Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a woman who lives at the edge of the swamp, a woman old and frail who receives nothing but kindness when she comes into town. Gossip lingers after her when she leaves, words hushed and tinged with pity because the woman keeps talking about her husband and how he finally got around to fixing the hole in the roof, or how he patched up the rotting bridge near their house, or that he helped her work out what her new stew recipe was missing — but he died, didn’t he, some fifteen years before.

The people in the village pass it off as the fragile mind of an old woman, but Vala knows better. The woman fascinates her — she’s seen her father transform himself into the most magnificent creatures, has seen her mother pluck beautiful and intricate flowers from thin air, but it’s the brambles and poisoned earth around this woman’s hut that have captivated her — and she’s spent countless hours perched in the trees, out of view, just watching. She’s seen the woman’s husband, more than once — gaunt, almost skeletal, radiating an aura of wrongness that bleeds into the swamp around him; the woman caught her watching, once, and stared up at Vala for a long while before simply holding up one bony finger to her lips as if to shush her, then gave her a slow grin — a smile that’s too wide, with too many teeth, too predatory.

Vala learns from her, even if the woman never intends to teach her; she’s seen the peaceful, subtle magics of her parents, a gentle coexistence with the earth around them — but Vala’s more interested in the ways of the old woman and the way she commands nature, grips it with bony, vice-like hands and demands that life and death bend to her will.

She’s always been told that, when it comes to druidic magics, it’s a matter of balance — of push and pull, of a quiet understanding and bond with nature. But what the old woman does? It’s a matter of power, of that Vala is certain. Understanding and bonding, yes, but using that knowledge to force her will upon the earth.

After all, why ask when you can demand?

So when the soldiers come, laying claim to the swampland in the name of some nearby lord of a town that became a city that became too large for its own walls, the villagers flee — because they’d rather pretend they're leaving of their own will, rather than fight and lose their lives as well as their homes. Vala stays behind, because at seventeen she’s old enough to know she’s capable of fighting back, and young enough to think she’ll be successful.

She tries to visit the old woman but the hut is empty, no sign she’d ever lived there other than the sickened, dying energy that seeps into the earth around her house. But it gives Vala an idea, and she kneels on the outskirts of the village and presses one hand deep into the soft, muddy ground. Filth and bile and poison drip from her outstretched fingertips, marking the soil around her.

But her hand recedes, and so too does the momentary stench of death. She isn’t as powerful as the old woman, she can’t corrupt the earth into something so vile and damned that it’ll be generations before it supports life again.

So she leaves, and tells herself she’ll return one day when she’s stronger.

…

Vala does return, years later, and this time she’s powerful enough to fight back. She can’t raze the whole city, as much as she would like to, but she doesn’t think she needs to, necessarily, to make her point. She takes the form of a writhing, towering water elemental, her height rivaling the trees and stagnant, fetid swamp water coursing through her; she maintains a quiet watch at the edge of the swamp, and they send soldiers after her but she kills them without a thought. Nothing short of an army, it seems, could break past her, but an army never comes.

Foul waters flood the city streets. Blight takes their crops and their animals. Plague grips the townsfolk. It’ll fade in a few days — her magic has its limits, as does the entertainment value of it all — but she’s left a lasting impression. She hasn’t marked the land like the old woman in the hut at the edge of the swamp, hasn’t left the earth rotted and the soil sickened, but there’s going to be a few scarce months for the city.

And she’s… sated.

Her parents and her people haven’t seen her in years, and she knows she could travel the short distance to where she knows they’ve settled. But she doesn’t, because as much as she claims not to care for the judgment of others, she knows, too, that she would find not pride but suspicion and disappointment in her parents’ eyes and that, even after all she’s done and all she’s accomplished, that would break her.

All she’s done is take a little revenge for an atrocity committed nearly two decades ago, but that’s not what they would see. They would see only senseless violence, and Vala would rather her parents think her dead than know she’s alive and acting against everything they’ve ever taught her.

So she leaves, again, and wonders if she might return one day when she’s braver.

Chapter Text

“Can’t sleep either?”

Liathanys turns from where she’s been keeping watch for most of the evening, her expression quietly neutral — but not unwelcoming — as Lann joins her, greeting her with a warm smile to accompany his words. She offers a slow nod. “I told Seelah I’d take the first watch instead.” Her hand runs thoughtlessly across the curve of her bow, and she turns her attention back towards the treeline beyond their camp; it’s an unnecessary caution, she expects, but one she still takes. “And you?” she asks, after a moment, because Lann doesn’t have the look of someone who’s only just woken up.

But he just shrugs, overly nonchalant; like Liathanys, he doesn’t admit to anything, not at first, but he wavers after a moment. “I keep thinking about Wenduag. And about… well, everything down in the Shield Maze.” He lets out a long, slow breath, like he’s steeling himself for something.

Liathanys waits, but he says nothing further. The brief conversation turns to silence, because Liathanys has nothing to add — they’ve discussed this, already; what happened was wrong, what Wenduag did was wrong, but it’s done — but her mind is working, now, thinking back to something Lann had said, down beneath Kenabres, that had struck her. “When we were… below — beneath the city — you said you wanted to make something of your life.”

It’s not a question, exactly, but even so, Lann gives her an answer. “Yeah. I wasn’t going to miss the chance to make a difference up here.” He pauses; in the brief time they’ve traveled together, Lann has been relatively open about the realities plaguing his people, but here, for a moment, he seems almost hesitant. “It’s probably not something you’d have to worry about, but me? I’ve got a few good years left in me, and with the way things are going so far, the crusade may take up most of that time. Can’t exactly drag my feet when it comes to an opportunity like this.”

He’s not wrong; she’s been shooting a bow longer than any of the mongrels will even live. She has decades — centuries — left. This fight against the demons is, ultimately, just a blip in her elven lifespan; at least, she hopes, and one hand moves unbidden to rub at the echo of the wound on her chest.

Lann misreads her apprehension, it seems, because he gives an exaggerated shrug. “Nothing against you or Irabeth. Liberating an entire city’s not exactly an easy task.”

She’s hardly listening, anymore; she grips her bow tighter and turns to Lann, watching him for a moment as she tries to contemplate what, exactly, he’s done — devote what he knows to be, potentially, the rest of his life to this cause. She isn’t sure if it’s her scrutiny or her silence that unnerves him, but she turns away as she senses his discomfort and offers a quiet apology. “It’s not that. I was just… thinking. Thank you for answering.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he offers slowly, and the pair descends, once more, into awkward silence.

To her own surprise, Liathanys finds herself searching for an acceptable topic to, hopefully, dispel some of the tension from the air; smalltalk is hardly her forte, and she’s far more used to spending her time in solitary silence — alone, but not necessarily lonely — although she can no longer deny that Lann’s amiable demeanor has certainly grown on her in a way she isn’t used to. Unfortunately, the weapon in her hand is the only thing to spark inspiration in her mind. “You’re comfortable with a bow,” she says, more a question than a statement, as if he hasn’t clearly displayed his own skill since before they’d even begun traveling together, as if it’s some secret rather than painfully, dreadfully obvious. She could kick herself, if not for the fact that it does, somehow, help to ease the awkwardness from the night.

“Not to brag,” Lann says, in a light tone that suggests he’s about to do exactly that, “but you’re looking at one of the best hunters in all of Neathholm.” He gives her a crooked smile, one she finds oddly charming even despite the relative impassiveness of the scaled half of his face.

She considers what to say, how to continue the conversation — she could congratulate him on his skill, perhaps — when a noise catches her attention; it’s quiet, a slight rustle of leaves from somewhere in the trees, just beyond her line of sight. She stands, longbow at the ready, and as she turns back to Lann a response finds its way, finally, to her lips. “Would you care to prove your boasting?”

A flash of surprise crosses his features at her open challenge, but then the sound comes a second time — louder, if not closer — and he gives her a nod. That smile’s back, warm and earnest, and Liathanys does her best not to let her thoughts linger on it.

She focuses, instead, on the impromptu hunt — it’s unwise, perhaps, to leave their camp unguarded, even momentarily, even to investigate a potential threat, but she can’t help the sudden spark of impulse that had overtaken her. With a wave of her hand, she motions for Lann to follow, and she leads him deeper into the forest as they maneuver through the trees. To her surprise, Lann’s footsteps are nearly as quiet as her own, and he keeps up easily as she slips between the shadows.

After a moment, she catches movement in the underbrush; Lann spots it shortly after, and silently meets her gaze as she motions for him to flank around… whatever it is they’re tracking. Without waiting for him, Liathanys searches for a suitable tree and pulls herself up onto one of the lower branches, one hand steadying herself on the trunk as she peers up over the thick underbrush, hoping for a better view.

It comes as little surprise when she catches sight of a wolf, carrying what remains of a fresh kill — presumable off to a nearby den — and she knows they’re in little danger from the wolf, unless they do something to provoke it. Liathanys turns, hoping she can catch Lann’s attention before he gets close enough for the wolf to pick up his scent; she finds, instead, that he’s hardly moved, staring up at her with that same quiet surprise that she’d seen earlier, while they’d still been at camp. She motions for him to head back for camp before silently making her way back down the tree and falling into step beside him.

Liathanys waits until they’re back at the camp clearing before explaining; and, to her endless relief, they find the camp and their companions as quiet as when they’d left.  “Just some wolves,” she says in explanation. “They won’t be a threat as long as we leave them alone, though it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get the fire going again.” She nods towards the dying flames; as if to further prove her point, the fire sputters out into a slim wisp of smoke.

It takes little effort to get the flames going again, and once there’s little concern of the fire dying down again Lann asks something, but Liathanys can’t make out the quiet words over the crackle of the fire. Well aware of her sleeping companions, she leaves the post she’d taken up at the edge of camp and joins Lann, instead, sitting beside him at the fire and asking what he needed.

He doesn’t answer right away, eyes trained on the fire as he pokes at it with a soot-blackened stick; he looks up at her after a moment, curiosity shining clear in his expression. “You’re pretty comfortable out there,” he says — a question underlying the statement, just as Liathanys’ own thoughtless comment on Lann’s archery skills earlier in the evening — and he nods towards the forest.

“It’s where I’m most effective,” she says simply, aware that even with as much time as she’s spent with her new companions, the vast majority has been on the ruined streets of Kenabres. She’s had little chance to prove her talent as a ranger, beyond proving her finesse with a bow. “I spent years training in the forests and on the plains, learning to hunt and track and survive, but in the city, I’m…” She doesn’t say useless, because she certainly isn’t, but city streets are a whole different beast that she never conquered.

“…you’re helping to reclaim the entire city from demons?” Lann finishes for her, tone and expression both deadly serious; the facade cracks after just a moment, and he breaks into a grin as he adds, “Oh, and you’re also somehow touched by the light of Heaven. Still seems pretty effective to me.”

Liathanys does her best not to frown; she isn’t used to this — to praise, to faith in her skills and abilities — and she knows that Lann is… not teasing, perhaps, but certainly not entirely serious, although she can admit that he may have a point. “I did say most effective,” she concedes. “And your own abilities have translated quite well aboveground,” she points out, curious how he’ll take being the center of praise in their conversation.

He takes it in stride, she learns; Lann shrugs, turning back to the fire in a show of nonchalance. “Turns out shooting cultists and demons isn’t that much different than shooting giant cave bugs. Who knew?”

She begins to say something else — to argue, perhaps, that he does more than “shoot demons” — but her words are cut off by a deep yawn; her portion of the night’s watch is over, anyway, so she stands and stretches her arms up over her head, vaguely aware she’s captured Lann’s attention again. “I should get some rest,” she says, surprised by how apologetic her own words sound. “It’s Woljif’s turn to take watch.”

But Lann stops her with a shake of his head. “Let the kid sleep. I’m gonna be up for a little while longer, anyway. I’ll switch out with him later.”

She frowns. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. And, hey — Liathanys?”

“Yes?” She tries to ignore the way she freezes when he says her name, like it carries a weight that wasn’t there before.

“It… it was nice talking with you.” There’s an odd sort of hesitance to the words but they seem genuine; he gives her that crooked smile, then, and she pretends it won’t linger in her thoughts as she drifts to sleep.

Chapter Text

They’re a ragtag bunch, a motley crew. “Crusaders” is, certainly, far from the first thing that comes to Vala’s mind as she watches, silent and curious, as most of her traveling companions join around one of the larger tables and share dinner and drinks.

Vala herself is seated at the bar, legs crossed, one elbow propped up on the bar beside her, sipping from a chipped glass at wine that, if she ignores the pungent aftertaste, she can pretend isn’t the cheapest swill she’s had in a very long time. They’ve all had a long day shoring up some defenses at the edge of the square, trying to maintain their hold on the few streets they’ve reclaimed from the demons.

She lets her eyes flutter shut and takes a long, slow breath, imagining that she’s surrounded by the scent of subtle, earthy potpourri — or incense, perhaps — rather than the stale odor of old ale, sweat, and something sharp that’s reminiscent of urine; she’s so very tired of such cramped, suffocating circumstances.

But the creaking of a barstool being pulled out beside her distracts her, and the sounds and smells and pounding headache that always seems to accompany the tavern return; Vala makes a show of rolling her eyes and taking a long sip of her wine, but turns to find Seelah beside her, leaning back onto the bar, giving a wide, easy smile in Vala’s direction. Her crass, aloof charade fades a bit, and she might deny it if pressed but she does like Seelah, even with all her senseless, boundless optimism and righteousness.

She isn’t sure that Seelah shares such a favorable opinion of her all the time — and Vala ignores the way disappointment presses in on her when she considers the fact — but it’s hardly obvious, with the bright way the paladin turns to her.

“You haven’t decided you’re too good for us now, have you?” Seelah asks, the words filled with a friendly challenge as she tilts her head to look at Vala. She doesn’t wait for an answer, and nods towards the table where the rest of the group is gathered — Lann, seated at the edge of the table with a measured, thoughtful expression; Woljif, perched halfway on his chair as he recounts what is a likely highly embellished story; Ember, at the head of the table, wide-eyed at Woljif’s tale, the roll in her hands forgotten as she’s captivated by the tiefling’s performance; Anevia, interrupting with the occasional comment or laughter; Camellia, sipping at her drink and watching, one brow raised, with a bored, inscrutable expression — and Seelah says, voice a little quieter, “No one else will admit to it, but that empty seat’s for you, if you feel like joining us.”

Seelah’s always quick to volunteer herself — for better or for worse, this Vala knows; she knows, too, that she isn’t speaking the entire truth. Camellia, certainly, has no desire for Vala’s presence, but the rest of the group would readily invite her to the table. But she plays along, arching one brow and giving Seelah the most imperious look she can muster. “And how, then, should I maintain my air of superiority if I join the commonfolk?”

The paladin laughs at that, loud and rich, head thrown back, and something stirs within Vala; fuck but she’s beautiful, Seelah is, and Vala knows her mask of indifference slips as her gaze traces Seelah’s form, the curve of her jaw, the bright spark in her eyes as she turns back to her. It’s not often that Vala feels inadequate, but standing here next to Seelah…

“Now you just sound like Camellia. Or Daeran,” Seelah adds, still fighting off laughter.

At the mention of Daeran, Vala lets out a low hmm, no longer concerned about hiding her interest; she’d made a blatant pass at him when they’d first met, after all. “And where is our dear Count Arendae, I wonder?”

If there’s any awkwardness between them at Vala’s sudden shift in tone, Seelah hides it well. “Probably up in his room,” she remarks with a shrug, “drinking the only good booze in this place.”

Vala gives a deliberately thoughtful frown, her brow furrowed as her long nails tap rhythmically against her wine glass; it can’t be too difficult to sneak off with some of Daeran’s expensive alcohol, given the right distraction. “Someone should do something about that.”

“I know what you’re getting at, and I really shouldn’t encourage it.”

“But neither are you going to stop me.” With a sharp, pointed look that’s as challenging as it is teasing, Vala downs the rest of her sub-par wine and sets the glass on the bar; she gives Seelah a wide, lingering grin before turning to the rowdy table nearby. “Woljif,” she calls, her mischievous grin only growing at the bright, eager look that immediately burns in the young tiefling’s eyes, “I’ve had an idea, and I need your help.”

Chapter Text

The Commander has a reputation. They say she’s unpredictable, at best — cruel, at worst.

She’s certain most of the gossip comes not from her deeds but from the little she makes herself visible on Drezen’s streets; most expect her to lead with the poise and decorum of Galfrey or Irabeth, so when she doesn’t it catches people’s attention. Most see it when she makes time for her friends — when she peruses the markets with Woljif (and things tend to go missing when the pair’s around, but no one’s caught them yet), or when she joins Ember for her “sermons” on the street corners (towering over her, looming just behind her as a very clear warning not to ridicule or speak against the child), or when she joins Seelah and Anevia for drinks at the inn (and between the three of them the drunken tales they tell are ridiculous, verging on unbelievable, and yet no one who overhears ever questions them).

The soldiers — her soldiers — saw it on the battlefield, when their camp was attacked outside of Drezen, when she’d stood in the fray with her twin scimitars gleaming, blood staining her hands and clothes and face, the air and earth around her crackling as she called trails of lightning from the sky and spouts of acid from the ground. They’d known, then, with unwavering certainty, that as long as she remained on their side — and they on hers — that she’d fight like hell to keep them safe; if there had been any doubts, even after the wild swath she’d cut through the gargoyles that had descended on the camp, it would’ve been dispelled by her cruel, cold rage at learning some of her friends had been taken.

As the city grows, so too does her reputation. They say she’s heavy handed but… fair enough, they suppose.

No one likes the taxes, but she puts them to good use, at least. The gnome she all but hands her armies to, he’s… well, he’s a Hellknight — what were they expecting, really — and while his cold, calculating methods and the brutal maneuvers that he and the Commander come up with are certainly questionable, at times, no one can deny their success. And word travels through the city streets — quiet, hushed — about her diplomatic blunders; they say she’s reckless, say she’s careless in the way she tosses about and plays with Drezen’s future, but it can’t be all bad, can it, standing against the Nerosyan council and loudly declaring that she alone rules Drezen, and she’ll do what’s best for her city and won’t just bow to Galfrey because she’s the queen.

Rumor spreads of a madman who’d approached her in the streets, a traveler seeking power and status he felt was owed to him; the Commander, well, she doesn’t like being challenged — they all know this, surely. They say she listened to his story, then, and approached him — in an elegant, dark silk dress, her pretty aasimar features tugged into a sharp frown, crimson hair glowing ever so slightly in the dim evening light like the last stubborn embers of a dying fire — and gripped his face in one hand, her strong, lithe fingers pressing hard enough into his skin that he flinched. Some say he withered and faded like she was taking the very life force out of him, some say his skin festered and ruptured as plague overtook his body, and other still say acid dripped from her fingers and seared holes into his skin.

However the story goes, the consensus on the street is always the same: the Commander gave a clear stance on being threatened, and the man was never seen within the city again. He only lived, they say, because the odd little preacher girl stepped in and asked the Commander to stop.

Maybe she’s a little cruel. A little overbearing. But she fights for Drezen, and the city’s safe as long as she’s the one ruling in the citadel.

She returns, months after leaving for the Abyss and weeks after Galfrey leaves to take the army west, and there’s a darkness within her that wasn’t there before. Or, perhaps, wasn’t as prominent.

They say it’s just a product of spending so much time amongst demons, a lingering effect of working both with and against Nocticula and Baphomet and other lords of the Abyss — but word spreads through the city streets as the Commander once again liberates their city, stories spoken with hushed voices only at night, and only when they’re alone. It’s the queen, they say; the Commander vowed to take revenge for Galfrey’s actions, vowed she’ll rebuild the broken city and failing crusade and retake her banner, her Sword of Valor, and — and they always pause, always let their eyes dart around to ensure they’re at no risk of being overheard — she’s going to challenge Galfrey.

(She returns from Iz with the banner but without Galfrey, and no one dares speak of it.)

They begin preparations for what very well may be the final battle of the Crusades, and she spends her evenings on the balcony of the citadel with the Count — and his presence at her side is constant, these days, it seems — and their combined laughter rings out over the city, a mix of joy and scorn and something sharper, something darker, something the stories on the streets carefully skirt around.

Maybe they don’t like the arrogance and pride she’s brought to Drezen, but she’s brought, too, safety and stability; if there’s one things the stories always tell, it’s that she won’t let the city be taken by demons — by anyone — not while she still rules over it.

Chapter Text

Woljif’s a city boy, he tells her once.

Vala… understands, in a way, the appeal of the dirty cobblestones and a crowded marketplace; she has nothing against being confined within the walls of a city, especially not when it’s her city and its denizens watch her with a mix of awe and fear as she passes by. Does she prefer the appeal of the open road and sleeping beneath the stars? Perhaps, yes, there’s a comfort to the earth beneath her bare feet; but there is, too, a comfort to her exquisitely large bed and the indulgent luxury of drawing a warm bath.

She catches him, one afternoon, in the markets, leaning up against a stack of crates and watching, intently, as one of the merchants tries to hawk her wares to a rather unconvinced dwarf. Woljif lingers nearby, eyes studying the knick-knacks at the merchant’s stall, arms crossed and tail flicking in a thoughtless tic that Vala’s come to recognize.

“You have money now,” she reminds him as she approaches, taking a place beside him and leaning forward to rest her elbows on the crate, chin in her hands. “Between you and me, we could afford half the marketplace.”

He turns to her with a wide, toothy grin, tail going still for just a moment. “Come on, it ain’t just about the money,” he says, and she can hear the grin in his voice as much as she can see it. “You know me better than that, Chief.” Woljif turns back to the stall, already back to his careful plotting.

“I could summon a veritable army of woodland creatures,” Vala suggests, the words quiet and nonchalant. “A dozen bunnies to overtake the square. Or perhaps I shower myself in heavenly light and make a spectacle as I demand everyone’s attention?”

“Nah, that’s no fun.” Woljif stands upright, rubbing his hands together as he nods towards the stall. “I was thinkin’ something a little more old fashioned. Just get her talking.”

So she does, and it’s easy — because she’s the Commander, and she bats her lashes and stands a little too close, and the merchant’s so momentarily flustered that Woljif easily absconds with his prize, a jeweled dagger with a dulled blade and gems that don’t even look genuine. But it’s a prize, nonetheless, and he inspects it and twirls it in one hand as the pair heads back towards the tavern.

“Thanks, Chief,” he says, still giving her that wide grin as he tucks the dagger away. “And, uh, don’t tell Irabeth?”

Vala cocks an eyebrow, holding back a grin of her own. “About your perfectly innocent afternoon at the market? Certainly not.”

Vala pulls away to catch her breath, propping herself up just enough to give Daeran a thoughtful, measured look. “If this is, definitively, not a date,” she says slowly, reaching to trace one finger along the curve of his jaw, “and we are, certainly, nothing more than friends — how do you plan to address the inevitable rumors that arise now that you’ve stolen me away for an entire evening?”

“Friends? Tell me you don’t truly consider us friends,” he counters, one brow arching upwards, his voice carrying a careful, practiced tone of indifference; even so, his grip on her waist tightens and his eyes never leave hers. “We’re acquaintances, at best. Or, perhaps, coworkers might be more apt, given the circumstances.”

She gives a low hum, making a show of thinking over his words. “A simple workplace tryst, then?”

Something mischievous flashes in his bright eyes, and his lips press into a thin, wry smile. “It does certainly sound more scandalous that way, doesn’t it?”

“Do you think we helped?”

“Hmm?” Vala takes care not to move, suppressing her initial instinct to turn and look at Ember.

“With Nocticula,” she clarifies; her hands still for a moment, then Vala feels another light tug on her hair as Ember continues. There’s a tap on her shoulder, then, and Vala crafts another small flower and holds it out to Ember, who begins weaving the fragile stem into the short braid that she’s worked Vala’s hair into. “Do you think we’ve made a difference and helped Nocticula?”

Vala considers the words, trying to figure a response to balance her own cynicism with Ember’s steadfast hope. “It’s hard to say,” she says honestly. “I don’t know that anyone’s ever tried, before. Certainly not with Nocticula, and possibly not with any denizens of the Abyss.”

“She’s so sad, Vala,” Ember laments softly, the words tinged with such remorse and dismay that it tugs at Vala’s heart. “I really hope we helped her.”

Another tap on her shoulder, and Vala hands her another flower; she’s lost count of how many arcane-crafted flowers that Ember has worked into her hair, but she’s certain her braid is filled with them now. “The Abyss is… not kind to things like light and hope and redemption. You’ve seen how things work here,” she reminds her gently. “Nocticula’s realm thrives off chaos and pain and treachery. I’m not sure if changing one person’s mind is enough to make a difference here.”

Ember’s silent for a long while, hands still, and Vala wonders if she hasn’t been too harsh, hasn’t said the wrong thing. “But maybe,” Ember says after a moment, voice as small and quiet as Vala’s ever heard from her, “if we changed Nocticula’s mind, she can help everyone else here to see.”

Vala bites back a frustrated sigh. “Maybe so, Ember.”

“I really hope we’ve helped her.”

Vala finds Seelah seated at the far end of the chapel, head hung low, clearly deep in thought. She almost doesn’t want to bother her, after the events of the past few days, but something about the paladin’s posture leaves Vala’s chest aching, so she takes a seat beside her and waits, silently, for Seelah to acknowledge her.

When she does speak, finally, Seelah’s voice is… heavy, as if the words take physical effort to force out; she doesn’t accuse Vala by name, but when Seelah asks if it’s worth it — if she should bother with such a thankless fight against evil — when evil still persists despite all her efforts, she gives Vala a long, slow look and it’s accusation enough. They both know — and all of Drezen must know, at this point — that even their bond of friendship isn’t enough for Seelah to ignore some of the things that Vala’s done.

The Abyss was… difficult, for them. Their return to Drezen wasn’t much better. Vala’s outright dismissal of Iomedae — especially given the crass way she’d waved off the goddess — has put, perhaps, more strain on them than their friendship can take.

But she’s helped Seelah’s friends, and that, too, must count for something.

“You will never eradicate the things you fight against,” Vala says, after a long moment of silence between them, the words quiet and matter-of-fact. “You cannot cleanse the Abyss. You cannot drive all evil from the world. This… task you’ve taken upon yourself, this little personal crusade of yours — it is doomed to fail. It has been from the moment you took up a sword.”

Seelah scoffs and hangs her head once more.

“But that does not mean you should give in to despair and stop trying. If anything, it means quite the opposite.” Vala waits until Seelah looks up at her again, giving her a sharp, quizzical frown. Vala gives her an encouraging grin in return. “You will never change the entire world — but you will change the world for someone, and that alone should be reason enough to continue.”

There’s a long, heavy silence as Seelah mulls over the words, hands clasped in front of her and eyes trained on the scuffed chapel floor. “You think so?” she asks after a moment, turning to look up at Vala. The weight of her doubt still seems to press down on her, but there’s a spark in her eyes — hope, perhaps, or surprise at what Vala’s said.

“I’m certain of it. I’ve told you of how my family was forced to flee the village we grew up in? If even a single person had stood with me when I tried to stop it—“ she pauses, giving a dramatic sigh and turning to Seelah with an exaggerated, overwrought expression, “—perhaps I could’ve been saved from my tragic doom, my inevitable descent into darkness from which I cannot be saved.”

That, finally, lifts the last lingering shadow that hangs over Seelah, and she gives a little laugh. “Hey, you’re not tragically doomed,” she argues lightly, leaning over to bump her shoulder against Vala’s. “Not if I have something to say about it. But… thanks. I needed that.”

Vala watches, arms crossed, as Camellia gathers and slaughters a dozen of her father’s servants. The stench of death doesn’t bother her, nor does the blatant ecstasy on Camellia’s face.

What does bother her is that Camellia’s been using her, has lied and manipulated her way through countless murders at Vala’s expense. In all honesty, she could almost respect Camellia’s bold search for satisfaction — but she’s endured too many lies. Were it anyone else, not someone she’s traveled with for months, Vala would simply strike her down with little thought.

But Camellia, she deserves… not mercy, necessarily, but neither does she deserve Vala’s wrath.

So when she’s finished — when she’s as sated as the scattered bodies around them allow — and saunters towards Vala, calls her my friend, reaches out to give her arm a gentle touch and flutters her lashes just so… Vala pulls away. They’re still friends, she’ll still invite Camellia to her bed, she won’t stand in the way of whatever rituals she wants to continue with — but she has a point to make.

She reaches out, presses a single finger beneath Camellia’s chin and forces her to look her in the eye. “Don’t. Lie to me. Again.”

With that, she leaves, and Camellia calls out her name and it rings arrogant and frustrated throughout the courtyard. She doesn’t care.

Chapter Text

When Regill challenges Vala — when he dares to stand against the Commander, in front of her friends and his colleagues, calling out the doubts that have plagued Drezen since she took hold of the city — she doesn’t hesitate to do the exact thing he’s accusing her of; she acts without thinking, throws his words back at him and asks him how she could dare to turn down such a brash, impulsive challenge from him.

Her fury, as they prepare to face each other, is heated — bubbling just beneath the surface, simmering and threatening to burst — and she paces and fidgets as she waits. Regill, by contrast, is as impassive as ever.

One of the Hellknights stands between them as the rest of the group steps back, giving the pair a wide berth; the single Knight turns to them both, in turn, giving a slight nod to ensure they’re ready. Then he steps back, and tells them to begin.

Vala knows, from months of experience, that Regill will wait for her to make the first move. He chides her — often — for doing the opposite, but she’s never listened and she certainly won’t start now; she cracks her neck, takes a few lazy steps forward, and allows herself to transform into a massive, towering fire elemental. She thinks she catches Regill muttering that she’s predictable, but she has little time to consider it before he takes a swing at her, the hammer catching the edge of her burning, writhing form.

She lashes out, almost instinctively, but her swipe goes wide — way off from Regill’s short form — and she’s rewarded with another swing from the hammer. Vala lets out a crackling, guttural roar, as frustrated by the battle as she is by Regill’s continued stoicism. She’s ready for the next hit, and dodges Regill’s swing cleanly; as she dances away, she raises one arm up, calling on a quickly-gathering form of clouds above them, and with another roar she finishes the spell and brings her arm down roughly, guiding the bolt of lightning as it sparks through the sky, landing a near-perfect hit on Regill.

To his credit, Regill barely flinches, his approach towards her unbothered by the strike. Unsatisfied, Vala calls down another bolt — to the same result.

Regill remains infuriatingly impassive, even despite the scorch marks now marring the front of his heavy armor. He takes a swing, then another, his hammer cleaving through Vala’s elemental form deeper than before. Once again, she swings out on instinct — but he’s still too damnably short — and misses, so rather than continue she focuses on a point just past the gnome, bracing herself against the next two hits as she summons a small group of wolves. The creatures descend on Regill, but even as his form is obscured by the massive wolves he continues his precise, methodical attacks and the wolves fall easily, one after another.

Still, it gives Vala enough time to slide her towering elemental form backwards and, with a sharp wave of her hands, dismiss her form and shift back to her usual aasimar self. The last wolf falls, and she has just enough time to unsheathe her twin scimitars as Regill turns his focus, once more, to her. His hammer arcs down towards her, and she raises up her blades to block him, only just maintaining her balance from the power of the blow. She strikes out with her scimitars and they glance harmlessly off of Regill’s armor; a second strike, and she thinks she hits something but Regill gives no indication of any pain; a third strike, and she abandons it halfway through the swing to dodge out of the way of Regill’s hammer.

With a sharp grin, Vala continues to dance backwards out of his reach. “I expected more from you,” she snarls, “with your constant disapproval, and the—“

The words cut off as Regill takes another swing, catching Vala in the side; her vision goes spotty for a moment as she feels something snap and crack in her ribs, and she lays on the ground for a moment, wheezing as she takes in slow, shallow breaths, and as she blinks past the pain she decides, then, that there’s no more toying with him.

So she stands, and gives her blades a twirl as she thrusts the scimitars down into the ground; with both hands now free, she summons a thick, twisted cluster of poisonous brambles that block the path between her and Regill and begin to twist around the gnome’s form. He fights against it, but the vines only tighten around him. She calls down two more bolts of lightening, in quick succession, and begins to summon another spell, something dark, something that seems to draw the very life and light from the area as her hands move.

Before she can finish the spell, the same Knight who’d called for the duel to begin steps in front of her, hands outstretched, calling for her to stop. It’s not a fight to the death, he reminds her, with a slight look of panic as if he’s worried Vala’s final spell would actually kill Regill.

It might’ve. That was the whole point, after all.

But Vala relents, dismissing the poisonous vines with a sharp wave of her hand, and makes a point of turning away from Regill and rejoining the rest of their group. Woljif and Daeran both approach — the latter having already clearly prepped a healing spell for her — but she waves Woljif away, giving a little smile in the hopes he’ll recognize she’s fine.

Daeran gives her a tight-lipped smile — the closest, she suspects, that he’ll come to showing genuine concern here — and Vala lets out a long, slow breath as his healing magic washes over her and she begins to feel the bone and muscle around the wound at her ribs begin to knit back together.

“I could’ve killed him,” she says quietly, putting at least some effort into not sounding like a petulant child.

“Oh, I have no doubts about that.” Daeran quirks an eyebrow, and his grin grows into something a little less tense. “After all, you still could.”

Vala laughs, the sound strained as the wound on her side has yet to heal completely. “Darling, you really expect me to go through all the effort of finding someone else to run my armies? Or, even worse — start running them myself?”

The morning after they arrive back in Drezen, it’s back to business as usual, it seems.

Vala has yet to speak with Regill about the trial he’d subjected her to — even with Daeran’s healing magic, the wound at her ribs is still sore and tender, and anger flashes through her whenever she’s reminded of the pain; it’s for Regill’s health that she’s avoided him — but it seems he’s going to force the conversation, as she finds him poring over the war map that morning.

“Have you considered the approach to Iz?”

Frowning, Vala gives Regill a bleary-eyed glare; it may be close to noon, but she’s only just forced herself out of bed and the war room just so happens to be on the way to the kitchens. Her crimson hair is done up in a sloppy, loose braid and she’s still wearing an elegant, deep green nightgown; she’s barefoot, too, even though the chill of the winter morning has seeped into the citadel’s stone floors and leaves her shivering.

It is far too early to discuss military strategy. Most everyone else knows not to approach her with anything business related until well after noon.

But Regill either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care — and Vala suspects it’s the latter — because he gives a low hmm as he points to a location on the map. “There are some heavy fortifications outside the city we should deal with first.”

She crosses her arms tightly, a bit hunched over as she tries to conserve what warmth she still has. “Regill. If you’re going insist on dealing with this now,” she sighs, too tired to put any real venom behind the words, “I’m going to have to insist we clear up one thing first — why the fuck did you throw me at the Hellknights like that?”

He studies the map for a moment longer, then straightens and clasps his hands behind his back as he turns to Vala; he seems to notice, then, for the first time that morning, that she hasn’t joined him to talk Crusade business, and Regill’s seemingly ever-present frown deepens. “I didn’t throw you at the Hellknights,” he says simply. “Quite the opposite — I ensured their allegiance.”

“How.”

“Every war has its casualties. My position was simply a casualty of this crusade.” The words are sharp, matter-of-fact. “I have been… critical, shall we say, of your methods since the beginning. Bringing a damning accusation against you was simply a natural progression, but by making the accusation itself ridiculous to the point of absurdity forced the other paralictors to side with you definitively. The fact that it was me they sided against was a necessary and acceptable outcome.”

Vala’s eyes narrow as she tries to work out whether she’s impressed or furious; her tired, sleep-muddled brain doesn’t come to a conclusion, so she frowns and gives Regill a dismissive wave. “Pull something like that again, and I will kill you.” She begins to make her way back towards the kitchens, but before she makes it halfway to the door her shoulders slump and she pauses; with a sharp sigh she veers towards the war map. “And you’re right,” she admits as she glances over the map. “See to it that the way is cleared before we march on Iz.”

Chapter Text

There’s something different about the Commander when they’re on the road.

Ember can’t quite place what it is, not at first, because she assumes it must be the connection with nature; but Vala isn’t a typical druid, and says so herself when Ember asks about it. She prefers the open road to the city, Vala tells her, but the city does have so many wonderful amenities that she certainly couldn’t do without.

So Ember watches her, and the answer comes to her at camp one night after Seelah and Sosiel have already turned in. Vala sits a little ways out past the campfire, and stares up at the night sky; Ember joins her, sitting cross-legged beside her, and asks what she knows about the stars.

“Nothing,” Vala tells her with a soft smile, glancing over at her before turning her gaze skyward once more. “But I do know that they mean freedom — if you can see the stars, you’re far enough away from the city to be free.”

“But don’t you like Drezen?” Ember’s lips twist into a confused frown; with as much time and effort as Vala’s put into freeing and fixing up the city, surely she can’t hold any disdain for it?

Vala gives a quiet laugh, but it’s quick and sharp and sends a pang of something like sorrow through Ember’s chest. “I like being in charge, my dear. Drezen is just… a part of that.” There’s a long, sad silence, and Ember doesn’t interrupt it because she can sense… something there at the edge of it, like Vala has more to say, but it’s tinged with something like grief. “It’s easy to feel trapped by the walls and the citadel and the titles,” she offers finally, making an attempt at nonchalance with a tired wave of her hand but the words are heavy.

“The walls aren’t there to trap you.” Ember tilts her head to give Vala an open, hopeful smile. “They’re meant to protect you.”

There’s an edge, a darkness, to Vala, something borne of guilt and sadness and anger that’s been creeping towards evil, and Ember is more certain than ever that Vala’s just afraid — and that, like a cornered animal, she lashes out and kills and threatens because she’s frightened. That’s why, she thinks, that darkness always recedes around her; she’s just a little girl, she’s not scary at all. Maybe, if she could only help her to see that the city walls are nothing to be scared of…

But Vala just gives her a wry grin, turning back to stare at the night sky. “For now, perhaps. But out here — I can protect myself.”

Chapter Text

If anyone thinks it’s odd that Vala calls for them to make camp when it’s barely mid-afternoon, no one comments on it; after all, they’re several days’ travel from Drezen, and meeting with a Crusade contact they know little about.

In fact, Vala’s told the group nothing beyond that they’re meeting with someone, and she almost — almost — feels guilty that her friends take her so easily at her word. But this is something she has to keep quiet, regardless of her feelings on the subject. She’d assured Liotr that Daeran would be none the wiser as to their journey’s true purpose, and she can’t risk anyone else letting something slip to him.

No, she has little choice but to carry this information on her own.

If she’d wanted, they could’ve easily pushed through the evening and met with Liotr at their predetermined “ambush” point tonight, but as tempting as it is to have this whole ordeal over and done with, Vala finds herself hesitating, now that they’re so close. When the time comes, she knows, she’ll be able to push past all of this — doubt and regret and fear — and play the part of a power-hungry traitor, turning Daeran over to further her own goals; she’s practiced her over-the-top, villainous speech a dozen times in her mind, and it would be almost comical how dramatic it is, if only she weren’t constantly balancing words to convince while avoiding words that she knows will cut too deep.

So she waits until nightfall, when the camp begins to quiet down and she sits alone as she tends the quietly crackling campfire. She catches Daeran’s eye from across the camp, and beckons him over; when he’s close enough, she reaches out for one of his hands and tugs him down to sit beside her. He begins to protest, but she places a finger on his lips and gives him a pointed look.

“I need you to listen,” she tells him, voice low, “and as difficult as I know it is for you, I need you to refrain from making any smart comments until I’m done.”

Something playful glints in his eyes, and she can tell he’s trying very hard to hold back a grin. “I would never.”

“Like that.”

He rolls his eyes but, to his credit, says nothing further.

“I love you,” she tells him, and it’s hardly the first time she’s said it, but it’s the first time it’s been said like this, with such weight and intensity that she feels it with every fiber of her being and a certainty that’s settled deep within her bones; she’s open with her affections — always has been — but she needs him to know this isn’t just something she’s tossing around casually. The mischievous spark in his expression dulls, fading to something she can’t quite place — something darker, curiosity mixed with a hesitation that lies somewhere between doubt and suspicion. “I love you,” she says, again, hoping he won’t just dismiss the words, “and I need to know if you trust me.”

Daeran’s expression is unreadable, now, and he doesn’t quite pull away but when he speaks, his voice is low and curious. “Of course I trust you.”

“I don’t mean here and now,” she clarifies; her hand that’s still clasped with Daeran’s tightens as she clings to him, and her chest tightens as she contemplates that she may be doing as much damage here, tonight, as she will tomorrow with Liotr. But she has no choice. “I don’t mean tonight,” she adds. “With everything we’ve been through — with all the things I’ve led you into — I need to know if you still trust me. The Crusade, the gargoyle attack, Drezen, the fucking Abyss…”

“Well, I am still here,” he points out, and he smiles, finally; it may not be the usual wry grin that Vala’s used to, but some of the tension between them has faded, at least. “And that’s not even accounting for the dragon hunt,” he adds, raising up his free hand to begin counting on his fingers, “or the demon-infested laboratory of Areelu Vorlesh herself, or any of the horrible caves we’ve had to wade through—“

Biting back a grin of her own, Vala swats away the hand he’s counting on. “I’m being serious. You and I both know this isn’t going to get any easier.”

“I know.” There’s a certain sincerity to Daeran, now, unexpected but not unwelcome, and he holds Vala’s gaze as he speaks. “You could ask me to storm the Heavens with you tomorrow, and I don’t think I could resist following.”

“Storm the Heavens?” The words are out before Vala can stop them, the relative absurdity of the statement catching her off-guard.

He shrugs, and the weight of the moment is lost. “For one, we’ve already been to the Abyss. And I’ll remind you that we’ve met one goddess, and you promptly told her to fuck off. I don’t think it’s out of the question.”

“I’m not going to ask you to storm the Heavens.”

There’s a long, heavy pause; Daeran’s smile fades, and he looks over at the still-crackling campfire for a long while before turning back to Vala. “But you are going to ask something of me.” It’s a statement, not a question, and the words hold something of a weary acceptance rather than the curious doubt from earlier in the evening.

“Do you trust me?”

He mutters something beneath his breath that she thinks might be a curse. “Yes. Gods only know why, but yes, I do,” he says, the words coming out a little too quickly, rushed and breathless, as if he needs to speak them into existence before he can convince himself otherwise. “Whatever hell you plan on leading me into, I already know I have no choice but to follow.”

She presses a brief, chaste kiss to his lips, and doesn’t pull away, not entirely; she lets her forehead rest against his, her chest aching at the quiet, earnest way he’d spoken. “I’m afraid I’m going to need that trust tomorrow.” The words are quiet, barely a whisper, as if he might not hear if she’s careful enough.

But he does hear her — of course he does — and he kisses her, again, deep and urgent, a heady mix of want and need and something that tastes a little like desperation. One hand tangles in her crimson hair as he holds her close, and she allows herself to lean into him, allows herself to find comfort in their shared proximity.

Because it won’t last. It can’t last, not with everything looming over them, but they can have this one moment.