Chapter Text
If Avlora were to rank her days judging by how close to death she had been brought, today would roughly place third…or maybe fourth. Fifth, if she counted one instance where she had avoided any true wound, but had watched as an arrow had lodged itself in the collar of her fur cape, leaving just a centimeter of space between the point and her neck—
Focus, Avlora.
She shuddered, forcing her eyes open. A dark blue sky greeted her. Faint stars glittered overhead, and the sound of water rushing by her was soothing, almost nostalgic for the way it reminded her of Whiteholm Castle’s fountain. She and the queen had often taken walks about it. The queen, who Avlora had failed in every way, who she had abandoned—
Focus, she thought, gritting her teeth. You need to focus.
She turned herself over on her side, and from there, onto her hands and knees. Her hands sank into mud and shallow water. She had managed to free herself from most of her armor somewhere between here and Whiteholm, but her gauntlets remained.
She reached for one of the buckles, meaning to remove the metal it held in place, but found that her fingers couldn't feel the clasp.
She roughly tore the gauntlet from her hand instead, allowing herself to examine the too-pale hand beneath. She was numb—freezing. The first step: get herself out of the water.
She dragged herself up to her feet. She lurched forward, moving until she reached drier ground, a riverbank that shifted from reeds to grass. She made it just to the first line of reeds. Something caught her foot, sending her tumbling forward.
Pain, white-hot, shot through her chest as she hit the ground. Her breath was sucked out of her lungs, and became near impossible to retrieve. Her throat refused to cooperate, every muscle seizing up.
Third, she thought, gasping. Today ranks third.
This usurped the moment she had been speared through the back when she had been caught in a surprise attack, in a night without light, without her armor. Even then, she had never been far from a healer.
But now, there were no healers, no magic pellets to fix this. The prince had fought well, even ignoring the strength of his comrades. Her armor might have helped protect her from the edge of her foes' blades, but even metal could do naught to save her from the sheer force of their blows—of which, she had obviously taken too many. Her fighting had been sloppy towards the end. Sloppy, reckless, foolish. And now she—now the queen was paying for it.
If I stay here, I die. I need to move. Stand up, find a healer. I refuse to leave her.
Avlora got back to her feet, stumbling in the darkness, fighting against the pull of the mud. The girl had asked for her support. Queen Cordelia had wanted her protection, her loyalty. Falling into the river and leaving her behind was a failure to uphold that promise—a pathetic display of betrayal by incompetence.
If she fell here, she would become yet another phantom for Her Majesty to mourn. That was something Avlora could not abide by. She would make it back to the queen's side. She had to.
She would start with one step. Just one step, and then the next.
She made it ten. On the eleventh, lightning struck through the ground, up through her leg, right to her head—her world shrunk, folded in on itself, until there was nothing else.
*
"Are you absolutely certain?" The man called Ser straightened and gave Melly his full attention. "No offense intended, my young friend, but that sounds like a tall tale to me."
Melly frowned. "Hey! It's true. The water goes up—" She threw one hand upward— "then it comes down and smashes the boats!" She rushed to slap the dock with the same hand, resulting in a dull thunk. “If the water’s too heavy, the boat breaks in half.”
Ser gestured to the boat. "Then how do you explain this one? It was out in a bad storm and all that broke was one little oarlock."
The sun remained hidden beyond the horizon, but there was enough dim light that Ser could make out the shallow river he stood in, the dock Melly was sitting on the edge of, and the boat that floated between them. And there, nestled into the hole on the rim of the boat, was a splintered portion of an oarlock that had been broken off when the boat had bashed into the dock during a recent windstorm that came in from the Aesfrosti mountains.
"That doesn't count," Melly said firmly. She paused to yawn into her elbow. "It was all tied up, not out on the river."
Ser felt a smile play at his mouth. Melly had woken up early to accompany him out here. She seemed to not…regret the decision, per se, but her yawns were too frequent to believe she was as awake as she claimed to be. "Ah, an excellent point."
Melly nodded back. "So I can help, right, Ser?"
"Normally, I would without a doubt need your assistance," Ser said, bowing slightly, "but this time the only thing that needs doing is carving a new oarlock. Not anything deserving of your skills."
"I can carve!" she argued. "Anise has been teaching me. I even know where she keeps her knife."
Ser considered the fact. “Does Anise know that?”
“Ser, please!” she stood to her feet again, scrambling over to wrap her arms around the tethering pole, leaning over so she could plead more emphatically. “I can do it!” Seeing his expression, she changed tactics. “I can at least watch, can’t I?”
He smiled. “Of course. I see no issue with that.”
Her grin stretched wide. “Good! Be right back!”
“Wait—hold on—”
She was gone in an instant, and Ser shook his head, turning instead to the task of trying to pry the broken half of the oarlock pin from the hole in which it had broken off. All that remained of the piece was a few long, jagged splinters, each of which looked delicate enough that they would break if he attempted to remove the wood by pulling on them.
He wiped his hand off on his tunic absentmindedly. In an ideal world, he might have some tool specifically-made for the task. A thin iron pick, or a pair of shears he could use to pull the thing upwards. But finding something like that would require walking back to town and then back here again, which he was loathe to consider—his leg still ached from where he had been injured when he had first arrived. He shrugged off the thought. There was probably something around the riverbank he could use. A thin enough leaf, rolled up tight around the pole and carefully lifted, might be enough.
He began up the path, looking up towards the treeline, when a glint of light caught his eye. He turned his head towards the source, scanning the beach. Melly’s enthusiasm over knowing the location of her sister’s knife came to the forefront of his mind, and Ser began walking in that direction, maneuvering his way off of the path. It could easily be something else—a piece of scrap pulled in by the river’s flow, or a simple trick of the rising sun—but he had long since learned it was better safe than sorry when a child as curious as Melly was involved.
When his feet met sand again, he found what had caught his attention. A meter to his left lay a single piece of black metal. Ser drew a step closer, trying to pin down the shape of the silhouette. Something long and thin, almost like a knife…
He stepped towards it, crouching to pick it up and examine it. It was a gauntlet—painted ink-black and looking overall…unsettling, made up of leather and sharp interlocking metal plates. He twisted it, letting it catch the light again.
He noticed another bit of light a few feet away. His eyes followed it, finding another gauntlet.
However, his heart sank into his stomach as he realized that this gauntlet was attached to an arm, which was attached to a woman, curled on her side, dressed in all black. She lay in the reeds, her face covered in blood, unmoving.
Ser scrambled forward, eyes flickering across the too-still body, examining the split skin that ran jagged across her forehead. There were other gashes that had been cut into the waterlogged black padded underclothing she had stripped down to. One, deep on her left shoulder, bled sluggishly but at a visible pace.
Ser stared at her face, waiting for some evidence of breathing, unable to breathe himself.
She surprised him by doing impossibly better than merely breathing. A moment after he knelt, she inhaled sharply. Ser nearly toppled backwards as her eyes opened up to meet his own.
“Damn.” Her eyes closed once more. "... Damn."
“You still live,” Ser said faintly. His heart jumped from completely still to frantic in a split-second. How did he keep her alive?
The woman coughed, spitting out watered-down blood into the sand. She curled further inward, turning her face to the sand as she cleared her lungs. Once the fit subsided, she fell limp again.
Ser forced himself to think, to consider the options. Could he leave her here alone? How long would it take to reach the village and find help? Could he safely move her?
Her eyes opened again, meeting his. “You must…tell her I am sorry.”
“Her? Who?”
“The queen of Glenbrook,” the woman rasped. Her hand found his wrist, clamping onto it with an iron grip. “My name is Avlora. Please…she must know I wanted to return. She deserves…” Her grip loosened. “She deserves to know that someone…wanted…”
Realization turned his blood to ice. She means these to be her last words.
Ser could not claim to know so much as the queen’s name. But as the woman began to struggle to keep her eyes open, he swallowed down his doubts, reversing her grip to hold her hand. He squeezed her freezing fingers in a way he hoped was reassuring. “The queen shall hear your message. You have my word.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, she gave in to her exhaustion and collapsed against the mud again, eyes closed, breathing erratically.
Blood loss, Ser’s mind supplied. Lost from that wound on her shoulder—caused by the point of a sword, or a spear. She wears an arming doublet meant to pad full plate, implying blunt trauma. The way she breathes…were her ribs broken? Her lungs damaged?
In any case, it made no matter what he might be able to diagnose. Without healing magic, he could do nothing for this woman.
He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the village. That message of hers would never cross his lips, because she would deliver it herself. He would make certain it was so.
*
Elissica had her staff hovering over the junction of the woman’s shoulder and neck, where the gash lay. Light filled the wound, slowly but surely pulling the flesh together.
Never before in Ser’s memory could he remember seeing magic used to heal a wound so serious. With a wound so deep, he could see more clearly the way that the magic pulled the skin together, putting it back into the place it was supposed to be, but unable to really fix it, to force it to meld back as it once was. He had always known that spells could only do so much, but it had seemed inconsequential on smaller scales. Now . . .
“The wound narrowly avoided any vital areas,” Elissica said. Ser could see her struggling to keep up the flow of light. Her voice and hand were shaking as she gripped her staff. “She's fortunate. I would say she's no worse off than you were, Ser.”
Ser nodded, not sure if he was expected to add anything. He could only really remember the latter half of his recovery. There was little he remembered about the original severity of his injuries.
The woman was still breathing, her quiet gasps remained dangerously shallow. She was otherwise still, her head lolled to the side.
Ser heard the footsteps and turned to find Elissica's husband Neary jogging towards them. He called from the road, holding up a bag. “I brought bandages!”
Elissica’s father Barro was bringing a cart to transport her in, but Elissica had come ahead to perform first aid, and Neary had gone for supplies. As Neary approached, he was already reaching inside the cloth sack he had brought—pulling out a glass bottle with a cracked waterstone inside. He tossed the rest of the sack to Ser, and he began taking out bandages.
Elissica lifted her staff away from the wound. Neary began to pour water over it, gently washing away the flecks of mud that stuck to her skin. He would occasionally shake the bottle, forcing the waterstone to release more of its power.
When the debris was cleared, Ser leaned over, bandaging it as Elissica and Neary moved on to see to the wound on her head. Elissica had torn away the fabric, leaving her shoulder clear. He wrapped the long strip of cloth around her upper arm, gradually working his way up towards her neck, eventually trading his hands so he could wrap it under her other arm, creating a sufficiently tight binding. Neary carefully propped up her head and shoulders.
“That’s excellent work, Ser,” Neary said. Smiling, he added, “Perhaps you were an apothecary in your past life.”
Ser offered a warm laugh, tying off the bandage. “Maybe." He nodded pointedly towards Elissica. "Or perhaps your wife is simply an excellent teacher."
"I like to think so," Elissica said, managing a smile.
Ser returned to the work. Perhaps he had done this before—there was something about it that felt natural to him—but it was Elissica alone that he recalled teaching him, and she alone that deserved the gratitude.
“We need a splint for her arm,” Elissica noted, wiping sweat from her face. “Maybe one for the leg as well. I need to take a closer look.”
“We can do that,” Neary said. “The supplies for a splint are still back at home, but—” The cart was approaching—the sound of wheels on gravel was growing louder behind them. “Looks as if our chariot is close at hand.”
They carefully lifted the woman up into the cart, bundled her up in the blankets that Barro had brought along, and finally pulled it alongside Neary. They reached the village, earning concerned looks from the other villagers as they pulled the cart up towards Elissica’s home. They brought the woman into the house, and laid her out on a bedroll near the hearth, still lit from the morning meal.
Elissica returned to healing despite the fact that she was already exhausted. Neary went for the supplies they'd need for a splint. Barro left to tell the elders about what had happened.
Ser went to Elissica and the woman's side, waiting for any further opportunity to help.
It was no longer his imagination—the stranger's breathing was slower, easier now. He felt his own breath ease with relief.
He watched as Elissica held her staff over the woman's abdomen, healing no wound in particular, but instead simply allowing the light to sink into her and seek out unseen damage. It was less effective than direct healing, but for internal wounds, there was little other option.
Eventually, however, Elissica became nearly as pale as the woman she was healing. After a few more seconds of it, she sat back, breathing heavily. "I think that might have to be the end of it for now."
Ser nodded in understanding. "Thank you."
She shot him a faint smile. "What are you thanking me for? For once, I was healing someone other than you."
"Of course, but I feel grateful all the same." He shook his head. "When I found her…" He regarded the woman's face. "Well, I…"
He blinked. Blinked again.
The woman had a distinctive face—all sharp, strong lines. It seemed like her nose had been broken before, giving it a slight crookedness.
And it was…familiar.
He had seen this woman before. He had spoken with her at…some sort of festival. He could picture it—her, leaning against a railing off on her own, far away from the bright music and fanfare of the main event. Ser himself had approached her to…introduce himself, perhaps? She had declined to say much to him, but when she had spoken, it had been with a low voice, sure and commanding. That name she’d used at the river…Avlora, wasn’t it? The sound of it seemed right—seemed familiar.
It was strange. The interaction felt insignificant—there was no real emotion attached to the memory. But he did clearly remember it. Just a passing encounter that was now bubbling up, as old memories usually would for any normal person.
Ser, however, could never remember having recalled such a thing.
"Ser?"
He forced himself to look at her. "Hm?"
Elissica was looking at him with some concern. "You know, you are still healing up yourself. You ought to go lie down for a little while. We have her as stable as she will be."
"Oh, no," he insisted. "No need to worry for me. I was simply lost in my thoughts for a moment."
Then, he paused. Should he say something? The thought, for some reason, made him uneasy. His memory was far from trustworthy. Perhaps it would be better to wait until such suspicions were confirmed before bothering anyone with his errant thoughts.
Instead he offered a warm smile. "In fact, you ought to allow Neary and I to watch over her while you rest. You need it far more than I do.” He smiled more confidently. “My health is better than it ever has been, I assure you.”
“Oh, I see. So your leg is fine, then?” she prompted. “Not bothering you at all after you came running all the way across the forest?”
“Well, er…”
“And that limp you had while you were pulling the cart? Has it truly righted itself already? That is impressive.”
Ser gave her a sheepish smile. “Ah, well, perhaps not completely, but I really barely notice it. You have naught to worry about.”
She shook her head, smiling. “As long as you agree to stay off your feet, I’m willing to take a rest myself. Just make sure you really do stay off those feet. Understand?”
“Duly noted,” he said, placing his hand over his heart in salute.
Elissica rose to her feet, briefly touched his shoulder, and retreated towards her own bedroll.
Ser’s eyes were drawn back to the woman's face. He felt no particular connection to her—he felt relatively certain they had only met just the once. But there was a possibility that she might know him. What would he do, were that the case?
He had lived here for months now. He had taken on responsibilities, had made promises—that oarlock was hardly going to carve itself, after all. Leaving seemed unthinkable, but if she knew him…
He dropped the thought. There was no need to dwell on bridges he might never need to cross.
He looked up to find Neary approaching, his arms full of splint supplies. There was more work to be done.
*
"Lift your head just a little,” a woman’s voice said gently. “There you go."
Avlora did as the voice bade her. A cup was pressed to her lips, water gently tilted forward against her mouth. She was expected to drink, and she did so—or, at least, tried to.
She failed to swallow properly. It left her coughing, sputtering.
"Oh, darn it," a woman's voice said under her breath. She sounded frustrated. "Sorry about that, dear."
When the coughing subsided, Avlora opened her eyes. Above her, a woman with pink hair hovered. A Rosellan.
"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.
Avlora blinked at her. All right? Avlora was in a significant amount of pain. Her head spun from the coughing fit. And her heart ached from the loss.
She had…lost the battle with Wolffort and the prince, and subsequently fallen off Whiteholm Bridge, leaving the queen behind. After a long period of swimming for her life, she vaguely remembered washing up on the riverside. Had someone found her?
Presumably, she had avoided death. By others’ descriptions, hell had far more fire.
"I feel well enough," Avlora croaked. She tried to clear her throat. "Thank you," she said, no clearer than before. She looked around the room. A home, judging by the tapestries and pelts. "Where am I?"
"This is my home," the woman said, giving her a thin smile. "My name is Elissica. I practice healing."
“Oh.” Avlora blinked slowly. Already, unconsciousness was pulling at her, making it hard to think. This woman . . . saved her? Slowly, forcing each word, she said, “Thank you.”
She squeezed Avlora’s forearm. “We were glad to help.”
Avlora managed a slow, shallow nod. Her eyes fully closed. She was…safe, then. Away from Wolffort, from the prince, and…
Her eyes snapped open.
“Something wrong?” the woman asked, hand rising slightly, as if to heal.
Avlora stared at her. No. She was far from safe. Wolffort would be sending out a bounty for her. Even if they thought she was well and truly dead, they would still be looking to confirm it with a corpse.
The woman looked concerned. "I have a medicinal tea that helps with pain—let me prepare some for you."
The healer rose to her feet. Avlora watched as she crossed the room to a small raised cooking area, pulling out bundles of herbs from small pouches and putting a grate over the fire.
Avlora, for her part, contemplated the fact that she was a fugitive and that she had been taken in by a family that was clearly unaware of it.
What paths did that leave her? She could keep it a secret from them and run the risk of alienation were the truth to come to light. She could tell them who she was, throwing herself at the feet of their already-too-generous mercy.
Or . . . she could simply leave and refuse their generosity. That meant near certain death in her condition, but she had attempted more foolish things in her life. Even if she had been pulled all the way to the Norzelia Falls, the journey north to the crown city would take less than a day on foot. But then, what good would that do? The moment the prince lay eyes on her again, a fight was sure to follow. This time, it was unlikely that she would be so lucky as to stumble off the bridge at just the right time.
And yet, staying away was unthinkable. Avlora had sworn to be hers. She had no other purpose.
The Rosellan woman glanced over her shoulder, then crossed back towards Avlora. She dropped down, making a low, sympathetic noise. She brushed back some of Avlora's hair from her face in a gentle gesture that made her stomach turn.
Avlora clenched her jaw, closing her eyes. She must look pathetic, to draw such attention.
"It must hurt quite a bit," the woman said softly, running her fingers up through Avlora's hair. Her fingers moved freely, not catching on any tangles or clotted blood. Had they really gone through the trouble of washing it for her? "The tea will help, but…I apologize for not being able to offer anything more."
"You offer more than enough." Avlora opened her eyes, meeting those of the woman. "Truly, I…"
Her mouth hung there, prepared for words, but lacking any to speak. There was a small part of her that wanted to admit to everything—to ask for this woman's help and understanding. But that was foolish. These people were kind, but not so kind they would allow her to—
“Mama?”
Avlora’s eyes were drawn to a young girl, peeking through the doorway. Another Rosellan, likely no higher than Avlora’s knee. She was holding what appeared to be an annoyed cat in her arms, pushing open the door with her shoulder.
When the girl saw Avlora awake, she froze, and her eyes widened. “Oh! The lady’s awake!”
“Mm-hm,” Elissica said, turning away from Avlora. Her expression was exasperated but fond. “I thought you were supposed to be helping ser with the coop?”
“Yep,” the girl said cheerfully. The cat struggled in her arms, and she readjusted her arms to accommodate. “But the cat was sneaking around the pens again. Can I leave him in here til we’re done?”
Another head popped up higher in the doorway. "Ah, sorry, Elissica. I meant to stop her before she got here. I thought it best to take him to Barro's." His eyes found Elissica, then Avlora. Avlora watched, blinking blearily, as his face split into a grin. “Oh!” He bowed slightly—as much as he could with his position half-in-the-doorway, blocked by the girl. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Avlora managed, voice rough.
At her voice, he straightened, standing tall. There was something odd, perhaps curious in his expression. The longer Avlora looked, the more her thoughts fell into place. His sharp face, his gray braid. This was the man who had found her—who she had passed on her message to.
Her message. Which…had included her name.
Avlora felt suddenly ill.
“Melly and I will take this little friend of ours over to Barro’s and take care of the birds,” the man said warmly. “And when we finish, we shall return and make proper introductions. In any case, it does me good to see you awake, my friend—I hope you continue to rest easy.”
Avlora watched him shepherd the girl out, turning. He cast one last glance over his shoulder, smiling. Why on earth was he smiling?
If they knew her name, why were any of them smiling?
“That was my daughter Melly and our friend ser,” Elissica said.
“Friend ser?” Avlora echoed, too distracted to be sure whether it was truly strange, or whether her mind was simply refusing to function any longer. Perhaps ‘friend ser’ was a Rosellan title of some sort.
“Ah! Of course. No, his name is Ser,” she explained quickly. “Or, at least, that’s what we call him here.”
Avlora frowned. No, she was sure of it. That made no sense. “You…call him ‘Ser?’”
The woman chuckled. “Well, I know it probably sounds a little strange. But truth be told, he appeared here some time ago in a similar way to yourself—washed up from the river, injured and alone.” Shaking her head, she said, “The poor man has forgotten everything from his life before then. Not even his name. So…we began to call him ‘Ser,’ and the habit stuck.”
Lost every memory? Avlora glanced after him, towards the door. Was he…some sort of simpleton, then? He had seemed to speak eloquently enough, but she had met enough fools to know that conjuring pretty words was no sign of intelligence.
But if his memory was as poor as Elissica said…was there a chance, then, that he had simply forgotten her name?
“I see. I suppose—” Avlora tried to shift—just an inch, to try and relieve an ache in her back. At the top of her ribcage, there was a sickening feeling of something grinding against something it shouldn’t, and the pain of it sucked the breath from her lungs.
“Oh,” the woman said, frowning with concern. “Careful now. We managed to bring you back from the brink, but you still have a great ways to go before you fully recover. The tea should be done by now. Let me get it for you.”
Avlora nodded weakly, closing her eyes.
She returned a moment later, bearing a small, warm cup. Again, she helped Avlora to drink, assisting her as she raised her head to swallow. When the cup was drained, she helped Avlora lay back again, and pulled the blanket more fully around her shoulders.
“I believe your wounds are due for another round of healing,” the woman said. “Anything in particular I should focus on? It was difficult to tell before, but now that you can speak, if there’s something that feels especially wrong to you…”
Avlora considered. She admitted, “My upper torso. I think I must have taken a bad blow to the back.”
The woman nodded, standing and heading towards a shelf. Over her shoulder, she said with some dry humor, “You took more than one, I imagine.”
Avlora tensed at the possibility of further questioning, but none came. She watched as the woman picked a tome off a shelf and began flicking through the pages, searching for something. After settling on a spell, she retrieved a staff that lay against the shelf, then came back and sat by Avlora’s side.
“You have a broken arm and leg,” she said. She settled the book on her knee, looking over it as she absently slid her hand up to the neck of the staff, fingers drumming against the forked top. It was unlike the type of mage’s rods Avlora normally saw among military healers—lacking the customary glass sphere that helped to amplify the magical force. Instead, it almost took on the appearance of antlers. “I would wager a guess that you have a number of broken ribs as well.”
Broken bones… That made the idea of leaving substantially less feasible. Avlora was no weakling by any means, but even she had her limits. A day’s journey on a broken leg might just surpass hers. She was quickly running out of options.
But perhaps…perhaps this woman truly didn’t know who Avlora was. That would still leave open the path of staying here but remaining anonymous. She could still live.
Elissica turned her attention to the book. She held the staff upright, not quite touching the ground. She began reading off words Avlora recognized as incantations, and a small sphere of green light began forming in the center of the antler-like branches. As she continued to read, the ball of light started to shed sparks, and the sparks wafted towards Avlora’s chest, almost like smoke.
It was slow, but as the seconds passed, Avlora could feel muscles easing and bones shifting. A strange feeling—as magical healing always was.
She let her eyes close. Gradually, as the pain decreased, so did her hold on consciousness. She allowed it to happen, for her breathing to even, for her thoughts to quiet and wander. She could rest for now, and…figure out the rest later.
She was brought out of it when the door opened again, and small footsteps raced towards her. Avlora blinked awake, turning towards the source.
The same small girl from before—Melly?—stood at her mother’s shoulder, leaning over to observe Avlora. “We finished everything up,” she said, wrapping her arms around her mother in a brief hug.
“Good work,” Elissica said softly, using her free arm to return the embrace. “Thank you, Melly.”
“Hello,” the girl said in Avlora’s direction, smiling broadly.
Avlora managed a smile in response. Children usually responded well to smiles, even coming from her. “Hello.”
The girl settled herself on the floor beside her mother, leaning forward, propping up her chin as she watched the magic work. “What’s your name?
Avlora blinked. So they…truly didn’t know. The man had forgotten it, or else misremembered, and she—
“I believe she called herself Avlora,” the man called ‘Ser’ offered helpfully.
He had entered without Avlora’s notice. Her throat tightened as he approached with an easy smile.
Of course. Of course. He was a simpleton after all. He hadn’t forgotten her name—he was simply so foolish as to neglect to inform his hosts that he had brought an enemy general back to their home.
“Avlora,” the girl repeated cheerfully. “Av-lor-a.”
Avlora’s eyes flickered to Elissica. She, at least, seemed to understand the ramifications of what had just been said. She had stiffened, her eyes growing guarded. There was a certain ache that grew in Avlora’s chest at the sight—this was the reputation she had earned for herself here in Glenbrook. Through her deeds, she had ensured that the name Avlora was enough to put horror in the eyes of innocent men and women.
And yet, Avlora could not deny who she was. Softly, she admitted to it. “Yes. My name is Avlora. General Avlora, of Aesfrost.”
The response was immediate. Elissica turned to her daughter. “Melly, would you mind getting your father?”
She blinked. “Huh? I can’t. He’s fishing.”
“Go wait by the river until he comes back,” Elissica said, putting a hand on the girl’s head. “Bring him back here as soon as he lands. It’s important.”
The girl hesitated, clearly reluctant, but seeing the look on her mother’s face, she eventually nodded and scrambled to her feet, running out towards the door.
When she was gone, Avlora spoke. “I apologize. I should have told you sooner.”
“You hardly owe us an explanation,” Elissica said, voice far more quiet than it had been a few minutes ago. “You serve as the archduke’s right hand, don’t you?”
Avlora considered her wording for a moment. The woman seemed oddly deferential. As if she perhaps thought…ah.
“You owe me no respect,” Avlora stated. “Archduke Gustadolph no longer holds any power here. He was…run off, after a manner of speaking. Glenbrook has been retaken by the royal family.”
Elissica blinked. “What?”
“There was a battle at Whiteholm. House Wolffort led an attack, retaking the castle.” Avlora exhaled, staring up at the ceiling. “I attempted to hold them off, and failed. After I earned these injuries, I fell into the river, and after that…well. I suppose it needs no explanation.”
Elissica glanced behind her, at the man called Ser, expression stricken.
The man returned her gaze, expression vaguely shamed. “My apologies, Elissica. If I had realized, I would have…”
“It isn’t your fault,” Elissica said softly. She turned back to Avlora. Her voice was a little more distant, now, although Avlora was made hopeful by the fact that the tone stopped just short of completely cold—it was instead merely subdued. “Thank you for telling us. I’ll pass that on to the elders of the village, and we can decide on our course of action from there.”
“Do what you must,” Avlora said. “Whatever the end result of this may be, know that you have my gratitude for the kindness you have shown me.”
Elissica nodded. “Ser, will you—”
“I’ll watch over her,” he promised. “Go speak with the others.”
With a few words of farewell, Avlora watched as Elissica withdrew. The man, however, remained, still regarding her with an aura Avlora could only really describe as ill.
Avlora could sympathize—she felt ill enough herself. Her tongue failed to form words, and she simply remained silent, watching him in return.
After a moment, he shook his head, and then approached, sinking down by Avlora’s side.
“You are…a general of Aesfrost,” he said, looking at his hands, almost as if speaking to himself. His posture was closed, stiff.
Avlora watched his expression carefully. It seemed…shell-shocked more than anything, caught somewhere between anxiety and a sort of distractedness. Less frightened than she might expect. Perhaps he still didn’t truly understand who she was, even after being told.
“I am," she said slowly.
Still, even if he didn’t fully understand, oftentimes those who had only a half-knowledge were the most dangerous—those who were delusional or ignorant, as this man seemed to be. Would he too offer a crazed onslaught of accusations and condemnations? If it came down to it, she would physically fend him off, but…
“This might be an odd question.” His voice was low, hesitant. “But, do you know me?”
Avlora blinked at him. That…was far from the accusation she was expecting. “What?”
He shook his head. Avlora waited for him to speak again. He worked his jaw, as if trying to build his next statement, sound by sound. “Perhaps know is too strong a word. I mean to ask if we’ve met before—at…some sort of festival, perhaps, or an event of some kind?"
"A…festival."
"There was music, and tables set for dining," he said, oblivious to her dubious tone. His fingers drummed uneasily against his knee. "It was during the late morning, in a garden. You had separated from the main party to stand on a raised balcony of some sort.” He shook his head. “Forgive me. The details are vague—I can remember little other than that."
“...I thought I understood that you had lost your memories,” Avlora said slowly.
The man blinked at her. “Oh. Did Elissica already explain?”
“She did.” Avlora appraised him. His expression was apparently earnest, but his words were at total odds with what Elissica had said—she had expressly mentioned that he had lost all his memories, had she not?
Was this a purposeful deception on his part then? Perhaps he was not simple, then, but instead a pathological liar.
She narrowed her eyes.
He blanched.
“Er—not to say I lied about losing my memories.” His face continued to pale, and his hands moved in a somewhat frantic fashion, waving awkwardly before he pressed one to his heart. “On my honor, I did forget all I knew. But I…” He faltered. “When I saw you, I seemed to remember you. Only this one meeting, simply seeing you at a festival. Before that, I could claim no memories whatsoever—I give you my word.”
His distress at least seemed genuine enough. Yet whether that distress was derived from being misunderstood or at being caught out, she was less certain. “I…see.”
“It might not be a real memory at all,” he said quickly. “Part of me thinks it must be only a figment of my own imagination. But…I thought I should ask. Pray, pay me no mind if it upsets you.”
Avlora hesitated, but after a moment, begrudgingly considered the question in earnest. She was not fully convinced the man was not in some way brainsick, but if it would put an end to this curiosity of his…
She had attended her fair share of political events—against her will, always—and was certain she had attended more events of that description than she had fingers to count with. She was unlikely to know one face from the thousands of others she had come across in both Aesfrost and Glenbrook.
But…looking at his face now, it was admittedly striking. He was a Glenbrook man and looked it, what with his too-delicate features and strangely sharp jaw. But there was something about his eyes that was…nice. Bright, clear, focused. If this encounter he imagined had occurred anytime recently, she felt certain she would remember eyes like that.
She replied simply. "My apologies. If we have ever met before today, I fail to recall it."
His shoulders sagged in…what she expected to be disappointment, but which looked very much like relief. “I see. I admit, part of me hoped you would say as much. When I came here, I—”
Avlora nearly flinched. If she were a better person, or if this day had been any less of a waking nightmare, she might allow this man to regale her with the details of his life story. But even on a good day, Avlora was reluctant to hear of others' personal affairs, and for now Avlora’s exhaustion outweighed her compassion. An explanation, if she ever cared to hear one, would have to wait for another day.
“Your business is your own,” Avlora said, perhaps a little too quickly. “You have no obligation to explain it to me.”
The man blinked, realization dawning in his eyes. "Ah. Of course. I apologize—here I am, bothering you with my own troubles while you yourself are in such a state. Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need food? Or water?"
"Just rest," Avlora said, exhaustion coloring her voice.
He nodded quickly. "Of course. Allow me to leave you to it, then. I plan to sit just over there, so, please…call out if there's anything you need."
And with that, he rose to his feet and left her.
*
Ser retreated to the corner of the room, feeling dizzy.
He all but collapsed onto one of the floor cushions. From this side of the room, he could see that the woman—General Avlora—had already closed her eyes, her head lolling to the side, face pale and worn.
He did know her. Even with her bruises, he had recognized her face. Her voice, her name, her title—all of it had been familiar to him. That was a fact. Or, at least, if it was something other than a fact, he was bereft of even more of his sanity than he had originally suspected. He had mentioned to the general that it was possibly just his imagination, but…was it possible that he was simply imagining all of it? That this entire situation was only the result of a feeble mind—some false memory or delusion?
He glanced towards Avlora. She still certainly seemed familiar. Something about the way she spoke, her directness—it felt like an echo of an old friend. Assuming he was not, in fact, completely mad, his memory was being proven accurate.
And yet…she had declared him a stranger. As much as he was sure they had met at some point in their lives, she was apparently unable to recall his face. Ser was unsure whether he was disappointed or relieved. In the end, he felt mostly…confused, unsure of how to feel about this woman and his potential relation to her.
Perhaps that was for the best that she failed to recognize him. She was an Aesfrosti general after all—a criminal. He had heard some of what Aesfrost had done in the capital, and it had always struck him as unsettling. Killing off everyone in the royal family except for their young daughter, forcing her into a betrothal…
Although…it was true that this General Avlora had spent her last few breaths at the riverside asking him to deliver an apology to the queen. Perhaps the invading party had not been quite as cruel as he had been brought to believe.
He shook his head, clearing the topic from his mind. The politics of it all were far separated from him, and he was glad for it. Yes. Perhaps it was for the best that he could claim no relation to the general.
He stood, walking around the room, clearing away odds and ends, picking up the cup at the general’s side. By appearances, she was already fast asleep, looking as peaceful as someone covered in bandages could. He was glad his questioning hadn’t seemed to upset her, in any case. She was bad enough off as it was without him making things even more painful for her.
He left her, and went just out the door, to where they kept a small basket of items for washing. He set the dishes down just in time to see two people walking towards him. One was Elissica, and the other the village elder. Both were frowning.
Their poor expressions certainly seemed an unfortunate omen for the general's fate. Ser straightened, holding up a hand in greeting. "Hello there, Nara. Elissica."
"Hello, Ser." Nara strode the rest of the way to the door, glancing at it. “How is our guest?”
"She seems to be in stable condition,” Ser answered dutifully. “I believe she currently sleeps.”
Elissica placed a firm hand on the elder’s shoulder, a worried look on her face. "Perhaps it would be best if you come back later. I would prefer not to wake her."
Nara held Elissica’s gaze, eyes softening. For a moment, Ser was sure she was about to agree and promise to return later. But just as quickly, she bled the softness away—squaring her shoulders, shaking her head. "No. Better to rip the arrow from the wound and let it heal.”
Elissica's grip briefly tightened on Nara’s shoulder, but then she sighed. Her hand fell a moment later, dropping to her side. "Of course. I understand. But please—keep things quiet."
Nara nodded, and made her way inside. Elissica followed, and Ser went in after her.
The general was, of course, still sleeping, but Nara would hardly need to interrogate her to see that the woman was injured. In addition to the obvious bandages, her skin was unnaturally pale, and bruises were beginning to form—twin black eyes, a deep purple blotch across a generous quarter of her face, inky lines running across her shoulders where her armor must have slammed into her skin.
“Hm.” Nara slowed to a halt, eyes scanning across her. “This is even worse than you described.”
“You see?” Elissica said in a low, gentle voice. “We don’t have anything to fear from her.”
“Perhaps not from her, but as for those who pursue her…” She turned back to Elissica with a grim slant to her mouth. “She mentioned House Wolffort?”
Elissica gave a reluctant nod. “She did.”
Nara turned back to Avlora, clasping her hands behind her back, idly curling and uncurling her fingers. Conflict played out over her features, creasing her brow, adding tension to her jaw. “If it were anyone but Wolffort…”
“Is there something wrong with Wolffort?” Ser wondered.
Nara glanced in his direction. “Nothing wrong, in so many words. But they happen to be the Roselle’s one political ally. To risk losing their favor by harboring a criminal they seek…”
Ser nodded slowly. He was aware of the Roselle’s predicament. He had heard it referenced on more occasions than he could properly remember, even if he still failed to grasp the finer details of the situation. To his understanding, the Roselle had been discriminated against by the neighboring Hyzante for some period of years. That is, until House Wolffort had granted a group of them asylum. From there, they had established a central village, which to this day House Wolffort offered protection to.
This village was a mere offshoot, a smaller split-off portion of the overall Rosellan population that had come to the Falkes demesne in search of more fertile soil. House Wolffort offered no direct protection, but based on Nara’s words, it seemed their support to the central village was still enough to merit her loyalty.
Nara shook her head, sighing. “There’s nothing for it. We have no recourse but to give her up to them.”
Elissica blinked at her. “You would make that decision so quickly? You know they won’t allow her to live.”
“Betraying Wolffort is not an option available to us,” Nara said firmly.
Elissica shook her head slowly, genuine surprise on her face. “It would hardly be a betrayal. We have received no word from them—no bounty, no notice. If this woman had kept her identity to herself, we would have never known she was their enemy to begin with. They can hardly expect us to offer up what they have yet to ask of us.”
“You suggest we keep her hidden here until they come knocking?”
“I suggest they might never come knocking at all,” Elissica said pointedly. “Why would they? Only the main village knows our location, and they keep it a secret as well as we do.”
“All the more reason to not let them stumble upon us. If we return and leave this woman at the riverside—”
Elissica choked on a startled, disbelieving laugh. “Wait, what? You mean to leave her back at the riverside? Like an unwanted cat?”
“Elissica,” Nara said sharply.
Elissica only shook her head, disbelieving. “Nara, come now. I know you to be a sensible woman. I realize there is some risk involved, but a life is worth a little risk, isn’t it?”
So distracted by their conversation, Nara and Elissica failed to notice as General Avlora stirred, then blinked awake, her eyes drifting until they found the two women. Her brow furrowed, as if confused.
Ser noticed, however. And he saw the moment her vision cleared, clarity and focus settling into her eyes.
“Perhaps one life,” Nara said, raising her chin. “But you ignore the lives of all those who may suffer for the life of this one woman.” She softened her voice, making it low, almost gentle. “Please understand. You know what awaits us if we lose Wolffort’s protection.”
Elissica stopped, frozen, the comfortable levity bleeding from her expression, replaced by something far more serious.
Ser glanced between them, unable to fully understand just what had caused the sudden frigidness in the air. The tension, the fear on Elissica’s face seemed too much, too quickly.
“You know what you risk, taking in a criminal,” Nara said, stern but not unkind—a teacher’s voice. “Not only for yourself, but for all of us: for my children and yours, and for our sister village. If the Wolfforts think for a moment we may work with those who seek to destroy them—after how much they have sacrificed to keep us safe—”
“Of course I know,” Elissica said, voice quiet, her hands falling loosely by her side. “I could never forget.”
“Then you must be sensible,” Nara said softly. “Some may have the luxury of always choosing the kind path, but we are not so fortunate. We follow the law, and Wolffort protects us in turn. That is the tax that all in Glenbrook pay to live safely.”
“Can you hear the hypocrisy in your own words?” Elissica said softly.
A pained look flickered across Nara’s face. Ser found himself feeling sorry for her—many of the decisions for the village were thrown entirely on this woman’s shoulders, only because she dared to be the oldest of those who lived in it. Rosellan custom, and yet, what of those not suited to leadership? Those with hearts too hard, or too soft?
“The situations are different,” Nara said finally. “We did nothing to deserve the punishment heaped upon us. But this woman… She knew what she was risking when she picked up her sword.”
If Avlora was offended by the words, Ser would never know it. Her expression was totally impassive as she observed.
“Would Hyzante not say the same of us? That we deserve the fate they deem us worthy for?”
“Elissica,” Nara said sharply. “Enough. You would make this decision more difficult than it already is?”
Elissica pressed her lips thin, looking away.
Nara stared at her for a long moment before shaking her head. “I shall…take another hour to deliberate, and to discuss it with the other elders. I would hear their thoughts before making a final decision.” She sighed. “But I have no expectation of hearing a different opinion from their lips—and neither should you. This is no time for idealism.”
“Of course. I understand,” Elissica said quietly. “Thank you.”
Nara nodded. She walked to Elissica, squeezing her shoulder as she passed by. “The burden of this decision is my own. Come what may, your conscience is clear—know that I alone shall claim responsibility.”
Elissica nodded once more, then watched as Nara departed, her posture deflating.
When the door fully shut behind the elder, Ser remained, unsure of how, or if, he should break the silence. It was at times like these that he felt the most an outsider—unable to completely bear the burdens that those he loved bore. How could he know how Elissica felt now? How could he ever truly understand what caused her to look as gaunt as she did?
But eventually, Elissica herself broke the spell. She turned to Ser, a thin smile on her face. “You must think me a fool.”
“I think you a kind woman,” Ser said softly. “And I admire your bravery.”
She shook her head. “No. My kindness is just cowardice in fine robes. In truth, part of me hopes they do disagree with me.” She looked after the door. “It’s just that…even after all these years, I still find myself relying on superstition. I often feel that, with enough good deeds, we might…” She trailed off, gaze growing distant. “...redeem ourselves, I suppose.”
Ser folded his hands behind his back, wishing he could say something comforting, but finding nothing appropriate.
Eventually, she shook her head, clearing it, then turned back to Ser, offering a more genuine smile. “Never mind. In any case, thank you for the compliment.” She turned, then, to Avlora, dusting off her hands. “It is nice to hear, even if—”
She stopped short, eyes widening.
Ser startled. “Is something wrong?”
Elissica staggered forward a few steps, her mouth forming broken half-phrases. “The general—she—she was just—"
Ser followed her gaze, and felt the blood drain from his own face.
The general’s bedroll was empty.