Lyla’s home comes into view just moments before Henry begins his morning song. She can’t help but laugh a little, she’s finally up on time and all it takes is a sleepless night and a pre-dawn walk. She vainly tries to convince herself it’s kind of refreshing and she should try it more often, despite being fully miserable. She still can’t believe Maude did not let her stay, though Lyla guesses if she spent her days lifting anvils and hammering iron she might be unreasonable as well. She’s not sure exactly the role a blacksmith’s assistant fills, but clearly it takes a certain physique. Lyla knew she was going to be a bit upset with the way the meeting played out, but the rage from the normally reserved woman was definitely surprising. Lyla may have actually enjoyed it more if it wasn’t directly pointed at her. Ironically their heated conversation calmed down, and they discussed the actual important information right as Lyla needed to head back. Typical, but who needs sleep anyways?
She didn’t even get to tell Maude how she secured the vote, which was honestly what she was most worried about. After last night, she might not ever. She drags her feet as she makes her way down the dirt path and around the back of the house. Her shoulders drop as she stands before the pasture and rows of trees. She inhales and holds for a moment before emptying her lungs with the loudest scream she can manage. Her ears ring and her throat burns as she regains her breath, and finishes her outburst.
All her plans finally in motion, and what is she doing? Collecting some eggs, throwing old cabbage to hogs, and milking cows. Wasting her time. She understands the importance of the work, that’s why she does it, but this was never supposed to be her responsibility. Dev was the farmer, he always wanted to be one and he was good at it. He told her, he promised to her actually, that he would not leave this shit on her. If she had it her way he would not even have considered going off, he would have kept his fucking head on straight and produced some food. As far as she can tell, the Farm does magnitudes more for the community than any single soldier in the city’s little army. But no, the brave soldier must go off to fight for mankind! For Heis! So brave he only mentions leaving once and then a week later is never seen again. Truly a paragon of goddamn virtue.
By the time she finishes the daily work and gets into her home at last, Lyla can no longer sustain her anger. Instead it is replaced with a familiar emotional fog, heavy and unclear, it threatens to overtake her as she sits on the floor in the middle of the living area, in the farmhouse. She sits in front of the large unlit fireplace. Dev wasn’t a coward, but he was very averse to conflict, almost to a fault, and thought that the Mission would be much better off focusing on feeding over fighting. Still he was a member of the Mission, more than a member obviously, and he was no supporter of the governor. Or at least she thought that was the case. He must at least believe the governor’s propaganda enough to abandon her and this place. She knows it is silly, but she can’t help the fear that grips her as she is reminded of the other option, one she can’t accept. Maybe the Devil Himself is here, and maybe the army isn’t doing as well as they pretend.
Lyla sighs and then hops to her feet. She goes to the small table near the window with Dev’s pipe and the rest of the plant from days ago. She opens the small container and removes the rest of his dry dark powder, and she returns to the floor after packing it into the pipe, and throwing the window open. Lyla takes multiple long pulls, resulting in a coughing fit she’s sure will turn her inside out. Lyla regains herself and chuckles as she grabs the pipe, and studies it for a moment. She tilts and rotates the pipe, watching the ways the light reflects and is absorbed by the small wooden device.
Suddenly everything about it disgusts her and she rears back to pitch it out the window. Some part of her already feels regret, as the pipe careens off course and smashes into the wall to the right of the window. Cursing, coughing, and laughing happen, in that order, as broken pieces of pipe and dark ash fall to the floor around her. With a furrowed brow, Lyla stares at the mess and then makes a decision. She silently collects the individual broken pipe pieces and sweeps up the strong smelling dust.
After admiring her passable cleaning, Lyla then goes and grabs her canvas bag, and retrieves a gray dagger with a simple leather handle.
“Extremely, very simple, first try sort of thing” was how Maude described the weapon given to her, but Lyla was not so sure. She turns it over in her hands, marveling at the slight slant of the blade, she’s not sure she has seen a dagger look like this before. The iron is speckled throughout, with light lines and swirls in the metal, like the crevices in the bark of a tree, while still being completely flat, having no imperfections beyond the visible pattern. She finds it rather beautiful, but supposes it could mean the blade is of a lesser quality, Maude is just a beginner.
Abruptly Lyla starts stabbing and slashing at the air, with a few leaps and spins thrown in for good measure. She’s never been officially trained in any kind of swordplay, which is precisely the reason she was given this dagger, and not the full sword she requested. Next time it may have to be an order, not a request, she is the president at the end of the day. She wonders if her lack of experience is even noticeable. Continuing swinging the blade around, Lyla feels she is getting the hang of this whole sparring thing, she imagines her body as graceful, flowing water.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
She pictures herself facing down the governor in a one on one duel. Both of their sides gather around them to watch the honorable end to the conflict. Her side is much larger with all of the people of Ravha joining as members of the Mission, while her opposition is just a handful of sniveling bullies, desperately clinging to their last bits of power. She lets the governor come to her, deftly parrying one attack after another, taunting him all the while. Once her superior swordsmanship becomes clear, she strikes and disarms the man with one blow. He falls to his knees before and starts begging for his life, pleading that he just spare her. She raises the dagger, and comes to realize the fantasy is not so fun anymore.
Lyla puts the dagger back into her bag, and finishes packing the rest of the supplies. She decides she may need a drink or two if she’s going to get to sleep tonight, despite her exhaustion. With the harsher words from last night still in the forefront of her mind, Lyla doubts she will sleep much at all.. Two quick, tall glasses of shine later, Lyla is gracefully displaying her dagger prowess once again. She darts around the cabin, this time imagining herself as Judith the Guillotine, the ancient hero described in His Words as ending an entire war with one well timed strike. That’s all Lyla needs, the right opportunity, it’s not about being the best sword fighter in the New Lands, it’s about having the knowledge and guts to strike at the right time. She finds herself a bit out of breath, and decides that her practice should come to an end, and she should have that last glass.
Lyla throws back the harsh liquid, justifying to herself on top of needing to get to sleep pretty soon, she has a few hard days ahead of her anyways. A truly impressive belch fills the cabin. Congratulating herself, she snatches the dagger from the table once more. Tentatively, she loosely grasps the very end of the hilt, letting the dagger dangle by her fingers. With a flick of her wrist, she flips the dagger up, trying to catch the hilt as it spins down. It does two spins before reaching the peak of its arc and coming back. The dagger flies a thumb’s length past her hand and embeds itself into the wooden floor, embarrassingly near to her feet. With a frown, she wrenches it free and again dangles the weapon loosely with her fingers. She gives a determined grunt and again flips the dagger, this time successfully catching it on the way down. She grins, practice makes perfect.
Most of His Words are metaphorical nonsense built to keep the rich rich, and the hungry hungry, but Lyla always remembers the important bits, the fights, that’s the best stuff anyways. Instead of the Guillotine, she now sees herself as the Woman of Zebeth, the hero who brought down the invading king of the Aram’s, with a single well slung rock. Lyla focuses on the backside of her front door, and pulls her arm back and launches her dagger. It lodges itself into the right side of the doorway, splintering the wooden rail with a snap just above the lock.
“FUCK!”
She emits a guttural groan and approaches the door to inspect the damage caused by her raging stupidity. The entire right side of the doorway will need to be replaced in order for the door to properly lock at all, she concludes in a mixture of frustration and shame. She quickly grabs the dagger and pulls it free so she can start and… Oh. She stares at her right hand in disbelief. It is shiny, crimson and both of her hands are trembling, there’s an astonishingly deep gash across her palm. The edges of the wound are slightly raised and the red streams down her wrist, pudding on the ground. For a moment the adrenaline negates any pain, but in seconds the thumping sting begins to flare. Nothing more heroic than wounding yourself with your own blade. She can feel the blood rush from her head, and spots of black invade her vision.
“FUCK!”
Her throat catches and her mind races, as she moves to get a cloth and a bandage. She grabs one cloth and uses it to try and start cleaning up the mess, and she puts the other in between her teeth. Lyla seizes the rest of the shine and dumps it on her stupid mistake, as she thinks Dev would have made sure to do. She’s not really sure how on earth wasting shine is supposed to help a wound, but she reasons now's not the time for independent thinking. Tears come to her eyes as her trembling hand burns, and she lets out a series of pretty regrettable curses.
Lyla can’t help but feel more embarrassed than anything. She’s supposed to be the capable leader of an entire liberation movement, and she can’t even handle a singular knife. The times have changed, and the Mission has to change with them. If Lyla cannot defend herself at the very least, they will never let her lead.
She can hear Maude now quoting that uptight dusty tactician she’s always going on about, saying “wars are fought by soldiers, but freedom is won by people,” or something obtuse like that. Oh right, Maude. With another groan she looks out the dark window, and her promise to meet at dawn sets in. She imagines her hand and the throbbing pain aren’t going to allow her to sleep anyways. She can’t keep her vision clear, from the tears more than the booze or blood loss, and she can barely keep her hands from trembling like a scared puppy. She does manage to pour one more glass to hopefully give her some relief. She gets halfway through the glass before she lays down on the floor in front of the fireplace. Throat, hand, and mind aflame, Lyla embraces exhaustion staring up at the wooden ceiling.