Chapter Text
Over the smoking rubble of a ceasefire, Platinum learns quickly that working for Rhodes Island can take them far and wide—or sometimes, too close for comfort.
In the familiar streets of Kazimierz, a silent game of chess has begun: two fronts of black and white, locked upon a chequerboard, under which their history has been swept. So it’s a surprise to them both when Platinum speaks first. She’s picking through the battlefield with a sense of detachment. After all, this place has never felt like home. Home probably doesn’t come with a lifetime of chains.
“We fought here last time,” she says, turning to face her partner. How odd of fate to put them together. Knight and Knight-Assassin. How odd of fate to test them twice.
Nearl regards the smaller woman, so stark against dark ruins of concrete and ash. “We did,” she answers steadily.
There’s wariness between them, tension that tarries, threatening to ignite. They’d been enemies once and it hasn’t been forgotten, simply unspoken.
“You know…” Platinum murmurs.
“Hm?”
“One wrong move…”
Platinum steps forward, hovering before Nearl, tracing a delicate line between them. Her fingers glide deftly over polished metal, and even that is risky. She lingers over the gaps, the vulnerabilities of the breastplate, the joints, the crevices.
“One wrong move and I would’ve killed you,” she says, staring into eyes of molten gold. “Back then.”
Nearl lifts a brow, oddly… drawn. “I’m aware of my armour’s weak points.”
“I know you are,” Platinum says. She flicks her tail lazily, a note of teasing in her tone. “Champion.”
Or is it mocking?
Nearl remains unaffected to the undiscerning but Platinum has always had keen eyes. She’s casting a delicate lure. She’s playing with fire, tempting it to burn. For what reason? She has yet to decide.
But Nearl says, “You wouldn’t have done it.”
Platinum pauses. The bow on her back feels unbearably heavy now and she wonders if it agrees. She glances up, struggling to maintain her smirk, irritation suddenly blooming across her vision.
What does a glorified figurehead know? How could she possibly understand the differences in their position?
“Maybe I should have,” Platinum snaps.
The flash of her arrow is blinding, a speed beyond humanly possible. But the Radiant Knight is no empty title. One strong hand catches her wrist. The other yanks her forward by the jacket, binding them close, face to face.
Nearl holds her with immutable strength… and endless warmth.
“It’s not in you to kill.”
Platinum flinches at the proximity, so used to the distance of shadows, the depths of stealth, where she never has to look into the eyes of her victims.
“You don’t know me,” she hisses, shoving away but it’s in vain.
Nearl won’t budge, not even a fraction. “I know more than I did back then.” Her voice is gentle. And, god, her touch is burning. “So if it’s okay, I’d like to keep learning about you.”
Platinum feels her jaw clench shut. Those words resonate within her chest and she thinks of her abandoned pedestal, that prison of hierarchy. She’d been so lonely upon that bloodstained peak. Even now it follows her in the name she chose to reclaim.
About you…
“You’re all talk,” she mutters stubbornly. “All show, no brains.”
But Nearl ignores the retort, strong in her presence, filling the air with suspense.
“I’m not lying,” she says, and the resolve in her eyes leaves no room for questioning. She really means it.
Platinum contemplates a harsher response but it dies in her throat, standing no chance against the Radiant Knight. Most things don’t, she imagines.
“Fine,” Platinum says, unable to maintain her walls in the face of such blinding light. Her shoulders sag and she huffs impatiently. “Just let me go.” What she expects is resistance, a catch or a ploy. She knows what nobles are capable of, and what they can take by force.
But Nearl releases her as commanded. She’s glaring at stars that blink and wonders why they’re blazing through her. Her goading has backfired but she doesn’t feel the loss.
“Sorry, that was rude of me,” Nearl says, returning to poise and posture. Yet… there’s a slight fluster to her movements, barely visible to the untrained eye, almost brushed off.
But Platinum is always watching. She’s seeing. She’s feeling something stir inside her chest, an untapped corner, pried open so hungrily.
And though she is no stranger to victory, none has ever left her wanting to claim more.
///
“Get off me!”
GreyThroat spits out her disgust, forced like the arrowhead pressing into her skin. It had been a mistake, a miscalculation to come here. Her knees are skinned, her ribs feel broken.
Gotcha.
The enemy soldier smirks, a cruel slash of his mouth, pinning her to the rooftop where her own weapon has been turned against her. Smoke swirls above the battlefield in plumes of dismal grey, a fitting colour for such an abrupt end, she thinks.
She can’t see past his shoulder, can’t call for help through the rising panic. His grip burns around her neck, catching like fire across her skin, a discomfort so profound she fears she may never recover.
Some things remain buried too deep to dig up. Some things lay out in the open to fester, begging for closure. She’s not quite sure which this is. Only that his breath, his touch, it’s torture.
Memories surge behind her eyes, the same ones that flood her sleepless dreams. She sees through eyes wide shut: that day, Infected rioters, the ones they had rescued; a betrayal, a shift in reality; explosions ripping through the city; her hand grasping for her father’s but falling forever.
Blink—and it’s darkness.
Suddenly she’s standing before an imposing metal door. Her knees tremble to the rumbling wheels of a titanic landship. Rhodes Island, so far from home. Her mother’s pale visage, anguished as she hands over her only child. Her hood falls low over her face, concealing tears, concealing truths.
She counts an endless sunrise and knows they’re never coming back.
It happens slowly, the agonising release of the blackened ichor within her veins. She channels it into the string of her bow, the tips of her arrows, raining tension in a deluge until she prays she could drown instead. But she never does. She floats on, alone in her mind, and alone in her heart, padlocked in steel.
It’s taken years to find a key and Amiya will call it progress. She’ll call it faith and trust and other funny things.
In the aftermath of Lungmen, in the aftermath of a desperate war, GreyThroat can’t help but feel her own unravelling. She’s not entirely sure what any of it will mean. Only that right now, she’s truly hoping against hope.
Please.
Please.
Help—
There’s a splitting, thunderous crash.
A breeze tainted with the scent of iron suffuses the space. Summer heat washes over her.
“Yo, didn’t you hear the lady? Get off her.”
There’s a sickening crunch, a yowl of pain. The soldier falls limp in a spray of viscera, warm and wet. And there, through the smouldering ruins of a blasted entryway, stands Blaze.
She strides in, simmering the air before her, glaring at the scene. Then, her expression falls, contorting to concern when she takes in the damage. She rushes over, dropping to one knee.
“Did he hurt you?”
GreyThroat flinches at the proximity, swallowing hard. She can’t answer, not in any way that makes sense. Not anymore. Curt remarks don’t come easily when her saviour is watching so worriedly. But Blaze seems to understand the silence, the darkening bruise around her neck. She rises, glancing between them, a frown upon her striking face. Setting her weapon down, she marches over to the lifeless soldier… and promptly strips him down.
Armour is scattered and blood is strewn, revealing unmarked skin.
“He wasn’t Infected,” Blaze announces calmly, wiping the muck from her hands with a scrap of his shirt.
GreyThroat stares.
And blinks.
And finally breathes.
Blaze watches carefully, noting the drop of those small shoulders, the settling of an erratic pulse point. She feels irritation over the surface of her own body, familiar planes of crystallised illness, and wonders if that reaction will ever not sting.
GreyThroat stammers roughly, “Thank you.”
Blaze wants to accept it though she’s not sure if she should. “Let’s get out of here.”
The hole blown through the wall has begun to crumble. Slinging her chainsaw over her back, Blaze reaches up to the bowing ceiling, steadying it with her bare hands. It breaks away with troubling ease.
Ah, consequences.
“Hurry.”
GreyThroat staggers to her feet, somehow feeling more ashamed than anything. She snatches her bow from the floor, groaning as her body aches, sharp pains tingling across her side. Every breath is laboured as she makes her slow escape.
“Break something?” Blaze says. It’s not really a question. There’s no doubt in her quick assessment.
“Think so,” GreyThroat answers tersely, conserving the air in her lungs that’s begun to sear and fizzle. It’s an odd sensation against her chest. She can almost hear the creak of bones, grinding in all the ways they shouldn’t.
Blaze spares a glance over her shoulder. The ceiling cracks a little more.
“Don’t mean to rush you but…”
GreyThroat braces herself, gritting her teeth, before picking up the pace. Her limbs are barely cooperating, seizing up with every step.
She sucks in a breath—
And doubles over in pain.
“Shit,” Blaze growls. Something heavy shifts against her palm as dust begins to scatter. Loosened stones tumble precariously from above. Her fingers dig a little deeper, feeling for purchase only to find none. “C’mon, Little Swallow, you can do it. So close.”
Something tells her it’s bad when GreyThroat doesn’t respond snarkily.
“Can you hear me?”
There’s the faintest nod.
“Alright… Alright. Listen. I’m gonna let go of this. I’m going to pick you up. Okay?”
There’s hesitation, a weighing of options that would seem outright ridiculous. But not to them.
GreyThroat wavers at the implications piercing into her psyche where they’ve never reached before. Not like this. Yet again, no cutting remark falls from her tongue. In a distant past, she remembers the warmth of touch and how it never came back.
Begging for closure.
Right. She’s been learning, or unlearning.
“Fine,” she concedes weakly. “This once.”
Blaze nods. “On three.”
One, two—
GreyThroat sees the tensing of muscles, the slow motion descent of Blaze’s body as she releases her grip, falling into a crouch like a sprinter upon a field. The building begins to shake, raining debris around them.
She watches in trepidation, intermingled with awe and it catches her by surprise. She wonders if she imagines the steam drifting from Blaze’s mouth, a vision of resolve, more draco than any feline.
GreyThroat is watching with eyes wide shut.
No, she’s really watching this time.
This is different—much, much different. There’s a burst of speed, a rush of adrenaline. Strong arms scoop her up from the ground, gaining on the exit as dust billows about them. She flinches at the contact. It does burn, but not how she expects, not how she remembers.
Gotcha.
It’s very warm.
“Hold onto me,” Blaze says.
GreyThroat finds no argument. The walls around them are collapsing. Every footfall jolts her with pain. But she hasn’t let go.
The city skyline draws near. Beyond the exit, a landscape of blue comes into view and an airship awaits them at the rooftop’s edge, hovering close.
“What are you doing?” GreyThroat gasps, squirming uneasily within Blaze’s arms when it becomes clear that they’re not slowing down.
“Trust me.”
Once again, she’s stunned into silence. Her eyes squeeze shut when sunlight hits her face. The ground leaves them, plunging into wreckage below. Blaze leaps from the edge, no warning, no hesitation.
For a second time today, GreyThroat fears she may never recover.
Please.
The heavy landing jolts her with agony and she grits her teeth to stall her voice. But the plummeting sensation dissipates from the pit of her stomach. The spinning stops. Their movements stop.
GreyThroat peers up weakly. The inner structure of an airship greets her. There’s an engine whirring, a hatch locking. A number of medics are rushing towards them. Instinctively her body tenses, uncontrollably alarmed.
“Stop. I’ve got it from here,” Blaze says, grip tightening around the body in her arms. Her expression is firm, offering no room for challenge.
A look of confusion is passed around the group but they dare not question it, bustling back to their stations.
Blaze turns abruptly, striding with purpose. She glances down, whispers, “Sorry. Just a bit longer.”
GreyThroat grumbles faintly, “Your reputation really precedes you.”
“Only good rumours, I hope.” Blaze smiles and it’s also warm.
Grief. Anger. Isolation.
Heat.
GreyThroat clamps her mouth shut in confusion. She resolves to add it to her list of things to decipher; the feeling and the person.
Until then…
Blink—and it’s darkness.
///
It’s hard to hate Margaret Nearl.
Platinum wants to think it’s as simple as that. She’s not an idiot, no. She can see why someone so good would draw such attention. So good and righteous and striking—
Not that she cares. Not at all. No chance.
It’s just…
It’s just…
Her jaw works painfully.
“What are you waiting for? Retreat!”
Shit. She tugs at her earpiece, bristling with irritation. She doesn’t need telling, not from some faceless amateur. She knows exactly what she should do.
Except it’s not what she’s doing.
They’d let their guard down. They’d separated in the aftermath to wander paths of nostalgia. Of course, hindsight is always crystal clear, and war plays with no honour.
When had she become so careless? Lost her touch?
She thinks she can pinpoint it to one chance meeting, one vivid distraction.
“Operator! Stop!”
Platinum aims defiantly at the enemy. She does not stop. Her arrow finds its target, ripping through, and then she’s leaping across the field, blending into shadows that creep along city ruins. She’s following that light, that beacon, drawn like a moth to flame or something pathetically poetic.
Drawn and unable to falter.
“Operator!”
Platinum scoffs. The earpiece drops to dangle uselessly around her neck. She’s always worked alone, always followed orders impassively. She won’t wonder why this time is different.
It doesn’t take her long to catch up.
There, upon a craggy precipice, stands a pillar of light. The brilliance of it could rival the sun. And within it…
Nearl stands tall, a wall of hope, a shield of faith.
The enemy line crumbles—
And so does she.