Faith In Her Fury

[Nero]

The ballroom was an unpleasant amalgam of heat and noise, blaring with the light of the roaring fire and the harsh glow of far too many candles. The gentle melodies of harp, lute, and cello seemed to harmonize with the chaotic din of revelry. Glasses of spiced wine clinked with flagons of rich mead. At least for tonight, there existed no barriers of class.

 

While the inauguration ceremony of the new Temple Knights had been a predictably somber affair, the nobility were quick to latch onto any excuse with which to flaunt their affluence. This wasn’t an event that Ashur could have ever expected to attend, yet luck and circumstance seemed to be on his side. A friend of a friend of a friend happened to be a nobleman’s son, one thing lead to another and eventually the entire company was invited to attend the banquet, though only a few of them were actually newly-ordained.

 

Though normally a feast of this magnitude would be a more formal affair, the food had been hastily rearranged to a buffet, either out of consideration or condescension for those knights like Ashur who were common-born. Gilded and silvered antelope heads, fresh fruits, and a whole roast sheep presented extravagant contrast to the usually meagre knight’s bread that they had subsisted on for years.

 

Many had taken it upon themselves to ask ladies to dance, and the jovial melody swiftly changed to an elegant waltz. Ashur quickly excused himself to join the other wallflowers at the edge of the ballroom, scooping up another glass of spiced wine in the process.

 

“You appear to be out of your element, lad.” A Wildwood Elezen, aged and grizzled, startled Ashur by slapping the Hyur’s back roughly, nearly sending the spiced wine on an unfortunate journey to some poor noble’s doublet.

 

“A-ah, well, perhaps a little bit, Ser Praihaux,” Ashur coughed. Instinctively, Ashur began to raise his fist to his chest in a salute before Praihaux’s hands stopped the salute in its tracks.

 

“We are technically equals now, you know, Ser Vaye.” The Elezen paused before his eyes lit up. “You best hope you are never asked to perform reconnaissance, or else the jests about having to Ser Vaye the landscape will never stop.” Praihaux let out a hearty chuckle at his own pun, while Ashur merely raised an eyebrow in disapproval, which caused Praihaux’s laughter to increase considerably.

 

“I appreciate your patronage in every way, my lord, but I will be happy to be rid of your particular brand of humour,” Ashur grumbled in a tone of lighthearted disdain. Praihaux tapped the Hyur’s back again affectionately.

 

“You were a fine squire, Ashur. One could hardly ask for a better one. I’m certain you will be a fine knight, as well.” A kind, genuine smile split the aged Elezen’s face. Ashur was uncomfortable with such praise, and so he merely offered an awkward nod and a mumbled word of thanks.

The dancers were elegant, pirouetting across the dance floor. It was both wondrous and rather intimidating how coordinated everyone was. “Have you received official assignment yet?” Praihaux inquired idly, to which Ashur shook his head.

 

“The Second Commander will coordinate assignments first thing in the morn, so I am told,” Ashur said thoughtfully. His assignment had been something he’d been curious about ever since he became a squire. Something away from combat would be preferable, but never unavoidable given how the course of the war seemed to be coming closer and closer to Coerthas. The Knights Hospitalier, perhaps, or the Order of the Friars Templar.

 

Praihaux again clapped Ashur on the shoulder, sending the Hyur’s glass of wine precariously close to slipping to the ground. “Well, you enjoy yourself, lad. This knight is yours to celebrate, after all.” The Elezen’s wink induced a tired groan from Ashur, who raised his hand to shoo the Elezen away.

“Yes, yes, get on with it, my lord,” the Hyur said with mildly amused exasperation. “There’s a dance I should be pretending to watch.” Praihaux merely laughed again as he walked away.

 

Though he did feel painfully out-of-place and underdressed, Ashur would be lying if he said he never wanted to attend such an event again. The world of nobles was several spheres above his own, and this party was a rare glimpse that a commoner like him would rarely ever witness. Perhaps it would be fun to learn to dance like they did.

 

A snort, and Ashur shook his head. Not like such a skill would come in useful anyway.

 

--

 

What Ashur remembered most about the party was the aroma. The cloying scent of fragrant incense had mingled with the light of too many lanterns. The ballroom had been a frenzy of saccharine perfumes and stuffy colognes, battling with the more tender fragrances of the impeccably-prepared feast. It had been his first banquet, much less his first noble banquet. Would he be able to experience something like that again?

 

“Biasts!”

 

The draconian screech shook him out of his reverie. Ashur’s helmet felt stifling and claustrophobic; the memories of the perfumes and colognes were swiftly overpowered by the stench of steel and sweat, and yet the roars of the basilisk-like biasts and the flailing of claws stymied any urge the Hyur felt to liberate himself of a valuable piece of protection. The bloodthirsty howls of Dravanians mixed with the battle cries of those who were fighting, and the wails of those who were dying. The deep, thunderous bellows of cannonfire split the air in earth-shattering booms.

 

The Steps of Faith was littered with the bodies of dragons and knights alike, with the Dravanians’ massive siege dragon lumbering forward towards the wards, each colossal step causing the Steps to tremble. Temple Knights mixed with adventurers in the melee beneath the siege dragon’s bulk. Escaping from the brawl were four large biasts, rushing a straight line towards the cannons.

 

“Load! Load, damn it!” Ashur couldn’t recognise the voice over the din of battle, only that it was an authority his very soul felt compelled to follow.

Fuelled almost entirely by adrenaline, his hands fumbled with the cannonball, shakily pushing the round shot into one of the barrels of the Bertha cannon. The knight on the opposite side of the cannon gave the barrel a hard slap to indicate that the other barrels were loaded. The biasts rushed forward, eager for flesh.

 

“Fire!” The commanding voice roared.

 

All four barrels of the Bertha convulsed with titanic force, the trail of the cannon screeched against stone from the recoil. The upper half of one of the biasts had all but evaporated under the barrage, the rest of its body slumping over like a slab of meat as its lifeblood spilled on the Steps.

“Reload!” The knight-captain called.

 

“We’re out of shot!” Another knight cried. The captain grimaced underneath the full visor of his helmet.

 

“Close combat! We’ll engage them directly. We only need to keep them delayed until the dragon killer is ready!” The other knights gave a somewhat shaky nod, reading their shields and weapons. Ashur, unable to locate where he had dropped his lance, drew his sword and joined the front line of the shield wall as the knights assembled into a tight rectangle to meet the biasts. Flickers of flame occasionally erupted from the maws of the biasts as they rushed forward, attempting to overwhelm the firing line of cannons. His hands were shaking, an ominous chkchkchkchk sound indicating that Ashur’s shield was violently rattling against those of his fellows.

 

Would he die here? There were so many corpses littering the field. Out of the corner of his visor, he could see one of the dragoons futile reaching out for help, before the massive claws of the siege dragon caused the fallen knight to shatter beneath an explosion of gore.

 

Ashur’s breathing was heavy and laboured. His vision was beginning to blur, and all he could smell was blood and his own terrified sweat. The biasts roared again, full of fire and fury.

 

Dragonflies swarmed another knight, tearing limbs off with wild abandon as the man screamed. An entire squad was incinerated, armor and all, by the igneous fireball of a diresaur, their cries of pain as brief as their lives.

 

His mind retreated, to better places.

 

--

 

“Tired of the nobles already, baby brother?” A heavy hand clapped on Ashur’s shoulder again, a gesture the Hyur was getting tired of. The Forgotten Knight was even busier than the banquet of the nobles. Ashur peered at a face that was much like his own, but ten cycles older and wearing a smile.

“Just making sure you don’t hurt yourself, Al. I’m the one who has to drag you back to the barracks at the end of the night.” Being the responsible sibling was always a chore, so Ashur thought.

 

Alric clasped a hand over his chest in mock horror. “Are you possibly suggesting that I lack restraint? I will have you know I am a knight!” With little warning, he leapt on top of the table. His hands were each armed with two tankards, and he struck a pose of an overdramatic noble. “Thy common rabbelries know not of whom they speak! For it is I, the mighty Ser Alric Vaye, the great swooner of fair maidens and slayer of all things winged and scaley! I do not allow such insults!” Alric began to thrust his tankards into the air, fighting off an invisible dragon as his mockery brought forth uproarious laughter from the boisterous and clearly-inebriated patronage.

 

Ashur squinted. He was fairly certain that “rabbelries” and “swooner” were not words, but wasn’t certain enough to protest.

 

Alric set his tankards down, ruffling Ashur’s hair as a...

 

--

 

...firm, gauntleted hand clapped him on the shoulder. The knight-captain tore his helmet off as it clattered on the stonework. Ser Praihaux was not wearing his usual smile or cracking his terrible puns. His grimace was one of pure, unyielding discipline.

 

“The Fury is our protector and our shield!” Praihaux was famed for a proud and booming voice, and yet Ashur could barely hear the voice of the captain over the roars and ring of steel, though he recognized the prayer. Unconsciously, his lips moved in sync with the words in his heart. A biast tackled into the shield wall, and Ashur felt his knee digging into the stonework. The knights behind the shields swiftly impaled the biast with thrusts from several lances, and the knights in the front tossed the body to the side.

 

A stream of dragonfire from another biast enveloped the front line of the shield wall, a terrifying inferno that even Ishgardian steel was hard-pressed to stand against. Ashur glanced away, coughing as the heated air seemed to sear his lungs, his hands trembling to keep a hold of the superheated shield as if Ashur were holding onto the sun itself. Another biast tackled the shield wall, collapsing its considerable bulk against the front line, and Ashur could see himself crushed underneath it like the fallen knight had been crushed by the siege dragon.

 

“Blessed are we, for Halone watches over us!”

 

As soon as the flame ended, he felt his body moving on his own. In unison, the front line of the wall forced the biast off as the lances thrust forward into its scaly hide, straight and true.

 

“Blessed are we, for the faithful shall forever triumph over the faithless!”

 

A diresaur broke through, a beast too large and too savage to hold with a shield wall. Though Ashur was missing his lance, the unit scattered to draw the diresaur into a semicircle of spears and swords. Though his mind was in tatters, Ashur felt his body move smoothly, as if possessed by the Fury herself.

 

“Blessed are we, for Her voice delivers us from the whispers of heretics!”

 

The diresaur made a wide swing of its claws. An ambitious knight made a leap with his lance before being backhanded over the edge of the Steps.

“Blessed are we, for Her devotion delivers us from the claws of the dragon!”

 

Ashur made a wide slash on the diresaur’s flank, provoking the flanged tail to smash into his shield, sending the Hyur across the Steps.

 

“Blessed are we, for--”

 

The Hyur coughed, struggling for breath. Something in his chest was clearly broken, as his vision began to cloud. A wyvern was flying away from the steps, with Praihaux’s head in its talons. A massive claw smashed down onto the steps next to him, the siege dragon advancing ever forward…

 

Though he could not force his lips to move or his lungs to expel air, the last words of the prayer fell upon his lips.

 

Blessed are we, for our faith in Her fury.

--

((To be continued, probably.))

[Nero]

Much like the party and much like the battlefield, what struck Ashur first was the smell.

 

His eyes flew open, and on reflex he attempted to sit up, only to receive a sharp, painful reprimand from what was left of his ribcage that caused him to collapse backwards onto the cot. The pungent aroma was from a traditional but increasingly rare poultice mixed from the gentian plant, originally native to Coerthas but mostly wiped out due to the everwinter. In a fit of irony, the only place one could reliably find the herb these days was in the wilds of Dravania.

 

It wasn't the most appropriate time to be thinking of herbalism, no, but doing so helped his mind focus on things other than the aches. Ashur blinked as his other senses began to return. He twisted his head on the pillow to get his bearings. This was the infirmary in Ishgard. Hospitaliers and chirurgeons alike shuffled between the cots, attending to the injured. Judging from the fact that he was indoors and not among the triage encampments, at least Ashur could take confidence in the fact that no one thought he was dead or dying, though the occasional pained wail rang through the infirmary. His torso was wrapped in bandages and a padded cloth had been affixed to his forehead, but other than that he didn't seem to be missing anything.

 

The battle? The Steps of Faith. The last thing Ashur remembered was being struck square in the chest by the vengeful swing of a diresaur's tail. Even recalling the incident made him wince. He placed the back of his hand over his forehead, his thoughts about to drift off in contemplating until a voice interrupted his reverie.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

 

Peering over him was a Midlander woman, dressed in the white robes of a chirurgeon. Somewhat distressingly, her robes were marred in a few fresh blood stains, though this didn't seem to affect her demeanor at all. Warm brown eyes carefully scrutinized Ashur for anything out of the ordinary, and her chestnut-coloured hair was tied back in a tight, neat bun. Her sharp, angled features were accentuated by her serious expression.

 

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," Ashur groaned slightly at another attempt to sit up, although the chirurgeon's hand firmly pushed him back onto the cot. "Although, not dead."

 

The chirurgeon smiled a grim, humourless smile, as if the gesture was more of a reflex than a genuine expression as she knelt down and wordlessly began to pull off Ashur's bandages before being stopped by his grip on her arm. "Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it." Perhaps it was because of his upbringing in the Brume, but this chirurgeon's apparent lack of frugality in medical supplies was instinctively disconcerting to him.

 

"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice." Her lips were drawn into a tight line, although the glint in her eyes suggested anything but politeness.

 

Unable to form an adequate response, Ashur merely sighed and gave a slight wave. As the chirurgeon pulled off the bandages, the knight was greeted with an ugly, patched bruise across his chest. All things considered, it was remarkable that such a grisly wound looked worse than it felt. "Well then," Ashur muttered. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel."

 

The chirurgeon, in the midst of reapplying a fresh set of bandages, seemed to bristle at his casual comment. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."

 

Ashur blinked, not expecting his mild praise to provoke that kind of venomous outburst. He winced and gave a short gasp as the chirurgeon tightened the new set of bandages around his torso. A closer examination of his caretaker showed more detail; dark bags were under her eyes, and the bloodstains on her robe...triage doctrine demanded that any healing magic be used on those who can be saved, and since this chirurgeon didn't seem to be able or willing to use conjury, Ashur could only assume that most of her time had been spent trying to save or comfort the dying ones who had no hope.

 

The knight had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but his expression softened the more he thought about it, and he let the matter rest.

 

"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," the chirurgeon said tersely, brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." With that, the chirurgeon stood up to leave.

 

"All the better," Ashur grunted. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."

 

She paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin. "That's...a good way to look at it," the chirurgeon said lightly before stepping away to check on other wounded knights, but was again interrupted by Ashur clasping the ends of her robes. She turned her head, with any levity on her face replaced with some annoyance.

 

"Er..." Ashur suddenly felt uncertain about this, judging by the pointed glare the chirurgeon shot at him. However, what she said about spending his thanks resounded with him. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."

 

The chirurgeon seemed somewhat taken aback by his request, though her mask of composure affixed itself to her face with remarkable speed. "Stella," she replied, her own severe countenance softening.

 

Ashur gave a short, affirmative nod. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."

 

Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before moving down to another aisle of cots, and Ashur felt a wave of exhaustion come over him as he relaxed into the cot for some needed rest.

[Nero]

"Ah, there you are!"

 

A boisterous voice rang through the infirmary, and Ashur was greeted by a familiar sight. His brother, Alric, was nearly ten cycles his elder, yet their relation was plainly evident; the two shared the same broad, angular features, the same mess of sandy blonde hair, and the same amber eyes. Alric was considerably more worn and weathered, though that didn't prevent him from wearing a broad smile.

 

"Recovering well, baby brother?" Alric asked cheerfully, nonchalantly sitting on the edge of Ashur's cot. The latter winced slightly at the sudden rumble of motion.

 

"I'm sorry I couldn't see you sooner. The commander needed all hands on board for tedious labour, and unfortunately mine were idle enough to qualify." Alric gave his younger brother a quick look-over. "No scars?"

 

"You remember what Father said about a man with many scars," Ashur said dourly. "All things considered, I made it out mostly unscathed." As if to illustrate, he gestured to his bandaged torso. "Nothing but some ugly bruises that will vanish with proper mending."

 

"Unfortunate," Alric said, clapping Ashur on the shoulder. "Scars make for great conversation pieces. They'll be what attracts you a gorgeous noble wife, one day." Alric tapped a small scar on his cheek, mirroring Ashur's earlier gesture.

 

Ashur rolled his eyes. "I doubt you'd attract any noble ladies if they actually knew that that scar was from that time you tried to 'feed' a stray hound by headbutting it."

 

"It's not about what actually happened, it's about what they think happened. Which, by the way, happens to involve a deadly dragonfly scratching at my face. At least, once I'm done coming up with the story." Alric laughed before pausing. "How soon can you leave?"

 

"It'll be at least a few suns," Ashur replied, wincing in pain as he attempted to roll his shoulder to gauge how the bones in his chest were mending. "Did you see Mother before you came here?"

 

"If I did, she'd have just told me to march over here to check on you first anyway. Hells, she may have decided to come herself," Alric chuckled. "You missed the battle, baby brother. The lines were breaking, but those adventurers--you should have seen them! Commander Lucia had them snare that great siege wyrm in the snares, then pow, ten fulms of dragon killer steel rained on its head!"

 

"Well, I was busy being unconscious, but I'm sure it was a sight to see," Ashur grumbled before sighing. He recalled the memories of the battle once more. "Oddly, I was thinking of my inauguration during the battle."

 

"I'm assuming you mean that posh noble banquet you were invited to?" Alric inquired thoughtfully, raising a gauntleted hand to his chin. "That was years ago. If you were paying more attention, maybe you wouldn't be stuck in the infirmary for a few more suns." He clapped his hand on Ashur's shoulder again, retracting quickly once the latter gave a hiss and a wince of pain. "You've been a knight for...what, six cycles, and you're still daydreaming on the battlefield?

 

The joviality had fled from Alric's face and been replaced with one of stern reprimand. "You might not be so lucky next time."

 

"Ser Praihaux is dead, Al," Ashur murmured somberly, the memory still fresh on his mind. "A wyvern. Saw his head carried off and everything." Ashur had seen fellow knights die before, of course. It was war; that sort of thing was inevitable. Still, Ashur had served Praihaux as a squire since he was a teenager, and the Elezen had given off a certain air of being indomitable.

 

Alric's expression softened, though the smile didn't leave his face; it instead shifted from one of cheer to one of more subdued kindness. "You did him proud. I'm certain you did." A sigh, and then he stood up from Ashur's cot. "Just make sure you recover quickly, aye? I don't want to have to deal with Mother's hysterics any longer than I have to."

 

Ashur only gave a slight nod in response to one last affectionate pat from Alric before the latter stood to leave.

[Nero]

The intermingling scent of blood and poultices filled her nostrils. It amazed Stella that her nose continued to work as it did; three straight suns of handling the wounded, the dying, and the dead had left the chirurgeon drained beyond measure.

 

Beneath her was an Elezen, one of many knights heavily wounded in the Steps of Faith. His stomach had been torn open by the claws of a dragonfly, and while magic had brought him back from the brink, it would be Stella's hands that made sure he stayed in the realm of the living.

 

She was tired, yet even now, with even-handed restraint and mechanical discipline, she proceeded to sew the gash in the Elezen's stomach, his entrails having been carefully refolded back within his body. His mouth had been somewhat forcefully stuffed with bitter roots to stem the pain. The metallic smell of blood permeated his entire being, and he groaned with each new incision made to accommodate the silken threads that comprised of the stitching.

 

The Hyur glanced over to see if the knight was still conscious, and whether it was from the roots or the pain, the Elezen had passed out.

 

With a few more minutes, her work was finished, and with a sigh she closed the lid on her surgeon's kit and stood up to leave.

 

Despite delicate hands and a feminine demeanour, Stella carried herself with the confidence of a warrior, and as far as she was concerned, a warrior she was. Her battles were against Halone herself, fighting the Fury to prevent the reclamation of Ishgardian souls fallen in battle. Her weapons--unlike the immaculately crafted staves and wands of the conjurers--were the thread and needle, the knife and the tourniquet, the saw and the splint, for she had not been blessed with the talent for conjury.

 

Stella had never step foot on a true battlefield, but in truth she never needed to; the hastily constructed triage ward of the infirmary had all of the sounds and smells of one. The screams of a man who's flesh had melted from a biast's flame, the cries for mercy from those who had been trampled or clawed by a diresaur, the smell of blood, entrails, and evacuated bodily fluids from those who were one step away from death's door. A wife or mother wailing over the body of a dead knight, as it was carried away to be prepared for a proper funeral.

 

Such things were little more than background noise and odd odors, now, as noteworthy to Stella as the sun rising in the morning.

 

A light touch tapped Stella's shoulder who, in her exhausted state, whipped around. A young male Elezen regarded her, dressed in the same white robes of a chirurgeon, though his were covered in considerably less blood. A brief glance at the bags under Stella's eyes caused the Elezen to tut. "You've done more than enough. You should be going home now, Stella." He placed a hand on the side of the Hyur's face, as if tracing invisible wrinkles.

 

Stella snorted derisively, slapping the Elezen's hand away. "You worry too much, Eaufault." She was, however, thoroughly startled when Eaufault suddenly grabbed her left hand, which had been trembling. Almost instinctively, Stella willed her hand to cease its trepidation, though the damage had been done as Eaufault's eyes narrowed into the closest thing the soft-faced Elezen could muster into a glare.

 

"You know more than anyone that treating patients while exhausted will do you more harm than good," the Elezen said sternly, reaching out to take a hold of Stella's surgery kit.

 

The Hyur recoiled almost violently, her eyes alight with fiery pride, half at Eaufault's attempt to grab her tools, and half at the knowing indignation that Eaufault was completely right. She had been at this for far too many bells, with only the tiniest lapses of sleep to comfort her; it was amazing that she hadn't made a critical mistake thus far. And yet, the idea of returning to the empty house was just as abhorrent to her as justifying Eaufault's patronizing tone. "I do not believe I require your permission to perform my duties," she snapped testily.

 

Stella knew what she should do, but Eaufault's condescension re-ignited her stubbornness. Wordlessly, she turned away from Eaufault and marched onwards towards the inpatient ward.

 

In sharp contrast to the triage ward, the inpatient area was considerably more light and airy. Though it was still far too cold among the everwinter of Coerthas to have open windows, it was lacking the heavy atmosphere of death and decay. The knights here--those who were awake--were weakened, but had been deemed to recover quite steadily. Some citizen volunteers were handing out bowls of warm porridge or stew to those who were awake.

 

Perhaps it was just because of her exhaustion, but even thinking about Eaufault's condescension incensed her. With that in mind, Stella marched up to the first patient she saw.

 

It was a Hyur; he could not have been much older than three or four cycles than Stella herself. His sandy blonde hair was somewhat disheveled, but fortunately he didn't seem to have any significant external wounds. The upper half of his torso was carefully wrapped in bandages.

 

She knelt down and reached out to begin changing the bandages--not necessarily because they needed to be changed, but because Stella needed to do something to engage her discipline and calm her frayed nerves--when the man's eyes flew open and he tried to reflexively sit up, only causing him to immediately groan and fall backwards onto his cot.

 

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Stella asked methodically, more out of habit than out of genuine concern. Not that she wasn't concerned, but if this knight was in the inpatient ward he couldn't be too badly injured, affording Stella some room to relax, if ever so slightly.

 

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," the Hyur groaned again. He attempted to sit up once more, causing Stella to place a firm hand on his shoulder to force him back down onto the cot. Wordlessly, she began to pull the bandages off of him, but now it was his turn to clasp her arm.

"Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it," the Hyur said.

 

On the one hand, it was intriguing that a common knight seemed to be aware of the mixture by scent alone--the mark of a practised herbalist or, perhaps, just an odd upbringing. On the other hand, Stella was quite annoyed whenever someone attempted to tell her how to do her job, particularly when that someone was an uppity knight who couldn't even sit up on his cot because of broken ribs.

 

There were few things more irritating to her than patients attempting to play backseat chirurgeon.

 

"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice," Stella said testily, her lips drawn into a thin line. Whether it was her logic or her mildly threatening tone of voice, the man relented, laying down to allow her to pull the bandages off his torso.

 

The bruise on his torso was ugly, but looked worse than it actually was. The knight seemed to offer a small prayer underneath his breath. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel," he muttered.

 

Before Stella could stop herself, she snapped. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."

 

The exhaustion was wearing on her. Stella knew that she'd been awake for far too long and working far too hard, and internally she winced at the bitter, spiteful tone she heard herself speak with. And this was a stranger, as well. Yet the knight's small prayer brought to mind those chirurgeons in the triage ward still working to save lives, and those who had stepped onto the battlefield to bring the wounded to safety...and those who had not returned from the battlefield at all.

 

"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," Stella said brusquely, pushing her exhaustion and her more venomous thoughts to the back of her mind and brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." That was a particularly baffling piece of male posturing that Stella found indelibly idiotic. The Temple Knights particularly were far too eager to show off some wound or other, as if the mere act of boasting about being nearly killed would enlarge--

 

"All the better," the Hyur grunted, examining the newly-applied bandages. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."

Stella paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin, mentally filing away that observation for use as a retort on the next knight lamenting the lack of scars. "That's...a good way to look at it," she said lightly. Stella stood up and turned to leave, but not before feeling something clasp onto the edge of her robes. At first she was irritated, but her expression softened almost immediately.

 

"Er..." The knight on the cot seemed to struggle with whether or not he should speak. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."

 

The request caught her off guard. Quite simply, no one had ever asked her name before. To most of the Temple Knights, though they were grateful for the chirurgeons and Knights Hospitalier both, they latter two were merely a service. Healing and recuperation was just part of the process of going back out into the battlefield to get killed, and the chirurgeons and hospitaliers were just nameless functions of that process. In short, some part of Stella had firmly believed that no knights would ever care about the names of those who struggled to save them from Halone's grasp.

 

Stella paused, searching the knight's face for any sign that she was being made the fool. There was, however, nothing but earnest gratitude.

 

"Stella," she replied. The chirurgeon felt exhaustion begin to settle upon her like a heavy blanket.

 

The knight nodded gratefully. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."

 

Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before turning to walk away. All of a sudden she felt some embarrassment; surely it was one of the knight's fellows or a senior chirurgeon who had pulled him off the battlefield, and yet he saw fit to thank her? Perhaps the man was simply a fool. That was a distinct possibility.

 

The thought of returning home to rest came to her mind again, though Stella took her time in pushing that thought back as she moved to another line of cots.

[Nero]

The streets of the Pillars would always be unfamiliar to Ashur, and the Hyur ran a hand through his blonde hair in mild frustration as he glanced at signs and lanterns, looking for any landmarks. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten lost looking for home, and if this excursion was any indication, it wouldn't be the last, either.

 

Though this was only the lower end of the Pillars--low enough that it might as well still be in the Foundation--it was still designed with the upper class in mind. Small stone dwellings fit snugly together with bare ilms separating the walls of one house from the walls of another, primarily to conserve space--a commodity that was husbanded carefully within the confines of a walled city. Bricks of gray, sturdy stone provided warmth amongst the everwinter of Coerthas, and all of the houses looked alike.

 

What separated these homes from the shanties of the Brume that Ashur had grown up in was an oft-overlooked luxury: windows. Homes in the Brume could barely afford functioning hearths, much less the glass and insulation needed for windows, and were often in various states of disrepair. That was without mentioning the fact that on the lower levels, windows letting in the chill could spell one's death sentence during particularly harsh seasons.

 

Despite--or perhaps because of--these luxuries, Ashur could barely tell whose house belonged to whom. Each house looked nearly identical, and even during this time of chaos, the streets were so clean and polished that it was nigh impossible to tell where exactly he was.

 

It was some time later, with some added luck, the Ashur finally spotted the house with the name "Vaye" printed on a sign attached to the door. He briefly fumbled for his key, when the door flew open, and Ashur felt a pair of thin arms thrown around his neck, a slight, slender woman hugged him fiercely and wordlessly.

"Careful now, Mother," Ashur said, laughing as he returned the hug. "I'm still technically recovering!"

 

The woman, Emilia, merely frowned in silence as she released her hold on him. Even in her age, Ashur's mother maintained a sense of robust health. Streaks of silver were beginning to show in her braids of straw-coloured hair, and wrinkles were becoming evident under her cheeks and on her hands, but otherwise she stood confidently and solidly, giving Ashur a careful, cursory inspection.

 

"Well, everything seems to be in place," Emilia huffed, before her face split into a relieved, gentle smile. "You'd best believe I'd have the Dravanians fleeing all the way back up the Spine if I saw even one hair out of place." She reached out to give Ashur another hug and an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "I am glad you had the time to come home, Ash."

 

Ashur returned the hug again and tapped his fist to his chest on a mock salute. "All in a day's work, though I am sorry for worrying you." He ducked his head slightly to enter the dwelling.

 

Though the Vaye family was technically noble by claim thanks to Alric--and later Ashur himself--achieving knighthood, the dwelling was small and modest. There was a second floor of bedrooms, but the main floor was quite small, consisting of a small kitchen folded into a living room, and a back room for storage. Yet despite the tight accommodations, there was an indelible air of luxury, owing to the beautiful decorations adorning the dwelling. Kites of varying sizes and rich colours sparkled in the light of the conical hearth built into the center of the living room. The floor was covered with thick, immaculately embroidered rugs.

"How soon do you have to return?" Emilia asked, glancing upstairs as if wondering if she should make the beds.

 

Ashur's jovial mood hardened somewhat, as he remembered the fate of his former commanding officer, Ser Praihaux. The images of the Elezen's head being carried off by the wyvern flashed in his mind's eye for the briefest of moments, though he was careful to keep a gentle smile affixed to his face. "I will be re-assigned when I report in tomorrow, but I should be okay to stay the night. Did Al say when he would get in?"

 

Emilia shook her head as she withdrew fresh linens from the storage room before heading upstairs. "Only that he'd try to make it today. I am not sure what the Commander is keeping him for, but it had better be important! More important than our first proper family gathering in a year!" Ashur grinned as he could hear the irritation in his mother's voice as she carried the linens up stairs.

 

The kitchen was in a state of chaos, indicative of Emilia's hurried attempts to prepare something. Though she wasn't on the main floor with him, Ashur raised a hand to hide his smile nonetheless. His mother had never been the most organised person--in fact, Ashur had learned to cook quite well at a young age to spare himself, Alric, and their father from a relentless plague of "Everything-that-was-in-the-pantry-at-the-time" stews--but that was something that, at this point in time, he continued to find somewhat endearing.

 

While the house was equipped with a rudimentary oven--another incredible luxury--it'd have taken far too long to prepare something via baking. A simple but hearty fish soup was easily prepared with everything Emilia had taken out, and so Ashur wordlessly set to work, pulling off his gloves and quickly dusting off his gambeson. He swiftly extracted a filet from the dried fish--a Bianaq bream--while simmering parsley, onions, and nutmeg with butter in a pan. The spices gave a savory, pungent aroma, while Ashur mounted a pot of light broth to boil in the hearth.

 

"What is it you were exactly planning to prepare, Mother?" Ashur wondered, more to himself than to Emilia, as he glanced around the kitchen. There was also tomatoes, popotos, fresh rolanberries, sweet cream, and cinnamon. In fact, the disconcerting variety of ingredients on display seemed to indicate that had Ashur arrived just a few bells later, "everything stew" was exactly what he was going to get. And while it wasn't necessarily bad--sometimes Emilia was just lucky enough to create an edible combination--it was certainly something that was owed more to chance than any actual culinary skill.

 

"Have the noble ladies been sharing anything worthwhile?" Ashur asked idly as he prepared a teapot on the other stove.

 

"Those shrill harpies only care about two things: crocheting and gossip!" Emilia's irritated yell resonated from the upper floor. "Oh, hearing Lady Ennelfeaux complain about receiving the wrong leather satchel from Gridania or bragging about how well her La Noscean oranges are growing in their 'orchard'. Bah!" Emilia stormed down the stairs, thoroughly worked into a frenzy. "A single tree doesn't count as an orchard anyway, you pretentious old bat." She frowned as she sniffed the aromatic scents of Ashur's cooking. "I had the food well in hand, you know! If this is the only respite you get, you should be spending it resting. You wouldn't want to re-open your wounds."

 

"There's nothing to re-open, Mother," Ashur corrected with a light tone of mock irritation. "Blunt force, no cuts." That wasn't entirely true, of course--though Ashur was cleared to return to action, the chirurgeon that had released him was quick to warn him that additional trauma would mean a much longer recovery time.

Emilia huffed at his correction, retreating into the storage room as the front door flew open.

 

"I smell something edible! So that is definitely not 'everything stew'!" Alric bellowed boisterously. The older Vaye was still dressed in his chainmail, though his helmet was tucked underneath his arm, leaving his other arm free for some particularly flamboyent waving. Alric glanced over at Ashric, dressed in his gambeson and poring over the simmering vegetables, patting the latter heartily on the back. "Ashur, my boy, you've saved us from culinary catastrophe, as always, as I knew you would! I'll be submitting your name for sainthood to the clergy immediately!"

 

"The Church only declares saints after they're dead, so I'll thank you to postpone on that," Ashur said, rolling his eyes and flicking Alric in the forehead.

"You boys are the most ungrateful lot I've ever had the misfortune of raising!" Emilia hollered from the storeroom.

 

Alric laughed, putting his helmet on the dining table and pulling up a seat. "Now, now, mother, didn't you hear? We became knights just to escape your cooking! Why, put Nidhogg in a kitchen with you and he'd be dead before the day was over!"

 

Light laughter filled the abode, and Ashur was filled with a sense of ease he'd not felt in a while. While the inauguration banquet--and the rowdier tavern party--had been pleasant, the feeling of homeliness was what he'd missed the most. While Emilia was in good health, ever since their father had died of the pox she was prone to loneliness. As much as she complained about the pretentiousness of noble company, those noble ladies were likely the only real interactions she had. Both he and Alric were constantly away, either out on assignment or sleeping in the barracks awaiting more assignment. Though their knighthood had raised their family from the Brume, there were times where Ashur wondered if it had truly improved their lives.

 

He glanced around at the kites adorning their rooms as Emilia and Alric bantered with one another. Though the stipends they received were more than enough to sustain them--since they more or less went entirely to Emilia--it was clear that money was not what was occupying her worries. Emilia firmly believed a superstition that kites were good fortune. The fact that their dwelling was absolutely covered in them, with each kite growing more elabourate and colourful than the last, was an obvious indicator of how their mother was doing.

 

Ashur shook his head. Now was not the time to fret about such things. What mattered was that they were all together, for at least this day. He carefully basted the sauteed fish with the fragrant butter and sliced it into chunks, carefully distributing the chunks in polished wooden bowls before filling the bowls with hearty broth.

 

He drew up a chair to join them at the table, and things were good for a time.

[Nero]

Ishgard's respite was brief.

 

Almost immediately after Ashur had been re-assigned to sentry duty within the Foundation, the Dravanian Horde attacked once again. With the wards at the Gates of Judgment disabled as a result of the battle with the siege wyrm, the city was now vulnerable. Several wyverns had broken through the defenses and made it inside the city proper. The battle was bloody but brief, and though the wyverns had not dealt excessive damage, the tension within the city was palpable. The return of Ser Aymeric from Ul'dah was but a small comfort, as the Lord Commander's presence was no guarantee that this storm would pass quickly or easily.

 

The wounded knights assigned to the Gates of Judgment were beginning to stream in, and it was thus that Ashur had been hastily called upon to assist the chirurgeons and the hospitaliers. "On your feet," he grunted, helping an Elezen to his feet. The Elezen's breathing was laboured and ragged, the chain links on his armour torn by a wyvern's talons; Ashur didn't need to be a hospitalier to know that the Elezen was about to be reclaimed by the Fury.

 

As he entered the infirmary, the Elezen had gone ghastly pale, and Ashur spotted a familiar face; chestnut brown hair tied back into a severe bun, and pure white robes that was already stained with blood. It was Stella, the chirurgeon that had been tending to him when he awoke after the Steps of Faith; she was busy reorganizing a new batch of medical supplies as chirurgeons dashed to and fro. Ashur wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to drag this wounded knight over to her; he barely knew anything about her. Perhaps it was the implicit trust that came with recognising a familiar face, no matter how recent the acquaintance.

 

Perhaps it was the confidence with which Stella seemed to carry herself. Perhaps he came to her simply because Ashur didn't know what else to do.

 

"Your gratitude is better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield.."

 

"Lady Stella. Lady Stella!" It took Ashur a few calls to catch her attention, though as soon as he had her attention he could see her warm brown eyes sharpen with discipline and purpose. She needed no explanation, no warnings or requests. She quickly strode over and began examining the Elezen with a careful, practised eye.

 

Whatever judgment Stella made, she didn't voice. Instead, she glanced up, locking eyes with Ashur. "You--"

 

"Ashur," the knight said, quickly providing his name.

 

"Ashur, lay him down on that cot and pull his armour off as quick as you can, but don't force anything." Wordlessly, he began to undo the straps and buckles holding the Elezen's chainmail together. Stella turned and snapped her fingers at a younger chirurgeon. "Eaufault! Give me light, water, and brandewine!"

The Elezen was white like candlewax, his lips turning a pale shade of blue, his forehead damp with sweat. When Stella placed the back of her hand on his face, the Elezen rattled and grimaced in pain.

 

Ashur was careful to move him as little as possible as he undid the last of the straps and pulled the hauberk over the Elezen's head, then using his knife to cut open the knight's gambeson. The younger Wildwood chirurgeon, Eaufault, came forward carrying a lit candle, a pail of water, and a small metal flask attached to a leather strap around his neck. Stella pulled up her sleeves, flexed her fingers, and undid the latch on her surgery kit.

 

The light of the candle illuminated the severity of what they would be working with. A deep, jagged gash had been opened across the Elezen's ribcage, revealing fleshy innards glowing ruby red.

 

"Stella--" Eaufault began, falling silent when she shot him a venomous glare.

 

"Stanch the bleeding as best as you can," Stella directed, handing a soaked cloth to Ashur who did so without question.

 

Though Ashur was no stranger to wounds and gore, this was the first time he'd really seen a chirurgeon work. As he held the wet cloth to the Elezen's gaping innards, Stella calmly and resolutely checked for any signs of internal bleeding and damage and washed around the wounds with alchemical mixtures. Just as she was about to begin suturing the wound, however, Eaufault grabbed her hand.

 

"Stella," Eaufault said firmly. "He's too far gone."

 

Ashur glanced up at the other knight's face. All of the colour had drained from the Elezen's face, and he had ceased to breathe, his eyes frozen open in an expression of pain.

 

It was odd, how quickly one went from living to dying. One second this knight was a living, breathing entity, and now he was little more than several ponze of flesh. Ashur glanced down at the blood-soaked cloth in his hands, still warm from the knight's lifeblood spilling from his gut. Somberly, he put the cloth down and closed the dead knight's eyelids.

 

"The Fury keep him," Ashur murmured, though he was suddenly startled by Stella suddenly flipping the lid to her surgery kit closed and sauntering off. He found it bewildering. She was a chirurgeon, yes, and there were other wounded to attend to, but it felt too...impersonal, too callous to just abandon her patient so quickly. He was sure that Stella had her reasons, but it disturbed him how quickly she seemed to forsake the dead. Were there no rites or prayers to be said? If Ashur himself were to be taken by the Fury in this infirmary, is this all the honour he would be afforded after giving his life in defense of Ishgard? Nothing but pain and a clumsily-applied wet cloth holding in whatever was left of his blood?

 

Some part of his distress and consternation must have shown on his face, for the other chirurgeon, Eaufault, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not mind her. She is simply...brisk, is all." With few more words, Eaufault stood up and followed Stella, who had already begun attending to another wounded knight.

 

Ashur was left alone to finish whatever prayer had been on his lips for the dead knight, but as he stared at Stella's robes flitting into the triage wards, the prayer went unspoken.

[Nero]

The feeling of the cold, wet cloth on Stella's forehead was a brief reprieve. Though the everwinter was rarely a forgiving environment, the heat of so many bodies permeated the inside of the infirmary, and that combined with the stress of caring for so many wounded had left the chirurgeon sweating more than usual. Once again, she'd lost track of how many bells she had been awake or how many bells she'd spent in the infirmary.

 

"It'll take you at least a full moon to recover," the Hyur said sternly as she finished a suture in a knight's thigh. "Don't expect to walk during that time; if you have to move, use crutches or ask your fellows for help." The wyvern attack had shaken Ishgard, but the number of wounded were thankfully few. The chirurgeon sighed and the latch to her surgery kit made a soft click. At least this one would live. Stella enjoyed a secret moment of victory, basking in a brief mental image of her standing in defiance of the Fury. Halone would claim one less soul today. Perhaps it was time to rest.

 

Stella's discrete elation was interrupted by a gauntleted hand tapping her on the shoulder. She fully expected there to be another knight looking for something or other, and that was an annoyance she could have happily gone without.

 

The chirurgeon turned and to her mild surprise, recognised the knight that deigned to bother her. Though his uniform was the same as all others, he had solid, handsome features, and a mane of sandy blonde hair complemented his amber eyes. The easygoing and apologetic smile on his face drained some of the tension out of her somewhat. It was...odd. This was only the second or third time she had interacted with him, and yet something about his presence felt almost relieving.

 

"Ser...Ashur," Stella said politely, fumbling slightly to recall his name. The exhaustion was beginning to set into her bones and despite her reluctance to return to the empty house, a comfortable bed would not go without gratitude. Yet, she couldn't find it within herself to rebuff whatever it is Ashur may have had in mind. "Is there something I can help you with?"

 

Ashur cleared his throat, as if unsure of what to say, a gesture that immediately sparked some of Stella's ire; she'd highly prefer if he didn't waste her time.

"The Lady Traidelle is here and heard that you were the chirurgeon helping her brother." Ashur coughed into his gauntlet, as if embarrassed of the nature of the request he was making...or as if he wasn't certain how Stella would react. "Though Ser Traidelle--ah, the Elezen I carried in--though he has passed, she wanted to speak with you before he is taken for interment."

 

It took all of Stella's willpower to resist groaning aloud, though she did afford running an exasperated hand through her bangs of chestnut-coloured hair. This was likely a purely ceremonial function, and a pointless one at that. Ser Traidelle was dead, and nothing anyone dead would reverse that. Halone had claimed him, and the Fury was nothing if not a stingy and jealous patron.

 

It was a habit of noble patrons to speak to the chirurgeons who had been treating their dead or soon-to-be-dead family members to thank them and offer prayers and for the chirurgeons in question to offer condolences and platitudes, a habit that Stella found wholly tiresome and completely unwelcome. She'd suffered through such weepy affairs before, and though she was quick to give Eaufault's name in order to escape previous occasions, to her misfortune this seemed to be the one occasion where Eaufault was nowhere to be found. Not to mention that Ashur was there when this Ser Traidelle died, and if he was as infuriatingly honest as the other Temple Knights, he'd have given her name regardless.

 

Ashur paused, and Stella suddenly felt uncomfortable beneath his scrutinizing gaze. She suddenly felt irritatingly self-conscious underneath his amber gaze. Were the bags under her eyes showing again? Hands trembling from weariness...

 

"I can tell the Lady Traidelle that you had retired already, or that I could not locate you if you prefer," the knight said abruptly.

 

That sudden proposal startled her. Such a courtesy was uncharacteristic of most Temple Knights that Stella had dealt with before. Most of them, while polite, were still stubborn unmoving zealots; they'd beat the Dravanians to death with copies of the Enchiridion if they could. When Ashur had brought the subject up, Stella was fully expecting him to politely but firmly insist that she help minister a rite of passage, despite her not being remotely related to the Church in function or status.

 

Still, while Ashur's considerate suggestion was tempting, it put Stella in another predicament. For one, her pride would never allow Ashur to lie in her place--though she was tired, she was not so waifish that she would pass out if she didn't head home immediately--and for two, the fact that he was considerate to begin with made her feel somewhat guilty for leaving him with the duty of comforting the likely hysterical Lady Traidelle.

 

"That won't be necessary," Stella said. Now it was her turn to clear her throat. "I will see her."

 

Ashur gave a curt nod, leading Stella over to the cot where the Elezen knight had died. Ashur had carefully folded the dead knight's hands over his chest, his eyes closed. Again, Stella felt a twinge of annoyance at the meaningless gesture. This knight had died in pain from a wyvern clawing open his intestines; prettying up that fact this way was ultimately meaningless.

 

Standing beside the dead knight's cot was a noble Wildwood lady, dressed in black. Stella noted with some mild disdain that despite the news that her brother was dead, the Lady Traidelle had apparently still taken the time to apply blush and other frivolous makeup, with an immaculate silk handkerchief to keep the tears from smudging her eyeshadow. The whole spectacle nearly caused Stella's eyes to roll straight out of their head.

 

What a farce this all was.

 

Lady Traidelle clasped Stella's hands in her own. "Halone bless you for your efforts, Madam Chirurgeon." The Elezen placed a hand on the dead knight's cheek. Was this how all nobles acted, or was this particular Lady simple overacting? Stella would never know.

 

"Your...brother was very brave," Stella said awkwardly, folding her hands behind her back and doing her best to sweep the blood-stained ends of her robe behind her shins. "He faced the Fury with dignity." A somewhat sadistic part of Stella felt the slight temptation to reveal that Ser Traidelle had died in groaning agony; death was never a pretty affair, and it was about time certain people learned that.

 

Still, she wasn't that malicious, though she glanced at Ashur to see his reaction. To her ire, his eyes were closed and his hands clasped together in solemn prayer, his lips moving to some unknown hymn or litany. This was why she hated such superfluous functions. The ceremony did nothing to change the circumstances.

 

"My condolences for your loss," Stella affirmed stiffly, wishing the whole thing could be over as soon as possible. She'd have thanked Halone for splitting open the infirmary with one of her spears right about now.

 

"No, no, he is with Fury now. Her grace and Her radiance will keep him safe, now and forever," Lady Traidelle sniffed.

 

With his prayer presumably complete, Ashur gently placed a hand on the small of Stella's back, as if to ferry her away. The chirurgeon needed no further encouragement, and it took most of her will to prevent from sprinting away, lest any other enterprising nobles ask for her presence so they could weep in public.

[Nero]

"Do you have a place to stay?" Ashur asked, suddenly aware that he didn't actually know where the hospitaliers and chirurgeons actually slept, or how often they managed to sleep at all. Stella was visibly worn down, though something about her--her willpower or a defiant spirit--did its best to mask that fact. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't concerned about her state. "The Lord Commander has declared a state of high alert for the entire city. It'd be best that you not get caught up in the patrols."

 

Stella seemed to hesitate before answering his question. "My family's estate in the Pillars. I am not on duty for the night, else I would stay in the barracks with the other hospitaliers."

 

Ashur did his best to conceal his surprise. Was she nobility? Suddenly he felt somewhat uncomfortable. Though technically they were both equal in status thanks to his knighthood, Ashur felt lowborn through-and-through; many highborn knights continued to look down upon him and Alric.

 

He coughed into his gauntlet, suddenly feeling underdressed despite the fact that Stella's unkempt chirurgeon robes were stained with blood. "I will escort you regardless, Lady Stella. Better safe than sorry, and my patrol rounds require my presence in the Pillars anyway." That last part was a lie, but Ashur couldn't very well leave her to walk home alone as the sun was setting, and just after a wyvern attack.

 

Stella shot him a sharp glare. "You can drop the 'Lady' title," she responded dourly. "And I am quite capable of making it home alone. You're dismissed, or however your superior would put it."

 

Now it was Ashur's turn to frown, though he didn't return the glare. She's some part nobility, alright. He recognised the dismissive tone with which Stella seemed to try to shoo him away with. It was the same disdainful tone the other squires had teased him with upon finding out he was from the Brume, and it put him on edge.

 

"I'd be remiss if I allowed a lady to return without escort in these trying times," Ashur replied dryly. Two could play at that game.

 

The two of them stared at each other for a time in silence, as if testing each others' wills, before Stella sighed and ran a hand through her hair in defeat. "Do as you wish," she muttered with exasperation. Proffering a slight grin at his petty victory, Ashur followed her as they made their way to the Pillars.

 

Still, some part of Stella bothered him. She was certainly a strong young woman with iron will, but her basic lack of respect regarding Ser Traidelle and the rites was...unusual. Even Ashur, a lowborn, had the Enchiridion instilled within him from an early age--it was a necessity to prove one's devotion to the Fury to become a Temple Knight, after all. Was it her upbringing? Was it the nature of her profession? Ashur had to admit that he might have a harsher view of Halone if he was in her position, but still...

 

Some part of his expression must have showed his curiosity, because Stella huffed and abruptly stopped before turning and glaring at him again. "If you want to say something, then say it. You look like an overripe melon about to explode with that kind of face." With that, she spun on her heels and began walking again.

"D-did I look like a melon...?" Ashur wondered aloud, caught off guard by the sudden inquiry. He quickly caught up to Stella and coughed. Well, she did say...

 

"I was wondering what your opinions were on the Fury," the knight asked. Almost immediately he regretted it. What a stupid way to ask that question!

 

Evidently Stella thought the same thing, for she merely scoffed. "Are you asking for a debate on theology, now of all times? I don't much care for it."

 

"No," Ashur responded, somewhat emboldened now that his thoughts were more organized. "But most chirurgeons I have seen offered the rite of passage to those who...well, pass while under their care. You don't seem to have the patience for such things." Well, okay, again that was not the best way to put it, but..."

 

Stella visibly bristled at the comment. "I apologize if my lack of superfluous ceremony disconcerts you, Ser Ashur," she replied sarcastically. "I'd much rather focus on saving the living than honouring the dead."

 

"You don't believe that such rites have any importance?" Ashur inquired, somewhat surprised. Were most chirurgeons as lacking in piety or was it just her?

"I believe there are more important things to do than singing the praises of a sky fairy into the ears of a dying man," Stella snapped.

 

Ashur wasn't necessarily the most devout man ever--he'd fallen asleep at more than one Halonic sermon, and he and Alric had regularly used their copies of the Enchiridion as makeshift projectile weapons in their youth--but he was still raised as an Ishgardian, with an earnest if clumsy belief in the Fury. Her words startled him. Stella was a strong woman, but he hadn't been expecting her to be so...prickly.

 

"They aren't empty praises," Ashur said earnestly. "Halone provides us with Her grace and protection--"

 

"You mean Her protection that leaves men spilling their guts out in the infirmary? That protection?" Stella scoffed.

 

Now it was Ashur's turn to bristle. There was a difference between lacking piety and merely being ignorant! "She is not all-powerful; the Twelve oft do not manifest in the realm of mortals, and even then rarely. Yet She is a protector. She guards our spirits and our resolve so that we may guard our bodies, and those of our fellows." The more he thought about what to say, the more he frowned. "Those rites aren't empty words. They allow the living to move on after their loved ones have passed. The dead may not hear them, but those who are left behind certainly do."

 

Truly, though, Ashur had to admit that Stella had something of a point. He remembered bitter memories, asking Halone where Her grace was when his father was claimed by the pox. When another freezing night swept through the Brume, there was little comfort to be found in the Enchiridion.

 

Still, despite such moments of weakness, Halone was Ishgard, and Ishgard was Halone. Faith in one meant faith in the other.

 

It seemed some part of his words resonated with Stella, or perhaps she had simply gotten tired of arguing. "You may be right, but I would still prefer to spend my time on this world doing rather than praying." It was a sentiment the knight had no proper response to. Ashur recalled Stella's words from the other day. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death."

 

He could imagine it being frustrating serving as a chirurgeon, working with the wounded, the dead, and the dying, and hearing only praises to the Fury. Though Ashur still earnestly believed in the place of the rites and Halone, perhaps Stella's irritation was not so unreasonable. As she said, she worked to save everyone she could, and if her time could be spent saving another...

 

Would he want her to waste time on prayer if it were him or Alric at stake? Ashur couldn't think of a truly honest answer.

 

The two walked in silence until they stood in front of a large estate. It was a house many times larger than Ashur's own, and yet there were no lights or any indication of activity. Again, the knight was reminded of the considerable gap in status, and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

 

Stella turned and gave a curt, practical nod. After some brief hesitation, she spoke. "...thank you for the escort, however unnecessary it was," she said tersely.

 

Ashur returned the nod, though before Stella opened the door, he called out to her. "Lady Stella."

 

"I told you to drop the stupid title," the chirurgeon said, turning around with a frown.

 

"Ah. Apologies. But...thank you for what you do. Truly." Ashur gave a low, deferential bow. Was there a reason he was doing this? Again, he thought of her words. The Fury was a protector, but surely that meant the chirurgeons and hospitaliers were the conduits of Her mercy. Again, were he in her position he might feel quite frustrated if Halone received all the credit.

 

Stella didn't respond, only giving another slight nod as she retreated into the estate, shutting the heavy door behind her.

 

As soon as she was out of sight, Ashur was punching the bridge of his nose. "Well, that was...probably disastrous," he murmured to himself before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Hands were clasped behind his back as he sauntered off, struggling to recall his patrol route...

[Nero]

Heretics.

 

No, Ashur was not the most devout man, nor would he consider himself a fanatical zealot. Though he believed in the Fury and he believed in the sanctity of the Church, he was not a man who would think to reprimand others for misquoting the Enchiridion or blaspheming the Archbishop. There were others to do that kind of rigid policing.

 

But heretics, on the other hand...that was an evil that was easily understood, and easily punished. Though Ashur had heard fearful whispers of the innocent being punished by the auspices of the Inquisition--ever were such tales used to frighten children into obedience, especially in the Brume--he firmly believed that heretics were a true blight.

 

A thousand years of death inflicted upon Ishgard from the blind rage of Nidhogg and his brood, for no reason and for no purpose. Ashur recalled the struggle to survive the frigid nights of the Brume; the cursed everwinter, too, was the product of a mad dragon, Bahamut. A thousand generations and more of innocents suffered beneath the wings of all dragons, and heretics were no better than the beasts they consorted with. Cultists seeking power, outlaws seeking revenge, all aiding the cause of the eternal foe and slaying countless good people in the process.

 

His grip on his sword hilt tightened as the Coerthas everwinter offered its own punishment to the line of shackled men and women in the form of a frigid breeze. Heretics, the lot of them.

 

Ashur had been re-assigned under the command of one Ser Marat. A veteran of nearly forty cycles, Marat was a severe man with an even harsher temperament. The Elezen was as unbending as the steel that comprised of his arms and armour, and while his rigidity and discipline were both feared and respected, he exuded courage and unwavering resolve that was reminiscent of Ser Praihaux.

 

Such it was that Marat's cohort, alongside a squad of hired sellswords, was sent to patrol the Western Highlands, and it was not long until word reached them that dragonkin were attacking a military convoy. The foe were not dragonkin, but heretics; men and women, armed and armoured, seeking to ransack the convoy for themselves. Ashur recalled the detail with disgust; those willing to consort with dragons were acting as common bandits. He looked at the battlefield, at the carnage that had been left: the chocobos dead, the wagons overturned, blood permeating the drifts and already being consumed by more snowfall.

 

Ashur glanced through the visor of his helmet to gauge the reaction of the mercenaries. He shared Marat's skepticism of fighting with outsiders, but their martial skills were acceptable, if undisciplined. Moreover, they were extra hands that could be used for tedious labour.

 

Those heretics that had survived the battle or otherwise been taken alive were shackled to one another, in abject misery. "Line them up!" Ser Marat barked. The sellswords roughly pulled the heretics to the side of the road, stumbling across the manacles that bound their ankles together. The knights, Ashur included, lined up behind them, and a curt nod from their commanding officer lead to a cacophony of blades being withdrawn.

 

Beneath his helmet, Ashur scowled. Kneeling under him was an Elezen man. Was this man an Ishgardian? A foreigner? Did he have a family? What was his profession? Such thoughts didn't fill Ashur with pity, but with righteous anger. How many had this heretic killed in his lust for dragonsblood? Who had he abandoned for those sickening beliefs? How many of his brothers and sisters in the Temple Knights would this heretic threaten if he was not ended now?

The knights glanced at Ser Marat, awaiting the command to pass the sentence.

 

Ashur's scowl turned into a frown as he noticed Ser Marat, who seemed to be arguing with one of the mercenaries down the line. The mercenary was a fair Midlander Hyur, heavily armoured, with fiery crimson hair and a steely demeanor. Ashur snorted. Sellswords. She was probably trying to argue for higher pay or other such nonsense.

 

Marat raised his hand, and the knights laid the soles of their feet against the back of the heretics' knees, forcing them into a kneeling position. With the flat of their blades, the knights exposed the napes of their necks.

 

This was justice.

 

Or at least, it was supposed to be justice.

 

As the knights looked to their commander for the final order, a shrill hunting horn echoed even through the frigid winds. A cavalry unit marched on the road, adorned in brilliant azure barding and immaculate silver armour. Their riders wore not the modest chainmail of the Temple Knights, but ornate, detailed plate armour, stamped with the crest of Ishgard on their breasts. Leading them was what could only be an Inquisitor, and a high-ranking one at that; the lead rider was concealed by a hood, but there was no mistaking the robes of the Inquisition fluttering beneath his silver-trimmed cerulean cloak. The lead rider seemed to examine the line of heretics before sniffing disdainfully and beckoning his chocobo towards Ser Marat.

 

Marat was now near Ashur's end of the execution line, close enough that the latter could hear the conversation. "Come to witness the sentencing, lord Inquisitor?" Marat grunted. The knight-captain sounded equal parts irritated and honoured, if such a thing was possible.

 

"These heretics are to be released directly under the judgment of the Inquisition," the leader said gruffly.

 

Marat frowned, more confused than angry. That was a sentiment Ashur understood; the heretics would face their deaths one way or another, and while he didn't relish in dealing death, the Inquisition was not usually one to intervene on an execution in progress.

 

"My lord--" Marat began to protest.

 

"That is Inquisitor Bellamont to you, ser," the leader growled impatiently. "Do not forget your place, or do the Temple Knights see fit to interfere in the affairs of the Holy See?"

 

Marat stiffened at that. What kind of madness was this, Ashur wondered? The Temple Knights were the arm of the Church! Still, it was not as if Marat could protest. For one, these were heretics; who were they to protest what kind of gruesome death the Inquisition was likely to subject them to? And for two, though they were technically nobles, the aristocracy paled beneath the power and influence of the Orthodox Church.

 

"Of course we will comply, Inquisitor Bellamont," Ser Marat affirmed, before giving a deep, deferential bow.

 

A second rider -- a lean, aged Elezen -- rode forward, dark eyes narrowed with disdain as he looked down the length of his long nose. He, too, was dressed in the cerulean robes of the Inquisition, but he was lacking in the first inquisitor's shroud. His hawk-like features glared balefully at the execution line, and it was impossible to tell if his scorn was for the heretics or the knights. “Give praise to Halone, for the bell of your death has been belayed.” His eyes swept the row of heretics, many of them who now looked upon him with an expression of shocked relief. “All these transgressors are under arrest by the authority of the Inquisition. Rise to your feet, sinners. Some of you will be afforded the fortuity of atonement. Raise your voices in both praise and sorrow for the tribulations you shall face, for should you conquer them, even you may be redeemed.”

 

Wordlessly, Ashur and the other knights sheathed their swords. Well, the heretics would be punished under the gaze of the Church. It didn't really matter, in the end. They pulled the heretics to a standing position, whereupon one of the armoured riders took hold of the chain connected to their manacles. Though their feet were shackled, leather collars were affixed to the necks of the heretics.

 

“Where there is fear, we carry light.” The Elezen’s cold voice rang clear as a bell as he and his armored soldiers disappeared into the snowfall along with the heretics.

 

"Damned bastards," grumbled Ser Loren, the knight standing beside Ashur.

 

"Do you mean those heretics or the Inquisition?" Ashur responded, to which Ser Loren merely shrugged, as if to silently say both, of course.

 

"Don't look so disappointed, boys," Marat grunted. "There'll be plenty of days to spill heretic blood. Let the Church have a few of the pickings."

 

That much was certainly true. There seemed to be no end to the dragons or those heathens that followed them. Marat gave an authoritative wave to the knights and sellswords both. "We're moving out!" Ashur heard the command, but felt his gaze lingering on the road where the Inquisitor and the heretics had vanished.

[Nero]

The Forgotten Knight was one of the more popular establishments of Ishgard. Though most of the highborn--the aristocracy and the clergy--turned up their noses at the place, there were few drinking taverns of similar quality available to the common people. Off-duty knights, merchants, and porters were quick to crowd the location whenever they could, and the lower levels that served those unfortunate souls in the Brume often became equally packed.

 

It was here, a few days later, that Ashur decided to share what happened in the Western Highlands.

 

"The Inquisition?" Alric's eyebrows shot upwards in alarm, though his exclamation was somewhat difficult to hear over the din of merriment being produced by the Knight's patrons. The Hyur glared at a porter that had bumped into him, causing some of Alric's ale to slosh over the side of his tankard.

 

"Aye, nearly twoscore of them by my counting," Ashur nodded, taking a swig from his own tankard. "In full parade armour, no less! What in the hells where they doing out in the Highlands in getups like that?"

 

"Maybe they meant to blind the Dravanians, posh gits," Lantrenel muttered next to Alric before shoving a spoonful of mashed popotoes into his mouth. The Elezen still had some smudges of dirt and smog on his face, a pair of workman's goggles hanging around his neck, indicative of his work as an engineer at the Skysteel Manufactory, though somehow Lantrenel's neatly-combed sideburns remained immaculate despite the coal and oil he was working with on a daily basis.

 

"Well, as long as none of them noticed you, baby brother, all's well in my book," Alric said with a smirk.

 

"I don't think any of those preening lords have time to acknowledge the footmen," Ashur muttered. "Still, why would they come out all the way over here? We were just about to execute those heretics as well, but this Inquisitor swoops in like some kind of holy spirit! It doesn't sit right with me."

 

Alric tapped a gloved finger to his chin. "You think it has to do with those rumours about the outsiders? That seems like the kind of thing that would have the Church on edge."

 

Briefly, Ashur thought about the red-haired sellsword arguing with Ser Marat. "Do you mean those mercenaries? They've been hiring more and more of them, especially out on the Whitebrim Front."

 

"Nah, he's talking about those other outsiders," Lantrenel grunted. "They're sponsored by House Fortemps. Couple of them swung by the Manufactory once. Pretty suspicious lot, I think."

 

"I don't know about you, but if I were a member of the Church, I'd be a little wary about whether any of those outsiders are heretics," Alric said in a low voice.

"There's already rumours floating around of heretics within the city," Lantrenel added.

 

"Impossible," Ashur responded flatly. That kind of thing was impossible. Outside the city and among the frontier, heretics were free to roam, but within the walls of the Holy See? Unthinkable.

 

"Well, the Manufactory's at full steam, and those rumours have got everyone wound up like a spring," the Elezen said gruffly. "Entire city's on full alert and gearing up for the worst. I'll tell you that the Church is going to be even stricter."

 

"Well, as far as I've heard, they haven't arrested any outsiders yet. Like those sellswords. What did you think of them, Ash?"

 

Ashur frowned. "The company I fought with had competent enough fighters, I'll grant them that. But they're all profiteers, every single one of them. Wildly undisciplined, too. Ser Marat had a hell of a time getting some of them into a formation." He took another sip from his tankard. "I know we need the manpower, but it feels wrong to be spending Ishgardian coin on fodder like them. And like you said, there's no telling if there are heretics among them. I know Ser Marat feels the same way, but...if we have to endure them, I suppose at the very least, it'll give the Dravanians another target besides us."

 

The Hyur raised an eyebrow as one corner of the Forgotten Knight began singing some silly, nonsense song, though to the mob's credit they at least managed to stay on tune despite--or perhaps because--of their inebriation. "I don't trust them, though," Ashur continued. "How can someone fight without any kind of conviction except to gil? I doubt people like that will be around to endure the darkest times and the bloodiest fights. As soon as the Horde shows up, they'll all be fleeing with their purses. Can't trust them."

 

Alric grinned. "Not a fan of mercenaries? I could see the appeal in that kind of life, to be honest." He planted a foot on the table and Ashur rolled his eyes. "Roaming the world, gaining a reputation as the knight-turned-wanderer, charming the ladies with my courtly graces and getting rich in the process! I could see myself getting used to that."

 

Ashur roughly grabbed his brother's belt and pulled him down. "Gibrillont's going to yell at you for standing on the table again," he said with some irritation. A dark-haired serving maid clattered another messy plate of mashed popotoes onto their table, which Lantrenel was quick to greedily claim.

"You've never thought about leaving Ishgard, baby brother?" Alric laughed.

 

Ashur gave it some thought before answering. The mob in the corner had switched from singing to arm-wrestling, judging by the sounds and clatter of chairs. "Where would I even go? You and Mother are here." For some reason, Stella's face flashed in his mind for the briefest of moments. "Perhaps if, impossibly, the War ends within my lifetime I may see the world, but until then there's not much to do out there as long as the Dravanians are threatening my home and hearth."

 

"You did enjoy those trips we took with Father though, didn't you?" Alric said, clapping Ashur on the shoulder. "I took you for more the adventurous type.

 

"You are the one who inherited Father's sense of adventure, Al. I was too young to understand how dangerous those trips were," Ashur replied, shoving Alric's hand off his person. "I barely remember Ul'dah, except that it was far too hot and muggy. And the Shroud is where you got bit by that massive insect. You were wailing for entire suns."

 

"Details, details," Alric chuckled, turning to his Elezen companion in order to change the subject. "So what's House Haillenarte got you doing, Lantrenel?"

There was no response from Lantrenel for several long seconds save for the scraping sounds of the spoon scooping up more popotoes. "Master Stephanivien's got some fool idea in his head about firearms," Lantrenel grumbled. "He's had a few of us working day and night on some prototypes based on firearms from Limsa Lominsa."

 

"Oh?" Alric sat up, intrigued. Even Ashur leaned in a little. Was this going to be some new weapon to use against the Dravanians? The cannons and the dragonkillers were effective, but they couldn't win the war for Ishgard, that much was certain.

 

"Aye. I don't understand all of his ramblings--I'm not even working on the blasted things, really--just some bits about aether and lightning. It's off the books, too, so I'm thinking he doesn't want the Count to know."

 

The mob was growing louder and louder, and Ashur abruptly pounded his fist against the table. "Some decorum would be appreciated, gentlemen, thank you very much!" He shouted, thoroughly vexed by the fact that he could barely hear Lantrenel over the din. The mob didn't quiet down completely, but there was an ever-so-slight lowering of volume.

 

"What's decorum?" A voice mumbled from the mob.

 

"I think it's like hanging pictures and stuff on the walls," another voice said with some bewilderment. Ashur's eyes nearly rolled out of his head as he turned his attention back to the Elezen engineer.

 

"Well, I'll certainly be looking forward to whatever you cook up for us," Alric said cheerfully, offering his tankard forward for a casual toast, to which no one responded to. Without missing a beat, he drained the rest of his tankard. "I think it's about time I report back for now, though."

 

Ashur looked at his brother with some puzzlement before a mixture of fear and anger clouded his face. "What about your side of the--" Before Ashur could stop him, Alric had planted the tankard on the table, re-fastened his helmet and his sword belt, and dashed up the stairs out of the establishment.

 

"...tab," Ashur groaned to himself.

 

He dared to shoot a glance over to Gibrillont, who did nothing but wordlessly tap a gil coin against the side of an empty tankard.

[Nero]

Though that atmosphere in the Foundation had been tense, the Pillars were remarkably peaceful. A rare gap in the clouds meant that the Jeweled Crozier was awash with precious beams of noon sunlight. A foreigner to Ishgard might assume that because of the nation's closed borders, the markets would be sterile and lifeless, though nothing could be further from the truth. Despite Ishgard's strained situation--rumours of a new offensive mounting had quickly spread among the nobility--the marketplace buzzed with activity.

 

War was a time of profit, and Ishgardian merchants were quick to take advantage of that fact. The fragrant odors of fresh herbs and roasting meats mixed with the sounds of haggling from dozens of stalls. Cloth of every kind, from serviceable wools and cottons to extravagant silks and satins were hawked from noisy tailors, and though most of Ishgard's arms and armour were sold to the Temple Knights, there were more than enough pieces for the local smiths to display on their stalls. The cookshops were always popular venues for those merchants looking for an easy meal or off-duty knights seeking something other than the bland fare of the barracks.

 

One particularly enterprising peddler was busy creating dragons from folded pieces of paper; the peddler would then throw the dragons off the edge of the Crozier where they would gently glide towards the chasm below, and children would pay with coin from their harried mothers to try to shoot the dragons out of the sky with the peddler's selection of handmade slingshots.

 

Stella frowned at that particular display. A precocious idea, and not necessarily a bad way to entertain children, but a part of her worried that romanticizing the idea of dragon slaying to children so young was not the best avenue to go with.

 

The chirurgeon sighed, running a hand through her hair, her basket of groceries rustling slightly as she did so. She didn't have time to worry about how Ishgardian children. As Stella began to pore over the herbal selections of the apothecary, her mind was focused on a more anxious matter.

 

The Convictory needed chirurgeons, as the ones that had been stationed there were dead, wounded, or too exhausted to be of any help, and the head chirurgeon in Ishgard--a humourless old Elezen--had assigned Stella to be a part of the next convoy, alongside a few other chirurgeons. No amount of pleading, favours, or threats--direct or indirect--could convince Eaufault to take her place.

 

Nevermind the fact that she abjectly hated field work, the Hyur had to worry about whether or not this would jeopardize the assignment given to her by her patron. She couldn't afford to be away from the city for too long, but what if she ended up indefinitely assigned to the Convictory? Ishgard was cold, harsh, and full of blind zealots, but as much disdain Stella had for the empty house, the creature comforts like the hearth and the fur-lined blankets were things she would sorely miss, and being out in the Highlands reminded her of things she would very much rather forget.

 

"Madam? Is aught amiss?" the apothecary asked politely as Stella stared blankly at a sprig of coriander in her hands. Shaken out of her reverie, she shook her head.

 

"I will take these," Stella said stiffly, paying the merchant for the herbs, though she wasn't entirely sure she needed them.

 

And on top of everything else, the cohort she would be travelling with was led by one Ser Braucandeaux. Even the thought of him made Stella's face scrunch up in subconscious disgust. Ser Braucandeaux was ostensibly a noble and had relatives in the Church, but the only thing noble about him was his title, and there was certainly nothing chaste or holy in his bloodline. Stella had been forced to politely reject his brazen and uncouth advances for nearly two moons now. It was likely that if Stella were stationed at the Convictory, he would pull whatever oily strings he could to be stationed alongside her, and from that point it would only be a matter of time before Braucandeaux would be found dead with Stella's dirk through his skull, which would certainly put her ventures in Ishgard to an end.

 

The chirurgeon's mind wandered as she began to walk down the Crozier to return to the Foundation, attempting to think of a way out of this predicament. Eaufault was the closest thing she had to a "friend", and even that term was loose; it would be more accurate to say that Eaufault was the one most willing to tolerate her. If Stella were a hospitalier, things might be different, but as a chirurgeon she had very limited influence over military matters. Protesting too much might cause too much of a stir, and if the Inquisition caught wind of someone acting too uppity...

 

Stella stopped on her heels. Standing in front of one of the merchant's stalls was a Hyur; though he was not wearing the chainmail, he was identifiable as a knight through the plain beige gambeson embroidered with the sigil of Ishgard. His striking mane of sandy blonde hair looked familiar.

 

What was his name? Ashton, Ashcroft....Ashur, that was it. Could he help her?

 

Ashur picked up one of the swords that the merchant offered, the blade looking more fanciful than effective. Even Stella, who had no eye for such things, could tell that the "jewels" encrusted on the hilt were nothing but glass. He gave the sword a few practice swings, before he was suddenly holding nothing but the hilt, as the blade snapped free and went flying, narrowly missing a drunk peddler who was attempting to enjoy a bowl of stew.

 

Stella sidled closer, unsure of whether or not to approach him. Ashur was a knight, yes, but she knew almost nothing else about him. She had never seen him command any men, and even if he could, it was unlikely that he wielded enough influence to outdo whatever Ser Braucandeaux promised.

 

His amber eyes narrowed in disapproval as the merchant did his best to look utterly surprised. "Huh!" The merchant grunted. "Now that's never happened before."

 

Stella snorted despite herself. The merchant almost sounded sincere. "You've a keen eye for your weapons, good ser. Now take a look at this beauty. You won't find another like it in--"

 

"In all of Aldenard, yes, you've said that before," Ashur finished, declining the proffered sword which was even more ostentatious than the first. The merchant nodded so briskly that his multiple chins wagged as he continued to hold the weapon aloft for Ashur to inspect, though the knight had already decided on looking at other wares. "That's right--in all of Aldenard!"

 

Stella found herself watching intently as Ashur picked up a clear vial of violet liquid. The merchant folded his hands together in satisfaction. "A broken heart, ser? You have a keen eye, a very keen eye indeed! This is my best merchandise, the last of it, in fact! It's a love potion, guaranteed to make the object of your affection fall swooning into your bed!" Stella covered her mouth to keep the audible scoff from her lips, and to conceal the amused smile from Ashur's offended expression.

 

The knight instead picked up another vial, this time of translucent yellow liquid. "Ah, good ser, you are a true warrior. I can tell! This is an incredible salve from the alchemists of Ul'dah, certain to heal any wound in battle, from an arrow to the throat to a dragon's claws without leaving so much as a scar!"

 

This seemed to get Ashur's attention, but with a sigh, Stella decided it was time to intervene. With her basket of groceries tucked in her elbow, she marched up to the merchant's stall, startling both the merchant and the knight. She forcefully confiscated the vial from Ashur's hand and popped open the cork, recoiling from the stench. From his expression, he did not recognise her right away.

 

"This is nothing but bear grease," the chirurgeon proclaimed loudly, dropping the vial on the pavement and causing it to explode into shards.

Ashur's frown deepened, his feet shuffling. "Where are you from, merchant?" he demanded, a hand on his sword's hilt. "We do not take kindly to charlatans within the Holy See. You are no better than a common thief, or perhaps you seek to poison someone? A heretic, are you?"

 

"Oh, I doubt that's necessary," Stella said, a smug smirk crossing her lips. She almost felt sorry for the merchant who fell against the back of his stall, apparently trembling from the word "heretic" being thrown at him. She glanced at Ashur, whose face was now lit up from recognition.

 

"Lady--er, Stella," the knight said politely, quickly correcting himself when Stella herself instinctively frowned upon hearing the title. "I thank you for lending your expertise."

 

Stella shrugged nonchalantly. "You are off-duty, yes? It would be a shame to waste your time on such offal as this one. Alert your fellows, and we can be on our way."

 

Ashur's face morphed between several expressions as though he couldn't decide between which question to ask. After some hesitation, he gave a slight nod to her and a considerably severe nod to the merchant cowering in his stall.

 

"Stay right there," the knight commanded, thoroughly unamused. "You are welcome to attempt to flee, but I assure you it will not go well." He turned to the chirurgeon. "L--Stella, may I burden you with a request?"

 

Stella gave a mocking sigh, though the smirk was still on her lips. "Yes, I will fetch your fellows for you," she said lightly, turning around and walking towards the front of the Crozier to find the nearest knight.

[Nero]

As the merchant was being lead off by some of his fellow knights for questioning, Ashur’s expression became one of considerable surprise when Stella suddenly asked for his assistance.

 

“I would request your help,” Stella said tersely, as if wishing to get this over with as soon as possible. Ashur raised an eyebrow. Based on her demeanour alone, he’d had Stella pegged as a fairly prideful person, perhaps even haughty. It must be with a significant deal of reluctance that she asked for this favour, whatever it may be.

 

“I...cannot guarantee anything, but if I can assist you, then I will try,” Ashur responded with bemusement.

 

Stella took a deep breath before exhaling, brushing some stray hairs from the front of her face. “I have been assigned to tending to the Convictory. An ignominious position at best, but not the true heart of the problem. The cadre of knights I have been assigned to is headed by one...Ser Braucandeaux.”

 

Ashur’s face immediately split into a frown; he was familiar with that name. Ser Braucandeaux was one of many highborn knights that relentlessly mocked both Ashur and Alric for being commonborn, constantly whispering uncouth insults and playing juvenile schemes in an effort to discredit the lowborn. Outside of his sycophants, Braucandeaux was widely regarded with the same distaste one might regard an uncourteous stain on one’s shoe, and yet he had the favour of the higher-ranked knights, along with his own unit.

 

“It would be...disadvantageous for both he and I if we were within a few fulms of each other,” Stella exhaled a sigh, folding her arms together. “Though I know I ask much of you, I was wondering if you could…”

 

Ashur waved his hand. “Say no more, La--er, Stella,” the knight said, catching himself before reflexively using the title he knew she disliked. “Though I am no knight-captain, I have Ser Marat’s ear. I am certain I can convince him to take on an extra chirurgeon or two, and I know for a fact he has no small amount of distaste for Braucandeaux.” Ashur tilted his head. “Though, I would have you know that we are stationed at the Falcon’s Nest, outside the city.”

 

Stella seemed to deflate with a considerable amount of relief, though her shoulders remained tense. “Well, I will miss my comforts, but Falcon’s Nest isn’t so bad,” she muttered to herself. “My thanks, then, Ser…”

 

Ashur grinned. “Just Ashur, if you would. It’s been years since my initiation and I’m still not quite used to hearing ‘ser’. Where should I contact you once I have news of Ser Marat’s decision?”

 

Now it was Stella’s turn to wave her hand. “The infirmary is where I am most likely to be. Do you remember my...erm, assistant, Eaufault? If I am not there, he will likely know where I am, though I do not have many other haunts other than my home.”

 

Ashur recalled the one time he escorted Stella home. The manse she lived in was large, and yet he could never remember there being anyone near it during those rare times he was assigned to patrols in the Pillars. “Do you live with anyone?” he asked casually.

 

Stella visibly stiffened at his query, clearing her throat. “...no, I do not,” she said quietly.

 

Ashur was taken aback by her timid, hesitant response, and with the tension in the air now thoroughly awkward, he coughed while desperately trying to think of a new topic. “W-well, it’s not all bad,” Ashur stammered out clumsily. He opened his mouth to continue--something about how the noise of his own home frequently bothered him--before Stella gave him a short bow, tucking her basket of groceries under her arm.

 

“Thank you for doing me this favour, Ser Ashur,” the chirurgeon said shortly before quickly hurrying to walk past him, leaving Ashur to stare at her retreating back contemplating how many pairs of boots he’d put in his mouth in the past moon. The knight sighed, crossing his arms behind his back, and shuffling off towards the barracks.

[Nero]

And so it was that Ser Marat's cohort was host to another chirurgeon; from a practical standpoint, Ser Marat was grateful to have another chirurgeon on hand at Falcon's Nest, but more than that the usually grumpy Elezen took no small amount of glee in being given an opportunity to stick a proverbial knife at Ser Braucandeaux. Ashur knew better than to ask, but given Braucandeaux's demeanour, it was likely that there was some bad blood between the two.

 

Given how their last encounter ended, Ashur was somewhat anxious to see the prickly Stella once again when they assembled at the airship platform, but was relieved when she was quick to offer her polite, if typically stiff gratitude. "You have my thanks for doing me this favour, Ashur," the chirurgeon had said. Her tone was somewhat cold, but Ashur could tell from the slight strain in her voice that Stella was used to being cold to people and was attempting this once to not be so frigid.

 

Still, the knight didn't feel that he had the particular eloquence required to speak to her much more, and so rather than keep her company during the airship flight, he instead mingled among his fellow knights.

 

"Quite the ice queen, isn't she," Loren muttered. The Hyur standing besides Ashur occasionally cast a suspicious glances to Stella, who was engrossed in organizing her alchemical supplies. "She'd be prettier if she smiled more." Loren tilted his head. "A bit more mannish than your standard noblelady, I suppose. The robes are probably hiding some quality goods, though."

 

Ashur grimaced at the crass observation; while by no means a prude, lewdness was more Alric's thing. "If I never hear about what kind of noblewomen you imagine, I can die satisfied, Loren," he said, rapping his knuckles on the side of Loren's helmet.

 

"I'm just saying, it was about time we have a chirurgeon that's not an old fart or a hag, and we get the one who's carved out of wood," Loren said, brushing off Ashur's hand in irritation. "All pretty young ladies are supposed to become..I don't know, something dainty, you know? Something that waits for the brave hero's return home. Instead she looks like she'd rather stab me just as soon as she'd sew me up."

 

"She's...not so bad when you get to know her," Ashur offered weakly, more out of reflex in case Stella heard Loren's less-than-subtle gossip. Though he'd only seen Stella at work a few times, there was something to be said about the severity her face held.

 

Loren raised an eyebrow. "And do you know her, Ashur?"

 

Well, no, he didn't. They didn't know anything about one another. Their meetings were just a multitude of chance encounters. Ashur had to privately admit to himself--though with a significant amount of embarrassment--that he was curious about Stella, though he couldn't pin an exact reason on why. Perhaps it was with the seriousness she carried out her duties, or it was just a matter of physical attraction. Or...it was not just those things. It was also the fact that every time Ashur saw her, she looked alone. Not lonely, but Stella had the face and demeanour of one who was standing against a gale by herself, a lone pillar amidst the tempest. She was certainly proud and carried herself as such, but it wasn't arrogance or haughtiness.

 

If he had to describe it, it was the pride of a martyr. 

 

Ashur couldn't possibly guess at what kind of ordeals equipped her with such a demeanour, but there was something about her simultaneous strength and seeming fragility that drew him to her. After a few long seconds he caught himself staring intently at Stella before snapping himself out of his reverie violently shaking his head. No no no, what was he even thinking about!? They weren't friends or even acquaintances. It was just a series of chance meetings. This was hardly the time to be thinking about such things.

 

The knight coughed into his gauntlet, thankful for the helmet masking his expression. "No, I don't," he murmured more to himself than to Loren.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and when the two airships landed at the Falcon's Nest, there wasn't much conversation to go around.

 

"Get yourselves sorted in the quarters," Ser Marat ordered gruffly. "I'll be off to see what kind of pit we've found ourselves in this time."

 

With no orders more specific than "get sorted", many of the knights set off to find their bunks and hearths. Not content to rest on his laurels, Ashur busied himself with unloading the supplies they'd brought from Ishgard. The second airship had been loaded with crates and boxes marked with mundane contents; grain, dried vegetables, chocobo feed, medical supplies, arms and armour. A few of the higher-ranked knights jealously guarded small chests that undoubtedly carried some small luxuries from the city to get them through their post. The chirurgeons, Stella included, were quite busy hauling off delicate crates that jingled with glassware within them.

 

Stella passed Ashur a neutral glance, her expression unreadable as they passed one another--Ashur on his way to pick up another crate from the airship, and Stella carrying a box of supplies towards the infirmary--when she spoke. "Your friend could learn how to speak with more grace," she said flatly. Her tone didn't carry an edge of reprimand, and that caused Ashur to wince more than anything.

 

Once again, he found himself watching her back as she retreated, unsure of what to say or if he should say anything at all.

 

At least it wasn't his fault this time.

[Nero]

While the Falcon's Nest was still in the process of rebuilding, it at least had civilized amenities such as soft beds, warm hearths, and serviceable living quarters. Getting a warm bath drawn was probably out of the question, but Stella was grateful to be here rather than out in the wilderness or curling up inside a Convictor's tent. The infirmary was as well-stocked as it could be, which was one worry off of her mind. The chirurgeon sighed as she double checked the organization of her supplies, wiping a hand across her forehead.

 

Of course, if Stella could have had a choice in the matter she would have preferred not to leave Ishgard at all, or at the very least be stationed somewhere relatively close by, such as Whitebrim or Camp Dragonshead. Nevermind the fact that leaving the city could jeopardize her task, Stella had never been on an airship before and had spent much of the flight to the Falcon's Nest sitting ramrod still in the corner in sheer silent terror, owing to the fact that airships seemed to lack seats, fastenings, or any kind of safety equipment whatsoever. Every minor lurch or tilt of the airship adjusting its course lead to the blood being drained from her face and her nearly biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. About halfway into the flight she had begun obsessively re-arranging her surgery kit just to keep her mind off of the possibility of the airship suddenly plummeting out of the sky.

 

Of course, she was too proud to show any kind of weakness to the knights--especially with Ser Loren's untoward comments--and so Stella had been extra careful to be the last one off of the airship lest anyone note her chirurgeon robes wobbling and trembling with her legs, and it was only after a few back-and-forth trips between the infirmary and the airship that she managed to find her nerve again.

 

Stella was in the midst of dreading the flight back to Ishgard when her stomach made a distinctly un-feminine growl, and she glanced at a chronometer on the wall. It was already sundown and she hadn't eaten anything since dawn, though the horrors of airship flight had ensured that she no appetite for several bells after landing. Already, she could imagine Eaufault's irritatingly gentle reprimands, and so she stormed off towards the kitchens to find something to soothe the protests of her stomach.

 

The chirurgeon grimaced, expecting to find the dining hall packed to the brim with knights, only to be surprised when it was completely empty. Even Noirterel, the cook servicing Falcon's Nest, was nowhere to be found. Stella spotted a pile of washed bowls and plates stacked high next to the kitchen's rectangular water basin, indicating that the knights had already eaten a communal supper. The Hyur let forth a great sigh. On the one hand, she preferred eating alone, so these were ideal conditions. On the other hand, who exactly was she supposed to bother for a meal at this time of night? Stella had always been one to stop by the cookshops on the way home instead of cooking for herself, and while she was certainly proud enough to wait until morning, it would be a miserable night without something to sate her.

 

She glanced at the dried meats and vegetables in the pantries, wondering what she could get away with stealing before she spotted a large pot of stew slowly simmering on the masonwork stove. After sheepishly glancing to make sure no one was truly looking, Stella equipped herself with a clean bowl and a ladle and surreptitiously crept towards the stewpot. It smelled wonderful, good enough that it provoked another grumble from her belly.

 

Like an antelope sensing a coeurl about to pounce, however, Stella froze and whipped around when she heard the doors opening. In walked a certain blonde-haired knight, his helmet tucked under one arm and a pile of leather harnesses tucked under the other, with what looked like half a head of cabbage stuffed into his mouth.

 

Ashur stared at her as Stella had bowl and ladle in hand, ready to pilfer some late night stew.

 

Stella stared at him as Ashur precariously balanced the triple responsibilities of his helmet, leather harnesses, and half a head of cabbage.

 

This silence continued for some time, until Ashur made a "hrrrmmpph" noise from apparently attempting to speak through half of the head of cabbage.

 

Stella immediately broke the silence with a sudden and uncharacteristic fit of girlish giggling at the ridiculous imagery, which seemed to startle Ashur more than anything. The pangs of hunger were almost immediately replaced with the mild, almost pleasant pain of boisterous laughter erupting from her abdomen and tears forming in the corner of her eye.

 

"You...look like you have your hands full," the chirurgeon said once her laughter relented enough for her to speak, gasping for breath as Ashur sauntered over and dumped his helmet and the harnesses on the table before pulling the head of cabbage out of his mouth. His face immediately split into a grin once it was free of the tyrannical presence of the cabbage. 

 

"Just trying to finish my supper on the way here," the knight explained with a grin. The half-head of cabbage actually seemed to be some kind of meat wrap, as demonstrated when Ashur cleanly finished it in two or three large bites, coughing slightly as he swallowed the last of it down hastily. "I was trying to say that the stew isn't ready; the bitterness hasn't been boiled out of the herbs yet, so it would have made a poor meal. Did you want something to eat, Stella?" 

 

Her mirth having abated, Stella glanced at Ashur, raising an amused eyebrow at him. They weren't anything close to friends or acquaintances--truly, Stella knew nothing about Ashur and they'd only briefly and sporadically encountered one another over the past few sennights--but he was exceptionally easy to read. There was some level of ease that Stella instinctively relaxed to whenever she was dealing with him, and she couldn't begin to guess why. Was it just because he was that honest? In sharp contrast to her, he felt he had nothing to hide, and so perhaps there was some kind of reflexive trust. His expressions were always so simple: though they had never spent any significant amount of time around one another, she could tell when he was anxious and when he was relieved and when he was confused. Perhaps that was why she felt compelled to ask him for help with Ser Braucandeaux...no, compelled wasn't the right term. Perhaps that was why she wanted to ask him for his help. Stella had no reason to believe that he would accept or even consider her request.

 

Stella's introspection was interrupted by an increasingly mournful growl from her midsection. Now that someone was privy to her shame, Stella's instinct was to haughtily turn away as if she were too good for food.

 

"If you're willing to wait a bit, I can fix something for you," Ashur said lightly, pulling off his gauntlets waving a hand at the table. "Go ahead and take a seat." Stella contemplated her options briefly before sitting down at the bench. The chirurgeon glanced at his face; she could tell he was relieved. Well, given what she knew of his behaviour it would make sense if Ashur felt somewhat anxious at encountering Stella given that she had indirectly reprimanded him for the comments made by his knightly companion. In fact, this had happened more than once where Stella had parted from him with some biting remark or comment...

 

"Didn't you eat with your fellows?" Stella asked, to which Ashur shook his head. He glanced at the simmering stewpot and sniffed it before shaking his head. "Ser Marat had me inspecting and arranging the armoury for most of the day. And I have to fix these harnesses sooner rather than later, so I missed Noirterel's cooking." She stared at him as Ashur expertly sliced some porcini mushrooms, garlic, and sage. He carefully hooked the bubbling stewpot onto the spit hanging above the hearth, and used the now-free masonwork stove to melt butter.

 

"What about you? Is the infirmary all in order?" Ashur paused in his slicing of ingredients, before shaking his head. "Ah, actually, forget that. Silly question. Of course it is, with you there," he said.

 

Stella sighed at the thought, resting her chin on her hands. "All is well enough, I suppose, though I have to contend with your chirurgeons staring down their noses at me."

 

Ashur snorted. "Welcome to the cohort. All of them are noble born with full educations and such, so get used to it. It takes a special kind of noble to look down on other nobles." With the knife, he quickly flipped the ingredients into the frying pan, where all of them began to crackle with sizzling satisfaction. He paused, and Stella could tell that he was wondering if he should ask something--probably about her and the empty house. Though she usually had some kind of sardonic comment prepared for occasions like this, instead she simply waited, fully intent on answering his question when it came.

 

Instead, Ashur seemed to think better of it before silently and diligently preparing a pair of popotoes. Stella caught the corner of her mouth threatening to split into a frown. Wasn't he supposed to be easy to read? Where did the hesitation come from?

 

Well, it's not as if I have the best social graces, Stella thought to herself. She'd already made one swift exit when he brought the subject up; more than likely he was avoiding doing the same thing again. Instead, she switched the subject. "Were you avoiding Noirterel's cooking?" she asked.

 

Almost immediately, the knight relaxed as Stella made conversation. "Not at all; he can certainly cook a good soup and some great stew. So good, in fact, that I'm pretty sure soup and stew are the only things he knows how to cook." As if to punctuate his point, Ashur pulled a out a clean dish and spooned the sliced porcini onto it before carefully draping it in sauteed garlic butter with the ladle. He placed the plate in front of Stella with a fork, and the intoxicating aroma of the fried mushrooms brought Stella's appetite rushing back to her. Wielding the fork, her plate was a veritable mushroom massacre as she quickly devoured all of the morsels with gusto. Even after finishing the porcini, her hunger didn't seem to abate, but Ashur came to the rescue with a large ladle of spicy mashed popotoes garnished with leeks crashing onto her plate, which the chirurgeon ate with wordless gratitude. She didn't even have to protest that she didn't like spicy foods; it tasted good enough that any complaints melted away.

 

Stella sighed in satisfaction, pushing the plate away. "Where does a knight learn to cook like that, hm?" she asked more to herself than to Ashur, who was helping himself to a significantly more modest meal of knight's bread, meat, and cheese. "I thought you had people to do things like that for you."

 

"We do," Ashur said as he sat down. Rather than eat, he had begun to inspect the leather harnesses piled onto the table. "Well, I don't, but the noble knights in general are used to two kinds of meals; meager rations and meals on platters. I figured there was some kind of in between I could make."

 

The chirurgeon tilted her head at him. "Aren't you a noble? You are a knight, aren't you?"

 

"Technically, yes, but I'm not highborn, which to some people is all that matters," Ashur grunted. "My family is made up of commoners, and we're a kind of success story that the aristocrats would rather not become too prevalent."

 

Stella frowned. That certainly sounded like the nobility to her. Here was a case of people rising above their station in service to their nation, and rather than cultivate such talent the High Houses would rather beat it down lest they threaten the balance of power. Nevermind the fact that these were the people on the front lines fighting and dying to Dravanians, they still saw fit to bring up the schism in status whenever possible. It was, in a word, disgusting. She was careful to hide the disdain from her face. "Is that why they lumped you with fixing these...things?" she asked, gesturing to the pile of harnesses.

 

Ashur gave a small grin. "In a manner of sorts. When I was newly ordained, I was certainly subject to this kind of hazing, but now it's more because I am the only one in the cohort who can do it. They don't teach noble knights to sew, funnily enough."

 

She squinted at him. "What exactly are you doing with these?"

 

"These are old sword belts and chocobo harnesses. For the moment, I'll have to contend with redoing all of the stitches to make sure they don't fall apart. Some of the more worn down ones will be discarded, but for the most part these should be usable..." Ashur said, pursing his lips in contemplating as he flipped a sword belt.

 

Stella took one of the belts, examining it closely. The leather wasn't terrible, but it certainly wasn't of a prestigious grade either. Nevertheless, it was functional, but the stitches had begun to fray. Without even glancing at him, she stuck out her hand at the knight. "I need some thread," she said tersely.

 

Ashur stared at her outstretched hand. "Oh...no, I couldn't possibly--"

 

"Just give me the damn thread," Stella snapped with flared irritation. What was it with knights being unable to follow simple requests? Here she was, trying to help and again the only things she heard was "sorry m'lady" and "I couldn't possibly burden you with such things", blah blah blah. Chivalry was one of those things that seemed nice on paper but utterly wore at Stella's nerves, since the idea seemed to translate to "women are useless", a sentiment she strongly disagreed with. There were few things more useless than chivalrous men.

 

Ashur wordlessly slipped a spool of thick black linen thread and a needle into her hand, and Stella for her part began to redo the stitches. Though she didn't have any true experience with leathercraft, doing these stitches was significantly easier than the surgical stitching she was used to, and though she hesitated to admit it...well, she had to thank him for the meal somehow, right? Silence fell over the room as the two of them worked on the belts and harnesses, with the sound occasionally punctuated with Ashur taking a bite out of his nighttime meal.

 

"If they don't teach knights how to sew, why do you know how to, then?" Stella asked after some time. The act of stitching had given her a task to focus on, a task that distracted her from the fact that she grudgingly wanted to know more about this knight that didn't seem to act like any other knight she knew. Most Temple Knights fell into one of two categories: grim, humourless hardliners like Marat that had been carved out of stone just to survive, or bawdy reckless drunkards like Loren and Ser Braucandeaux who viewed knighthood and nobility as free tickets to harass the serving wenches in taverns. All of the good knights tended to die before Stella met them, an unfortunate reality she had come to terms with quite some time ago.

 

"My mother," Ashur said. "Like I said, my family is lowborn, so I was the one helping around the house mostly. It's also where I learned to cook, since my mother is, quite frankly, completely hopeless at anything culinary. My brother said we should find a kitchen big enough to put Nidhogg in, then throw our mother in there and lock the door. Nidhogg would be dead before morning."

 

Stella snorted at the crude but admittedly amusing comment. What kind of concoction that was so foul that it could slay a wyrm? The gravity with which Ashur made that assertion almost made Stella believe that it was true. "And what about your father?" she asked.

 

"He was a smith." Ashur took another bite out of his knight's bread, quickly chewing and swallowing. "Spent most of his life forging weapons and armour for the knighthood, with the occasional trip across Aldenard whenever the Holy See approved it. I helped him work the forge until he died of the pox. Times for our family became quite hard after that. Our mother spent every one of her waking hours working, and the hard conditions are what drove my brother to become a knight." A part of her was surprised with the cavalier attitude that Ashur brought on bringing up his father's death. He must have had time to grieve, so it wasn't all that unusual, but for some reason he struck her as someone who took such things more seriously. 

 

"And how do commoners become knights?" Though Stella typically preferred to work alone, she found the conversation relaxing and enhanced her focus somewhat. She was also learning a gratifying amount of information about her new...

 

Her new acquaintance.

 

"There's a few ways, none of them practical," Ashur explained. "Alric won his spurs by becoming champion in a grand tournament. There's not a more spectacular way to win a knighthood than that, and the fact that he triumphed over so many blueblooded nobles earned him more than a few enemies." Curiously enough, Ashur's tone didn't seem to imply even a hint of envy or jealousy; from the sounds of it, his elder brother was quite the talented man. Such a difference in status would surely have engendered some kind of resentment, or so Stella thought.

 

"As for me, I spent most of my time learning my father's trade as a smith. I was too old to be a page, but still too young to be trained in formal combat, and knights were hardly coming around the Foundation to look for squires. I was--am--quite good at smithing and crafting, which is also why I tend to get lumped with these kind of menial tasks," Ashur gestured to the harnesses. "My work caught the attention of Ser Praihaux, an acquaintance of my father's, and he sponsored my entry into the knighthood as a squire."

 

Stella pursed her lips, drawing on her very limited knowledge of the knighthood. "If you were sponsored as a smith, wouldn't you have been entered into the...erm...Friars?" Usually it'd be embarrassing for her to admit to any lack of knowledge of any field, but her curiosity was quick to overwhelm any shame she might have felt.

 

Ashur nodded. "Aye, the Order of the Friars Templar, the ones who take care of all of the material logistics of the Temple Knights. I expected to, but, well...Ser Praihaux convinced me otherwise, and I also wanted to keep my brother out of trouble. I couldn't very well do that if I was stuck behind a forge."

 

"Is your brother here with us?" Stella hadn't spotted anyone that matched Ashur's sharp features and sandy blonde hair, but it was possible someone similar was hiding underneath all of the helmets.

 

Ashur chuckled, a smirk splitting across his face. "No, he's in another cohort entirely. So much for keeping him out of trouble, hm? But I don't regret my decision. This is where the differences are made, you know? Keeping your brothers and sisters safe from the claws of the dragon. It's dangerous, of course, and a sufficiently wise man is wise enough to be fearful, for fear keeps one alive...still, I can't imagine being particularly satisfied pounding out lance after lance. Ugh. And the Friars are all so stuffy, worrying about their rituals and the ceremony of how something is forged." The knight sniffed disdainfully. "Metal is metal; if you hit it, it'll be shaped regardless of how many prayers you mutter."

 

"I can agree with that," Stella murmured. There was something of a paradox there, though. Ashur had taken issue with the lack of ceremony Stella afforded to the bodies of dead knights, but now he was protesting how the Friars revered metal? To be fair, there was a key difference; a sword was a sword, but a dead body was once a person. She could only suppose that Ashur hadn't reached the point where he could view dead bodies as things rather than people.

 

Ashur opened his mouth to speak, closed it in a moment of hesitation, then opened it again. "...what about you, Stella?" he asked softly. There was a twinge of anxiety in his question that was exacerbated by the lack of specifics in his inquiry, as if he was expecting her to blow up at him again. Not a wholly unreasonable expectation. Stella admitted dryly.

 

She sighed, exchanging the newly reinforced sword belt with a worn-down chocobo harness. The chirurgeon closed her eyes, imagining the hallways of the empty house: the rooms clean and clear, devoid of any objects that might create clutter, the wind chimes that were muffled if the wind blew too fiercely, lest their music become discordant. The silent garden in the courtyard, overgrown or withering with none to tend to them properly.

 

She breathed. Inhaled, exhaled, opened her eyes, and spoke. "I was the middle child of five children," she started softly. "The elder two were my elder brothers, much older than I was. Fast friends. I imagine you and your brother to be similar."

 

"My brother is more than ten cycles my elder, but I suppose we get along well enough," Ashur interjected with a small smile. 

 

"The younger two were my sisters, much younger than I was. They were inseparable. Everyone enjoyed petting and pampering them." Stella continued as if she didn't hear Ashur, or if she did hear him she didn't alter her statement to reflect that fact. Stella refrained from mentioning her strained relationship with her parents; the only thing they valued about Stella was her beauty, and the only thing they thought of was how much they could fetch for her at market, like some kind of prized sheep. "My family was technically noble--rare for Hyur in Ishgard, I know--but impoverished. An abjectly awful combination, to be sure." She sighed again. "A family less noble could eke out some kind of existence, but a noble family is expected to have a certain appearance and maintain certain responsibilities. Both things are nigh impossible without gil."

 

"My parents were worn down and worried with the constant struggle to scratch out some kind of a respectable life. They were more than eager for the rest of us to grow up and share the burden. My brothers went out to win wealth with their swords as knights. I...was expected to win wealth from a gil-lined suitor." With my face and body, Stella added wordlessly, bitterly. "So my hand in marriage was given to House Druisehault. Elezen, yes, but a relatively new house that'd grown from trade with foreigners. Lord Druisehault wanted respectability and a noble lineage for his children with a cheap price tag."

 

Stella didn't notice Ashur's honest face studying her intently as she spoke, focused as she was on redoing the stitches in the harness and too deep into thought. She was technically noble, yes, but in a few words, Stella hated the aristocracy. What kind of society was it that focused so much on useless things like appearances and debts when their entire nation was under threat? What mattered about gil in a holy war? What mattered about bloodline, heritage, respectability, and honour? Why did any of these things matter? Stella could clearly recall the day that her mother had announced her forced engagement with glee, and just like that time, she could see years of her life stretch forward as a prisoner saw the years of his cell wall stretch before him. Stifled utterly by duty--duty to family, duty to one's husband, duty to the Church, duty to the poor, duty to the rich, duty to the Archbishop and all of the clergy beneath him. Everywhere she had turned was a wall.

 

She paused, and as she glanced at Ashur he quickly glanced away, unwilling to meet her gaze. What did his honest expression say about her now? Stella saw pity--not the kind of condescending pity she was expecting, but genuine sorrow, mixed with confusion and...guilt? An odd mix of emotions. Ashur was almost annoyingly honest, but right now he was so honest that Stella couldn't begin to speculate what he was thinking.

 

She wasn't sure how much she should say, or if she should continue to say anything at all; she had relegated herself to replaying her memories in her head. What should she say to him? Stella had been isolated within the Druisehault household: only once had she seen her cell door open. No, she couldn't tell him that. She couldn't tell this honest knight of Ishgard that someone had slipped something into Lord Druisehault's nightly wine, how he'd been found in the morning contorted, stiff, and pale. Stella couldn't begin to describe what it felt like to see the cell door opened, sunlight warm on her face, how she'd have fallen to her knees and blessed the assassin with all of Halone's grace if she knew who it was.

 

Stella finally became aware of how long she'd been silent when she cleared her throat. "Lord Druisehault passed away, and with his passing so too did my family's hope at a fortune. My sisters were married off to lesser families, and my brothers were slain by Dravanians. And that is that happy tale of why I live alone in an empty house."

 

If this was anything like the other times, Stella fully expected Ashur to babble some kind of awkward apology then excuse himself. In fact, she might have been grateful for the opportunity to be left alone with her thoughts. Instead, remarkably, he sat where he was, listening intently, though he still worked on his share of the leather harnesses. Somehow, over the course of many bells the two of them had reached the bottom of the seemingly endless pile of leather.

 

"You know, I never wanted to be a noble either," Ashur said. Rather than his typical anxiety, his assertion was instead filled with quiet confidence. "Well, you've given me another reason not to want that kind of life."

 

Stella could not help but chuckle at this new cavalier attitude he was displaying. "No, it's not for everyone," she agreed. In the past, even thinking about all these ordeals would have frozen Stella and sent her retreating to her chambers for private contemplation, lest she shame herself in front of company. For the moment, she did not worry about such things.

 

"My mother has been trying to get into the trappings of noble life, now that both Alric and I are knights," Ashur said. "She's lonely at home, and always needs something on her mind to keep from worrying about us. She's learning to make quilts, if I recall correctly."

 

She snorted. "And what is her opinion of such things?"

 

"Well, I daresay she hates the idea of noble life almost as much as you. There's not a moment where she's nearby and she's not complaining about 'gossip this' or 'ostentatious display that'," Ashur gave a small laugh. "Still, I'm glad she has some...well, not friends, but some contact." Another silence fell over them as Ashur began to gather the harnesses and belts together, inspecting each one carefully with a trained, practiced eye. Stella, for her part, attempted to look busy by putting away the used plates in the washbasin. 

 

"Why did you ask me about my family?" Stella asked suddenly. Ashur was startled by the inquiry, his head giving a brief shudder as if an arrow had just whizzed past his head. 

 

He coughed into his hand, revealing the trademark awkwardness and anxiety that Stella suddenly found herself oddly familiar with. "I--well, we were talking about my family first, and I suppose I wanted to know about...yours. And you, in general, I mean." Ashur bit his lip as if questioning whether or not he should continue. "And, well, I suppose...I was wondering if you could use, um, some...help."

 

Stella raised a skeptical eyebrow.

 

Ashur coughed again in response. "It's just that I don't really see you talking to anyone. I mean, I suppose I know why, it's because you're usually busy and you're a very, um, practical and driven person. Still, even though you're only with us to avoid Ser Braucandeaux, I don't think it'd be all that bad if there were someone you could talk to, right?" He glanced at her sheepishly. "It's just...you seem like the kind of person who'd get wound up like a spring. You don't have to be friends with the people you work with, but you should at least be able to cooperate with them, right? Ah, maybe I shouldn't have said anything..."

 

Yes, Ashur was earnest and honest. Perhaps too honest, Stella thought to herself. Was this what set him apart from every other knight she'd met? At that moment, he seemed to be the only one capable of reaching that ideal the knights supposedly strove for. A small smile graced her lips, though it was quick to evaporate when her thoughts were replaced by something of a more grim nature. It was usually the earnest, honest ones who died on the battlefield, saving their fellows. Was there a time Stella would have to contend with seeing his blood all over her robes?

 

It seemed that Stella's silent observation signaled to Ashur that now was the time he should make his retreat, as he hastily gathered the leather harnesses together and bowing. "Well, anyway," he said, sidling towards the door. "This was...a good talk, I think. Feel free to come find me if you need more late meals; I'd be happy to make them for you. But for now I should probably get these stocked before Ser Marat wakes up. So...tomorrow, then!"

 

With that, the knight shuffled out of the door and into the frigid winter night. Stella turned to leave herself before noticing that someone had forgotten their helmet and gauntlets on the table of the kitchen.

 

She rolled her eyes, though she could not help but smile to herself as well. "Tomorrow, then."

 

[Nero]

"You...want to learn to fight?" Ashur asked incredulously. Stella responded with little more than a stiff nod.

 

Their days thus far had been surprisingly placid, though their respective duties left them with little time to socialize. Stella was often confined to the infirmary, brewing new concoctions and tending to wounded knights and the occasional traveler. Ashur, for his part, was a part of the frequent patrols into the Highlands to keep the Falcon's Nest out of the claws of the Dravanians. The everwinter was unrelenting as ever, but there were some days like today where its ardor relented enough for supplies to be flown in from Ishgard.

 

So it was that Stella broached her abrupt request to learn martial skills while the two of them were unloading crates from the airship. "Some of the other chirurgeons are skilled in conjury, but I lack such talent," she said with a huff. "We are at war, and there won't always be knights around. How would I reconcile with my fellows if they fought with stone and wind while I offered naught?"

 

Before, Ashur would have been quick to offer up suggestions, but his brief yet burgeoning friendship with Stella had quickly taught him to do otherwise. She was headstrong and proud and very much concerned with her own abilities.

 

"You do realize that if Dravanians have reached you, then I'm either dead or very bad at my job," the knight responded dryly. 

 

"Oh, come off it," Stella snapped, though the telltale twitching of the corner of her mouth suggested she found the comment more amusing than she should have. "Things won't always go perfectly and I certainly shouldn't need a knightly escort wherever I go. Is there a problem with knowing how to defend myself?"

 

"The problem I have is with the implication more than anything else." Ashur set down a jangling crate of metal parts with a grunt. "Ishgard is in dire straits indeed if we need to put swords in the hands of civilians." As he turned around to saunter back to the airship, he saw Stella's brow flicker in annoyance and immediately regretted his statement.

 

"You don't think things are dire already?" Stella demanded testily. "What would you call that wyvern attack? It's a miracle no civilians were harmed, and while I will grudgingly admit to the valour of the knighthood, I can't see any reason why there shouldn't be something of a citizen's militia in place."

 

He had to admit that Stella had a point. The wards on the Steps of Faith were disabled by the Dravanian siege wyrm, and even with Ishgard's militant culture, manpower was a precious resource that had to be husbanded carefully. While there was a great deal of classism among the knighthood, there was some merit to the idea that every knight was an investment and wasting the time and resources on uncoordinated, untrained fighters was not the wisest thing the Lord Commander could do.

 

"I...suppose you have a point," Ashur relented as he heaved the last crate off of the deck of the airship.

 

"And in return, I will teach you the basics of first aid. You mentioned wanting to learn that the other day." Stella's expression was uncomfortably eager at the idea, and suddenly Ashur wasn't feeling so confident in his would-be teacher.

 

"In that case, the lance," he suggested, folding his arms together as some porters began to distribute the supplies to other areas of the Falcon's Nest. "That's an ideal weapon for a militia. They're cheap, easy to make, and easy to wield, and lend themselves well to formation fighting. Ideal for fighting Dravanians and heretics alike."

 

"What? Why not a sword?" The chirurgeon protested. "Lest you forget, much of my work is done indoors, and I can hardly maneuver well with a bladed stick strapped to my back at all times. I would worry about being able to walk through doorways without it catching on the top of the frame."

 

Another good point. Not to mention that it was unlikely that Stella would do any sort of formation fighting with her magic-wielding fellows, and as he himself pointed out earlier, if the chirurgeons were under threat, then the knights were either dead or so incompetent that they might as well be dead. With another sigh, the knight relented.

 

--

 

The two wooden swords clattered against one another, playing back and forth. "Don't just dodge, parry! If you let your opponent keep the momentum of the fight, you're finished!" Ashur sprang forward with a lunge, the tip of the training sword pointed at Stella's chest. The chirurgeon had changed out of her clean white robes and wore a padded gambeson she borrowed from the armory.  She clumsily swung her own wooden blade at the oncoming point, Ashur's sword sailing past her cheek with nary an ilm of space between them. "Good!" he called.

 

Stella was breathing heavily, but for her part she was a quick study. If Ashur didn't know better, she had already had the basics of swordplay instilled within her. Perhaps as a part of noble upbringing?

 

Before he could contemplate further, Stella wordlessly responded with a wide, upward sweep that would complete its arc at Ashur's neck. In response, the knight parried across, hilt to hilt with their sword points aimed high. "Careful," Ashur said. "You don't want to lock swords when your opponent is larger and stronger than you." As if to demonstrate, he braced his left hand against the crossguard of the sword and leaned forward, using the weight to force Stella's own hilt backwards. "There's more going on than just the sword," he admonished, sweeping his feet forward in an attempt to trip her up. To her credit, Stella had readily mastered footwork and despite struggling beneath the knight's strength managed to avoid falling over.

 

With an explosive gasp, Stella ceased the struggle and relented, causing the points of their wooden swords to rattle upon impact with the stonework of Falcon's Nest. "Enough!" she exhaled. "I believe I have the gist of it."

 

Ashur gave an approving nod, hefting the wooden sword over his shoulder. While he was not breathing as heavily as the chirurgeon was, he had gotten a decent workout off the session. "Your goal in any fight is to control the flow. Know where your opponent is going before he does. If you get overwhelmed, that's where things will turn bad for you. He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove, turning around to saunter towards the cafeteria. "Now, with that done I think we owe ourselves some goo--whuh!"

 

As Ashur had begun walking away, Stella had sneakily thrust her wooden sword between his ankles, causing him to stumble magnificently. With his back on the cold stone, the knight found himself looking upward at thirty ilms of a wooden training sword.

 

Stella was still breathing rapidly but she wore a triumphant grin on her face. "And you should know better than anyone that combat is rarely a sport." With one swift motion, she slipped the wooden blade into a small loop on her belt and offered her hand to help Ashur up.

 

He grunted as she pulled him to his feet, chuckling all the while. "Aye, a valuable lesson indeed."

 

The cafeteria was busy but not packed as the pair of them quickly found a spot to sit, with Ashur securing two bowls of meaty stew and several kaiser rolls for their supper. "What brought on this interest in swordplay, anyway? If you were interested in learning I figured you'd have been formally trained along the way," he asked.

 

"To be frank, this is my first posting outside of the city," Stella said. There were some wayward glances being thrown in her direction by some of the off-duty knights, though she seemed to be able to dismiss them merely by raising a brow in disapproval. "And I simply did not have the opportunity before. There was too much to be done in the city."

 

"Hrm, well, perhaps I should introduce you to Alric. He was the grand champion and much more talented than I in such things," Ashur said, half-grumbling. Though he bore his brother no resentment or envy, Ashur still had never defeated Alric in any of their sparring sessions. 

 

Stella tilted her head sideways at him as she ate. "Perhaps you are not above average at anything, true," she mused, "but you are exceptionally average at many things. That in itself, I believe, is some kind of talent."

 

Further conversation was interrupted when Marat stamped his way through the cafeteria door. "Patrol!" the Elezen bellowed. "Get geared up and assembled!"

 

It was all Ashur could do to stuff as much of the stew and the bread into his mouth before offering Stella a wordless goodbye.

[Nero]

The knights marched on foot along the ice, in two columns. Whereas this area had once been filled with greenery and paved roads, there was little more than snow and ice to mark the way. Ser Marat was the only one who was mounted on a chocobo; it was infeasible to transport the mounts to the Western Highlands via airship and having an entire cohort's worth of birds would strain the resources of the Falcon's Nest, and so as ever, the knights made do with what they could amidst the chill of the everwinter.

 

Thankfully, there was no especially inclement weather other than the typical gray canopy of clouds that usually marred Coerthas, but an air of considerable unease hung around the knights.

 

"A bare road is a bad sign," Ser Loren muttered beneath his helmet, prompting Ashur to nod in agreement. His instinctive feeling was far more grim than that.

 

"I think it's worse than that," Ashur replied somberly. "When's the last time we saw or heard an animal?"

 

True enough, the steinbocks and mylodons that usually roamed these areas of the highlands were conspicuously absent. While no wild animal was foolish enough to engage on the heavily armed and armoured knights, it did not bode well that there was neither hide nor hair of any wildlife. Not even the occasional cry or an errant set of tracks in a snowdrift. The eerie desolation of the highlands persisted as the knights passed through the Black Iron Bridge. Every now and again they passed the blanched bones of a long-dead beastkin or the abandoned remains of a wagon. The only ones brave or foolish enough to cross the highlands were knights, Convictors, or the occasional overly-ambitious trader seeking to make the dangerous trip to Tailfeather.

 

A rocky outcropping gave the patrol an ample spot to rest for a few moments. A quick fire was constructed while the knights ate their hard biscuits and dried meat. They fully intended on continuing, but none of the knights felt the lethargy fall over them. One minute Ashur was awake, staring at the fire with a chunk of bread stuffed in his mouth, and the next thing he knew he was lying facedown on the ground, the bread having been replaced with frozen soil, with a hot, stinging sensation marking his cheek. Worse still, for some reason he couldn't bring himself to spit the dirt out, or make any movement of any kind. His right eye was mashed into the ground, and it took all of his willpower to force his left eye open.

 

The fire was still burning, and he could see the collapsed forms of his fellow knights shambled around it. There were several more pairs of legs assembled around the fire, clad in all sorts of patchwork armour; leather robes, tattered chainmail, anything they could have scavenged. A hot coal from the fire had been somehow knocked against his face.

 

Heretics. If Ashur could have grimaced, he would have.

 

There seemed to be six or seven of them, though there could be more just outside of his field of vision. They muttered in low voices, scavenging whatever they could off of the paralyzed bodies of the knights. One of them was dressed in a tattered robe, leaning on a staff of some sort. That must have been the one that cast the spell. As discretely as he could, Ashur tried to tense and flex his muscles; they twitched slightly. That was relieving: that meant it wasn't a paralysis spell but a sleep spell. One of them must have carelessly kicked the fiery coal to Ashur's face which is why he his body had managed to shake off the magic-induced sleep.

 

The movements of the heretics seemed to confirm this: they stepped gingerly around the unconscious knights, careful not to touch any of them so as to disrupt the spell.

 

"Nothing here," one of the heretics complained. "Nothing but lousy grub!

 

"Quit yer griping," a gravelly voice snapped back. "They got good steel, and this chocobo will be fine eating."

 

"Don't bother," an authoritative male voice commanded. "If the chocobo wakes up, it could wake the rest or run off. We'll take the food and their weapons. Leave the rest."

 

Ashur heard the clanking of metal and some rustling. He kept his eye shut as he felt strength return to his body. Footsteps were approaching him, and a hand began to reach for his sword...

 

Just as the heretic grasped the handle of the blade, the knight shot his arm out and clamped his hand the heretic's ankle.

 

"Wha--"

 

Ashur yanked the brigand's leg out from under him, and the heretic went down with a thud. His muscles still felt stiff and slow from the remaining lethargy of the sleep spell, but he could move, which meant he could fight. The next instant, he was standing up, sword in hand. The fallen heretic groped around his belt for a dagger but never drew it; with one swing, Ashur sent the heretic's head bounding into the field.

 

"Kill him!" The robed heretic shouted. The heretic gripped his staff, the aether coalescing into a spell. However, his efforts were interrupted when Ashur lobbed a well-aimed rock straight at the spellcaster's head. The other heretics withdrew their weapons and began to close in around the knight. The first thing Ashur did was kick the nearest slumbering knight straight in the chest. Ser Loren coughed and gasped, but to Ashur's dismay his fellow did not stand immediately. It wouldn't be a simple matter of just disabling the sleep spell then if the other knights needed more time to recover, but at least he had his weapon in hand now.

 

A shoddily-made lance waved itself in Ashur's face as two other heretics began to circle around him. Ashur stood his ground, his back against the rocks. The lancer made a clumsy thrust forward, a strike that the knight easily parried before cleanly chopping the lancehead off of the shaft and following up with a quick thrust to the heretic's throat. Though he was handily outnumbered five to one, the heretics were a motley, untrained bunch at best.

 

The fighting was quickly over with yowls of pain and the ringing of steel, leading to six dead heretics and the seventh, the spellcaster, still sputtering to recover from the rock that had been thrown at him. Ashur was quick to plant his feet on the spellcaster's neck. "Yours won't be as clean as theirs," Ashur snarled.

 

It took some time to get his fellow knights on their feet. Ser Loren offered the captive spellcaster a casual kick against the back of the head.

 

"Quick thinking there, Vaye," Marat groaned groggily, the Elezen flexing his fingers. "How'd you knock off the spell?"

 

"Luck. A hot coal burned me, and that seemed to be enough," Ashur replied, doing his best to wipe the blood off his blade. He gestured to the heretic whom he was keeping forced to the ground with his boot. "Ordinarily I wouldn't ask, but I wanted to make sure. What'll we do with this one?"

 

"Hm. You're right, you shouldn't be asking. Given that you took the trouble, we'll bring him with us," Marat grunted. "We'll see if he'll bark about any of his heretic brethren before we send him to the Fury."

[Nero]

"Never took you as one who went out on strolls, Vaye," said the knight on duty, rising to his feet, offering a casual salute, which Ashur returned.The knight made another belated bow to the hooded figure trailing behind him, their crisp white robes embroidered with the telltale blue trimmings of the clergy. "Welcome to the Falcon's Nest, my lord. What business have you here?" The knight's words were polite but his tone was understandably brisk.

 

Ishgard was not kind to its prisoners, for the only ones who had cause to be gaoled were criminals and heretics waiting for a death sentence. The clergy had never had reason to visit the dungeons within the fortresses or beneath the Holy See itself, and only the most saintly members of the Church even dared risk exposing themselves to the corrupting influence of heretics. This was hardly surprising; criminals and heretics both had forfeited all rights by breaking the laws of Halone, laws that were considered just and fair.

 

Stella was grateful that the hood covering her face masked the fact that her eyes nearly rolled straight out of her head even thinking something like that.

 

"The prisoner my cohort brought in, the spellcaster," Ashur said, clearing his throat. "This anointed priest wishes to interrogate him. There is some thought that he may be implicated in the raids occurring through the Highlands, and she wishes to question him before the Inqusition sends him to the Fury." A pause. "And as the one who captured him, I suppose I feel an interest in being the one to carry out the sentence, should it be necessary."

 

"Ah, I understand," the knight said. Stella could practically hear his smirk beneath his helmet. "Nothing gets the blood going better than the occasional execution, I always say. And it's always a pleasure to have a member of the clergy about. I'll get the door for you." The knight began to sort through the collection of keys affixed to a large iron ring on his belt. 

 

They walked along a narrow corridor carved deep inside the cliff.  The Falcon's Nest was still under reconstruction, and so there was no time to build a proper gaol. What served as a series of temporary cells was actually an underground storehouse of sorts, meant to store perishable crops. The corridors were brightly lit by torches that smoked in the dank, sour-smelling air. The "prison" only had a small rotating watch of knights, though this wasn't out of complacency. For one, there was rarely an occasion to use the storehouses as a prison, since Ishgardians had a notoriously effective "kill on sight" policy for most foes they met. For two, the exit would bring the would-be escapee directly into the barracks.

 

"Here it is," the knight said, halting in front of a thick, iron-rimmed door. The key made a dull click as the door swung open. Stella was nearly struck off her feet by the unwashed stench, and resorted to breathing as little as possible.

 

"You've got visitors," the knight called into the darkness of the storage room. "Her Reverend will hear your confessions before your judgment." 

 

There was no answer, save for a slight clanking of chains.

 

Ashur gave a nod to the gaoler. "We'll take it from here, Ser."

 

"I'll be right outside," the knight said gruffly. "Better idea to leave the cell door open."

 

"We wouldn't want to keep you from your duties, ser knight," Stella spoke softly in an authoritative tone; that was something with which she had plenty of practice. "And I would not want to risk an honorable man as yourself to hear the tainted words of a heretic. "

 

"As you say, my lady Reverend," the knight looked dubious. "Though it would not do well upon my honor if an exalted member of the Holy See was assaulted in this cell on my watch."

 

"I have my own knight with me, and the Fury protects me," Stella said sternly from beneath the hood. "Now you must allow me to conduct my questioning as I see fit, ser knight, lest I begin to think you question your faith."

 

The knight paused, before bowing low and departing, though not without first saying to "yell out" if they needed anything.

 

"I certainly need some fresh air," Stella muttered to herself, pulling the hood down off of her head, causing Ashur to glance backwards in alarm in case the knight on duty decided to come back.

 

"I can't believe you convinced me to do this," he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "You realize that if I were found to be privy in this little excursion, this is where they would send me."

 

"Nonsense," Stella admonished. "You are a knight; surely they would go through due process. Though," she paused, her tone thickening with sincerity. "I am grateful for your aid in this."

 

The two of them entered the cell slowly, as Ashur took one of the torches affixed to the hallway inside with them. As befitting a storeroom, there were no windows carved into the walls. "You are sure he will speak to you?" Ashur asked with uncertainty.

 

"I am sure he will more readily speak to me than any armed zealot looking to cut him down at first glance," the chirurgeon observed dryly in response. "Leave the torch and shut the door behind you. Not all the way, just enough to ensure some privacy." She turned to see the doubtful expression on Ashur's face before sighing in exasperation. "Need I feed you the same spiel as the gaoler? I will be fine."

 

"I'll be outside," Ashur said with a frown, handing Stella the torch and slipping outside the cell door, closing it just enough to leave a slight gap.

 

Torch in hand, Stella stepped forward into the cell. The flames flickered brightly, illuminating a decrepit, middle-aged Elezen lying on a pile of straw on the floor. His face and body were bloody and battered. A terrible facial wound had healed poorly, leaving little but a mass of scar tissue on the side of the Elezen's face, causing him to look shriveled and shrunken. The Elezen regarded Stella baleful curiosity through filthy, matted hair. Stella felt her heart drop as she recognized the markings on his arms and neck; whips, brands, anything they felt they could get away with to make him talk.

 

"Welcome to my humble chambers, your Grace," the Elezen sneered. "You'll pardon me if I don't get up and praise your precious Fury, but I'm chained to the wall. Stare all you like; I won't be getting prettier any time soon."

 

"I haven't come to make sport of you," Stella spoke softly, kindly. She reached a hand forward to brush the Elezen's hair, though the heretic flinched and recoiled. "It is you, isn't it, Raimondaux?"

 

The Elezen paused, startled. His eyes searched Stella's face. "How do you...?" And then he gasped. "By the Twelve...my Lady Vedaine!"

 

It took much of what willpower Stella had to keep a tear from accompanying her relieved smile. Raimondaux was an old friend, perhaps the only friend Stella could associate with her birth family. He had been naught but a humble tutor to House Vedaine, teaching arithmetic and literature to Lord Vedaine's children. While Stella's brothers were content to ignore his lessons in favour of training among the knights and Stella's sisters were more than capable of playing truant, Stella herself had been the only one who had taken even a passing interest in the education he had to offer. A competent conjurer, he had piqued Stella's interest in learning magic, though her education in that particular regard had never gone very far.

 

This time when Stella reached out to touch his face, Raimondaux did not pull away, though he winced and hissed when she traced the edge of the scar tissue affixed to his cheek.

 

"Oh, Raimondaux, what did they do to you?" Stella murmured mournfully. Raimondaux for his part attempted to chuckle, though nothing came out but hacking coughs.

 

"Nothing less than I deserve, or so the devoted of Halone would have you know," the Elezen grumbled with no small measure of disdain. He raised an eyebrow at the blue trimmings of her robe. "But you, a member of the clergy? I could have never imagined."

 

Stella sheepishly brushed a hand over the blue outlines. When Raimondaux had been hauled in by the patrol, she had done her utmost to recruit Ashur in allowing her to speak to him under the guise of interrogation; Ashur had hastily sewn on strips of blue linen onto Stella's chirurgeon robes to resemble the linings of a priest, and on their way in Stella prayed to gods she had never believed in that the gaoler wouldn't notice the seams of the lining fraying to undo her slipshod disguise.

 

"I am not one, you will be glad to know. I..actually became a chirurgeon, like you said." Stella's tone was filled with the warmth of reminiscence. Her parents saw her as little more than a commodity and her siblings thought she might as well not exist; in all of her time before being forced to marry Lord Druisehault, Raimondaux was the only one that had seen some value in her that wasn't attached to her body or her name.

 

"What a reunion this is," the elderly Elezen said with another cough, struggling to sit up.

 

Stella reached into the folds of her robes and produced several small vials. "I thought these might help. Perhaps you could take them as proof of my new skill," the chirurgeon said hesitantly. Raimondaux gave an amused snort along with his best smile. "Well, my girl, I would be more than happy to sample your work." 

 

She pulled the stopper off of one of the vials and gingerly poured the potion liquid into the Elezen's mouth. Raimondaux swallowed gingerly before giving a relieved sigh. "Mmm...ah, I see. It does not stop all of the aches, but I feel a mite better. Thank you, my dear. Though, I suppose you have questions now." Raimondaux gave a slight nod towards the storehouse door. "That knight you brought with you...he won't cause any problems?"

 

To that, Stella was truly unsure. Ashur was...a good man, but he was still a Temple Knight and a believer of Halone. It was unlikely that he would try to eavesdrop, but if he caught wind of this, she had no idea how he might react. Would he let it go? Would he try to weasel an answer out of Stella before going straight to his superiors? True, they had spent some friendly time together, but Stella was far too jaded to believe that they had anything resembling a genuine connection. No, it was better to err on the side of caution.

 

"We shall speak low," the chirurgeon said, dropping her tone to barely above a whisper. "I trust that he is good, but he is still a knight of Ishgard above all things."

 

Raimondaux nodded. "As you say. Though, where should I begin...?"

 

"What are you doing in the Highlands? I haven't seen you since--" Stella paused, her sentence recalling some memories she rather wouldn't have at the front of her mind. "Since my betrothal." The words were venomous, almost painful to squeeze out of her lips.

 

Raimondaux's expression became a sour, belligerent scowl. "The Holy See happened," he said bitterly. "After I left Lord Vedaine's service, I was hired to copy some non-essential manuscripts for the Scholasticate. There was some discrepancies within the texts interpreting the Enchiridion. At first I thought nothing, but scholarly curiosity got the better of me, and I had some reasons to believe that the Enchiridion wasn't as comprehensive as we were lead to believe. It was nothing, you understand, just the ramblings of a bookworm who liked to scribble in the margins. I brought it up to my wife in passing, and she resolved to discuss the interpretations with her colleagues..."

 

"Wasn't your wife a priest?" Stella said with some alarm.

 

Raimondaux cleared his throat before spitting into the corner of the store room. "Yes, bless her heart, she was truly one of Halone's faithful. And for her trouble, an ambitious inquisitor caught wind of it and consigned her words of doubt as heresy." The Elezen's scowl became a broken expression of painful torment. "And so a sham of a trial concluded that the Fury would judge her at Witchdrop, and lo my dearest did not burst with the wings of a Dravanian."

 

A mix of emotions filled Stella at this moment, such that she couldn't pin down what she was feeling and when. Anger, grief, despair all swirled together at Raimondaux's pained expression, anger at the injustice, despair that such injustices would ever be stopped. Before, Stella might have smugly claimed that no one knew the pain of Ishgardian rigidity better than her, but seeing agony cresting the Elezen's face quickly corrected her.

 

"Of course I could not abide such a thing. What man of faith could? If the Fury was just, and if her followers just, then why was such a wrong committed one who had only ever pursued righteousness? Of course, they were content to give pittances of pity. My love had ascended to Halone's sacred halls, her soul pure and free from Dravanians, but I could only see her body broken upon the rocks. It was then I understood why Halone is the mover of glaciers: it is because Her heart is as cold as the ice she shifts."

 

Though his wrists were still chained to the wall, Raimondaux's hands tightened to fists. "It was only a matter of time until I would be tried and found wanting as well. So I took to the field. Be it luck or a curse I found other poor souls like myself, not heretics of dragon blood, but those who had been wronged by their faith."

 

It was the kind of story Stella had heard much of, but the gravity gripped her heart such that she felt it might burst. That such a thing might happen to a man who had only ever been good to those around him...it infuriated her to a degree she could not even begin to express.

 

"When my fellows and I attacked those knights, we never intended to kill them. My conjury was a useful asset that allowed me put a sleep spell upon them. We would take what we could just to secure our own survival and attempt to eke out what existence we could in the Highlands, away from the tyranny of the Holy See. Though it seems I miscalculated," Raimondaux concluded, staring through the cell door at where he imagined Ashur to be standing.

 

"But enough about me, my little star. You look hale and healthy. A chirurgeon is a respected position. I'm surprised Lord Druisehault--"

 

"Druisehault is dead. As are most of his house," Stella cut him off coldly. 

 

Raimondaux looked shocked at first, unsure of whether to be grieved or relieved, but his scrutiny of Stella's face suggested the latter. "So much the better. He is--or I should say was--an awful man, through and through." The Elezen raised an eyebrow. "Did you...?"

 

"I didn't, though I wish I had," Stella sighed, crouching on the floor, her arms folded around her knees. "Nay, I know not who exactly it was that set me free. I only know who it was that they followed..." She dared not speak of her patron while there was even a chance a knight--even Ashur--might overhear, though it seemed fate seemed to agree, for at that moment, Ashur gave a hard tap on the storeroom door with his fist.

 

"I think the gaoler might be coming down to check on us," his muffled voice poked through the gap of the door. "Best make it quick, Stella."

 

Stella opened and closed her mouth to speak several times, unsure of what to say. Her words caught in her throat. What could she say? A promise to free him? Even Ashur wouldn't go that far, and she herself lacked the ability to do so. And even if she did, what then? She would be consigning her tutor to a frozen fate amongst the Highlands, picking scraps among the beasts. She wanted to reassure him, comfort him somehow. Insist that he wouldn't be forgotten, that she was grateful for everything he had done, that he was not the heretic the Holy See thought he was. But more than anything, she wanted to talk more. She wanted to reminisce with this man who had been as close to a real father as can be, to study under him, hear him approve of her growth as a chirurgeon.

 

Raimondaux could not help but chuckle before she could even ask, he was answering her question. "There's nothing you can do for me, my Lady. In the morning, I will likely be tried and executed within the same bell." He gazed wistfully at the wall. "Do not mourn for me; I would be more than happy to be reunited with my dearest."

 

She opened her mouth, words again failing her. Against all of her will, a tear slipped from her eye, racing down her cheek as she reached forward to grasp Raimondaux's calloused hands, still chained to the wall, his wrists red and raw from the manacles. 

 

"Stella!" Ashur's voice was urgent, and even through the thick door she could hear the metal sabatons of the gaoler ring on the stone steps of the storage complex.

 

"Raimondaux, my friend, I promise you," Stella murmured, her voice so low that Raimondaux had to lean forward to hear her. "We who gods and men have forsaken...we will be delivered. My lady promises it, and I promise it."

 

Though the Elezen would never live long enough to understand the depth of her words, Raimondaux nodded as Ashur swung the door open.

[Nero]

"So what did he tell you?"

 

Stella barely registered Ashur's question as they left the storeroom that had served as the makeshift jail. She was too deep into thought, her conflicting emotions preventing her from thinking clearly. Some part of her entertained--fantasized about, even--the idea of somehow freeing Raimondaux from his bonds, but for better or worse her rationality prevailed. There was simply no way to do so, no one she could trust, and freeing him would not make his life any better. Every time she blinked she could see the face of her tutor content with his inevitable fate to die, if only to rejoin one he had unjustly lost.

 

"Ah," Stella mumbled in some vague attempt to acknowledge the knight's question. "Nothing especially valuable, I suppose." She couldn't very well tell him that she personally knew this particular heretic; it would hardly be unheard of for her to be suspected of being one simply by association. "I thought perhaps he might confess or give something before, but I was wrong." She absentmindedly began to pick at the loose seams of the blue lining Ashur had sewn onto her robes.

 

Ashur snorted. "I can't say I'm surprised. Who knows what a ragged heretic like him might have gotten up to in the highlands? We'll be free of him tomorrow if Ser Marat has his way, thank the Fury."

 

While the logical part of Stella's mind knew it was an idle comment made by one who simply didn't know any better, she couldn't help but feel some measure of anger flare up at Ashur's casual judgment of a man that had nearly been like a father to her. As best as she tried to restrain the impulse, she snapped back. "I'm sure the Enchiridion teaches otherwise, but did it never occur to you that these heretics might just be simple people like you or I?" Stella's sharp words flew from her lips like daggers. It was stupid, she knew that. She was getting emotional, and that would lead to mistakes. Raimondaux's story was still fresh on her mind, and her smoldering resentment at the injustice of it was threatening to be stoked into a flame.

 

Given their interactions thus far with Ashur stumbling over etiquette, she'd ultimately judged him to be something of a weak-willed man, which made it all the more surprising when the knight's response came almost immediately, his tone calm and resolute. "No, that's never occurred to me. I don't claim to know the mindset of a man driven to seek the blood of the dragon. I could never understand what might drive someone to seek to murder those he might have once called kin. This is a war, and the heretics are our enemies that seek to destroy what we hold dear."

 

Stella stopped in her tracks and spun around, her arms folded severely across her chest. "So it's that simple for you, is it?" Again, over and over she heard some part of her screaming at  her to stop, to calm down and simply let the issue go, but she couldn't bring herself to listen. A sense of righteous indignation swelled within her, even as she questioned why she was even debating this. Was it because some part of her thought of Ashur as a good man that he might see reason? Was this just the despair at seeing someone she valued--perhaps loved, even--wasting away before being put to the sword?

 

"These so-called 'heretics'...while some of them truly were evil cultists of the dragon, countless more are undoubtedly innocent men and women condemned to a wrongful fate simple because Halone's mouthpieces deemed it to be so. How many fathers, sons, and brothers have the knights cut down?" The way Stella said the word knights in an accusatory way, clearly as a substitute for Ashur himself.

 

To his credit, the knight didn't seem to look indignant or angry, merely confused, which made Stella slightly more incensed. "Whatever they were before they became heretics doesn't matter," Ashur tried to explain. "What matters is what they are now: they are the enemy, bent on destroying Ishgard. If mercy or diplomacy were an option of dealing with Nidhogg and his followers, we wouldn't even be here."

 

"But have you even tried, or are they nothing but straw to fall before your sword?" Stella flared back. This was stupid, all of this was stupid. "That 'heretic' had no intention of killing you or any of your fellows, but he will be condemned all the same."

 

"You think that makes a difference?" Ashur asked, his tone incredulous. "They were armed, and they used some foul magic to put us to sleep. They could have done anything they wanted and gotten away with it. Maybe you can talk because you've never had their blades at your neck, but things were a little different for me!" Now he was irritated, having placed his hands at his hips and making a "tch" noise beneath his lips. "Is this what you interrogated from him? That his intentions were pure and wholesome? I don't believe I need your judgment when, need I remind you, what we just pulled could put us both to death if the Inquisition found out! Impersonating a member of the clergy? I went along with it because...because it was you, and what I have to show for it is some tepid accusation that I should have let those heretics do what they like?"

 

He was right. He was right. Stella, for all of her pride and presumed worldliness had never been under direct threat. She'd been on the aftermaths of a battlefield, but never on the front lines herself, but she still couldn't abide from this...from this zealot that everyone struggling to live were just heretical weeds to be threshed from Coerthas. "Life is not so black and white, ser knight," she muttered coldly. "You are so quick to condemn them to death, but at what cost?" Every word that slipped from Stella's tongue did nothing more but bring Raimondaux's face to mind, bruised and battered, tortured in a dark, dank store room with not even rats to keep him company as he waited for the execution. It wasn't right. None of this was right.

 

"What cost? The cost has been our lives, Stella! Every time one of Nidhogg's brood claims one of us, that is the cost! Our ancestors fought and died against the dragons and their cultists. We fight and die against them today." Ashur was standing his ground now, and every time he refused to bend like she thought he would caused Stella's ire to grow--not necessarily at him, but at herself. There was no point in pursuing this. Her frustration was welling up and bursting like a geyser. It wasn't just Raimondaux, it was everything about Ishgard. That she'd been seen as little more than a commodity to be married off to the highest bidder, that she continually saw good men and women die in a senseless war, the Inquisition carting off more and more innocent people every day under the guise of doing away with "heretics".

 

"I thought you were better than this," she said bitterly. "That 'heretic' is...is a man who practically raised me!" It was an impulse, but there was a burning need within her to make him understand. Stella was, however, quick to lower her voice lest she be overheard. "He is a good man, forced to eke out a living in the Highlands because the Inquisition thought it convenient to accuse him and his loved ones as heretics!" Before Ashur could respond, she continued. "What if it was your brother? Your mother? Ishgard is governed by those who see nothing but potential enemies in everyone, and still you think they are right! Is it heresy to protect your loved ones? Is it heresy to wish for an end to the fighting, the bloodshed? Does all it take for you to swing your blade is to point at someone's child and claim there are wings coming out of them? If so, then you are much bigger fool than I thought!"

 

At that point, the chirurgeon turned to walk away--somewhere, anywhere she could be alone to just think and calm down before she said something she would truly regret--when she was interrupted by a gloved hand gripping her by the shoulder. Stella whipped around, fully intent on slapping Ashur for daring to lay a forceful hand on her, but her hand froze just short when she noted that his expression was not of anger or irritation or condescension, but of concern.

 

"What did he say to you?" Ashur wondered, his amber eyes searching her face for some answers. It was infuriating, his soft expression, and as he searched her face so too did she search his. Did he believe her about Raimondaux? Did he care? Was he another zealot blinded by the Fury's radiance or did Stella dare to hope that he might be something more?

 

But as she scrutinized him almost desperately, Stella could see. He didn't understand. He wasn't trying to understand. He was one of Halone's faithful trying to judge if one of the Fury's lambs had strayed from the flock. There was nothing more to it than that: making sure she stayed on the well-trodden path of the blind and the meek that couldn't think for themselves.

 

Stella brusquely knocked aside his hand with one of her own, ignoring the sting of pain that came with slapping aside a steel gauntlet with her bare hand. "Where is he? The Ashur I thought I could trust. The one I foolishly thought might have been my friend," she wondered aloud, her gaze pointedly avoiding his.

 

Even though she wasn't looking straight at him, she could sense the hurt and anger radiating from Ashur's amber eyes like heat from a hearth as his proffered hand dropped to his side. "He's been with you," the knight said with an unknowable mix of resentment and dejection.

 

He turned and stiffly marched off into the snow, while Stella made for the privacy of her quarters.

[Nero]

The suns came and they went, and soon enough, the cohort was recalled to Ishgard for some much-needed rest and reassignment. In this time, Ashur and Stella did not speak to each other even once since their argument; she was far too full of pride and guilt to approach him, and he was too empty of confidence that he could even begin to ameliorate whatever their relationship had been. If it had been something to begin with. Though they might have cast one or two glances when they believed the other was looking, nothing was done, and it seemed that time would erode whatever goodwill was left between them.

 

Though they were nominally off duty during this time, Ashur found that he spent more and more of his time in the cathedral, listening to the sermons and liturgies. These days, these hallowed stone walls seemed to be the only space that could contain his thoughts, lest they pound straight out of his head. It wasn't unusual for knights to be mixed in with the common populace for sermons, many of them more devout than the clergy themselves. Ashur, for his part, saw fit to sit in the pew furthest from the front, both to quell his discomfort and to hide the fact that he wasn't here for particularly devout reasons.

 

"Under the gaze of Halone, we gather to seek Her blessing," the deacon spoke grandly, dressed in flowing white robes trimmed with blue and gold thread. A large copy of the Enchiridion,  was open at the podium in front of him, though it was obviously just for decoration: if the deacon was respected enough in the clergy to be allowed to give public sermons, then he memorized enough of the holy text that he didn't need an aid anyway. "With Her grace, we will be made anew. With Her strength, we will defeat the claws of the dragon. With Her wisdom, She shall lead her faithful to peace and prosperity."

 

In these times of violence and war, certainty was perhaps the one luxury that was afforded to Ishgard without apparent cost. Certainty that what they were doing was good and righteous, that their cause was just. Was there anything more noble than defending one's home and kin against the claws of mindless beasts who sought nothing more than destruction?

 

Is it heresy to protect your loved ones?

 

Ashur grimaced, rubbing his gauntlet against his forehead. Certainty seemed to be the one thing he lacked these days. His thoughts were a swirling vortex, echoing the argument he and Stella had while at the Falcon's Nest.

 

The knight flinched when he felt a hand tap him on the shoulder. Alric did his best to shuffle between the pews as quietly as he could to slump next to Ashur on the seat. "Finally found you, little brother," Alric said quietly. "Figures that you'd gone to the one place I'd never look for you."

 

"Don't you have better thing to do?" Ashur muttered with some irritation. The last thing he needed was a mother hen pecking at his head.

 

Alric grinned. "Probably. But I thought this was more important. You've been quiet lately. Well, you're usually more quiet than I am. But I mean unusually quiet. Which means you're probably overthinking things again."

 

There was a pause as the deacon's liturgies continued to echo in the cathedral.

 

"Do you think what we're doing is right?" Ashur asked somewhat sheepishly. Despite his elder brother's vulgarities and loudness and generally obnoxious behaviour, Alric was at the end of the day the more even-headed of the two, more likely to laugh something off than take offense or be stuck in his own head. 

 

"What we're doing? How do you mean? Sitting in a cathedral during a liturgy and talking to each other about our personal problems while ignoring the words of Halone? Not very likely," Alric snorted. 

 

"That's not what I meant. I mean the war. The heretics. Some of them might be innocent people. Do they not deserve a fairer fate?"

 

This time it was Alric's turn to pause, exhaling slowly in contemplation. "Ah, so you are overthinking things. I suppose this is about that lady friend you almost made in Falcon's Nest?"

 

Ashur recoiled in surprise, mostly because he had never intended to tell Alric, though his brother answered the question before it was asked. "Ser Loren heard you. The two of you were apparently shouting in the middle of the courtyard, you know. Not exactly private space for a domestic dispute. One day I'll have to teach you how to handle women, Ash."

 

"It wasn't anything like that," Ashur said with some dejection.

 

"Well, to answer your question, war is war. It's not so easy to define as 'some people are good' and 'some people are bad'. Certainly all people are some shades of good and bad, but inevitably some of those people are on opposite sides. As for heretics..." Alric frowned. "Well, far be it from me to blaspheme in a holy place, but I've never thought of them as our true enemies. They are victims as well, victims of Nidhogg and his brood just like we are. We may fear them for how they subvert us, but at the end of the day they're just people, not monsters. Well, most of them, I expect."

 

Heretics were just people. The clergy taught that they were decadent and sinful people who had willingly taken part in the blood of the dragon.

 

"I never told you this, but when I first became a knight, one of the first things I had to do was oversee an execution. At Witchdrop," Alric continued, his expression growing somber. "Two brothers, just like us. Accused of heresy, and forced to prove their innocence. They chose to jump off together to prove that they weren't Dravanians."

 

"And were they?" Ashur murmured.

 

"Nope. I'd never seen a man transform into an aevis before and I still haven't. But I do know they certainly didn't deserve to be dashed upon the rocks like they were."

 

Heretics. Heretics. Something began to make sense. Heretics were just victims as well. They were people seduced or betrayed into the wings of the dragon. Ashur felt a weight relieved from his shoulders. Nothing of what Stella said was truly all that contradictory after all; the dragons were their foes, after all. The Dravanian Horde was made up of nothing but beasts, but in their insidiousness they chose to turn Ishgard's people against one another. 

 

"Oop, I think the deacon's glaring at me," Alric muttered, giving Ashur a quick tap on the shoulder. "Make up with her, why don't you? I think she'd be good for you. Probably." With that, Alric did his best to 'casually' shuffle away without bumping into the pews more than four times.

 

Ashur wasn't sure he could get through to Stella, but with his new understanding, perhaps it wasn't pointless to try. The liturgy continued to echo against the walls.

[Nero]

As for her, Stella did little besides take what comfort she could in the confines of the empty house and tend to her duties. Her time would soon be coming to an end; eventually, her patron would contact her and for better or worse she would be rid of this accursed city. Though she felt outwardly eager, Stella recognised the anxiety that had twisted into a knot within her stomach. Where once she had carried out her chirurgeon's affairs with a brisk sense of pride, now she was sluggish, slow, and apathetic. She was careful to make sure there were no deaths on her watch, but those few who had grown accustomed to Stella's once-efficient method of care were quick to notice the change, though hesitant to point it out.

 

On one occasion, she inadvertently eavesdropped on the other chirurgeons gossiping. "Our little ice princess seems to have defrosted some," one trilled.

 

"Nay, she's done nothing but frozen even more. Water is quicker than ice, after all!" There were some malicious giggles echoing from beyond the screen. "It must be a man." And that was all Stella could stomach hearing as she had rushed out of the room, her face burning to the tip of her ears.

 

It wasn't anything so stupid as a man. Before, her duties as a chirurgeon had provided her with some distraction, but as the hour drew ever closer, there was little point in maintaining the act any more than she had to. That was all there was to it.

 

Every now and then, a fair-haired face, sporting a grim expression of hurt and dejection flashed itself in her mind and was just as easily dismissed. This was distracting. He was distracting. His words, his voice, it was all getting in her way, and the more Stella thought about it, the angrier it made her. All of this was pointless. Once her task was done and her debt repaid then there would be nothing left. Unconsciously, the chirurgeon continued to soak and wring out a wet cloth over and over. Ishgard. Damn this city and all of its fools. Damn--

 

"Is it a man?" A mild voice mused behind her, causing Stella to whip around, nearly sending the bowl of water flying across the infirmary. Eaufault was changing the bandages of an unconscious man, his spectacled gaze focused on his task, though Stella could see him glance up at her every now and then. Ever since she had returned to Ishgard, Eaufault was perhaps the closest thing she might have likened to a companion, though in truth they were little more than associates who happened to share the same space and duties. For whatever reason, either because he did not notice or simply did not care, Eaufault never seemed to be put off by Stella's prickly demeanour and eventually she lost the motivation to shoo him away or ignore him.

 

She paused. When the time came, she would have to leave Eaufault as well. Stella was not particularly attached to him, but the fact that he typically was the only source of conversation she would have for days on end lended his presence something of a...sentimental value. She shook her head. "No, it is not," Stella replied with a little more force than she would have liked. That was such a stupid idea. What could possibly compel people to think that? 

 

"If you say so," Eaufault said doubtfully. "When a young maiden hesitates, it's usually because her heart falters."

 

"I am hardly a simpering maiden," Stella remarked with no small amount of disgust. Given her difficult history with Ishgard and her arranged marriage, it was hard to accurately express the disdain she had for the very idea of romantic notions and marriage. "The post at the Falcon's Nest was simply draining and I haven't yet taken the time to recover. That is all."

 

Even with her usual haughtiness, though, Stella would be hard pressed to disagree with the notion of her heart faltering. Certainly it wasn't for him, but for what lay before her. 

 

"That was your first posting outside of the city walls, wasn't it? I suppose that kind of experience would certainly be draining for an indoor mouse like you," Eaufault observed.

 

Stella scowled. "If that is all you plan on saying, you've my invitation to cease talking. Preferably forever." She wrung out the cloth one last time when another intrusive thought bore its way into her mind.

 

What did he say to you?

 

With none of her adroit grace, she practically slapped the wet cloth down on the head of the knight she was tending, provoking a startled yelp and a vocal protest that she quickly ignored. Stella knew she wasn't wrong, but there was...something. It took much of her willpower to keep from reciting her lady's mantra. We whom gods and men have forsaken... No. Not here. She couldn't falter here, not when they would be so close.

 

"Take over the rest for me," she snapped at Eaufault, packing up her surgeon's kit and storming out of the infirmary. What thoughts had been in her head was replaced by the pounding, rhythmic thumping of the infirmary's timepiece and her own anxious heart.

[Nero]

The shops of the Jeweled Crozier were shuttered and barred. A cloaked figure descended down a tight, obscure alley, one out of the way of the main street to reach the shop. On the corner of the shop's door was a small, faint mark, all but invisible except to those who knew what to look for; a white triangle, drawn in chalk. The figure knocked three times on the door in rhythm, waited a full ten seconds, and knocked three more times. An eyeslot panel on the door slid open, an eye peering out to the visitor.

 

"You're late, sister," said a woman's voice. The panel promptly shut and the door opened, revealing a female platinum-haired Elezen in the clothes of a noble servant. The cloaked figure shifted inside to escape the morning chill.

 

"Everyone is here," the Elezen said, gesturing towards the back of the shop.

 

"The knights are out in force," Stella said as if to make an excuse for her tardiness, drawing back her hood. Her chestnut-coloured hair, once so neat and orderly, was shaggy and unkempt, provoking Stella to run an absentminded hand through it. The shop was small and crowded with cabinets and tables. On one of the counters was a stick of incense burning an exotic lavender flame with a pungent smell hanging in the air.

 

"What did you expect?" The Elezen reprimanded coolly, leading the way into the back room of the shop. Stella said nothing more; she knew that any more protest would simply draw Audrienne's ire. Stella knew little about Audrienne Auzenne other than the fact that she worked for some nobleman or other, and that the Elezen frightened her; the sooner this was all done with, the better. In the back room were two scowling Hyur men; from their ragged, tattered clothing and generally foul demeanours, Stella guessed they must have lived in the Brume. She never had cause to descend into the lower parts of the city save for when she was reporting to the infirmary, but even Stella knew what kind of conditions they must have endured in order to get here.

 

"This it, then?" one of the men demanded. "She don't look like no knight to me."

 

"She's a chirurgeon who has free license to go where she pleases, for the most part." Audrienne said impatiently. "And just as an extra precaution, we've arranged it so the knights on duty will recognise her. I do hope you appreciate that liberty. You did a very poor job of making friends." It took all of Stella's willpower to keep from recoiling or snapping at the comment. "Not that it matters," the Elezen continued. "By the time anyone figures out you're not what you seem, it will all be over."

 

"I hope so," the Hyur growled. "Anything goes wrong and it means our necks, and yours. The Inquisition won't have to torture me to find out who gave my orders."

 

"No need to worry so much," Audrienne replied. "If you fail, you won't live long enough to talk." The Elezen glanced around to the three Hyur standing in the room with a hard, icy stare. "None of you will. I've seen to that."

 

Stella felt a cold qualm tremble in her gut. She glanced askance at the two men, but saw nothing in their faces to indicate that they were anxious or fearful. The more Audrienne spoke, the more this felt like a bad idea, but her hesitation soon met her fiery pride and stubbornness. She did her best to silence any doubts from rising to her lips. This was her chance to repay her patron, the ones who had freed her from her bondage. This was her chance to strike a single, resounding blow. For those whom gods and men have forsaken...

 

And more than that, this was for Raimondaux now.

 

Again, a familiar, concerned face flashed in her mind, one she dreaded seeing more and more. The cost has been our lives...!

 

The chirurgeon shook her head. They were too far gone now. 

 

"Luckily for us, it seems that there are other disgruntled citizens who do not need our influence to act," Audrienne remarked. "You will simply be going there to give them a push, as it were. Even if it turns out for naught, Lyron will see it done." In response, one of the men nodded.

 

"He knows his business?" Stella asked, trying her best to keep the nervousness from her voice.

 

"Certainly," Audrienne returned, raising an eyebrow at Stella's hesitation. "Do you know yours? I'm beginning to wonder."

 

"I know mine," Stella snapped. She would have to help them navigate the fortifications, and if need be serve as a distraction. It was child's play. Or it should be. "Has there been any word from the Lady?"

 

"If you are worried, then I have put in good word for you," Audrienne said smoothly. The three Hyur began to shuffle out of the store at her direction and into the alley. "When the time comes, Lady Iceheart will be expecting you." Without a word of farewell or a word of luck, Audrienne shut and barred the door behind them, leaving no direction to go but forward.

[Nero]

Ishgard was the most well-defended city on Aldenard. It had no fortified walls, for it needed no walls; the city was practically carved out of a mountain, surrounded on all sides by a precipitous abyss. The Steps of Faith were the only overland route into Ishgard, and the Gates of Judgment had never fallen to any force Dravanian or otherwise, and until recently, the magical wards kept all airborne intruders out of Ishgardian skies. Despite their currently precarious circumstances, Ishgard was, for all intents and purposes, impenetrable from every direction, save for one.

 

The Steps of Faith were marked by numerous gatehouses along its span, but the largest belonged to the Gates of Judgment, connecting Ishgard to the Coerthas Central Highlands. Most often the Gates of Judgment were manned by knights of House Fortemps, where they could be easily supplied and reinforced from Camp Dragonhead and the Whitebrim Front. The gate was normally heavily guarded, for Ishgardians had little liking for foreigners, but with the wards disabled many of the Temple Knights stationed there had been pulled back to the city itself lest the Horde attack Ishgard directly. The wyvern attack had set the city on edge, and only the most militant of the Temple Knights advocated for spending manpower manning the Gates of Judgment while Ishgard herself was still vulnerable.

 

So it was that Ashur and Alric, alongside two of their fellows, Sers Loren and Mayhard, were shakily roused and given a hasty reassignment, ordered to join the garrison at the Gates and relieve the watch. Ashur fought to stifle the yawn from escaping his lips, his helmet tucked underneath his arm. The barracks were cold and the cots were often hard, but even those sad conditions were far more forgiving than the chill of dawn on the Steps of Faith.

 

“There’s probably still a few more bells until first light,” Ashur complained. “And I had to be saddled with you. Did you do something to annoy Commander Lucia again?”

 

Alric, for his part, looked fully alert and wide awake. Perhaps it was a difference in experience. “Actually, no. Not this time, anyway,” he replied. “Is there a particular point to sending such a small cadre all the way across the Steps? Well, orders are orders, I suppose.” Thankfully, the torches and braziers at the Gates of Judgment were kept lit at all times, though there was no scarcity of light; a bright full moon and a cloudless sky cast a cool shimmer across the wearied stone steps.

 

As they approached the gatehouse, the light illuminated a scene of confusion, with knights coming off duty stopping to talk to those coming on duty.

 

Alric waved his torch and the Gates began to creak open to admit them. “Hail!” he called out to the watchman. “Anything of note?”

 

“Highlands quiet,” the call returned, to which Alric snorted. “Of course everything’s quiet. I can’t imagine the Dravanians would be so polite as to go through our front door with all of these shiny gates and dragonkillers.”

 

They hurried into the gatehouse interior. Ashur set his helmet down on a table and knelt in front of a blazing fireplace, grateful to be out of the cold. As he stared into the flickering embers of the fire, his thoughts drifted to other places. He’d spent whatever free time he could garner looking for Stella, but she had been absent from her usual haunts. The great house in the Pillars was dormant and empty, and none of her fellow chirurgeons at the infirmary could name where she was located.

 

At that, Ashur had felt equal parts relieved and disappointed. For most of the day he’d been revising what he would say to Stella to reconcile with her. Heretics were victims as well, and for some reason he hadn’t been able to understand that until now. Don’t apologize excessively, express gratitude. Don’t be too self-deprecating or it will look disingenuous. Knowing what you’re going to say is good, but sincerity is better. For once, he had an opportunity to rehearse, but he couldn’t tell if that would be a good thing or a bad thing for negotiating with Stella given his usual track record of putting his foot in his mouth.

 

He sighed as the sound of the gate opening and closing once again echoed outside. Was this something he should even try to do? Perhaps she’d be happier if they simply went their separate ways. They didn’t exactly end their last meeting on a positive note.

 

Ashur let out a yelp as a hand roughly grabbed his hauberk by the back of its collar. “Come on, baby brother, out into the cold. If you stay by the fire you’ll definitely fall asleep, and that will definitely annoy Commander Lucia if she hears of it.”

 

“We were just out there,” Ashur protested. “Spare me for at least a few moments.”

 

Though he wanted to enjoy the fire’s company, soon enough they were back outside, standing watch at a gate the no one in their right mind would try to attack. Ashur knew his brother well enough that Alric was never eager for something as dull as sentry duty, which meant he had something else in mind to keep them occupied.

 

“So, did you manage to make up with your lady friend today?” Alric asked benignly, barely even attempting to disguise the fact that he’d dragged Ashur out just to ask this question.

 

“She’s not my lady friend,” Ashur responded with irritation. At this point, I’m not completely certain I can classify her as a friend. “She’s just...someone I met at the infirmary.”

 

“That’s a pretty classic tale, though. Didn’t Father used to tell us one like that? A saint or someone was a chirurgeon and fell in love with a wounded knight she was caring for. Something sweet like that,” Alric observed lightly.

 

“It wasn’t a saint. The chirurgeon and the knight couldn’t marry because of their differing social classes, then the knight was sent into battle and died and the chirurgeon swore vengeance before slaying the dragon that killed her love and also dying. You do know that story is meant to show the evils of the Dravanians, and not to be an uplifting love tale, don’t you?” Ashur scowled.

 

Alric merely laughed and shrugged. “Nope. I never paid attention to Father’s stories. Except for the ones with exciting fights. Still, it’s not often I get to see you like this. Overthinking, I mean.”

 

“Yes, well, it’s not exactly pleasant for me,” Ashur said glumly. “I’ve had all day to think about it and I still don’t really know what I’d say to her. And before you suggest anything helpful, I very much doubt she’d have much patience for your method of persuasion, not unless you want me to get punched in the face.”

 

“I like a woman with some fire! What’s appealing about the heat of love without the threat of being burned, hm?” Alric chuckled to himself.

 

“Call me the Archbishop if you ever manage to find someone willing to tolerate you enough to marry you, Al,” Ashur said, shaking his head incredulously.

 

Their watch continued for some time with idle conversation, until a woman dressed in heavy robes stepped out of the gatehouse. Ashur didn’t quite hear whatever Alric was prattling on about, as Ashur and the woman locked eyes in shock.

 

Her chestnut hair was loose and wild, a sharp contrast to the usual clean and conservative style she kept it in. Her white chirurgeon’s robes could barely be seen under the thick grey cloak she wore. And unlike her usual proud, confident countenance, she looked...nervous.

 

“Stella?” Ashur wondered aloud, less to call out to her and more to help his mind confirm that he was seeing who he thought he was seeing.

 

The chirurgeon stopped, the blood briefly draining from her face like the hare spotting a swooping hawk. Ashur couldn’t contain himself from practically running over to her, prompting Alric to follow. “This is where you were?” A grin crossed Ashur’s face in some relief, even as a part of him quivered with anxiety. This was his chance. “I...was looking for you. Your fellows at the infirmary said they didn’t know where you were. I didn’t imagine that they stationed you all the way out here.”

 

Stella stared at him before clearing her throat, and seeming to recover her composure. Was it because she didn’t want to see him? If that were the case, she’d be more than happy to let him know. “Were you? Looking for me, I mean,” she questioned. Stella glanced awkwardly at Alric who was eagerly leaning in.

 

“Al, could you give us some space?” Ashur requested, before Stella hurriedly gave a wave. “No, it’s alright, he can stay.”

 

Ashur felt somewhat uncomfortable having his brother leering over him and did his best to ignore Alric’s presence. “Um, yes, I was looking for you. I...wanted to apologize to you.” Something about Stella’s demeanour seemed different, like an animal sensing a quake. Ashur didn’t want to point out her behaviour, though, lest that ruin whatever chances of reconciliation they had. If anything, he should be grateful that she didn’t look particularly prickly at this moment.

 

Ashur inhaled, formulating the words in his mind. “What you said at the Falcon’s Nest, I had a chance to think about it. And I don’t think I was fair to you, or what you were saying. I think...you were right.” He breathed again, searching Stella’s face for some indication that his words were having an effect. For her part, she simply stared at him. “Those people we hastily call ‘heretics’...they are victims too. I suppose until now I never really thought of them as such. But that man who was executed was someone close to you, and like you said, there might come a day where someone close to me is accused like that. And I don’t know how I’d react to that. So...I am sorry. And thank you for hearing me out.”

 

Ashur didn’t notice Stella glancing past him as he spoke. He clasped his hands together and gave a short bow. It was the only gesture he could think of.

“Ah. You’ve been thinking about that?” Stella said, almost as if she were in a daze.

 

That was not the reaction Ashur was expecting. He was expecting...a reprimand, maybe. Something about how long it took for him to see it her way. Perhaps a haughty acceptance of his apology. Something seemed wrong. Her languid reaction was making him feel more anxious than any number of outbursts he thought she might spring into.

 

“Y-yes, I have been,” Ashur said, stumbling over his words. Whatever was left of his prepared statement had fled his mind. “I thought I was being too narrow-minded, and so I wanted to...tell...you.”

 

Stella paused, seeming to soak in his words before staring at him again. In all of this time, she hadn’t raised her voice and her face hadn’t shifted into the proud, almost arrogant expression of duty that Ashur had come to expect from her. “I am sorry as well,” she said quietly, now neatly avoiding his gaze. “I..did not mean those things I said. About you.”

 

The longer their conversation went on, the more Ashur was taken aback. “O-oh. Well, no need to apologize. I just hope that we can, well...talk. More. Yes. Ahem.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. This didn’t go at all the way he thought it would. Even Alric seemed at a loss for words, or he sensed that intervening would do more harm than good.

 

The silence continued for several loud, pounding seconds before Stella spoke. “Ashur,” she whispered, almost timidly, which was such a far cry from the usual Stella. “You need to leave. Go back to Ishgard.”

 

“What?” Ashur very nearly took a step back, so startled was he by this sudden ominous request. “Why? Stella, is something wrong?” He reached out to grip her shoulder, for it looked that she might fall over at any moment.

 

“Ho! Movement spotted!” A cry came from the ramparts of the gatehouse. The alarm bell began to ring.

 

Alric squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Ash. Ash! No time for helmets, come on!”

 

Ashur glanced between the gates and Stella several times, unsure of what to do. He grabbed her hand and quickly dragged her to the gatehouse doors. “Stay inside, Stella. Inside!”

 

“Ash, hurry up!”

 

Stella slumped down by the gatehouse door, seeming more like a doll than a living person, her eyes fixated on the stones at her feet. Ashur couldn’t spend more than a few moments checking on her.

 

Ashur rushed to the front of the Gates of Judgment, but saw nothing but snow and sleet. Another cry echoed from the top of the gatehouse. “It’s not from Coerthas! The Steps! They’re coming from the Steps!” The bell began to ring with even more fury than before.

 

The knights sprinted from the front of the Gates to the back, and then they saw it.

 

It was a mob, numbering at around fifty. Men and women both, wearing little more than rags. Some of them were dressed like commoners or merchant, but many, many more of them were like beggars and street rats. They were wielding torches, shouting and chanting words that couldn’t be discerned.

 

“What in the Halone’s frozen tits is this?” Alric muttered incredulously. “An uprising?”

 

“Heretics!” Ser Loren shouted, drawing his sword. This caused the rest of the knights to also bring out their weapons.

 

“Wait, stop!” Alric yelled, standing in front if the knights. “They’re civilians! They’re not even armed! Stand down!”

 

“You think a mob is coming to the Gates of Judgment like that to share tea and biscuits?” Another knight bellowed. “Look how many there are. We number barely threescore!”

 

Ashur stepped forward to join his brother, though he uneasily glanced at the approaching mob on the Steps. He held his shield at the ready, though his sword lay in its scabbard. “We’re Temple Knights,” Ashur began somewhat shakily. “We can’t just cut--”

 

“Brothers and sisters! The time is now!”

 

Ashur whipped around.

 

Standing before the Gates of Judgment was, of all people, Stella.

 

Her eyes darted back and forth, her arms trembling even as she held them aloft as if she were beseeching a deity. “We whom gods and men have forsaken, will be the instruments of our own deliverance!”

 

What was this? Why was she doing this? A million, million questions rushed through Ashur’s mind faster than he could even begin to acknowledge them. Without even thinking, his shield clattered to the ground and he scrambled to Stella, clasping her arms in equal parts confusion and desperation, as if he didn’t want to believe it. “What are you doing!?” Ashur cried out, shaking Stella.

 

Was this it? Was this why she had saved him, talked to him? Had her mind been warped by the dragon this whole time? Were the words they shared nothing but poison-laced honey, a vague hope that could never come to pass?

 

Stella only stared at him, her gaze full of uncertainty and...fear, even as she held her arms aloft as if expecting to be killed at any moment. “I...I told you to leave,” she murmured weakly.

 

“She’s a damn heretic!” Ser Loren swore, advancing on Stella with his sword in hand. Ashur spun, grabbing Loren’s sword arm by the wrist and jerking the blade out of his hands. Before, Ashur himself might not have hesitated to cut down anyone he thought of as a heretic. But now….

 

“Wait, Loren, stop! We need to get control of the situation!” Ashur said, his voice audibly wavering with confusion. Get control of the situation? What did that even mean? How could they? The garrison at the Gates numbered just thirty knights. Even if they sent a runner to Dragonhead, no reinforcements would arrive in time to peacefully control the mob. Things would descend into violence. It would be a massacre.

 

“Out of my way, you damn fool!” Loren roared, wrestling with Ashur to swing his sword, though his efforts were interrupted by another cry from atop the gatehouse.

 

“Heretics! Movement from the Highlands!” The call went out.

 

“Throw open the gates!” That was Stella’s voice, hoarse and rough. “Let the Holy See feel your righteous indignation!

 

Ashur and Loren paused in their struggle. Seemingly, from out of nowhere, amidst the frantic voice shouting from the gatehouse, a mob of heretics had begun to advance on the Gates of Judgment. Unlike the unarmed rabble of civilians, they were armed and armoured. Some wore chainmail, other wore leather hauberks. They carried swords, lances, and axes. Frenzied, bloodthirsty gazes were visible from inside their helmets. Some of them carried torches, and from the warm illumination Ashur could see that they must have numbered close to one hundred, perhaps more.

 

“Where in the hells did they come from!?” One of the knights shouted.

 

“They’re going to open the gates!” Ser Mayhard cried out, the fear audible in his voice.

 

“Cut them down! Do not let them into the gatehouse!”

 

Stella rushed forward, as Ashur held Loren back, and she slipped into the mob of civilians that were now upon the Gates of Judgment. Though he couldn’t even begin to process his own mental state, the training kicked in, and Ashur withdrew his sword and readied his shield with his fellow knights. For some reason, one of his first priorities was that Stella was out of immediate danger. The knights tensed, weapons at the ready, and all were prepared for a bloodbath.

 

The mob, however, stopped advancing.

 

It started with a horrid creaking. The rasping of metal hinges twisting and turning caused all of the knights to turn slowly as the Gates of Judgment began to unfold, and soon, nothing standing between the knights and the army of heretics bearing down on them.

 

“They’re...they’re already inside…” Ser Mayhard whispered.

 

“Forget the civilians. Formation!” Alric’s strong, commanding voice broke the fearful silence of the knights. “There’s no time for us to retake the gatehouse. We defend the Gates with our lives if we must!”

 

His command seemed to shake the knights out of their stupor, their surprise being swiftly replaced with hardened discipline from a thousand years of war. The Gates of Judgment were narrow; despite their small numbers, perhaps they could hold it.

 

One of the heretics bellowed a fearsome war cry, and the army charged forward. Shields in hand, the knights formed a wall. From behind them, the crowd of civilians let forth a cheer for the approaching heretics.

 

Ashur felt a hand pull him again, out of the shieldwall entirely. Gone was the usual mirth and joking demeanour that Alric wore. This was a side of his brother he had never seen: the battle-hardened commander, the knight who won the Grand Tournament, who had fought for his very life from the Brume.

 

“Ash, you need to get out of here,” Alric said with a grimace. “Warn Ishgard. We’re going to hold them as long as we can.”

 

“Wha--Fury’s sake, I’m not leaving now!” Ashur shouted, trying to sidle past his brother to rejoin the line. Alric’s grip pulled him back again.

 

“You need to go! Now!” Alric didn’t ask politely this time. He roared, practically screamed, with all of the fury he could muster.

 

“We’re going to give you ten minutes,” Alric said, gesturing towards the Steps of Faith. “After that, we’ll make our retreat. But if these heretics catch Ishgard unawares...if they have even more forces behind them, it’ll be a slaughter. We don’t know how many there are, or if the Dravanians are with them. We have to assume that the entire city is liable to fall. So you need to go!” As if to illustrate his point, Alric jabbed a finger towards Ishgard.

 

This was all too much for Ashur to process. Alric was a fighter, but threescore knights versus all of those heretics. This would--they wouldn’t be...

 

The hesitation must have shown on Ashur’s face, for as if to drive the point home, Alric formed a fist and swung straight at Ashur’s face, his gauntlets making a painful clack with the impact.

 

Ashur gasped in response. The punch wasn’t hard enough to break anything, but it caught him off guard and took the wind out of him, the metal of the gauntlet had cutting into his cheek. Alric didn’t say it, but the punch was his way of communicating: Better a broken bone than dying.

 

“Go, now, or I’ll kill you before the heretics do!” Alric bellowed.

 

Ashur stumbled backward, sword and shield still in hand. He only paused for another second.

 

“You better live,” he commanded Alric shakily, before turning and plowing through the still-cheering mob of civilians. Oddly, they didn’t try to stop him, so enraptured were they by the battle that was to come.

 

And Ashur ran. He couldn’t tell if the tears that were starting to cross his face were from fear or the stinging, icy wind. Across the Steps of Faith he ran, daring not to look behind him as he heard the echoes of steel clashing on steel.

 

[Nero]

The heretics flowed through the Steps of Faith like a rushing tide, yet there was a dam ahead that would stop it in its tracks: not a dam of stone and soil but of sword and shield, faith and fury. A small but ever-growing phalanx of Temple Knights stood ready to meet their foes. As Ashur raced into the fray, he felt a fear that was new to him. He was confident enough to fight these enemies; slaying heretics was but a small part of a knight’s duty. He’d done it many times. But he had never taken on so many foes with such doubt in his heart.

 

The events were a blur. Ashur was little more than a ball of violent instinct, swiping his sword left and right, hearing the barking orders of a knight-captain to retreat into the plaza. Had he been of sound mind, Ashur might not have been worried at all; the heretics numbered barely a hundred and fivescore. The knight had no idea how many heretics he had slain. His chainmail was drenched with blood and his own sweat. His sword cut swath after swath of blood and pained cries. One of the heretics made a swing with a massive battle-axe, which Ashur blocked neatly with his shield and kicking his foe in the stomach.

 

Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. It was an all-out melee in the Foundation now, the heretics having broken the knights’ line through suicidal zealotry and brute force. The sword felt heavy in Ashur’s hand, that it might as well have been a boulder with a handle. His muscles ached with weariness, relying only on adrenaline to swing the weapon. Other knights were busy fighting skirmishes around the Saint Reinette Forum, struggling to regroup. Ashur had abandoned his shield long ago, having thrown it at an onrushing heretic before removing the offender’s head with a single clean sweep of his blade.

 

And then he heard it.

 

A feminine voice, full of confidence, as clear as ice and just as piercing. “Nidhogg is dead, my friends! He who bore such hatred towards Ishgard is dead!” Almost immediately, the melee stopped. All eyes, heretic and knight both, turned. Very few knights had seen Lady Iceheart and lived to tell the tale. She was proud in all of her pale beauty, holding her arms wide. “Let his hatred die with him, I say! Let us sheathe our swords and go in peace!”

 

Beneath his helm, Ashur’s eyes widened with incredulity. He felt his sword go slack in his hands. This was far too much to process in too short of a time. Nidhogg is dead? Ashur glanced around wildly, as if he were desperate to see some, any affirmation that he could continue fighting, continue killing. Yet no some indication came: the sounds of combat had stopped.

 

“Have we lost!?” another voice rang out, hoarse and ragged.

 

Lady Iceheart shook her head, lowering her arms. “No, my friend, far from it! At long last, the peace for which we have so desperately fought is within our grasp! And I for one would not forsake it!”

 

The knights and the heretics looked at one another silently, some of them murmuring. Slowly, warily, as if each movement could collapse the entire city, the heretics began to sheath their weapons.

 

As they began to walk away, the knights followed suit, though there were many who were visibly tense, clearly eager to continue the fighting.

 

It felt like the first time in years that Ashur had time to himself to think. Where was Alric? Why was Stella at the Gates of Judgment? Nidhogg is dead...was he, truly? She’s a damn heretic! Loren had shouted.

 

Heretic. What did that mean? But ten suns ago, the answer to that question had been so crystal-clear, so certain, so simple. A heretic was an enemy, a foe, a monster to be slain.

 

The images, the sounds, were like daylight in his mind. The citizens marching on the gates. The vengeful, bloodthirsty gazes of the heretics just outside the gates. Stella trembling as she called on them to open the gates. Alric’s shouting. Wordlessly, his gaze turned towards the Steps of Faith. To the Gates of Judgment.

 

-----

 

At the Gates of Judgment, there was only one knight there who wasn’t wearing a helmet.

 

This particular knight had never liked helmets; they chafed, they were stuffy, and they hid your face from the crowd. His sandy-blonde hair was caked in blood; it would take forever to wash out, but then women did like battle-scars for being masculine. This would be but one of many exploits he could share at the Forgotten Knight, the defense of the Gates of Judgment. It would be a hero’s tale; he’d stand on the table and get halfway through the story before Gibrillont yelled at him to stop putting his boots near the ale.

 

“Isn’t that right?” Ashur said, as he collapsed to his knees. His gauntlets rattled with his trembling hands. “You’re...going to have one hell of a tale to tell. All of the noble ladies will swoon, the Archbishop himself will make you one of the Heavens’ Ward. Right?” The light was gone from the dead knight’s eyes.

 

Ashur reached out, pulling the body slightly toward him, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, Al...you’re going to catch a cold on the pavement. And this...this isn’t funny anymore. Why do...why do I always have to do what you say, but this one time you have to go and ignore me?”

 

Ashur didn’t even realize the hot, stinging sensation coming from his eyes, cradling the body in his arms. He couldn’t feel the wind or the snow, all senses numb but one. “Couldn’t you...just once...couldn’t you have been the responsible one, just once, and done what I said? You’re always so useless. You don’t clean the dishes, you don’t help Mother around the house, you’re always too loud...I let you get away with those, you know, because I knew you’d be there when it mattered. Aren’t you? So you’re here now. You have to be...Al...”

 

He was waiting for it. Some kind of quip, some exasperated joke making fun of him. You know that ladies don’t chase after knights who cry, right? Good heavens! Think of what Father would say! There would be something, anything there that would make Ashur feel exceptionally foolish. Foolish, embarrassed, ashamed..any of those would be ten times, a hundred times preferable to the ache gripping his heart now. "You're not listening to me again, are you? Fury above, you never listen to me. Not even if your life depended on it."

 

Futilely, an idle hand tried to brush some of the dried blood off of the sandy-blonde hair. "Hey...Nidhogg is dead. The war is over. You can go see the world now, like you've always wanted. Think of what you can tell to people who haven't heard your stories a hundred times. You're a knight, a hero. And I..." The air seemed to rush away from him, desperately trying to escape his lungs. Ashur couldn't even tell that it was a sob rising from his chest. "I'd go with you. There's no point to me going alone. Not when you and Mother are here. But if you went...then I'd go with you. Someone has to keep you in line, right...? If not me, then who...since you're never going to find someone willing to marry you..."

 

Ashur squeezed his eyes shot, unable to keep the wet sensation from permeating his face. He slumped over, clasping what he could of the already-cold body, as if doing so would bring the warmth, the light, the laughter back. “You’re just such a damn fool,” he whispered, the words falling on deaf ears. So too did the hoarse, anguished cry that echoed out of the Steps of Faith, carried away by icy winds.

[Nero]

Some time later...

 

The days seemed empty.

 

Each morning, before the sun rose, Ashur rose early, a metal flask tied to his hip. He would travel the length of the Steps of Faith in what was becoming a regular pilgrimage. Had any member of the clergy cared enough to observe him, they might have been impressed by the knight's apparent piety. Just before he reached the Gates of Judgment, Ashur emptied the contents of the flask into the abyss below. He would often stare at the stones on the floor, with only a barely visible shade of amber remaining as a reminder of the blood that had been shed upon it. An ultimately meaningless ritual.

 

Emilia had not taken news of Alric's death well, though after her initial outburst of grief she was too proud to show it. No longer did she idle the days away on gossip with frivolous noble ladies, taking part in their casual fetes and sewing circles. To forget her sorrow, Ashur's mother had thrown herself wholeheartedly into trade after trade. One day she was a seamstress, the next her kitchen would be occupied with far too many foodstuffs in an effort to cook. At one point, Ashur had to physically restrain Emilia from marching all the way to the smelters located on the lower levels of Ishgard. Share in her sorrow though he might, Ashur couldn't afford to be overly distracted by her.

 

There had been no sign of Stella: her manor was empty and all trace of her had vanished. It was more than likely that she left in the company of the heretics. Though her exact role was something of importance to him, Ashur could not afford to let himself be distracted by her either.

 

The knight stared across the abyss before casually flinging the flask off the side as well. As he began the long walk across the Steps, Ashur's hand returned to its habitual movements; thumbing the pommel of the dagger in his belt. It didn't belong to him, but the dagger's owner was very much the only thing on Ashur's mind.

 

He had found the dagger at the Gates of Judgment, looking for Alric's sword. Ashur had forged the blade himself; it was originally intended to be a gift for Ser Praihaux, but the older Elezen had been quick to hand it off to Alric, converting the sword from a gift to a gesture of brotherly affection. The sword, however, was nowhere to be found.

 

What was there was the dagger, but two fulms away from Alric's body and coated in the knight's blood, matching the gash that had been driven into the back of Alric's neck. A dagger that belonged to another Temple Knight.

 

Had anyone else found it, the dagger would have been meaningless; just a weapon abandoned in the chaos of the melee. Ashur, however, had always been saddled with armory duty due to his experience as a smith, and had over time learned the quirks and trademarks that revealed themselves on the equipment of his fellow knights. Ser Marat favoured the left stirrup when mounting his chocobo, Ser Mayhard was had poorly re-wrapped the handle of his sword, and Ser Loren...

 

Ser Loren had his initials carved into the bronze pommel of his dagger. To most people, it was only clearly visible whenever light reflected on it, and no one would have found it if they didn't know what to look for. Except for Ashur.

 

Other than the dagger, there was no definitive proof that Ser Loren had been the one to kill Alric, save for Ashur's instincts. Alric wasn't just a knight: he was a tournament fighter, the best combat fighter that Ashur knew, with a cohort of his fellow knights at his side. As grim as the odds were at the time, Alric should have been able to make a coordinated retreat from the Gates of Judgment. There were a handful of survivors from the initial battle at the Gates of Judgment who'd successfully made it back to Ishgard alive, but far too few. Alric's armour was undamaged, and his corpse only had the single gash to the back of the neck. As for motive, Alric's presence was deeply unpopular among many of the noble-born knights: as a man of common birth, his presence demeaned the prestige of the knights, or so they felt. 

 

There was no proof. But ever since Ashur had found the dagger, there was a growing well of suspicion in his stomach.

 

Ashur returned to the Forgotten Knight to greet the only other person who knew about his suspicions: Lantrenel, one of Alric's friends from the Skysteel Manufactory.

 

"Any word?" Ashur asked, his eyes peering at the Elezen over a mug of warm water. Since the battle, Ser Loren had since been transferred to another cohort, and so Ashur had no way of finding out where the other knight was. He could only rely on Lantrenel's contacts.

 

"Loren's cohort is leaving for Camp Dragonhead in two days. The claim is heretic activity." The hubbub and bustle of the Forgotten Knight provided apt camouflage for these kinds of discussions: the rowdiness and the din of festive knights made an adequate screen of noise, though Ashur and Lantrenel practically had to butt foreheads in order to hear one another.

 

"And what I requested...is it going to be ready?" Ashur murmured, to which Lantrenel nodded grimly.

 

"Stephanivien won't be happy when he finds out...but if you're absolutely certain, I'll have it for you when you need it."

 

Ashur gave an affirmative nod, and with nary another parting word the men left.

 

Camp Dragonhead in two days.

[Nero]

The Lord Commander had made assurances that the threat of the heretics had subsided for now, but of course the High Houses were not so easily reassured, and as the primary Ishgardian fortification outside of Ishgard, Camp Dragonhead was duly reinforced by what knights could be spared. Straight, conical tents stood arranged in neat lines in the courtyard of the fortress, its sides marked by the stains and frost of the eternal winter. As dusk began to fall and sunlight absorbed by the canopy of gray clouds ahead, the temporary shelters lined up in gray anonymity. 

 

Though Ashur had planned to confront Loren sooner rather than later, he was careful to keep his demeanour casual so as not to alert his quarry that something was amiss, but the knight was not particularly used to such deception. 

 

The time came, however, when the Wood Wailers of Gridania apparently made a request to chase some bandits that were attempting to escape the Shroud into Coerthas. Ashur was quick to position himself by Loren's cohort, and for the moment, it seemed the latter hadn't picked up on his intentions. Ashur kept Lantrenel's package wrapped tightly and tied to his belt, and though it had earned him some odd and occasionally suspicious glances, no one seemed to question it as anything other than personal effects.

 

The knights were arranged in a standard patrol formation of two columns, though the rough terrain and the trees of the Shroud made it difficult to maintain such a stringent arrangement. With the sun just passing its zenith overhead, there was a moment when both Ashur and Loren were on the last row of the patrol that Ashur decided to press the question, his hand tightened into a fist.

 

“I haven’t seen you use your dagger lately, Loren,” Ashur said as casually as he could, watching Loren from the corner of his eye. What came next was not what he expected at all.

“I already know that you know, Vaye. You have my dagger, don’t you?” Loren replied with an unsettling amount of ease. “I killed Alric at the Gates of Judgment. You couldn’t have made it easier to tell what you’re thinking if you had it written on your forehead.”  Ashur couldn’t help but flinch at how quickly Loren seemed to admit it, and he couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing. His eyes darted to the knights ahead in the column. None of them seemed to hear.

 

Or if they did, they didn't care.

 

Ashur took a deep breath, staring hard at Loren while he did so, though Loren was quick to say Ashur’s thoughts for him. “I wouldn’t be too hasty, if I were you. I’m sure you must have quite the urge to do something unseemly, and it wouldn’t look very favourably on you to kill a fellow knight.”

 

“You’re not even denying it,” Ashur muttered through grit teeth.

 

Loren barked a short chuckle. “What do I have to be afraid of? You’re not going to kill me. If you do, you’ll be branded a heretic, stripped of your knighthood. Your family will be suspected as complicit. And even if you have evidence, it wouldn’t do you any good.” Loren glanced at Ashur in contemplation. “You were the only one who didn’t know, after all. Alric, myself, and Ser Mayhard were ordered by the Revered Archimandrite to open the gates to the heretics.”

 

Ashur’s hands were clasped so tightly together his knuckles were starting to ache. The Revered Archimandrite? Ser Zephirin was the leader of the Heavens’ Ward, the personal guard of the Archbishop. Did that mean the attack that day...was some sort of false flag, planned by the Holy See? But then why was Stella there? Was she working with Loren? The commoners must have been there to distract the knights, to prevent them from suspecting sabotage...

 

“Alric, though, didn’t want to follow orders. I guess that’s to be expected when the knighthood raises a damn commoner to heights where they can’t think properly,” Loren continued. Ashur couldn’t even begin to tell what he was feeling, other than a mix of shock and anger. “It doesn’t even matter that you know. No one worth a damn is going to listen to one crazed knight grieving over his dead brother. There are higher powers than us at work in Ishgard. To be frank, there is nothing you can do. Same as Alric. Your best chances are to keep your head down, and not to pursue this.”

 

Loren was right, of course. That’s why he felt secure enough to say anything. Ashur reflexively touched the leather-wrapped parcel at his side, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Loren admitted not just his involvement, but the involvement of the highest authorities of Ishgard planning to sabotage the city they ruled. And what could Ashur do? He had no evidence, only a hunch. And even if he did, would the High Houses risk upsetting the balance at such a tumultuous time?

 

More importantly, revenge would do nothing. Emilia...with Alric gone, if Ashur was branded a heretic for the murder of another knight, his mother would have nothing, perhaps even be thrown off of Witchdrop in retaliation. What if Loren was lying? It was true that Ashur didn’t have any proof, but in equal measure, Loren had no protection from the Archbishop or the Heavens’ Ward. 

 

“Why should I believe any of this?” Ashur said, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

 

Loren shrugged. “Think about it. The Gates of Judgment are impenetrable. No land force has ever threatened Ishgard. Even if they breached the gates, the Steps of Faith are a choke point that the knights are trained to hold. How could heretics possibly reach all the way into Ishgard without inside help?”

 

Thinking logically, it made sense, in a way. In a thousand years, heretics had never managed to properly threaten Ishgard from the outside. All of the threats were internal; if the heretics had the capability of breaching Ishgard, they wouldn’t have to resort to such subversive tactics as using cults or dark magic. The Inquisition’s explicit purpose was to root out heresy from the inside; they wouldn’t be necessary of the heretics were nothing more than a military threat. 

 

“There’s nothing stopping me from just accusing you of being a heretic. I would be perfectly justified in killing you right here,” Ashur growled with malice. 

 

Loren merely smirked. “True, I suppose you could try to kill me now. You might even succeed, though I doubt it. And I’d very much prefer not dying. But nothing would change. Since I was ordered by the Revered Archimandrite to open the gates, they would very much like it if I disappeared underneath the accusations of being a heretic. The ones who truly killed Alric would have nothing to worry about, since you cleaned up their evidence for them.”

 

Could it be true? Ashur and Alric had spent most of their lives defending Ishgard...was it truly the Heavens’ Ward, nay, the Archbishop himself that ordered the opening of the Gates of Judgment that day? But why? To secure power? Strike fear into the hearts of the people, and have them huddle even closer to the warm embrace of the Church…

 

It was nothing short than a betrayal of the highest order.

 

Ashur’s lip was bleeding merrily from being bitten, not that the Hyur noticed. His mind’s eye flashed to Alric’s frozen, bloody body left on the pavement on the Steps of Faith. Stella’s desperate, angered pleas. 

 

Is this what they were fighting for?

 

Is this what so many of his fellow knights had died for?

 

"What if it was your brother? Your mother? Is it heresy to protect your loved ones?"

 

“None of us liked your brother at all. It was easy on my conscience to take him down while he was distracted.” Loren’s face split into a sadistic grin. “My family worked to become noble through four generations, and he’s elevated to knighthood in three nights through that farce of a melee. A commoner, the son of a smith. His presence was a damnation of the prestige of the knighthood. And his posturing...Halone save us from his blathering. What right did he have to say anything about heroism with the bloodline that he had? That same detestable bloodline you have.” Loren’s gloating was interrupted by sparse laughter. 

 

Ashur was ready to draw his sword then and there when the cohort suddenly stopped in its patrol. The knights slowly turned. Ashur stared each of them in the eye, their grim stares glowering beneath their helmets. They formed a semicircle around him, their hands resting on their weapons.

 

Loren rested his hand on his sword hilt. “Though, it’s better to be safe and sorry. The Archimandrite doesn’t want you going to the Lord Commander, after all. It would...cause problems. You understand, right?”

 

Ashur wasn’t listening any more.

 

Seven, eight, nine...it was only a limited cohort. This was either the only ones in on the plan or they felt that they didn’t need any more knights to deal with one errant do-gooder. if any of them escaped and reported back, then Emilia would be threatened. Ashur was certain his mother couldn’t survive being accused of birthing a heretic. At the very least, if Ashur vanished here now, she would be safe for a time.

 

“What do you say?” Loren continued. “Why not do us a favour and lie down, make this easier on the rest of--”

 

A large crack like the booming of thunder echoed through the Shroud, causing all manner of birds to flee from the canopy. Loren didn’t finish his sentence, on account of his jaw suddenly hanging off of his face in chunks of bloody sinew, gore splattering the dead knight’s chainmail as Loren fell over like a felled log.

 

At Ashur’s waist, the aetherotransformer hummed with energy. In his right hand, the double-barrelled handgun emitted wisps of smoke. Skysteel's newest invention would even the odds.

 

The other knights drew their weapons, though not before another crack of the handgun bellowing another slug felled another of the knights.

 

Blessed are we, for Halone watches over us.

 

Ashur parried a strike, thrusting his blade into the narrow eyeslot of the knight's helmet.

 

Blessed are we, for the faithful shall forever triumph over the faithless.

 

Reloading was a simple matter. Ashur felt himself tingle as the aetherotransformer generated the lightning-aspected energy. Lantrenel hadn't been able to explain much, but what matters was that it worked.

 

Blessed are we, for Her voice delivers us from the whispers of heretics.

 

Two more explosive lightning-strikes resonated through the shroud. Another fell dead.

 

Blessed are we, for Her devotion delivers us from the claws of the dragon.

 

The sturdy barrel of the handgun made a decent bludgeon in a pinch. With his sword he parried the thrust of the lance, placing the barrel of the handgun just underneath the offending knight's chin and pulling the trigger. The loud sound and the explosive force of the barrel startled the other knights that had begun to close distance. That second where they flinched was all Ashur needed. The aetherotransformer hummed again.

 

He could see why Stephanivien wanted to keep the invention a secret. It was a quick and simple device, and despite Ashur's lack of training, at this short range he couldn't miss.

 

The handgun resonated twice more, and the Shroud was quiet.