It is important to remember, when trying to kill a man of sufficient strength, that one meets him with strength of their own, either through personal ability or, failing that - a large gap in numbers. So it should seem entirely unfair to a young man when his own meager strength is met with an entire court martial.

“Paracelsus, you stand accused of desertion, as well as surrendering a fortified position to enemy forces.” The judge spoke, with a particular lisp that slightly irritated Paracelsus. “How do you plead?”

This is a joke. The accused thought, more out of sadness than indignation - We’re revolutionaries, legally no more than insurrectionists. Court? This whole thing’s a fa-

“Shall I take the silence of the accused to mean a profession of guilt?”

“No, sir.” Paracelsus forced out, “I was… lost in thought. I plead not guilty.”

“Have you anything to say in your defense?”

This was the critical moment - the kairos of the court would depend upon this. For Paracelsus was right, the trial was indeed a farce. His guilt was predetermined, the weeping families so perfectly placed as to be maximally visible to the jury, the way he was placed physically below the tribunal to appear powerless, all of it served only to proclaim him the villain, and those above the heroes for slaying him. This trial would not be long, and it would certainly not be favorable to him to prolong it - he had to win the jury over quickly.

“I will not deny that I have done what I am accused of,” His pause allowed for a few murmurs, quickly silenced when discovered, to break out “But I ask you to consider this: Why was I, a nineteen year old man, promoted to captain ten days syne, in charge of a crucial outpost such as the one in Yurole?”

The prosecutor chimed in “I fail to see how this is relevant to your guilt or lack thereof.”

The judge seemed to agree, before Paracelsus at once brought forth painful feelings, reaching deep into his psyche to draw forth the necessary tears so as to appear vulnerable, but not weak, “It’s relevant because you call me a criminal. As I said, I will not deny that I did it. What I am denying, what I will deny, is that I did so to hurt my comrades.” The sympathy gained, his face turned sour, hoping to use his emotional leverage to appeal to the jury’s sense of justice, “I did it to save them. I surrendered because I recognized the situation was hopelessly out of my control.”

“And the desertion?”

The judge’s three words seemed to manifest in the air, striking as an arrow through Paracelsus’ frail defense. It was a sound, implicit question, If you have nothing to hide, then why run?

Still, the young man prepared himself, “I don’t know.” He threw his head downward, seemingly dejected, “I honestly can’t say. Perhaps it was fear of this court, perhaps it was shame… But more likely, it was most likely because I felt a great pain. An aching, so to speak, in my heart when I thought of facing my brothers and sisters. I acknowledge that what I did was unforgivable and cowardly, but see it not from my perspective. See it from Major Iula’s perspective.”

The newly named had at once grown flustered, stood up with an abrupt skrr from the chair upon which he sat, and thrust forward a finger towards Paracelsus, “What are you trying imply here - that I should’ve abandoned my own, more important duties to lord over who I assumed to be a fully competent individual?”

“Sit down at once, Major!” The judge barked. The order complied with, he motioned Paracelsus to continue.

With a slight nod of respect and gratitude, he too complied “Thank you, Your Honor. As I was saying, it simply seems to me that if even I myself doubted my ability, a fact I told you ahead of this incident, that you should have the sense to not schedule such business when we also received reports that an enemy attack was likely. I would like to ask what sort of business was that important?”

In return, the Major coughed into his hand before drinking from a glass of water, stalling for time, “That is irrelevant!”

“Actually, I think I should like to hear.” Came from the judge’s mouth.

This was the moment the accused was waiting for. The prosecutor was about to offer some obscure legal theory that would allow for a graceful dismissal of the judge’s inquiry. And when he did, the attention in the room was wholly undivided, focused solely on the prosecutor.

Paracelsus didn’t intend to win the legal battle. He knew that in spite of the sympathy he’d garnered, it would never be enough for at least one juror. A hung jury meant a retrial, where his stamina for the system would fall and his debts only accumulate. He knew that a protracted battle, on the enemy’s terms, would never benefit him. But if he never intended to be one with them in the future and would allow himself to completely detach from them, he could escape.

When the energy was at its peak, as Paracelsus figured, he subtly allowed the familiar feeling of his gift to run through him. An energy spread first to his restraints, allowing them to manifest as mundane chunks of iron laying at his feet, he stepped away, using the absence of eyes on his form to reach the far wall. He placed his hand upon it, and a light washed over it, a door forming where there wasn’t - and as quickly as he’d walked through it, the door was gone.

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An outstretched hand. Usually, a simple gesture to offer help, but in this case the hand was used to block off a doorway.

A young girl leaned in that ship’s doorway to appear more natural, “I assure you, Sir, all of them are dead. Don’t allow the fear of a ghost to keep us docked here past our provision’s allowance.”

A gruff voice, unseen to the child hiding in the dark room, assigned to a vague shadow on the wall, responded “I suppose you’re right. We’ll sail at first light. Good night.”

After returning the platitude, the young girl struck on an oil lamp sitting on the shelf and closed the door behind her. Seeing her more clearly for the first time, the girl noticed the older one was still young, maybe only ten or even fewer years older than her. The second thing she noticed was the blood, dried and a light amber, coating her arm.

The other arm reached out and unceremoniously placed itself upon her shoulder, “I know it probably doesn’t mean much, kid. But I’m sorry.” Sorry for what? What was happening? One moment, Serpacinno was quietly sleeping, the next her father grabbed her and started running for the forest. After that, she remembered nothing, due mostly to her lapsing consciousness.

“Sorry? What… did you do?” The little girl asked.

“I killed your dad.” Serpacinno’s eyes widened like discs, the snakes on her head, normally docile, raised and hissed, threatening to strike at the offender. “But right now, I’m the only chance you have of surviving.” It wasn’t a particularly effective argument to the child of a man you just killed.

The older girl pinched her nose, “Look kid, calm down! If you want revenge, now is no time at all.” She rubbed her face, the fatigue of the day clearly showing. “For now, just live. Live so that you can come back and kill me one day.”

The smaller one decided to take this constellation prize, satisfied that one day it would come to pass. Her snakes too, settled into an uncomfortable peace, coiling protectively over her.

The night was cold and long, she was told to stay in the older girl’s quarters the whole time so as not to be discovered. It was hard to sleep, the bed was hard, the covers too large, the ship’s sway too disruptive to her rest. But the worst was by far the presence of her new enemy. Although she had seemingly done a kindness, taking the chair as her resting place it seemed a hollow concession to keep Serpacinno at bay more than an actual show of friendship or anything of the sort. Eventually, however, her mind relented to its need for sleep and she drifted off.

She awoke, or perhaps found herself in a dream sometime later. Maybe neither of these were exactly right, maybe she was simply remembering what was happening - yes, that was it. Her father was wrapping her in his arms, trying to not wake her.

He must have seen her stirring, “Oh, sorry for waking you, little viper.” He gave a weary smile.

“What’s happening? Where’s mom?” She looked around, unable to determine if this was real.

“Mom…” He looked away, seemingly awaiting for a convenient excuse to drop the subject. When none came, he sighed, “Mom will be right behind us. But right now, we need to leave.”

She seemed content to believe what was now obviously a lie. She put her head to his breast, although it gave little relief with its frantic beating. The next few minutes were spent hastily gathering what little they had - they were already rather poor - and carrying it to the forest where they would hide out until they could board a ship.

“Oi, what are you doing?” Serpacinno heard the voice, which she recognized belonged to the older girl, ask.

“Alteron instructed us - “ Whoever was with her was seized by the throat.

“Well Alteron isn’t here right now. Burning down the forest is unnecessarily cruel.”

“Yes ma’am.” The soldier saluted and left, presumably to fulfill some other duty.

Serpacinno’s dad crouched behind a bush, peering at the military woman. He eyed her analytically, weighing the pros and cons of running and fighting. He wasn’t even able to fathom the possibility that the woman ahead wasn’t his enemy - such a fact was already engraved on his mind, there was no room for counterarguments.

“Dad…” Serpacinno reached her hand out after her father gently placed her down, leaving a kiss on her head.

He ruffled her snakes, “I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

With a roar, it seemed his mind was made up as he activated his gift, his arm stretching to grab at the one he made his enemy. She caught it easily, eyeing it inquisitively before dragging its owner toward her. She saw the snakes on his head rearing to strike, but rather casually deflected them before shoulder tossing their master.

“Stand down.” The woman offered, “My name is Roserie. I have no interest in killing you or your daughter.”

“You lie!” The father replied.

“I’m not lying! I never wanted to come here or do these awful things.” She looked away, though none could discern why. “I have a personal ship, I can hide you.”

“I’m Juck.” The father said, which Roserie took as a sign of nonaggression. She helped him to his feet and shook his hand, “If you’re telling the tr-”

BANG

A shot rang out, and Serpacinno’s ears rang for what must’ve been several minutes. When she looked over, her father’s head was a mess of flesh and blood, gored beyond recognizability. The offending shot had come from a few dozen yards away, what appeared to be a marine had a gun aimed at him, and the blood would’ve sprayed on Roserie had she not put her arm up.

Serpacinno passed out then and there, wholly unable to muster and last well of energy, the trauma of the day forcing her mind unconscious.

She woke up the next morning as Roserie was entering with her breakfast - a small plate of bread and bacon, which she lazily picked at, though never ate, “You didn’t kill my dad.” She didn’t look up from her plate.

“Nope. I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you say that?”

“Would you have believed me?”

She paused at that, would she have? The blood was on her hands, though she wasn’t responsible. She decided to furlough her plans for revenge. As the rage subsided, the tears developed, sogging her food. She tried to appear dignified, quickly using her snakes to wipe her tears, but the soft sobs betrayed her.

Rosarie came over, sat beside her and wrapped her in a soft embrace, “We’ll make landfall in a week or so. From there, I’ll take you to my home, which will take about four or so days. I’m sure my folks wouldn’t mind putting you up.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Serpacinno choked out, “I know it might not be fair,” The tears were streaming down her face completely unabated now, “But I can’t stand looking at you. Once we get to your house, I’ll figure something out. But I can’t stay there.”

Rosarie rubbed her back, “I understand.”

This is their story.