Arc 12: Power and Promise
“You can't have one without the other.”
– Merigold Thresh
- - -
A cluster of uniformed men stands in the dim-lit center of the jail. Two of them have peeled their lips back over gap-toothed leers, two more glare with blood and bruise on their knuckled fists. They gather around a fifth, a man with a fresh-broken nose and blackened eyes; a man with a split in his lip and a splint on his wrist. Captain Vance, in all his greedy, grasping glory. His pale eyes glint with a mix of wrath and pride as they travel from the rotted shards of his jail's door to the woman who kicked it clear out of its frame, who strode into the room and gave him an order.
Release her. Now.
They did not. They have not, and with each passing moment it seems ever more likely that they will not. Juliana steps deeper into the jail, filling the ugly space in a way the five of them together don't. Rot-wood crumbles to splinters beneath her boots. “Listen,” she says, and that's all she's able to before a honking whistle of a laugh interrupts her.
It's forced and loud, coming from one of the gap-toothed men. “Listen?” He echoes, mockery and disdain, “You think we're gonna listen to you, just 'cause you did that?”
“If you're smart,” Juliana answers. Something ugly ripples through them, some foul and unspoken thing that makes Clarke dig her nails into my arm and reach for the hollow of her throat. It puts a sour fear into my belly and makes me wish I still had that knife Father gifted to me.
“Oh, they are, Knight-Captain,” calls a woman's voice, hoarse and pained and Royah. It comes from behind Captain Vance and his lackwits four, from a cell at the back of the jail. Leda says, mockingly, “So very smart, and such good boys, their mothers are so proud!”
“Shut up!” Vance spits over his shoulder. Leda laughs at him. What parts of his face aren't bruised flush red. When the laughter turns to coughing turns to a groaning quiet, he smiles. It's a repulsively satisfied thing that spreads across his mouth, splitting the scab on his lip. He licks the drop of blood from his mouth and says, “You wanna talk about smart? I've got you on destruction of property, on trespassing, and on threatening men of the guard. – My – men. More than enough to have all three of you arrested. In fact, I think you'll resist arrest, too.” He shrugs, “Not very smart, if you ask me.”
“I didn't,” Juliana answers, still as calm and casual as if discussing the weather. None of them like it, which I should think is the point. “Release her. I won't ask again.”
Vance scoffs, “You're in no position to –”
With a speed that far, far belies her great height, Juliana springs forward into the same kick she used to open the jail's door. Only this time the heel of her boot collides with Vance's chest. His feet lift from the ground as he folds around the strike and is thrown to slide across the grimy floor. He rolls to a winded, choking halt near the bars of Leda's cell. She inside it grins down at his gasping mouth, reddened face, and bulging eyes. She says something to him, something that's drowned out by an outraged howl leaving four disbelieving mouths.
The Brothers Toothless rush Juliana together, the first driving his shoulder into her belly while the second swipes a closed-fist punch at her helmed head. The metal rings dully as she takes the hit, the first recoiling in pain and shaking out what must surely be broken fingers. The second manages to push her back a step before she plants her feet and spikes her elbow down into his spine. She does it once, twice, and precedes the third time with a knee thrown up into his chest. He coughs out his breath and buckles. She tosses him aside and goes to reckon with the Bruisers.
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This pair of men, who painted every bloom of purple-black on Leda's face, are smarter than their fellows. While the first of the Toothless cradles his broken hand and weeps hateful curses at Juliana; while the second crawls away gasping towards their captain still wheezing for breath on his back; they took that time to arm themselves with clubs of polished wood. They split, putting Juliana between them. She steps back, shifts her posture: arms up, eyes flicking back and forth. Whatever she's seeking, she finds. Turns her back on one to throw herself into the other, overwhelming him with speed and strength he cannot hope to match. She pushes him back to the jail-house wall, his second striking her armored back with every step.
Pinned, the first flails with his club, swatting uselessly at Juliana's shoulder. She rears her armored head back and brings it down. Once is enough. Bone breaks, blood flows, and the second strikes the back of her head. The metal rings, sharply, as she takes the hit. Then she whirls to catch the next one at the wrist and hammers the side of her fist into his face, then follows through with the back of it. He falls, stunned, as his nose-broken brother finds what tattered courage remains to him. Her elbow finds his face soon after, right into his bleeding nose. He joins his fellow on the ground.
- - -
A Knight-Captain stands triumphant.
She's half a giant in scuff-scarred armor, her narrowed eyes a burning pair of cobalt pits, and on each mighty fist she's painted smears of blood. Floor-planks creak and splinters crumble under her boots as she returns to the center of the jail. This is not the Juliana Morrow who named a draft horse Peanut, who arm-wrestled bored and gullible sailors for fun and pocket coin, or who chose to bring a frightened child south over letting her go alone. This Juliana, whose wrath touches every wall and distant corner of this place, is one I know not.
If the bramble-beast's specter didn't loom, always, in some dark and recessed corner of my mind, she would be the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. A quartet of uniformed men crawl or hobble to their captain, only now regaining his breath and his footing. They cradle shattered finger-bones and paw at bloodied noses, hold tight to bruised bellies and touch gently at aching ribs. Five faces turn to her, each one with fear and naked loathing smeared across their faces in lurid lines of burnished red and purple-black.
Vance finds his voice after spitting a wad of bloody phlegm onto the floor. His stained teeth gleam in the dim as he bares them at her in a snarl. “Bitch,” he curses her, chest heaving, “You utter...fucking...bitch, you'll–”
She interrupts him. Again. “Do we need to continue,” she asks, “or have I convinced you?”
From the corner that Clarke and I chose, I watch Vance's fear make war with his thwarted rage and wounded pride. His blackened eyes flicker from her to us, and back again. That bleeding snarl turns to an ugly sneer as the thought occurs to him: we are smaller and look weaker than she does; we do not wear armor or ruin doors with a single kick; we cannot possible hurt him or his men. Not the way she has, the way she will, should he try again.
More fool he. I helped to slay a demon of the wood. I left both knife and sword aflame in its mottled flesh. A magi stood beside me then. She stands beside me still, her power filling the grasp of her curled hand with its glow of pale, wispy blue. Her eyes are wide, her fingers tremble, and she digs her nails into my wrist, but he is made blind by his need for vengeance.
Juliana sees him, sees the ugly idea he has, and promises, “You won't touch them. Not a hair on their heads.”
Vance shakes his head. The war is ended. The fear is lost, and he shouts, “Get them!” to his men.
None of them move.
He shouts again, louder, flushing red-to-purple in disbelief, “Get! Them!”
They do not.
“Give me the key,” Juliana orders. This, they do. One of them takes it from a pouch on their belt and tosses it to her. Vance watches in shock, his mouth open and emitting this strange croaking sound. She walks without hesitation towards them and they move out of her way. They don't strike at her back or make a break for Clarke and me. They just watch as she fits the key to the lock and pulls the door open. They watch as she guides a limping, hunched Leda out of the cell, and they watch as Leda pauses to spit in Vance's face.
His mouth snaps closed, his eyes bulging, and before he can do so much as lift a hand, Juliana's falls onto the back of his neck. Squeezes. He stills. Leda limps on, joining us in our corner. “Who are you?” she asks. Behind her, Juliana begins to herd the guardsmen into the cell she just emptied.
“I am Zira,” I answer first, “daughter of Alia.”
“I'm Clarke,” answers Clarke, “daughter of – I'm from Valdenwood.”
Leda's mouth quirks, just there in the corner. Her dark eyes have some humor in them now. “Well met, both of you,” she says. One hand, she holds to her side. The other she lifts to wave at us, small and quick. The cell door closes with a clangor, the lock clicking shut after. She flinches, dropping her hand and closing her eyes for a moment. She forces them open again and asks, “How did you know I was here?”
I remember the words I spoke to her mother. If you won't help her, I had spat, then I will, and I'll tell her that when I asked her mother to help me, she turned me away. I think about keeping that hateful promise. I look at Leda, who truly is her mother made young, and I think. “Your mother told me what happened,” I answer.
“And then Zira told me,” Juliana finishes, joining us. She carries her helm beneath her arm. Her narrowed eyes are concerned and soft, sweat sticking her hair to her skin. To Leda, she says, “Now let's get you back to her, hm?”