Fantasy All's Fair

[Aerynth]

"Then you can be glad that you're the exact opposite of that, my queen." 'My love' was what she had wanted to say, but that had to wait. Harlina and others didn't really talk, though not talking didn't mean that they didn't listen. And honestly? The way she spoke with Remin probably struck them as overly familiar even without her peppering her speech with terms of endearment. Nothing could possibly make her look at her wife with-- well, anything that wasn't a complete and total adoration. Pextian had been right; she really was embarrassingly devoted to Remin, and the real kicker was that she didn't even mind. With the right person, vulnerability could be downright magical.

"Wait and observe, yes," Cyreia nodded. "If anything goes awry, we'll have to react." Every plan, no matter how good, could fall apart; it just wasn't possible to predict how how your enemy would react with one hundred percent certainty. There were too many different factors to keep a track of, too many variables, and the slightest shift in the configuration could potentially change everything. No, if you wanted to win, you had to adapt quickly. Rigidity would only get your men killed.

One of the soldiers brought them binoculars - one for every member of their group - and Cyreia accepted the instrument gratefully. Watching the situation on the battlefield would be much easier if she had more than just her eyes to rely on. Not that there was anything to watch, really. The air was heavy with anticipation, with the promise of death, but the two armies just... waited. For what? Maybe for a sign? (Cyreia knew they they awaited their commands, but she liked to think it was more profound than that. That they were enjoying the fragile peace while it lasted. It didn't last for long, though; the commands eventually came, and the faceless masses masses started to move.)

It was... strange, watching everything from above. Strange and vaguely uncomfortable. How could she ever expect to look the survivors in the eye when she wasn't with them? When she had opted to hide like a coward as they bled and died for her? Cyreia shook her head; these thoughts, too, were counterproductive. Guilt wouldn't help anyone. What would help her men, though, was her focus, so focus she did. For a while, everything went smoothly. The soldiers' swords tasted the first blood and the cries of pain were soon drowned in the sounds of steel clashing with steel. Bodies were collapsing on the ground, too. How many of them? God, it was difficult to tell. Not that many considering that the battle had just started; compared with what would come, this was a mere appetizer. Before this whole mess ended, the soil would be drenched with blood. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. And then-- then she finally saw the enemy rain fire upon her troops.

"Now," Cyreia told the magic user standing next to her, "give them the signal. Let them cast the illusion."

After that, everything happened way too fast. Their men fell, seemingly consumed by flames, and the enemy soldies jumped into the river of fire to slaughter the survivors. Then they were suddenly surrounded from both sides, surrounded and dying, dying, dying, dying by tens and hundreds. The plan worked. In fact, it worked a little too well. It only occurred to Cyreia that killing the enemies might not necessarily lead to the victory here when two figures clad in grey emerged on the battlefield out of nowhere and started... devouring the corpses? No, not just devouring. They absorbed them without a trace and grew as they did do; grew to the point their once human-shaped bodies turned into amorphous blobs, terrifying and grotesque. Soon, panic engulfed the whole battlefield. Soldiers threw away their weapons and ran, their affiliations forgotten, but that couldn't save them. The creatures were hungry, and they continued to feast.

 

[Conifer]

Remin couldn't bring herself to use the binoculars for more than a moment. The view they offered was too detailed in its suffering; instead of the clattering of swords being some distant soundtrack, and the moving of bodies being some abstract scenery, she could see the blood staining metal and she could see men falling and suffering and then could only remember what their faces must look like as they died - perhaps not directly by her hand this time, but indirectly so, and wasn't that close enough? It was hard enough to keep her eyes on the field and her breathing steady (in, out, careful and purposeful) ; seeing it closer would be the straw that broke it all.

She didn't need them to see what was happening, though; the fire and what happened after was large enough to see plain as day even with the men as small as ants in her view; The sky darkened. Night, infinite and pitch, stretched over the sky as swiftly as the flames had risen and as quickly as the attackers had fallen. There was barely light to see by; the stars were even dark . The sun, where it had hung only moments before, was masked in red and sent unsettling bloody shadows across the plains. Despite the better judgement to keep distance between herself and Cyeria, Remin found herself moving closer to the woman, grabbing for her arm, for anything. Is this Pextian's doing? Is this the sisters? Is this some terrible thing they could never have anticipated? And then, once again, the field was lit again. A woman had stepped onto the field from no-where and from her streamed infinities of light. She was beautiful and nearly impossible to look at for all her brightness, standing at least thirty feet tall and towering over the gruesome scene before them - she is light cut into the dark, with the suggestions of a figure where the contrast against the red-dark allows it to be seen.

"My sisters." She says, stepping past the streaming soldiers who now seem to have no idea in which direction to run. She walks slowly, methodically, one large and silent footfall at a time. "I expected to find you here. Among this chaos. Among this mess for me to clean." Her focus is solely on the grey and terrible things she walks towards. "Dear sisters. I think it's time to rest, don't you? You've been evading my embrace for long enough, and now the mortals pull you into their games as if you matter to them as more than a bedtime story to keep the children from wandering in the night. They use your strength, sisters, and they offer you little back besides bloat and hurt. I can help you, if you'll allow it." She's nearly reached the sisters, now, but she stops a few hundred feet from them, gleaming arms outstretched.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia just... watched the terror unfold, uncomprehending. There had been times her plans had failed, of course; that was hardly a new thing. They actually failed more than they didn't. At least one step habitually went wrong in some wildly unpredictable manner, which was the reason she observed the situation so intently in the first place. Improvisation played a larger role in all of this than she would have liked to admit. How did one improvise their way out of something like this, though? Out of-- out of... what was it, even? Cyreia couldn't find the proper words to describe it, much less come up with a counter. They had taught her how to fight with people, not with abominations older than time itself! It was getting difficult to breathe or to think or to do-- anything, really. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and her mind? A black pit of nothingness. Nothingness and panic. The touch of Remin's hand against hers, however, woke her up from the trance. Right, she was still there. She was still there and her men needed her. It didn't matter that she had no idea how to deal with the threat; destroying it wasn't the immediate priority. Hell, maybe it even couldn't be destroyed. For now, Cyreia had to capitalize on the advantage of seeing the battlefield from above and save as many lives as she possibly could.

"Tell them to fall back," she turned to the mage standing next to her who watched the mayhem with silent shock written in his eyes. "Do you hear me? They should fall back! Tell them to head toward--" Toward what? And what would increase their chances of survival? Falling into a formation or scattering? It was impossible to control an army once it scattered, but-- well, Cyreia doubted she could even get them to hold a formation in the midst of this mess. Besides, if they all gathered in one easily accessible place, they'd just be sitting ducks to the sisters. "-- toward the forest," she decided within a second. The trees could provide a shelter, and the sisters' size should turn into an obstacle there. Hopefully at least some of the soldiers still retained the presence of mind to actually follow that order because, at the moment, Cyreia couldn't do more for them.

Perhaps she didn't have to, though. Not when an ally turned up. Pextian? God, let it be them. Whoever it was, their speech caused the sisters to stop with their rampage. They looked at the shining figure, their movements synchronized as if they were one being, and opened their mouths. Nothing came out. It almost looked pitiful, really, or it would have, had Cyreia not witnessed their terrible power just moments before. What were they thinking? Were they even capable of something like that or did they react to the divine presence instinctively? Only gods themselves knew.

For a few horrifically long seconds, the figures didn't move; they seemed to be frozen in time. Then, hesitantly, they started walking towards the goddess.

 

[Conifer]

The figure's voice is strange; a shout and a whisper all at once, filling the battlefield with sound beyond the panicked screams and the clattering of armor as men ran. Some seemed to have gotten the message to run for the treeline, but others were otherwise panicked, simply running in whatever direction they could. Others still, though, found themselves stuck in place, staring at the woman that didn't seem to notice their existence at all. Some fell to their knees before this figure of death that, until now, had only existed as statues, as stained glass, as stories, as a fate they'd someday meet but not meet like this. The goddess stands still, watching the abominations sludge their way across the blood and death and battle. "My sisters." She says, softly, gently, as if cooing to a child, or a bird with a broken wing, or some other scared little thing. "Yes. You don't have to do this, anymore. You don't have to feed off pain and decay and rot. You can rest. Your existence must hurt...it doesn't need to. Come with me."

There were already going to be rumors; Remin tangled her fingers into Cyeria's. Their affection would not be the thing talked about from this battlefield today, and this was...so, so much, and Remin barely felt steady on her feet. What was this all? It was what Pextian had promised, yes, but this was...so much. It would take hundreds of magic users to pull this off, and-- it's being done as it if it's nothing. Maybe it is nothing? Maybe-- every story of the gods isn't something just made up for lessons, for comfort? That feels so overwhelmingly impossible, and yet, so does this, and it's playing out like some expensive show in front of her. She holds Cyeria's hand so tightly, as the goddess kneels, hands outstretched, towards the sisters.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia shuddered. Was that what the goddess of death truly looked like? Because-- because it had never felt that way. She knew death, or at least she thought she did. It had always lurked close to her, sometimes wielding an enemy's blade and sometimes hiding in shadows, but no matter what form it had taken, it had never been... well, glorious. Glorious and kind and majestic. In many ways, it had been the exact opposite of that. When it had tried to take her, it had been-- like a wolf, trying to tear her throat out while she had fought desperately for her right to breathe. For her right to live. And when it had claimed others? That hadn't been pretty, either; instead of ending up in a goddess' loving embrace, her friends had died screaming and crying, their bodies distorted beyond recognition. Reconciling her own experiences with that shining figure wasn't easy. (Did she even want to do that? God, Cyreia had no idea. Her thoughts bled into each other in a strange way, and it wasn't at all obvious where one began and where another ended.) As Remin reached after her, she allowed herself the luxury of leaning against her wife. Would anyone judge them for it in this moment? That didn't seem likely; not when the nobles around them weren't better in that regard. Some of them had fallen on their knees and prayed quietly, yes, but others held onto each other tightly and observed the battlefield with eyes wide from fear. When faced with the embodiment of death, all of them were equal. (Or at least equally terrified.)

Meanwhile, the sisters continued to walk towards the goddess, like moths drawn to the flame. Perhaps that was exactly what they were. They must have known they were choosing their own destruction, right? Cyreia... couldn't comprehend that, but then again, she hadn't been killed by her own father and forced to walk the earth, either. Maybe death really was salvation for them. Hadn't she come to the conclusion that inmortality would be a terrible fate just today? If the stories were true, then the sisters had learned that fact first-hand. Was it really that strange for them to crave some rest? To crave for the darkness to claim them instead of-- instead of remaining in this strange state of non-existence? No, it wasn't. It was only human, even if the two of them no longer were. The sisters walked slowly, agonizingly so, almost as if the very movement hurt them, but eventually, they stood in front of the goddess; stood and, along with the onlookers, waited what would happen.

 

[Conifer]

It was almost anticlimactic, what happened next: The woman reached out to them, settling hands of pure light upon their twisted, terrible bodies, and then the whole scene vanished. The sisters disappeared, the woman disappeared, the light returned to the sky. The sun no longer cast red. The uneasy silence that had settled over the world vanished, and a flock of birds took off from one of the trees deep in the forest that lined the field. If everything else didn't hang in pause; the men where they stood, the nobility behind them, then Remin might think that nothing had even happened. That everything had just been some...vision, strange and impossible and leaving no real mark on the world. She couldn't even bring herself to move, or speak, or even breath. Maybe it had been a vision. Maybe they were collectively hallucinating. Maybe something had been in the water, or the food, or-- or the air. That almost all made far more sense than whatever had just happened. Maybe everything since she'd gone to bed the night before she was taken was some strange, far-too-real dream, and sooner than later she'd wake up in her bed and Cyeria would still be gone from her side and this war would still be being fought miles and miles from her doorstep instead of hanging like this at her feet.

Remin knew she should speak. What other purpose did she serve here but to lead when there was no one else to? It was her duty to speak. To snap this all back into shaky reality. What, though, was there to say? She cleared her throat, rough and faltering, and absolutely did not let go of Cyeria. She wasn't sure she could move a muscle if she wanted to. "We've been blessed." She manages, soft, but loud enough. Was that a blessing, though? What was it if not a blessing, if delivered by Pextian or otherwise? And...and they needed people to think it a blessing, their own people included, even if it might not be quite that. She clung tighter to Cyeria's hand, almost too tight, but it feels like the only thing that might be keeping her upright now. All those stories of gods, and now, whatever the truth of it, she was part of one.

 

[Aerynth]

And just like that, the drama was over. The Earth started turning again and the time continued to march on, indifferent to what had transpired. It... left Cyreia feeling dizzy more than anything else, really. Had it been Pextian's doing or had the real goddess of death visited them, outraged by the sisters' very existence? God, to think that she considered this to be a real possibility! Just a few months ago, something like that would have been inconceivable; had Cyreia arrived to such a conclusion back then, she would have doubted her own sanity. And honestly? Perhaps she should do that even now, but so many seemingly insane things had happened in short succession since her arrival in Athea that she was inclined to believe in this, too. Things like her falling in love. If she out of all people could find someone to connect with, why couldn't the gods exist in some capacity? The two things seemed almost equally unlikely. Besides, the main reason behind her scepticism had been the lack of a proof; since the proof had been provided, it made sense to change her opinion. Only fools, after all, remained stagnant in their worldview even after finding out it was incorrect. She still didn't know what to do with that the realization, but she did know now that the gods were real. They were real and she had to face it.

"Yes, it-- it was a miracle," Cyreia said once she found her voice. The strange silence that had engulfed the battlefield before was a matter of the distant past now; it came alive with chatter as the soldiers began to talk to one another, apparently too shaken to take up the swords and fight again. This is our chance. The best chance they would ever get, really, because the fragile peace wouldn't last forever. The soldiers may have been shocked now, but they were bound to get over it eventually; they always did in the end. And once they managed to do that? The carnage would go on. No, if they wanted to exploit the situation Pextian had created for them, they needed to act and they needed to act fast.

"Amplify our voices," Cyreia told the magic user standing near them. Remin had had the right idea, but their words had to reach everyone, not just the handful of nobles whose opinions didn't really matter because they had been on their side from the very beginning. The man nodded silently and snapped his fingers.

"People of Werough," she began, her voice loud and booming, "the gods have spoken! You listened and so you heard. Now I ask you to listen once again, this time to your queen. Her highness Remin Verrant is here, and she wishes to speak!" Cyreia was no stranger to giving rousing speeches, but those people were still more Remin's than hers, so leaving it up to her sounded like the logical decision here. Besides, a queen's words would surely carry more weight than those of a random soldier.

 

[Conifer]

"...my good people." She says, carefully. How many times had she done this? Spoken before so many people? Yes, there was introductions of nobility at parties, and there was a handful of speeches over the last year, but those were planned things, things in front of people who didn't truly matter. This was...perhaps the most important thing she'd ever done besides marrying Cyeria. This could start a war that would split them even further, or this could end one before it properly began. This could save lives or end them. She still clung to Cyeria's hand, but she took a step forward. Part of her was grateful that she'd dressed not unlike them today, and the rest of her was wondering how much that might hurt this attempt. (Really, though, she doubted that soldiers would care much for how she looked. If this were in front of the rich and stubborn, it may be a different story, but...it wasn't a different story.)

"You all saw what I did." She says, plain as anything. Her voice echos over the landscape and it's overwhelming how simultaneously powerful and minuscule that makes her feel. "And I think that-- if anything is to show us that what we're doing here today is unnecessary, the gods playing our their stories of peace and rest upon our battlefield must be it. We don't need to fight. We don't need this war. This can be resolved peacefully, without further pain or death or manipulation. I'd ask that we all stand down. Both sides of this fight. I'd ask that we leave our swords where they lay and pick up the wounded and treat each other as friends, as brothers, as loved ones. Seeing that...I think we could all use some amount of that comfort right now." Silence hangs, for a moment, as she sorts out her words. There's some sound from the field, but mostly it's quiet, and she can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing. "Werough, your Lady Beleret had visions of impossible things. Of changes that might shake the world as you knew it. Your Lord doubts these visions, but...I cannot decide your minds for you, but we saw gods today. We saw the end of a terror that has settled itself over your lands. If those are not impossible things and immense changes, then I'd ask you to show me something greater. Death herself walked among us." Or a trickster god - Remin was honestly unsure, with that display of power. "We cannot be such fools as to ignore that. Werough, I wish not to fight. I wish to take these signs as they are and call for peace. I order - I ask - all that might support this, if not me, to remain at peace, on either and every side. If you must take up arms, raise them against your Lord, who thought to drag entities of merciless death and destruction who don't care for sides into this fight and profit off of all your deaths, and who doubts the messages of the gods themselves." It wasn't a perfect speech by any means; it was clumsy in places, but it would do well enough - at least, Remin could only hope. She watched the field for signs that anyone was reacting, terrified that they might not. "But all I truly ask is that we stand down in the face of the miracle that we witnessed today."

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia really did love this woman. A part of her felt guilty for pushing all the responsibility onto her without even consulting it in advance, but she just handled it so gracefully. How come that every word that fell from her lips struck the right chord? How did she do that? Cyreia would never understand it fully. The speech obviously hadn't been rehearsed, though that didn't matter much; actually, the spontaneity only made her message stand out even more. What could be more powerful, after all, than seeing your own queen as humbled and shocked as you were? Than having her approach you as fellow human beings instead of subjects? The fact that Remin was so beautiful probably helped, too. It wasn't the most important aspect of her performance, certainly, but to the terrified soldiers, she must have looked-- well, like a picture of innocence. The very embodiment of peace sent down from the heavens to comfort their weary spirits. And the best thing about it? That, despite advocating for peace, her wife had somehow managed to sic the soldiers on Wellan.

They didn't have to wait long for her words to take effect. The silence persisted for a while, deep and terrifying, but then it was shattered by a few voices. "The queen! All hail the queen! Yes, peace, yes!" More and more soldiers joined the chant and soon enough, thousands spoke like one man. It seemed as if the earth itself was shaking under the weight of their voices; how entirely overwhelming! Cyreia felt almost drunk by the intensity of it all. Before long, they were throwing their weapons away left and right, and it was the sweetest sound she had ever heard. Some of them fell on their knees in prayer, overwhelmed by everything that had taken place there, but more people turned their attentions to their injured comrades. Who had fought under whose banner suddenly seemed like a tiny, unimportant detail; those who could walk simply helped those who weren't as lucky. It was over. The war had ended sooner than it had truly began, and they had handled it together. On, how much Cyreia wanted to kiss Remin! Too bad all those witnesses made that quite impossible. It wasn't just witnesses that made kissing inappropriate, though.

Two soldiers climbed on their hill, but they weren't alone; with their combined stregths, they half dragged, half carried someone Remin recognized very well. Wellan. He wasn't wearing that proud smirk of his anymore, but it was undoubtedly him. They made him kneel, burying his face in the dirt in the process. "Our gift to you, my queen," one of the soldiers said. He spat on the ground, almost as if the very sight of his lord disgusted him.

 

[Conifer]

Remin could cry, the way they all reacted, if it weren't all so entirely overwhelming to the point where none of it felt real. What stories would come of this? What bards would sing ballads about it? That didn't matter so much as the fact that somehow her desperate speech had managed to work; swords went down and weren't picked back up again. It was hard to tell what else might be happening - had her last-minute call to action against Wellan done anything? - but as long as there was no war to fight, they could handle Wellan themselves if they had to. The men giving up the fight was far more than enough. Without people to fight it, there was no war. And they....they'd listened to her. They'd heard her words and taken them to heart. Remin wasn't too full of herself to not know that it really wasn't her who stopped this; it was the display of godliness, it was Cyeria knowing when the soldiers needed to hear her speak, it was the soldiers themselves for standing down - but she played some small part in that, and it was so, so much. It was terrifying and addicting both at the same time. She never wanted to do it again, but couldn't wait for the day she had to if it ever came.

But there were smaller matters than stopping wars to tend to. Smaller matters like...Wellan, face-down in dirt in front of her, and oh, gods, was she glad she was riding some complicated high with her hand still tight in Cyeria's or else that might be a far more terrifying sight than it was. Instead, she stepped forward towards him, still clinging to her wife, and acknowledged the soldiers first, with an earnest 'thank you.' And then her attention went to the man who had looked so terrifying days before but now looked...pitiful. "Wellan." Remin says, with all the strength she could manage. "Do you have anything to say for yourself? Any words you think might do you any good anymore?" They wouldn't, they most assuredly wouldn't, but she'd be cruel enough to give him the space to say what he might anyways.

 

[Aerynth]

So this was the man who had dared to raise his hand against her wife? The one who had locked her in that terrible prison? He was lucky that Remin ordered him to speak, really, because if she hadn't, Cyreia would have drawn her sword already. More than just drawn it, actually; had it been up to her, he would have lost his head by now. God, did her hand feel twitchy! Patience, she reminded to herself. Patience is what I need to exercise here. Wellan had hurt Remin, not her, and so it was only right for her to take the lead here; her ego wasn't nearly as important as her wife getting some closure. Besides, something told her that her sword's thirst wouldn't remain unquenched. Treason was a crime of the highest order, and even if he hadn't kidnapped Remin, they would have had to make an example of him anyway. It would have been too dangerous not to. A ruler had to be gentle with their subjects, yes, but not to the point of foolishness; forgiving the one who had tried to fracture the realm would have only served to encourage others like him. And with the added insult of antagonizing Remin personally? Oh, there was no way he'd live. They'd talk, he would beg for mercy like the coward he was and Cyreia would execute him despite that. Hadn't she promised to Remin that she'd bring her his head? His own soldiers had given him to her, but that didn't mean she couldn't keep that promise.

Wellan looked up to her, his expression some strange combination of fear and defiance. He, too, must have been affected by what he had seen, even if he tried to preserve whatever dignity that he had left. "What do you think, my queen?" he laughed bitterly. "I am not so foolish as to hope that you'd ever understand my reasons. You're Athean through and through. You don't see what my sister's visions mean for us and you don't want to see that, either. You are fine with a Eupriunian sitting on the throne, too. We both know how this will end, so spare me the farce and have me killed already."

 

[Conifer]

There was only silence that hung in the air for a moment, two, three. Remin watched the man at her feet. This could go on. They could talk - she could scare him, or allow Cyeria to. She had every power he'd had over her right now, and there was some allure in abusing that. That, however, was not the person she wanted to be, and certainly not the ruler she wanted to be. He'd asked something of her, and she'd have it delivered upon, without the same sort of terror he'd put her through. "Alright." She says, finally dropping her hand from Cyeria's and taking a few steps away from them both to allow Cyeria the room to make good on her promise from before. She didn't want to be here for this. She didn't want to see this. She wanted to-- to never acknowledge the man again in her entire life, and she hated to admit that she wanted him dead. But who would she be if she ran from this? Hundreds of men just saw this sight closer and had gone through with it themselves. All she had to do was stand and point her eyes in a direction - was she better than them that she could avoid that? No. Not when they watched her. Had the three of them been alone, that might be a different story, but she couldn't look away when so visible like this.

"Then, Wellen Beleret," She says. "I order you to death by sword on counts of heresy and high treason. Ianes, if you would." She didn't pull her eyes from Wellan as she spoke, though she so, so desperately wanted to.

 

[Aerynth]

Ah, there it was; her chance to shine. Even Remin's kindness, it seemed, had its limits, because she didn't hesitate for a second with that order. The resoluteness that rang in her voice? Cyreia was so, so proud of her. Facing the man who had put her through so much pain couldn't be easy, either, but she bore the burden with such dignity that, had she not known about it, she wouldn't have been able to tell something was weighing her down in the first place. Truly, Remin had been born for this.

"Your wish is my command," Cyreia said quietly and drew her sword; the sound it made when she pulled it out of the scabbard was almost eerie. Wellan's eyes widened at the display, though he said nothing. Pride was the only thing he had left, after all, and showing fear wouldn't win him any sympathies here. Not after what he had done. "I advise you not to move," she said, her tone full of contempt. "I've done this before, so I know how to do it cleanly, but if you struggle, I can't promise that I will be able to sever your head in one blow. In other words, whether you'll go quickly and painlessly or slowly and agonizingly is up to you." Cyreia couldn't care less about his comfort, but-- well, this was more about Remin than him. Death wasn't pretty and botched executions tended to be even worse; after everything she had had to see in the last few days, she did not need to be dealing with this, too. That would have been both cruel and unnecessary. Moreover, what would her wife think of her if she witnessed her acting like a butcher? Remin knew that she had killed, of course she did, but knowing it and seeing it with her very own eyes were two different things. And if she had to confront that side of hers? Cyreia would feel much more comfortable about it if Remin saw her doing it humanely, more or less, instead of hacking at his neck desperately as he cried and tried to crawl away. God, the mere idea of that was terrifying. Still, she couldn't let fear overtake her now; Remin had been strong, so she couldn't disappoint her in that regard, either.

Cyreia inhaled sharply, took one step forward and swung her sword. The steel bit into his neck, sharp like a serpent's kiss, and then his head came off. Just like that, Wellan Beleret was no more.

 

[Conifer]

Remin had no idea how to expect what she might feel, watching the head fall from Wellan's body like it was some toy; some puppet whose strings had been snipped and now it was falling harmlessly apart. The blood, though, gods. She felt sick at the sight of all of it, and gods, was she glad that Wellan had landed face-down, because she wasn't sure she could handle the alternative. It might have been nice, might've felt good, to know that the man that had scared her as he had was gone now - and maybe it still would, later. When the comprehensible feeling of sentencing a man to death, and then watching him die in front of you, faded.

But the war was as good as over. That's what she clung to; that's what made this all survivable. That's the only way she managed to keep her eyes open and on the man she'd doomed. She could go home. She and Cyeria could both go home. Soon, at least. There was still people they'd have to talk with, terms to set, deals to make - a war didn't end quietly, even if it had only lasted so short a time and could only barely be considered a war. They could at least retreat to a tent and she could abuse her power for the rest of the day and keep Cyeria there with her. Remin signaled to the person who had magicked her voice before, and with a gentle nod, they did it again.

"Go home." She said, soft if not for the unnatural loudness. "Those of you that can, go home. This is done. Supplies that either side has will be shared to recover from today; we're not enemies any longer." It was no additional speech, but she couldn't bear the thought of making another of those. It was simple, and it was over, and she turned away from the field, signalling for Cyeria to follow her. Others could deal with Wellan's body, or he could be left to rot here in the dirt as he'd left others to rot in his cellar. She wanted to return to camp, and so she was, as simple as that; reprecussions be damned.

 

[Aerynth]

Just like so many times before, Cyreia proceeded to clean her blade. She did it automatically, almost mindlessly; keeping one's weapon in good working order was vital, after all. You couldn't very well fight with a rusty sword and blood-- blood could make that happen with surprising ease. How ironic. Was she terrible for thinking of the state of her sword more than she thought about the life she had snuffed out? The lifeless body lying in front of her feet? Maybe, but the sad truth was that not all lives were made equal and Wellan had deserved to die. He had hurt Remin. Hell, he had been a war criminal. Sreigh had told her even before that he had required human sacrifices for-- for whatever he had been trying to do with the sisters, and she had witnessed with her own eyes how little he had cared for his own soldiers. And honestly? That might have repulsed her even more than what he had done to Remin. On a theoretical level, Cyreia could understand kidnapping an enemy leader figure. Not the part about trying to feed her to the rats, of course, but generally, targeting people in positions of power made sense. It was a sound strategy that often saved many, many lives. How could he have sacrificed his own men, though? They had followed him, believed in him, and how had he repaid them? With treachery and death. No, men like him absolutely shouldn't live; his very existence had been an insult.

Remin's voice was carried by the magic throughout the battlefield and the soldiers had no reason not to listen. Slowly but surely, they began to disband. Cyreia could only hope that they wouldn't harass civilians, though that honestly wasn't her problem to worry about. Their commanders should take care about that, not her. Nobody could reasonably expect her to micro-manage every goddamn thing in this kingdom. Nobody did, actually, maybe aside from Cyreia herself, but she was getting better at delegating responsibilities onto other people. Failing to develop that particular skill would only bring her to an early grave.

Finally, finally they could head back to the camp. There would be many people who wanted to speak to Remin, Cyreia was sure, though she hoped to usurp her attention for herself, if only for a few seconds. The two of them had so much to discuss! So many things had happened within the span of a few minutes that the battle may as well have lasted whole years. It hadn't, though. The entire war had barely lasted a week, which... exceeded the most optimistic of her expectations, really. And for that, she had Remin to thank. Once they reached the camp, the two of them excused themselves and retreated back into the privacy of their tent. Would they manage to hide there for long? Probably not, but Cyreia didn't really care about long-term plans now. She was tired of planning and strategies and all those things that made her... well, Avther. Avther and now also Ianes, she supposed. Was it wrong of her to want to be Cyreia for now? "You were amazing," she murmured before pressing a soft kiss on Remin's lips; something she had wanted to do for such a long, long time. "How do you feel?"

 

[Conifer]

"I feel like I've killed two men in as many days." Remin says, her voice far less steady than she would have liked it to be. "I feel- as if a war was played out at our feet. I feel like I have no right to be standing here right now.'' It was hard to stop the flow of words once she'd allowed them to start, and even harder to stop the emotion since she'd stepped into the relative privacy of the tent and the absolute safety of Cyeria's arms. Heat pricked at her eyes and the only attempt she made to hide the overwhelmed tears was to tuck her head against Cyeria's shoulder and allow them. Anyone could hear, could see their shadows pressed close through the thin fabric walls, but gods, let them. It didn't even cross her mind to care. She just needed comfort, safety, closeness, the things that Cyeria offered her so well and so easily. Uneven sobs fought their way up out of her throat. "I want to be home." She admits, her hands clinging anywhere they could against the armor that Cyeria wore. She wanted it off of her. She wanted to let herself curl against her wife and never emerge from it. "I don't-- I don't understand how you can do it." Would she, too, eventually grow so desensitized to all of this that it would barely phase her? Remin sorely doubted it. She wasn't even sure she wanted that. But, gods, she wished for it now, to not make such a mess of herself surrounded by the people that had no choice but to do any of this if they wanted a meal or a bed. It was pitiful, it honestly was, and she couldn't stop it from being so.

 

[Aerynth]

Oh. Well. Cyreia had not expected that. Maybe she should have, though; Remin may have been a born actress, but she didn't have to play any role with her, and it was... natural that these things would affect her. Not all people were so numb to violence as she was, least of all her gentle wife. God, poor Remin. The pressure must have been immense. "We'll go home soon," Cyreia said softly, bringing Remin down with her on her bed. If nothing else, the two could at the very least sit down. It wouldn't help anything, of course, but it would be more comfortable than standing around awkwardly. And speaking of awkwardness, the armor had to go, too. Hugs obstructed by steel weren't nearly as comforting and she wanted nothing more than to hold Remin for the rest of her life right now. The breast plate quickly ended up on the floor along with the other parts of the armor. Once that was taken care of, Cyreia embraced Remin and kissed her on her forehead. Finally, finally they could act like wives instead of a queen and her subject. Too bad, then, that it had been somewhat soured by the predicament they found themselves in.

"And I-- well. I knew nothing but this for many, many years, Remin," she sighed softly. "At some point, you just... get used to it. It must sound like a terrible thing, I'm aware, but it is what it is. It's what lets you survive." What could possibly help Remin in this situation? Probably nothing she could do, though that still didn't stop her from trying to come up with something. Cyreia wasn't particularly good at giving up, after all. "If it makes you feel better, though, you don't have to get used to these things," she said in the end and caressed her hair. "You won't even have the opportunity for something like that, really. This was a special occasion. You certainly won't be fighting on the front lines and I won't allow anyone to ever hurt you like Wellan did again. You can-- you can stay like this. You don't have to be like me. That's what I'm here for."

 

[Conifer]

Remin tucked her arms around herself, offering herself the embrace that Cyeria would in moments, as her wife let her armor settle onto the floor. It almost hurt to be separated from her like this, but Cyeria was holding her in moments again, without the metal and artificial stiffness between the two of them, and it was so much better than the alternative had been (not that, in this moment, she was really picky about any portion of that, as long as Cyeria was near her and they were in this tiny pocket of privacy.) Remin settled down onto the bed when Cyeria returned to her, laying against the rough blanket and tucking herself as small as she could against her wife, as if she would protect her from anything and everything. And, really, was that so far off base? Remin knew she would try, and that was far more than enough to bring her some peace.

And so were, as terrible as she felt about having and needing this permission, Cyeria's words. She didn't doubt them for a moment. Yes, things might not be as simple as either of them wanted them to be, but that....meant so, so very little. They weren't words said simply to placate her; they were words said in earnest. Remin, at a loss for anything to say that would mean as much as she wanted it to, instead shifted to kiss Cyeria, earnest and desperate and a little sloppy and damp with tears but, gods, hadn't they earned that? It was imperfect as this all was, yet somehow so much more perfect at the same time, as every kiss and touch she could share with Cyeria without pretense was. "I love you," She murmurs, barely pulling her mouth from Cyeria's. "I love you. More than anything. And I-- I'm sorry that you've been forced to have that strength, but there won't be a day that goes by that I won't admire it. You were incredible. Are incredible."

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia huddled closer against her, hungry for intimacy. They had been forbidden to touch each other for far, far too long, so clearly she had to rectify that now. When they returned to the castle, she thought, they would spend whole days in their bed. They'd lie together, cuddle and whisper sweet nothings to each other. Surely that was permissible? (It wasn't. It wasn't, really, because there were things to do, duties to take care of, but the thought was so alluring that she couldn't shake it away. She didn't even try to. Didn't they deserve some kind of reward after stopping the war so early? After everything that had happened? If that reward could only be accessed in her fantasies, then that was exactly what she'd do.)

As so many times before, Cyreia got lost in the kiss. They kissed so often that it really shouldn't feel this-- this amazing, but it did, and it took her breath away once again. Would it always feel like this? God, she hoped so. Because if she lost this feeling, Cyreia wouldn't know how to cope with that. Something like that didn't seem too likely, though; imagining a scenario where Remin's closeness wouldn't make her feel so entranced was distinctly impossible. She'd-- she'd have to be blind. "And I love you," she whispered softly. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You know that, right?" More than likely, she did. Cyreia had never been particularly subtle when it came to her emotions, and that was even more true with the feelings she held for Remin. "I don't think you're aware, but you were incredible as well. I mean, you had no experience with any of this, and yet you handled it with such poise. That is a strength as well, even if it's different from mine." Again, they didn't have to be the same; considering the paths they had walked before their marriage, they never would. The gap was too wide. Perhaps that wasn't a bad thing, though. Cyreia had fallen in love with Remin, not with a copy of herself, and she didn't want that copy even now. She wanted her wife with all her little imperfections and quirks, with everything that made Remin Remin. Besides, their stregths were strangely complimentary. Cyreia had always known that instinctively, though that fact had never shined so brightly as it did now. "I-- well. I'm sure this offers little comfort, but try to think of the big picture," she started carefully and raised her hand to wipe away some of her tears. "That's what has always helped me. You were hurt, and you suffered, and none of this should have happened to you, but you also saved many, many lives in the process. You were an inspiration to those soldiers. I doubt that, without you, we would have been able to end this war so quickly."

 

[Conifer]

Even just this much-needed chance for proximity, for nearness and closeness in whatever definition might find its way to the surface, did infinities to settle Remin's overwhelmed nerves. The kiss and the rhythm of it did just as much, drawing her thoughts away from the frantic places they'd wandered to and back to comfortable earth, wrapped up and held down by Cyeria's arms. Gods, she loved her. Would anyone be able to calm her so easily? It seemed an utter impossibility, and yet they'd managed to find each other in all of this mess. Or, this mess had allowed them to manage to find each other, more like. She wishes she were able to go back to the day that she had learned she was to be married to this terrible man of war and conquest and ease her own fears - every single thing she'd thought then was wrong, and she'd been needlessly so scared of it. Well, she knew now.

"We did it together." She murmurs, tracing her fingers across Cyeria's cheek. "None of that would have worked if we'd taken it on alone." It was likely that Cyeria would have still manage to lead them to victory regardless of Remin, or Pextian, or...whatever that had been, but how it'd happened, it had needed them both. "You're beautiful to watch out there, you know." She says, softly, nearly reverently. "I would never tire of watching you."

 

[Aerynth]

"That we did." They always did things together, didn't they? It had been unthinkable once, the mere thought of relying on someone else like that, but with Remin, it came easily. So many things did. How had she been so afraid of intimacy before? God, those fears felt so pointless now! They hadn't been, of course, because not wanting to let anyone close to her had been entirely justified back then, but-- well. Cyreia was so glad that she had managed to outgrow that mindset; that she had allowed Remin to draw her out of her shell despite her fright, despite all the instincts that had screamed at her to retreat. Then again, had it really been about allowing her to do anything? Because Cyreia wasn't sure she would have managed to stay away even if she had tried harder than she had. Remin's presence had always been too magnetic for her to resist.

"Am I?" she asked, clearly flattered. Cyreia... knew that she looked good, actually, because her eyes worked just fine, though not many people complimented her like that. Not when some form of teasing wasn't involved. Avther the pretty face, that sort of thing. Cyreia had always laughed it off since it had been sort of funny in that context, but hearing something like that from her wife? From the woman she loved? That felt so, so different that she might as well have heard it for the first time. "I mean, it's still the same old me. You see me every day, so I doubt that's too exciting," she smiled her crooked smile, not even trying to hide the teasing edge in her tone. And so what? Things had been terribly, terribly serious for such a long time. Could she be blamed for wanting to bring a little fun into it? Surely not. It wasn't like Remin would benefit from remaining stuck in her own head; that was the exact opposite of what she needed. No, distracting her sounded like a far better idea. "What is it that fascinates you so, hm?" And maybe, maybe she also wanted to hear her wife praise her. That wasn't a crime, was it?

 

[Conifer]

A smile wormed itself onto Remin's face at Cyeria's own smile. It was so much easier to exist without worry when it was clear that Cyeria was at peace, and that soft, charming, storybook smile was never going to fail to leave Remin feeling soft and warm, even despite everything. They'd worried about it enough, though; it had worked its way into every moment of the past few days, and they deserved to share these moments of peace. She wanted these moments of peace. "Seeing you so in your element," she murmurs. "You know what you're doing out here. You're remarkable at it." Was it strange that she found competency so attractive? Maybe. So many people around her weren't, though...it was nice to know she could count entirely on someone to handle themselves. She'd find it attractive if she wanted to, and she very much wanted to find her wife attractive. "Not that you aren't capable back home," her will and determination to learn had charm in it's own right, "It's just much different here. So," she presses a kiss to Cyeria's cheek. "It is the same you, yes. But it's a you that I haven't had the honor of meeting properly yet, and who allows me to understand the same old you all the better now that I have met her."

 

[Aerynth]

"So, in other words, you like your uncultured soldier." Which... honestly didn't come off as a surprise. It was a bit bittersweet, knowing that Remin preferred that particular side of her, but Cyreia did understand that. There wasn't anything particularly strange about admiring skill; she, too, saw the appeal in Remin's ability to talk a bald man into buying a comb, or dancing around her political enemies with such elegance it probably left them baffled. It was just that-- well. Her expertise was killing people, both directly and indirectly, and that did make her feel a bit... Hell, Cyreia herself didn't know. Melancholic? Probably. She had hoped to leave this life behind, but apparently that wasn't as easy. Not when she instinctively ran back every time an opportunity reared its ugly head. Then again, wasn't that what had saved Remin in the end? What had allowed them to win this war with minimal casualties? Maybe-- maybe she shouldn't discard her old self like shoes that no longer fit. She had built Avther with such care, after all. He may not have been the ideal person to sit on the throne, granted, but perhaps people like him were needed, too. When words failed and swords had to be drawn, he would be more useful than a noble lord who had never seen a battlefield from up-close. Was that to be her role in Athea? No, or at least not just that. Cyreia wouldn't let the burden of day to day ruling fall on Remin's shoulders only. She would be both; a commander and a king.

"I just hope that, one day, I'll be as confident in ruling a country as I am in commanding troops," she smiled softly and kissed her on her lips. "Some things, I suppose, aren't as different about it. I mean, you always need to have some sort of a plan, and I like coming up with those. I don't even mind learning all those new things; reading about history and such is enjoyable, sort of, when you're in the right mood. What's difficult for me, however, is dealing with all the people. All the advisers and the nobles. I still have no idea how to avoid insulting half of them accidentally, I'm afraid. How do you manage to be so good at these things?" Cyreia had meant to ask her about that for the longest time, so why not now? They had all the time in the world as they lay in each other's embrace, soft and warm and comfortable.

 

[Conifer]

"In other words, I like you, Cyeria." She corrects gently, so intentional about using her name - the name that encompassed both Avther and Ianes and everything that the woman before her had to hide from both of those. It isn't wrong that she likes her uncultured soldier, as gods, she loves that part, but she also loves the person who most assuredly is no simple uncultured soldier laying in the bed with her, and loves the king that tries so much to learn his new people. "I love each facet of you. This is just...a new one for me to see and love, and it's beautiful. Just as you're beautiful in Avther's clothes, just as you're beautiful in the mornings with me before either of us have to be anyone."

She nestles against Cyeria gently, curling the fingers that had been drifting across her cheek into the women's hair as she contemplated her question. "...the same way you wield a sword so easily, I guess.'' She hums softly. "It's all I've done since I first was capable of speaking. You'll learn it. It's not as difficult as it seems. You just need to learn both what people expect of you, and what they want from you. Sometimes you'll play into it, and sometimes you'll utilize it. The soldiers at lunch wanted someone to be a distraction from the battlefield, and expected me to be above sitting with them. The fact that I wasn't - I'm not - was the distraction they wanted, and it left them off guard enough that they were willing to be open with us, because they didn't know what else they should be." She explains softly, more rambling than intending to be informative. "Knowing what exactly to say is a little more complicated, I guess, but...it'll come to you. You're already wonderful with the people who actually matter. The nobility might matter more on paper, but nobles aren't eager to rebel as long as they've their comfortable clothing and mansions. They have more to lose. These soldiers don't."

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia buried her face in Remin's hair, uncharacteristically silent. She would have loved to be able to respond to that, but her throat felt tight and her eyes stung and-- well, she didn't think she would manage to come up with anything half as meaningful. Did Remin know just how much it meant for her? It wasn't just about loving her for who she was; perhaps more than that, it was about letting her see it. About showing her that somewhere deep under the fake identities she had concocted, there was an actual person, and that person was worth knowing. That little fact eluded her at times, but Remin would always be there to remind her. Remin, her dear wife who always saw her so clearly even if Cyreia herself didn't. How could she ever match that? Not even a lifetime of devotion seemed sufficient. "... thank you," she said in the end, and it wasn't nearly enough, but it was something. A start, maybe? It didn't matter, after all, that the perfect words didn't come to her now. Time was on her side here; sooner or later, she'd figure out how to express herself better.

Not as difficult as it seems? Cyreia really begged to differ, but Remin was right, she supposed. There were few things some practice wouldn't fix. The issue with that, however, was that good practice inevitably involved mistakes, and a king couldn't afford to make many of those. Not when they could cost Athea so, so much. What was the worst thing that could happen to you while practicing with a sword? A few injuries? Well, technically you could kill yourself and also other people if you were unfortunate enough, but that still didn't compare to the mayhem a king's incompetence could result in. Whole countries had been destroyed by terrible rulers and Cyreia did not want to follow that particular example. No, failure was not an option here; for the time being, she had to rely on Remin. Hopefully observing the other woman would help her gain some insight into how these things worked.

"That's probably true," she said after a while, "though I should still learn how to approach the nobles in... less antagonistic ways. I will spend the rest of my life interacting with these people, after all. Will you let me pick your mind for a bit? Since you know how to navigate these situations so well. But anyway, how do you think we should proceed here? Obviously I'll have to tell the local nobles who I am at some point because we'll likely work together in the future, but how do I do it without insulting them too much? I mean, there's no way they won't get mad over the deception, but I'd like to minimize the damage." Could that even be done?