Chapter Text
Lazarus was going to have Axis’ boot up his ass when this was all over. Every word out of their so-called second-in-command’s mouth was a lie. This was not a milk run, it was not peaceful, and he absolutely had no enjoyment from any of it.
There was no secret that he preferred to keep to himself. A typical round trip picking up Kingsglaive candidates even allowed for that. But, this time he was handed Nelly Certus, a known motormouth from Cleigne, as his partner. Not only was the peace disturbed the entire time there but he had no faith in her driving. This was the Galahdian mountains in January with snow and ice.
On the way to the pickup point he thought about swapping a candidate into the driver’s seat. The paperwork handed to them indicated there would be three to choose from. All were listed as natives of this hell zone. Any of them should be capable of navigating this weather. He just had to bend some rules for it.
Upon arrival in Trier, their three candidates became a single one. She barely looked old enough to start high school. Let alone to have graduated. Avitus claimed to have experience driving when he asked. Supposedly she had even worked as both a mechanic and all-arounder at the local quarry. Those were just words instead of proof. He had no trust in her.
If he decided to hand over the wheel then he would just cut out the middleman; he was capable of driving them all off a cliff himself.
Everything about the place was depressing; he understood why Lazarus avoided it. The countrysides were battered by Niflheim’s unofficial attacks. Ancient hills and mounts bowed with war brought disfigurements. Towns were in splinters with cities scarcely better. As they left the region’s capital, Trier, he asked if there had been a recent attack. Avitus told him that’s just what the city looked like now.
Making it a record of one hour and fifteen minutes his partner finally caved to twist around a little. Avitus had purposely left an empty row of seats between them and her. If she thought it would discourage talking she was wrong. Certus hounded him for entertainment for three days. It was her turn; if not for her timely arrival, Certus would be tragically eaten at a haven.
Giving into his curiosity he checked a side mirror to spy on the candidate. Feral black curls were smushed into the window. Was she asleep? There was no normal way that happened. Between the cold and constant vibration there was no peace that way. If she managed to ignore the shitty van then it still left the shitter roads bouncing them around. Either she was inhuman or drunk.
“Okay, Avitus. What’s the real reason you’re signing up?” He heard the smile in her voice. “Did those roaming bastards tell you it was glorious? Talk about great pay, big city dreams, and glory?”
“No. They said it was utter hell.” She paused to shuffle around her backpack. “It’s hell being under Niflheim’s thumb and scopes too. Figured I should fight back cause just hope won’t fix it.”
He knew she had to be awake.
“There’s the spark we want!”
This “spark” Certus spoke of was what Insomnia and The Monarchy wanted. More fodder willing to protect their immaculate borders from the distant war. None of the sensible Glaives (something Certus was not) pretended they were changing anything. In his opinion the only difference between the Kingdom of Lucis or the Niflheim Empire was magic. Everything else was just licking the same foot with a different boot.
Avitus did reinforce his theory about Galahdians. Their unique culture, the thing they seemed to pride them on, drove them to swallow the bastard king’s lies the hardest. It was like they considered their status as the newest region, as the hardest to force to submit at most 400 years ago, was a reason to back the monarchy. If Lucis could bring them to heel they must be worth fighting to save. Maybe it was also a refusal to take a second loss in ownership.
Already he could picture Avitus intermingled with Ulric, Ostium, Altius, and Cataegis.
Her face was bare of tattoos, like Altius, but she made up for that elsewhere. The odd, traditionally delicate lines, dots, and chevrons marked up both ears and hands. Four braids pulled tight at the top of her head before disappearing back. Hints of autumn orange beads peeked out her curls. The thick accent to her voice, like Catageis, hinted that Lucian was possibly her second language. Lazarus had mentioned some places taught Galahdian first.
The whole collection of Galahdians had another little believer with them. Someone all caught up in webs of false hope and blind optimism.
If he really thought only Lazarus acted as an antithesis of their culture. His accent was neutral with no visible tattoos. Short hair carried no braids or beads. Aside from the occasional complaint about Insomnian cuisine and mingling with Ulric’s group, he was just generic Lucian.
“Hey, Arra, does Bellum have the weapons classes this round?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I was telling Avitus about what training is like. Figured it would help to mention instructors if I knew them.”
He directed his attention to the backseat. “You got any questions?”
“Are we assigned a weapon or do we pick them?”
“You pick them first. Someone will reassign you if your choice doesn’t work out.”
Sonitus or that medic, Cataegeis, had no qualms interfering with training. Some of his friend’s funniest stories and biggest exasperations centered around the idiocy of trainees. Giving them a fancy stick or a mock weapon zeroed out their brain cells. When he wanted to feel better he’d observe weapons classes. No matter how he messed up he didn’t whack himself in the forehead or trip over a broadsword.
Certus, unable to wait her turn, jumped back in. “You have something in mind? I know kukris are popular with Galahdians. It’s a cultural thing, right?”
“It is but I don’t have one anymore.”
With interest he glanced up to the rear view mirror. Even with a reflection between them she failed to make eye contact. If honest, something he rarely was anymore, it would be great if she never looked at him again.
Their few bouts of eye contact in Trier unsettled him. Something about her eyes (and just her presence) rattled his spirit from his bones. They were decades older than her childish face. The amber was turned animalistic by sharp cheekbones and the fact he swore she blinked less than the average person. It was like she looked through him instead of at him. As if every sin he ever committed was hers to tally up then cast judgement on. If he failed then she would stalk him through snowy mountains to rip his throat out.
“Is it okay to ask what happened?” He could taste her desperation for any sort of stimulation.
“I gave it to my little sister.” Avitus had a smile in her voice; it was maybe the first solid emotion she showed in the hours since they met. “It’s her early birthday gift.”
“You have a sister? How old is she?”
“She’ll be turning six this month.”
He half expected a repeat of the diner from this morning. Certus had asked about the two no-shows. Avitus gave the blasé explanation that an avalanche happened. It downed power lines in their areas therefore inviting in daemons. At best those two were buried alive or severely injured. More than likely they were daemon chow. They sat stunned while she went back to her coffee.
Axis’ mind drifted back to the conundrum of Galahdians. He thought if he had gotten to attend university he would have studied them. Maybe not Galahdian exactly but the psychology of the individuals like them. What did it take to follow the group thinking versus becoming the outlier. Or, he could have studied that with sociology and anthropology.
Not that any of that mattered. University was for rich kids in Insomnia. He was a poor hunter’s bastard from Duscae. That kind of knowledge would stay out of his league.
Hours passed.
“It’ll be night soon.” He broke his hours-long silence while pulling off to haven.
Things went slow as the other shifted around. Certus put down her knitting to stretch out her hands. Behind him Avitus yawned while stretching; her joints audibly popped.
“I can help with anything in a camp.” Sleep laced through her low voice making it rough. “I’ve got a lot of practice.”
Camping experience answered his unasked question about her backpack. Hers looked well seasoned with the straps for weight distribution on trails. Everyone else he transported showed up with sports duffel bags or a standard school pack.
As he parked, Certus turned fully around in her seat. “Can you cook? I’ve done it all since we’ve left. Arra can’t make anything on a campfire for shit.”
He fought down a groan even if Certus was telling the truth. His childhood was learning to cook on a camp stove instead of open flame.
“I’ve got a lot of experience cooking, campfire and otherwise.” Something around her rustled. “I think it’s a hobby.”
“Perfect!”
Their eyes met through the rear view mirror.
Lighting mixed to wash her skin out to bleached bone. The many tiny moles stood out in stark relief. But, those eyes reached a higher level of unsettling. He felt in danger like he should cower or take to ground. Anything to keep her from breathing down his neck.
One of her blinks shifted her attention to something else.
Weird fucking girl.