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The eve of their departure comes far too quickly.
Prox is still and silent, somber as a funeral simply waiting to begin.
Menardi hates it. The town had been alive when she, Saturos and the rest of their party had made their way to Vale three long years ago. Children had waved, parents had smiled. Puelle and their Elder had been filled with hope, even after their attempts at diplomacy had gone ignored by Sanctum elder and initiate alike.
Those smiles have all but vanished. Even Karst looks morose; Menardi is so accustomed to her flickering moods that such despondency is enough to make her fists clench every time those baleful eyes meet her own, full of a concern Menardi feels outraged to even witness. She sees the shadow of failure in her sister’s gaze, the same misery that's haunted Prox ever since Mt. Aleph deigned to leave only she and Saturos alive.
Those eyes look up at her as she rises from the table, meagre food abandoned in her bowl.
“Aren't you hungry?” Karst says, voice cold. “I’d gather my strength for tomorrow if I were you.”
Menardi suppresses a sneer at the very idea. Karst has been itching for a fight for weeks; it's only natural that it should come to a head at the final hour.
Far be it from her to deny her what she clearly wants.
“But you're not, are you?” Menardi retorts, “and I would love if you stopped looking at me as if I depart to my inevitable demise.” The words feel as freeing as they do poisonous; Karst’s obvious shock does nothing to temper them. “We know so much more than we did then,” she goes on, “yet all this town does is look at us if we prepare to fling ourselves into the rift. Eyes of pity, the lot of you.”
Karst’s nose twitches violently. “Pity?!” She gives a short, unpleasant laugh, the sort she levels at only the most unskilled of opponents. “I know far better than to pity you, sister. What I don't know is why you feel the need to take a–” She throws up a hand – “a child over your own blood!”
“A child?!” Menardi scoffs, disbelieving. “Felix is of an age with you yourself. And I thought it obvious that he follows us out of utility, not merit.”
“Obvious to you, perhaps.”
“Oh? Who else doubts our methods? Does Agatio fill your mind with delusions of inadequacy while you trounce every other warrior in our retinue?”
“No!”
“Then what?!” Menardi resists the urge to slam her hands against the table. Her nails cut into her palms instead, the pain serving to ground her, if nothing else. “Why do you look at me as if I’ve cast you out to die myself?”
“Because you're abandoning me!” It is Karst’s turn to stand, her eyes shining with tears. “Am I supposed to feel flattered that you're leaving me here to rot? That you don't trust me enough to protect you?!”
Anger is so often Menardi’s shield. It protects her against the vulnerability she so abhors, against almost every weakness her enemies could dare exploit. And yet, for all its righteous fury, it is nigh powerless against the pleading gaze of her beloved sister, who looks up at her with a fatal mix of sincerity and audacity, a union that burrows its way into Menardi’s heart like a disease.
She sees Karst stiffen as she rounds the table, feels the tension in her arms as she pulls her close. It is a blessing that Karst is so much shorter; she will not see the angry tears that prick unbidden at Menardi’s eyes, useless as they are unwanted for all the good they’ll do their plight.
She presses her lips against the top of Karst’s head and breathes in the scent of sulphur that stalks them all. “Do you remember what happened the last time we set out?” she murmurs, not waiting for a response, “I do, and all too well. I was only close to one other in our party, and I was lucky enough that he returned with me.” She leans back and grasps Karst’s face in both her hands, tilting her head aloft gently but firmly. “Incredible power Alchemy may be, but I refuse to lose you to it. Say you understand.”
“I–”
Menardi’s grip tightens. “Say it.”
She feels Karst swallow against the grip, twofold fear in her eyes. “You can't make me.”
“Can't I?”
Karst swallows again. “Perhaps you can,” she concedes. “But you won't.”
Menardi could snarl. She wants to; the temptation is there in Karst’s pleading eyes, defiant as ever despite all odds. Part of her wants to slap some sense into her sister, to make her understand that this way is the only way. It would be harsh in a manner worse than their most brutal instructors growing up.
But her resolve gives way. She pulls Karst close once more and holds her there as she begins to weep in earnest, her desperate hands clutching at Menardi’s back.
“Should you hear no word, only then must you come after me.” She speaks the words into Karst’s hair, trying to make them the apology she can never voice. “Unlikely as that may be.”
One of Karst’s hands forms a claw in Menardi’s hair. “You just think me weak,” she whispers.
The words are almost funny, ironic as they are.
It is I who is weak, Menardi doesn't say. She remains silent instead, her only move being to take Karst by the shoulders and gently push her away.
She turns to leave without saying that it is only her own weakness that condemns Karst to remain.
She turns to leave, but not without sinking her fist into the wall.
“Where is he?”
Puelle barely looks up from his book. “Good evening, Menardi.” He turns a page. “Looking for Saturos, I presume?”
Menardi glances about the room. “I assumed he'd still be here.”
“We finished business about an hour ago,” Puelle says, rubbing the bridge of his nose before looking up at her in earnest. He motions for her to sit. “Though I've been meaning to speak with you before you leave, regardless.”
“Oh?” Menardi raises a brow, ignoring the proffered seat. “Is Saturos not to be privy to this discussion?”
“I’ve already discussed it with him,” Puelle tells her. “At length.”
“I see. And what more could possibly be said to me, pray tell?”
Puelle closes his book and threads his fingers atop it. “Are you of the same mind,” he starts, “on keeping the people of Vale here as our prisoners?”
It's a challenge not to laugh. “Of course I am,” she says. “What is there to disagree with?”
“Their presence here against their will doesn't bother you?”
“Bother me?” This time she really does laugh, though it’s a feeble, half-hearted thing. “They're hardly under lock and key. Besides, I can't imagine their lives in Vale would be very different.”
“Aside from being with their daughter and sister, surely?”
Menardi waves a hand. “Well, obviously. I’d never claim it to be the righteous choice, only the sensible one. I presume Saturos told you something similar.”
“Indeed he did. He was very persistent on it being the pragmatic course of action.”
“And you find fault in that.”
“Not so much fault as much as–” He pauses, eyes searching Menardi’s face. Then he sighs. “I simply regret its necessity. Don't you?”
Menardi isn't certain she does. It is difficult to regret what is the only sensible option; anything kinder would be too risky, and anything more open would be naive, putting far too much faith in the very people who’d scorned them already. Besides–
“We did save their lives that day,” Menardi points out. “And like it or not, we could hardly take them straight back to Vale. A group of strange people around at just the wrong moment?” She shakes her head. “You know how that would've looked. Best that we actually make use of the situation, no?”
She has no doubt that Puelle has more to say. Perhaps it would even make sense. It no longer matters; Felix will join them for the sake of his parents. It is too dangerous for them to return to Vale alone. Nor can they afford Felix to have a change of heart regarding the necessity of their cause.
Eventually, Puelle simply sighs, getting up from his chair with the impression of a man who's never been so tired. “I suppose it's for the best that the two of you agree on this,” he says. Menardi thinks it ambiguous as to what creaks: the chair or his ageing back. “It would be a poor partnership indeed were you to spat at every turn.”
Menardi cracks a short smile. “Indeed it would,” she agrees. It’s obviously futile to inform him that they actually have experienced their fair share of spats, as he so eloquently puts it. Only last week had she lightly thumped Saturos around the head after he'd stuck a finger into her freshly made soup, ostensibly to check its heat but obviously just to see her reaction. He'd merely laughed at her outburst, and before long she'd found herself laughing along with him, battle-bloodied finger in food be damned.
She frowns at her own thoughts, drumming her fingers on the back of the chair she'd never taken. Perhaps it is for the best that their clan cannot read minds.
“I imagine you'll be able to find him wherever he's gone,” Puelle offers, infuriatingly insightful as ever. He takes one last glance back at Menardi and gathers his furs around him. “Rest well,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Menardi watches him descend the stairs in silence.
She doesn't put any thought into where she goes next. Her feet do the work for her, putting one step in front of the other, taking her first from Puelle’s house and out into the frozen street, then past the pitying looks of passers-by, and finally to the snowy hills just beyond the armoury, where you can gaze out at both rift and lighthouse from the very edge of town.
Saturos has seated himself against the very last of the trees tracing the hill, his sword across his lap and a whetstone in his grasp. He looks up at Menardi’s approach.
“Took you long enough,” he says, shuffling to the side to allow her room against the same trunk and smiling slightly when she follows suit. “I take it Karst had a lot to say?”
“You know her,” Menardi sighs, leaning her head back against the tree with a satisfying thunk. “I don't respect her, I don't trust her, I’m abandoning her. You know the rest. All that rot.”
Saturos rolls his head to look at her. “You can't say you're surprised.”
“I’m not, I’m just–”
“Disappointed?”
“Not even that.” Menardi runs her tongue over her teeth. “Just – resigned, I suppose,” she settles upon, already loathing how pathetic it sounds.
Saturos leans a little closer. “She’ll forgive you eventually,” he says. “In a good few years, knowing Karst, but she will.”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, come on. Think how many fights you've had before. She comes back every single time, with a scowl on her face and affection for her dear big sister back in her heart. It's inevitable.”
She scoffs at him. “That's easy for you to say. You don't have to spend day after day at the mercy of her every mood.”
“No, I just do that with you instead.”
“Very witty.”
Saturos smirks. “I try.” The levity lingers for a moment before it quickly fades. “I mean it though. Just think of how things could be when we return. No impending doom, no constant pressure to fight. We’ll actually have time to fill, to actually enjoy–”
“Don't pretend as if fighting isn't something you enjoy,” Menardi points out. “I highly doubt pacifism would suit you.”
“You never know.” Saturos shrugs, his smirk returning with a vengeance. “Perhaps potions are my true calling.”
Menardi’s answering chortle is woefully inelegant. “Now that really isn't your style,” she chokes out. “Remember the last time you tried healing me?” She jabs a finger into Saturos’ arm where it rests over his sword. “You were barely able to staunch the flow, let alone heal the wound.”
“At least it was me who bore the brunt of your sister’s mood that day,” he reminds her. “I haven't had such a lecture before or since. Other than my debates with Puelle, I suppose.”
“Speaking of which, I went to him just before I came here,” Menardi says. Saturos raises a brow, so she continues, “I thought perhaps you'd still be there. I needn't have bothered; he simply asked me whether I agreed with your keeping Felix’s parents here.”
Saturos sneers, turning to look back at the rift and the colossal red tower in the distance. “Mars Lighthouse stands on the verge of the abyss and he thinks we can afford to be kind. There isn't a single chance we should not take, not a single advantage we shouldn't seek to gain.” He punctuates each point with a slow drag of whetstone down his blade, and Menardi’s eyes follow the flex of his hands. “Trusting Felix when we can simply guarantee his cooperation is a gesture of faith I’m frankly not prepared to make.”
“Indeed,” Menardi says, still watching Saturos’ fingers. “At least he anticipated my answer. He said it was a good thing we aren't prone to,” she pauses, waiting for her partner to glance back up, “–spats.”
Her tactic pays off; Saturos gives her an incredulous look before bursting into insatiable laughter. Menardi lets the sound seep into her, a far warmer tonic than even the strongest potion. The signs of his delight have grown ever more scarce over time; something so mundane as earnest laughter has become a sound to treasure rather than one to expect. For others, the sound is laced with disdain, even malice. For Karst, it is an affectionate yet exasperated thing. Only for Menardi do the barbed walls truly fall to dust, the darker blue flush on his face spreading across his cheeks like wildfire.
She privately considers it an honour to be so worthy, doubly so when Saturos calms down and says, “All the best partnerships have their snags, no?” as if they have a different kind of arrangement entirely.
She inches closer, close enough that the scales at their shoulders bump together. “It made me glad that none of us can read minds,” she says.
Saturos hums. “Very true. One look inside your mind would send anyone running for the hills.”
“I should hope so. Eavesdropping on my thoughts would be foolish indeed.”
It almost seems wrong for them to be smiling so much. Menardi has a heartbroken sister at home, surrounded by house after house of mourning townsfolk, yet here they sit the very edge of the world, laughing together like teenagers.
The irony doesn't seem lost on Saturos either; his smile slowly falls from his face, replaced by a look Menardi can only call pensive.
“You don't have to go back tonight,” he says, voice perfectly level. “Not if you don't want to.”
The where is obvious in its absence. She chews the inside of her cheek, swallowing down the burning temptation to say yes. “I do though,” she says instead. “Karst may come to forgive me for leaving her, but she'd never forget that I ran from her like some,” the next word tastes like bile in her mouth, “some coward.”
Saturos sighs, and Menardi wills herself to ignore his obvious disappointment. She knows he returns to a cold, empty house tonight, devoid of any life bar his own, but it's not quite enough to tear her away from what could be her final evening in what remains of her family home, regardless of her partner’s plight.
It's that train of thought that gives her an idea, one that leaves her mouth before she can think better of it: “Come back with me.”
The idea clearly takes Saturos by surprise. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
He blinks, lips quirking at the corner. “Won't Karst get the wrong idea?”
“You think she doesn’t already?”
A myriad of memories flicker across Saturos’ face. He seems to settle on one, narrowing his eyes as an odd expression pulls at his lips. It's a look Menardi can't remember seeing on him before.
She gets up while his mind seems to reset itself, brushing the fallen snow from her skirt. “Take it or leave it,” she says, and fixes Saturos with a look that brooks no argument. “I’m going home.”
She turns her back on one she loves for the second time that evening and makes to walk away.
“Wait.”
She comes to a halt. Snow crunches under her boots.
There's a gentle sigh of exertion, the sound of a sheathing sword. A calloused hand brushes against her arm, and she turns to see his eyes burn.
“Need I pull rank, Menardi?” he says, voice low.
She'd consider it a threat if she didn't know him so well. But she remembers the sullen little boy with the air of mischief, followed by the arrogant adolescent who'd never had cause to doubt himself. She remembers the proud young man who’d stood at the very top of their class, his cold judgment as Menardi was presented as the most suitable partner in combat. Most of all, she remembers finding that behind the calculated, ruthless exterior lay a man who simply loved to be challenged, one who saw in Menardi the only partner he would ever accept.
It is with that in mind that she sees the threat as the sporting barb it is, and gently singes Saturos’ fingers with her own.
“Are you coming or not?” she says, smirking as Saturos shakes the heat from his skin. There's a glimmer of reproach in his eyes, yes, but it's utterly dwarfed by what Menardi prays is admiration.
Her wish is granted; he smiles as he clenches and unclenches his fist, shaking off the fire’s remnants with nothing short of satisfaction. “How could I refuse?” he answers, and looks at her with such affection she has to turn away.
“I should have some stew left if you're hungry,” she tells him, setting off back down the snowy bank, dragging her hands across trees as she goes. “If Karst has left you any, that is.”
Menardi hears him scoff behind her. “Unless she’s suddenly gained Agatio's appetite, I imagine there's plenty to go around.”
“You never know,” She hops over a wayward rock. “Their relationship baffles me.”
Saturos catches up with her, their shoulders jostling together. “You don't need to tell me twice,” he says. “Teaching them is an experience unto itself. The other pairs are objectively weaker, certainly, but Karst and Agatio, they never think–”
“As one?”
“Exactly. Independence should naturally be applauded, but never when your partner’s life is at stake.”
Menardi hums in agreement. They're approaching the edge of town now, the flickering lights from myriad homes offering a far warmer greeting than any person they pass.
“Do you think they'd be able to do it?” Menardi says, the thought creeping into her mind unbidden. “If they truly had no other option?”
Saturos gives her a sombre look. “I don't think any threats up here would justify it.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I know it's not. I simply–” He sighs as if pained, the end to his sentence obvious before he even says it. “I don't think they would, no. It's as you say – they cannot seem to think as one.”
He must see Menardi’s face falter, as he takes her arm and threads it through his own, patting her hand when it rests against his skin. She has to resist the childish urge to flush.
Either Saturos doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it; he points to a nearby house instead, a devious smile curling his lips. “Remember when we had to unblock that chimney for the Elder?” he says, smile growing wider. “How old were we then? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Seventeen,” Menardi tells him, “And it was entirely your fault half the house had to be rebuilt.”
“We wouldn't have been there at all if you hadn't threatened our opponents.”
“As if you were any better.” As she recalls, he'd taunted the elder of their two opponents into a scorching rage, great enough that he'd had to be held down while Saturos merely twirled his blade in amusement.
She’s certain he remembers it too; he simply grins. “I think that was the day that sealed our partnership, actually.”
“Burning half a house down just has that effect on people, doesn't it?”
“Like a phoenix from the flames, my dear. If only I could tempt you into such a rage more often.”
“You may soon get your wish,” Menardi says, nodding towards her house now looming up ahead of them. “At least she's less likely to explode with you there.”
She reluctantly detangles herself from Saturos as they approach the door, refusing to dwell upon the way her side now feels cold. The door opens with but a shove, revealing a darkened room inhabited by one particularly irate sister.
“What now? Come to punch another hole in the–” Karst catches sight of Saturos in the middle of her offensive, her face freezing in an instant. “Oh,” she says. “It's you.”
“Good evening to you too, Karst,” Saturos remarks. Menardi sees him take note of the rather large dent she’d left by the door. “I do hope I’m not intruding?”
Karst shifts a venomous glare between the two of them. “I suppose not,” she says, her lips practically a snarl. “Unless your aim here is to rub in my face how he's good enough to go with you but I’m not.”
For the second time that night, Menardi’s resolve snaps. She rounds on her sister and stops mere inches from her face, heedless of the way Karst flinches back.
“Bed,” she hisses. “Now.”
It’s exactly the wrong thing to say. Karst immediately bursts out laughing, a cold, cruel thing that drips with pure disdain. Glancing between them, she grows silent, only to laugh all over again when she's met with nothing but blank stares.
“You only had to say if you wanted some privacy,” she says, and covers her mouth as another wave of deranged laughter overcomes her. “No need to posture for your boyfriend, sister dear!”
Menardi would've slapped her, were it not for Saturos standing still just off to the side, arms folded across his chest in the most effective imitation of awkwardness she's ever seen him do.
Karst isn't done; she bends her knees in mock-curtsey to each of them in turn, then straightens up with a self-importance Menardi aches to wipe away. “Be sure to keep the bruises to a minimum, won't you?” she says to Saturos, whose only response is the raising of a silent brow. “Leave that for the monsters I’m too weak to face.”
And with that, she leaves, after giving Menardi a final look of betrayal that cuts right to the bone.
A door slams.
Menardi can't meet her partner's gaze. She busies herself with the promised meal instead, warming it with her own fire before she separates it out into two evenly sized bowls.
Saturos is mostly silent as she works, his only noise being the sound of metal hitting the floor as he divests himself of armour. There's also a slight heat at her back; he must have lit the hearth that'd dwindled in her absence.
A pleasant sight awaits her when she turns around: her partner with the bulkiest parts of his attire removed, his figure nestled comfortably in an armchair; the fire, blazing merrily as if it had never been snuffed out; and the empty seat, standing proudly beside its twin, beckoning her into its warm embrace.
She couldn't conceive of a finer sight if she tried, and it galls her to know that come the morrow, it will be gone.
Saturos takes his bowl gratefully, leaning forward to accommodate it and flashing her a quick smile as he goes. “Smells good,” he says.
“Any food smells good to you,” Menardi remarks. She takes the empty seat and promptly sighs at the reprieve. “At least one of us won't be wanting for cuisine on our journey.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
She smirks at him. “It means you'd eat a mud-covered boulder if you were hungry enough.”
“Hmph.” It's such a familiar sound from him that Menardi can't help but smile. “I’ll be sure to ask Alex to do the camp cooking then.”
“If he bothers to show up, that is.”
“He will.” Saturos taps his spoon against his bowl. “For his own curiosity, if nothing else.”
Menardi leans back in her chair, nursing her own bowl against her chest. “True enough,” she says. “So long as he helps us in our goal, I don't much care what his reasons are.”
“I’ll–” Saturos pauses, looking down at his bowl. Menardi knows what’s coming before he says it. “– Eat to that?”
She chuckles despite herself. “I don't have any wine if that's what you're angling for.”
“Shame.” His voice is oddly soft. “It rather seems like the night for it.”
He seems perfectly willing to let his words linger in the air between them, so Menardi is perfectly happy to leave them there. They fester around them as they eat in comfortable silence, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional offhand remark, the sound of their spoons, and the gentle laughter of two people who've known each other for far too long.
Saturos even falls asleep at some point. Immediately, Menardi is struck by how comfortable he must feel to let his defences slip to such an extent. He's all but naked before the hearth, and she can't help but linger as she gently prises the empty bowl from sleep-slackened fingers, gaze dragging across features that have never been so composed.
She is no fool; she knows Saturos to be a handsome man, even more so when the trust he feels for her is as naked as his unarmoured face, striking as she finds him when dressed in full regalia. Such preoccupations are also naught more than distractions, no matter the undeniable peace she always feels in his presence.
His eyes creak open just as she's about to move away, a sliver of red under the rare sight of his hair unfettered.
“Going somewhere?” he says, voice husky from sleep. Menardi’s gaze follows his mouth.
She leans away. “To bed,” she tells him, and tries to convince herself that the crease between his brow isn't disappointment. “As you should too.”
He burrows further into the chair and closes his eyes again. “Later, perhaps.”
“Saturos.”
“Menardi.”
She rolls her eyes and rises to her feet in earnest. “Suit yourself,” she says, stacking the bowls in her hands and shoving them unceremoniously into the house's sole bucket. “You know where I’ll be if you need me.”
For a moment she thinks he's fallen asleep again. Then she hears him murmur almost silently, so quiet that she may well have imagined it:
“I always do.”
She doesn't respond. She knows which part he says it in answer to, and quashes down the thoughts of the foolish little girl who'd dare to think otherwise.
That little girl slumbers just down the hall, and Menardi pushes open her bedroom door as quietly as she can.
Karst seems to sleep soundly. She’s sprawled inelegantly across the sheets, one leg and one arm escaping her blankets, a single hand drooping down towards the floor.
Hot tears prick at Menardi’s eyes even before she kneels beside her sister, and she wills Karst not to wake as she takes her hand and brings it gently to her mouth.
She doesn't know how long she sits there. She can only see the dark seep into her vision as she slowly falls asleep, Karst’s soft hand cradled in her own.
Something wakes her.
It could be the light that streams steadily through the window, casting a warm yet solemn light across the room. It could be the slight twitch of Karst’s hand in hers, strong enough to be instinctive but weak enough to be amid dreams.
It could be the measured sound of her name, spoken from the door she'd never managed to close.
Saturos leans there, once more clad in every kind of armour he has. His sword is safely secured at his hip, and Menardi’s own scythe is held loosely in his left hand, the fingers around it calm and steady.
“It's time,” he says, soft words cutting through the quiet.
Menardi nods. She lets go of Karst’s hand with one last squeeze and chokes down the feeling of finality that nips insidious at her heels.
Her scythe is a comforting weight in her hands. Only then does she look up into Saturos’ gaze, and the fire there reignites her resolve.
She knows he’ll never look at her with pity. And, despite her every effort, she’ll always love him for it.