Chapter Text
He knew this day would come.
Knock knock
The day when he has to answer for his actions.
“You may enter.”
He just didn’t expect it to be this soon.
The man takes a deep breath, and holds it in, as if already embracing for an impact of sorts. He shakes his head lightly, forcing away every little trace of fear, guilt, hesitation —because it’s too late for that now— and pushes the towering, intricately decorated wooden door of Qlipoth palace open. And steps inside the throne room.
“Greetings, General Gepard.”
“Lady— Madam Bronya.” (Is this how he’s supposed to address her now?) He kneels on one leg, his eyes pinned at the marble floor beneath him. If there was any reaction at the new honorific just now, or any gesture at all from Belobog’s new Supreme Guardian, it is already lost on him. The sound of the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud is the only answer he gets, and it almost startles him. “How may I be of service to you?” He decides to speak, not daring to look at her.
He wonders what his punishment is going to be while waiting, praying , for her to break this unnerving silence. Imprisonment? Death? Self-exile beyond Qlipoth’s walls? He can only hope for the latter; that Madam Bronya will grant him the dignity of choosing his own death amidst the vast, peaceful blizzards. Not that he deserves it. Not that he deserves anything. Because as far as he knows, his decision to let the Trailblazers pass through Qlipoth’s Restricted Zone on that day, may or may not have resulted in Madam Cocolia’s death.
“I wish to speak with you, Gepard.”
“Of course.” He hurries, his voice not faltering.
“Come closer.”
Only then, only when he is being told to, he tilts his head up and looks at the woman sitting on the geomarrow-gilded throne across the room; he stands up. The sound of his plate armor echoes softly with each step he takes closer to her —he did not even have the time to change into his formal attire— he rushed from battling the Fragmentum outside the city walls back to Qlipoth palace, the moment he received the summons.
Madam Bronya (he will get used to the honorific —he has to) also stands from her seat, and walks slowly towards the edge of the raised throne platform, waiting for him atop of the small staircase with her hands behind her back. She, too, is not wearing her usual palace attire, instead she is semi-covered in geomarrow armor pieces, barely enough to cover the vital spots: torso, arms and thighs, but having more than enough room for light movement.
He wonders where she has been.
He finally reaches the base of the staircase.
The General steals one last glimpse of her towering him from the top of the platform, holding him down with her gaze, and he searches in her eyes for— something. Anger. Disappointment. Betrayal. Anything. But he finds nothing. And he turns back to the floor.
“I heard from the rest of your troops that you were the one responsible for the Trailbazer’s trespassing through the fort’s restricted sector. Despite your orders being the exact opposite.” She breaks the silence, and he can tell how all life has long abandoned her voice.
“…That’s right, Madam Bron—“
“— tch. ”
He shoots his head up at the soft sound and he doesn’t mean to. Finally, something. He can see her rubbing her temples with one hand, suppressing a wince that’s splitting her features.
“I merely wish to hear what happened three days ago in Qlipoth fort’s perimeters. From you . Not your soldiers.” She takes a deep breath. “That is why I called you here, Gepard.”
“Yes, Madam B—“
“Don’t—! Call me that.”
“…My apologies.”
She merely beckons at him with a flick of her fingers to start talking.
The man draws a long breath. He has nothing to hide, he will stand by his decisions. Even if it’s the last thing he does.
Here goes,
“The Trailblazers along with Serval Landau entered the Silvermane Guard Restricted Zone under the false pretense of being employed personally by me to run emergency checks to the Energy Hub.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “Serval used her… connection to me to persuade the soldiers, letting her and the Trailblazers through. Shortly after, I returned from outside the city walls and confronted everyone.”
Lady Bronya listens passively, showing no interest to interject. He searches for permission to continue, and she nods with just her eyes.
“Me, along with the squad stationed, tried to stop them. We fought at the gate of the restricted zone —the gate leading to Everwinter Hill’s top where an Engine of Creation lies dormant. Where you and Madam—“ He can’t find the words to finish this sentence, and clears his throat instead. “My squad yielded to the Trailblazers. I was the last one standing between them and the gate. And then they showed me a letter— carrying your seal. Your letter. Addressed to the Trailblazers.” He takes another deep breath, and feels like it might be his last one. “In which you wrote that you have returned from the Underworld. That you were going to confront Madam Cocolia— that you needed answers. About what, you never specified. That if… anything were to happen to you, the Trailblazers should forward this letter to the Landau siblings and seek their help… Our help. That you have faith in us.”
“So it really did reach you…”
Has he completely misinterpreted the contents of her letter? Has he really made a grave mistake by trusting Serval —his instincts too— telling him that letting the Trailblazers through was the right decision? Has he forever betrayed Lady Bronya’s trust? How can he know? Even now he doesn’t know—
He looks at her and for a split second he can’t even recognize the woman atop the stairs. The strong, inquisitive, sharp as a blade woman —the Commander of Belobog’s forces and his direct superior— is nowhere to be found behind those utterly hollow eyes.
“I admit I know nothing of what transpired during your time in the Underworld, or about the answers you were seeking from Madam Cocolia… But if you trust the Trailblazers, then I trust them. And fighting them —having my own troops incapacitated, even temporarily—, while we are facing Fragmentum invasion after invasion seemed… pointless.” He can tell his breath is becoming increasingly short, but he can’t stop now. He will stand by what he believes. “In my oath as Belobog’s General, I swore to always obey the Supreme Guardian, that Her wish is my command. But I have also sworn an equally important oath to the people of Belobog. And… if a time comes when I had to choose between the two— it would be the latter. Always.”
This is it.
It is over. And he already feels lighter.
“So, you disobeyed the former Supreme Guardian’s orders.”
Former Supreme Guardian?
“Yes.”
“Using me and the contents of that frankly very vague letter by me to conveniently bypass her direct orders to you.”
The heels of her boots echo through the vast throne room as she slowly descends the stairs, and Gepard averts his gaze to the ground.
“I… Yes.”
“Your soldiers got tricked and let the Trailblazers into the restricted zone, and you, in turn, escorted them out and into a highly classified area where an Engine of Creation is.”
“…Yes.”
“While knowing that both me and the former Supreme Guardian were up there, for reasons beyond anyone’s concern.”
“That’s… yes.”
The sound of her heels come to a halt.
“Look at me, Gepard.” And he does. “Do you have any idea of the consequences this chain of disobedience had?”
“…”
“Answer me.” And this time, it’s an order.
“No, Commander Bronya.”
She smiles, maybe at the honorific, but he doesn’t know. She starts descending the stairs again with a slight wobble.
“Commander…” It is too late now. “You’re right, I have no idea,” And it doesn’t matter. “I acted upon what I assumed was the right thing with the information I had at the time.” It doesn’t matter. “The only thing I know is what every other person in Belobog knows: on that hilltop, three days ago, Madam Cocolia fought valiantly, and in the end, gave her life for the people of Belobog. Her selfless sacrifice graced us all with yet another chance to live one more day.” It doesn’t m—
She stops yet again. He instinctively looks at her. And at this moment, Lady Bronya is neither unreadable nor empty. She is boiling angry. Again. Probably at him, and his incompetence. Definitely.
“Maybe my assumptions were wrong— terribly wrong. But that doesn’t mean I will not take responsibility for my actions.” He musters all the courage he has left and does not break eye contact. She is breathing fast and gripping her temples with one hand. He braces for her inevitable explosion. “I will never ask for penitence. Or a second chance. My position as Belobog’s General, my life, and my place next to you as a lifelong friend, are all in your hands to do as you seem fit… My Queen.”
But the explosion never comes.
The man watches her bring a second hand to her face, clutching her temples with force. He notices how the previous flash of anger has vanished once again, and he is ready to give up. But the way she hangs her head forward, her fingers digging into her scalp, her legs tremble three or four steps above him, and he finally realizes—
He has but a split second to act upon instinct, and dives forward.
And the explosion never comes.
The metallic trill of his knee pads digging grooves into the marble floor beneath him echoes throughout the empty room, as he dives forward, catching the woman into his arms.
“Lady Bronya! ” He panics, but remains frozen in place nonetheless.
He hears her breathe faintly yet erratically against his chest.
She is still conscious.
He is terrified. He does not know what to do; for the first time he has no right answers. What if he makes yet another wrong decision, what if all he does is cause her more pain again and again— He bites the inside of his cheek at his thoughts, and reminds himself that this woman is one of the most resilient people in Belobog, hell, she is still his Commander.
His actively unfolding spiraling comes to a halt as he feels her body slowly slipping from his arms, and he instinctively pulls her up against him, steadying her atop of his thighs. The sound of metal and geomarrow armor pieces grinding one another fills his senses, as he slides her body against his. What a revolting sound. A sound he has always associated with armors clashing during combat, very close calls, and killing his own soldiers with his own two hands —his comrades and friends— long lost to the Fragmentum… not this. This; he doesn’t know how to handle.
“Gepard…” A cracking whisper.
“My Queen… Please— don’t push yourself.”
“How can I not.” She stretches her neck up to face him, and smiles. “You of all people should know …” She lifts one shaking arm and lets it rest on the side of his neck. “—how much we don’t matter… as long as we never stop. Not even for a moment.” And he understands too well already. “We are not allowed that luxury.”
“You’re not good to any of us dead.”
Her pained smile only widens. Her eyes travel everywhere and nowhere, and she looks so lost. He realizes at that moment that this is the first time seeing her from a hair’s breadth for such a prolonged period of time. All telltale signs on her face are clear as day to him: black circles, grazes, bruises, breakage, discoloration, sickeningly protruding cheekbones— she’s so beautiful.
Have you been fighting the Fragmentum alone?
“Gepard…” She finally breaks the silence. “What do you think your punishment should be?”
“I…” He falters. Right now, this seems so unimportant; as he is lying in front of Belobog’s throne, cradling the future of his homeland in his arms. “I… don’t care. Any punishment you deem worthy, I will gladly accept.”
She breathes a laugh through her nose, and even that is cut short by a series of dry coughs shortly after. Gepard pulls his body away from her, to give her room to breathe, or maybe out of guilt; because even now he’s taking from her. She’s vulnerable, spent, broken, and yet, here he is, still basking in her sunlight.
“No— don’t.” She claws the side of his neck, keeping him in place, and he obeys. “Stay close… Even the walls can hear us.” He looks at her in high alert, but dares not ask, and she merely smiles an unspoken thank you at him.
“I can make that decision easier for you…” He whispers, “It’s the least I can do.”
Gepard notes how her eyes, her features — her entire body— all have gradually loosened in his arms, except for her hand still holding him firmly pinned. He carefully removes one arm from her back and makes a wide arch, reaching for his General emblem on his shoulder, and yanks it clean from its seams. Finally, he places the small golden ornamental badge on her lap with care.
“I am retiring from my post and duties as a General effective immediately.” He continues. “I have already appointed a chain of command ready to replace me at any given time— should anything happen to me. Temporarily, of course. Until you appoint the next General.” She smiles at him, and for the first time her eyes are not empty. Or maybe he’s seeing things. Because he barely even registers her fingers loosening their grip on his neck; now slowly stroking at the thin skin over his carotid instead. “I…” His voice cracks, “I will hand myself in to the Belobog authorities…” He closes his eyes inadvertently at the sensation, “I will tell them to lock me up…” Does he even make sense to her? “Until… you have time for me… Time to enact my punishment.” Her cold, calloused fingers graze his neck softly, sweeping his mind clean off every thought, one lethargic motion at a time.
“Gepard,”
“And honestly, here I am wasting your time. This is what I should have done from the beginning.” He cuts her off, but he doesn’t notice. “You need someone who is worthy of your trust. Now even more than ever. Someone who can see things through the right way.”
“Gepard,”
“I know it’s of no worth but… I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened up there between you and Madam Cocolia but I can only dare pray— Pray that my choices did not… cost her life.”
She softly presses down at his nape, his upper body slowly enveloping her frame, and he lets her guide him.
“Gepard.” She whispers, as her hand travels up from one side, his neck, his jawline, his cheek; brushing it slowly with her thumb. Is he crying? No, surely not— How much more pitiful can he be in front of her?
He feels her shift her weight beneath him, and she slowly lifts her body close to him. His badge slowly slides off her lap and falls on the floor with a series of dry clinks , and it may as well go to hell.
She’s so close, so close, and he’s so small in front of her. Unworthy.
“Thank you, Gepard.”
…
“Thank you. For everything.”
What—
“Thank you. For disobeying your orders.”
Is he hearing things?
“Thank you. For trusting your instincts on what you believed to be the right thing. Despite the entire world telling you otherwise.”
Has he lost it? Are those cold fingers, now combing his hair, really capable of stripping him from the last slivers of sanity he has left?
“Thank you. For sticking to your morals and your sense of justice until the very end. I wish I could be like you.”
Oh, he has definitely lost it. Yet, here he is, pressing his head against Bronya’s fingers, and it feels so real.
“My… Qu—“
“Gepard.”
He falls silent. Bronya rests her forehead on his and sighs, letting her eyes rest. Her hair slides down, covering her face, and he dares touching them, moving them out of the way slowly, one thin strand at a time, behind her ears. What a blasphemy.
“The reason I called you here today is to make a request.”
“Use me however you see fit.” He fires back, no thoughts or filters. “I am at your disposal. Always have.”
She opens her eyes and cups his face with both hands.
“I want you to replace me. I want to make you the Commander of Belobog’s forces.”
“Wh —”
“I want you to be my eyes. My ears. My extra pair of hands. But with a will of your own. There will be no orders anymore. No protocols. No reports.”
The man can feel his heart hammering against his rib cage, yet he cannot stop his hands from their habitual mechanical back and forth, carefully putting strands of silver hair out of Her face.
“I don’t want people who blindly follow the rules, Gepard. I want people who hold me accountable by upholding their morals.”
She pauses, and draws one shaky breath, each word draining the life out of her.
“I don’t want people who run away. Or people who are afraid to take responsibility for their actions.”
Another pause; another breath.
“I want people who… question my decisions.”
“‘Doubt breeds arrogance, and doubt breeds evil... As a model for Belobog, you shouldn't overthink.’ ” He responds, almost in a trance. These words he had always been questioning, are deeply burned in his mind, after having them repeated at him again and again and ag—
“Did she tell you this?” Her voice already reduced to a hiss, and finally, finally he understands. Every single near-explosion, almost angry-fit; none of them were ever directed at him. They were all directed at the former Supreme Guardian of Belobog, every time he mentioned her or her actions in adoration and reverence.
He nods frantically at her, and he understands, really, but then again, he really does not—
“Oh, my Gepard…” She whispers, pain splitting her features with a smile, and his mind short-circuits at this short sequence of words.
Bronya lets one hand slide down his face, until it rests on his forearm, and she gently holds him.
“I want people who I can trust. People who will keep me on the right track. I don’t want to become like… her. ” Her hand travels to his wrist, and he barely just notices how unfocused her eyes are, darting left and right in scarce bursts. “I want you , Gepard.” She brings his hand up to her face, and tilts her head towards it, her lips resting on his wrist.
Nothing makes sense anymore. And for once, it doesn’t have to. As long as he can stay like this, kneeling at her, holding her, listening to her tired whispers, telling him sweet things that make no sense— telling him that she trusts him, that she wants him close, him, that she wants him to become her eyes, her ears, her shield, that she wants him soldered onto her—
Who is he to refuse?
Her short breaths send currents from his wrists to his entire body.
He wants to answer. He thinks so, at least. But dares not to speak. What if all this is a dream? What if he is already in Belobog’s prison? What if the moment he speaks he wakes up? What if he ruins this too?
“I promise, Gepard… there will be no lies. No secrets between us.” She sings, “I just need time. I will tell you everything. ”
You don’t have to.
Her lips brush softly against his wrist as she speaks, and he may as well go deaf for all he cares.
“Right now, I will tell you this. Because you deserve at least this much— and so much more.” Her body wobbles in his arms and he merely responds by caressing one side of her temples with the same hand she’s holding captive with her lips; and he makes sure he doesn’t sever that contact. “Because of you… Because of your decisions three days ago, I am alive today.”
If this is what madness sounds like, he doesn’t mind.
“Because of you… Serval is alive.”
She closes her eyes and lets all her weight rest against his palm. She almost slips away from him.
“Because of your choices… You are alive. Your troops are alive. The people of the Underworld are alive. The children pestering Pela on the main square every other day are alive.”
She goes on and on until her words trickle down to an unintelligible whisper.
“Bronya…”
“I am so unworthy of you.”
“Please… I can’t stand seeing you like this.”
“Gepard…”
“Tell me how I can take all this weight off you. Please…”
“…Don’t— leave me.”
“Only in death.”
She shoots her eyes wide open at the sound of his words. She’s searching for his eyes. And yet, she can’t find them. He is here, he is right here dammit, but she can’t see him. She gently stumbles on his face with both her hands, like a blind person mapping the world around them under their touch.
“Only in death.” She mirrors, and makes one last attempt to find him, one last search with these terrifyingly exhausted eyes, and it resembles a mid-sleep rapid-eye movement if anything else. She fails again. And at last, she gives in to the exhaustion, falling into him like a listless sack.
Is he crying? Definitely. And he can’t get any more pitiful than this in front of her.
He would rather not see at all, if he has to watch her blurry, severed from sheer fatigue, disassociating eyes, search frantically for him like he’s the only ray of light in the unending winter.
He lifts her body up with care, and he finally registers how sickeningly light she weighs despite her armor.
But he can take solace in one thing. All this surely must be a product of his imagination. It has to. Right now, he must probably be undergoing some cruel, inhumane punishment in Belobog’s prison for his hideous betrayal three days ago.
He will wake up soon.
He will wake up soon.
He only needs half a minute more, really.
He has to find the palace doctors.
He has to make sure his Sun will be safe.
And then — only then — he can wake up.