving on its own accord as the bracer around one of the Kossith’s wrists glowed. Limbs rigid, suspended, his mouth firmly sealed. 

He looked ahead, they were only three short seconds but these Kossith would have a difficult time finding any Iskaran that’d break easily.