"Is the horse ready for him?" High Marshal Guitirre had the reins of his own steed wrapped around his hand, and his eyes were kept to the slow, sweeping shadow that was beginning to pass over Torrezon. The sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and its last fading rays were fading fast.
"Yes, High Marshal."
"Vazante?" Guitirre looked over at his Marshal. "Ready?"
"Yes, sir," Arturo said. A bit of cosmium had done him well, but he still looked like a stiff breeze might knock him over. Guitirre would recommend him for a high commendation when this was over.
If they both survived, naturally.
"You can get us all the way to Alta Torrezon, yes?"
"Yes, High Marshal. One way or another, we'll get there," Arturo answered. He held his moonsilver spear in one hand, looking back to the omenpath. A few of the Champions were warily watching Koda-Haruko. Arturo had told them to stop being stupid, that he wasn't a demon, that this was an oni-kami bond, yes they are different, he was from a different plane, and for them to focus on what was more important.
Cardinal Sirocco had given each of them blessings in the hour before dusk, and she was now situated on her own steed. She was not going to accompany them all the way back to Alta Torrezon, just far enough to dive back towards Austello once the pontifex was safely retrieved.
Darkness came for them. There was no stars in the sky to greet them as day became night. There were subtle clinking of armor as Champions brought their weapons up, ready.
"Contact!" one shouted as the omenpath began to flex and swirl. All eyes became trained on it and the blood-covered man who walked through.
A man who bore white bat's wings on his back and a great spear held in one hand. Strange clothing also covered him, but he had a more determined look in his eyes. The Champions bristled. Guitirre looked down at him, gently soothing Aster, who was growling.
"Pontifex Fein," he said by means of greeting. "I do hope you do not intend on telling us that we have been fighting in this war for nothing and that we're joining with the great maniacal bat-thing attacking us tonight."
"No, High Marshal. Far from that," said Mavren. "I am here to save our home, not force us to kneel before him. I will explain these," he flexed his wings, "in time. But know that I am ally and friend, not foe. Speaking of..." he took a step to the side of the omenpath. "I do not come alone."
Spring had come at last. The cold ache of winter receded, letting the new yellow-green growths on the trees finally color the hills and mountains that clove Torrezon in half. The rivers were running high, new life was growing and blooming everywhere, and the sun was shining.
Arturo had received a small bonus stipend a short while back that he had been saving for this trip. They would need a proper arrangement of horses, hearty and trail-tested ones at that, in order to carry everyone and everything through the mountains. He had invited the High Marshal to come join him before he set off back home. Guitirre had been a little surprised at the invitation, but decided to take him up on the offer.
"A few weeks out in nature will do you good," Arturo had said to him. From the look on his face, the older vampire couldn't disagree.
He made sure to stock up on plenty of supplies -- tents, things to sleep on, various tools, a number of maps, all kept either bound to saddlebags or things that would need to be carried. Arturo had planned for at least thirty to accompany them on this trip, just to be safe. It was going to be a long journey.
Lazaro had been a bit hesitant to leave his own duties behind. There was much to be done, much to plan, but Arturo had been incredibly insistent, and so the priest finally caved. The paladin knew he'd be thanking him later. Hopefully. So long as the others didn't get into too much trouble, of course.
The paladin did compromise on stopping in a small village on the eastern side, after they crossed back over, just so he could send out a bit of paperwork that he'd be bringing along with him. He thought that Lazaro might've been granted more leeway now that the bat was gone, even temporarily, but apparently he was wrong in that assumption.
Regardless, he also had made some arrangements to ensure that the animals were being watched. Hibana would be accompanying, but on leash. Otherwise he knew the wolf would simply run off and get too lost on his own. Luckily, getting the leash to be nearly as long as his house was wide wasn't of too much trouble, so he could still run enough. Aster, Guitirre's mastiff, seemed not to like him very much. The High Marshal told her to hush her whining and growling.
He went through one last bit of counting to make sure that everything was ready before he went to go call Vasro to begin grabbing their guests and fellow adventurers.
The highest relevant authority is being notified: a fugitive, wanted for months now, has simply… turned themself in. One @biilziebub-rakdos, already shackled for convenience, landed outside Alta Torrezon and asked to be brought to “that optifine guy. Mavren. Or whatever you’ve got instead of wojek commander-general types, I guess.”
Since then, the prisoner has been entirely compliant and oddly friendly, though she rapidly becomes sullen when left unattended or ignored.
The prisoner is left isolated and alone.
Several complaints from various prisoners means all of the adjacent cells are left vacated, for the most part. Many of those within the current prisons of Alta Torrezon pending trial from the Church are traitors who surrendered themselves and are pleading for penance and mercy. They do not wish to entangle themselves with an extraplanar murderer. They have enough issues as-is.
Some also do not speak the interplanar vernacular well enough to begin to understand the strange little demon that had joined the prisons.
But most of the prisoners are left isolated and alone. Better for them not to start colluding or planning a means of escape. Not that the guardians who prowled the shadows like skilled hunters would allow for such a thing, anyway. And if any would, they would swiftly be on the wrong side of the bars.
After a few days, a trio of gold-armored paladins flanked by priests robed in black approach the cell.
"You have been summoned," one of the more menacing looking paladins stated. "You will come with us."
The priests moved into the cell to begin placing proper bindings around the prisoner, just enough to hold and prevent any sort of means of easy escape. The demon is then marched, flanked on all sides, up and out of the cold and dark prisons. A few of the other prisoners shout things indistinctly. They sound vaguely insulting.
Up and out and into the cold darkness of the night they march. A bitter wind whips some of the snow off the tops of various buildings and high archways built around the city, stirring cloaks and forcing some of those still out and about to pull their heads a bit closer into their collars. Scarcely any people are out at this time. A few soldiers mill about, human and vampire alike, but scarcely any who are not of some form of distinguished rank. At least not through the winding back streets the group is taking.
Towards the northeastern edge of the city lies a squat, stony structure. In a time long since unremembered by the living, it was obviously a keep or a guardhouse, now long since transformed into a far larger structure. Soft light illuminates the small windows from within. As they approach a pair of iron-wrought wooden doors, one of the priests gives it a knock. A voice asks something, and they respond, "we have the prisoner."
The sound of creaking and clattering chains heralds the doors opening. Boisterous shouts and cries of triumph and sorrow echo from down a long hall. Flickering torches light the path, and the hall opens up into a greater roofed arena. There are passageways that split from the hall, some apparently moving upwards, most likely toward the many rows of seats around the ring. There are a good number of paladins present, many in their gleaming golden armor, some left in their under armor clothing, the fabric of which starkly resembles flayed muscles.
Black smoke stirs in the center of the arena. The occasional brief clang of metal-on-metal rings like the tolling of the cathedral bells, usually leaving someone falling to the sand-covered floor. More cheers and some booing follow swiftly after.
"High Marshal," one of the escorting priests says as they make their way onto the arena floor. "We have him."
The mist clears. High Marshal Guitirre is holding a silvered rapier in his hand, a second, smaller blade belted opposite. A smile crosses his face.
"What took you so long, Ribeiro?" he asked. His apparent opponent pushes themselves to their feet and swiftly gets out of the way. A stormy look crosses the priest's face before Guitirre raises his arm and puts up two fingers. "A joke, Condemner. I am trying to lighten the mood."
"This is hardly a time for levity, High Marshal," the condemner answers gruffly. They nod to the paladins who bring their demonic charge front and center. Guitirre lightly rolls his eyes, spinning his wrist in an arc and resting his blade on his shoulder.
"This is a first for the Legion of Dusk," he said. "We knew that we would have to anticipate the punishment of off-plane foes and the like, but nothing had been codified for how to deal with them yet. You have the tremendous dishonor of being our little..." he paused, thinking, closing one eye and tilting his head. "Oh, what is that thing they do the experiments on? Ach, whatever, that isn't important." He shook his head. "What is important is the invocation of Lex Admiralis."
"Lex Maris," the condemner corrected. Guitirre gave them a small look.
"Yes, Lex Maris, my infinite apologies," he said, not sounding one bit apologetic. "This is what gives me potential jurisdiction over you. In not-so-fancy-talk, that means I get to decide what we do with you. To a point." He tapped the edge of his rapier against his shoulder again. "Why you're here is quite simple; I'm giving you a chance at freedom. But if and only if you can beat me at a duel. If you win, you go free, and that will be that. If you lose, you'll be more at the Church's mercy than mine anymore. And you might be a bit thankful for that at first." There was a gleam in his eye.
He made a motion with the tip of his blade to a number of humans who were standing on the far side of the arena. They quickly dashed off through a pair of wooden doors, returning with armfuls of weaponry.
"The rules of engagement shall be thus; you get your choice of main weapon and sidearm, just as I have." He spun the rapier in his hand and used it to point to his own sidearm. "You may also select a shield, if you so wish to have it. No magic, no sorcery, no planeswalking. The condemners here will help ensure that you cannot get away with any little tricks. You may also not have any access to allies. That means no one can suddenly appear to help aid you in the combat itself nor try to distract or harry me. If any appear, you forfeit your right to freedom, and I get to be a bit more mean than I intend to be. I see you have wings, there," he gestured to them with the rapier, "and so, if you fly, I fly. That is the only form of magic I will be allowed to employ, and I am not going to use it until you fly first. Otherwise, I am just as bound to these rules as you are. Do you have any questions before the condemners do their thing and we begin?"
"I need a confessor cell, and I need a condemner, and I need them now," Guitirre said as he walked into the cathedral. Despite the fact that most of it was made of wood instead of the usual stonework for such holy gathering places, his voice still carried far enough for the priests occupying it to hear him.
"High Marshal-"
"Now, please," he said, all but growling the words. "I will meet them in the cell, thank you." He brusquely walked past the priests that were in the nave, towards a hall that snaked behind the pulpit to where the confessor cells were. Usually, these would be below ground or more separate from the rest of the cathedral, but there was only so much room on a ship.
The cells were just large enough for the one needing to confess and the priest attending them to fit somewhat comfortably facing each other. A bench was on either side of the room, and the door could lock and seal itself for privacy's sake. Sometimes it was necessary, sometimes not.
Guitirre sat himself down and felt his fist clenching and unclenching. He was too tense. Too flighty and too fighty. He needed to have something done about this. His teeth were bared in a snarl by the time the condemner entered. He was dressed warmly and thickly, making him meld into the shadows cast by the lamp that hung overhead.
"High Marshal," he greeted with a calm, placid voice.
"Condemner Astelo," Guitirre greeted back. There was some strain in his voice, and he was starting to grip his thigh to keep himself in check. Oh, his hunger was up and high, and the cosmium had only barely dulled it. That was bad. That was very bad.
The condemner's dark eyes looked at him, then gently locked and sealed away the door. "Can you contain yourself?" the priest asked.
"Just enough," Guitirre answered, digging his nails in a bit tight. The pain was helping him ground himself, though his jaw was working as though he were a fish gasping for air. "And, before you ask, I just had some cosmium from the ship. It isn't working as well as it should. My hunger is up, and it has been for a few days now, to the point where I don't know if I can --" he paused and involuntarily snarled, gritting his teeth together. "If I can be close to the humans right now. I can hear their pulses too keenly. I fear I'm finally going mad."
"The indulgence from the equinox was not enough?" the priest asked. Guitirre hated how unaffected he sounded. He knew why he was this way; they had to be. Neutrality meant they could keep level heads even when dealing with men like him growling and snarling and struggling against their worst aspects and instincts.
"No," he said. "It was enough to take the edge off, but just. I can't..." he snarled again, shaking his head. "Bastard..."
"What do you want to do?" the priest asked calmly. Guitirre snarled and growled, fighting to keep his temper and hunger in check. But oh, it was clawing now. Oh, Saint and stars, it was bad.
"I need to sink my fangs into something," he answered. "I need to tear at someone. I need to fight, I need to feed, I need to--" he paused, gritting his teeth hard and pressing himself against the wall, hissing. The condemner made a warding gesture with his hands, closing his eyes and speaking a soft prayer. Guitirre felt some of the ache ease, allowing for a bit more sense to come to him.
"I see now," Astelo spoke softly, eyes still closed. "You do have much burdening you, High Marshal."
"When don't I?" he snapped. He winced internally, but the condemner knew he wasn't of a good temperament right now.
"Would it help if I gave you leave to air your grievances?" Astelo asked, opening his eyes. Guitirre snorted.
"Half of them would be treasonous or blasphemous," he growled. He grit his teeth and suppressed a very deep growl.
"You may speak them," Astelo said, keeping his voice light and even. "I will not see you punished for speaking them. None can hear us, and nothing shall leave this cell."
Guitirre looked at him, still gripping his own leg tight. He felt a bit of blood welling beneath his claws. An easy enough mend he could see to later.
"I need Her Majesty and the Pontifex to get off my damn throat," he growled. "I need everyone to realize that just because I have the most seniority does not mean I can solve every damn problem that we come across. I have to organize this summer offensive against the Betrayer, now I have to organize a garrison on other planes, now I have to help my grandson seek clemency through the Church before he has a child because it is already going to be enough getting the marriage verified as is, I have to coordinate this next resupply, I have to admonish my officers for fucking off, I have to do everything," he said harshly, gnashing his teeth together, "and I cannot tell anyone else this because apparently we have no one else left to turn to for all of these problems."
His small tirade hung in the air for a moment. His chest and clothes felt tight. Too tight. He grasped a hold of his leg harder, feeling his arm starting to tremble.
"And that is not even taking into account the fact that I am the one who is organizing and training these greenhorns when I explicitly requested only veterans for my fleet, but that couldn't be done because the majority of them are dead because of this damn interplanar invasion, and now we have a secondary invasion to watch for, that I am going to get dragged into again, and I--" he slammed his fist on the bench "-- am going to go mad if I don't get to vent this in the only damn way my body is properly telling me how."
The condemner listened to him without much of a reaction. It was driving him mad. He should be saying something. Disagreeing, admonishing him, something, anything, this was maddening, he needed--
The priest held up a hand and he felt his body going rigid. He was forced against the wall, almost painfully.
"Is your mind your own?" the condemner asked, the sonorous ringing of higher authority entering his voice. Guitirre's face was pressed against the wooden wall. He could feel it twitching.
"Yes," he said, swallowing thickly.
"You were about to lunge at me," the priest told him. There was no judgement, it was just stated as fact. "Do you feel the need to do so now?"
Guitirre waited. His hand was still flexing, his jaw slightly open. "No," he answered. "Not at you."
"Then at who?"
Prey, his hunger told him. He closed his eyes and growled at it to be silent. "Something I can feed from," he answered. "Safely. I do not wish to commit a blasphemy."
"You have already fed."
"It is not enough," the High Marshal snarled. "Can't you see it? I just need to indulge it just this once. You know I'm usually better than this."
"I do. Which is why I wish to make sure your mind is truly your own," the priest said.
"The bastard has been influencing us all," Guitirre snarled. "Of course he's going after me a bit more harshly."
Blood of the Venerables, was his hunger bad. He could feel the icy claws of it raking over him, and he found himself growling deeply. He could feel the priest's eyes raking over him. He knew the priest was doing more than just seeing his physical state. Some part of him prayed that he wasn't about to be condemned and discarded.
What an ignoble end that would be. Driven mad by the line of duty.
But that wasn't what happened. No, instead, the priest slowly stood, then reached over and gently gripped the High Marshal's face, forcing their eyes to meet. Pain, like icy needles just beneath the skin, began to radiate through his body. He began to shake from it, gasping from the agony, but letting it run its course.
After an eternity, it was over, and he was released. He slumped heavily against the bench, stunned for a moment before he slowly pushed himself more upright.
"Condemner," he said, his voice feeling thick and frog-like, "please. I'll forgo for a week if I must. I just... let me indulge my instincts this one time. I know we brought a small surplus for this reason, and I made sure to get more cosmium as well, but - please."
The priest sat back down across from him, folding his hands over his lap. Lingering traces of black smoke danced around his fingers "Your mind and soul are your own," he said. "I see no deep-rooted claws from the Betrayer in you, though he does stain you as he stains us all." The priest made a warding gesture. "Your confessions are heard and received."
"Astelo," Guitirre said, forgetting himself for a moment. "Please. I can't be near the humans. Even now, I can feel their pulses nearby. It is going to drive me to a very deep place I do not want to go. Just one is all I need." He was trembling, though he wasn't growling or snarling nearly as much. The condemner had drained much of his strength with his soulseeing.
A precaution when dealing with someone like him.
Astelo gave him an even look, seemingly weighing his options. He then smoothly stood. "Wait here." He unlocked and unsealed the chamber, stepping out and closing the door behind him. Guitirre rested his head against the wall, looking up toward the lantern swinging above him.
He wanted to howl. He wanted to run, to chase, to prowl and feel the fear of the humans before he could finally be upon them, putting his fangs to their throats, and feeling that warm, succulent lifeblood flowing into him so easily...
He was grasping tightly to the bench by the time the condemner returned. A blindfolded petitioner was with him. Guitirre's eyes snapped onto them the moment they entered, wide and wild, his jaw slightly parted, his fangs glinting in the light.
"For the crime of murdering his daughter, I bequeath his life unto you," Astelo said, closing the door and sealing it behind him. "Do as you may."
This wasn't quite how he wanted it, but his hunger was so insatiable he didn't care. He leapt on the poor soul, tearing at his throat and making an absolute mess of himself while doing it. He just needed to allow himself to be violent as he fed, that was all. It was regretable, and he knew the condemner was already planning his penance for the act, but he couldn't help it.
He would've gone down a very, very deep chasm. He could feel himself teetering on that precipice, and this act saved him from going over.
There was not much of a body once it was over. He had devoured flesh as well as blood, something rare but not unheard of among the paladins. When Guitirre got like this, his hunger craved and demanded both, and he was finally feeling satiated for the first time in weeks.
There was a whispered laugh, cruel and mocking, in his ears once he was done and wiping the blood from his face.
"How long am I going to be paying for this?" he asked, licking the blood off his hand.
"Considering everything you confessed to me, I will allow for this indulgence just this once," the condemner answered. "So long as this remains the only time, High Marshal. If the need arises for this again, you most certainly will have to travel a path of repentance and faith."
"Bless you mightily, condemner," Guitirre said, sitting himself on the bench. He closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling the weight that had been crushing him slowly abating. Oh, Elenda's sacred teeth did that feel good. He shuddered and shook himself out a little. "Will I be paying for any that I confessed?"
"As I stated, I will let the blasphemy and treasonous language be forgiven. I have searched your heart of hearts, and I know you to be faithful and loyal," the priest told him. "If I had sensed ill-intent, then I would have acted."
"Bless you again," the High Marshal replied, relaxing against the wall. "Though I do need to actually speak with you about the 'clemency for my grandson' bit."
"What sort of clemency is he seeking?"
"He left the Legion after he was abandoned by a superior officer and became a captain for the Storm Fleet in the Coalition," Guitirre explained. "He's seeking clemency for his actions. He wishes to come home and settle with his soon-to-be husband, and he wishes to be wed."
The priest tilted his head. "That is quite unusual."
"Not unheard of. I know we've taken turncoats before," the High Marshal replied. He flicked off a bit more blood. "And, if need be, I will pull on the fact that the Church and Crown owe me for me doing as much as I have been."
"He seeks to settle and marry?"
"Yes."
"I suppose that should be simple enough," the condemner said, tapping a finger on his furry chin. "A renewal of vows of faith and loyalty, a renunciation of his past..."
"I should also mention that he is traduco, however the Coalition hasn't... changed anything for him," Guitirre added. "Because of this, he is pregnant. He is looking to be wed before the child is born. He was already considering marriage to his soon-to-be husband long before, but this has solidified things, obviously."
Now the priest's brows drew together, and he frowned. "That is more of something the glorifiers and hospitalers can deal with rather than someone such as I," he said. "In terms of fully making him a man, I mean. And dealing with the child. I shall see what we can do, though it may be difficult with us being sea-bound until our rest and resupply point." He paused. "The proper one."
"We do have means of getting messages across to the mainland and its priests," Guitirre said, raising a brow. "Weren't you granted some of the new enchanted stock?"
"I was, but I was told it was only for emergencies."
"Well, now would be a brilliant case. I need this done and hopefully over with by the time the voyage is over, if not only a few weeks after. That way he isn't too encumbered by the child he's carrying and I can see what properties I can settle him into," Guitirre said. The priest gave him a strange look, then a slow nod.
"Very well," he said slowly and carefully. "I shall see what I can do for you."
"You have my appreciations and thanks," Guitirre said, offering him a small bow. He looked to the mangled corpse. "I'll--"
"I will have it dealt with, High Marshal," Astelo said with a raised hand. "You can clean yourself right down the hall before you return to your duties. I will reach out to my fellows and superiors and see what must be done for this grandson of yours to seek clemency."
Guitirre smiled at him. "That is all I need. Thank you kindly, condemner." Astelo dipped his head, then unlocked and unsealed the door and let the High Marshal out. Guitirre stepped over the remains of the corpse, feeling rejuvinated and properly satiated, and a bit more like he could actually handle things.
He'd need to keep an eye on his temper and his hunger, that was for sure. But surely he wouldn't have need for an episode like this again.
He remembered well the feeling of dangling over that deep, abyssal madness. He had felt it several times before, and he remembered clawing, straining hard to remain in the realm of sanity and coherency. He knew he didn't want to go back.
He re-adjusted his cloak over his shoulder as he went to go cleanse himself. The water was cold and brisk. Refreshing against his skin, which no longer felt too tight and clammy. Warmth was returning to him, proper warmth. His will was being renewed. He still felt terrible that it had to be this way, but everyone had to make sacrifices.
He wasn't going to go back to that point, he told himself. Not while he'd have anything to say about it. And the only time he wouldn't was when he was deep in the ground.
He wiped everything clean, or as clean as he could make it. He knew there were small alleyways that he could slip through to get back to his quarters unnoticed so he could change into less-bloodied clothing. Astelo would keep this secret, as he was bound to do, unless his superiors demanded it of him, which they wouldn't.
Even if they would, there was not much he could actually say. Confessions stayed between the priest and the one confessing.
He sighed once he made it back to his cabin, rolling his shoulder. His mind wandered to Andres and that orc Cristomo. A few times in his long life he had wondered what sort of life he would've led if he had settled for a man instead of a woman. Every once in a while, there would be one who definitely interested him, but he remained steadfastly loyal to his beautiful and beloved wife. But the thought remained.
The temptation remained, too, but it was cold as buried ash. He did not regret his life. He did not regret the great and beautiful family that he had and loved and fought for every day of his everlong life.
But his mind still wandered. Still wondered. That part of him was still there, silently watching and wanting, left cold, dead, and unexplored for centuries now.
Could he ever explore it again? No, he told himself. He was loyal and faithful. He shook his head and busied himself with getting dressed in something warm and befitting of his station.
He loved his wife. He truly did. Even now, his heart ached and longed for her, to be able to be home with her and their family.
He shook himself out again. No. This was just temptation. The Betrayer, most likely, just trying to get a new, stranger needle into him. A different want and hunger that he had long abandoned.
No. He would not consider this line of thinking anymore.
He needed to focus on something else.
He decided to quickly visit his writing desk to give responses to the crown and to the pontifex. He had left them before he had gone for the resupply. The last message from Pontifex Fein stared at him in the pontifex's elegant script.
How many ships will you need for the operation?
Guitirre pulled out the chair and sat down, retrieving the pen from where he had left it and writing his response.
Get me a proper fleet, Pontifex Fein. I want to rival and surpass the Coalition. Give me that, and I will crush the bat at sea.
He paused. A few moments later, ink bloomed across the page.
Consider it done. Is there anything else you would require?
Guitirre took a moment to think. He once again thought back to Andres. Astelo would surely be hopefully getting the word out, but just in case...
I seek clemency and safe harbor for my wayward grandson. When can we speak to secure it?
He stared at the page in anticipation, bouncing a leg impatiently. Once more, ink wrote across the page.
After my evening sermonizing, if the cardinals do not have need of me. I shall call you.
Guitirre let out a slow sigh, wrote his thanks, setting his pen down and standing. He stretched, feeling a bit stiff from the soulseeking that the condemner had done. He always hated when they did that, but he was glad he turned up clean, unlike his fears.
The bells started tolling. He'd be needed out on the decks for midday drills.
He closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly, before he went to tend to the rest of his duties as High Marshal.
The night sky was wide, dark, and beautiful. Smaller insects sang among the taller and untamed grasses and the branches of the trees in the nearby forest. Celino Guitirre rested his arm on the stony balcony rail. The house behind him was full of life and joy; more of his family had come to visit him while he was in the waning days of his well-earned break, all four generations now meeting under one roof.
He was not out here to be antisocial, moreso just to appreciate the beauty of the darkness. He and his elder kindred had always felt a deeper pull to the darker hours. His children also felt it, though not quite as keenly.
He could hear his youngest grandchildren running about, his grand-nieces and grand-nephews all cavorting and running and no doubt giving their parents, aunts, uncles, and grandmother a bit of a headache as they did. The youngest member of his family was still but a few months old, a great-grandchild, officially making the High Marshal ancient. Each generation had lengthened, naturally, as more families undertook the Rite and the extent of their newfound immortality was realized.
Well. Almost immortality.
He heard footsteps behind him, his ears twitching at the noise, and he turned to see one of his younger daughters coming out to join him. She was dressed in a fine and not overly decorated dress, a rose pin in her hair depicting the rose of her family. Her long hair was braided and kept neat and tucked away, the same black as the dress she wore. Her footsteps gently clacked against the stones that made up the balcony.
Celino smiled at her. She had her mother's eyes and nose, but his more squared jaw and leaner features. She had always been close with him.
"Hello, Mariela. Come to join your old man for some stargazing, have you?" he asked, making a bit of room for her. She nodded and came to the balcony, putting her hands on its edge and letting out a soft sigh.
"You are not that old," she said with a small laugh. "Mama hates when you say things like that, you know."
"Oh, I know, she hates being reminded that we're ancient," he said with a snicker. "I don't mind. It's the truth, I'm old."
"If you're old, then what does that make the Blessed Saint?"
"She gets a pass, she's practically deified," Guitirre said with a dismissive wave. "I am old for those of us who remember what it is like to be old without being a human."
"Right," Mariela said, stretching the word.
"I am old enough to forget my age."
"You're just over your 350th year, papa."
"Well," he shrugged. "Who cares beyond the third century, eh?"
Mariela shook her head in quiet exasperation. Guitirre chuckled and nudged her.
"Where's your wife?" he asked.
"She's speaking with Pelayo," she answered. Guitirre clicked his tongue.
"Fighting again?"
"I made sure to keep them away from the cards," Mariela said with a snort. She did let out another sigh. Celino put his arm around her shoulders and brought her in close.
"He wasn't saying anything, was he?" he asked quietly.
"He wasn't, no, but I heard Ileana say something nasty to Tulio," she said, crossing her arms. Guitirre made a low noise. Pelayo was one of his many sons-in-law, and Ileana was one of his grandchildren. He had come from an older, more established family where progression past antiquated mindsets was slower.
"What did she say?" Guitirre raised a brow.
"Something about him being bloodbroken," Mariela said with a scoff. "Something stupid. I don't think she meant it, she was getting upset because he was teasing her, but I still wanted to address it. But Leyre insisted, so..." she shrugged. "I am letting her handle it."
Guitirre sighed. "My heart, if you need me to step in --"
"I think we have it, papa," Mariela said, sounding a little tired. "It just... stings a little."
"Of course it does. Especially from one as young as she is," Celino said with an understanding nod.
"I was hoping we'd be past things like that," she said softly. Guitirre sighed.
"Old traditions and old habits will take a far longer time to die down, especially when those like us who live with the memory are here," he said. "But there is still so much progress that has been made. Don't let her little comments dig at you or at Tulio. I'm sure Pelayo will be understanding enough to deal with it." He kissed her cheek and gave her a reassuring pat.
"I just don't want Tulio to grow up fearing the truth about his parents," Mariela murmured.
"Ah, the lad is ready to begin his first assessments for squiredom. He's old enough to understand little needling words like that and will be ready to defend himself," Guitirre told her. "He's a feisty one already."
"He shouldn't have to," Mariela replied.
"If this were a more just world, you'd be right," the older man said, nodding. "But the very fact that he can even begin to mention that he has two wonderful and loving mothers and not put himself or you or the family into immediate jeopardy is a small miracle in and of itself. Do you remember what it was like when you first realized you were a homosexual?"
"Yes, but --"
"Do you remember what I told you about my being homosexual? How, already within a generation, the winds were starting to change?"
"But you didn't stay a homosexual, papa. You became normal," Mariela said. "You gave in to the pressure."
"In some ways I did, in others I did not," Guitirre acquiesced, tilting his head from side to side a little. "I do love your mother dearly."
"But what if you could have found another man?" Mariela asked. "It wasn't safe enough for you, so you gave in. You had to start the house proper." She paused. She had a strange look in her eye. "... have you seen other men that interested you after you got with mama?" she asked quietly.
"Now that, my heart, would be infidelitous," Guitirre said. "Whether I saw a woman or a man, I would never do that to your mother."
"I'm not saying you would necessarily," Mariela said, quickly shaking her head. "But... haven't you ever been out on campaign and you saw someone who made you hesitate, if only for a moment?"
"I have seen women of high beauty," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "A few of the smaller lords we killed tried to bribe me with beautiful women."
"Papa--"
"But men?" Guitirre tilted his head again. "Perhaps there was one or two, but I've forgotten."
"You've forgotten?" Mariela tilted her chin and raised a brow at him. Oh, she was definitely his daughter, all right.
"With how many lads and lasses I've seen over my long span?" He shrugged. "I hardly remember the women who caught my eye for a moment before I reminded myself of my wife who was also afield. Let alone someone who could've gotten me in plenty of trouble back then."
"But that boy you were with --"
"That was when I was still young enough to skillfully evade questioning, my heart. Something that people as young as Tulio will hopefully never have to actually worry about," Guitirre said with a small smile. "I was able to see my Marshal be married off to a good man, and soon I'll be there to see my own new grandson do the same. The only thing he has to fear is being with an orc, but I think the winds will shift again in time."
Mariela decided to let the topic drop for a moment. Guitirre put his arm back around her.
"Have you seen other women that made you think twice?" he asked.
"Papa."
"It's only fair, my heart," he said. "You were probing for my potential infidelitous ways, so now I am curious about you."
"Before I was with Leyre, there were many women who made my heart ache," she said with a wistful sigh. "If only they had felt the same."
Guitirre chuckled. "If only," he agreed with a nod. "That is the true heartache of being the way we are, eh? But you found a wonderful woman who seems to love you dearly in the end. Enough to not only marry you, but to raise a child with you. All of that was unheard of when I was still interested in men."
Mariela had a strange look in her face again. "You might still be interested in them, you know. I have never heard of a homosexual who truly became normal and didn't still wish they could be with the ones they really longed for."
Guitirre shrugged. "Even if I were, I am married and happily so. I love the family that I and Casilda have made together, even if it means disentangling you from your nephews or nieces from time to time before you all get into a bigger fight." He smiled and caught Mariela's smile even as she scoffed at him lightly. "I did tell your mother about this."
"How did she take it?"
"I think she's still adjusting to the knowledge," he answered, putting his arm back on the balcony railing. "She's still of that older mindset, you know. I have been working to assuage her doubts about my loyalty, and I think they've worked well enough. But she was quite shocked to hear it."
"I think I would be too," Mariela said, leaning on the railing. "You never came off as the type to be like that. I was surprised when you told me when I first told you. Then again, I suppose men like you had to learn to hide it well."
"Women too," Guitirre said with a shrug. "But, regardless, I can tell she wants to have a more thorough conversation about it. I might see if she wants to talk tonight. It'd be a good night for it, before we go forth and arrange for the officiating for Andres and his man."
"I can go get her if you'd like to talk about it," she offered, pushing herself from the rail.
"If you want to." Guitirre shrugged again. "I won't chase you out of here. Just remember, Mariela, I know it is still painful and I know there is still some distaste and vitriol, but try not to let it ruin you too much. I wish we were in a more perfect and safer world, but we are not. We're still far greater than we were, and we just need to keep trying to work at things. Alright?"
"I know, papa." Mariela's lips formed a line. Guitirre saw a wrinkle in her brow, but it smoothed out. "I'll go find mama."
"If you need anything, just let me know. I don't mind having a talk with Ileana or Pelayo," he told her.
"I will. Thank you." She gave her father a brief kiss on the cheek before she ducked back into the house. Guitirre watched her go, then turned his gaze back to the skies above. Ancient, forgotten tradition stated that each star was a soul of someone lost yet beloved. It was something from before the birth of the Church of Dusk proper. Celino didn't know how much he believed in it, but sometimes on quiet nights, he wondered if his parents were out there, shining a light on him and his own family.
How blessed was he to have it. A wonderful wife, beautiful children, healthy and hearty grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. He had suffered few losses within the family in comparison to many others, another small blessing. He looked back towards his house, tracing the iron holdings and ornamentation over the door that led back inside with his eyes. More little ones would be running around soon. Some of them might even have tusks. There was part of him that had been revolted at the revelation -- the part that had dedicated himself to running them out to the seas to begin with -- but he had carefully quashed those feelings. They were no different to the ones his wife probably felt when she learned one of her daughters had no interest in men.
He saw his wife approaching and gave her a smile. She opened the door and joined him, her white gown flowing as she moved. There was a certain grace to her every movement that Celino found captivating. Her hair was partially braided, though some had been let down for the evening. She was among family, so she didn't mind. Celino held out his arm and the two embraced before he kissed her.
"Good evening, my most beloved," he said with a smile.
"My still-bleeding heart," Casilda said, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. "Mariela said you wanted to talk about something."
"She and I just had a small conversation, and it reminded me that you and I might have some things we want to discuss," he said, leaning back against the rail. "Namely the revelation of my nature. I know it's been eating at you, so I'd like to be able to talk things over more fully."
Casilda tensed a little, but nodded. "I've been... doing a bit of thinking about that, Celino. Especially now with Ondina being traduco now, and getting he-- himself impregnated by an orc, preparing to marry him... it's been much."
"As I can imagine." Celino gently squeezed her hand. "I think I've found a priest for Andres, but I just have to work out actually getting him over to officiate things."
"Right," Casilda said slowly, stiltedly. There was a bit of a tense silence that followed. Celino rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Do you still love men?" she asked suddenly.
"Casilda, I already told you--"
"I know, but... but I..." she sighed. "I spoke with some of my own friends about it, because I didn't know what to do while you were being dragged back out to the killing fields. And one of them said something that's been... bothering me."
"What did they say?" Celino asked, one brow raised while the other was furrowed.
"Do you remember our little agreement? That, while both of us were out and separated for longer than a year, if we needed to... do something about it, we could as long as we told the other what we were doing?" Casilda asked.
"I remember," Celino said carefully. "If you're worried that I got with other men, Casilda, I never did. I stayed incredibly loyal to you."
"I know," Casilda said, one hand worrying with the side of her gown. "Well, she knew about this arrangement because she was the one who introduced me to -- do you remember that captain I wrote to you about with the scars over his shoulder from a bear hunt?"
"Vaguely. That was a while ago," Celino said, scratching his short beard.
"That was her cousin," Casilda went on. "And... she pointed out to me that while I definitely took advantage of that arrangement from time to time, you never really did. At least, not that you told me of."
"I didn't feel the need," Celino said with a shrug. "I was incredibly dedicated and focused on my work. Perhaps a little too much." His brow furrowed. He raised a brow at his wife. "Where are you going with this?"
"My girl friend told me that it felt a little unfair, and that you might want to... experiment," she said carefully. "That maybe you never took advantage of it because you still needed to be like the rest of us, or that you repressed yourself."
"Oh, my heart," Celino said, shaking his head. "Don't think that I only did what I did because I was trying to hide."
"I know you love me. And I love you too, my beloved soul," she said. "Which is why... I think I want you to..." Her lips formed a line. "I want you to be able to... do what I did. Experiment a little."
Celino's brows rose into his hairline. "Casilda, you don't have to. I would be perfectly content if I never tried to see if those feelings persist."
"I know. But she also made me realize that I've been wrong about a lot of things, and I want to try making them right before..." she trailed off. "Just in case anything happens."
Celino looked upon his wife with an expression of utter love and understanding. He came a bit closer and she leaned against him.
"I do not think I would be able to do it with any here in Torrezon," he said quietly. "I am too famous, and it'd bring too much rumoring. Even if we make this agreement, plenty would lambast us for infidelity."
"We can travel the planes," Casilda said. "There's other outposts that are going to be established and expeditions to be led. I know you'll be going out on them."
Celino tilted his head a little in thought. Arturo's nephew had found someone on Kamigawa. Perhaps he would find someone he fancied elsewhere.
"If we make this happen," he said with a slow sigh. "I will always tell you first before I do anything. And I am giving you every right to tell me that you are too uncomfortable and would rather I not continue at any time. Even if we are just about to get comfortable ourselves, if you decide to call things off there, I will listen. I swear this to you on the blood of our family, and on my own head."
Casilda nodded. "I still have that little... communique you gave to me when you brought Andres around."
"Good. I'll make sure to keep mine on me, and if I see anyone, I'll be sure to let you know." Celino pressed his lips to her forehead, then trailed a few kisses down her beautiful face before he gave her a soft kiss. "I love you."
"I love you too," his wife said softly. "You've been very good to me, Celino. I just... want to try and return the favor."
"You already have, my heart," he murmured. "A thousandfold. You owe me nothing."
"I do owe you this, I think," she said, squeezing his hand again. "You let me be with a handful of others for a number of nights, I think it is only fair if I do the same. And if it never happens, then it never happens, but I want to... at least give you the chance to see if you really still are homosexual or not."
"I appreciate that, Casilda," Celino said, kissing her again. "I love you very much. Don't ever forget that. You are wonderful to me."
"I know," she said, returning the kiss. "I am just trying to get through all of this. I'm trying to understand."
"I know. It is very much appreciated," he said softly, gently nuzzling her. "And remember, if you want to revoke this at any time --" he held up his hand. "Done. No questions asked, no bargains made, no is no. My heart is still yours."
"Alright," Casilda said, relaxing a little. "I hope, if you do find someone, they are at least attractive. You seem to have strange tastes in things."
"Listen, just because I am experimenting with the new plants and things we've gotten from Ixalan and beyond, it does not mean my taste in all things are strange," Celino said with a soft chuckle. "You have to admit, the dip was good."
"It had far too much pepper."
"I liked the heat," he said with a shrug. "Do you not trust me to know what an attractive individual looks like? I married you, after all."
Casilda let out a soft snort and shook her head. Celino snickered and kissed her cheek.
"Well, it's getting late enough for some of the young ones. They'll probably want to say goodnight to their ancient grandfather before they retire," he said. Casilda scoffed and gently pushed him.
"You make me feel old when you say such things," she said. Celino raised his brows at her, which got him a bit of a glowering look. "I can just tell you no now."
"And nothing would meaningfully change," Celino said. "You are the one who proposed this, not me."
Casilda rolled her eyes, twining an arm around her husband's and dragging him back inside. Celino happily followed with a laugh as they went to rejoin the rest of the family. Immediately he was inundated by them.
"Granpa! I want to go into the training yard! But Auntie Luzia told me I had to wait! Can I go?"
"Hey, Papa, when you have a moment, can you recall your mastiff? I think she's trying to chew boots again."
"I think Pelayo was looking for you before Mama went to talk with you, I'll go find him."
"Hey, we're almost out of that little fish dish thing, but we saved you a little bit in case you wanted any."
Ah, to be surrounded and needed by his loved ones. With his time to rejoin the front for a more proper strike starting in just a few days, this was most certainly a wonderful way to end his brief allowance home. Plenty of his fellows would be doing the same before the assault in the coming weeks. He quickly moved about in order to placate his large and loving family, sharing smiles and laughs and giving out a few life lessons as he went for the rest of the night. Casilda drifted nearby, and he noticed that she seemed to be far more at ease now. Mariela and her wife were idly speaking with the rest of the family, both holding hands a bit more proudly and ignoring some looks from the other bits of the family. Celino would speak with them before everything winded down proper.
Blessed Saint and all Venerables above, he was a deeply, dearly blessed man. He could think of no greater family to have.
No, that word wasn't enough. This was everblack. The things voids were formed from.
It was open yet suffocating. It was endless yet felt too close, to tight, too small.
There was no ground to walk upon. No walls to touch.
There was nothing.
Until, feeling a weight in one hand, you make something.
---
Another clash of a blade ringing off armor. Another slide of boots on slush on stone.
They had been fighting for hours. The ebb and flow of the battle around them sometimes forced them apart, but they always returned to match blades soon after.
One fought with a grin on her face and with practically reckless abandon. The other fought with measured precision in each blow.
"As dreadfully serious as always, Andreas," the Antifex laughed as her sword rang on the shield of the other. "What, you can't enjoy this?"
"I will take no enjoyment in this, Vona," the High Marshal replied, shoving her back and following with a swing.
Vona snorted. "Too bad for you. I am enjoying every second." She let the blade ride across her armor, letting her get in close enough to batter her shield and find an opening to stab her sword into. Salinas hissed and smashed the champion's face with the edge of her shield as she disengaged, feeling a chnk and watching Vona recoil.
"Cheap trick," she said, black ichor trailing from the wound. The High Marshal's own nose wrinkled, even as the wound began reknitting itself.
Her regeneration was coming from the blood around them. Salinas had noticed it the first time she had scored a hit across her wings, slicing one of them nearly in half. There was hardly a sign of the damage left behind.
Salinas, on the other hand, had no such crutch. The glorifiers helped where they could -- from a distance, of course -- but she was still bleeding.
Vona knew it. She knew it. Only one would be walking away.
---
Light.
You see light.
You feel light. Warmth.
You move towards it. Somehow, you don't know how. It doesn't matter.
You see someone there, out on the edge of your perceptions. You know her. The glow is coming from her.
She's talking to someone. You don't...
... recognize him. You can't understand what they are saying at first.
Until, of course, you speak.
"My Saint?"
The words surprise you, as does your voice. They sound clear and crisp. A contrast to the dark, suffocating and thick.
Her eyes turn toward you. They are as bright as the sunset. His eyes do too. In them, you see the silver of moonlight.
"You've brought another," he says, looking you up and down. "I don't recognize you."
"I did not expect to be followed," she says. You sense something behind her words. They are tense. Annoyance? Disappointment? Sorrow?
"My deepest apologies." You dip your head and bow, surprised you still have your body about you. You can hardly feel it.
You are more surprised to see your old vestments.
"Well, I do not mind speaking with an audience," the moonlit man says. He looks back to the Saint. "Where were we? Bargaining, yes?"
Bargaining?
"I would not call it bargaining considering we hold the upper hand." There is a cold fury in her eyes.
Laughter from the other. An easy smile on his face. He has fangs. "Do you now?"
She looks to you, looking down to a point at your side. "I do now."
You look down. The weight is a spear.
You nearly blind yourself looking at the concentrated power of an interplanar sun.
---
"Tighten up!" Guitirre shouts. His skymarchers closed ranks around him, preparing for another wing of demons.
That's what they had taken to calling them. Wings. Or flocks. Whichever.
They caught them and deterred them or destroyed them outright. Most of the demons were meeting their blades and blows now that a coordinated effort to better protect the skies was being made. Guitirre didn't blame Sarria or Vazante for not taking control there -- the only other versed enough in their particular arrangements and formations was Salinas or Arguel, and they were south.
But he was here now. He could give them more of a fighting chance.
Aster was still below, growling and barking but not doing much else. She was growing tired. He didn't blame her, they were fighting for quite some time now.
How long until dawn? Would they see it?
He ran a traitor through with the rapier he held in hand, his dancing blade catching a spiked chain and allowing its wielder to be taken out by other soldiers. Blood coated him, as it did all others fighting close to him. Some his own, some not.
Light of dusk, he was growing tired. All of them were. He wondered if Arturo would even be able to stand upright long enough to fight whatever was attacking his home.
The demons never tired. But they knew that all of them, even those with the gift, did. His swings were getting sloppy. Skymarchers were falling out of formation without him shouting to keep them in line. Each pass of a deathdrinker or a bloodletter left him more and more drained.
Other varieties of demons were filling the air with smoke and ash. It gave the illusion of fighting in a burning grave. Perhaps they were.
He flew back to dodge a thick, cleaving thing -- he could barely tell what the weapon was -- following through by stabbing his assailant through the head. His weapon had gotten stuck in it, and so he had to follow the body down as he pried it free, grunting when a demon tackled him into the side of the wall as he flew back up. He bashed them with his forehead, smashing them in the face with the basket of his weapon, then kicked the body away.
Others had spotted him and would be coming to give him a hard time. The traitors remembered him. The demons just saw an easy snack.
They wouldn't be getting one.
---
"That? You think you have leverage with it?" the moonlit man chuckles.
You look back at him, and you blink away the light. Your Saint speaks again, her voice devoid of the mirth of the man.
"It can kill."
"Can it now?" he asks. He now looks at you. "You can kill with it?"
"I already have."
"Ah, that priestess, yes?"
You do not know how he knows that. He must read the confusion on your face.
"You don't quite know what this is, do you?" he says, voice soft. "She's never explained. Nor have I."
"Tarrian-"
"Elenda," the moonlit man says, dipping his chin and raising his brow. You blink in confusion. You know that name.
"You're-"
"Yes, Venerable Tarrian," he says, elaborately bowing. "The very same one that you and yours saw fit to censor."
"I do not understand." You feel your brows furrow together.
"Because Elenda never saw fit to tell you how she obtained the gift," Tarrian said with a sigh. He gestures to the darkness around you. "Allow me, then, to fill in that gap. You stand now at the literal bounds between life and death, my friend."
You follow his hand, looking beyond your Saint, beyond her... her enigmatic demeanor, into the everblack.
And then... you see. You see the balance, two scales set even to each other, and you realize that you are standing on the fulcrum.
"How-"
"Mavren," your Saint says to you. You feel your voice die in your throat. Tarrian laughs.
"Ah, let him speak. Let him learn. He deserves to know some things, no? Especially since we are trying to bargain. In fact, I won't speak another word until he does," he says, turning those silver eyes to your Saint's own gold.
You look to her for permission, bowing your head in deference. She is your Saint. Your sun. Your guiding light. You've dedicated everything to her.
She stares at Tarrian for a long moment, then finally turns those eyes to you.
"Very well. Ask your questions."
You give a bow, extending your free hand. A symbolic gesture.
You open your mouth to speak your stifled question.
---
Salinas is falling.
She was shoved from the wall after she parried and left herself too unbalanced.
She lands, heavy, on a pile of ice-covered bodies. She groans as she feels her ribs crack from the weight and strain. Vona laughs, leaping over the edge, landing lightly on her feet nearby.
"Come on. On your feet!" she says, grinning. The High Marshal growls at her, pushing herself off, muttering a small prayer for the paladin she had crushed. At least they were already gone.
She gets back into a defensive stance. She feels a spear of rib somewhere it shouldn't be, and her vision was fuzzed. Vona flies at her.
---
"Now that that is out of the way..." Tarrian places his hands on his sides. You feel confused. Uncertain. Even with this knowledge, you--
"Let's talk practically, yes?" he smiles, and his smile reminds you uncomfortably of someone else. The silvered eyes, the strange insincerity of the smile itself...
"You want Torrezon. That is not happening."
"Mhm."
"We can kill him."
"So you boldly claim," Tarrian says with a sigh. "So many have, you know. I heard them." He lifts his chin in one direction. "Many champions who despise him still."
You notice your Saint tense slightly. "This is different."
"Show me," Tarrian says with that unnerving grin. Those eyes turn back to you, and the smile widens slightly. "Go on."
You do not know what to do.
Except... you do. Somehow. And you're doing it. The weight, it is a staff -- a spear -- something not forged of your home, yet familiar as though it were. Your hand is curled around raw, concentrated sunlight.
You point it towards Tarrian. You feel its warmth. But you feel other things wrapped inside of it too.
Rage. Hope. Comfort. Acceptance. Wanderlust.
Family. Friends. A sense of belonging, of community. Home.
You realize you are holding more than just sunlight. You are holding belief itself, distilled into this one weapon.
You pull back your arm.
"Wait!" he says suddenly. Hands up, knees bent, smile wide. "Don't shoot the messenger, right?"
"Will you listen, then?" your Saint asks. Tarrian looks between the weapon in your hands, then your face, then your Saint. The smile turns up slightly.
"I am listening, Elenda. Let us discuss terms."
---
He rushes through the tall towering spires of the Cathedral of Dusk, cold wind biting at his face as he flies. He has a number of demons on his tail and they've been painfully agile. Guitirre dips lower to avoid something long and spiked whipping past. The diversion had been necessary, he reminded himself.
That squire shouldn't have been there.
And now he was being chased through the city by a pack of hungry beasts. He's faster and more agile than most of them -- the funestus and bloodletters had to peel off or be picked off -- but there were plenty of smaller ones that were able to keep up with him annoyingly well.
He wove himself through a tight space between a steeple and a wall when his eyes caught something; a glorifier was being hunted. Guitirre didn't spare a glance at the demons tailing him before diving down, hard and fast, right into its back, smashing it like overripe fruit against the cobbles. He disentangled himself from the corpse and the mess, wincing as he felt something in his shoulder feel slightly out of place. He looked up at the bastards that were following him, preparing to have a go at them, before he realized they had redirected and flew off elsewhere. He let out a sigh, praying they wouldn't be too much trouble for the other defenders.
"Are you alright, lad?" he asked the glorifier. The cleric nodded, looking tired and shaken.
"I am, sir. Thank you." He looked at the High Marshal's shoulder. "Allow me."
"You have others-"
"You saved my life, sir," the glorifier said with some measure of finality. "It is the least I can do."
Guitirre allowed himself a smile. "Very well, little preacher. Do what you must."
---
"You are not in a position to be demanding much," Tarrian was saying. He kept looking between you and your Saint. "While that thing could most certainly unmake me, I still doubt it would unmake him."
"It does not have to. Ensuring he is kept in a state of perpetual agony also works for our purposes," your Saint says. She says it with such ease that it makes you glad you are not the subject of her words.
"And those purposes are...?" Tarrian makes a circular motion with one hand.
"Containment if we cannot have him destroyed outright," your Saint says, crossing her arms. You realize that she is still adorned the very same way as she had been before, yet you are different. Your mind tries to recall Tarrian's explanation of this place, but it comes up...
... fuzzy. Blank. And yet he said it only-
"Right, yes. Containment," he's saying. He's nodding as though it's obvious. "You think this can contain him?"
There's a pause. A hesitation. You can feel it, as can he. He laughs.
"It is a start," your Saint says, looking at the weapon. That is what it is now, not just a simple spear. That word doesn't feel good enough to you.
"A start is all we need," you hear yourself saying. Now you have both of their attention, and you feel the supremely uncomfortable sensation of drowning.
"He will break free of any prison you devise for him now. He knows of them already. Again, he is still a god. And you, my dear friends, are close, but not quite there." Tarrian has that strange grin on his face. Your skin crawls, but you refuse to show it.
"Then we will construct a new one." There is a look of calm determination in the way your Saint holds herself.
"While he is at your gates?" Tarrian's brows raise. His hands are steepled together.
"You said this was bargaining," you hear yourself say. "I think this is becoming more of a negotiation."
"Hmm..." Tarrian rubs his chin. There is a short beard there. His silver eyes turn away, into the darkness before he turns back again. The smile is back. "Very well. You want to stall for time then, yes? Cobble something together for him?"
"If that is what we must do to get him off our throats for the time being," your Saint replies cooly.
Tarrian smiles at her. It scares you how sincere it seems this time.
"What will you give for that time?"
---
Salinas is in pain. Vona has been able to score more and more hits and grazes, just enough to go from annoying to a worry. She still feels her broken ribs keenly, and she had to replace her weapon twice now in the fight.
Vona was toying with her. She was delighting in this. It was a challenge rather than just being a slaughter.
But Salinas knew that she was starting to grow bored, and she was never more dangerous than when she was bored. Her first set of servants were evidence enough of that.
After all, that's why she was sent off to Ixalan. To get her away from here.
Even as the High Marshal tired, even as she parried and twisted just out of reach of lethal strikes, even as she could wound her and watch those wounds reknit and feel some level of despair, she kept flicking her eyes upward. She thought it was bloodloss or something being cut deep inside of her that was making her dizzy enough to hallucinate.
Vona started to notice. She growled and closed the distance between the two, now fighting where merchant's stalls were usually set.
"What are you looking at? Hm? Are you expecting some divine savior to reach down and pluck you from this?" she asked. Her voice was roughened. She was tiring too, even if she was doing a better job at not showing it as easily.
"I don't need a divine savior, Vona. I just need to kill you," Salinas answered, grimacing as she raised her shield to block another strike. Vona growled again, deciding to look up herself. Her expression changed, then. Salinas realized she hadn't been hallucinating.
The sky was growing lighter.
Dawn was coming.
Salinas had her shield up and ready, and tried to take advantage of the distraction. It was a risky gambit, but it was her only good opening. She thrusted her sword forward, going right for the throat, but Vona was faster, slipping right inside her guard and stabbing her own sword right through her body, from under one arm up and through her collarbone on the other side. Salinas let out a choked grunt, blood already welling around the blade. Her grip slackened.
"Even if that light is coming," Vona hissed. "You will not be there to see it."
"Then I'll drag you into the abyss with me," Salinas said. With her fading strength, she raised her sword and stabbed down.
---
You feel fear. Horror. Sorrow.
"My Saint," you say, your voice breaking. "You can't-"
"If this is what must be done, then so be it," she says. There is that cool determination about her. You find yourself positively stunned. The grin on Tarrian is even more genuine.
"Very well. I think he will be happy with these terms." He claps his hands together. "One year. No battles between now and then. You will be able to lick your wounds and scramble for a solution before we return. But!" He grinned wider. "Remember, we will be doing the very same."
"We will be ready," your Saint says.
"Oh, as will we." Tarrian nods. "Do not fret, little one," he says, addressing you directly now. "All is not yet lost. Take what time you have and use it wisely and well."
He gives a wave, and you feel yourself falling, and falling, until--
---
Guitirre watches the sky growing paler. He finds himself incredulous at it. There's already cheering and screams of the horrid damned to join them.
And then he spots something he wasn't expecting to see; Pontifex Fein, falling from the darkness. Guitirre quickly thanks the glorifier who had been tending to him before he immediately leaps into the air in order to intercept him.
He catches him before he smashes onto the hard stone below, bringing him to the ground carefully.
"Pontifex Fein?" he asks. The body stirs. The eyes blink open.
And then, Guitirre sees nothing but light.
---
When dawn finally graces the continent of Torrezon, it illuminates the sheer amount of damage and horror left behind. Bodies of traitors remain while the true-blooded demon and children of Aclazotz are slowly unmade in the cleansing light.
Soldiers and warriors all over the continent and even in its adjacent seas rejoice at the sight of the sunrise. Some even begin to dance or peel off their armor, not even caring for the frozen winds that accompany it.
The Darkest Night had passed. The days ahead meant more sunlight, more daytime, that the depths of winter were behind them. Now was the time for growth, for recuperation. For the naming of a new Venerable, who would also lead the Church of Dusk as pontifex.
It was hardly unheard of. A few of the past predecessors had been canonized in their lifetimes before they passed on. An address would be made at midday, but for now, his first edict upon his return was simple; "Let us mend our wounds and clean what we can."
---
And so, they did. Cardinal Theodors had called for the killing of all traitors left behind, but some had begged for clemency. Pontifex Fein was willing to grant it conditionally, and so they were instead all bound and chained for later interrogation. The pontifex had informed the cardinal that he would like a private word, but only after other matters were taken care of.
---
Guitirre met with the other High Marshals to do head counts on who was left and help organize the wounded and walking. Aster was remaining at his side, though she was whining and begging for attention and food. Sarria had brought a bit of dried meat for her to quell her, cooing about how adorable she was. Guitirre and Vazante exchanged very amused looks, considering this was a man who usually hated seeing mastiffs in the barracks.
"I thought they were dirty, slobbering little beasts?" Guitirre asked with a smile on his face.
"They are," Sarria said gruffly. The big man pushed himself up off the ground and gave Aster a good pat on the behind.
"Right." Guitirre nodded as Vazante snickered. Sarria glowered at them.
"This one happens to be very endearing."
"Whatever you say, Bitores."
"Oh, please, your husband is the one who actually likes the mutts, Catarina," Sarria said with a snort. There was still a glimmer of amusement in his eye, and the three exhausted commanders shared a small laugh.
Once things were a bit more stabilized, he'd go onto the network and see how the Storm Fleet and the rest of his Coalition allies had fared.
And, hopefully, he'd be able to hear from Arturo.
---
Lazaro nearly wept with relief at the coming dawn. He sagged against the stones of the shelter his brother had made. Danjikisei had poked its head out to watch the sunrise, or what little of it the kami could see from the shelter.
"I t . . . i s. . . " it said. It tilted its head. ". . . n i c e . . ." it landed on. Lazaro nodded.
"Nice," he agreed. "Relieving." He then looked to his brother, his sons, and his father -- fathers, really -- and came forward to bring them all into an embrace.
---
Austello held.
Cardinal Sirocco was covered in filth and blood by the time it came, but by the blood of the Venerables, it came.
The Antifex had fled. There were Legionnaires who were calling for her to be followed, to properly rout her, but High Marshal Arguel had told them to pull back. Overextending would get more of them killed. They needed to assess damages.
And so, they did. The older cardinal helped direct the clergy where she could, and let the secret out that Pontifex Fein had indeed returned, and should be in Alta Torrezon.
"By the color of the sky, I think he made it," she said. The smile she wore faded when it was revealed who one of the casualties of the siege was.
The cardinal rushed to where the body was found, kneeling next to it and letting out an anguished cry. Word was spreading throughout the ranks of defenders like wildfire. High Marshal Andreas Salinas was dead.
But there was something strange about the body. It was the first thing Arguel noticed when he approached.
Vona left her sword behind.
---
History will remember this as many things. The Darkest Night, the Longest Night, the Darkest Hour, all manner of things are already passing through the mouths of the humans and vampires alike. But all that I wish to be remembered was that this was the night where hope prevailed.
I will not be so naive to say we won. This victory is but a temporary one. A greater battle and greater war will follow, but for now, we have earned a reprieve. Time to rejoice, to heal, to try and clean and prepare ourselves for the true victory to follow.
Especially knowing what will follow that victory. I fear for what may follow afterwards.
But, this morning, I do not let such fears darken my thoughts. Instead, I will mourn for those we lost, and celebrate those who are still with us. This will be a fragile time for us all. Many great lessons will need to be learned. And they will be. But for now, I think we've all deserved a rest.
You set down the pen, leaning back in your chair. It creaks a little under the weight. You still wear the chiton you were given during your journeying, your wings folded a bit awkwardly, but comfortably enough. New and more fitting attire would be commissioned, but for now, it would do.
Your mind drifts to Dhazdoro, Menea, and Malkonia. Dhazdoro was speaking with the Saint, and Menea and Malkonia were helping the wounded. You were going to pay them a visit and thank them for their aid and tell them you are even more in their debt.
A smile crosses your face, even if you know that statement is not entirely true.
But then, a knock. "Come in," you say.
It is a young acolyte. Newly blooded, more than likely.
"I am sorry for disturbing you, Venerable-"
"Pontifex still works," you gently correct. "And all other monikers thereof. I do not wish to assume that title just yet."
"Right, yes, my apologies, Pontifex," the acolyte says, dipping his head. "Cardinal Ayere is ready to meet with you when you are."
Your lips draw into a line. You drum your fingers on the desk. There is a stack of papers next to them, as well as a small, slim volume.
You nod. You ponder for a moment, then look back at the acolyte.
"I think I am ready for him now."
The acolyte nods, and ducks out of the door. A few moments later, it opens, and the cardinal walks in, bowing his head in deference.
"Pontifiex Fein," he says, wearing that smile you find so familiar now. His silvered eyes are slightly narrowed. Cautious. Afraid.
"Cardinal Ayere," you say, lacing your fingers together. "There is much to discuss."
She shot upwards, a thing of shadows and smoke, large wings beating on the air, a clawed hand reaching upwards while a wide grin painted her face. A predator leaping onto what would've been easy prey.
And then Guitirre rolled, just barely evading her grasp, feeling the brush of claws against his decorated breastplate, bringing up his weapon just in time to fend off a blow from his would-be assailant. Another followed. Then another, and another, and the two became locked into a swift and deadly rhythm.
A parry, a glancing blow, a parry, back and back and back again, the assault was stultifying to all but the most skilled when it came to singular combat. His attacker was forcing him lower and lower, back towards the flames, hoping to get some part of him caught in it to end this early. Guitirre wouldn't let it happen.
"Serpens," he whispered, and the blade, shining a brilliant crimson off the firelight below him, started to move of its own accord, affording him the time and space to get his other blade into his hand and start pressing back.
His opponent had not been expecting that.
Soon, he was able to start gaining space and altitude. The pace of their duel was furious and fast, but the two were now showing themselves to be even, despite Guitirre technically having the advantage.
"Should've known you'd try something," he shouted over the din. "What is it you call yourself now? Antifex?" Their blades locked for a moment, and his red-limned blade came around, pointed right at a soft spot under her arm. "I liked your other epithets better."
Vona kicked him square in the chest, wings beating as she gained herself space and height, battering away his dancing weapon with relative ease. The blade came to rest near his missing shoulder, and Guitirre pointed his other right at her.
"So, you could never master true exultation, and you decided to get angry and side with a maniacal god over the whole thing?" he asked. "Your wings don't suit you. And they are far more of a liability for flight. We've been cutting down plenty-"
She dove, reaching for his throat as she did so. Guitirre moved to dodge, but Vona had been anticipating the movement, catching him still and slamming him into the rough stonework of a building below. The watchtower, probably, considering the height of the ledge that just jabbed into his back.
"It seems as though you have new tricks, old man," she said, fighting to have a smirk on her face instead of a snarl. Guitirre's armor had taken the brunt of the assault for him, and it was probably mightily dented, but at least he hadn't split his spine over the stone. "Couldn't keep up with just one arm after all, hmm?"
"At least I didn't go running into the wings of a heathen god," Guitirre spat. His dancing blade came up and pressed itself to her throat. "What a sad and sorry sight you've become, Vona. Too proud to admit mistakes as usual."
"Oh, please, do not start preaching to me," Vona said with a scoff. She grinned more easily now, all fang. "Besides, there's no means of death that I have to fear anymore. I can fight and drink as often as I please, without some sanctimonious do-gooders telling me all that I did for them was wrong." She tightened her grasp on his throat. Then, a number of bolts came streaking through the air, landing home right into the bones and tendons in her wings. Vona let out a yell of surprise, turning to see who had dared to wound her, and Guitirre took the opportunity to kick himself free, legs once more dissolving into mist as he took back to the skies above.
"And that is why exultation still remains superior," he said, leveling his blade with her. She snarled at him and threw herself towards the skymarchers who were retreating, still in formation, so that they could reload. Others were taking their place, but they were moving a hair too slow. Vona would be upon them.
Unless, of course, they were not being led by the fastest skymarcher on the damn continent.
Guitirre threw himself in front of the line -- oh, what a beautiful line they had maintained, by the Saint was he proud of them -- and caught the worst of her attack himself. He felt her blade sliding across his armored ribs and her claws gouging the armor on his other side.
"That's how you got Andreas, isn't it?" he asked, elbowing her in order to make space again. "You went after the others. She went to cover them. You exploited that. That's how it went, isn't it?"
Vona snarled at him and beat her wings to stir up the smoke. Guitirre rose higher in order to get away from it, shouting an order to his skymarchers as he did so.
"Keep ranks solid, leave yourselves room, don't do anything stupid," he commanded. He kept his eyes on Vona all the while, keeping his blade pointed toward her, watching her. He was going to let her be the one to take point and lead until she was too tired to do so. For all her godly strength, and that filthy looking halo that crowned her now, he knew she could still tire. Even if it was by a fraction of a degree, she could tire.
Vona dove again. Guitirre went to move higher until he saw that she wasn't going for him, but rather one of the bowmen with him, and he quickly got back in the way, dancing blade singing as it caught her own sword.
And then Guitirre felt a very deep pain in his side, accompanied by a tearing of flesh. He grit his teeth, and Vona pressed the advantage, once more grasping him by the throat.
"You could've let him die," she said with a laugh. "But instead you'll pay for the--"
The red rapier came through and sliced her clean across the throat, silencing her before she could well and truly begin. Vona's eyes widened, the smile dying off her face. Once more, Guitirre elbowed her to give himself space, blackened blood now staining her golden armor and breastplate. His red blade returned to his side, and the High Marshal knew better than to think this would kill her.
He got altitude, then he, himself, dove downward, blade ready to stab it right through her throat. Vona's wings were beating less steadily, and right as he stabbed home, he disappeared.
Then he appeared at her side, going for the soft spot right under her arm, striking and disappearing. The sound of clanging metal heralded another strike. Then another.
And another.
And another.
And another.
Faster. And faster. And faster. His dancing blade had taken on a mind of its own, keeping her sword arm busy enough that she couldn't stop each and every strike, even if she could turn just enough to feel Guitirre's mainhanded rapier sliding off her armor instead of getting a good blow.
Faster, and faster, and faster. He was practically blinking out of existence and striking, impossibly, from all angles. Vona's wings took the brunt of his assault, slowly becoming increasingly torn and bloodied under the attack.
Guitirre could not keep this up forever. He knew this. She knew this. But he needed to just keep it up enough to get her grounded.
And it was working. Soon, her wings were working less and less, becoming more and more useless. Even with the second grin across her throat, which Guitirre noticed even now was starting to seal -- taking the attention and energy from her wings, as he had hoped -- she was keeping up. He could hardly land a proper blow on her body, but she was gradually descending, until finally she decided to drop properly.
Guitirre fully manifested in the air above her, sweat now sheening his greyed skin, a bit of exhaustion in his eyes. He winked at her before he, too, fell with a catlike grace to the ground, getting himself into a proper stance, aiming his missing shoulder back and his sword hand forward.
There was naked hate in the eyes of the Antifex. But he also saw she was taking in the battle still happening around them, trying to gauge the extent of the flames.
And then she attacked.
She was all manner of a storm of fury, claws and blade raking in a strange concert that left Guitirre a little wrongfooted from the get, but he started to get used to the new pace. He still let her lead.
Yet, she was not beginning to slow. Not as he had hoped.
The slice across her throat was still wide and angry, but it was not as deep as it needed to be. That was going to cost him, he knew.
Up and up and over again, she struck and struck and struck. She kept pressing the distance and trying to close, even as the High Marshal practically danced and leapt in order to keep her away. He knew as well as she did that if she got in close enough, she might be able to finish him.
His limbs were beginning to feel a bit weighted. He felt the cost of his maneuver to get her down. But he brought her down with very good reason; not only to get her away from the skymarchers who were dealing with her smaller entourage, but also so his larger help could deal some damage of his own.
"I am so sorry for tearing you away so soon," he muttered. "I summon the silent blade. Stealth, rationality, and swift death. As Dokuchi aids Dokuchi, as human aids oni, so will you aid me. Rise," he spoke, fending off a crushing blow and jumping out of the way of her claws tearing through his armor again, letting his dancing blade give him the time he needed to bring his fist to his breastplate, "and make merry."
From the flickering shadows of firelight did he come, stepping right out of them as though he were moving through a doorway. It took little time for him to see who his target was, and he was on them, pressing the advantage of his unconventional weaponry in a foreign land to his greatest benefit.
Vona whirled around to face her new opponent, letting out a derisive laugh. "You're summoning demons now too?" she asked. "So we had heard. I didn't think you'd have it in you."
"He's no demon," Guitirre said, backing off and letting Zenkuro take the brunt of her attention for a moment, "he is an oni. A friend from distant lands. We've been making allies while you lot have been huddled in your dank caverns."
Vona and Zenkuro fought, and Vona was keeping the oni at bay despite being shifted now onto the backfoot. Black mist was gathering around Guitirre's legs as he prepared to begin striking at her again, but then he felt them seize and stop.
His blood was beginning to rebel against him. He could feel it beginning to boil in his veins. This was not a practiced craft that belonged to the church, no.
This was her doing.
A bolt cracked and splintered off his armor, and he more forcibly willed his legs to become mist. He then prepared a charge, and right before he could fully pull back, a hand was there, grasping at his armor, and throwing him right into the paved cobbles below. He felt something crunch, and pain bloomed across his face. Vona was able to get a kick at him before Zenkuro -- or perhaps the skymarchers overhead -- were able to press her enough to give him room to get up. Part of his vision in his right eye was obscured by the puffyness he saw on the edges. He shook his head, disliking the bit of wooziness he felt.
His dancing blade was still doing work, helping to try and flank the Antifex even as she continued to fight with the oni. She was scoring a few good hits from the look of him, but so too was he. He watched as she danced right out of his grasp on more than a few occasions, her wings now becoming more of a liability. He spat a bit of blood onto the streets before he started to circle her. He was going to start aiming for the wings.
He was going to carve himself a trophy.
But then, he felt that weakness, and he felt a cascade of something wet coming from both the gouge in his side -- which he had forgotten about -- as well as the new wounds in his face. His knees buckled and his attack faltered, only barely clipping the wing he had wanted. His vision swam and he fought hard not to go down entirely.
Zenkuro must've noticed, as Guitirre saw him pause, just long enough for Vona to make an excellent stab, her blade punching right through his flesh-that-was-not-quite-flesh in his arm. The oni let out a grunt, and Guitirre forced himself up, blade cleanly stabbing right through where one wing met her back.
"You should really have your god get you a proper armorer," he growled, tasting the iron of old blood at the back of his throat. Vona snarled and spun, her blow getting caught by Guitirre's dancing blade as he moved back, his other weapon clattering to the cobbles as he disengaged.
She went for him again and again, the dancing blade acting as his only means of defense while Zenkuro also tried to press and keep up. Guitirre could feel his body growing heavier, his movements slower, and Vona scored another good hit right across his face, narrowly missing the small unarmored bit between his jaw and throat.
Bolts started to fly. A good hail of them, trained expertly upon Vona as Guitirre moved and dodged as best he could. The oni was able to once more become the focus of her attentions long enough for him to make a scrabble for his fallen weapon while his dancing blade harried her.
He slid on his knees as he went for his weapon, and then his vision went white and he heard a loud ringing in his ears. He fell forward onto his hand, dizziness and nausea overwhelming him. She only got maybe two good hits, he thought to himself, what in the sweet fuck is this?
"High Marshal!" came a muffled voice off to his right.
"Someone bring a glorifier!"
Had he fallen overboard? Was this all but a dream?
No. He saw a blur of movement, gold and black, and somehow he was up and standing, his silvered blade matching that of the enemy, diverting it right before it could run one of his own right through.
"You'll have to do better than a bit of blood sorcery to put me down," he said, though his words were definitely half-slurred. He could feel the oni's presence over his shoulder. Other Legionnaires -- proper ones, not traitors -- were beginning to gather, weapons trained on Vona. Guitirre shook himself out, his dancing blade returning to its spot at his shoulder.
Vona was surrounded. Both on the ground and in the skies. Other traitors were making valiant, though incredibly stupid, attempts to get to her.
"What a sorry damn sight you are," Guitirre said, keeping his blade pointed at her. "Choosing a bastard god because of what? Greed? Power?"
"We have been lied to," Vona said. "We were doing all of this in her name, and then she suddenly says it was all wrong. All of the blood we spent on her, all that we did in her name and honor, and she spits on it!"
"So you spit on your country? You spit on the people who depended upon you?" Guitirre sneered, wiping blood from his lips and spitting again. "Your family? Your friends?"
"They died," Vona growled. "They died, and we failed to properly punish their murderers. This is retribution that had been denied for half of a generation, Guitirre."
"So you think yourself noble?"
"I will never pretend to be such. Not as you and the rest of these ingrates do," she spat. Guitirre noticed a number bristling, and he subtly waved them off.
"So you admit to being a beast?"
"I care not for how you label me," Vona said with a scoff. Her wings spread. Guitirre noticed the tears had been mending. "Murderer. Betrayer. Call me all you wish, I do not care. I have found someone who appreciates my talents, and who will not force me to play nice with the sniveling weaklings I devour."
"Then you and yours will be starving within a decade," he said with a snort. "We need the humans, and they need us. I am sorry you never grasped such a basic concept, alongside that of deserved humility and the ability to admit wrongdoing. What a petulant child you are."
Her eyes narrowed. Blackened mist started to congregate around her, and Guitirre could make out reddened eyes in it.
"To all who blindly followed her," he said, raising his voice as weapons were loaded, ready to be fired upon her. "I tell you this now -- lay down your arms. Surrender yourselves, and your souls may yet be saved. Follow her, and meet your god in death. This is your choice, this is your first and only chance." He dared to take his eyes off of her, looking to the traitors who had been taken in by his own Legionnaires. "Surrender or die. These are your options."
A few had nasty words that died in their heretic throats before they could be fully uttered. Others were wiser and dropped their weapons, offering up their hands and bowing in a gesture of supplication.
My champion does not need your mercy, came a whispered voice. Do not expect for it to be given when next you cross paths.
Darkness consumed her, and in an eyeblink, the Antifex was gone.
"We should've captured her!" one of the skymarchers protested.
"She would escape no matter what we did," Guitirre told them. "We do not have the capacity to keep her bound. That was the doing of her patron's power, not her own. We'd have to limit his hold on her which is all but impossible unless we had a means of instantly transporting her to the capitol."
A number of the Legionnaires were still rankled, but others knew the High Marshal was right. Even with the five condemner-priests across the ships, with only two on his and no true expert in the newer binding techniques with them, it'd be a futile effort. Even then, she might bide her time, overhear where they were headed next, and prepare a greater and more coordinated ambush for them later on down the line.
Getting her to retreat was the best outcome.
The High Marshal let out a deep sigh, sheathing both of his weapons.
"Alright. You," he said, pointing to one of his Legionnaires nearby -- their face was getting fuzzed in his vision -- "make sure that the fires are dealt with. Zenkuro, I know I owe you greatly, and I will make up for it when I can reasonably stand without being underwater." He swayed a little on his feet. "And I am going to pass out now, so if you could catch me, that would be appreciated."
He swayed again, his knees buckling, and then he fell into strong enough arms to keep him from the ground.
