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the last strike of lightning
Gepard and Pela stand before Cocolia in Qlipoth Fort as they raise their right hands in oath — an oath to the Aeon of Preservation, to Belobog and her people. Gepard, an oath of leadership; Pela, an oath of knowledge. It’s the same oath they first took when they were starting out in cadetship, but the words now weigh far heavier with the promise of their lives, their dedication, their everything.
Back when Pela first became the captain’s aide, Gepard was still starting out in the Silvermane Guards as a humble private. Pela had already taken this oath a few years ago alongside a different captain.
The last captain had so many years ahead of him. Everyone thought he would remain alive to lead the Silvermane Guards for the decades to come. But maybe it was the way the last captain didn’t know when to fall back from a dangerous fight, or the way Pela’s combat formation plans may have had a major flaw she overlooked, that caused him an early death.
It’s still hard for Pela to accept the passing of their last captain, and even harder to see the deaths of the rest of the Silvermane Guards as what the public calls chivalrous. The bigger, more rational part of her knows they willingly put their lives on the line the moment they took an oath to knighthood, but there’s always the infinitesimal, battered, overly critical part of her that blames herself for their deaths. All her combat plans are designed to prevent as many casualties as possible. They’re not completely foolproof, she knows that. And yet in each name that gets crossed out from the records of the Silvermane Guards, she wonders if there’s a better formula than her own calculations.
After the oath taking ceremony, they immediately head into her office; they’re still on duty, and Gepard has to lead in the frontlines starting next week. There’s no time to think about what’s lost. They have to make do with what they have, right now.
Pela lays the map flat onto her office desk and they both discuss the new setup: the southern brigade’s location isn’t ideal for their formation, the lieutenant of the northwestern battalion just stepped down from a chronic illness, the eastern troops need more reinforcements. Pela offers recommendations where appropriate, and then they get into a debate that goes on for hours until they’ve already formed a new plan to make up for their lack of numbers.
Just as they’re getting ready to leave Pela’s office, Gepard tells her, “Thank you, Officer Pela. I’ll be counting on you as always.”
Her reply comes almost instantaneously. “Likewise, Captain Gepard.”
Through the windows, a fresh crack of white splits the sky into a million pieces — and then it’s gone and suddenly the sky is whole again, leaving only the golden rays of the sun filtering through the heavy grey of clouds. The lightning goes away in silence. There’s no thunder. Just the footsteps and muffled chatter in the hallway beyond her office door and the howl of gale that’s too reminiscent of a storm. And he is still looking at her, expectant and hopeful and somewhat unguarded.
Their conversation is familiar. It’s one she’s had too many times with the last captain. The thought makes Pela realise Gepard isn’t the first captain who she took an oath with. Gepard isn’t the first captain who stayed behind in her office to discuss their next plans. Gepard isn’t the first captain who told her he’ll always be counting on her.
And Gepard might not be her last.
It’s just how things are in their line of work. They all took the same oath; he’s willing to sacrifice himself for Belobog just as much as she is. Gepard shouldn’t be any different. The thought of Gepard meeting the same fate as the last captain is not supposed to bother Pela this much — but it does. Maybe it’s because Pela cares too much about Serval and Lynx that she can’t bear the thought of them losing a brother. Or maybe it’s because the guilt still weighs heavy on her that she doesn’t want a repeat of last time.
It could be both. It could be something else entirely. Neither are good possibilities.
There’s a knock on her door and the moment instantly dissipates. Her jaw clenches at the interruption, like she might be onto something, like there’s more hidden behind her teeth, but the quiet in his gaze is already gone and she’s no longer sure where her thoughts should go from here.
She decides to file it away for later and heads to the door.
then
The first thing Pela sees as soon as the funeral horns ring out is the lone coffin being carried to the monument.
Only one died this time around. Deaths aren’t to be celebrated, but it’s already rare enough for the Silvermane Guards to come out of a Fragmentum attack nearly unscathed. And yet there’s something about the air that’s more sombre than the funerals that had far more deaths than this one. Maybe it’s because this is the first time Bronya is seen in a funeral, maybe it’s because this came right after her first time leading a campaign. Maybe it’s because Bronya feels responsible for the private’s death.
The coffin is empty, Bronya says as she stands on the podium, speaking in the presence of all the Silvermane Guards standing in formation. Bronya’s speech was simple. Her words didn’t have the usual grace and strength she had. She was just plain and bare and pensive. He sacrificed his life for me. I don’t even know what he looked like.
Pela still thinks about the funeral, hours later, even as she heads to the bookstore to buy a few storybooks. She thinks about it as she reads to the children in the Administrative District, and as she returns to the hushed whispers in the office about how a lead researcher caught the ire of the Supreme Guardian — Did that person create something illegal for the research, the results are probably false, I wonder if she actually reached a breakthrough with her findings…
Pela knows it’s Serval; she’s the only one among the lead researchers, much less the entire Technology Division, to push through with her findings of the Stellaron despite incessant orders by the Supreme Guardian to discontinue the research.
She tried to help Serval on researching the Stellaron with her access to the restricted archives in Qlipoth Fort, but it was all for naught. The more recent records don’t acknowledge the existence of the Stellaron, and it doesn’t help that there are many missing pages to the ancient documents, particularly at the passages that mention the Stellaron. As if the information is being deliberately concealed.
At some point in her research, Serval finds something about the Stellaron, something she refuses to tell Pela.
“I’ll handle it from here, Pela. I won’t tell you what I found out, it’s too risky. I have a feeling that I’ll eventually get punished for this and I don’t want to drag you down with me,” Serval says. Her voice doesn’t have her usual cheer and she is quiet. Pela isn’t used to this. She’s not supposed to look like that. “Forget everything I told you about the Stellaron… is what I would say, but you’re too smart for your own good.” Serval lets out a small laugh, trying to find humour in the conversation. It comes out more sombre than it should. “At least try to pretend you don’t know anything, yeah?”
“You tell me that, but you will keep going.”
“I didn’t think the research would come to this, but yes, that’s the plan.”
“Why?”
“I finish everything I started. Besides…” Serval’s eyes flicker with something a little resigned, a lot determined. “Not knowing is far more dangerous.”
now
“I promised Clara that I’ll teach her about the more advanced modules we have here in the Overworld,” Serval tells Pela, voice muffled by her welding helmet as she works on a shield prototype in her workshop’s welding room. Blueprints of the Earthwork and the Silvermane Guards’ shields are pinned on her walls. “But I can’t exactly bring the entire workshop to the Underworld, can I? And I need to drop by the outpost tomorrow morning. The Silvermane Guards requested maintenance on the automaton machines.”
Pela offers to pick Clara up in Serval’s stead while biting back a, isn’t routine maintenance supposed to be the job of the Technology Division, what in the world are they doing? Pela tries not to show it on her face, she really does, but it’s either she is too easy to read or Serval has known her for too long, because Serval laughs at her expression. “No, no! The Technology Division already inspected the machines and there seems to be something wrong. I did all the modding. They were right to ask me before doing anything else. One wrong move and the automaton machines might be shooting chainsaws everywhere.”
The next day, Pela makes a trip to the Underworld and asks a Wildfire member to guide her to the Robot Settlement. When she arrives, she exchanges a few greetings with Clara and Svarog — they both memorised her name the first time! A far cry to the other Silvermane Guards who can’t get her name right even after years of knowing each other. Pela immediately takes a liking to both of them.
On the lift to the Overworld, Pela brings out her first aid kit and treats the small cuts all over Clara’s arms and legs.
“Why didn’t you get your injuries treated by Doctor Natasha?” Pela asks as she reaches for the saline solution. “Your wounds will get infected if you ignore them.”
Clara hunches her shoulders, fiddles the hem of her dress. “I don’t really notice if I get hurt, and there’s so much to do with all the robots getting thrown away…” Clara flinches when Pela cleans a particularly nasty cut. “Natasha also mentioned that her medical supplies are running low. I don’t want to impose, especially when the other miners need it more than I do.”
“Don’t worry, we will do something about that as soon as possible,” Pela quickly reassures, then goes quiet at that. Lets the reality of the situation sink into her. Focuses on rubbing ointment all over Clara’s injuries, careful not to aggravate them further. “Thank you for telling me.”
By the time the lift reaches the Overworld, Pela has finished plastering cartoon band-aids all over Clara’s arms and legs. Clara holds onto Pela’s hand tightly for a sense of security as Pela guides her into the unknown of the Central Plaza, then the history of the monument. And then they sink their time into the floriography written on the chalkboard stand by the entrance of Eversummer Florist, matching the blooming buds of flowers to the stories and languages behind them.
After a while, they stop by a dessert shop. Clara’s eyes are pointed to the skies in wonder as they talk about everything: how the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, how the moon shines in the darkness, how the stars create constellations. How cable cars move on the tracks, how phone booths connect to one another, how Geomarrow radiators emit enough heat throughout the Administrative District.
They talk about how the wind blows, cold and harsh and biting. How raindrops fall from clouds and pierce like hail. How lightning paints the whole world white for a single fleeting moment. How thunder marches in with a roar violent enough to shake the earth.
In the midst of Clara’s curiosity, Pela suddenly understands, with frightening depth, why the children in the Underworld seem so content with what they have despite missing out on everything the world has to offer.
The Underworld is their world.
They never knew about the sky and what lies beyond it. They can’t long for something they never knew existed.
then
“Are you still associating with my sister?”
Gepard is accompanying Pela on analysing the terrains near the frontlines. Pela is writing down on her notes, and when she turns Gepard’s face is stern. Perhaps too stern, in the conversation of his sister. He’s been like this for a while now. A telltale sign that Gepard hasn’t completely moulded into the title of captain yet; too conditioned to the responsibilities of a captain before he became one, and yet too unused to the sheer authority it holds. Still cannot strike the delicate balance between when to remain strict and when to let loose, even just for a little bit.
“I am,” she says.
“If possible, I suggest you refrain from approaching her.”
Pela draws a sharp breath, tamps down the sudden anger, makes herself speak evenly. Remind herself she’s still on duty and Gepard is speaking to her as captain. “Don’t say that ever again. I know Serval just got expelled from the Architects, but that’s no excuse to tell me how to choose the people I talk to.”
It’s only there for a moment — the unmistakable guilt and hurt, before Gepard steels his expression, and then it’s gone. Like he no longer knows how it feels to be himself from months of being on the frontlines. Or maybe he just got better at hiding how he feels over the years.
“It’s not just the Architects avoiding her; the citizens are, too. It’s affecting more of Belobog than you think,” Gepard says. “Frankly, I don’t put too much importance on what others think of me, as long as I can do what’s expected of me, but nowadays my soldiers hesitate to approach me when they need something, and citizens are afraid to ask me for help. It feels like everyone is walking on eggshells around me. If being treated this way comes with the risk of being unable to protect our people when they need it the most…”
The lines in the corners of his eyes are tight, as if they were always there, as if he has grown into them from being captain, as if that’s the identity he is now used to. He clenches his fists. “It can’t be helped because I am a Landau, and I can take it. I can bear the treatment. But it’s not too late for you, Officer Pela. People will treat you the same way if you continue to associate with her. They might not listen to you even with a position as authoritative as yours.”
Pela purses her lips. Gepard is just being the way he is. He does what has to be done, and she respects that because she follows the same principles. But they’re too different beyond that; he has the responsibility of his last name, has to uphold his position as captain for the rest of his life, has far more at stake than she does. Their lives never intersect much outside work — Gepard has his own circle and so does Pela. It only makes sense that they could only seem to talk to each other properly when they’re alone.
She doesn’t know him that well, cannot get a read of him. She is yet to tell if this is his way of looking out for her, because if it is, then—
“No.”
Gepard blinks at the unexpected response, his hardened expression folding around the edges, bordering on confusion. “Huh?”
“Serval is my best friend first before she’s the lead researcher who got expelled from the Architects. I’m not leaving her even if you command me to.” Pela sends him a long look. “Even if you tell me it’s for my own good.”
Gepard wasn’t there for Serval when she got expelled. It’s not that Pela faults him for it; he was in the frontlines. He had no way of knowing what happened to Serval until weeks later, when he arrived back home and noticed Serval’s seat on the dinner table was empty, only to learn his elder sister had been kicked out of the family.
Pela knows this, because Serval told her all about it. And Pela also knows how Gepard delivers Serval and Lynx gifts without his name signed in the greeting cards, how he sends them letters disguised as reports, how he calls them right at midnight when he can’t make it for their birthdays, just to be the first person to greet them.
Everything he does is for Belobog. But he still does what’s best for Serval, in his own way, even though nearly all of Belobog has turned their backs on her.
No wonder he’s been so stern as of late — Gepard is too idealistic, wants too many things. He doesn’t want to sacrifice one over the other so he chooses to hold onto both: he would be more stubborn if it means getting people to listen to him, would overcompensate if it means the attention will be on him instead of his elder sister.
They may be different in more ways than one, but that part of him she understands all too well, because she feels the same way.
It’s why he can’t just tell Pela to leave Serval, not when Pela has seen Serval at her lowest. Not when she tucked Serval in the night she got expelled, wiping her tears as she fell asleep crying. Not when she helped Serval pack her belongings as she left the Landau residence, not when she quickly hunted down an empty building for Serval to start her new workshop at. Not when she remained by his sister’s side when nobody else would.
Serval didn’t even beg for Pela to stay; all she did was ask Pela if she would continue to join her in rehearsals. As if there was even the smallest possibility that Pela would refuse her.
Soon enough, Serval was humming a tune in her new workshop as she worked on a shield. I’ve been wanting to make this for a while now, but I keep putting it off because of research, Serval said as she showed Pela the blueprint she drew for Earthwork. Now I have all the time in the world! Isn’t that great?
It was nothing like a shield at all; there were too many internal mechanisms and the design stuck out like a sore thumb against the uniform of the Silvermane Guards. It defied all description of what a shield should be. But it suited her style, and that was all the reassurance Pela needed to know Serval was going to be alright.
“If they see me with Serval and make it a reason to be wary around me, that’s not my problem anymore,” Pela says, indignant. “We all took an oath to Belobog and her people. And Serval is a part of Belobog no matter what.”
Gepard looks mildly taken aback, but he recovers quickly, his expression now back to betraying nothing at all — or at least, she expected it to remain that way. Pela almost misses how his demeanour turns a little warmer, a little more honest.
“Good answer,” Gepard says.
now
“It’s been a while since you visited for maintenance, Gepard.” Serval pries Earthwork open on the bar counter and inspects its internal modules. “Let me see…”
Clara is standing on a stool right next to Serval, looking over her shoulder as Serval points at each component to explain how they function. Gepard’s posture is rigid as he hovers near the two of them; he is too busy to afford having the maintenance last longer than it should, and yet he immediately develops a soft spot for Clara that he can’t bring himself to tell them to hurry up.
After a while, Serval closes the shield case and sighs. “You came at the nick of time. Some parts are about to break and are due for replacements. I also need to make a couple of adjustments to make sure this will function in full capacity. This is going to take longer than usual, so sit tight and be patient.” Serval helps Clara step down from the stool with one hand and carries Earthwork in another. “If you came any later this would’ve been a bit troublesome, both for you and for me.” Serval guides Clara into the welding room, and before Gepard could even get in a word, Serval yells out, Visit your dear sister more often if you don’t want your shield malfunctioning! before the door closes.
Molly’s footsteps from upstairs lightly thump against the ceiling. Serval’s and Clara’s voices are lively from the next room. Pela watches from Molly’s desk as Gepard remains by the bar counter, unsure of what to do next. The air is stilted.
Pela, who hasn’t said a word the entire time, waits until both Serval and Clara are completely out of earshot. And then she says, “I didn’t think you would go easy on Serval.”
His expression grows just as rigid as his posture. “I did no such thing.”
“Think about it. She brought in an automaton going out of control, shot out the machine’s chainsaw into a window in Qlipoth Fort, and caused chaos among the citizens within the Administrative District.”
“The machine was modified for the use of the Silvermane Guards before it malfunctioned. If it was for personal use, her intentions would’ve been questioned. The only reason she has it in her possession right now is because she had to take it off the hands of the Technology Division before something worse happens,” Gepard says with practised ease. Like he has already justified the entire situation in his head long before the conversation happened. “It was dangerous, yes. Somebody could’ve gotten hurt, yes. But it wasn’t on purpose. The action wasn’t out of malicious intent and nobody was harmed. There’s no need for her to face the consequences over an accident that caused no casualty.”
“Still, you could’ve at least subjected her to an interrogation,” Pela says. “All you did was give her a lecture.”
“The incident is caused by the lack of routine maintenance done by the Technology Division on the automaton machines owned by the Silvermane Guards. I checked their logs before arriving here, and the last maintenance was almost a month ago. It should be every two weeks.” Pela can’t help but be aware that he is very pointedly not looking at her. “The problem would’ve been solved if they noticed this earlier. It was technically their fault this happened to begin with.”
“Is this your way of shifting the blame away from her?”
“Why are you making it sound like I’m fabricating evidence, when I’m only telling the truth?”
“Captain Gepard.”
A deep silence stretches between them, and nobody tries to break it as they hear warm laughter from the welding room, the back and forth of Hey, you’re pretty good at this, Clara! and then a meek Thank you, Miss Serval, followed by Serval’s feigned shock: Miss?! Call me big sister!
After a while, Pela senses Gepard finally shifting his gaze to her. “I didn’t know it was Serval at first. I just had a hunch it was her. She’s the only one capable of modifying a machine to that extent, as far as I’m aware,” he admits. “The citizens don’t know that she broke the window, though. You know how she’s perceived by the public.”
The night of Serval’s expulsion drifts into memory. “I do.”
“So you know it’s far easier to get people to turn a blind eye on her than to get everyone to understand she’s not completely at fault. It’ll fall onto deaf ears. They’ll pin all the blame onto her.”
Right on cue, Clara steps out of the welding room. “Miss Pela? Big sister Serval hurt herself, and I was wondering if you still have more of the band-aids you gave me earlier…”
Gepard takes it as an opportunity to excuse himself, saying something about heading out to patrol. Pela says nothing back as he prepares to leave the workshop.
Clara glances at the both of them, as if she senses there’s something wrong, as if there’s something about the air she can’t quite pin down. Before the silence lingers for too long, Pela smiles at Clara and grabs her first aid kit, and tries not to think about the door closing behind her. “Sure, I still have more band-aids with me. Where did Serval hurt herself?”
then
The Silvermane Guards stationed in the outpost are all shooting Pela inquisitive glances as she storms into the restricted zone, wondering why she decided to get out of the city now of all days, when the ice storm is reported to be the worst it’s ever been in the past decades. Pela asks the acting lieutenant in the outpost to bring Gepard to her. Nobody questions the suddenness of her request, even more so the restrained, calm anger in her voice.
When Gepard returns from the frontlines, he finds her in a canvas military tent, seated in one of the makeshift beds. Before he takes a step inside, Pela asks, steely, “Are there any Silvermane Guards around us.”
“I assigned some of them near our tent, to be safe.”
“Please station them elsewhere.”
“What are you—”
“You probably already noticed, but I’m very, very, furious with you right now.” Pela clenches her fists. Her nails dig painfully into her palms. She tries to keep her tone steady. “Station the guards elsewhere. Please. I’d rather nobody overhears our conversation.”
It doesn’t take a minute until the base camp is empty, save for the two of them and the rest of the canvas military tents around them. Gepard enters, his footsteps light as to not disturb the silence; he doesn’t speak for a while as he arranges all the strewn papers on the desk into one stack. After that, he takes a matchbox from the drawer and lights up a candle. When Gepard is done he sits right next to her, puts a considerable distance between them — wise enough that he knows to tread carefully, cautious as he doesn’t know the reason behind her anger, yet.
It’s the noise of the makeshift bed from Pela slightly shifting her position that breaks the silence.
“So,” she decides to start, “do you know why I’m here today?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Can you think of a reason why?”
“Lots.”
“So you do have an idea where our conversation will go from here.”
“I do.”
Gepard’s answers are reserved, like he’s trying to make himself as scarce as possible in the presence of her anger.
“I haven’t gotten any reports from you as of late. You know it’s protocol to send a report every week. You missed three. And there’s word in the office about how there are far more casualties in the frontlines than usual… It’s impossible for me to know every single little thing that happens in the frontlines, it can’t be helped that other news will reach me from the other intelligence officers, but a situation this grave… I’m not supposed to be hearing this from them. It should be you.”
The wind from outside gusts into the small gaps of the tent walls. Pela shivers and Gepard quickly shifts closer, asks if she needs anything. Pela mumbles I am fine and then he immediately leans back, mouth twisting into something guilty, something distant.
“What are our losses, captain?”
“Thirty soldiers dead, twelve missing, a hundred and sixty four currently in treatment at the field hospital.” Gepard lets out a shaky breath. “It’s not yet the final count.”
Pela’s throat feels awful and dry. “This isn’t like you. What is going on?”
Gepard tenses. He keeps his gaze at the empty wall, not looking at her. “Madam Cocolia took the lead.”
“…What?”
“Miss Bronya was busy with other affairs at the time, so she wasn’t around to act as commander. We remained in our defensive lines as planned, but then Madam Cocolia stepped in out of nowhere and instructed us to directly attack the Fragmentum without asking for my input—”
“You are the captain. Why did you not stop her?”
Gepard is quiet, again. He has never, ever, been this quiet.
“Captain. I am asking you. Please answer me.”
“I believed her orders were in the best interests of the military.”
“Best interests?” she yells, and he flinches. “This is ridiculous, you of all people should know leaving your defensive lines is against our number one protocol!”
She keeps going, gradually losing grasp of the words she hurls onto him — so much time wasted, so many resources down the drain, so many lives lost, all because you let somebody else take over your role! — she keeps going until she can’t anymore, throat scratchy and breathless with her lungs numb from the cold. When she looks at him he is only silent, his head lowered as he bears the brunt of her anger, and that snaps her back to the present.
Pela doesn’t even remember everything she’s told him, anymore, doesn’t remember if her words were hurtful, but she’s sure he does. She bites her lip, frustration morphing into guilt. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says, the venom from earlier sitting horribly unfamiliar on the tip of her tongue. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. I acknowledge that this all happened because of my actions. All the blame falls to me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You’re not the only one at fault here. I’m angry at you for following Madam Cocolia’s orders, yes, but I am angrier at her for overstepping her line of duties. And I’m.” Pela realises her fists are still tight. She forces herself to uncurl her hands. Now that her nails are no longer painfully digging into her palms it feels unnatural, it makes her feel oddly vulnerable. She clenches her fists again to keep herself grounded. “I am the angriest at myself for not taking Madam Cocolia’s interference into my calculations. If only I considered it as a possibility, no matter how improbable it would’ve sounded, I would’ve given you a better analysis to work around with. Or maybe I should’ve known what was going on so that I can—”
“Officer Pela, you don’t have to take the blame—”
“You also could’ve died!”
A deep silence ensues, interspersed by the hail that pelts against the fabric of the tent. A breeze rushes in, sends a chill to the back of her neck, body too numb from the cold to do anything, too numb to feel anything about what she just said. His expression changes from something despondent to something unreadable. He’s still not looking at her.
“Gepard.” She makes sure he catches the underlying sorry in her words. “Please look at me.”
He doesn’t, for a moment, until he does. As if her simple request actually takes so much effort. The thought of it tugs a dull ache in her.
“Listen. You’re the captain. You took an oath. Nobody can take that away from you, not even the supreme guardian.”
Gepard weakly nods.
“I give my all in every single strategy plan. You know that,” she says. “I try to account for every possibility, every single room for error. But I am not out on the frontlines. I have no idea what’s going on out there. Something will always go wrong. It could be a miscalculation, or a detail I have overlooked. So if — and only if — the combat plans start to fall apart under unforeseen circumstances, take me out of the equation. Forget about the plan. Trust nobody else’s judgement but your own. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Her eyes are blurry from the unshed tears she can’t see him that well, anymore, but she knows he is crying, too. She feels it. It could be grief, knowing they both could no longer bring them back. It could be guilt, knowing they both could have found a way to keep them alive. It could be both.
There's that ugly, weak impulse to break. It happens often enough that she's already familiar with how it feels like, but she's ignored it far too long that she's not sure how to handle it, so she crushes it back into her heart like she always does. She has no time for it. Not when there’s still so much to do, not when they have to continue fighting with what they have left. Not when Gepard is still alive, his life spared for another day. And she won’t make the same mistake she did, back then, and right now.
“Even after all our losses, I’ll continue to give my everything. I’ll keep helping you with combat plans and I’ll keep trusting you. Not necessarily because I want to, but because I have to. And you have to do the same for me, or else we will lose this battle.” Pela blinks her unshed tears away until they’re gone, until she can see his downcast expression very clearly. “Be honest, Gepard. Do you still want to do this?”
“I do.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can keep going. I have to keep going.”
His expression shifts into something determined, grief seeping through the cracks and still fragile around the edges. He tries not to shatter. The sight fills her with some sort of aching pride.
“Then the moment you step out of this tent, you have to pull yourself together. Reclaim command from your soldiers and stand your ground, even against the Supreme Guardian’s orders. Stick to our combat plans. Believe in my judgement, and then yours, before anybody else’s,” she says firmly with the cadence of a captain’s aide.
Outside, the pelting of hail grows stronger, and the howl of the wind grows louder. She softens her tone with a hush, “But first, you have to rest here for the time being.” She moves closer to him and wipes away his tears. “I’ll keep you company.”
now
“Do you still think about him?” Gepard’s voice is quiet in the midst of the children’s laughter as they play in Natasha’s clinic.
Pela pulls away her gaze from the book she borrowed from the clinic shelf. “Who?”
“Captain.”
That stirs a familiar, weary bruise in her. “You still call him captain?”
“Force of habit. Besides, he died as one. I will always refer to him as such.” His gaze turns inquisitive. “Well? Do you?”
“I try not to.” Pela says nothing more after that, the words he reminds me of what I could’ve done better, who I could’ve kept alive stuck on her throat. She never delves on her regrets for too long. Her duties as an intelligence officer and her day-offs spent volunteering for the children is more than enough reason to think about something else.
Gepard shifts on his bed with a bit of difficulty; the fresh wounds on his abdomen were bandaged by Natasha just a while ago. Currently Natasha is busy tending to the other Silvermane Guards and Wildfire members that got wounded from dealing with the Fragmentum in Rivet Town, and Pela is seated by his bedside just to make sure his stubbornness doesn’t get him to put his armour back on and join the others with his injury.
After a while, he says, “It will be his death anniversary soon.”
He didn’t have to say that out loud for her to remember. The date isn’t marked in her calendar and yet she’s reminded of it every year. She wants to forget, but the small, stubborn, irrational part of her refuses to. “Mm, I know.”
“He comes to mind a lot as of late, now that the date is drawing near. I think about what he would tell me if he saw me in this state, or what he would’ve done in my place. Or how he would make the situation a little bit more bearable than it is right now. If more soldiers would’ve been alive under his leadership rather than my own.”
“So you think you’re not enough.”
“Not necessarily. I believe I am doing more than enough. I do think I could be better, though.”
“They’re both the same thing.
“No, they’re not.”
“What does that even mean.”
“Everyone is doing more than enough. Even me. Even you. It’s just… everything around us is beyond our control. It can’t be helped that our soldiers die earlier than we want them to. We could do better, yes, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t already good enough.” Gepard falls very, very quiet after that. He stares off at a distance, plain and bare and pensive, looking at something Pela can’t see. When he speaks again, there’s something in his tone Pela can’t quite pin down. “My mind often wanders to our soldiers. There’s too many of them to remember exactly how they died, although I remember the little things about them when they’re gone.”
“What little things?”
“I remember what they did to pass the time. What tune they hummed as they were stationed to their posts. What stories they told me about their family, through their letters.” Gepard pauses, as if trying to pull the right words. He suddenly looks wounded. “I remember what they’re looking forward to after they get home. What their plans are with their spouse. What their children’s dreams are. What else they wanted to be, if they didn’t have to be a soldier.”
“Does it get any easier?” Pela asks, before her mind could catch up. “Remembering.”
“…I’m not sure,” comes Gepard’s reply against all expectation.
“Oh.”
Just as the brief silence threatens to be overbearing, one of the children approaches Pela, tired from running around, and hugs her. Pela feels a timid Thank you, Miss Pela muffled on her shoulder as she hugs back.
Gepard waits for a while, and when he’s already certain that the child will remain in her arms, he asks, “The children here know you?”
“I… drop by more frequently as of late.” Pela suddenly realises that the conversation has shifted to something easier. She can now breathe a little deeply, a little freely. “At first it was to establish contact between Wildfire and the Silvermane Guards, but then I started visiting the children here whenever I am off-duty.”
“Oh. No wonder I can’t seem to find you sometimes. I didn’t know you were down here.”
“Now you do.” Pela remembers Natasha telling her something about how the children got attached to her so quickly after her first visit. She can’t bring herself to not show up again. “They like giving me trinkets before I return to the Overworld. Sometimes they give me shiny rocks. Other days they give me weeds that they mistake as flowers.”
That startles a laugh out of Gepard. “Do you ever point that out to them?”
“They look so proud with their gift. I don’t have the heart to do that.” Suddenly remembering she’s still hugging the child, she feigns shock and then she whispers — This is going to be our little secret, okay? — before the child giggles with a flimsy promise of not telling anybody, and then runs off to where the other children are.
When Pela is sure that the child is already out of earshot, she says, “Thinking about it upsets me, after all.”
“Thinking about what?”
“The situation here in the Underworld.” She clenches her fists. “I was already aware of how dire it is before coming here, but it’s far worse than I thought. The children here, Gepard…” Her gaze shifts to the children playing. “Their lives are so simple. They don’t yearn for a lot of things, but that’s only because they don’t know what they’re missing.”
Pela thinks of Clara. She thinks of the way Clara asked about anything and everything the moment she stepped into the Overworld. She thinks of the way Clara seemed intent on staying for a little longer before returning to the Underworld, staring at the vast sky even when she was not used to how bright it was.
“Natasha being the only doctor the people here could rely on, the wounded people having no other place to go… it really makes me upset,” Pela says, and each word feels like an effort. “But there’s not much I can do with my position right now. There’s still so much to do for matters in the Overworld to settle down. The least I could do is to go down here as a volunteer and make things better, and deliver medical supplies from time to time, even just for a little bit. But even that’s far from enough.”
Pela turns to him. She’s not sure what expression she is wearing right now, but from the way he seems caught off guard, she’s not sure if she wants to know. “You’re the captain. Our administration right now isn’t what it used to be. You now have the authority to change things, Gepard. Do something. Anything.”
Gepard ponders briefly, hands twisting on his lap. “Don’t worry, we’re already on it. I sent in a report to Miss Bronya a week ago after surveying the place. The changes aren’t immediate, however — we need everyone to get accustomed to our presence, little by little. And we have to earn their trust first before implementing any huge changes.”
“Can’t we just implement the changes right away? They would trust us once they see us always helping them out—”
“Small steps, Pela,” Gepard cuts her off firmly. “It will take a while to bridge ten years worth of differences. Being too forward, no matter how well-intentioned, may breed more conflict, and we want to avoid that as much as possible.”
“That’s—” Abruptly, Pela cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. His words linger heavy in her chest. “Apologies, I got too hasty. I was not thinking straight.”
Gepard sends her a long look. “It’s alright, I understand how you feel. I would do the same thing if the situation wasn’t so complicated, but rest assured that we will get there.” He lets out a small breath, pulling his words together. “And… there’s also something else I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while now.”
Pela regards him quietly. His expression is unreadable; she realises this is the same look he gave her back when she told him she’s not leaving Serval alone, back when she yelled at him that he could’ve died under Cocolia’s orders. She didn’t know what it meant back then, and she’s still not sure what it means, right now. “What is it?”
“That’s…” Gepard looks away, hesitant. His eyes are soft, distracted, but they’re clear when they flick back to her. Then he tells her with the biggest grin on his face.
Silence fills between them.
“You did not just do that,” she whispers under her breath.
The beam that’s already on his face grows wider. “I did.”
“You did not!” Pela exclaims again. Then when she realises she is being too loud in the clinic, she lowers her voice and leans in. “I cannot believe you! I did not think you would actually keep your word!” Pela can feel his laughter against her excitement. She doesn’t even try to constrain the grin that spreads involuntarily across her lips. “For Qlipoth’s sake, you said it was a pipe dream!”
the first roar of thunder
Pela opens the door and finds Gepard standing on the doorway, dishevelled and exhausted, injuries on his face and scratches on his arms. He isn't wearing his cadet uniform. His knuckles hover in the air, like he was about to knock again until he saw Pela.
Gepard seems confused on why Pela answered the door and not his sister, but instead of that he asks, “Is Serval not here?”
“No. She’s knee-deep in her thesis.” Pela answers. “I can’t believe I’m spending my day-off cleaning her apartment. She’s too busy to even take care of herself or at least eat properly… that woman!”
For some reason, Gepard’s laugh seems a little tired. “I haven’t seen her in weeks,” he says. “I wanted to ask her for a favour, but if she’s not here I’ll get going—”
“Wait, Gepard. Don’t leave yet. We need to get your wounds cleaned.”
Pela steps aside to let him in, then searches the kitchen cabinets for the first-aid kit. After a while, she settles beside him on the couch and examines his injuries.
He peers into the box. Then when he sees everything is as plain as they could be he mumbles, “These band aids are plain. I thought you always had those cartoon band aids.”
“They’re only for the children whenever I volunteer.” Pela pours sterile saline solution into clean cloth. “They like having band aids plastered all over them even though they’re not hurt. It makes them feel strong. Like they could overcome anything. Like they can become as brave as the Silvermane Guards, someday.”
“They can.”
“They will,” she says resolutely as she cleans the wounds on his face. Gepard flinches, and Pela frowns. “These don’t look like they came from your training. What happened?”
“…I was outnumbered,” comes his reply against all expectation, and Pela almost drops the cloth.
“Huh?”
“I was patrolling right after dinner to get more volunteer hours in. There were a couple of burglars near the apartments, so when I noticed them I figured I should deal with it as soon as possible.”
“Are you lacking in volunteer hours?”
“No. I have more than enough.”
Pela sighs. “You’re only a cadet, you’re not allowed to leave your dorms after dinner time. You’re supposed to leave this to the Silvermane Guards. What if something happens to you?” she scolds as she continues cleaning his wounds. Her tone was probably too sharp, because Gepard suddenly averts his gaze from her, shoulders hunching. Struck with a pang of guilt, she blunts her tone to something softer. “I understand wanting to help the people, but you have to take your time improving yourself first. Don’t push yourself too hard. Know that even your stubbornness has its limits.”
After a short silence, Gepard mutters, “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Say the right thing.”
“Do I really?”
“Yeah.”
“That's what I am expected to do as an intelligence officer,” she says. “I am supposed to avoid miscalculations. Everything should go according to plan. So, everything I do, everything I say, should be the right thing. Or at the very least, they shouldn’t be wrong.”
Gepard stills, as if thinking about something. “What if things don’t go the way you want them to?”
“I have the utmost confidence in my calculations.”
“Hmm.”
The atmosphere lapses into comfortable silence as she continues cleaning his wounds. She does think about it for a while — what if things don’t go the way you want them to? — but she’s not sure how to answer that. Everything is well-planned, everyone follows the protocol. But if something already went wrong, then there are things her superiors are not telling her. It’s understandable; she’s only new in the Silvermane Guards, it’s not as if she should know everything yet, but the thought of being kept in the dark makes her feel like she's being treated as incapable.
That's… probably the same reason why Gepard was patrolling when he wasn't supposed to. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind as she takes the ointment from the first-aid kit, and it’s only then it occurs to her to ask: “You said you wanted to ask Serval for a favour?”
“Oh. Right. I was going to ask her if she could hide a few books for me.”
“Hide a few books?” Pela tries to process his words. “Gepard, if you finally started reading the Tales your secret is safe with me! I won’t tell anybody! If anything, I’ll let you in on everything you need to know once you’re finished reading!”
"What— no! That’s not what I meant!”
“The Tales is the only series of books banned to the public. If you’re talking about something else then I’m not sure what that is.”
“That’s—” Gepard stops, then he tries again. “Pela, If you think the Tales is bad enough — which I don’t think is the case, just to be clear — what I’m about to tell you is far worse.”
“And that is?”
“I’m… not really sure if I should tell you.”
“Oh. It’s fine, you don’t really have to tell me. I just got overexcited, is all,” she says as she rubs ointment on his scars.
Lightning flashes from the windows. The thunder rumbles so far away she almost doesn’t feel it. Pela doesn’t look at him, too focused on making sure she cleans his wounds thoroughly, but in the corner of her eye she catches Gepard’s mouth twist, and she almost thinks he seems apologetic.
“...They’re books from the Underworld.”
Her hand that’s hovering over the cut on his lip stills. “Books from the Underworld? How in the world did you even get a hold of them?”
“I had friends from the Underworld back when I was younger. We traded books back then, and we thought we would be able to meet again to talk about it, but…” Gepard tears his gaze away.
“The blockade?”
“No, this is way earlier than that. My father—” Gepard cuts himself off there, presses his lips into a tight line. His eyes are downcast. “Apologies, now that I think about it, this isn’t something I really want to talk about.”
Pela puts two and two together, and decides not to prod further. “I can pretend to forget about what you just said, if you want.”
“No, it’s alright. I’d rather you remember what I just told you.”
“...If you say so.”
Pela knows how Gepard feels about I'm sorry, but that is all she has and she isn't tactless enough to press on, so she says nothing after that. She puts the last bits of ointment onto a particularly nasty wound and he flinches a bit.
“Does that hurt too much?” she asks.
“Keep going, I’m alright,” he mutters. A short silence, then: “I want to be captain.”
Gepard has already said that a lot of times in the past. Pela is about to brush it off as she usually does, but there’s something about the way he says it right now that’s difficult to ignore, and much more difficult to read.
Pela tries not to think about it. Knowing wouldn’t do anything. Knowing wouldn’t get her anywhere, wouldn’t get her closer, further to him. It didn’t matter either way.
“Is that what you really want? Or are you only saying that out of obligation?”
“I won’t deny that part of it is because I am a Landau, but I have my own reasons, too.” Pela doesn’t ask for the details, but Gepard continues anyway. “I want to gain enough authority to have a say on how things run in the Underworld. I want things to be easier for the people there. My old friends, most especially.”
Gepard's eyes are so bright. She remembers having that same look on her back then, trying to coast through cadet school with Serval and Dunn. The late nights when they sneak out of their dorms to practise in secret, the afternoons where they squeeze a little bit of time in between their breaks to check on each other, the early mornings when they don’t talk at all as they rush to their lessons, completely at ease with the fact that they’ll see each other again later.
She tucks away the memory back into her heart. “If you can manage to do all that as captain, surely you can also lift the ban of the Tales?”
“A pipe dream!” Gepard jokingly says. “The Belobog citizens may be our top priority, but we are talking about safety and well-being. That is well beyond our jurisdiction.”
Pela frowns. “It’s not that different from that hobby of yours! How would you feel if you were banned from growing flowers?”
“…That’d be terrible.”
“Exactly!” Pela huffs indignantly, and then she drops the theatrics. She’s only joking around — she’s not sure how seriously he just took her request. “I’m pretty sure the Silvermane Guards are banned from going to the Underworld, though. Not even the captain can get involved.”
“Then I will.”
Thunder comes crashing down, roars above their heads.
“I will do it,” he says again, like it’s going to change anything. “I know I can.”
And then the thunder is gone. It brings no warning, no signal, no indication on what comes after this. No foreshadowing, no moment of realisation that hits her, like in the stories of her fantasy books at home. Nothing about how she will learn the way grief pounds the insides of her skull, nothing about how he will form new scars and work himself around them. How her I have the utmost confidence in my calculations turns to I am not out on the frontlines, something will always go wrong. How his I want to be captain turns to I can keep going, I have to keep going.
The rain patters softly against the window. Pela takes a few bandages and gently covers his wounds. “Good luck with that… captain.”