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Amaya never expected to survive the blast.
That's the one coherent thought in her dazed mind as she lies, stunned, on the hot stone of the Breach. Gasping for breath, smoke stinging her eyes. Her shield protected her from the worst of the pain, from shrapnel and flame, though she feels bruises already forming on her back, her arms. But she can't afford to lie here, despite the pain; she knows the elven knight won't have come alone. There will be more troops coming soon, drawn by the blast, and Amaya needs to be ready for them.
Gritting her teeth, she pushes herself up, wishing she had her helmet. Her sword. A pack, perhaps, or even her horse. Anything more than just a shield slashed through by the knight's Sunforge sword, here on the enemy side of the Breach.
She looks warily toward Xadia, seeing no movement through the smoke, then glances back toward where she left her own troops--and her eyes widen, shock rippling through her as she sees the elven knight, still clinging one-handed to the stone near Amaya's feet. She steps forward, all but mesmerized by the look on the elf's face: resignation. Acceptance. The knight knows they're at Amaya's mercy now, and it couldn't be clearer that they, like Amaya mere moments ago, are resigned to death.
But... it's one thing to kill a foe in the heat of battle, to overpower their skills with your own and take down a threat to your people. It's something vastly different to allow someone, unarmed and all but helpless, to die through inaction, no matter the threat they might pose in another situation. This elf is dangerous, Amaya knows, but she has neutralized the threat to Katolis; she will gain nothing from the knight's death, nothing but another nightmare added to her collection.
And the elven knight has always treated Amaya with honor, despite it all. They identified Amaya as the largest threat to their own forces, but instead of sending someone across the Breach to take her out in the night, they arranged things so the two of them could fight, one-on-one. They respected the danger Amaya posed to their own security, and Amaya can't blame them--Harrow dealt Xadia a devastating blow not five months ago--yet have treated her, since their first battle, as an equal.
Amaya hesitates only a moment, staring down into the face of someone she would have killed without a second thought in any other circumstance, before dropping her shield to the stone at her feet and crouching to pull her opponent to safety.
The elf's eyes widen, but they say nothing as they regain their footing, gaze searchingly intent on Amaya's face. She has no idea what the knight sees there; all she knows is that she has put her trust in this elf, and has nothing but the fleeting impressions from three momentary battles to assure her own safety, unarmed and alone on the enemy's border.
Motion catches Amaya's eye, and she turns to see the knight's reinforcements rushing forward, blades drawn, expressions furious. Steeling herself for the worst, Amaya raises her hands, hoping the elves understand. Hoping they care.
I'm unarmed. I'm not a threat.
Not any longer.
One of the elves steps toward her, posture distinctly threatening; Amaya lifts her chin, determined to show no fear to her... captors, she decides. She hopes.
To her faint surprise, the knight steps between Amaya and the other elf. The knight is turned away, but Amaya can see the faces, the postures, of their troops: fury gives way to confusion, frustration, thwarted ambition.
I am a captive, then. Amaya watches the half-dozen troops mill about. They speak to one another in unfamiliar accents, entirely unreadable through the smoke in the air, the half-blinding play of light and shadow from the surrounding lava.
She's not certain, even now, how she feels about being taken captive. Part of her is still stunned to be alive. A larger part is astonished that she's placed her trust in an elf, of all people, particularly one who's tried their best to kill Amaya time and time again.
But what is done, cannot be undone.
The knight turns to her, already speaking, and Amaya squints to read what the elf is saying, picking out consonants and extrapolating vowels. It's all but impossible; she's never seen the elf speak before, and it's clear to Amaya that whatever the knight's accent, it bears little resemblance to what's spoken in Katolis. She can't even be certain it's the same language. Was that 'human' or 'you must'? 'Return' or 'we don't'? Amaya thinks she reads the word 'prisoner', but the rest is lost to her.
The elf frowns, leans closer, speaks again. Brows drawn down in displeasure, shoulders stiff. They're speaking slower now, sharper, and the words "Do you understand?", this time, are clear.
Amaya shakes her head, right hand twitching upward, and the knight's gaze snaps toward the motion; they make no move to stop her, though, so Amaya speaks slowly, exaggerating the gestures, hoping to get her point across even if the individual words are lost. "I'm Deaf," she signs, drawing her finger across her cheek, then rephrases, hoping to make things clearer. "I can't hear you."
The knight starts when Amaya taps her ear, their eyes widening, and for a split second their hard look falls away; they look much younger, suddenly, younger even than Amaya. Then their imperious posture reasserts itself, and they nod once, sharp and quick. Glancing down at their chest, they pantomime unlatching their breastplate, then reach toward Amaya.
Amaya shakes her head again, takes a half-step back, keeping her hands in sight. The knight halts, watching as Amaya begins to unlatch her own armor, and makes a stack in their arms as Amaya strips down to her padded under-armor. The sharp wave of one hand brings over another elf, who bundles Amaya's armor away into a scuffed leather pack and--a pang of regret stinging Amaya's heart--slings her shield over one shoulder, grimacing at its weight. Despite herself, this makes Amaya tuck away a secret smile. These elves aren't all as impressive as their commander, it seems.
The smile fades, though, as the knight produces a length of rope from another pack, looping it expertly about Amaya's wrists and tying it taut. The loss bites at Amaya; even though she knows no one here can understand her, she still hates to be so cut off from communication.
The knight casts her one last, lingering look, then turns back to the rest of their soldiers, spurring them into almost frantic action. Before Amaya has time to do more than catch her breath, the small troop begins to march, their new prisoner pulled along in their midst.
And Amaya, heart hammering more than she wants to admit, takes her first steps into Xadia since Sarai's death.
Amaya sits to one side of the camp, watching intently as firelight flickers across the faces of her captors. Drinking in everything she can see. Body language is little help here--everyone is wary, tired, mistrustful--but she's been watching the elves speak all day, and thinks she's beginning to work out their accent, the slight changes in the shapes of lips and tongues. She can understand at least one word in three, most of the time, and isn't surprised to discover that much of their conversation seems to be about her.
"--my brother," an elf says, one with short curls who has been glaring darkly at Amaya every few minutes. His posture is angry, though guarded, and he keeps casting almost guilty looks across the camp, toward where his leader sits. "He'd been--"
The fire snaps, sparks obscuring the next few words, and the elf beside Curls--the only archer in the small group--speaks up. "But the Golden Knight would have--" or was that 'wouldn't', an extra tap of the tongue, and the next few words move Archer's mouth too little to be discernable. Their stance is less guarded than the others', though, less wary, and the glances they send Amaya's way seem more curious than anyone else's.
The conversation falters abruptly, heads turning, respect suddenly dawning in tired faces. The sight sends a pang of unexpected homesickness through Amaya, and she spares a fleeting thought for her own troops. The Standing Battalion's mission complete, their commander lost. What will they do without her? Will Fen lead them back to the palace? Or will Gren, dear Gren, insist on holding them together at a Breach that no longer exists, waiting for the return of a leader who may never find her way home?
Familiar booted feet stop just at the edge of Amaya's vision, but she refuses to look up--not defiance, just pure stubbornness. If the elven knight wants Amaya's attention, they'll have to earn it.
A hand is thrust before her face, clutching a lump of something off-white. Amaya eyes it warily, and deigns to glance up only after a long moment, meeting the knight's gaze.
Their brows are drawn down, nose wrinkled with displeasure. "Eat," they say, moving the lump--the food?--closer to Amaya. Their words are startlingly clear on their lips, especially in the dim light of the twilit camp. "It's been a long day."
Amaya hesitates just long enough for the knight's lips to curl down before reaching up with her bound hands, taking the proffered food. She brings it to her lips, sniffing discreetly for any poisons she recognizes--reflex, mostly. A week ago, she might have said otherwise, but somehow she doesn't actually expect anything of the sort from this strange elf.
The food is bland save for a lingering sweetness, but at least it's filling. Amaya swallows, glances up to see the elf has stepped away--but turned back to watch her.
Amaya smirks, tipping her head in a half-sarcastic salute. And as the elf turns away, Amaya presses thanks to her chin, and takes another bite.
The sun has reached its peak on the following day and begun to dip toward the far horizon by the time Amaya notices light in the distance. She squints, trying to make it out—more campfires? Are they approaching the bulk of the Sunfire army, assembled only a day's march from the Breach?
She nearly stumbles on the rocky ground, and returns her concentration to her surroundings. It isn't safe to get caught up in speculation. She'll find out where they're going soon enough.
It's much harder to watch the elves speak as they walk. Amaya doesn't think it would go over well if she tried to walk backward to see their faces better, so she has to content herself with side-eyed glimpses whenever someone is walking next to her. It's not nearly enough to get her an idea of their plans, their destination. Frustration rising in her, hastily tamped down—she doesn't need to give these elves, particularly the ones who still keep glaring at her, any more reasons to mistrust her.
More than one elf has already tried to trip her up, to send her sprawling across the rocky ground. A surreptitious shove, a shoulder-check as someone brushes past. They'll have to try harder than that—years of daily sparring have given Amaya a nearly unshakable center—but the attempts are affecting her more than physically. She's growing mentally, emotionally exhausted. A long day of forced marching to cap off a long two weeks of desperate stress, searching for information on her nephews, coming to terms with Harrow's death. The uncertainty of her immediate future, of the future of her people. Of her family.
What will await her, once they reach the elves' encampment? Imprisonment? A trial? She's never known Xadia to take prisoners before. Thunder made examples of anyone who strayed across the border. Perhaps her fate is as uncertain to her captors as it is to Amaya herself.
They crest a rise in the road, and Amaya gasps despite herself.
The elves aren't leading her to a camp, but to a city.
She stares open-mouthed at a vast, gleaming sprawl of white buildings and cool water, an oasis in the midst of this dry, rocky desert land. The lights she saw before aren't campfires at all, but sunlight reflecting from golden roofs, making the entire city glow. A second sun rises above it all, shining down on the neat lines of bustling roadways, on carefully tended fields.
It's... beautiful.
And so peaceful. Where are the fortresses? The tents, the banners, the ranks of troops? Can it really be that the elves were not planning an invasion after all, that all Amaya's sleepless nights at the Breach have been for naught?
No, worse than naught. Her vigil hadn't kept Harrow from slaying Thunder. She couldn't prevent assassins from retaliating against him. What good has she done, over these long years, if the enemy she's feared—she's hated—for so long has been responding to her aggressions, and nothing more?
Motion to her right, a blur of familiar colors in her periphery. The elven knight walks beside her now, gazing at the city with troubled eyes. Turns to see Amaya watching them.
"Is it what you expected?" they ask.
Amaya shakes her head. Instinctively tensing to fight, though somehow she doesn't expect an attack from the knight. Not any more. "It's beautiful," she signs, awkward with her hands still bound. Uncertain whether this strange elf will have any idea what she's saying.
They watch her, brows drawn down in concentration or frustration, then shake their head and move on. Leaving Amaya feeling more muddled than ever, emotions a tangle within her.
The knight strides forward, through their troops, and Amaya's gaze sharpens as a wave of conversation ripples in their wake. Elven heads turning in confusion, elven shoulders tensing. Then, to her astonishment, they step off the road. Settle into the sparse grass, setting down their pack. The rest of their troops slowly following suit, heads tilting and brows lifting in confusion.
Someone shoves Amaya along. She doesn't need the encouragement, following the others and settling into the soft dirt at the edge of the group. Not right beside the knight, but close enough to watch them.
It's far from enlightening. They pull a handful of missives from their pack, reading through them with an all-too-casual air. Amaya turns to watch the rest of the group instead, squinting at lips.
"—we stopped?" asks one elf with a short scar slashed across their chin. Glancing furtively at their leader as though afraid of being noticed.
"The Golden Knight isn't injured, is she?" asks the elf next to them, all long braids and worried eyes.
She. Amaya glances aside at the knight, missing the beginning of Scar's reply. Another woman, then? Nearly Amaya's equal in battle, far more compassionate than she first appeared. And the longer Amaya spends watching the elven knight, the more she realizes how very similar they might be. Both inspiring the same confidence from their soldiers, both exhilarated by the thrill of discovering someone who can match their strength.
What strange places fate has brought them.
Scar is still speaking. "—the prisoner," they say, and Amaya pretends she is not watching them. "How important do you think they are? The other humans all followed their orders."
"They must be a mighty leader," Braids replies. Glancing at Amaya with undisguised curiosity. "Or why would the Knight bother bringing them this far?" They take a swig from a waterskin, wipe their mouth with the back of one hand, obscuring the next few words. "—have thought she'd be marching us into the city by now. Wouldn't you, if you'd captured the leader of that fortress?"
"I'd be ordering a parade," laughs Scar. "But if we wait much longer, we won't reach the city before nightfall. What a waste!"
Amaya glances sharply aside at the knight. Still deliberately reading reports, as though oblivious to the passage of time, the setting sun. She's clearly not keeping Amaya a secret, that much is certain. But could it be that she's intentionally delaying bringing Amaya into the city, to avoid drawing a crowd?
Motion to Amaya's right, as an elf stands and strides across the makeshift camp. The knight's gaze snaps to them, watching carefully until they've moved away from Amaya, then glancing once at Amaya before returning to her own task.
She's protecting me.
The thought would have been absurd yesterday. Before Amaya had watched the knight intercede on her behalf back at the Breach, keeping the elven soldiers from harming Amaya as they began their march. Before she'd seen the knight try to understand her, despite the barriers between them.
Amaya has spent years hating the elves. The elves, it seems, were content to do the same. So why does Amaya feel such kinship with their leader?
She still doesn't know, but she finds herself hoping she has the chance to find out.
Amaya stumbles blindly from the audience chamber, desperately trying to get her breathing under control. To still the tears she can feel trickling down her cheeks, the taste of salt an unwelcome counterpoint to the iron tang of blood.
It's not about weakness. She's long past the point, by now, of not wanting to show weakness to these people. It's the powerlessness, cold and nauseating in her stomach. It's been a long time since she felt so impotent, so caught up in events. Not for nine years, not since she stood before her sister's empty throne, everything she loved in ashes at her feet.
And yet, despite it all, the hands gripping her upper arms are far gentler than they were before. Such a short time, for so much to have changed.
Amaya's feet drag against stone, catching, and she nearly falls; the hands tighten just enough to keep her upright, no longer gripping with bruising force. The red glow still hasn't faded from Amaya's vision, but in her mind's eye, she can see the elven knight. Brows drawn down not in anger, but concern. Body tense, but standing ready to defend Amaya, not to attack her.
What shifted between the two of them, there at the Breach?
The elven woman's face, so close, so worried, as she speaks with careful, urgent clarity, desperate for Amaya to understand her--
The hands on her arms tighten again, just enough to slow her steps, and her right foot is nudged carefully forward by a familiar metal boot. Amaya's toes drag along stone--then drop, as the floor before her gives way.
The stairs, she realizes a moment later. She nods shakily, steps carefully forward until the first step is solid beneath her foot. The knight's grip on her shifts, accommodating the variance in their relative heights--but the elf still doesn't let go, still carefully supporting Amaya upright.
The blinding glow in Amaya's vision recedes with every step downward, though that's barely discernable compared to the increasing brightness of the ring of flames before her. Still, she cracks watering eyes open, dizzy with relief as the shapes of the walls begin to come into focus around her.
She can see. She still has that, at least. Even if her armies, her weapons, her armor are gone, she can see, she can plan.
The elven knight leads her to the edge of the wall of fire, and the interpreter walks forward, pressing the hidden button to create a gap in the flames. The three of them step into the cell together, and the knight lowers Amaya carefully to the ground....
And, to Amaya's shock, unlatches the cuffs from Amaya's wrists and tucks them away.
Amaya squints, pained and confused, up at the woman. Her eyes widen at the relief on the knight's features as the woman looks Amaya over, gaze lingering on her face.
She saved me. Just as I saved her.
Amaya lets out a long, trembling breath, and presses thanks to her chin.
The knight's brows draw down, head tilting in confusion. She turns to the interpreter, asks a question that Amaya can't see. She can guess, though. "What did she say?"
The interpreter's eyes are wide behind their rosy spectacles. "Thank you," they tell the knight, their gaze darting between the two women.
The knight turns back to Amaya, her gaze searching, and they trade a long, long look that Amaya can only begin to decipher. Then the woman sweeps from the room, stepping through the flames without a backward glance.
And Amaya settles back in her prison with a lingering sigh, and smiles.