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There are many things Rinwell remembers about Cyslodia, will recall in the years to come - the good things, tiny treasures, precious secrets to be kept close to her heart; the numerous bad things, the things that still leave her staring up at the star-speckled sky unable to fall asleep, that make her jolt up in the mornings with a hand already reaching towards the tiny dagger she keeps stowed in her boot. The horrible things, too - the things that lurk in the dark, tendrils creeping towards her and barely kept at bay by the roaring fire Kisara’s started; by Dohalim’s sleep-talking and Alphen’s snores and Law’s even louder ones; by Shionne, sitting by the campfire, rifle over her lap and eyes glinting a glowing bright blue: a challenge to the night, approach me if you dare .
There are many, many memories, most of them ones she doesn’t want to remember (even though she does; she has always been smart, always had a good memory), but there are two things she recalls most clearly of all.
She thinks that, before anything else, she will remember those two things: the first, Almeidrea’s glowing green sigil in the smoke, screams and the whoosh of powerful cyclones and herself, hiding, breath held, praying and praying and praying that no one notices her; the second, that cold winter’s day and the harsh bright lights of the capitol and the stranger’s kindness that saved her, and how she had joined the Silver Swords.
Or at least, she's pretty sure that had been during the winter season - according to the old Dahnan calendar it had, at least, but was there even a difference, with the permanent change to Cyslodia’s climate after the Renans came? Though she supposes there was something about the wind that bit more into her skin than usual, something about the blue of her nails even deeper than she was used to seeing on days when she had no food or warmth or shelter, so it must be that that was what made Cyslodia colder than normal, that day.
Then again, she supposes that that isn’t really the point either.
The point is this: it was winter, and Rinwell was freezing to death.
And she isn’t even sure why, what brought about this, why this memory is the clearest, why it feels as if it just happened yesterday, why it feels important -
But she thinks that, above everything else, she will remember this:
Hootle is a tiny bundle in her hood, asleep and shivering, and the air reeks of death muted with layer upon layer of frost. She is curled up in an alley just a little ways off the main road, enough that no one passing by will notice her, and every breath she takes in stings her nose, attacks her lungs with sharp pains like knives. Her stomach scrapes hollow, long past queasiness, longer past hunger. At this point she's willing to risk conjuring up a tiny flame no matter the danger if it keeps her alive, but she's tried and failed and tried again and failed again, energy and mana depleted, as dry as the wells in Calaglia during a drought.
(She is not Rinwell the street kid, who she might’ve become, the ones who’ve survived through brutal day after brutal day, those orphans whom the orphanage wouldn’t take in, those lost souls who had nowhere to go - all lightning-quick fingers and knife-sharp wit, able to pilfer coins and food from the market as easily as she takes a breath.)
(She is not yet Rinwell of the Silver Swords, either, having memorized the Snake Eyes patrol routes, learned how to read a person’s intentions in the lines of their shoulders and the light in their eyes. How to listen. How to make herself so small and unobtrusive people’s gazes pass right over her, and she might as well not be there at all.)
She is Rinwell, nine, parents gone, a baby owl her only companion, a tome she has no idea how to use and is loath to learn how, but even more loath to throw away.
She is Rinwell, nine, and she has nothing - no food, no warmth, no shelter. No family. No home to return to.
Cyslodia is so white - so brightly, blindingly white despite how it's always nighttime - and even more than that, it is so, so quiet. The landscape sears itself into her eyes, and she can hear the rattle of her breath and the scrape of her bones, joints frozen stiff rubbing against each other, sound so muffled there might as well be cotton stuffed in her ears.
And she is so, so terrified.
She does not want to die here. She does not want to die here, just another number added to the ever growing list, not even a name, swallowed up by all the white and the silence and the snow, dying without so much of a whisper. And yes, it’s possible, maybe the stories are true, maybe she’ll be returning to Dahna, maybe she will reunite with her parents and her friends, but something deep in her whispers the dead tell no tales, and only the living remember - but who will remember you? and she is scared .
Her vision blurs, tears and darkness encroaching at the edges - the former rolls down her cheeks, glazing over near instantly; the latter pushes, taking over the corners of her view bit by bit, little by little. She whimpers, whispers out, “Help,” a croaked, pathetic thing that is swallowed up by the cold air instantly.
Again, "Help," scratching against her throat, coughed out but a little louder.
And again, "Help!" yet still far, far too quiet.
She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to die shedoesn'twanttodie shedoesn'twanttodie-
Her head thuds back against the brick wall and she looks up, into black sky and pale clouds and the tiny pinprick of stars far away, no moon in sight. Her breath is a faint white cloud, small and barely there. She whispers, "I guess this is it, huh, Hootle?"
She wonders if he'll be okay when she's gone. She hopes so.
She doesn't want to die, but the clouds are gathering in the horizon and getting heavier and there is snow coming her way, if not a storm.
She doesn't want to die, but she is going to anyway, because when has life ever been fair for Dahnans?
(Never. Never, that's when.)
She takes another breath and closes her eyes and slips away, and there is another soul lost, another child stolen by the cold and the snow and the silence, gone without so much as a whisper.
And this is where the story ends.
Except it doesn't.
( Hey, can you hear me? Hey - c'mon, stay with me, shit, stay awake, d'you hear me?)
(Something hard, pressed against her lips. Something scalding, pouring down her throat and lessening the pain in her lungs. Something warm, wrapping around her, keeping the chill at bay.)
(Hang on. Hang on a little while longer, I'll get you to a medic.)
(Hang on.)
Rinwell gasps awake to a wooden ceiling and warm yellow lamps and mounds and mounds of blankets piled on her, thick fleece, heavy and so hot she's practically sweating under the layers.
"What…"
She kicks off a few layers, lifts her hands up to inspect them wonderingly - pink and plump though maybe a little chapped, nails back to a healthy peach color.
I'm alive, she thinks, marvels, grins and whispers it into the air too, a quiet, giddy thing. She turns onto her side, sees Hootle, perched on her pillow, wide yellow eyes staring at her unblinkingly, a tiny puff of white. “I’m alive , Hootle.”
Though that brings up the question of where she is. This doesn't look like an orphanage - too much space, too homely and cozy, and she sincerely doubts a random passerby just took her in out of the goodness of their heart. That never happens. Not in Cyslodia. Yet that only leaves-
She freezes.
She's heard stories from the street kids and the makeshift shelters she's hung out around, hollowed skeleton houses no one bothers to go near, burning trash can fires and whatever scraps they'd manage to gather. About the Snake Eyes. How they’ll steal you away if you’re not careful, conscript you into their service, brainwash you into working for Ganabelt.
We’re the ones no one will miss, after all, one of the older boys who had pitched into telling the story said, at the time. ‘S why we gotta stick together.
The Snake Eyes .
She feels her lungs already begin to tighten, tries to stop herself, still half-frozen beneath the sheets. Takes a deep breath, reminds herself that there are still other possibilities.
Calm down, Rinwell.
Calm down.
Another breath. She stills herself, thinks, one step at a time , and cautiously looks around one more time - no cameras, door closed but no visible lock in sight, nothing chaining her to the bed, various objects in sight that could be used as weapons if needed. Then checks herself - still in her clothes from the streets, though her boots have been taken off (another glance reveals them to be by her bed), her tome on the side table, the sole knife she has tucked safely up her sleeve, the object having pressed a half-numb groove into her skin.
That's good. That means they respect her privacy, means she hasn't been searched in her sleep, means they might just be good people, people she can trust. They even left Hootle with her.
Which reminds her. She turns to the owl, presses a finger to her lips and whispers: “I’m going to get out of bed now, so I need you to be quiet. Okay?”
Hootle cocks his head at her.
She takes that as a yes.
Hesitantly, she pushes herself up onto her elbows, reaches for the rest of the blankets and pulls them aside -
“Hoo! Hoo!”
“Hootle, no -” she hisses.
The door is flung open with a bang as a brown haired woman charges in.
Her eyes land on Rinwell - caught in a half push-up, one socked foot out of bed, one hand clutching on the edge of the side table for support - and she freezes, skidding to a stop on the wood-planked floor.
The woman stares.
Rinwell stares back.
Hootle, the traitor, lets out a satisfied coo and nests himself in Rinwell's hair, puffing himself up in pride as if he hadn't just single-handedly ruined her plans to sneak out of the room and investigate.
The woman brightens, a smile lighting up her whole face, and she clasps her hands together. "You're awake!" she cries. "Oh, thank Dahna, I was getting so worried because you had been out for a day and you still weren't waking up despite having warmed up and what if you ended up in a coma I wouldn't know what to do -"
"Um," Rinwell manages awkwardly as she watches the brunette ramble on, thoughts spiraling into even worse-case scenarios, words coming faster and faster till she can barely hear what she's saying. " Um ," she says a little louder.
"- ah, I'm so sorry it must be horribly rude for me to ramble on like this but wait, were you planning on getting up, that won't do you know you need your rest -" and in a blink the woman's marched across the room and shoved Rinwell back into the bed, stopping briefly to pet Hootle, who lets out another satisfied coo as she says "oh, and thank you for alerting me about your master, little guy", before turning to glare down at Rinwell again, fists on her hips. She points. Rinwell very subtly inches away until her back hits the bed's headboard. "And you , young miss. Stay here. I'll get you some soup, you need your energy."
And in a flurry of energy and a stream of rambled words, the woman is out of the room, the door banging shut again.
Rinwell can still hear her muttering through the door, slowly growing fainter as the woman presumably heads further from the room.
She sighs, plucking Hootle off her head and resting her chin on her knees. “Just what have we gotten into, Hootle?”
The owl, sitting in her cupped hands, only blinks at her once and lets out a tiny “hoo”.
Five minutes later, the woman bustles in with a bowl of steaming soup, personality as much of a hurricane as ever. Rinwell barely gets to open her mouth before the bowl and a spoon is shoved into her hands, consequently startling Hootle from where he’s nestled comfortably in her palms and inciting an angry string of hoots. “Eat,” the woman commands.
Rinwell blinks, and hesitantly lifts the spoon to her mouth. It’s just the right temperature - hot enough to warm her insides and waft steam into her face, but not so that it burns her tongue - and she blinks a second time in surprise at the taste, cream and chicken and carrots and mushrooms.
It's good, but she manages to restrain herself from digging in and showing just how hungry she is.
( "Rule number one," she can hear another one of the street kids saying, smell the smoke of the burning trash can fire they'd started, Cyslodian Ice Wolves howling somewhere deep in the mountains, " never show your weaknesses. ")
Trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at her stomach, Rinwell pokes her spoon at a stray piece of floating mushroom and eyes the woman over the bowl, this time taking her time to study her - dark brown hair, tumbling down her shoulders in waves, a long-sleeved dark purple and blue dress knitted with yellow thread, patched over again and again though it still holds a certain elegance to it, and golden eyes reflecting amber light.
The woman, Rinwell finds herself thinking, looks pretty well off in comparison with most other Cyslodians.
She ignores the twinge of jealousy that comes with that too.
"So, if you don't mind me asking -" another small sip from the spoon, stay calm, don't give anything away, "- what's your name?" That seems like a safe enough question to ask.
The woman introduces herself as Aldera, owner of one of the few clinics in this region, albeit with a lot of bowing and apologizing upon the realization that it had, in fact, slipped her mind to tell Rinwell her name ("Ohmigosh, I'm so sorry, I totally forgot to introduce myself in the heat of the moment that must've been so rude " "Ah, no, it's fine actually-"). The two talk for a while, Rinwell sipping the broth at intervals, casually steering around the topic of her name, Hootle glaring over her shoulder all the while like a sentry ("Huh, so suddenly you want to be helpful after getting your perch disturbed," Rinwell grumbles, and consequently gets her hair attacked by one insulted owl). Aldera tells her of what happened while she was out, her usual job at the clinic, who came in and so on.
When it comes to the topic of who brought Rinwell in, however, Aldera only shrugs. "He didn't even introduce himself, just dropped you off and then rushed away. Maybe he was in a hurry? I'm pretty sure he was just a passerby; he said he just came across you and he hasn't checked back since. He did seem like a nice young man, though, even if he was a little strange. It was probably just the accent. Doesn't sound like he came around from these parts."
"Just a random kindhearted passerby, huh," Rinwell mumbles, staring down at the bottom of the bowl, scraped clean, every last drop of soup and scrap of meat finished. "And I didn't even get to thank him..."
(She doesn't, not ever; the memory of who saved her a cracked, blurred over thing like frosted glass, no trace of a face or a voice or anything at all besides a strange, miniscule feeling of warmth, burning like a tiny ember. He doesn't either, that day already a long forgotten thing, buried under the weight of so many other, similar days with near-deaths and deaths not near at all.)
(They do meet again, though - even if right now, neither of them know it - and thanks are exchanged again and again for many other things: passing over a bowl of dinner; covering a blind spot in battle; lending a listening ear; stopping a decision that might've ruined one of them-)
(Just not one for this particular event.)
"Well," Aldera says, hopping off the chair she's sat on and stretching before reaching a hand out for the now-empty bowl, "it's still good, though. That, despite knowing there was no compensation, despite the knowledge that that kind of thing might even get him in trouble, he went ahead and did it anyway." She smiles. "Nice to know that people out there like him still exist, isn't it? Kinda gives you hope, that fact."
"I... yeah," Rinwell agrees, handing the bowl over, a small smile on her face. "Yeah, you're right."
Aldera leaves the room, comes back again with a tall glass of water (which Rinwell gulps down gratefully; despite the food, she's thirsty ), and the two continue chatting for a while more, the clock mounted on the wall ticking towards nighttime, basking in each other's company.
And, somewhere in there, between laughter and shared stories and (a little reluctantly) letting Aldera pet Hootle, Rinwell realizes that, for the first time in a long time, she is full and comfortable and happy, and she feels safe .
Which is, of course, when it hits her. The room is dark, now, the lamps having been switched off, the only light coming from the corridor outside (“It’s getting late, now, I’ll leave you to your rest,” Aldera says, standing and stretching before striding to the door. “I’ll check on you again in the morning.”)
“Miss Aldera?” she tries, mouth dry.
“Hmm?” the woman pauses at the door, half turns. “What is it? Oh, and just Aldera is fine.”
“Nothing, it’s just…” she bites her lip, and then grits her teeth and blurts it out: “I’m a street kid. I don’t - I don’t have any money.”
She winces, braces herself for whatever is coming, the anger or blame or rejection -
Rinwell looks up just in time to see Aldera’s eyes soften with something impossibly sad. “Oh, child. That isn’t something you should have to worry about.” She pauses for a moment, considers, then says, “All right, how about this? You can pay me back by working for me.”
Hootle lets out a soft, confused, coo. Rinwell blinks, eyes impossibly wide. “What do you…”
“I meant exactly what I said,'' Aldera replies firmly. “You’re paying me back by becoming my apprentice. You’ll have to stay here and live under this roof and help me run errands and assist me with my patients.” She glares. “And you have to accept because by Cyslodian laws medical treatment is a paid service. I’m not going to kick you back out on the streets just for this to happen again after you’ve healed. Got it?”
Silence. Rinwell blinks again.
Then it sinks in, and her lip begins to wobble.
“Ohmigosh I’m so sorry what is it does something hurt is it what I said are you okay -” Aldera begins panicking immediately.
“No, it’s just -” a long sniff, then a hiccup of a sob, “you’d really let me stay here? I’m not sure I’ll be of much help at all, and it’ll give you an extra mouth to feed, and -”
“Of course I would,” Aldera replies as understanding settles in, voice firm but not unkind. “ Of course I would let you stay.”
“O - oh,” Rinwell manages. Hootle nuzzles at her cheek, and she draws in a shaky, deep breath. Then, “Can I get a hug?”
Aldera smiles. “You can.”
(She does.)
And so Rinwell begins working under Aldera as her apprentice. She learns how to wrap wounds using the least amount of bandages, how to make the most of Cyslodia’s scarce mountain herbs to create healing pastes, how to clean a cut, splint a broken leg, tie a tourniquet (though she mostly just assists with the last two; Aldera doesn’t want her doing anything like that yet). She learns the tiny things, too - how to make Aldera’s favorite stew, how it takes a little extra oomph to close the window in the living room next to the door, how the third step on the stairs creaks on especially cold nights.
She’s happy. She’s safe. She sleeps in a warm bed every night, stomach full, hair still damp from showering, Hootle nestled beside her on the pillow. (There is something strange. Sometimes Aldera is gone for days on her trips to collect medicines and supplies. Sometimes she comes back with new bruises, or scrapes, or dark circles under her eyes and red at the corners.)
But still, for a few months, things are okay. Rinwell turns a blind eye and accepts Aldera’s excuses, and things are okay.
Until -
There is a sharp rap at the back door, and Rinwell jerks in surprise, the thick wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders sliding off to the floor with a soft “fwump”. The oil lamp in front of her flickers, throwing monstrous shadows across the walls, and the corners of the house are suddenly warped, strange and unfamiliar.
She squints at the medical papers in front of her, then at the clock. It’s a quarter past twelve. She must’ve dozed off.
Had she imagined the sound?
That knock on the door, again: clear, loud, insistent, real . She jumps. Hootle goes shooting off his perch on her head with a startled squawk.
Rinwell swallows, tongue sandpapery, and wipes the sleep-grit from her eyes. She takes a deep breath.
Okay. Not a dream.
“Hootle,” she whispers, far too loud in the muffled silence of midnight, “we gotta be brave now, okay?”
Then, like ripping off a bandage, she gets up, strides to the door in three paces and wrenches it open. It slams against the wall with a loud bang, hinges rattling.
Rinwell stares at the group of people on the other end - bloodied and bruised to hell and back, all broken bones and ugly slashes and red soaked clothes. Tied around their arms, every single one of them, is a white bandana bearing nothing but a motif of two crossed blades. Silver swords. And Aldera - Aldera who had saved Rinwell and taken her under her roof, Aldera who wants nothing more than to help people, Aldera and her gentle, stammering disposition, her healer’s hands - Aldera is leading the group.
There is a cut on her forehead and soot smeared on her face. Her expression is impossibly grim.
Rinwell says, voice wavering in confusion, “What?”
“Sorry to wake you up like this, Rinwell,” Aldera says, still as soft as ever, “but a lot of these people need medical attention. Can you help me set up?”
It is a sleepless, blood-stained, stressful night after, when Aldera and Rinwell finally get to rest, collapsing in chairs at the kitchen table with mugs of tea in their hands. All the wounds have finally been bandaged, all the broken bones splinted and the cuts stitched up, and clumped in piles in the living room - a few talking in low tones, most piled on or against the sofa and sleeping off their wounds - are at least a dozen people Rinwell does not know.
The bandage on Aldera’s head is dotted with red, like speckled bits of rust. There is the same red beneath Rinwell’s nails. The two of them (or three, if you count Hootle) sit there, tea warming their cold hands, watching the endless night outside the frosted window, and stew in awkward silence.
Rinwell counts five minutes and thirty-two seconds before Aldera starts speaking.
Aldera runs a clinic. She wants to help people. This is not a lie.
But, besides running a clinic, Aldera apparently also heads the largest rebel group in Cyslodia.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Aldera frets. “I truly didn’t know how to explain, and I didn’t want to put you in that kind of danger. Just knowing alone… ”
“No, it’s okay, it’s -” Rinwell frowns, Hootle hoots softly. “You aren’t worried I’ll tell on you?”
“I… well, if I was found out, I suppose I’d have to go into hiding full-time, but other than that there wouldn’t be much of a loss. You don’t know about any plans or bases or anything. And… I don’t think you would.” Aldera peeks at her hesitantly.
There’s a laugh, and then a fiery-headed girl with her hair in twin braids appears out of nowhere to sling an arm around Aldera’s shoulders. “Our Aldera’s like that! Always looks for the best in people, y’know? It can get her into trouble sometimes, but well, it’s part of her charm.” The girl - and really, she can’t be older than twenty - throws a wink at Rinwell, says cheerily: “Name’s Annaliese. Nice to meet you, kid. D’you know Aldera talks a lot about you? We’ve all pretty much been dying to meet you, she’s all ‘today Rinwell learned how to make bread and she burned it a little but it was so good nonetheless’, or ‘today Rinwell handled a particularly snappish customer without backing off, I’m so proud of her’ -”
“Uh,” Rinwell says, leaning back in her chair a little, intimidated. The chirp Hootle gives off could almost be categorized as a laugh.
“ Annaliese ,” Aldera says, her voice close to a whine as she shoves the girl away, “please not now, we were actually talking about something serious before this.”
“Okay, okay,” she laughs, backing off, hands raised. “I’m leaving, I’ll go check on Trev and Diao.”
Another long stretch of silence as they watch Annaliese make her way back to the living room. Aldera sighs, combs her fingers through her mussed up hair and says, a little apologetically: “She’s like that. A bit louder than most, but you’ll get used to it.” She pauses, fidgets. “That is, if you still want to stay. I won’t blame you if you want to leave, after this - I’ve got quite a bit of extra gald, that should last you a while should you choose to. We could also pretend none of this happened and you can continue to work here, but if you want to go, I understand…”
“I -” Rinwell says. Her hands are clenched in her fists, and she can feel her parents' tome, that thick, cursed book, upstairs, the thing that had started all this. And yet - the months spent in this clinic, helping people, saving them. If she can do more… in any way at all atone for her mistakes, the lives that’d been lost because of her-
She lifts her head, takes a deep breath. “Is it - is it okay if I join instead? The Silver Swords?”
Rinwell’s life changes yet again.
It took some convincing, to get Aldera to agree - in the end, it’s decided that Rinwell will remain at the clinic for the most part, while occasionally helping out in some of the bases that have been deemed low-risk, and in no way taking part in any missions. At all. (Aldera had put her foot down; they would not be putting any children in danger.)
“Well, that’s alright - you can hang out with me, then!” Kacey - only a handful of years older than Rinwell - decides, immediately pulling her along and giving her the grand tour the moment Rinwell’s introduced herself, shyly shuffling forward, Hootle nestled in her hair. Kacey is a whirlwind, all blond hair and bright blue eyes and a constant stream of chatter, telling Rinwell about what they do here (apparently this place is for people who are healing up, or don’t have anyplace better to go, so it’s mostly just housework and the like); about herself (her and her brother are orphans, her brother runs missions while she helps out around the bases); as well as greeting everyone who passes by and introducing Rinwell to the other members.
It’s a lot more tiring - on top of helping out at the clinic, Rinwell now assists Kacey with keeping the base clean, gardening, washing sheets and occasionally cooking - but she doesn’t really mind. She gets to do more, meet more people, learn more things. It’s almost fun, if not for the always looming threat of the Snake Eyes discovering them, if not for the fact that every few days another injured member comes in, whispering news of the Renans closing in, of having to relocate.
Still, time marches on, and the days pass. Kacey squeezes her hand when she sees Rinwell pausing in her gardening, listening to the conversation of members passing by, brow furrowed in worry, dirt beneath her nails; Annaliese greets her with a hair ruffle every time. Rinwell cooks stew and reads her parents tome by lamplight, Hootle asleep in her hair, on nights Aldera comes home late. One evening, Aldera visits the base with two strangers in tow and introduces them to Rinwell - her second in command, Meneck, and her third, Bregon. Bregon gives Rinwell a warm smile. Meneck watches her with something calculating in his eyes, and Rinwell tries not to squirm under his gaze as Hootle lets out a low, warning “Hoo”. (It isn’t all that threatening, considering he’s barely larger than her palm and looks, for all purposes, like a giant, glorified cotton ball, but it’s sweet. She’s probably just imagining it, though. Meneck is Aldera’s second in command - so if she trusts him, Rinwell should too, right?)
(She should not. She should not, but she won’t know this until she’s watching Zephyr die.)
It happens exactly like her parents. Aldera and Annaliese are visiting, Kacey chatting with her brother, Trev, and there is a knock on the door. Rinwell looks up. Aldera’s eyes widen.
The door implodes inward, and the world falls to pieces.
Somehow - somehow, Rinwell makes it out. In the chaos of it, someone picks her up by the back of her hood and just about flings her down the open grate into the sewers, their escape route, and she falls, scream caught in her throat -
Into the darkness, light receding -
The trapdoor is already falling shut, and in that flash of a second, she catches one final glimpse: of Kacey, blond hair soaked red; her brother, unmoving and arm around her; Annaliese, crimson streaked on her face, yelling out instructions. Of Aldera, back turned, standing tall.
Don’t leave me, no, don’t leave me, don’t leave me no, please, not again, not again -
Her parents are dying, over and over and over again.
The grate closes before she sees Aldera fall.
Time marches forward. Rinwell grows up.
There had been a funeral, but no bodies were buried. The Snake Eyes’d already gotten to them, retrieved them from the rubble and dumped them in the ground (the entire group, dirt shoveled over them, left there to decompose under six feet of earth like they were no more than garbage). Rinwell had managed to make it back there, to the base, circled around to it once she got out of the tunnels - Hootle in her hood, her heart a wardrum, her face freezing - just in time to see the Snake Eyes leaving the smoking ruins of the place in victory. The crowd around her murmured. The Snake Eyes pulled Aldera’s body out of the rubble.
The same long brown hair, the hands that had ruffled Rinwell’s hair, the arms that had pulled her into a hug. Her eyes, eternally kind. Always choosing to be kind.
They had been open.
(Rinwell barely managed to hold her vomit until she got to a deserted alley.)
But still - still, time moves on. Rinwell has no choice but to move with it.
The Silver Swords are at the edge of falling apart, for a short while - tearing at the seams, everyone at each other's throats, slinging accusations and blame. Meneck manages to reunite them, and Bregon is promoted to second-in-command. Rinwell joins full time and starts running all the missions Aldera had never wanted her to get involved in.
And she - she is not sure, exactly, not by a hundred percent, but something changes, after that. Maybe it’s all the attacks, maybe it’s the Snake Eyes getting more forceful by the day, maybe it’s simply just losing their leader (or maybe it’s Meneck’s doing, some small, irrational, illogical piece of her mind whispers), but the Silver Swords starts becoming almost… crueler. Less kind. Distrustful.
She does not know, but she keeps to herself and stops making friends, merely acquaintances, and starts carrying a knife in her boot again, and studies her parents’ tome by lamplight, mouthing spells under her breath for emergencies.
(She does not know. Maybe it is just her.)
The years pass. She is eleven then twelve then thirteen then fourteen, and, like a miracle, news of Balseph’s defeat sweeps the streets.
The Blazing Sword of Calaglia bursts to life like a star, like a beacon of hope.
She sets out with a team to find him. That team is very promptly decimated. She meets Alphen, Zephyr, Shionne. She cannot find it in herself to trust the former two too much. She trusts Shionne even less.
Out of Calaglia, back into Cyslodia. Messia 224, Law, and then Zephyr is gone and everything starts happening very, very fast, once again - and Zephyr falls with a knife in his back and she watches Meneck, no, Ganabelt, the smirk on his face -
She should not have trusted him.
Shionne’s face is grim, Alphen’s teeth gritted, Law crying. Zephyr already gone. Rinwell locks eyes with Bregon far across the room and sees her horror mirrored on his own face, the realization that they should not have trusted him . But she hadn’t listened to gut instinct, to the tiny, niggling feeling that something was wrong and - Dahna, how many lives had that cost?
Kacey unmoving Annaliese covered in blood Aldera eyes wide open -
Bile scorches up the back of Rinwell’s throat. She excuses herself, throws up in the bathroom, and heads down into the sewers and screams until her throat is raw and bloody, her voice echoing, nothing but the sludgey, slow-moving slimes to hear her.
They fight all the way into Ganabelt’s fortress, past blades and sharp teeth, zeugles and Renan soldiers with their enhanced armor, and finally, finally, all the way to Ganabelt himself -
It is a hard battle. They persevere and win.
But Rinwell watches Law kill Ganabelt and sees everyone she’s ever loved lost, and finds herself wishing it had been her pulling the trigger instead.
The sun comes back to Cyslodia, and they move on to Elde Menancia. Dohalim il Qaras and Kisara join the team next, and the ragtag crew fights on. With every night that passes, Rinwell finds herself relaxing just a little bit more, the horror of Cyslodia slowly aging, if not fading, from her mind. She finds herself bantering with Law more often than actually bickering, a strange middle ground they’ve managed to find, something comforting in its own way; helping Kisara cook dinner, learning how to make soups and steaks and all manner of things; chatting with Alphen, getting him to translate the ancient Dahnan hieroglyphs which she can’t read, and which he somehow knows.
She even finds herself relaxing around Shionne and Dohalim more, her relationships with the both of them becoming at least amicable, though not yet downright friendly, perhaps. Dohalim unearths an artifact from one of the ruins they’re passing through and immediately begins examining it, musing about its origins, handling it with the utmost care, and Rinwell decides he can’t be all that bad, even if he’s a (former) Renan lord. Shionne covers her once and twice and thrice in a battle when Alphen and Law have been downed, and Dohalim and Kisara are too far away, and immediately sends a healing arte Rinwell’s way upon noticing she’s been hit hard by one of the fiercer zeugles. Rinwell throws a Cross Blade at a Roper that gets too close in return, and when Shionne dips her head in response, Rinwell notices the way the corner of her lip has quirked up, and realizes she’s smiling too.
She still wakes up some nights covered in sweat, scream caught in her chest; some nights she can’t sleep at all - but the six of them (seven, counting Hootle) cover for each other in battle, and every dinner they eat together around the campfire, chatting and joking and discussing their movements for the next day, an easy sense of camaraderie between them, and it almost, almost feels like -
She should not let herself hope. She should not wish for another family again when all she’s done is ruin the ones she’s been given.
But she has been alone for so long, just her and Hootle and her parents tome and the magic hidden in her veins, and the third time’s supposed to be the charm, right?
So maybe -
Just maybe -
They reach Mahag Saar. Fate laughs at her.
(Third time’s the charm, right?)
(If so, shouldn’t it fall apart the worst this time, too?)
They reach Mahag Saar, and they meet Almeidrea. Rinwell watches an entire square of people die right in front of her eyes, and sees Almeidrea’s sigil glowing just as bright as it did that day - and it is her parents falling, Zephyr’s body growing cold, Aldera pulled out of the rubble and Kacey struck down and Annaliese covered in blood all over again.
Rage fills her veins, and she can taste the buzz of her own magic as she pulls from Dahna stronger than she’s ever before. The arte in her hands is something molten hot and shaky and unstable and powerful, it grows and grows and Almeidrea is laughing , underestimating her, and maybe the star in Rinwell’s hands will kill her, maybe it will explode and implode and turn into a supernova and burn her away. Maybe it will burn Rinwell away too. Her throat hurts. She realizes she’s screaming. She realizes she doesn’t care. What she has to turn into, what it might cost her, she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care as long as she kills Almeidrea, as long as Almeidrea dies in the most painful way possible, as long as Rinwell gets to pay back all her suffering -
Law steps in her path.
Law - Law, stubborn, reckless, idiotically noble Law; who bickers with her constantly and steals her meat when she’s not looking ; Law who always has her back in a fight; who understands best how it feels to have those you love die and for it to be your fault - gets in her way and pleads . Eyes wavering and hands stretched out, not even caring that he’s turned his back on one of their most powerful enemies yet, his gaze desperate and locked only onto her.
She grits her teeth. Her breath freezes in her lungs. Her rage burns through her veins. Something in his eyes looks painfully sad and she hates it, don’t look at me like that, don’t look at me like that. How dare you. How dare you when you got your revenge, yet you aren’t allowing me mine? How is this fair ?
(Move aside. Move aside or it’ll burn you too. Don’t you understand? This will hurt you too, move aside, damnit -)
She hates him. She hates Almeidrea. She hates herself. She hates him .
The supernova in her hand falters. She misses.
They fight the monster Almeidrea has summoned. They do not talk about it. They fight through her giant cruise ship, level after level of Renan guards and zeugles. They do not talk about it. Vholran comes, Shionne gets taken away, they are swept away by the storm into the sea, the boat falling to pieces. Rinwell gasps awake, spluttering, to Law lying just a few feet away from her, the two of them covered in sand and bits of seaweed. She gets a vague flash of memory - the waves and the chaos and the lashing rain and the swirling debris, and remembers screaming his name and trying to reach his hand. She shoves that away and focuses on pulling the seawater from his lungs instead.
They do not talk about it.
By the time night has fallen, they still haven’t found Alphen. They’re too exhausted to continue wandering all over the beach and wading through hordes of shellshockers and flying zeugles to continue looking for him, especially since Dohalim’s near all out of healing magic and Shionne ( Shionne, Rinwell thinks, and her heart unexpectedly aches) had been carrying most of the gels. Kisara puts her foot down. They reluctantly make camp.
Dohalim focuses on pulling what trees and plants there are towards them to create shelter (there is ozone in the air, it seems the storm might not be done with them yet), and Kisara pulls out her first-aid kit to begin dealing with leftover scrapes and scratches in a more traditional way. Law attempts to start the fire with flint and some driftwood, and Rinwell shoves him aside after five minutes of hopeless trying (what with everything being utterly sodding wet) and performs a small flame spell instead. She’s no Shionne, but it’s enough, though it also uses up pretty much all the magic she has left, and then some, dipping into the negative. She actually stumbles afterwards - by the spirits of Dahna, she has not been this tired in so long - and Law ends up having to catch her. More an awkward brush and a push than anything else, but she still has to stop herself from flinching in surprise and scrambling backwards. She covers it by snapping at him to get more firewood instead.
What with everyone else being busy, Rinwell volunteers for cooking duty - Shionne had been carrying most of the food supplies as well, but they managed to scrape together enough for a small meal or two.
And that leaves her here. Half an hour later, peering into the cooking pot, trying to pretend her hand isn’t shaking from exhaustion as she stirs the ladle. She’s more than triple the distance away from their camp than is actually required, but Kisara graciously chooses not to mention it, and Dohalim is already several leagues too tired to register anything other than his immediate surroundings. (He looks just about ready to pass out on the spot, color Rinwell surprised; even Renan lords can get magical exhaustion, apparently.) And Law…
"What are you making?"
Well, apparently Law’s just returned and is already being nosy.
Rinwell turns just a little to spot him, hovering at the edge of her space, trying to stand on tiptoe to get a peek at what she's cooking. Something in him seems almost nervous - normally, he'd have no problem simply coming right over, even going so far as to plop his chin right on her shoulder, but now he's standing five feet away and fidgeting nervously. Slightly less nosy than usual , she rectifies.
“Stew,” Rinwell replies, taking another peek into the cooking pot and waving him over with the ladle. “Best way to make the most out of our ingredients.”
“Huh,” he mumbles, and shuffles over until he’s standing next to her. “This isn’t one of Kisara’s recipes, is it? I didn’t know you could make this.”
Rinwell shrugs, leans forward to take a sniff. The ingredients are slightly different, but it seems alright. Enough that she can recognize it by the smell, at least. “It’s been… a while. Since I last made it. I remembered, looking at our ingredients - we had about the same stuff required.”
“Oh,” Law says.
“Oh,” Rinwell says.
Silence. Something in his voice is guarded, and the air is thick, and the foot of space between them is very noticeable. It’s strange - she never thought she would miss him and his clinginess, but the absence of it is somehow worse than when it had been annoyingly present. (Law is a hugger, always has been, someone who throws around nudges and fist bumps and casual contact effortlessly.)
Law lets out a frustrated breath, drags a hand through his hair. “Aaaaargh - okay, I’m just. Going to say it. I’m going to say it. Rinwell?”
She looks up, her eyebrow raised. “Yes?” Her voice sounds thoroughly unimpressed and she can feel Hootle glaring over her shoulder, a loyal sentry, her one companion throughout all the years - but her throat is dry, and her heart pounds in her ears, and ah, this is it. The conversation. The thing she’s been dreading.
Because she also knows this - Law is reckless and an idiot and a hugger and a flirt and kind , and what she did in Mahag Saar, what happened when they met Almeidrea, what he must’ve seen in her eyes then -
Rinwell swallows, and wonders whether it will hurt less to be left when the one leaving is still alive.
“We need -” Law continues, plowing on, the inevitable end, “we need to talk.”
“Yes?” She prays her voice is not shaking and keeps her eyes trained on the pot in front of her.
“About Almeidrea.” Law takes a deep breath. She braces -
And he says, “I wanted to apologize.”
Rinwell stares. “What,” she says flatly.
“It’s…” he sighs, gestures. “I wanted to apologize. I don’t - all the way, back then, I didn’t know what you were going through. I still don’t know what you’re going through, really, and it wasn’t really fair of me to butt in. It’s just - the way you looked, you know, and you seemed so sad and so angry , mostly, and I just - the point is - I just didn’t want you to look like that,” Law says, words tripping over each other now, near rambling. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did it, and I can’t explain it, and I know I’m really just repeating the things I said before but I just couldn’t let you do it when I saw the look in your eyes. Even if it would get me hurt.” He looks up, and his voice cracks a little. “Does that make sense? I hope that makes sense. I’m really sorry, but I can’t even regret it.”
“I…” Rinwell falters. “I don’t… I thought…”
She remembers, weeks ago, when they’d fought a particularly nasty zeugle - how Law’d gotten so banged up in that one, bleeding in at least seven different places, half of those hits taken for her so her spells wouldn’t be interrupted, so the zeugle’s attention would be kept off the long-range casters, her and Shionne. How Rinwell’d felt the panic clawing up her throat like a physical thing, how she’d seen all the people leaving her again, even though Shionne’s eyes were glowing to a practically blinding state with how hard she was focusing on healing.
She would never have been able to hurt him, no matter how angry she was. She knows this now. She thinks she knew it even then, when she told him to move aside or she would kill him too.
“Rinwell?” Law yelps, panic entering his voice. “Are you crying? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -” He reaches over. Hootle lets out a warning hoot. He backs off again, hands hovering worriedly, and Rinwell touches her own face and finds that she is, and wipes the tears with the back of her own hand.
She wonders when she had last cried, and finds she can’t remember.
“It’s fine,” she murmurs, wiping at her cheeks. “It’s alright, it…” She takes a deep breath of her own, confesses: “I think I was just surprised, is all. I thought - I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me, anymore. After Almeidrea, the square, all that ugly rage I’d shown…” She swallows. Sometimes it feels like that’s all there is to her. What’s at her core. Deep and hateful and twisted, just like Ganabelt and Almeidrea and all those people from the square. What if she really is a witch, in the worst sense? “I thought,” she says again, waving her hands helplessly.
“Hey,” Law interrupts gently, and places his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t say that. You could never be ugly to me.”
“I don’t want to become her,” Rinwell whispers.
She looks up. “Almeidrea killed my parents,” Rinwell says, and it all spills out of her - Almeidrea and Ganabelt, her parents and Aldera and Annaliese and Kacey, everything that had happened, all of it. Law listens, quiet, expression unreadable. Hootle, perched on her shoulder, gives nothing but the occasional coo. She says, voice shaky, “And - I was so close . I hated her so much and - and -” She swallows, slips her hand inside her pocket and draws it out. Hootle lets out a shocked hoot, Law sucking in a stuttering, sharp, breath at the object in her hand, a secret she’d kept from everyone, her last resort. Bruised and dented and squashed from the journey, barely still keeping its shape.
The Fruit of Helgan.
“I was thinking,” she says thickly, turning the cursed thing over and over in her hands, “about what it did. How it facilitated the release of astral energy. And I thought… maybe it could’ve made me stronger, and now I wonder if - if you hadn’t stopped me, if what I had then hadn’t been enough to fight against Almeidrea and I wanted to push on -”
A flash of movement and Law seizes her by the wrists. She jumps, drops the fruit, it bounces and rolls away a little as she looks up into his eyes - wild and desperate once again. “You didn’t eat it, did you? You didn’t - you aren’t planning on -”
“No!” she blurts. “No, I didn’t, I’m not… I.” She looks down at her feet. “Sorry for worrying you.”
“It’s fine,” he sighs, glancing down at their linked hands and jerking in surprise before quickly moving his own away. He rocks back on his heels, arms coming to rest awkwardly at his sides. “It just…” Law trails off, shakes his head. “It’s fine. I was just shocked, is all. And anyway - that’s what we do, right? We’re a team; we care about each other. Which, just one sec -”
He bends down, grabs the fruit, and with a “hup!” and a swing of his arm, it’s arcing high into the sky and away, falling somewhere beyond the treeline bordering the beach. Law dusts off his hands. “There. That’s that.” He turns back to her again. “And, Rinwell…”
“Sorry,” she says again. “For everything, really. I didn’t want to give you this much trouble, and -”
“Rinwell,” he says firmly. “Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault, y’know. Everything that happened. I know you think it is, and it’s like” - he gestures - “you keep on apologizing, but there isn’t anything to apologize for . Life dealt you a crappy hand, but that doesn’t mean you deserve it, or that you somehow caused it. It’s not - it’s not your fault, so you can just. Stop apologizing now.”
“Oh.” She blinks. Her eyes feel a little wet again, and she thinks, huh, maybe this is it. What she’d been searching for.
“And -” Law takes a deep breath, “- we’re going to get Shionne back. We’re going to find Alphen tomorrow, and we’re going to fight our way to the palace, and we’re gonna kick this lord’s ass like all the others and definitely get Shionne back. So you don’t need to worry. This team - this family we’ve created for ourselves - it isn’t going to fall apart. No one’s dying. Okay?”
“Okay.” She’s crying again. Her cheeks also hurt from smiling harder than she’s done in a while, and the stew might be burning.
But Law grins back, and she says again, “Okay”, and she thinks she might just be.
Not now, maybe, but eventually. Because they’re getting Shionne back, and she’s going to keep this family together, and she won’t lose anyone this time.
So eventually.
(The stew does end up a little burnt, but no one complains.)
(And weeks off in the far future, when they’ve gotten Shionne back and freed Ganath Haros, all of them together - Rinwell makes it once more, proper ingredients this time, and sits around the campfire with her family and tastes home. Alphen, who ruffles her hair and treats her like a little sister; Shionne, who covers for her in battle and always makes sure to heal her even if she’s just a little scraped up; Kisara, shielding her from the charging zeugles, rock-steady cornerstone; Dohalim, always finding time to discuss Dahnan history and all its artifacts and relics with her; and Law, brash, big-hearted, reckless, kind .)
(Rinwell looks at them all, bowl of stew in her lap, Hootle in her hair as always, and realizes she’s reaching eventually.)