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R.I.P. Jocke Karlsson (1971-2025), miembro de, entre otros, Pitbullfarm, Pluton Svea, Slapping Suspenders, Brutal Attack o Pro Patria.

#Pitbullfarm #Jocke Karlsson #Brutal Attack #Pluton Svea #Pro Patria #Oi!#Psychobilly #RAC-A-BILLY #RAC #Slapping Suspenders #R.I.P.#Punk

Pro Patria (August Blom, 1915)

#pro patria #august blom #alma hinding #1915 #silent cinema #danish cinema #window #flowers

#pro patria #august blom #1915 #silent cinema #danish cinema

2020 fic writing post!

2020 was not my most productive year, but apart from the general state of 2020, I had a lot to do for my PhD and sleeping problems, so ... /shrug. Anyway, this year—

- I got inspired by my “eh” feelings about TROS to outline a big chunk of my f!Luke series, and after (I think) four years of no updates, wrote some eighteen and a half chapters on The Jedi and the Sith Lord in something like six weeks. It’s now 67k.

- I updated my very niche Guild Wars 2 fic, pro patria, a kind of fragmented AU in which the “Missing Sister” option to say that the PC/Deborah are proud Ascalonians has a major effect on the PC’s character and story. I got Althea through a bunch of Ebonhawke/Fields of Ruin stuff, which was 50% of the motivation for writing it at all. It’s now at 89k.

- I finally finished the gift of men, the Eldarion/Faramir-and-Éowyn’s-daughter fic that has been rolling around my brain/Google Drive for years. It’s only a little over 1k, but I was really glad to get it finished and posted.

#anghraine babbles #fic talk #fic talk: lucy skywalker #fic talk: pro patria #fic talk: the gift of men #fic talk: tolerably well acquainted #fic talk: fíriel #fic talk: aasimar au #original fic rambles #lucy skywalker #pro patria #the gift of men #tolerably well acquainted #fíriel of minas tirith #aasimar au #star wars #ascalonian grudgeblog #legendarium blogging #austen blogging

• • Pro Patria ~ For one’s country • •

Who else saw Captain Marvel and loved it?

#captain marvel #captain america #marvel #wallpaper #lockscreen #marvel lockscreen #carol danvers #steve rogers #marvel wallpaper #pro patria

Pro Patria. South Africa War Memorial, Penrith Castle Park.

#photography #black and white #penrith #penrith castle park #pro patria #south africa war memorial #war memorial

pro patria, chapters 1-7

I don’t actually expect people to read this, but I want it over here for completeness’s sake, so—the Guild Wars 2 fic!

This one is ... different, apart from being for a canon that I think maybe three of my friends are interested in, because instead of writing a one-shot in my format of seven sections of seven sentences each, I've written an entire 70k+ fic that way. Each chapter is precisely 49 sentences long, which makes for a lot of very short chapters, so I'm bunching them up into groups of (of course!) seven.

It’s business as usual, however, in having copious footnotes (these ones assume everyone’s unfamiliar with the canon story).

title: pro patria (1-7/?) stuff that happens: a young Ascalonian woman grows from a sheltered aristocrat, to a hero rushing into danger to help a nearby village, to the investigator of a series of mysterious abductions and thefts tied to the Ministry itself. verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: PC (mesmer / human / noble origin / missing sister [Ascalonian]), Lord Faren, Minister Ailoda, Deborah, Countess Anise, Logan Thackeray; PC & Ailoda, PC & Deborah, PC & Anise, PC & Faren

ONE 1 I always thought of myself as Ascalonian first, and Krytan second. Both of my parents were Ascalonian—my mother came from a family of Rurikton refugees fallen on good times, my father from Ebonhawke, and I was born there, myself. Mother had resigned from the Ministry over some quarrel with Minister Caudecus, and hammered in her protest by uprooting the entire family for an extended holiday with my aunt Elwin in Ebonhawke. This was long before the Rurikton gate got fixed on Ebonhawke, so in the off phases, people generally took “going to visit family in Ebonhawke” as a euphemism for something. But Mother being Mother, she headed through Lion’s Arch to the Black Citadel of all places, carved her way through only the gods knew what to the gates of Ebonhawke, turned herself over to the Vanguard, and waited for Aunt Elwin to show up and get them released. She was seven months pregnant with me by the time she arrived, Father and five-year-old Deborah in tow. And two months later, she delivered me there, Father and Aunt Elwin at her side, and Charr siege engines in her ears. 2 Father always wanted to go back to Kryta, for Deborah’s sake and mine. And during the times that the Rurikton gate got switched to Ebonhawke, when our kin in Divinity’s Reach rushed supplies through, requests for Mother’s return to the Ministry came with them. She only said, “We need soldiers, not supplies—yes, I know centaurs are attacking them, but —” “We need to go home,” said Father. A Charr attack shook her resolve more than he did: one that briefly broke through the walls while Deborah was out walking with Aunt Elwin. But it was Aunt Elwin who convinced Mother that she could do more to help our people in the Ministry than as one more staff against the Charr legions. She accepted the latest offer from the Ministry, this time to serve as representative of the Salma District itself, and we headed—home, to a place I’d never seen. 3 My father was a Fairchild, a descendant—if collateral—of Duke Barradin himself, while my mother was only a Langmar, and a Langmar of mixed heritage, no less. But Langmar meant nearly as much as Fairchild in Rurikton, where the family had owned a mansion for generations. When we first arrived, I’d never seen anything like it, for Aunt Elwin’s house in struggling Ebonhawke couldn’t begin to compare to the splendid gardens and shining marble of a mansion in Divinity’s Reach. Even Deborah, her eleven-year-old dignity often stronger than any other feeling, couldn’t help staring around with wide eyes. Mother, meanwhile, gained a still greater mansion in the Salma District upon receiving her appointment as representative, but she wanted us safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry. Deborah and I grew up quietly in Langmar Manor, educated with other Ascalonian nobles by Ascalonian tutors, familiar with every corner of Rurikton and very little beyond it. Deborah chafed at the confinement, but I was a little girl, content enough to spend my days playing and studying with Yolanda, Corone, and Faren, new and lifelong friends. 4 Deborah joined the Seraph the day she turned twenty. “I don’t understand,” I said blankly. “We call ourselves Ascalonians,” she told me, “and that means more than tracing our family trees. You don’t remember Ebonhawke, but those are real Ascalonians, fighting for what they love—like our ancestors fought for what they loved—but we’re happy to boast of their names without doing anything. Captain Thackeray could just sit back and enjoy everything he gets for being Gwen Thackeray’s heir, but he isn’t, and I won’t either. Ascalon is lost, even if Rurikton and the Settlement and Ebonhawke will never admit it, but as long as Kryta stands, we have something to fight for.” Deborah as a Seraph, solving crimes, keeping order, and skirmishing with the occasional bandit raid, wasn’t half so chilling a prospect as Deborah fighting legions of Charr, so I didn’t say what I thought—as long as Ebonhawke stands, we have Ascalon to fight for. 5 Deborah’s departure left the whole family scattered: my mother in Salma, my father dead, my aunt and cousins in Ebonhawke, my sister stationed all the way down in Claypool, and some remote relations and me in Rurikton. Mother, still grieving Father and anxious over Debs, decided that at fifteen, I was old enough to come live with her in her Ministry mansion. I’d felt lonely and restless in Langmar Manor, but I still received the news with very little short of horror. “You’re going the next district over, not across the world,” said Yolanda. “I’ll take a house in Manor Hill too,” Faren said recklessly, “and we’ll have amazing parties.” Faren being Faren, he actually did, aided by his father’s relief at him showing interest in something beyond Rurikton high society—even if that thing was only Salma high society. My mother kissed me when we arrived, and with a smile, told Faren, “It’s a pleasure to know you’ll be keeping my girl company, and of course, just to see you—you’re looking so well!” He preened. 6 We spent those early weeks exploring Salma, curious and cheerful despite ourselves, suppressing giggles as we followed a dour guide about the district. “Orr was destroyed,” the guide was saying, “Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire; only Kryta is left, and that by a narrow margin.” “Ascalon was ravaged by the Searing,” I said sharply, all laughter gone. Nobody would call Faren a great wit, but when it came to conversation and society, his instincts were impeccable. “You must have gotten the order confused, good sir—the Searing came first, the Foefire when everything was already wrecked—but a simple mistake, I’m sure—you were saying something about Kryta?” Biting back the first words that came to my lips, I forced myself to smile and say, “Sorry, we’re Ascalonian.” “I guessed,” said the guide. 7 I suppose I was a callow, coddled creature in those days, spoiled if not malicious—and though three years of even more luxury in Salma didn’t change that, a single letter did. To Minister Ailoda Langmar, I regret to inform you of the loss of Falcon Company in a centaur raid. Your daughter, Sergeant Deborah Fairchild, died honourably in battle. With my deepest condolences to you and your family, Captain J. Tervelan of the Seraph (Queensdale) As Mother staggered backwards, I caught her, and somehow afterwards, that was always the clearest memory: her weight in my arms, the letter falling out of her hand, fluttering downwards until it reached the floor, nothing visible but the seal of the Seraph. Until then, I’d been little more than an irritable butterfly, but with Mother shattered, I found myself willingly shouldering the work of mourning: the formal letters and heartbroken notes, the refusal of Deborah’s pension, the visits from friends and allies and enemies—I was warm and grateful to the Mashewes and Baroness Jasmina; coldly civil to that ass Zamon, whose commiseration fell little short of gloating; brave and dignified to Corone and his friend Edmonds; grieved but composed with Faren and Yolanda. Like a creature of a thousand faces, I sometimes thought in exhausted moments: not at all a proper Ascalonian hero, more Anise than Deborah—but it was the only way I knew to be strong.

1 My sister’s gravestone read: Deborah Fairchild Daughter of Kryta and Ascalon Died serving her country with honour, faith, and courage. No body rested beneath the stone; neither the Seraph nor Mother’s Ministry guards ever managed to recover the missing corpses. I never saw a ghost, never heard the merest whisper of her spirit. The grave was the nearest approximation we had, but I often felt drawn to it, dry-eyed and somber. A day rarely passed when I spoke her name, and a day rarely passed when I did not think of her, memories jumbled up with horror at what that missing body must mean. When Debs joined the Seraph, she spoke of Logan Thackeray, of Ebonhawke, of the ancestral heroes whose names brought us respect and luxury—not of Mother, Aunt Elwin, certainly not me. Yet I could not help feeling that somehow, had I done something different, been someone different, she would never have left us. 2 For a year, I played my part in what increasingly seemed a theatre of grief: three months’ withdrawal into mourning, gradual emergence into a solemn, reserved public life over the next six months, and another quarter-year to return to my old habits of gaiety and grudges—yet little altered for me, at court or during my weekly vigils at the grave. Not, at least, until one of the latter was interrupted by a familiar voice, saying: “Indulgence doesn’t suit you, darling.” “Anise?” I exclaimed, too surprised for offence; Countess Anise was a longtime friend of our family—only the Six knew how long—but I rarely saw her away from court, much less in the guarded seclusion of the Langmar cemetery. “All those faces of yours,” said Anise, her drawl indistinguishable from every other time I’d heard her, “and you’re squandering them on self-pity and an empty coffin.” “She wanted to be a real Ascalonian,” I blurted out—I, who hadn’t confided in my mother or my aunt or my friends, and somehow I couldn’t help but babble on, “a hero fighting for her home and her cause, and now—now she’s just like them, a martyr and a defiled corpse somewhere—” “You’re getting hysterical,” Anise said, not unkindly, and added, “Is martyrdom what it means to be Ascalonian, now?” I’d always liked Anise, a clever lady mesmer like my namesake, but alive and undefeated; I respected her uncharted skills and enjoyed her inscrutable charm, but until that moment, I never realized: she was Ascalonian, too. 3 Teach me, I found myself begging Anise, though I myself didn’t quite know what I meant—maneuvering in the court, or chaos magic, or defending another person, or outwitting potential threats, or generating clones, or simply surviving in prosperity—perhaps I did not mean anything in particular. I couldn’t be Deborah, and in my heart I didn’t want to be Deborah, a soldier locked into hierarchies and orders and thrown into small doomed skirmishes. In any case, I hadn’t Deborah’s resilience, or Captain Thackeray’s unwavering loyalty, or his foremother Gwen’s relentless courage—but if I did not envision myself as equal to Anise, hers were footsteps I could see myself following, regardless of the particulars. Even as I pleaded with her, I expected little from a woman at once detached and preoccupied—and thought little of what had driven her to intercede in the first place. But Anise, taking the request on its face, smiled. “Chaos for a devotee of Kormir? Delightful—I’ll expect you at moonrise.” 4 My life reformed itself over that next year. Mother, relieved to see me interested in something of substance, readily relinquished me to Anise’s patronage; Anise herself proved an exacting but gracious mentor, dispensing advice, demands, criticism, and praise in equal measure; and my friends found me more and more myself. Small concerns crept back into my mind: the superiority of silk over velvet, Barradin wine over Eldvin ale, Gwen Thackeray over Queen Salma. Greater ones, of course, drew my attention as well: the downfall of the Meades, one of the oldest Ascalonian houses in Kryta, and consequent disappearance of our childhood friend Kasmeer Meade; the desperation of the war in my birthplace and heightened Krytan aid; the murder of an Ascalonian minister. I miss Debs every day, I wrote to my aunt, but I know I have to make something of my own life, in my own way. I’ve been thinking of returning to Ebonhawke to help, since Anise says I am ‘highly proficient’ as an aetherist. I haven’t left Divinity’s Reach in years, though, so before I try myself against the Charr, I’m planning on making my way around Queensdale—at least Shaemoor. 5 To the world, my story began the day I stepped through Dwayna’s Gate into Shaemoor. The world is wrong, of course; my life didn’t begin with centaurs clubbing a frightened man the instant that I set foot in Shaemoor, with stalls and cottages roaring into flame, with a boy as blond as Debs huddled in a corner, with the blood and brains and screams of that day. It didn’t begin with the barely-heard orders from Corporal Beirne—with the indistinct impulse that had me running forward rather than back, urging strangers towards the inn, catching the boy up in my arms, consoling a woman over the slaughter of her dog as I dragged her with my free hand—with the furious spells tumbling from my mouth, focused through the weak wooden sceptre in my hand. I was someone before I became the hero of Shaemoor. I was myself, with my own history, my own concerns, my own people … the man, that man slaughtered before my eyes, was Ascalonian, and the boy too. If they had not been, perhaps the instinct of the moment would not have flung me into the horror as if I’d been tempered by the Searing, instead of sheltered in Divinity’s Reach. Or perhaps it ran deeper than that, and I would have turned onto that path had the man been Zamon, or an Asura, or even a Charr—but still, it was the turn, not the beginning. 6 Something did begin at Shaemoor, however: my association with Logan Thackeray. I’d met him before, socially, but only just—and in perfect honesty, knew him more as the butt of Anise’s wit than anything else. But I respected him from what I’d heard of his service to Divinity’s Reach, and for his determination to follow his ancestress’s footsteps and not just her name. In the midst of all that panic and death, it seemed only natural to rush to his aid when I heard that he was being overwhelmed. I had no sword, like Logan, or Deborah; I struck from among magical decoys, twisting chaos about our enemies from each direction—but it was something, and an hour from leaving the city for the first time, I was at Logan’s side, blasting aether at a massive earth elemental and the many smaller ones. He didn’t know me from Kormir, or at least from Kasmeer, but I knew we were a Langmar and a Thackeray again, thrown into another desperate fight, and there were worse ways to die. But we didn’t die; we lived and we triumphed, and by the time that I awoke in the care of a priestess of Dwayna, every Seraph from Logan on down knew who I was. 7 All my life, I had been Minister Ailoda’s other girl or the lady Elwin’s niece or Sergeant Fairchild’s sister or a Langmar, you know, on the mother’s side—or, now and then, merely my lady. I rarely heard my own name outside my little circle of Ascalonian nobles. I also rarely heard it in the immediate wake of Shaemoor. But now I wasn’t a satellite about greater relations, extensions of my mother or aunt or sister or heroic ancestors. I was the hero, myself, even as I wandered about Shaemoor in a daze. I didn’t do much: fought off little wyrms and harpies, found missing herds, gathered apples. Yet there was no my lady there, much less So-and-so’s relation: only the hero of Shaemoor.

THREE 1 These days, I knew better than to let myself get consumed by grief. Still, as I flung spells at spiders, giant worms, bandits, centaurs, anything, I couldn’t help but wish that Deborah could see me now. At the garrison, I snatched up a rusty sword and poured magic through it with every swing at a centaur; what would she think? Me, fighting with a sword? Maybe not the way she or the other Seraph did, but still! She wouldn’t believe it. She’d be proud, I thought—wouldn’t she? 2 I’d barely passed beyond Shaemoor when I heard from Faren: positively hasty, for him. His pet raven delivered a gushing note that, in the space of a few sentences, managed to tease me about my injuries, urge me to talk him up to my healer, and summon me to a party—at my own house. I could only laugh; ridiculous as he often was, I loved him dearly, and always had. Even as children, we’d been friends and companions, but after Kasmeer vanished and Deborah died, we found ourselves inseparable. We were among the last of that quiet, secure little Ascalonian world in which we’d grown up at Rurikton—certainly the closest. Deborah’s death had changed me, driven me beyond the walls of Rurikton and Manor Hill, beyond letters and parties and court gossip. But I remained Faren’s friend, as I would always be. 3 Many people, I think, assumed Faren and I were lovers; in fact, to our own bemusement, nothing could be further from the truth. When we were seventeen, he said, “I don’t understand it. You’re pretty—I’m gorgeous—but I really think I’d throw up.” I might have been offended had I not felt exactly the same. “Inbreeding, I expect,” I told him. Faren brightened. “Grandmama was a Fairchild.” 4 Faren waited ahead of the party—a sacrifice, in the world of Faren—to greet me with his most grandiose bow. “The hero of Shaemoor returns!” I shook my head, but I grinned despite myself. It turned out that my servants had gleefully conspired with him, and when I entered the courtyard, I found it full of strangers and friends alike, along with food, gossip, and a wizard. I’d enjoyed exploring Queensdale, pushing myself to further and further limits; it was good to know that I could enjoy simpler pleasures, too, although it didn’t extend to the dog fights and bear baiting that a cousin of Faren’s called for. “Not in my home,” I snapped, “and if you want to stay, don’t mention that again.” When I heard someone say my name, I seized the chance to turn away—only to find myself facing my mother’s most hated rival. 5 “Minister Zamon.” “You’ve done well for yourself,” Zamon said acidly. “All it takes for a noble to be a hero is a bit of swordplay, a few bottles of cheap brandy, and an inflated sense of self-importance.” He had said much the same of Deborah’s swift rise among the Seraph; she’d never responded, holding herself above partisan squabbles. “Then you’re almost a hero already, my lord,” I replied, smiling. “All you lack is the brandy and swordplay.” I was not Deborah. 6 Even my old friends seemed to see the hero of Shaemoor more than anything else. Corone, brought up with Faren and Kasmeer and me, and now a respected warrior, regarded me as if he’d never seen me before, and said he’d be honoured to fight beside me. Yolanda hailed me as a heroine—before chiding me for associating so much with Faren, “that rascal!” In his imagination, maybe. Fending off her interrogation about Logan Thackeray, I’d never been happier to see Faren bounce towards me. And the moment that I muttered something about being tired, he assured me that he was done with the party as well, and headed off to make our excuses to the servants. I was ignoring Yolanda’s meaningful stare when I heard him scream. 7 Corone got his wish sooner than either of us could have imagined. We easily trounced the bandits who swept into the party, but it didn’t matter: Faren was already gone. With Corone and Edmonds protecting the guests, I ran out of Manor Hill and into the district plaza, desperately trying to catch any sign of Faren, or even the bandits; they’d have to have some way to recognize each other, wouldn’t they? But there was nothing, just ordinary people carrying on with ordinary business, merchants calling out sales, the old tour guide talking to a woman with a red handkerchief about her neck … with that over her mouth, she’d look just like the bandits who had abducted Faren— “Madam?” said someone near us, and then “ma'am!” as I blasted the bandit with a bolt of aether. I fought at least half a dozen across the district, tracking them one by one to a house at the opposite end of Salma. At the sight of me, bandits poured out of the house, but I didn’t care: they’d learn what it meant to cross a daughter of Ascalon.

1 After Shaemoor, the bandits were nothing. They kept jumping out of their safehouse one by one—idiocy—and flailed at my clones, even their supposed leader. “Soon, you’ll beg me for death!” he shouted. I laughed, and blew up the clones. He went down like a basket of eggs. But I never laughed for long. I’d yet to see Faren, and images of bandits beating him, tormenting him, cutting his throat, flickered before me, each as vivid as every spell I cast. 2 Inside the bandits’ safehouse, I raced upstairs, barely wasting attention on the few guards left inside. Fear and victory kept my blood rushing fast: I didn’t even think about Anise’s lessons, but my feet landed exactly as she’d taught me, my body slipped away from each attack, and every spell hit its mark. Beyond them, I could just see Faren. He seemed alive, thank the gods, but stretched out in magical chains that turned my anger and fear to raw fury. I fought through a haze of rage, but one that illuminated rather than blinded—everything seemed crisp and bright and clear, more than ever before. When the last of them collapsed, I scrambled the rest of the way up the stairs, and tried to clear my head. “Um,” said Faren, “a little help here?” 3 When I broke the chains, relief flooding through me, he gave a hoarse laugh. “Am I pleased to see you!” he exclaimed, then grinned and added, “though if you wanted me to leave the party, a simple ‘Begone, freeloader!’ would have sufficed.” Captivity or no, Faren clearly remained Faren. “I’ll make a note of that,” I said dryly, and asked after any information he might have picked up on what the devil was going on. But he knew only that they operated out of a house in Shaemoor, where they’d meant to lock him up, and that in recent months, they’d turned more brazen, bloodthirsty, and focused on rebellion against the crown. “I can't save you and leave the others to rot,” I decided, and managed to smile at him. “Bad form, you know.” 4 Faren, looking determined (for him), said, “Count me in—I may not be a centaur-killing berserker like you, but I can take care of myself.” I’d believe that when I saw it. On the way to the bandits' den, I said, “Glad to have you with me, but do me a favour? Stay close”—I poked him with my sceptre—“and that way, we can protect each other.” Faren shrugged that off, which didn’t comfort me, but he actually managed himself well enough; he didn’t even get blood on his clothes as we fought our way into the concealed and guarded caves, nor when we rescued all the prisoners caged inside, so it counted as a success as far as he was concerned. “If you know any fair maidens, be sure to tell them who rescued you,” he said, and added with a grin, “the dashing Lord Faren … and his friend!” 5 The mission did count as a success for me, too; one of the captives had filched papers about a plot in Divinity’s Reach. We escorted him and the others out, taking down the remaining bandits with impatience (me) and glee (Faren). “We showed them what Ascalonians are made of!” he said triumphantly, and I straightened right up. “That’s right.” When Logan Thackeray arrived to help, Faren swaggered up and said, “My friend and I defeated these delinquents with panache and aplomb; you're just in time to celebrate our victory.” “I’m … amazed,” said Captain Thackeray. I knew the feeling. 6 “Then again,” he said, favouring me with a respectful nod, “I should have known that the hero of Shaemoor wouldn’t let your kidnapping go unanswered.” I remembered Shaemoor, fighting alongside Captain Thackeray with my stick of a sceptre just like Gwen and Langmar once had, all those years ago, and tried not to think too much of it; we’d barely met, outside of a few social occasions he clearly didn’t remember. But I also thought of Faren struggling in his chains, and danger spreading to the home that was supposed to keep us safe, and that we were all Ascalonians together. “No one hurts my friends without answering to me,” I said firmly. I handed over the papers we’d acquired, but to my surprise, it was Faren(!) who proved most useful; he noticed the quality of the paper, and even knew of the papermaker I could track down to identify it. I promised, “I'll get the information you need, without anyone realizing the Seraph are aware of the traitor in the city.” “Be careful,” said Captain Thackeray. 7 Although he warned me, I didn’t realize so many skale existed in the world as I wiped out on that trip—luckily, I found a new sceptre on the way, so I managed to keep them at a distance, and my clothes remained as pristine as Faren’s. When I arrived, I found the paper maker he’d mentioned; Fursarai was a small, prissy man, an impression not helped by his quite beautiful waistcoat, but it didn’t stop him from shouting at a departing Norn about getting his supplies back to the city. “You there—you look like you can handle yourself in a fight!” he announced, gaze fixed on something in my direction; I glanced over my shoulder, but none of the Seraph seemed to be behind me, nor anyone else. He gabbled something about the garrison and cowardly guards at the empty air—unless—unless "you there" was supposed to mean me? What a boor: but unfortunately, a boor who could direct me to Faren’s attackers. Friendship had its sacrifices. I looked at my silk sleeves, and sighed. FIVE 1 “What do you cost?” Cin Fursarai demanded, and now I preferred to believe he wanted a replacement for that Norn. It was flattering, I suppose, that he looked at me—a young noblewoman in silk, wool, and fine leather, carrying only a sceptre and a small sword—and thought I looked like someone who could fight. “I’m not a mercenary,” I said, and added: “I'm here to ask for help identifying the craftsmanship of a piece of handmade paper.” Fursarai sniffed. “If you found quality paper in Divinity’s Reach, I can assure you, I made it.” By sheer force of will, I didn’t roll my eyes—I had a conspiracy to unearth, never mind how irritating this little prig was—and instead requested his help, only for him to sniff again and go on about how he had no loyalty to the crown, because he happened to live in Lion’s Arch. He had red hair and dressed in high Rurikton fashion; he had to be Ascalonian, descendant of refugees saved by Kryta’s rulers, yet—yet— 2 It didn’t matter. It didn’t, not right now—and anyway, our fashions had spread far and wide, Lion’s Arch had long ago drowned its history, and true Ascalonian identity meant more than ancestry, whatever they might say in Rurikton. Deborah had taught me that much; if he didn’t care about it, then I wouldn’t, either. Easier said than done, though. “I need this information as soon as possible,” I told him. “But why should I trust you?” he retorted. “Who are you, anyway?” 3 I lifted my chin, and for all I might tell myself, I felt as if the pride of generations clustered about me, even with my foremothers’ spirits hopefully at peace in the Hall of Echoes. I had not forgotten what I came from. All those Langmars, the children and children’s children of Gwen Thackeray’s great captain. The Krytans they’d married now and then, abandoning an easy heritage to transplant themselves into Rurikton, absorbed into Ascalonian life and identity. The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of the last kings, of the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter. They’d fought a long defeat, on and on, yet managed to keep a last corner of human Ascalon alive; my aunt still worked to keep Ebonhawke standing while this man sneered over paper. “I am Lady Althea Fairchild of Divinity’s Reach and Ebonhawke,” I said. 4 Fursarai eyed me suspiciously. “Well, which one?” Despite myself, my defiance flickered. I would always be Ascalonian above all else, yet I would always serve the queen, too, and set myself against the enemies of Kryta. I belonged to Ebonhawke, my father’s land, my birthplace and my pride; I belonged to Divinity’s Reach, the only home I knew, where my mother’s people had lived and fought for generations. Anise always called me a creature of two faces, and I supposed I was. “I don’t know,” I admitted. 5 He grunted. “Explains why you don’t stink like the rest, anyway.” “Thank you,” I replied dryly. After a minute of meditation (not helped by Fursarai’s string of complaints), we headed out. I was just about ready to kill him myself by the time we got to the Shaemoor garrison; he’d have easily died without me fighting skale and centaurs and one exceptionally large spider by sceptre and sword, but he made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, just cowering against his bull and yelping the entire way there. That was before I had to take down three centaur catapults and Lyssa knew how many centaurs, with maybe two Seraph backing me up. Naturally, his gratitude upon entering the garrison amounted to checking his supplies three times, turning to me, and pronouncing: “I feel like I was run over by a herd of marauding dolyaks!” 6 Irritation aside, he did supply the information I needed, admitting that he sold his paper to Minister Zamon. Zamon, the man who’d all but gloated at my mother when Deborah died, purely—I thought then—because of malice at the suffering of a rival. And then, not long ago: the man who’d sneered at my defense of Shaemoor. “He has excellent taste,” Fursarai said, his glance clearly implying that I didn’t. As if he’d know. I silently decided that I’d never buy anything from him, even if I had to go to Lion’s Arch myself to find another papermaker. I smiled and said, “Don’t leave Divinity’s Reach.” 7 I found Captain Thackeray in the Seraph Headquarters, deep in a discussion with Anise, of all people, but his head snapped up when he caught sight of me. “Do you have any news?” “Fursarai admitted he made the paper for Minister Zamon,” I said, suppressing any signs of satisfaction. Well, mostly; Anise cast an amused look in my direction. “Setting up citizens to be robbed and brutalized?” exclaimed Captain Thackeray. “That's out-and-out treason.” Why, so it was.

SIX 1 “But where are my manners?” said Captain Thackeray, whom I’d never seen with so much as a wrinkle in his surcoat or a hair out of place. “Allow me to introduce you to Countess Anise, Master Exemplar of the Shining Blade.” Bemused, I nodded at my mentor of years, while Anise bowed with a faint, ironic smile. Disregarding the matter of manners, she said smoothly, “Minister Wi’s hosting a party tonight; it’ll be a good opportunity to eavesdrop on ministers, their allies, and enemies.” Captain Thackeray couldn’t quite bring himself to disagree, but clearly wanted to; he proposed a (perfectly legal) raid on Zamon’s house instead, and worse still, left the choice to me, insisting that he couldn’t give me orders—even though he clearly had no idea who I was. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d realized I had a name. 2 Naturally, I consulted with Anise—Thackeray or no Thackeray, she was my guide and teacher. “Personally,” she said in her light voice, “I prefer convivial, face-to-face situations. Then again, cloak-and-dagger skulduggery is always fun.” I laughed. “The way you describe it, it all sounds so charming; I’ll have to think it over.” I didn’t, actually. Minister Wi lived in Rurikton, and Faren was my best friend; if I knew anything, it was Rurikton parties. 3 “Minister Wi’s party,” I announced. “I’ll see what I can learn.” “Are you sure?” said Captain Thackeray, though with a distinct note of resignation. “You can’t break into Zamon’s place if you attend Minister Wi’s party.” “I’m sure,” I told him. “Minister Wi’s party it is.” He sighed. 4 “Your fellow nobles seem to have a knack for making my life interesting,” Captain Thackeray told me, clearly putting the best face on it. “Let’s see if we can’t return the favour.” “We nobles, Captain Thackeray?” I said, amused; everyone knew about his relationship to Gwen—and his relationship to Queen Jennah, too. “A step down from royalty making your life interesting, I’m sure.” To my surprise, he flinched. Some lover’s spat, perhaps; I decided it was none of my business, and turned to Anise, who promised to meet me at the party—because it wouldn’t do to make us share the spotlight during our entrance. Of course. 5 I listened to a few complaints and registered some unsolved crimes after Anise left, then headed out. At least, I meant to, but on my way to the door out of Seraph Headquarters, I caught sight of an open book—a register. “That lists the names of all Seraph soldiers for the last two decades,” an officer told me proudly. I glanced over my shoulder, undoubtedly looking as suspect as a priest of Grenth on Wintersday, but nobody seemed to be paying attention; the officer had drifted over to settle a dispute over a farm, Captain Thackeray was talking to a lieutenant, and everybody else looked up to their ears in work. I opened the book, scolding myself for being foolish, giving into a pointless sentimentality that would achieve nothing, recover no corpse for a grave—but still, I turned the pages, searching for the name I would know. I felt like a spy, flipping through pages, for all that the registry was open to the public and I had every right to look—and then, there it was, near the head of its page. Sgt Deborah Fairchild; missing in action, assumed dead. 6 “Are you looking for someone?” said Captain Thackeray. I nearly jumped straight into the air; as it was, I flinched as violently as he had. “No, sir,” I said, and realized—Debs would have said no, sir in the exact same tone, would have stood in this very room as I did now, would know it all better than I did. What would she have thought, if she’d known that one day I would be investigating crimes for the Seraph, reporting to Captain Thackeray himself? She’d never pressed me to be anything I wasn’t, never seemed to love me less for being the thoughtless, frivolous creature I was then, but I couldn’t help but imagine she’d have been proud. Imagine how this whole thing might have gone if she’d been alive—maybe we’d be investigating Zamon together, or— “Good luck, Captain Thackeray,” I said, and walked out. 7 By happy coincidence, I already had an invitation, of sorts. My mother’s said Minister Ailoda Langmar and one other. “You want to go?” said Mother, looking startled. “I would have thought you’d be busy slaying monsters or saving people or whatever else you do these days.” I frowned, unsure how to take this; it might have been pride, if not for her studiously neutral tone—did she think all this unimportant, or regrettable, or beneath us? Or was it fear, with Deborah dead on Seraph business? For a wild moment, I longed to tell her, cling to her and admit that I was frightened and angry as well as resolved, to confide in someone who would always see Althea first and the hero of Shaemoor second. “I need to keep an eye on Faren,” I said.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- SEVEN 1 I headed back to Rurikton for the party, though a good while before it was set to begin. I hadn’t been home for a while—months, though it felt like longer—and I wanted to get my bearings. I strolled past the familiar stone gryphons, a light calm settling over me. It deepened as I made my way down the streets, passing refugees and servants who gave slight bows: respectful, no more. Clusters of nobles nodded familiarly at me. I stopped by local traders, most of whom I knew by name. One bookseller had a pair of rare books on Ascalonian history, one of which I’d wanted for ages; I purchased them on the spot, and after these weeks of fighting and investigating and rescuing, it was a pleasure to let it all slide for a moment, and decide that today was already a success. 2 I personally carried my books to Langmar Manor, since I’d forgotten to bring any servants, and didn’t feel very much inclined to send for one now. Oddly enough, I had gotten used to managing on my own. The walk from the district square was a short and easy one in any case; I strolled down the streets, encountering nothing worse than a few seditious posters I tore down, and a man complaining about Captain Thackeray to an unsympathetic friend. “You know, just because your wife’s taken a shine to Logan Thackeray doesn’t make him a bad guy—he’s cursed.” At the first man’s scoff, the friend added, “Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood! It’s not his fault that every woman fawns over him.” Not every woman, I thought. 3 The people of Rurikton had always mingled at the Maiden’s Whisper as well as Rurikton at large, so I attracted no particular curiosity when I strolled into the tavern. Several other lords and ladies stood near the entrance, smiling and lifting their glasses towards me as I passed, while everyone else simply continued their own conversations—despite the Norn inexplicably towering at the side of the room. “I like that Minister Caudecus,” one girl announced. “To Queen Jennah!” someone just out of sight said, echoed by a dozen toasts to the queen, Divinity’s Reach, Captain Thackeray, and assorted ministers. Across the hall, a man bellowed drunkenly, “Show me a woman who can wrestle a bear, and I’ll show you a keeper!” “If the Charr think they can come here,” said a woman, her voice clear and pleasant, “me and my meat cleaver will tell them otherwise.” I smiled; despite everything, it really was good to be home. 4 I spent the last few hours before the party skulking around Rurikton, but found nothing beyond a particularly incompetent group of adventurers and ordinary conversation on the street. Returning to the inn, I searched for a relatively secluded place, found it in a library, and closed my eyes, peering through those of a near-invisible clone as she drifted through Minister Wi’s manor. She wasn’t caught, but turned up nothing except preparations for the party. I was sure there had to be something we’d missed, but apparently not. Well, Zamon might be acting in secrecy. Might. I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would only discover what I needed to know at the party, and I would have no preparation beyond what I already knew. 5 When I arrived at the manor in person, the place was positively oozing Ministry guards, for no particular reason. Anise slanted them a glance that betrayed nothing, then eyed my finery with nearly smug approval. “This will be delightful,” she said, apparently no more inclined than usual to bother with such minutia as greetings and farewells. “Having the hero of Shaemoor on my arm will make tongues wag.” Even though it was just Anise, I flushed. So much for separate entrances—but it was like Anise to enjoy disrupting plans, even her own. “Thank you for letting me join you this evening, Countess,” I said, because it was like me, too. 6 “Mingle,” she said. “Speak to everyone—you never know who’ll say something they regret later.” It was an encouraging thought. “Second,” said Anise, “don’t limit your conversation to nobility; servants and guards see everything.” “Understood,” I replied, adding, “I suppose it goes without saying that I should be discreet?” “You catch on fast,” she told me, and touched her finger to the end of my nose, eliciting a startled laugh. “Go and charm the masses.” 7 “You know where to find me if you need me, pet,” Anise concluded, while I still tried to wrap my mind and dignity around the fact that she’d bopped my nose. But at the moment, I found her at my side, setting my hand on her arm and marching forward in her tall boots. She actually smiled when I matched my steps to hers, even if I could hardly match the total assurance of her stride and her drawl—but she smiled more at the sudden hush that fell over the grand room when we entered. “The Countess Anise,” the servant at the door announced, and after a suitably dramatic pause, continued, “and the hero of Shaemoor!” Virtually everyone in this room had known me from childhood, but they all bowed anyway, as if my mother herself stood in my place, rather than the other way around; she’d abruptly developed a cold when she heard Zamon would be there. Zamon himself was nowhere to be seen. Interesting.

#anghraine's gaming #anghraine's fic #ascalonian grudgefic #ascalonian grudgeblog #althea fairchild #ailoda langmar #countess anise #marius corone #deborah fairchild #edmund fairchild #elwin fairchild #lord faren #julius zamon #logan thackeray #captain tervelan #guild wars 2 #pro patria #footnotes ahoy!

pro patria, chapters 43-49

This section is the seventh cluster of seven chapters a piece, and each of those has seven sections, and each of those has seven sentences. (I draw the line at seven words a sentence :P)

“I can’t say you look well, but you do look alive!” I smacked the side of Faren’s head. “What?” he said. “Alive is the thing, isn’t it?”

title: pro patria (43-49/?) stuff that happens: Deborah and Althea get a taste of normal life, and make plans for the future.

1 “Mother told me what happened at Shaemoor,” Deborah said slowly. “That’s why so many people just call you ‘hero’?” I wrinkled my nose. “Half of them don’t know my name. Even Logan didn’t until Faren got kidnapped and—” She burst out laughing. “Faren got what?” 2 As we walked on, I caught her up on Faren’s abduction, our discovery and defeat of the bandit ring, my consequent involvement in Anise and Logan’s investigation, and of course, Zamon’s trial. “I underestimated Faren,” she said, laughing again. “I think. But you, in trial by combat?” “It wasn’t as strange as it sounds,” I told her. “Logan all but begged me to let him help fight Zamon, so I mostly hid behind him and confused everyone with clones while he did the work.” “Somehow I don’t think that’s how he would describe it,” said Deborah. 3 “Probably not,” I admitted, but left it at that; I wasn’t sure I had leave to discuss Anise’s suspicion—now almost a certainty—about Minister Caudecus’s role in both plots. To my relief, Deborah immediately moved on to my discovery of Tervelan’s betrayal, her eyes narrowing when she heard that he was still alive. “Who can see him?” she pressed. “No one,” I said. Without hesitation, I added, “Logan’s orders.” Deborah looked disappointed, as well she might, but she settled back into her earlier interrogatory interest. “Well—I don’t imagine I’m going to get much past Captain Thackeray,” she replied, “and I do owe him.” 4 “We both do,” I said, believing it with all my heart. “For looking after you, I mean,” said Deborah, wrapping her arm the rest of the way around mine. “In his way.” “I wouldn’t say that.” “I imagine not,” she said, amused, or at least pretending to it. “But he’s had your back. I won’t forget it.” 5 “I won’t, either,” I assured her. “I always respected him for his service,” she went on. “It’s just a little different, knowing he took you under his wing when I couldn’t be there.” I almost denied it, but I couldn’t help but think of how, not that long ago, he and I had been nothing but the distantly heroic captain of Divinity’s Reach and a random noblewoman. Somehow in the months since, we’d gone from Captain Thackeray and the hero of Shaemoor, cooperating when our paths crossed once more, to Logan and Althea, to make our ancestors proud, little sister. “I don’t know if it’s that,” I said honestly, “but he didn’t have to trust me, and he did. Now everything’s different.” 6 Deborah nodded solemnly, but I didn’t see her earlier melancholy in it. “I did wonder how you ended up as his right hand,” she said. “Now I understand.” “I’m not—” Her head tilted. “No? Should I say personal agent?” 7 “Sidekick, maybe,” I said. Honestly, I had no idea how to describe what I did for Logan—and Anise, and the crown. In any case, Deborah let the matter pass with a tentative hope that she’d like her new commander as much as she did Logan, and from there, it was an easy step to discussing the Falcons and her own future; predictably, she had no intention of leaving the Seraph. She looked half-defiant, but I just smiled at her and said, “I wouldn’t expect anything else out of you, Debs.” She glanced away from me, then turned back so abruptly that I had barely a moment’s warning before she wrapped her arms tightly about me, her chin digging into my shoulder. It was uncomfortable, but I didn’t care. “I am proud of you,” said my sister. FORTY-FOUR 1 Deborah started to keep more normal hours after that, and I assumed the other Falcons did, as well. At any rate, Logan came by to see her the next day. “Sergeant Fairchild,” he said pleasantly. She scrambled up, disregarding the long skirts she always wore at home. “Captain Thackeray, sir.” It was a little odd to see him now—for one, under our own roof, and for another, without the heavy armour that almost always weighed down his frame. Even as he ordered Deborah at ease, he seemed practically like a normal person. 2 “Oh—hello, Althea,” he added, nodding casually in my direction. I didn’t bother getting up. “Hello.” Sitting down with evident discomfort, he redirected his attention to Deborah and said, “Sergeant, I hope you’re feeling better.” “As much as I can be,” said Deborah, honest as ever. “I’ll be upfront with you. I came to ask if you meant to stay with the Seraph, or wished for honourable discharge,” Logan said, clearly choosing his words with care. “It would be understandable if you—” 3 “No,” she broke in. “I joined the Seraph to fight for my people, and my people are still suffering and in danger. Kryta needs all her soldiers. When do I go back on duty, sir?” Even sitting down, even in her (frankly rather ugly) ruffled gown, she exuded dignity. I’d been tearful and honoured when she told me she was proud of me, but I couldn’t believe she was anywhere near so proud as I was of her. Logan gave an approving nod. 4 “It will be some time, I warn you,” he said. “Bringing back Falcon Company will take a certain amount of re-organization, and you’re all on medical leave until we’re satisfied with your health, in any case. But this helps direct our plans. Thank you, lieutenant.” Deborah stared at him. Without so much as a twitch in his expression, Logan turned to me, while I hid a smile. “Speaking of good health, you’ll be glad to hear that the queen’s continues to be excellent.” 5 “I am,” I said sincerely. I liked Jennah, and I liked her reign still more; nothing would happen to her if I could do anything about it. We passed over a few polite nothings, though only briefly, Logan being Logan. With a cordial farewell and brisk shake of our hands, he left in the best spirits I’d ever seen him in. Deborah slumped back onto her chair, her expression bemused. “I—” “Congratulations, lieutenant,” I told her. 6 Two days later, the Screaming Falcons put on full armour and marched through the upper courtyard to the palace, while heralds formally proclaimed their arrival to cheering crowds. In the palace, the queen rose from her throne to greet them, declaring them all heroes of Kryta, and delivering honours. I saw it all from the throne room, because Queen Jennah—Queen Jennah—insisted upon my presence there. “You’re the hero of Shaemoor,” Logan had reminded me the day before, giving a short laugh at the look on my face. “And you did bring them home.” “We did,” I grumbled, but in reality, I was flattered and proud to stand beside Anise in my finest gown, watching the queen praise my sister. Altogether, it was everything I could have wished for Deborah’s homecoming: all glory and pomp, and real feeling woven through. 7 Deborah herself received it with grace and dignity. I … well, despite myself, I was damp-eyed—even before the queen summoned Logan and me forwards. We exchanged an uneasy glance and knelt before her. “As we honour Falcon Company,” she said, “we must also honour those who liberated them—Captain Logan Thackeray of Divinity’s Reach and Lady Althea Fairchild, hero of Shaemoor!” Though I’d spent my life in the public eye, I scarcely knew where to look as we rose to our feet; the applause rang in my ears, my cheeks flushed, something seemed to flash before my eyes. It was not altogether agreeable. Yet it was lovely, all the same. FORTY-FIVE 1 After the queen’s reception, Deborah determinedly set about a full recovery. She went to bed and arose like clockwork, she ate heartier meals than ever before, and she joined me in my practice sessions, though I strictly limited her activities to the dictates of the Seraph physicians. Once they assured me that more strenuous exercise would be good for her, I gave into her demand for light duels—which, to our mutual dismay, I readily won. She wasn’t as easily fooled by the clones as most people, but somewhere along the line, I’d become faster and stronger, and my magic more precise. Deborah scowled and kept working at the utmost limits of the healers’ permissions, crowing the first time that she knocked me down; after that, I started putting up a real fight. All the while, the survival of the last few Falcons became widespread knowledge, and many of our old friends and acquaintances started showing up to see Deborah, driven by affection or curiosity or, most often, both. The first was almost inevitable. 2 “I can’t say you look well, but you do look alive!” I smacked the side of Faren’s head. “What?” he said. “Alive is the thing, isn’t it?” He turned to my sister. “I’m very glad you’re not dead, Deborah.” “Thank you,” said Deborah. 3 Her tone was dry, but she’d known Faren since he was six; when he reached his hand out, she shook it with the casual friendliness she’d always directed at him. He grinned, kissed her cheek, and flung himself into my chair. With great earnestness, he said, “I could give you the name of a really fine hairdresser, if—” “Faren,” I hissed. He tossed his own hair, glossy as ever. “I, uh, I was talking to you, obviously. Whatever you’re doing with yourself now, it’s left your hair in a wretched condition—that will never do!” 4 “She’s been solving mysteries and rescuing people,” said Deborah, but Faren dismissed the hint with a wave of his hand, just missing an antique Ascalonian vase beside him. “That is all fine and good,” he said as I moved the vase, “but there’s no need to do it unfashionably!” “I am a very fashionable adventurer, thank you,” I told him. “I’m just growing out my hair so it stops blocking my vision.” “How … practical,” said Faren, in a tone of deep disappointment. Debs laughed, the sound impossibly welcome. “One of you has to be.” 5 Faren did not look at all convinced. “And how have you been?” she asked. He lit up. “Well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m still in absolutely splendid good looks and health. You did notice, didn’t you?” “Oh, yes,” Deborah assured him. “You haven’t changed at all.” 6 To Faren’s even greater joy, she asked him for the name of the hairdresser, after all—probably just to indulge him, though she claimed it was for her next public appearance. “You’re going to be personally received by the queen again?” he said, eyes rounding. “I never have been, and I’m her”—he counted—“third cousin.” “You didn’t get captured and enslaved in a plot to end her rule,” said Deborah. “Anyway, we need to get new uniforms and—” He squeaked. “New uniforms?” 7 “You’re staying with the Seraph?” “Of course,” said Deborah, as if she hadn’t put off telling our mother for two weeks. Well, Mother had been busy with the chaos at the Ministry, but now that Faren knew, Debs wouldn’t be able to avoid that particular conversation. “I suppose,” he sputtered, “but—but—surely you’ve done enough?” “No,” she said simply. “But—” She smiled, more than a little triumphant, and said, “You’re looking at Lieutenant Fairchild now.” FORTY-SIX 1 “That does have a nice ring to it,” Faren said thoughtfully. Of course he did. “We’re still on leave until we’re declared fit and the captains re-form the company,” Deborah told him, “but I’ll be back in uniform and on duty as soon as possible. There’s a lot to fight out there.” Faren frowned. The expression, combined with his fluffy cravat and bright blue cape, looked ludicrous, but he’d never crease his skin without cause. “You sound like Althea,” he said. 2 I started and opened my mouth to protest, but before I could, Faren sprang to his feet and declared, with a dramatic sweep of his cloak, that a certain young woman (I had no idea who) would be missing him. We had to cover our mouths for a second. I told him, “You’d better not keep her waiting.” “Indeed not!” he said, but surprised us both by sweeping Deborah into a hug. “Darling, I really am quite happy you’re alive.” He released her and fluttered his hand at us. “Until later, ladies!” 3 Once the servants closed the door behind him, I looked over at Debs. “He means well,” I said. “He’s a sweetheart,” said Deborah, laughing. “And he really fought a cave full of bandits with you?” Remembering his complaints about bandits dirtying his waistcoat, I said, “After a fashion.” 4 Setting Faren aside, I asked her when she’d tell Mother about the Seraph. Deborah winced, but to her credit, dropped a hint about her new uniform that evening. Mother set down her fork with a decided clink. “Your … uniform?” Deborah studied her goblet with intense interest. “Oh, right,” I said, putting on my best blank face, “the old one is gone, and you probably wouldn’t fit it now, anyway.” Mother, ignoring this, just stared at my sister. 5 After a long moment, she said, “You’re re-joining the Seraph?” “I never left,” said Deborah, lifting her eyes to look levelly at her. “After—when you—sweetheart, you’ve done enough, you—” “It’s not about enough,” Deborah interrupted. “It’s about what Kryta needs. Our family has what it has because our ancestors were willing to die for their people. Yours did die for them.” 6 “That was another time,” Mother said weakly. She looked as if she already knew she’d lost. “A time when Kryta was stronger,” retorted Deborah. “And we’re Fairchilds as well as Langmars—Papa’s family has been fighting in Ascalon for centuries. I can’t sit here in silk, doing nothing, while my cousins and my aunt face down Charr every day, and my sister fights at Logan Thackeray’s side.” Mother darted an almost panicked glance at me. “It doesn’t have to be nothing, Deborah.” 7 “I understand better than you think,” she went on. “I spent years facing down the Charr, because I couldn’t see how much more I could do for Kryta and Ebonhawke in Divinity’s Reach.” “Can you imagine me in the Ministry?” Deborah asked, and I stifled a laugh. Mother cried out, “I almost got you killed!” My sister and I looked at each other, biting our lips. Then Deborah said, “I don’t have children, and I don’t have a lover or a spouse. What I have is our family, and our duty.” FORTY-SEVEN 1 The argument, if not the disagreement, ended there. The three of us talked normally over the next few days—or what passed for normally at this point, avoiding any reference to Deborah’s return to the Seraph, except when one deputized me to speak to the other. I didn’t change either’s mind, and I didn’t really try. But my sister, at least, seemed to understand that our mother feared losing her all over again, all the more with me in danger as well, while Mother could see the ethic that drove Deborah so inexorably to military life. I couldn’t ask for more from them than that, and I didn’t think they could ask more from each other. Personally, I shared both Deborah’s convictions and Mother’s concerns, though I avoided speaking about either. Debs absolutely belonged with the Seraph—and I’d just have to return to developing my map of Kessex Hills as soon as she got posted there. 2 In the meanwhile, Deborah was welcomed by every old friend or near acquaintance in Divinity’s Reach. They came singly, they came in groups, they sent notes and presents; and by the time Lady Mashewe gasped and started crying into her shoulder, poor Debs looked entirely wrung-out. Whenever possible, I shepherded her towards my own childhood friends, who—though not her friends for good reason—could be trusted to confine themselves to ordinary courtesies. “It’s good to see you looking so well, Lady Deborah,” said Yolanda, wafting jasmine as she kissed Deborah’s cheek. “Thank you,” Deborah replied, eyeing her with caution. “And Althea, darling! I saw you at court with Captain Thackeray.” 3 “I’m often there,” I said. “I’ve become a sort of assistant to him and Countess Anise.” “Isn’t he dashing?” said Yolanda, fanning herself. “I’ve never thought about it,” I told her honestly. Corone, restored to his native good humour with the end of the robberies, heaved a disappointed sigh. “Never thought about it? Althea, Althea.” 4 Beside me, Deborah relaxed, and I silently blessed my friends, however distant our lives might be now. “Captain Thackeray has been very good to my sister,” she said. Yolanda and Corone exchanged a meaningful glance. “Is that so?” said Yolanda, and she seized my hands. “You must tell me everything.” Baffled, I blinked at her, and then at Corone. “Everything about what?” 5 “Thackeray, of course,” he said eagerly. Turning to Deborah, he added, “They fought together at Zamon’s trial, you know—it was thrilling to see, absolutely thrilling.” Deborah looked as puzzled as I felt; then, struck by some illumination that had entirely bypassed me, she grinned. “Oh, I’m sure it was.” “I don’t know what you want to hear,” I told them. “Everyone knows him.” “But not like you do, I’m certain,” said Yolanda. 6 She gave a light little giggle. “I suppose not,” I said. “But there’s not much I can say that’s not already public knowledge—he’s straightforward, loyal, very serious. Very devoted to Kryta.” “To Kryta, eh?” said Corone. I wasn’t about to mention Jennah. “Yes,” I told them firmly. 7 Inexplicably, both of them laughed; Deborah was still smiling. “Althea,” my traitorous sister said, her voice trembling, “I think you’re … ah, missing something.” No, really? “Well, I am absolutely delighted for you,” Yolanda told me. I stared at her. If I had no idea how a sighting of Logan at a place he often frequented had led to this particular burst of curiosity, then I had absolutely no clue why it should make anyone happy for me, except that I happened to have been there at the time, and was a close ally. Perhaps she meant my friendship with him more generally; his celebrity might make that worthy of gossip and congratulations—but it still seemed odd that they’d make such a point of it. FORTY-EIGHT 1 “Thank you,” I said in utter confusion. My friends looked all the more thrilled. Debs just snickered. “You’ve made quite the catch,” said Yolanda cheerfully. My thoughts scraped to a halt. They couldn’t mean—surely not— “Logan?” 2 “Is that what you call him?” Yolanda fanned herself again. “What a story, darling.” “It’s not everyone who wins a man’s heart over centaur carcasses,” said Corone, smiling. “I didn’t—we’re not—” I knew I sounded both inarticulate and unconvincing, but this was infinitely worse than the speculations about me and Faren. Logan Thackeray, of all people! 3 Deborah, at last, came to my rescue. “They’re not lovers,” she said succinctly, which she might have mentioned earlier. Yolanda and Corone both looked disappointed. “You’re not?” they said at once. “Gods, no,” I replied, and shuddered. “Logan’s a—an ally to me, a mentor. Nothing like that.” 4 Yolanda slanted me a sly glance. “Is that what Captain Thackeray thinks?” “Captain Thackeray,” I said, “thinks I’m a trustworthy protégée and a friend. I’m honoured, but that’s all I am.” “He’s been a sort of brother to her,” said Deborah, a stalwart defender when she chose to be. “And a good one. I’m very grateful.” 5 Yolanda gave a melancholy sigh. “Ah, I see,” said Corone. His expression cleared into sympathy. “Thackeray had the brother, I know, but I don’t think any sisters.” “He has one now, you mean,” said Yolanda, brightening up. “And in our Althea! How utterly charming, dear.” 6 I opened my mouth to head this particular detour off, but after another glance at their faces, gave up. They were Yolanda and Corone; they’d always find something to chatter about, all the more when it concerned their own connections. Better this than the other. Hopefully that particular rumour was confined to Yolanda’s and Corone’s own hurried imaginations—but, considering the gossip that always swirled about Logan, that struck me as unlikely. Of course people would whisper about any woman he spent any significant amount of time with, which meant Jennah, Anise, and—me! Gods, what if Logan himself heard? I’d die. 7 “I—well—” “Something like that,” said Deborah. I almost squirmed under their fascinated regard. Yolanda, I quickly guessed, would expect nearly as good information from a surrogate sister as from a romantic partner. “Surely, then,” she said, “you’d know—” “We usually talk of Seraph matters,” I said, “most of it I can’t repeat without permission, he never speaks of the queen except in his professional capacity, and I’m pretty sure his only lover is Divinity’s Reach.” Deborah grinned, her grip on my arm loose and easy, her eyes crinkling up. In an instant, I forgave them everything. FORTY-NINE 1 Between the skill of the Seraph physicians, the power of the local priestesses and priests of Dwayna, and the Screaming Falcons’ own determination, Deborah and her fellow survivors were cleared for service within the fortnight. A few days more saw Falcon Company in full working order; the Seraph had been shuffling supplies and troops in the meanwhile to re-form the company. Privately, Logan told me that they’d had more Seraph volunteer for the transition than they could possibly assign to Falcon Company, despite the dangers of the post. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?” I asked. “It’s raised morale,” said Logan. “Recruitment is up, too.” “That’s a yes, then.” 2 He replied, “Morale won’t save us from the dragons”—I nearly rolled my eyes—“but it’s good, yes.” “Centaurs first, dragons later,” I said lightly. Before he could lecture me, I hurried on, “What about Tervelan?” “He’ll have a proper trial,” said Logan, looking as disgusted as I felt, “but it doesn’t matter. The attack on us alone is enough to keep him behind bars for the rest of his godsforsaken life.” I nodded. “Deborah wanted to pay him a visit.” 3 “I’ll bet she did,” he said. “What did you do?” “Blamed you,” I replied promptly, leaning against the wall—we stood in one of the many labyrinthine halls of Seraph Headquarters, one currently locked on both sides—to peer up at him. “I love my sister, but I wasn’t about to set her loose on one of our only witnesses.” Logan looked unsurprised. “I don’t mind taking responsibility, then.” “I imagined you wouldn’t.” 4 “Speaking of Falcon Company,” he said, “now that they’re leaving, do you plan to remain in Divinity’s Reach? Or—” “No,” I replied, and suppressed the urge to look away. It was nothing to be ashamed of, for Kormir’s sake. “I’m going to Kessex Hills.” “Kessex!” exclaimed Logan. “What for?” 5 I hesitated, then forged ahead. “I make maps,” I told him. “Or refine them, depending on what there is to work with—but I personally travel to every place I have on a map, and make sure it’s as detailed and accurate as possible. Then I send each map off to the Tyrian Explorers Society: they’re trying to to put together a high-quality map of all Tyria, and I thought … well, I can do my part.” Logan blinked, seeming scarcely to know what to make of this. “You’re going to travel through the entirety of Kessex Hills to make a map?” “Well,” I admitted, “I thought I might keep an eye on the Falcons while I’m there.” 6 He gave a short laugh. “That sounds more like you. So, about these maps—do you make multiple copies? If you’re going that far afield, something like that might be useful to the Seraph.” “It wouldn’t be a problem,” I said, though of course duplicating something that large and that detailed would be a… not inconsiderable task. But it was small enough given everything the Seraph did for Kryta—and everything that Logan specifically had done. “I’ll pass them on as soon as I return to Divinity’s Reach.” 7 “Thank you.” He paused. “While you’re not a Seraph, so I can’t give you orders—” I laughed out loud. “Logan, you're almost the only person I do take orders from.” “All right,” said Logan, with one of his faint smiles, “then I’ll expect you to stay in contact, and return if summoned.” “I will,” I promised.