The clash of heels against marble echoed through the halls. Delicate steps that came closer and closer. It couldn’t be Evara, she’d have fallen flat after her first step in heels. She doubted the dainty sound could be Amell, though it would be a sight to see. The steps didn’t stop as they grew louder still.
A little wave rippled over her bare arm, it lapped across her aching calf and took up the weight of her skull.
The heels didn’t walk, they sauntered. She could hear the sway of her hips, the confidence of her stride. A silent beckon, an unspoken promise. A white lie and a smoky kiss carried on lilac winds. A lover at first sight, a friend come the next, and maybe something even more after that.
“You are going to wrinkle.”
Ash jolted awake. It felt like she had been falling, her belly tore through the ground while she tried to keep above the water line. She stood straight, the tips of her toes finally finding the tiled floor beneath the stirring waves. Her eyes focused past the thinning steam to see a dark-haired figure standing at the far end. Her heart fluttered at the thought: could it be her?
By instinct, Ash covered herself. She dropped lower in the water as she wiped away the drops that clouded her vision. Dark hair, red robes, but bright pink lips and cold dark eyes.
“I did not mean to startle you, Champion,” the figure whispered. Her voice was all too soft, her smile all too forced. “It is simply that the day grows long, and you have slept for some time. The night won’t accept you if you waste your day.”
“I... What is the hour?” Ash stammered, trying to mask her embarrassment.
“That of the doe, sixteenth of the day,” the woman replied. She turned and slid noiselessly across the bathhouse to fetch a towel for Ash.
“Were you-” Ash tried to ask, but the question caught in her throat. “Heels, were you wearing heels?”
“No, my lady. I could, if you wish me to.”
“No, it’s- it must have been a dream.”
“Very well, my lady. Shall I have the staff prepare you something to eat?” The woman asked as she held out a fluffy blue towel for Ash to dry herself with. It must have been apparent that Ash was uncomfortable as the woman began to avert her eyes, even going so far as to turn her bowed head towards the opposite wall.
“I- erm. No, thank you. Do you... know where my sister is?” Ashtik asked. She took the towel with a whispered thanks and quickly gathered her modesty.
“I believe she is still within the library. Sister Rose tells me that she has created something of a bunker for herself. I doubt she will be joining us for some time yet,” the woman smiled, now facing Ash again. She was of a height with Ash, though stood as though she were much taller. A cold kind of confidence dripped from the woman’s dark, dove-wing eyes like tears would from another woman’s.
“Oh, I see. Thank you, but I didn’t catch your name,” Ash said. She quelled her timidity for a moment and matched the woman’s gaze. Ash could see the mask she wore. She was not truly so cold as her eyes pretended. There was a warmth greater than that of the water in which she yet stood, sealed an inch behind the near black of her iris.
“Mei, my lady. I am the prime maid of the house, and shall act as your personal attendant for the duration of your stay,” the dark-haired woman bowed.
“Oh, right. Thank you, Mei, but I don’t think I’ll need an attendant. It’s nice to meet you, though,” Ash awkwardly smiled, fully aware of every bead of water that dripped from her hair and down her towel.
“It is a pleasure to meet you too, my lady. I will be nearby at all times, should you change your mind.”
With the uncomfortable dismissal, Mei made away to make the most of her remaining day. Ash thought she really ought to do the same.
Her armour had been taken by some attendant while she bathed, in its place lay a fine cotton robe and a pair of strange fluffy shoes. The soles were so thin that she doubted there would be any point in wearing them, so she opted to don the robe and made for her reserved chambers.
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It took all her will, and all her strength, not to collapse down into the goose-down bed and sleep the day away. The room had been well-lived in, but the bed looked to be brand new. She found scuffs along the thick pile carpet where the frame must have been dragged along. The first sleep, in a brand-new bed, in a brand-new nation. It would have to wait until the day was done.
A quicksilver mirror lay in the far corner, framed in ivory. She caught a glimpse of herself and had to look again. The girl who had been a huntress was already gone; this was some new woman.
Her slender, athletic build had quietly been replaced with this much more muscle-bound body. It reminded her of a dream, one in which she was a queen; an empress. She had looked like this then, if a little broader and a much older.
She did not think her trials had been so demanding as to give her the frame of a warrior so soon, but she could not deny her eyes as she dropped her robe. Smooth curves and slim lines had come to be harsh and angled. Scarred and battered.
The amethyst of her eyes hadn’t yet faded to the grey of the empress, but they did look hollower here. That Evara hadn’t made mention of the transformation gave Ash hope that it was all in her mind, or that she was suffering some trick of the light. She even laughed as a thought found her; maybe the mirror was magic. Maybe some insecure nobleman had his mirror enchanted to make a more manly, muscled visage of himself.
Ashtik gathered some acceptable clothes that had been left within a set of draws and laid them out. The clothes were all in the fashion of Xio Vien, and not particularly to her liking. Colourful patterns and beautifully stitched flowers laced into flowing silk robes. She had grown so used to leather armour – or even her new steel – that she doubted she would remember how to even attach the garbs.
She settled on a white top with a neck that covered her own and a spiral of buttons flowing down and around her entire body. She couldn’t bring herself to don the skirts, not out of distaste for skirts themselves, but because they trailed much too far behind her. There must have been two meters of additional material behind her. It may have looked elegant, but if Ash decided to turn around, she’d have to do a lap of the room.
Fortunately, in the next set of draws, she found a pair of black pants. She put them on first and found that they were also of Xioan design. A kind of sash – or belt – wrapped around her waist and came higher than her naval, though it was hidden beneath the top as she slowly buttoned it up.
Her hair was still far from dry, though she hadn’t had time to properly maintain it in weeks. The tattooed vines at her temples had entirely vanished beneath a tuft of white. Though it wasn’t nearly as long as Evara’s hair, it was still much longer than she was accustomed to.
She decided to braid her hair again, but she would do so in the library so Ev could give her a hand.
That was until three quiet knocks broke her thoughts.
“Hello?” Ash called out to the big red door.
“Are you clothed?” A man asked.
“Amell?”
“Aye,” he replied. “I was thinking we should head out for a while.”
“Where?”
“I was going to check out the tourney, see if we can’t put a few knights on their asses. Come along, if you aren’t busy.”
The tourney did sound interesting, though she didn’t relish the idea of walking through all of those crowds. A chance to test herself, and how far she had come, did sound like a worthy waste of an afternoon.
She crossed the room and slid the door open where the giant stood beneath his lapis cloak.
“Do you know how to do a braid?” Ash asked.
“Sure,” he laughed.
----------------------------------------
The grand stadium held two ques. One line, vast as an ocean of drunkards, was meant for the audience. They bore the paints of favoured athletes as they sang and danced their way within. There seemed to be no end to them, though Ash did not doubt that the arena could hold all of them.
The queue Ash made for consisted of a much more eclectic band, though not nearly as many as the other. Maybe two-hundred warriors in all. Giant grey swordsmen, dense dwargon scrappers, elegant tenpic fencers. A few even bothered to spar, though it mostly seemed in good spirit. A scaled man and a tusked woman clashed heads with an echoing boom while others cheered them on. A silver-skinned Tenpic woman danced around the gentle strikes of a Quitevi marksman. She even saw some strange Baji artificer tooling with his gadgets.
She felt thoroughly out of place. A northern huntress had no home in battle, especially not a battle of recreation. She even felt somewhat overdressed, which truly was a foreign feeling for her. However, she couldn’t help but notice that Amell was wearing fairly similar clothes. For the first time since she had met him; he had shed his steel skin and its black underlayer. Now, he wore a fine white buttoned shirt with a strange collar and a stranger symbol embroidered within. She imagined it was some Kovayeshi style of outfit and that perhaps the symbol was some mark of his countrymen.
“You okay, Ash?” The giant asked.
“Yeah, just nervous.”
“Don’t be. You’ve beat Veytors, a couple of Oda cavalrymen won’t do much harm.”
“You say that but... I mean, aren’t you a wanted man?” Ash whispered.
“Well, yes,” he admitted with a sly simper, “but nobody will be looking at me. Not when the Sparrow-Knight shows up. Besides, most believe I’m dead. They certainly won’t think to find me here.”
The assurances felt hollow but he spoke them as if they were absolute. She had little time to ponder him before a grand bell rang out. Every man, woman and child knew what it meant. All as one, they marched forth. A stampeding swarm with surprisingly synchronised steps.
“Off we go,” Amell chuckled.
----------------------------------------
It tore through the air. It came close enough to shave her brow, but it wouldn’t be enough. She twirled her borrowed blade around her hips and drew it to her right hand, where she thrust it into the foot of her opponent.
“I yield!” The great mound of meat whimpered. He was just in time, as well. Any longer and he’d have become intimately familiar with the point of her left-handed dagger.
The crowd roared; it was the upset of the decade by the sound of it. The felled beast must have been a favourite, though she had torn him apart in moments.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” A magical voice echoed through the stadium. “The first bout is over, the winner – by natural decision – is ‘the Silken Smile’! Please collect your winnings while the next match is prepared, and don’t forget to pick up some refreshments while you’re up!”
“She’s good,” Ash awed.
“She’s too exuberant. She’d never last in a slug out,” Amell smiled.
“Exuberant?”
“Flashy.”
“Oh. What should she do instead?”
“Plan her moves ahead of time. Everything she did was reactive, good reactions are important but you shouldn’t be in a position where you have to rely on them. She should have angled herself with the sun to her back and kept some distance until she was ready to strike.”
“But she won, right? Why does it matter?”
“Because you’re going to beat her, it helps to know her flaws.”
“I can’t beat her!”
“Course’ you can. Now, come on. Let’s sign up.”
They followed the last of the crowd up to a long tent booth. Two women, one a dwargon and one a green-skinned human, sat behind a little wooden table. They drew two clipboards and handed them over with an utter sheen of bored disgust.
Amell got to work quickly, he scribed some strange runes and numerals across the paper while Ash just stood there dumbfounded. She desperately tried to parse some of the page, even going so far as to read some of the letters aloud – if under her breath. It was of no use. Not only did the symbols hold no meaning for her, they even seemed to dance across the page as she tried to focus on them.
“Ash?” Amell whispered. She caught his confused gaze as he finally seemed to notice her quiet struggle. “Are you okay?”
“I, erm,” Ash stuttered. A flood of red found her cheeks and she struggled to admit what had been typical back home. “I can’t...”
“Oh,” Amell smiled warmly as the realisation hit him. “I’m sorry, I just assumed because of Evara... Here, I’ll do it for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Ash half whispered as she handed him the paper.
“Nothing to be sorry for. Right, first off; name?”
“A-Ashtik?”
“Yeah, I know that,” he laughed, “but any middle names or maiden names?”
“Oh, yeah. Ashtik Sai-Weleg.”
“Right, age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nine-and-ten. Gods, I forget how young you are. Next, do you agree to battle till the first blood only? Any additional damage may be subject to legal recourse.”
“What does that mean?”
“Stab em’ till they bleed, then stop,” he chuckled.
“Okay.”
“Right,” Amell cleared his throat in some attempt to avoid the awkwardness of her overly curt answers. “Equipment request? A spear, dirk and light armour. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll just sort the rest out then. That should be all good.”
“Oh. Thank you, Amell,” Ash meekly smiled.
“Colin,” he corrected with a sly wink. The two turned back to the slumped-over women and Amell handed over the forms with a beaming smile.
“Right,” the dwargon woman grunted. “Tourney titles?”
“Hmm, I hadn’t thought of one,” Amell said. He turned to Ash with a face that begged for help.
“The blue-knight?” Ash suggested.
“Suitably humble, I like it. And the lady is the Sparrow-Knight,” Amell bowed.
“Sparreh’ ey?” The human woman repeated. “I eard’ that name before. You been in tourneys before?”
“I- no,” Ash replied.
“Swear I eard’ tale of some Sparreh’ knight over in’t west,” the woman insisted.
“Aye, yer’ right inall’. Those lads from Duke’s crossing said there were meant to be some Champion called the Sparreh’,” the shorter dwargon woman agreed. “Tha’ meant be you, darlin’?”
Ash didn’t know if she was supposed to tell them or not, or if they would even believe her. She had just fled her homeland at risk of death over the secret, now she was considering using her title in a renowned tournament. She faced Amell with the question in her eyes, it was as though she hoped he would have some wiser answer to offer them. He just smiled and said, “She’s a Champion, alright. Champion of the feast, nobody can out drink the wee lass.”
“Oh aye,” the human woman scoffed.
“For truth!” Amell said in a falsely posh Kovayeshi voice. “The lady is unrivalled in the revels. You ought to bow before her divine skullduggery.”
“Mhmm, so tha’s the ‘Sparreh Knight’ and the ‘Kovayeshi Clown’. Yer permitted one piece of personal equipment – most choose a weapon – but otherwise, yer’ gear’s over there and yer start in ten,” the human droned on.
Ten passed in one and her battle commenced. It was not so agonising as she had expected. Half a dozen separate matches occurred at the same time so the crowd was far from invested in watching her of all people. While she walked up to her battle circle, so did Amell off at the other end of the stadium. It seemed he had been matched against some swordsman who couldn’t have been any older than Ash. Though he was fairly well built for his age, he was so transparently outmatched by Amell in his thick plate armour.
Ash’s opponent stepped up to the starting line. A man, two meters tall and about half as broad. He cast her in shadow as he took up his position but he did not try to menace her. In fact, he smiled and bowed before her. Ash returned the gesture, though somewhat more awkwardly.
“May your blade sharpen in defeat, that it might cut in your next battle,” the man smiled as he sealed his face away behind his great helm.
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For once, Ash had a helmet of her own, though it fit more like a mask than a true helm. She wrapped her braids within and slipped it over her face.
“Contestants!” The magic voice boomed. “Draw your blades!”
Ash drew her borrowed spear from her back and took up a fighting stance. He hefted a blade near as tall as she over his shoulder as he took a slow step backwards.
“Begin!”
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She wasted no time. The goal was not victory, but blood. All she needed to do was cut him. She feigned a thrust but swirled the spear around. It clipped the side of his helm, rattling him and sending him reeling for an instant. She took the chance to tear her spear back and thrust it properly this time. She aimed for the slits in his helm, hoping to at least catch his cheek.
The great warrior roused himself and ducked to the side of her strike, though he was too late. The spear caught a groove in the steel of his helm and sent it flying from his head. He was still in the fight, though. He managed to wrap his hand around the spear and yank it from Ash’s grasp.
His blade tore through the air three, four, five times. Each strike bore his full strength, and his full wrath. Ash just kept backing away though she was quickly running out of space to retreat into. If she left the bounds of her battle space, it would mean defeat.
The beast slashed and then threw out a wild left punch towards her. She just barely managed to get her own left hand to it and parry it away, which was when she remembered her one advantage. The gauntlet.
In a split second, her eyes danced over the clawed knuckles of her black steel hand as it cruised past his punch. By instinct, more so than strategy, she twisted her hand just enough to catch his arm with the piercing end of her claw.
A drop of blood came with the torn flesh at his arm, and it marked an easy victory.
She stepped away and lowered her hands, but the beast did not. His rage had grown with each missed strike and now he saw an opening. He tore forwards, his blade pointed at her belly until a small sting broke his focus and sense caught up to him. She saw his gaze jolt from her blooded gauntlet over to his own arm. His rage dissipated in an instant, and a gracious smile comforted his defeat.
“A dirty trick, well played,” he darkly chuckled.
“Fighters!” The voice immediately announced. “In this round, we have three victors! The Kovayeshi clown!” The crowd roared at the name. Clearly, his battle had been an entertaining one. “The Soft Specter!” The announcer continued, and again the crowd erupted again. A young man raised his hand in victory and shone a cocky smile to his slain opponent. “And... Huh? The- err... Sparrow-Knight! By sheer technicality.”
It wasn’t as much a cheer, as it was confusion. It seemed the entire arena had bet against her and was utterly baffled as to how they could have lost their money. She awkwardly nodded to her fallen foe as he walked away with his head held low.
“And... now for the next contestants!”
It was a dwargon man at Ash’s feet this time. He equipped a strange crossbow and readied it with a bolt.
“Dumb luck won’t save you this time, girlie,” the dwargon cackled. Then the fight came, and all the bolts in the world couldn’t save him from a broken nose.
“The round is... over? The Sparrow-Knight survives yet again!”
To call it tense would be inappropriate. Nobody seemed angry at her victory, but not a noise was made and neither jeer nor cheer called out. It must have been sincere shock, or maybe contemplation. One victory could be luck, or a dirty trick, but to win a second round in such an easy way had to mean something...
“And a natural victory for the Kovayeshi clown! A mighty showing for a mighty merrymaker!”
The crowd took a moment to awaken from their stupor, but the sheer power of Amell’s performance managed to breathe new life into them. That life sprouted as raw mania. A torrent of spilt ale and scattered snacks. A thousand-voice chorus singing of the Clown commander, the Kovayeshi killer, the blue behemoth.
The third battle had yet to be completed. He who was named as the ‘soft spectre’ battled a flame-haired shield sister, though the eventual outcome was fairly obvious. The spectre was more so toying with his foe than battling her. He skimmed and pranced around her like some sort of Renbic ballerina. He was an elegant man, as soft-stepped as his name would suggest but she doubted his fleetfooted stance was from where his moniker was drawn. Instead, it must have come from his gentle face and slender frame. Despite his height and apparent skill, he was no muscle-strapped warrior. He was barely broader than Ash, despite being nearly twice her height. He was also the first man she had ever seen without even a wisp of a beard. Where most men seemed proud of the roughness of their jaw, his skin seemed smoother and shinier than even his fingernails.
He wrapped his shortsword around his foe’s shield and gently slapped her with the flat of the blade. It served no purpose but to enrage her, and he seemed to glow under her wrath. The flame-haired mistress struck her mace down with all her vast might. He simply stepped aside and let the mace shatter the stone stage on which he danced. He stole her chance to strike again by running the dulled edge of his blade across her cheek with a gentle twirl which ended in a terribly exaggerated bow.
“And another natural victory for the soft Specter! It seems some strong contenders shall vie for the crown this eve! Whom shall it be, by night’s fall? The hulking beast from the east with his overwhelming power? The gentle strider and his delicate murder? Or... could it possibly be this ashen spear maiden and what can no longer possibly be dismissed as sheer dumb luck? Man and fellow folk, I contend that this competition is only just beginning! But for now, allow your bets to be made while our fighters take their well-deserved breaks!”
Amell took the cheers in stride, but he didn’t bask in them. His focus remained on Ash, for some reason. He looked almost worried, though he never lost the grin in his eyes. The ageing man crossed the field of petty war and stood before her with his borrowed helm barely containing his glee.
“Good work, Spinny,” he beamed.
“Spinny?”
“I’ve never seen anyone spin around that much in a fight,” he chuckled. “It was a sight to behold.”
“Is it a bad thing?” Ash grimaced.
“Not at all. It's a uniquely huntress style, meant for dodging massive beasts that are too large to block. Most wouldn’t be able to translate it so well to real combat, but you move so purposefully. Though your footwork does need improvement, and you need to improve your close fight tactics,” he explained with an excess of passion. This was not an old and reluctant master imparting his painful knowledge onto a naive and ultimately doomed student. This was the glee of a father who had found a shared interest with his distant child.
“Is... that why you brought me here?” Ash accused. “So you can train me?”
“I... I intended on helping you improve your skills. I thought this would be an... interesting way to-”
“Study me?” Ash interrupted.
“To see what makes you different,” Amell somewhat shamefully corrected.
“I thought we were here to have fun,” Ash sighed, “get away from everything like that for a while.”
She didn’t know why, but she was upset. It actually took some focus not to get angry. He hadn’t cared to spend time with her without an ulterior motive, without the thought of their quest. She couldn’t escape it. Every waking moment spent in service of the supposed apocalypse. Why was it so urgent to everyone? She could look around and see no grand darkness, no great enemy. No dark lord rose from the ashes to bring damnation to the world. Yet every waking second she had spent since getting the damnable mark, had been focused entirely on the quest. This... tourney, was the first distraction she had been allowed; the first time she had really wasted. Yet it was no waste at all. It was Amell’s attempt to better focus her training. It was preparation for some future battle and conquest.
Amell couldn’t have known how she felt, but he did have the wisdom to look ashamed. He took the risk of raising his helm so that their eyes could meet before saying, “You’re right, Ash. I’m sorry. I know you’re under a lot of pressure; I shouldn’t add to it here. Don’t worry about training, just do your best and have fun. I’ll stop appraising you, I promise.”
“I-” Ash tried to say after a while of cold quiet. “I don’t... mind ‘Spinny’,” she finally managed to whisper, though she said it as though it were some great shame. He smiled at what he saw as an olive branch before sealing his helm shut again.
“Good, though I fear you have little choice either way,” he chuckled. “Now come on, ashen spear maiden, let's get some drinks.”
“Is it wise to drink before a fight... Clown commander?”
“Ha! Always! Keeps you brave and loose,” he laughed.
“Excuse me, Sparrow was it?” A strangely musical voice called from behind Amell. He stepped aside to reveal the Soft Spectre and the woman who had won the earliest bout. Ash recalled her moniker as being the Silken Smile. The two held a striking resemblance, completely identical twins despite their differing genders. She and her pixie-cut auburn hair matched his own shaggy auburn mullet. Both had piercing copper eyes and bore a wide toothy smile. If it wasn’t for the apparent difference in height, Ash might have thought herself as seeing double.
“Sure, or Ash,” she answered.
“A pleasure,” the man snickered as though some joke were told.
“We go by tourney names here, keeps things from getting personal. After all, it's all just a game; right?” the woman grinned.
“Sure,” Ash simply answered.
“Quite. Now I won’t bother you long, we were just hoping to have something of a word before our little bout,” the sister said.
“Sure,” Ash repeated.
“Hmm. Well, tis’ simply that I saw how you won your first bout. Not a victory of class, but sufficient enough. It would be a shame to end our own fight so... anticlimactically. I would beg an agreement. We wouldn’t want others to say victory was won through ill means.”
“Sure.”
“Excellent! Then shall we agree that victory is called only via a true strike of the blade?” She offered out her left hand and Ash was forced to return the gesture with her gauntlet. The auburn woman made no attempt to hide the fact that she simply wanted to get a better look at the item as they shook hands.
“Sure,” Ash agreed with a sigh. She stood unmoving for a moment while her opponent gracelessly scoured over the oily black metal at her hand.
“I suppose we shall be facing too, clown,” the brother smirked up at the older man. “I hope your age shall not deny us a contest.”
“And I hope your age shall not deny you the wisdom to learn from defeat,” Amell politely replied.
“You truly believe you can keep up? A lumbering old man like you? I’ve seen younger mountains and faster trees. Though, it certainly would be an impressive sight.”
“A housefly has seen a pot of flour and boiling kettle. Doesn’t mean it knows the heat of a volcano nor the smell of a fresh crop. Live a little longer, you’ll see more impressive things than I.”
The brother didn’t know how to react but kept his sly smile as he and his sister drew away.
“See you soon, Toodles,” the sister called as she turned her back.
“Right,” Amell sighed. “By the wrath of gods, I need a drink.”
“Couldn’t agree more. I’ll buy,” Ash chuckled.
“Aren’t you going to say ‘sure’?” He smirked.
“I really don’t know what that was about,” she half cried and half laughed. “I just forgot every other word.”
“Incredible. Such raw majesty and grace.”
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A little kiosk stood at the centre of the stadium. A sign might have read ‘fighters only’ but Ash couldn’t possibly know. What could be seen was a bundle of fifty or more battle-ready killers all vying for a single barman’s attention. A powder keg waiting for a spark, and by the vile glances, such a spark may well have been the filthy Sparrow-Knight.
Amell seemed utterly unaware of the dark looks as he gladly sauntered along towards the bar. Few stood in his way as he politely moved along. The same couldn’t be said for Ash. What tide had parted for the old knight, crashed shut before her.
“I’ll just get you something!” Amell called over the contemptuous crowd.
The little Champion retreated from the villainous glares and found for herself a quiet little nook at the far end of the grounds. It didn’t take long for Amell to make his way over, two iron tankards in hand. He sat himself down on a stone table while she sat on the floor with her back resting against it.
“What is it?” Ash asked before taking a swig.
“Awful,” he chuckled.
She snorted gently before taking a deep swig. It truly was awful, and yet she went straight in for another gulp. It was best described as a pint of shrimp whiskey by taste, but a thick milky creme by texture.
“Have you ever had a drink that wasn’t?” She asked, looking up at him as he appraised his drink with astonished disappointment.
“Everything's great... when you’ve had enough of them.”
“Aye, but what about something great at first taste?”
“Hmm,” he scratched his bristles as he considered. “Yes,” he finally realised. “My... wife, would make this concoction. Lavender, violet and some other herbs from the garden. The smell alone was worth waging a war for. And that taste! You could drink them like water and never realise you were getting thoroughly pissed.” He paused for a while with an ever-weakening smile before he continued on, “But I was too much of a ‘man’ back then. Good taste is for women, men drink swill and enjoy it! It’s funny how little, things like that come to matter as you age. If I wasn’t so proud, I’d have burnt the recipe to memory. I’d drink it every day.”
“Your wife... How did she...?” Ash quietly asked.
“I was... punished, for my ‘valour’. Too busy conquering the continent to remember that the whole world lay within my home. Some felled foe from some pointless battle saw fit to set my home afire while I slaughtered his countrymen,” he mournfully recalled, though he did seem to try and laugh at his failings.
“I’m... sorry, Amell. I can’t imagine.”
“Of course you can,” he all too lightly said. “Is that not why you fight? You fear losing young Evara so you rage against the apocalypse. It’s why you’ll hold together the crumbling horizon; so she’ll have ground to stand on.”
“I guess.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Not... entirely. I don’t know. I fight for Ev, that I know at least. But there’s something more, something worse. I think... I enjoy it.”
“The thrill of conflict? The purpose of destiny?”
“Hurting people,” she shamefully admitted.
“Child...”
“Not... I... There was a boy, in my village. He was a hornblower for the bandits that attacked us. I... tortured him. I smiled. I felt so... confident; so in control. He was an evil man, he hurt my friend and he was going to hurt my sister. He even threatened to rape me for gods’ sake. I... cut his finger off and barely noticed. I had the smith crush his hand, one knuckle at a time. After a while, I stabbed him through the heart and left him in the mud.”
“You were traumatised. Nobody can blame you for deviled actions against the devils themselves.”
“And what of the Veytors? I had a direwolf drain a man. His mind, his soul, his organs. Even his bloody bones, and again I didn’t care. I- I'm a huntress, I-I- I know sometimes you need to kill to survive. But those times are almost sacred, certainly filled with regret. Every time I was sloppy and got caught by a wolf, I hated that I had to kill it. Yet I see a man willing to die for his convictions – a priest so sure of my wickedness that he would throw himself on a spear rather than walk away from me – and I kill him in the worst possible way.”
“They wanted to do you harm, Spinny, you had no choice.”
“But how long is that excuse going to last? How long before I realise that I’m just a vindictive bitch; that I enjoy hurting people?”
Amell didn’t answer. Instead, he drew the dirk from her holster and pointed the grip towards her.
“Take it,” he quietly ordered. She obeyed with a resigned sigh, gripping the pommel tightly. He, in a flash, pulled her hand closer to him so that the blade slashed across his exposed palm. A spurt of hot blood gushed over her hand and stained her blade.
“Amell! I’m so sorry! Are you okay? What was that?”
“Did you enjoy that?” He asked with a sly smile.
“Of course not! Show me your hand, we need to bandage you up,” she nearly shouted. She tore a strip of cloth from the skirt of her armour and wrapped it around his hand frantically. “Stupid old man,” she grumbled.
“Then,” he winced, “you don’t enjoy causing pain. Simple as that.” He wrapped his unharmed hand around both of hers and brought a stop to her panicked tending. “Look at me.”
She did. His big blue eyes tore through hers and, where she had expected pain or even shame, she saw two jewels of absolute beaming pride. “You have been through more in the past few weeks than most go through in a lifetime. You went from an idyllic and a – quite frankly – sheltered life to being steeped in godly dread and bloody death. I don’t think even you understand how hard it's been on you. How many times have you felt alone in this? How many times have you had to act without Evara, to protect her or to allow her some... ease? Ashtik, the forgotten Goden speaks in your head; a feat even the greatest of gods cannot claim. It is beyond a miracle that you have not been driven utterly mad.”
“But if I do turn out mad? Amell, I’ve had dreams where I'm an empress. More than dreams. I can’t do that if I’m some... monster.”
“I will be at your side,” he promised. “As will Evara. All the way. Trust in her as your moral guide, if you do not trust in yourself.”
“So that’s it? I turn into an evil queen while Ev begs me to stop or you put a knife in my heart?”
“I would never. Your fate is my own, no matter how dark. But destiny is not so simple as good and evil. You are not on a path to become some dark sovereign. You are on the path to becoming Ashtik Sai-Weleg, and only you get to decide what that means. So try; try to be kind, try to be gentle or try to be brilliant. You will fail, time and time again, but so long as you keep trying; you will never be truly evil.”
“And when I enact some more ‘righteous’ murder? When the people claim me to be a hero for my villainy?”
“Then feel bad. Regret. Sometimes the difference between what is necessary and what is cruel is as simple as regret. Make yourself regret that your hand was forced to do such evil. That regret will drive you to improve, to ensure that you needn’t make the same terrible action ever again. When some new action comes, equally as terrible, and you are forced to partake; regret it. That is all I can offer you, child, I'm sorry.”
“How can I regret killing killers? Am I supposed to mourn murderers?”
“Cherish life, Ash. It can be beautiful and it can come from terrible places. A terrible killer can be a father to the most... wonderful little son. Every life has some worth, not just the kind ones.”
“Fighters!” The magical voice interrupted. “Take your stands!”