Oath - draft

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[[You are a knight.|2]] <<nobr>> <<set $armour to true>> <<set $ash to false>> <<set $landscape to false>> <<set $calloused to 0>> <<set $compassionate to 0>> <<set $Rrelationship to 0>> <<set $gamechapter to "Chapter 1">> <<set $Acaring to 0>> <<set $Aanimosity to 0>> <<set $Asubservient to 0>> <<set $romance to 0>> <<set $v1 to false>> <<set $v2 to false>> <<set $v3 to false>> <<set $v4 to false>> <<set $v5 to false>> <<set $v6 to false>> <<set $v7 to false>> <<set $v8 to false>> <<set $v9 to false>> <<set $v10 to false>> <<set $v11 to false>> <<set $v12 to false>> <</nobr>>

All your life. That has meant only one thing. [[You are to give your life in service to your monarch.|3]]

<div id="container"> <div id="header"> <span id="header-text" onclick="toggle(this)"></span> <div class="menutoggle"><span id="zero" onclick="toggle(this)"><i class="fa fa-ellipsis-v" aria-hidden="true"></i> </span> <span id="one" style="bottom:-180px;"> <div class="menu-flex"> </div> </span></div> </div> <div id="story"> <div id="passages">  </div> </div> </div>  <script>function toggle() { var x = document.getElementById("one"); if (!x.style.bottom ||x.style.bottom === '-180px') { x.style.bottom = '0px'; } else { x.style.bottom = '-180px'; } } $("#story").click(function() { var x = document.getElementById("one"); if (x.style.bottom == '0px') { x.style.bottom = '-180px'; } }); $("#one").click(function(event) { event.stopPropagation(); }); </script>

<<replace ".menu-flex">><<include "menu-flex">><</replace>> <<replace "#header-text">><<include "header-text">><</replace>>

<script>var myDiv = document.getElementById('passages'); myDiv.scrollTop = 0;</script>

<<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>00</b> go back</div>'>><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>01</b> restart</div>'>><<script>>UI.restart()<</script>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>03</b> profile</div>' 'profile'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>04</b> saves</div>'>><<script>>UI.saves()<</script>><</link>> <<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>05</b> settings</div>'>><<run UI.settings()>><</link>>

Oath / $gamechapter

WIP <<link "return to game">><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>>

a passage for testing the """$return""" function! it returns you to the last visited passage that isn't tagged with 'noreturn', whereas the general back button in the menu simply navigates through all visited passages. helps you avoid getting stuck in a loop! <<link "return to game" $return>><</link>>

<<set $gamechapter = "chapter">>

[[You have failed.|4]]

The world is dark around you. All smoke and embers. Ash drifts through the air, as though in slow motion. [[Catching the last dregs of oily light from the dying fires.|6]]

[[- Get up.|7]]

There is ash in your hair. A strange thing to notice, now, but you can't seem to focus on anything else. Or maybe you simply can't bring yourself to. There is ash in your clothes. Caking your skin. [[Smothering your entire world.|8]]

It falls from you in a great cascade as you push yourself up to your feet. Slowly. Painfully. It is a bone-deep, lingering kind of hurting that has made you its own. That has taken root within the very fibres of who you are. A scream pierces the air. Raw thing dredged from the depths of the soul, like something dying. One dreadful sound, hollow and weightless in the absolute silence of the ruined battlefield, amongst the endless dead. And for a moment, you start, your fingers twitching instinctively towards the hilt of a blade that is not there. But it's you screaming. Of course it's you. [[Who else could it be?|9]]

[[You are alone here.|10]]

You cannot stop your own trembling. [[- Look out across the ruined landscape.|11a]] [[- Brush the ash from your face.|11b]]

If the landscape was once familiar, it is not anymore. Everything is lifeless. Empty. The carrion birds kept away, for now, by the thick, choking plumes of smoke. Even the last sputterings of fire seem somehow flat, as though still capable of destruction but not of warmth. You wonder if you would even feel anything, if you stepped into the flames. <<if $ash is false>>[[- Brush the ash from your face.|11b]] <</if>>[[- Walk.|12]] <<set $landscape to true>>

It comes away in great lumps where it had been plastered to your skin by blood and pus. Brushed away, they expose raw, weeping wounds. Your armour is in no better state than the rest of you. Ruined. Split open. The metal almost peeling away at places, jagged edges sticking outward as if in some groteque mockery of torn flesh. [[- Peel yourself out of your armour.|11c]] <<if $landscape is false>>[[- Look out across the ruined landscape.|11a]] <</if>>[[- Walk.|12]] <<set $ash to true>>

You walk. You do not know where you're going. You do not know how much longer your body will hold up. Will keep moving before you collapse. It doesn't matter. There is nothing else you can do. [[You walk.|13]]

It takes a long time. Too long. You, alone in a field of the dead, fumbling with unwieldy gauntlets at the straps and buckles of your armour. Feeling outside yourself. Like you're choking, despair wrapping cold fingers around your throat. Your hands are freed first, exposing bruised skin and raw knuckles. Then the brassards. The greaves. They each hit the ground with a dull thump, sending up small clouds of dust and ash. The only reason you're able to get your breastplate off with your stiff, trembling fingers is because of how ruined and battered the buckles already were. <<if $landscape is false>>[[- Look out across the ruined landscape.|11a]] <</if>>[[- Walk.|12]] <<set $armour to false>>

You walk. And you try not to remember. Not the blood. Or the heat. Not the blade shattering in your hand. A moment of weightlessness followed immediately by hard impact, feeling your ribs fracture with the force of it. Not the look in <<cycle "$liege" autoselect>> <<option "↩his">> <<option "↩her">> <</cycle>> eyes. Your monarch. Your liege. Looking somehow resigned, as though your fates were already predetermined. As though there was no more cause for hope. No longer any reason to put faith in you. And yet still somehow forgiving. [[It makes you feel angry. Despondent. Deranged.|14]]

<<nobr>> <<if $liege is "↩his">> <<set $title to "King">> <<set $himself to "himself">> <<set $he to "he">> <<set $his to "his">> <<set $him to "him">> <<set $He to "He">> <<set $His to "His">> <<set $Him to "Him">> <<set $Himself to "Himself">> <<set $consort to "queen consort">> <<set $Queen to "Queen">> <<set $wife to "wife">> <<set $whe to "she">> <<set $whim to "her">> <<set $whis to "her">> <<set $Alexandria to "Alexandria">> <<set $whimself to "herself">> <<set $Whe to "She">> <<set $Whim to "Her">> <<set $Whis to "Her">> <</if>> <<if $liege is "↩her">> <<set $title to "Queen">> <<set $himself to "herself">> <<set $he to "she">> <<set $his to "her">> <<set $him to "her">> <<set $Himself to "Herself">> <<set $He to "She">> <<set $His to "Her">> <<set $Him to "Her">> <<set $consort to "prince consort">> <<set $Queen to "Prince">> <<set $wife to "husband">> <<set $whe to "he">> <<set $whim to "him">> <<set $whis to "his">> <<set $Alexandria to "Alexander">> <<set $whimself to "himself">> <<set $Whe to "He">> <<set $Whim to "Him">> <<set $Whis to "His">> <</if>> The one thing you were supposed to do is give your life in service to your monarch. <</nobr>> And yet here you are now, alive. And $his fate is unknown. It is failure to an unimaginable extent. It is a betrayal of your oath and everything you have ever stood for. A corruption of everything you have dedicated your life to and the one duty you had sworn to the heavens and the earth to uphold. But none of that matters. Because above all that. Beyond the failure and the collapse of all that you have known-- [[Guilt, and loss. Like a deep, aching current within you. Like a slow erosion.|15]]

You couldn't even manage to die for $him. [[What kind of knight does that make you?|16]]

Suddenly-- A hand around your ankle. <<if $armour is true>>Latching to the bottom of your greaves. You barely would have felt it, if not for how desperately they hang on, the weight of their whole body a sudden counterweight to your forward momentum.<</if>><<if $armour is false>>Digging nails deep into your flesh. But what is another wound? What is another bleeding?<</if>> [[- Whoever this is, friend or foe, they are the first living thing you have seen since you awoken. Examine them.|17b]] [[- You do not have the time for this. Or rather, you have nothing but time, and still no patience. Shake them off.|17a]] [[- Whoever they are, they are suffering. You remember what that's like. You are still living it. Help them.|17c]]

You will not make yourself so vulnerable now. But you do stop to look down at them, the mere sight of something else alive in this dead landscape a cold kind of shock. It is a slow process of standing, pulling themselves up in part with the help of their grip on your ankle. You watch them shake thick ash from themselves, brushing trembling hands uselessly over the bloodied mess of their hair, their helm long lost, and revealing one eye either sealed shut with blood or lost entirely. Their other eye is fixed on you, the amber of it nearly a vivid gold, and somehow shocking amongst the grey wreckage as they right themself, trembling. For a moment, they only watch you, the apprehension in their gaze fading into something else as recognition hits. "It's over," he says. [[It is not a question.|18]]

A mysterious hand in a field filled almost equally with allies and foes. You would be a fool to make yourself so vulnerable now, with your whole body bruised and bleeding, each step a new agony. Not to mention, whoever they are, they are probably close to death themselves, anyway. But they do not let go, even as the force of your movement almost throws them bodily to the side. Instead, they use the motion to pull themselves up, revealing a face so covered in blood and ash it seems hardly human, one eye either sealed shut with blood or entirely lost. Their other eye is fixed on you, the amber of it nearly a vivid gold, and somehow shocking amongst the grey wreckage. You take a few wary steps back to watch them stand fully out of the dust, your hand reaching instinctively again for <<if $armour is false>>where your scabbard once was<</if>><<if $armour is true>>your empty scabbard<</if>> as they right themself, shaking off the debris. It takes a while for them to steady themself enough to even look up at you, the visceral fear in their expression fading into something else as recognition hits. "It's over," he says. [[It is not a question.|18]] <<set $calloused to $calloused+1>>

It is not unlike being voyeur to your own waking, only moments prior. You reach one hand out slowly. Hesitant. There is no way of knowing whether the figure is friend or foe, and this is maybe one of the most foolish things you have ever done. But you remember what it's like. The ash coating the inside of your mouth. The whole world hazy with pain. The pain. Your hand meets matted hair first, their helm long gone, and as you brush the dust from their face, you are greeted once more with gore. One ruined eye, either sealed shut with blood or lost now entirely. It's twin is fixed on you, the amber of it nearly a vivid gold, and somehow shocking amongst the grey wreckage as the figure rights themself, trembling. The slight caution in their gaze fades into something else as recognition hits. As you extend a hand to help him stagger to his feet. "It's over," he says. [[It is not a question.|18]] <<set $compassionate to $compassionate+1>> <<set $Rrelationship to $Rrelationship+1>>

[[You do not know how to reply.|19]]

For a long while, you just both simply stand there. You watch him take in the landscape, the devastation of it. And once more the reality of the situation seems to hit you like a physical force, like a strike to the soft spot just beneath the ribs. Perhaps there is something about someone else being here that makes it all too real. You watch him, this soldier you hardly know. A faintly familiar dark umber face seen in snatches amongst crowds and during training. Your only companion now. You wonder what he thinks of you. If he blames you, for even being here. For not having done the one thing that it was your duty to do. You should be by the side of your $title. Or you should be dead. That you are neither is a disgrace and a failure. [[- ''What do we do?''|20a]] [[- ''Where do we go?''|20b]] [[ - You cannot bring yourself to speak.|20c]]

Is that reproach, in the way he turns to look at you? Disgust? But his voice is gentle, when he speaks. Soft with hoarseness. "We keep going," he says. "We keep going. And we see what is left. And we pick up the pieces." You certainly feel as though shattered. Broken. Something vital suddenly lost, like something had reached its claws in and dug out a piece of you, bloodied and dripping. [[You do not know if there will be enough pieces to pick up.|21]] <<set $whattodo to true>>

Is that reproach, in the way he turns to look at you? Disgust? But his voice is gentle, when he speaks. Soft with hoarseness. "Onward," he says. "There will be-- there should be people left, still. We find them, and we go from there." Other people. Other people to bear witness to your shame. To know how you have lost the most important thing in your life and how it is all your fault. [[You feel sick.|21]] <<set $wheretogo to true>>

You do not speak. And for a long moment, neither does he. Step after step across nothing but more fire and ash and blood. A kind of unreality that is all too real, down to the taste of acid and burning still in your throat. Finally, he is the one to break the silence, his voice soft with hoarseness as he turns his gaze towards you. What he sees, you do not know. Perhaps he is disgusted. You would be. "There will be someone still here," he says. "There will be something to do." It seems untenable to you. The idea that the world still exists. That is has not fallen into nothingness. [[The very heart torn from it.|21]] <<set $didntask to true>>

[[- Walk.|21(1)]]

Here and there, there have been army tents, ragged, collapsed things rising from the ashes like teeth. Charred almost beyond recognition, there is no longer any way to tell which side they had belonged to. Perhaps that was what has made it bearable, thus far. Or, if not bearable, at least withstandable. Survivable. The familiarity of the layout is easier to ignore than the sight of familiar colours burning, the same way the corpses are easier to ignore when their faces are obscured with armour and ash. A necessary kind of self-deception. The sight of the central pavilion, still in flames, is harder to ignore. [[You barely feel yourself collapse.|22]]

Your companion does not catch you. Most likely the severity of his wounds makes it impossible. Or perhaps he just can't bring himself to -- you would not fault him. Or perhaps it is the same kind of cold, crushing reality crawling its way up your windpipe that pins him to the spot. You'd known which side had lost. Of course you did. You'd known the second you'd raised your face from the ashes. Because of the flames. Because the suits of armour on the dead were more often familiar than not. Because you were alone, and not by $his side. Still-- [[You'd hoped.|23]]

That $he had done the impossible, once again. That $he had found some way to make it ok, even if that meant leaving you behind. Or, at the very least, that not all has been lost. A strategic retreat, maybe. Something that would allow, still, for something approaching recovery. Anything but the entirety of this decimation. [[You think you might be screaming, again.|24]]

<<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter to "Before the Battle">> Before the final push, just after the final meeting, $he'd pulled you aside in that pavilion. One hand on your elbow with a gentleness that made your heart twist in your chest, a warmth you could feel even through the thick metal of your armour. <</nobr>> "Be careful," $he'd told you. [[''My job is to-''|25]]

<<if $liege is "↩his">>He'd<</if>><<if $liege is "↩her">>She'd<</if>> smiled at that. An strange kind of smile that stopped your words in your throat. Almost sad, somehow. Too gentle. "My liege?" No answer. You watched $him drop $his hand from your arm and take two heavy steps back, falling against the edge of the map table before running $his hands over $his face. Exposing a kind of weariness that you'd only seen once before, the composure of leadership gone from $his face to reveal a fragile kind of uncertainty. You'd watched $him, in the silence. For what like felt far too long. Until it made you feel unhinged, [[mad with it all.|26]]

Finally, $he spoke. Unexpected words. Though you do not know what you were expecting. "You are a <<cycle "$playergender1" autoselect>> <<option "↩man">> <<option "↩woman">> <<option "↩person">> <</cycle>> used to war, are you not?" For a moment you were taken aback. Immediately on guard in a way that you were not, around $him. /* [[27]] */ <<link "The truth is that $he was more right than $he knew." "27">><</link>>

<<nobr>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩man">><<set $playergender2 to "a man.">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩woman">><<set $playergender2 to "a woman.">> <</if>><<if $playergender1 is "↩person">><<set $playergender2 to "neither man nor woman.">><</if>> <</nobr>>/* [[28]] */ <<link "- You were. Are. War is perhaps all you know. You'd known war since before you'd even known that you were $playergender2" "28">><<set $trans to true>><</link>> <<nobr>><<if $playergender1 is "↩woman">> /* [[28]] */ <<link "- You were. Are. Always have been. You were born to war the same way others were born to seasides or mountains." "28">><<set $trans to false>><</link>><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩man">> /* [[28]] */ <<link "- You were. Are. Always have been. You were born to war the same way others were born to seasides or mountains." "28">><<set $trans to false>><</link>><</if>><</nobr>> <<nobr>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩woman">><<set $playergender to "female">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩man">><<set $playergender to "male">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩person">><<set $playergender to "neither">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩woman">><<set $phe to "she">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩woman">><<set $phim to "her">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩woman">><<set $phis to "her">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩man">><<set $phe to "he">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩man">><<set $phim to "him">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩man">><<set $phis to "his">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩person">><<set $phe to "they">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩person">><<set $phim to "them">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩person">><<set $phis to "their">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩woman">><<set $playertitle to "Ser">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩man">><<set $playertitle to "Sir">><</if>> <<if $playergender1 is "↩person">><<set $playertitle to "Ser">><</if>> <</nobr>>

But that cold history with war was something that $he did not need to know. That is something that you were - <i>are</i> - unwilling to tell $him. The only thing. A little piece of truth you cannot quite withstand yourself. That you may never quite know how to look at in full. "I am," you'd said. /* [[29]] */ <<link "That was all you could bring yourself to say." "29">><</link>>

If $he'd noticed your turmoil, $he did you the kindness of ignoring it, turning instead to look at the map beside $him, where the little armies pushed their way across flat mountaintops and painted rivers. It almost looked beautiful. Green valleys, yellow deserts, and blue water detailed in carefully painted lines. No unbearably harsh sunlight or deadly, muddied torrents there. Not where those tokens were laid out neatly, in little rows where death and illness and internal conflict were unknown. "I was not meant to know war," $he told you. "At least, not like this." [[Still with that vulnerability. Looking far too human in the dim light.|30]]

<<if $liege is "↩his">>His<</if>><<if $liege is "↩her">>Her<</if>> fingers had drummed an anxious tattoo on the worn wood. "It is not easy, leading good people into all this." And you-- hadn't thought. /* [[31]] */ <<link "Just stepped forward. Laid your gauntleted hand over $his restless fingers." "31">><</link>>

The lightest of touches. A transgression of an unimaginable kind. Something $he could have had you hanged for. Beheaded for. Burnt alive at the fucking stake for. You found that you did not care. [[It is absolute liberation and horror at once.|32]]

<<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter to "Chapter 2">> You come back to yourself on your knees in the ashes. Your fingers curled to claws around burnt canvas.<</nobr>> The dark, charred edges dig into the space beneath your nails, stains your hands unwashable. And you're [[- weeping.|33a]] [[- screaming.|33b]] [[- numb.|33c]]

You don't notice the tears carving their way along your soot stained cheeks at first. Not until you're suddenly breathless, your breath hitching with a gasping sob that leaves you trembling. Dread. Dread wrapping cold fingers around your throat, sharper than any steel. You try to speak and find your voice shattering embarrassingly, fragmented sounds caught like shards in your chest. The kind of wound that lingers. The kind of splintered glass that scar tissue grows around. [[A shameful kind of mutilation.|34a]]

Like a noose around your neck, pulling tight and making the whole world silent and still in all the wrong ways. A second stretched to eternity or an eternity wasting away in a second. Either way, an intolerable, timeness numbness that chills you to the core. Freezes the spaces between your vertebrae. Distantly, your feel your lips shape around soundless words, something dark passing just under the surface, tracing ripples in the water under the ice. [[It doesn't matter. None of it matters.|34c]]

Or maybe screaming isn't quite the right word. The sound tearing your throat bloody is something inhuman. Visceral in all the wrong ways. You hear it distantly. As though through water, the whole world hazy and undefined. There is nothing but the grief winding its way through your chest and shoulders, wrapping around your windpipe and <i>squeezing</i>. You're clawing at the ashes, at your own hair, your own face. But you barely feel it. Some cold, removed part of you wants to feel it. Would rather tear bloody streaks down your face than continue screaming. [[But you can't stop.|34b]]

<<nobr>> <<if $calloused is 1>> Faintly, still faintly, through that pain taking root in your chest, you feel more than hear your companion sitting with a dull thud in the ashes beside you, silent and stunned. <<else>> And then there is someone kneeling in front of you. Hands tugging your nails away from your skin, fingers wrapping around your wrists. Just this side of too tight, but you can't blame him, not with how desperately you're pulling back against his grip, wanting to draw blood. Wanting to feel anything else. <</if>><</nobr>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- You hate him for him composure." "35">><<set $calloused to $calloused+1>><</link>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- You are thankful for his presence." "35">><<set $compassionate to $compassionate+1>><</link>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- There is nothing but horror." "35">><</link>> <<set $v1 to 2>>

<<if $calloused is 1>>Faintly, still faintly, through that dread choking you alive, you feel more than hear your companion sitting with a dull thud in the ashes beside you, silent and stunned.<<else>>And then there is someone kneeling in front of you. Arms tugging you roughly into an awkward approximation of a hug<<if $armour is true>>, clumsy against the sharp edges of your armour<</if>>. Like two people who aren't quite sure how this works. Giving and receiving comfort. Or maybe you're just projecting.<</if>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- You hate him for him composure." "35">><<set $calloused to $calloused+1>><</link>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- You are thankful for his presence." "35">><<set $compassionate to $compassionate+1>><</link>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- There is nothing but grief." "35">><</link>> <<set $v1 to 1>>

<<nobr>> <<if $calloused is 1>> Faintly, still faintly, through that numbness freezing your blood, you feel more than hear your companion sitting with a dull thud in the ashes beside you, silent and stunned. <<else>> And then there is someone kneeling in front of you. Hands on your shoulders, holding you steady. Like he can feel how cold you are and is trying to warm you up. Not that you can feel it. <</if>><</nobr>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- You hate him for him composure." "35">><<set $calloused to $calloused+1>><</link>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- You are thankful for his presence." "35">><<set $compassionate to $compassionate+1>><</link>> /* [[35]] */ <<link "- There is nothing. You can feel nothing." "35">><</link>> <<set $v1 to 3>>

It takes far too long for you to <<if $v1 is 1>>stop your tears<</if>><<if $v1 is 2>>stop screaming<</if>><<if $v1 is 3>>force yourself back into motion<</if>>.<<if $v1 is 1>>Your breath still uneven. Catching in your throat. A souvenir of weakness<</if>><<if $v1 is 2>>Your throat stripped raw. The taste of blood in your mouth<</if>><<if $v1 is 3>>That cold numbness still blurring your vision<</if>>. The words slip past your gritted teeth before you can even process them. "I don't know where $he is." /* [[36]] */ <<link "A quiet, shameful, <i>obvious</i> confession." "36">><</link>>

"I know," your companion replies. And when you finally, truly look at him you find his gaze already fixed on you. It would sound like an admonishment, if not for the dull, defeated look in his one unbloodied eye. "I know," he repeats, tired. [[Like there are no words quite enough for the moment.|37]]

"I was supposed to protect $him." Your voice breaks. [[Trails off into nothing.|38]]

"I'm sorry." He hauls himself to his feet, standing for one more long moment before spurring himself to action, stumbling heavily towards the ruins of the central pavilion, stopping now and then to put out a smaller fire with the heel of his foot. The dying sun and flickering flames paint his dark skin in strokes of red, bloody and raw. For a purpose, or merely because he can no longer stand to be near you and your <<if $v1 is 1>>grief<</if>><<if $v1 is 2>>horror<</if>><<if $v1 is 3>>numbness<</if>>, you have no idea. [[- Join him in picking through the dregs.|39a]] [[- You cannot bring yourself to join him.|39b]]

You drag yourself to your feet in turn, and it's almost familiar. A strange kind of deja vu in standing up again in that endless grey. But there is something akin to a purpose now, at least. Something more substantial than the vague sense of direction that had pulled you back to the familiarity of base camp. Your companion sends you a quiet nod when he sees you join him, something that may have been a tired, mirthless smile of acknowledgement flitting for a moment across his expression. [[- Speak to your companion.|40]] [[- Look through what remains of the central tent.|40ab]] [[- Look through the remaining personal effects.|40ac]] <<set $v7 to true>>

The thought of seeing exactly the state of what is left is unbearable. And besides, you know there is nothing to find, either way. Nothing but the embers of what could have been. What was planned and foiled. What was left behind. Your companion seems to come to the same conclusion, mere moments later. And you see him straighten from where he had knelt to inspect something where the war table once was, a sheaf of smouldering, frail parchment held loosely in his hands. Slowly, almost intentionally, he lets the breeze catch the pages, watching passively as the wind carries them a negligible distance, little dark ink-spots of ash staining the air. He turns back to you after far too long, a tired, mirthless smile of acknowledgement flitting for a moment across his expression. [[- Speak to your companion.|40]]

You close ranks with your companion in silence, turning your gaze to the ruined canvas and broken wood beneath your feet. There is not much left but ash and fire. Like the rest of the battlefield. Like everything else you have seen today. Your steps take you across the length of the tent, the layout somehow still familiar despite the damage, and somehow that hurts more. Makes needle-thin scratches in your psyche where memories risk slipping through. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your companion kneel to inspect something where the war table had once been, and when he straightens, you see a sheaf of smouldering, frail parchment in his hands. Strategic notes, if you're seeing the pages correctly. Little diagrams of possible attacks and retreats, all in <<if $title is "king">>his precise lines and neat writing.<<else>>her wild lines and messy scrawl.<</if>> You see his grip loosen. Ready to surrender those pages to the thin breeze. [[- ''Can I hold on to those?''|40aba]] [[- Say nothing.|40abb]] <<set $v8 to true>>

You head to the smaller, personal tents that encircle the central war pavilion. Most of them are damaged to unrecognisability, collapsed and hollowed by looting and flame. The few personal effects that remain are sad, ruined things. Here and there, the trampled spine of a half burnt book, or a distorted portrait. Scraps of metal and leather and cloth. You pay them little heed. [[There is a tent in particular you are headed to.|40aca]] <<set $v9 to true>>

<<if $v2 is false>>[[- ''What's your name?''|41a]]<<else>>- "What's your name?"<</if>> <<if $v3 is false>>[[- ''How did you find yourself here?''|41b]]<<else>>- "How did you find yourself here?"<</if>> <<if $v4 is false>>[[- ''Do you know what happened during the battle?''|41c]]<<else>>- "Do you know what happened during the battle?"<</if>> <<if $v5 is false>>[[- ''Do you think anyone else is alive?''|41d]]<<else>>- "Do you think anyone else is alive?"<</if>> <<if $v6 is false>>[[- ''What do we do now?''|41e]]<<else>>- "What do we do now?"<</if>> <<if $v7 is true and $v2 is true and $v3 is true and $v4 is true>>[[- There is nothing left to ask.|39c]]<</if>><<if $v7 is false and $v2 is true and $v3 is true and $v4 is true>>[[- There is nothing left to ask.|42]]<</if>> <<set $v10 to true>>

<<if $v8 is false>>[[- Look through what remains of the central tent.|40ab]]<<else>>- Look through what remains of the central tent.<</if>><<if $v9 is false>> [[- Look through the remaining personal effects.|40ac]]<<else>> - Look through the remaining personal effects.<</if>> <<if $v8 is true and $v9 is true>>[[- There is nothing left to search.|42]]<</if>>

Perhaps you should know his name. He seems to be another knight, after all. Some scion of the noble houses, most likely, or a lucky page who had somehow impressed. Perhaps you should know his house, and his parentage. If you should, you are unaware of the fact. Either way, if the question disconcerts him, he does not show it. One thing you can be grateful for, at least. The last thing you need right now is the quiet affront of nobility, so repulsively familiar. "Rowan," he says, "and you're-" You interrupt him halfway. There is no doubt in your mind that he knows who you are, is ramping up to say it, but you can't hear it right now. Especially not if there's a chance he'll add the title he so thankfully forewent for himself. "<<textbox "$playername" " ">>," you tell him. "Right," he says. And his next sentence is merciless. "/* [[41aa]] */<<link "The $title's left hand." "41aa">><</link>>" <<set $v2 to true>>

He laughs at that. A dry, humourless laugh that vanishes into the air, as though swallowed by the smoke. "In this war? Or here specifically?" [[- ''This war.''|41ba]] [[- ''Here, now.''|41bb]] <<set $v3 to true>>

Perhaps it's a stupid question. Or perhaps it's the only way you have of asking something you cannot bring yourself to ask. <i>Do you know what happened to $him?</i> But maybe he was knocked out after you were. Maybe he knows something you do not. And maybe, just maybe, against all odds, despite the fact that it would almost have certainly come up before now- /* [[41ca]] */ <<link "Maybe he knows what happened to the $title." "41ca">><</link>> <<set $v4 to true>>

He shrugs, defeated. "Someone must be." [[It does not exactly fill you with confidence.|40]] <<set $v5 to true>>

<<if $whattodo is true>>It is a question you have asked before. You do not know why you ask it again. Perhaps because he had given an answer last time and you are desperate for anything to cling to. Perhaps because you needed something to say to fill the silence.<</if>><<if $wheretogo is true>>You have asked something similar before. You do not know why you ask it again. Perhaps because he had given an answer last time and you are desperate for anything to cling to. Perhaps because you needed something to say to fill the silence.<</if>><<if $didntask is true>>It is a question you have had an opportunity to ask before. You do not know why you ask it now. Perhaps because you are desperate for anything kind of answer to cling to. Perhaps because you needed something to say to fill the silence.<</if>> He looks at you, and his expression is haunted. There is a familiarity in the listlessness behind his eyes. You know it before he answers. That this is not a man to turn to for answers. Not anymore. Not now. Not after seeing the truth of what has occurred. [[- ''You don't need to answer that.''|40]] [[- You let the silence linger.|40]] <<set $v6 to true>>

You'd known that that was how they'd referred to you. Hadn't cared, before. Hearing it now, [[you have to keep yourself from flinching.|40]]

"Not too dissimilar to you, I should imagine." That's unlikely to be true, but you don't take the time to correct him. "Became a page, then a squire," he continues. "Worked my way up. Tried to prove myself." A noble then, most likely, if being able to work his way up was a given. [[- ''Right.''|40]] <<if $v12 is false>>[[- ''And here specifically?''|41bb]]<</if>> <<set $v11 to true>>

Any shred of humour he may have had evaporates. "I don't know," he confesses. "One moment, there was someone riding towards me. And then-" This you know. The clash of steel. The taste of blood in your mouth. Not enough time to process. Just pieces left, when it's all over and done with, fragmented memories clinging no matter how hard you try to shake them loose. "And then I came to," he says, "and my eye was gone, and the war was over." [[- ''Right.''|40]] <<if $v11 is false>>[[- ''And this war?|41ba]]<</if>> <<set $v12 to true>>

His first words relieve you of the weight of whatever frail hope you'd had. "Not whatever happened after the call to retreat." The first call to retreat, you assume. There had been more, afterwards, increasing in panic and disorganisation. You'd been trying to clear the $title's own path back when <i>it</i> had happened. The army around you in utter dissarray, the screams of horses and men bleeding into each other, and the blade - the blade you failed to notice - emerging from the chaos as though from the void itself. [[You'd rather not think about it.|40]]

He gives you a strange look, but acquiesces, handing you the thin stack of parchment. <<if $v10 is true>>[[- You are done searching.|42]]<<else>>[[- Speak to your companion.|40]]<</if>> <<if $v9 is false>>[[- Look through the remaining personal effects.|40ac]]<</if>> <<set $parchment to true>>

He lets the breeze catch the pages, and you both watch, passively, as the wind carries them a negligible distance, little dark ink-spots of ash staining the air. <<if $v10 is true>>[[- You are done searching.|42]]<<else>>[[- Speak to your companion.|40]]<</if>> <<if $v9 is false>>[[- Look through the remaining personal effects.|40ac]]<</if>>

<<if $liege is "↩his">>His<</if>><<if $liege is "↩her">>Her<</if>> tent is reduced to cinders entirely. The fire had not spread here. A fire had been started here, specific and targeted. [[- Dig through the ashes. On your hands and knees if you have to. There must be something left.|40acb]] [[- Leave. Leave. You never should have checked here. You cannot bear to be here.|40acc]]

For far too long you are digging through nothing but wreckage, the scabs on your scalded fingers reopening once more and leaving clumps of blood and ash in your wake. You cannot bear to look at your companion. Do not know if he sees what you're doing. If he's gazing with judgement or pity. It doesn't matter. He can try to stop you if he wants to, can try to drag you physically away. You're not stopping until you find something. Some sign that there had once been life here. Precious. Singular. Unique. And then - the tap of something heavy and familiar against your fingertips. A river stone. Washed smooth. Plain enough to overlook entirely, but you know it well. Know what it looks like in the gold of spring sunlight, or turned over and over in a restless hand so many times it seemed polished. Know where it came from - and there is a memory there you quickly suppress. Cool river water against your calves and the faint scent of summer flowers in the air. [[- Take the stone.|40acba]] [[- Leave the stone.|40acbb]]

<<if $v10 is true>>[[- You are done searching.|42]]<<else>>[[- Speak to your companion.|40]]<</if>> <<if $v8 is false>>[[- Look through what remains of the central tent.|40ab]]<</if>>

It rests perfectly in your palm, round and smooth. And perhaps it's just your imagination, but it feels almost warm, holding the residual heat of the flames and transforming it into something soft and kind. <<if $v10 is true>>[[- You are done searching.|42]]<<else>>[[- Speak to your companion.|40]]<</if>> <<if $v8 is false>>[[- Look through what remains of the central tent.|40ab]]<</if>> <<set $stone to true>>

You leave it where it is. Half covered with ash. Perhaps you're worried that picking it up will break you entirely. Perhaps it simply means nothing, now. <<if $v10 is true>>[[- You are done searching.|42]]<<else>>[[- Speak to your companion.|40]]<</if>> <<if $v8 is false>>[[- Look through what remains of the central tent.|40ab]]<</if>>

For a moment, you are struck with a sudden purposelessness that leaves you floundering in its wake, unanchored and off balance. It's getting late, the sun dipping low to where the smoke lingered on the horizon, its light blotted out far sooner than it otherwise would have been. The darkness that has resulted is artificial in a way that send chills skittering over your spine. "I don't want to have to make camp here." Your voice comes in a whisper, almost too low for you to even process it yourself. And the words themselves, too, are shameful all over again, an admission of the kind you wouldn't expect from anyone but the earliest recruits. But you can't help it, the wrongness digs its claws deep into your spine and you can't breathe for the strength of it. [[- You don't want to be here.|43]]

For a long moment, neither of you speak. "Yeah," Rowan says, finally. [[- You move to set up camp.|44]]

It is more muscle memory than anything. The knowledge that there is no other option. In the silence, you move to brush the dust from yourself again, pointlessly, before making your way back toward the tents. Burnt fabric. More dust. More ashes. But you have done better with less. The camp you end up with is better than nothing, at least, framed by old canvas and ruined wood. You do not have it in you to start a fire, despite the seeping coldness of the night, any residual heat in the ashes long gone now. And you do not have to look to your companion to know that Rowan, too, cannot bring himself to create another flame. [[''Hello?''|45]]

The new voice has you both leaping up, shaking the aches from your bodies in a pathetic attempt at readiness. Old training takes over as you press a finger to your lips. A redundant gesture, he knows as well as you do how to stay silent and aware in these circumstances. But you needed to do it, you think. It is one sliver of normality you can still cling to. "Is someone there?" And then the figure rounds the looming gravestones of ruined tents, and the voice registers. /* [[46a]] */ <<link "The $consort looks at you, face streaked with ash and tears." "46a">><</link>>

<<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter to "A Memory">> Winter. Frost clinging to exposed branches. The fastidiously maintained rose bushes, stripped of their petals and leaves, are nothing more than stems and dark thorns, in harsh contrast against the thin blanket of pale snow. <</nobr>> A scene almost as frigid as the sole occupant of the garden. $Queen $Alexandria, consort to $His Majesty the $title, the <<if $wife is "wife">>woman<<else>>man<</if>> with the royal court wrapped around $whis little finger, inclines $whis head in acknowledgment as $whis servant announces your presence. $Whe's facing away from you, long dark hair, loose from its usual intricate stylings, hiding $whis face. For a while, silence. Nothing but the retreating footsteps of the young woman who had guided you here. If it had been anyone else, you might have thought that they were gathering their courage. Getting ready to say what you both know must be said. But this is $Alexandria, and so the silence is intentional. Calculated. You shift uncomfortably, the snow crunching under your boots. Your armour is heavy, more ceremonial than practical, and you think you can feel the cold starting to seep through. It's late. You should be off duty. Not that that matters to either you or the <<if $wife is "wife">>woman<<else>>man<</if>> standing in front of you, [[still not looking at you.|47]]

"You wished to speak to me, your majesty?" You wonder if you're losing some kind of unspoken power struggle just by speaking first. The court certainly seemed to be nothing but infighting and maneuvering, now more than ever, and $Alexandria is nothing if not a creature of the court. Their darling and their voicepiece. $Alexandria hums in acknowledgment, but still doesn't turn around. Carefully, $whe raises a gloved hand to snap a dead branch from the bush closest to $whim, sending loose a light shower of snow. "$playertitle $playername," $whe says, voice clear despite the wind and the muffling snow. $Whe must be cold too, you think. $Whis clothes are hardly designed for warmth, and the dark cloak slung artfully across $whis shoulders, although fur-lined, was clearly made for little more than to fall in elegant folds. Not that $whe shows any sign of it, seeming more than happy to stand in the snow as $whe appears to consider $whis next words. You know what this is about, you think. The nobles have been talking, and so, too, have the knights. You'd only hoped that it wouldn't come to this. That this, like all your other little discrepancies and faults, would have been allowed to go unaddressed. But $he is $title now. Is inheritor to the war that had killed both $his father and older brother. And the attentions of the court have never been more pointed. /* [[48]] */ <<link "And you, at the heart of it all. $His personal guard and closest friend." "48">><</link>>

[[A flash of memory.|46]]

It isn't as though nobody had ever pointed out your background, or lack thereof, prior to this. It's a popular topic of conversation. A recurring subject in gossip circles. But it never mattered that much before now. More indiscretion than unacceptable wrong. Not anymore. "The court have been expressing certain concerns surrounding the $title's safety," $whe says, voice carefully steady. "The matter of guards." Clever, to frame it as such. You have no doubt that the court's own words were far less diplomatic. Far more pointed and scathing. "I wanted to consult you, before I spoke to the $title about the matter." A quiet sigh as $whe finally turns to look at you, brushing $whis long hair from $whis face. "Nevertheless, we all know that a change must be made. The $title cannot lose the respect of the court, especially at a time like this." And you are the obstacle to that goal. A fresh wave of bitterness. Something you'd thought you'd gotten past long ago. Something you should have made your peace with. Not quite. It turns out. Not quite. Not with the figurehead puppet of the court in front of you, something far uglier than $whis placid tact lurking [[just beneath the surface|49]].

"Concerns, my liege?" The look $whe gives you is exasperated, $whis dark, almond-shaped eyes almost imperceptibly narrowed in something that could be disapproval. You don't care. The feeling rising in your chest is dark and ugly. A resentment dredged back up from where you'd once believed it to be buried. You want to hear $whim say it. If they're going to do this to you, if they're going to send their little puppet to 'consult you', the least they can do is say it direct to your fucking face. "Yes," $whe says. A pulling of teeth, even now. A struggle to the end. [[You don't dignify that with a response.|50]]

$Whis jaw tightens for a moment before $whe sighs, stepping across the garden to brush the snow from one of the benches before sitting with a sigh that somehow still appeared calculated. False. "Fine," $whe say. "I'd thought to spare us both from having to hear it aloud, but I suppose that's a kind of cowardice too, isn't it? You know what they say about you, and it would be a disservice to pretend otherwise. To spare myself of the discomfort of saying aloud what you have to live." Steady, measured words. Each one calculated to cause the least offence. You knew $whe was good at this, but this is perhaps the first time you've even spoken to $whim enough to appreciate the intricacies of the delicate gossamer webs $whe weaves. "The nobles are concerned about your closeness to the $title, as you know. It is a difficult time. The war is ongoing, and the recent loss of not just one, but two monarchs, has resulted in little short of absolute chaos. We will have to add guards, and to reduce the amount of time you spend by the $title's side. There is talk, as you know. That your background is unknown. That you are not of the noble houses. That your–" $Whe hesitates. "Of course, the rest is even less savoury." A diplomatic way to put it. As though they haven't been voicing those exact same sentiments. [[- ''Why not say it anyway, if we're already here?''|51a]] [[- ''I'm aware.''|52b]]

Something hardens in $whis expression. “Fine,”$whe says. "Fine. The court, that scheming den of snakes, thrives on rumours and gossip. And when someone like you shows up, background unknown, nothing but some common soldier the $title took a liking to, tongues start wagging. The nature of your relationship is something the court have entertained themselves with since $his father was on the throne. Only it's not so entertaining now. "<<if $playergender is "male">><<else>>The matter of your gender has also been a cause of concern. Without mincing words, they would have preferred you be a man, even if you were not of noble blood. <</if>><<if $playergender is "male" and $trans is true>>The matter of your gender has also been a cause of concern. Without mincing words, they would have preferred you have been born a man, traditionally so, even if you were not of noble blood. <</if>>They do not mind that you fight, but they dislike that you have the ear of the $title, fickle and cruel as they are. We both know that you are not who they would like you to be, on multiple accounts. "I do despise what the court does, but there is no way to convince you of that, and I will not waste our time by trying. What we can agree on, I'm sure, is that the $title cannot lose $his court, their money and resources and support, at a time like this." Rage, again, like an old friend. That $whe is here, composed and perfect, telling you how much $whe too dislikes the court that loves $whim. As though $whe can empathise. As though $whe hasn't disliked you since the start. [[- ''Right, and I'm sure you must be real torn up about it.''|52a]] [[- It's not worth it. What will arguing change?|52b]]

It is no secret that $whe dislikes you. Hasn't gotten along with you since $whis first introduction to the court as a child of seventeen, eldest of one of the most prominent noble familes and destined for a strategic marriage. It's not due to your friendship with the $title, at least, you don't think so. At least from what you know there is no warmth in that relationship. Nothing enough to give rise to either tenderness or jealousy. No, $Alexandria's open distaste for the way you conduct yourself is a lot simpler - the nobles dislike you, and so you pose a complication. A threat to the carefully cultivated diplomatic relationships $whe has so carefully woven with and between anyone with even a shred of power. That the members of the court have gotten past their hesitance to openly voice their criticisms of you must feel like a windfall. Finally, something the $title cannot ignore. Especially not now, in the first few tender months of $his reign. You watch $whis jaw work as your words register, $whis elegant features twisting unpleasantly. “Right,” $whe says. "Take your anger out on me if you must. Hate me. I wouldn’t begrudge you that. But I am asking you, for the sake of the kingdom, your $title, your <i>duty</i>, to not make this harder than it has to be. Step down." You feel nauseous. All that you've worked for. All that you are. Gone at the whims of the court. The petty wants of people who have never and will never understand. [[- ''No.''|53a]] [[- ''I- fine.''|53b]] [[- Panic rises in your throat. You should. You should. But you can't bring yourself to say the words.|53c]]

Quietly, $whe sinks back in $whis seat, as though all the air had suddenly been taken out of $whim. "I'm part of this, I know. Enabler. Perpetrator. But what else can I do?" The note of genuine discomfort in $whis voice takes you off guard. It is no secret that $whe dislikes you. Hasn't gotten along with you since $whis first introduction to the court as a child of seventeen, eldest of one of the most prominent noble familes and destined for a strategic marriage. It's not due to your friendship with the $king, at least, you don't think so. At least from what you know there is no warmth in that relationship. Nothing enough to give rise to either tenderness or jealousy. No, $Alexandria's open distaste for the way you conduct yourself is a lot simpler - the nobles dislike you, and so you pose a complication. A threat to the carefully cultivated diplomatic relationships $whe has so carefully woven with and between anyone with even a shred of power. That members of the court have gotten past their hesitance to openly voice their criticisms of you must feel like a windfall. Finally - something the $title cannot ignore. Especially not now, in the first few tender months of $his reign. So why, then, this genuine hesitance? "We will have to reassign the guards regardless, but I am here to ask you to step down, officially." Another stretch of silence. One of $whis boots trace aimless patterns into the snow at $whis feet. $Whe does not look at you. [[- ''No.''|53aa]] [[- ''I- fine.''|53b]] [[- Panic rises in your throat. You should. You should. But you can't bring yourself to say the words.|53c]]

Whatever composure had been in $whis expression melts into something pointed and angry, the mask falling away into an anger that looks almost out of place on $whis usually placid features. "Fine," $whe hisses, "be a child, then. Be selfish, and thoughtless, and do only what you want, and leave me to clean up your messes again and again. Isn't that just what you've been doing this whole--" $Whe cuts $whimself off so abruptly that it almost takes you off balance, $whis fingers digging into $whis sleeve as $whe closes $whis eyes and exhales slowly, pale white breath staining the darkness of the night sky and leaving a trail like scar tissue. When $whe opens w$whis eyes again, $whis features are once again expressionless, dark gaze unreadable and fixed on a point just past your shoulder, as though $whe can't even bring $whimself to look directly at you. "No. I apologise for that. I hope you can understand that it's been a difficult time." $Whe recites it like a speech. "It's not fair for me to put this on your shoulders. We will have to make adjustments to the guards, of course, but your title shall remain your own for the time being. It is imperative we present a unified front at this time." A warning, you think. Especially that last part. /* [[54]] */ <<link "You bow as $whe brushes past you, leaving nothing but a trail of footsteps." "54">><</link>>

Relief floods $whis face as $whe stands, straightening $whis cape. "Thank you," $whe says, voice low and deliberate. "I'm sorry to have put you in this situation, I really am. But we all must make sacrifices, for the sake of the $title and the kingdom." A quiet laugh. "It sounds cliche, when I say it like that, I know. But it remains true, nonetheless. Sacrifices must be made. I'm glad that you're able to understand that. I will speak to the $title about our next steps." An awkward half-touch to your shoulder as $whe steps past you out of the garden, like a strange little attempt at comfort. The gesture makes the whole exchange embarassing, infantilising, as though you were a child being praised for giving up some favoured toy. And just like that, everything you once were, taken away in an instant. /* [[54]] */ <<link "- You feel sick. But it's for the best. It has to be." "54">><</link>> /* [[54]] */ <<link "- $Alexandria had cornered you. Spoken about duties and oaths. You may as well have been trapped, given no choice." "54">><</link>> /* [[54]] */ <<link "- A strange sense of pity as you watch $Alexandria leave. Not empathy or sympathy. <i>Pity.</i>" "54">><</link>>

A long, discomforting silence. $Alexandria watches you with the quiet intensity of someone examining a particularly unpleasant insect. You've gotten good at reading the signs, little indicators that might escape even the sharp, predatory eyes of the court. Frustration is easy to see when you know how to look for it, and the signs are not so different between people. A tightness at the bolt of the jaw. A sudden stiffness to the way $whe holds $whis shoulders. "No," $whe says, finally, voice a low murmur. "Never mind then. I'll not ask you to do that now. The scent of hesitation is easy to catch, and they swarm it like sharks to blood. If you are not ready to make the sacrifice, then we will work around it." An accusation. Like they're speaking down to a child. "I will speak to the $title. We will have to reassign the guards regardless, as I mentioned, but your title will remain your own for the time being. It is imperative we present a unified front at this time." A warning. Do not step out of line. /* [[54]] */ <<link "You bow as $whe brushes past you, leaving nothing but a trail of footsteps." "54">><</link>>

$Whe casts you a long, unreadable look. Or- not so unreadable. You've gotten good at reading the signs, little indicators that might escape even the sharp, predatory eyes of the court. Frustration is easy to see when you know how to look for it, and the signs are not so different between people. A tightness at the bolt of the jaw. A sudden stiffness to the way $whe holds $his shoulders. "Fine," $whe says. "It is ultimately your decision, I suppose, and we will work around it as we always do." A note of accusation. Clear as day. That you are something they have to work around. An obstacle. "Your title shall remain your own for the time being. Of course, it is imperative we present a unified front at this time." A warning. Do not step out of line. /* [[54]] */ <<link "You bow as $whe brushes past you, leaving nothing but a trail of footsteps." "54">><</link>>

<<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter to "Chapter 2">> [[Enough. What's past is past.|55]]<</nobr>>

The camp you set up is slapdash, ugly. Rowan had opted to take first watch, and $Alexandria, who had waved away his offer to put up another tent, is asleep across from you, curled up into $whimself. Only $whis dark hair is visible, tangled and stained with dirt and blood. You can't sleep. No matter how you try, you can't sleep. This is a type of suffocation so strangely different from the grief that had been overwhelming you. A sudden, oppressive force pressing down on your chest and spreading warning signals like tendrils through your veins. Your body moves without you willing it to. No, not panic. Not that aimless, hollowing dread that strikes you sometimes at night. [[No. Something is wrong.|56]]

$Alexandria does not stir at the sound of you exiting the tent, though you don't know whether that's because $whe's asleep, or just ignoring you. And then you're outside, but the feeling doesn't stop. The air smells like smoke and burning, and each breath just fuels the panic. Something is wrong. It puts your teeth on edge. Puts an impatience under your skin you want to claw out with your bare hands. Unbearable. "$playername?" A hand on your forearm, hesitant. You jerk back instinctively, and Rowan takes a few careful steps back, hands raised, as though he was facing down a wild animal. "Hey, you alright?" [[No. No. Something is wrong.|57]]

"Did you hear it?" Your voice doesn't sound like your own. Hollow, echoing thing. Too quiet and too loud at once. "Hear what?" Rowan's voice is soft. Trying to sooth. Trying to understand. But the delay makes you both vulnerable. You need action, movement, panic. "I've been keeping watch, friend, the night has been calm." But how to say it? Without revealing too much? Without making it seem like you're just doubting him, and his training? The old, familiar downward spiral of panic. You are adrift in it. Lost. How to explain? The quiet is just quiet, a natural balance of stillness and sound. But there’s <i>something</i>. About the sound of the wind moving through the skeletal ruins of the war tents-- Just slightly wrong. Just slightly off. And all the while you are here, with your back to danger. Oh, but what could you do anyway? Just the two of you. Even if you had weapons. [[Even if you were not so painfully unprepared.|58]]

[[You don't get to keep panicking long.|59]]

A shadow in the corner of your eye, following the wind through ruined scraps of hanging canvas. Movement natural as breath. Dagger at the pulse point of your throat. In front of you, Rowan falls soundlessly, hand halfway to his scabbard. An almost gentle collapse. The figure behind him straightens. Their smile, when they meet your gaze, is calm, almost beatific. “Hello again, old friend.” A hard impact against the side of your head. Then, darkness. [[You’re getting really fucking sick of the darkness.|60]]

You awaken to the sound of quiet chatter, a muffled laugh at some hushed joke. Or maybe it's just the ringing in your ears that's dampening the sound. You strain your senses for more, testing, as unobtrusively as you can, the strength of the bindings around your wrists. You’re not expecting a miracle, but any small opportunity to become familiar with the environment could be crucial at a later time. Has to be. Doesn't it? What other hope do you have left? Breathe, focus. The heat of flames against your face. You've been dragged out by the campfire, with no indication of where your companions are. There are people around you. A small group, probably armed, but relaxed. Not expecting a fight. If you can find out what has happened. If you can loosen the ropes around your ankles. If you can take them off guard. If, if, if. You don't get the chance. "Awake, rabbit?" A voice, far too cold beneath the light veneer of joviality. [[And above all, familiar.|61]]

You had almost convinced yourself that it had been a dream last night. Dread and disorientation weaving past into present. Evidently not. You give up the pantomime of sleep reluctantly as a heavy boot knocks carelessly against your hip, sending pain streaking down your side. Looking up, the face that greets you is a strange, distorted mirror of memory. Pale, shoulder length hair - almost white - has been swept to one side, as if to draw attention to the scar tearing ugly across the line of their throat, clipping their jaw and leading up to a ruined earlobe. No strict, dashing scar across the eye or the bridge of the nose or emphasising the sharpness of a pale cheekbone. Instead, a poorly-healed line of twisting flesh they've chosen to display like a trophy. Above that, grey eyes. So light as to be almost colourless. Their pupils are fixed on you, sharp pinpoints, twin dark suns in an endless, washed out sky. The thin, pale child you had once known has grown into something strange and cold. More a sketch than a person. [[The underdrawing and not the painting.|62]]

"Come on, then. Up." Another hard kick to your hip. This time with a more active cruelty behind the impact. You struggle to right yourself, if only to get away from the pain, but only end up sending yourself scrambling backwards in the dirt, gravel digging into your skin. Jude laughs - <i>old friend, new enemy. You should have expected this. Hadn't you expected this?</i> - and drags you up with a hand twisted in your collar. Behind them, there's a thin ripple of humour as you're pulled upright. But Jude's own smile is joyless. An ugly thing stretched across bloodless lips. Not regretful, or bitter, or sadistic. Just hollow. A detached kind of bored interest. "Oh, don't look so <i>apprehensive</i>. You've nothing to worry about. Orders were to bring you in as goodwill gifts ahead of negotiations. You won't get hurt. Much. Unless you're stupid." Goodwill. Power play, more likely. Drag any survivors out like a display. Show you off in front of the soldiers and the citizens. A more effective version of the single wounded messenger sent off alive to ramble in fear about [[the defeat and the loss and the pain.|63]]

You inhale harshly as Jude lets go of their grip on your collar, shifting embarassingly in the attempt to keep your balance and eliciting a new wave of mocking laughter from the group gathered around the fire. Five that you can see, including Jude. Two of them are leaned up against an unassuming cart, looking slightly more alert, more ready for conflict. Guards, most likely, which means that that's probably where Rowan and $Alexandria are. The horses are tethered on the other side of the clearing, a careful distance away. Jude meets your eyes. Watches you take in the scene. Another bored, sardonic grin as they draw their sword, and you dodge back instinctively, avoiding the path of the blade swinging carelessly towards you. Only, your legs are still bound, and your mind is clouded with fatigue and pain. Jude cocks their head as you fall, hard, the impact a cruel jolt. Your teeth slicing open the inside of your cheek. [[The taste of blood filling your mouth.|64]]

"Now <i>there,</i>" Jude murmurs, "is the stupidity I mentioned." Another flash of steel. This time, the careless movement finds its mark, severs the rope around your ankles. Behind you, one of the other soldiers leans forwards in response to cut away the bindings around your wrists. This is why you’ve been dragged out alone, then. Singled out for mockery. [[- A sliver of an opportunity. Less. But you have to take it.|65a]] [[- No, they're just waiting for you to bolt. Stay put.|65b]]

They're expecting it. Of course they are. Jude doesn't even move. It's the one who had cut loose your hands - a short, stocky girl with her red hair shaved close to her scalp - who acts. Fast as a shadow, a snake, as she moves forward, kicking your feet out from beneath you. Almost embarrassing, how easily you fall again, sent sprawling into the dirt. A quiet tut from above you as Jude steps closer, one boot coming down to rest in the middle of your back. "One warning." Their voice is a calm, quiet little thing. "Out of the kindness of my heart. Another move like that, and the royal dies. No skirmish. No attempt to recapture you. Just one arrow or blade through the throat. Doesn't matter what you manage to do or who you manage to kill. We're efficient like that." Another kick as they step back, this time to your shoulder. "Lovely," they continue, when you don't respond. [[''Now, how about something to pass the time?''|66]]

When you don't move, don't try to take the opportunity to run, the soldier who had cut loose your hands - a short, stocky girl with her red hair shaved close to her scalp - sighs in exaggerated disappointment before stepping around you, her drawn blade tracing a long, listless line through the dirt. "Our luck we get the boring one, huh?" she laments. Jude hums in quiet acknowledgement before stepping closer. "Smart," they comment. "Because I'll give you the warning now, rabbit. One move out of line, and the royal dies. No skirmish. No attempt to recapture you. Just one arrow or blade through the throat. Doesn't matter what you manage to do or who you manage to kill. We're efficient like that." They knock their boot against yours, almost playful. "Lovely," they continue, when you don't respond. [[''Now, how about something to pass the time?''|66]]

The girl grins at that. In the light of the fire, she looks younger than you'd expected. Her features, splashed with a cheerful smattering of freckles, are youthful, not yet entirely free of the signs of childhood. "You sure?" she drawls. "Frankly, I don't even know if we've gotten the right one. King's left hand? Attack dog? Wouldn't have expected $phim to be so bloody easy to catch. Never meet your heroes, I guess." Jude smiles again at that. Still thin, still pale, but with the first hint of something genuine you've seen-- Today? In decades? [[One of those two.|67]]

A beat, some unspoken exchange passing between them, before the girl speaks again, her voice airy and plainly amused. "Alright, whatever you say, Jude." With a dull sound, her own sword lands in the dirt by your side as she gives you a sarcastic little curtsy. Jude inclines their head slightly as you make no move to pick up the weapon. Just watching. You could. You really could. You're wounded and still disoriented, sure, but you've fought through worse. And you wouldn't be fighting to win. Just enough to get to the horses. To run. Warn the city and the council and whoever's acting in the role of the Crown. Except, one of the figures by the covered cart has shifted slightly. An almost imperceptible difference. At attention. You swore an oath. Service to the Crown's interests. [[Protection of the monarchs.|68]]

"No need to look so tense," Jude says, when you still don't move. "I was merely wondering, $playertitle, whether you'd honour me with a friendly sparring session." A mean curl to their lip they can't quite hide. Another flicker of something other than the blank, sardonic boredom. The circumstances aren't fair. Of course not. You're off balance, humiliated, and wounded. Barely a worthy target even for some vain attempt at a power play. No, this is something else entirely. A grudge, long held and nursed into resentment. [[And you can't even blame them.|69]]

Your childhood friend stares out at you from behind pale eyes. The stubborn determination in them is familiar, the disgust entirely alien. [[- Reach for the sword.|70a]] [[- Refuse.|70b]] DEMO END

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