Chapter Text
Blood spatters across the snow, bitter and congealed.
It drips steadily from Saturos’s mouth, stark red against the pallor of his skin in Mercury's baleful gaze.
The hands holding him are unfamiliar. They're soft but somehow cold, gentle but with no familiarity. They’re a far cry from Menardi’s firm embrace; hers is battle-hardened skin that somehow carries warmth with every touch, whereas Alex wouldn’t know warmth if it hit him full-bodied in the face.
The man's azure-laden powers provide no comfort. They simply serve to remind him of his defeat, that his sunder and salvation come from the very same source, one that festers in his veins as poison to the soul.
He loathes it. He knows it was the lighthouse he lost to, knows he wields more power than all four of those children combined, yet still it's not enough; the shame of his loss cuts deeper than the even the sharpest of Isaac’s strikes, more powerful than the keenest logic Saturos can muster.
He wonders if he should be angry at Alex for merely watching. Menardi would certainly argue as much, but any outburst from her would be out of concern before aught else. The challenge was his to win and thus his to lose, and he thinks, bitterly, perhaps, that he'd have refused aid even if it were offered. Such is the hubris of one so accustomed to victory.
“Careful,” Alex says, tightening his arm around Saturos’s shoulder. They stumble into the wintry forest south of Imil, a newfound blizzard raging around them. “The ice can be deadly around here.”
Saturos snorts. It’s a mistake; more blood climbs up his throat and swells in his mouth, seeping from his lips as he retorts, “Not half as deadly as it is around Prox, I’d wager.”
It doesn't quite have the menace he intends. Alex hums dismissively, as if he has any idea of what true winter really feels like. Imil is a balmy paradise compared to the very cradle of the rift itself. He privately hopes that Alex endures, if only to feel its wrath.
“That girl,” Saturos begins, and feels Alex tense at the mere mention. “She's a clansmate of yours, yes?”
“Her name is Mia,” Alex corrects. Saturos takes a moment to appreciate the weakness in his tone. “I was apprenticed to her father, once upon a time.”
They force themselves through a thick bracket of thorns. The spikes cut through Alex’s attire, brambles cutting into snowy white flesh. Saturos’s gaze lingers on the blood, the quirk of his lip satisfaction incarnate. Those of Prox possess skin thick enough to endure even the harshest of punishment; the thorns simply glance off Saturos’ scaled arms as a monster to an oncoming blade. He takes what victory he can as Alex winces when he does not.
The urge to prod the wound is insatiable. “I trust you'll have no issue working against her?” he asks, smiling all the wider. “I’m sure blood would show up dreadfully against that pristine robe of hers.”
Alex shoots him an indiscernible look. “What path Mia takes is entirely up to her.”
“And if that path ends with Menardi and I being forced to kill her?”
“Then clearly it must be so. The lighthouses must be lit, regardless of the cost.”
It's exactly what Saturos expected him to say. He recalls Menardi’s words from weeks prior, her voice ringing heavy and relentless in his ears, potent despite her levity.
“So long as he helps us in our goal, I don't much care what his reasons are,” she'd said, the warmth of the hearth flickering bright upon her troubled cheeks. He'd known even then that she'd spoken true. A decade of partnership demands near totality of understanding; there is scant little of Menardi that he doesn't know in its entirety.
Alex is a near stranger in comparison. Saturos settles for the discomfort clear on a typically composed face, and braces himself for a silent walk ahead.
Their footsteps crunch upon the snow. The sound is a din amidst the quiet.
They reach Bilbin, and Menardi is nowhere to be found.
The desolate-looking tree still stands sentry at the entrance. Saturos takes that as confirmation that their pursuers have yet to catch up with them; their nature deems it inevitable that they will lift the curse no matter the cost.
He's certain Menardi knows better than to even try. What is the consequence of a single curse, measured against an entire world’s demise? Even Prox alone would be worth the sacrifice, and a dose of strife would surely do the peaceful land of Angara a favour. The continent had not experienced true hardship before the eruption, and a land with its life restored will bring danger along with vitality. The risk should be welcomed; such is the price they all must pay to survive.
“Perhaps we should rest here,” Alex says, finally breaking what'd been hours of blissful silence. “You're in no fit state to walk through the night, and I imagine Menardi and her party will make camp soon enough.”
Saturos glares at him. “Then we'd best make it with her.” He shrugs off Alex’s hand and limps towards the ugly statue in the centre of town. A young woman stares as he approaches, eyes wide as she takes in the bruises that litter his face, the blood that coats his armour.
“You,” he calls out to her. “Have you seen a blonde woman pass through recently? Long hair, red armour, accompanied by a man, a young girl, and an elderly scholar?”
Her face pales as he draws closer. “I–”
“Well?”
“What my friend means to say,” Alex interrupts, sidling up to them in a way that makes Saturos ache to punch him, “–is that we've been separated from our companions, and would dearly appreciate any information you have to offer.”
The woman relaxes slightly, and Saturos can practically feel the smugness emanating from the man beside him. “I think I saw them only an hour ago,” she says, now speaking exclusively to Alex. “The older woman, she–”
Saturos tenses. “Yes?”
She swallows, eyes darting from Alex to Saturos to Alex again. “I– I–”
“Calm yourself,” Alex says, putting a no doubt practiced hand on her shoulder. “Did it seem as if they were heading for the barricade?”
“I… think so.”
Alex smiles. It's a grotesque, insincere thing, yet the woman looks at him as if he'd just presented her with flowers. “We thank you,” he says, and has the audacity to steer Saturos away by the arm, only relinquishing his grip when Saturos curtly shrugs him off once more.
“You'd do well to remember your place,” Saturos mutters, flexing his shoulder once they near the town’s edge. “I had that completely under control.”
Alex regales him with a crooked brow.
“What?” Saturos asks, already dreading the response.
Alex simply hums. “It's nothing, really. I just assumed you'd show a little more tact to someone you wanted information from.”
Saturos scoffs. “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood.”
“Yes, well,” Alex begins, and Saturos braces himself for the inevitable insult. “I suppose defeat will do that to you. Though I must admit, I thought it more Menardi’s style to be so curt and acerbic.”
Saturos can physically feel his temper flare. “That simply proves how little you know of her,” he snaps, relieved to hear that injury has not yet dampened his venom. “Menardi is seldom unreasonable.”
“Is that so?” Alex muses. “You'll have to forgive me – I didn't realise shoving children fell within the realm of rational behaviour.”
The comedy proves nigh irresistible. “Shoving children,” Saturos repeats. “That's what you find objectionable?”
“Objectionable? Not at all. But unreasonable?” He shrugs. “Of course.”
Saturos can't stifle his amusement, even as they brush past the tree-cursed man yet again. “We could've killed those boys back in Vale,” he says, lucid despite his laughter. “Yet that would've been… unnecessary, shall we say? You'll find that Menardi knows the limits of anger just as well as I, and it would be futile for me to fault her for what I myself would feel in her position.”
“And what position is that?”
The road to the barricade lies open before them. A wayward monster bares its teeth; Saturos burns it to oblivion with a flick of his wrist.
“Of having someone to return to,” he says.
Alex has no rebuttal. He merely leaves Saturos be, hands by his sides as something faintly resembling sadness flickers across his face.
He hears them before he sees them.
The gentle crackle of fire hits him first, comforting and familiar. He can feel its warmth in his bones already.
Then come the voices, Felix and his sister, speaking of something Saturos can't quite distinguish above the wind. The scholar Kraden speaks too, and this time Saturos catches a few words: the boy Isaac, a mention of Mercury, his own name, the latter of which is spoken as if an afterthought.
Unwelcome trepidation stabs through him. He doesn't want to see the shock in Felix’s gaze once the reality of his friend’s newfound might becomes clear. He doesn't want to see Kraden analysing every cut and bruise that paints his face. He certainly doesn't want to see the shadow of another in the girl Jenna’s eyes: the far-flung spectre of another child of Mars, desperate to prove her worth in an elder sibling’s shadow.
Saturos and Alex round the river’s bend and there the party lies, arranged around the barricade as if some kind of fresco. Felix and Jenna sit by the river, absently staring into its depths whilst murmuring quietly. Kraden sits behind them, leaning against the barricade and flicking through a book Saturos doesn't recognise.
Only Menardi remains standing. She paces back and forth, shoulders tense and a furrow deep upon her brow, chest heaving in an obvious attempt to keep composure. The fire is of her making; it flickers from her hands as they clench and unclench over and over again, caring nothing for the way the flames curl into the wood around her, the desiccated trees rent unto ash by sheer emotion.
Saturos hastens his stride. Menardi reacts immediately; her eyes find the sound of his steps as a moth to the flame; her mouth opens to a silence that sears his every wound. Her shock is quashed as soon as it appears. Determination grips her instead, and she catches him just as his feet falter.
“I told you,” she breathes, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and guiding him to sit against the barricade. “I told you I was counting on you.”
The memory smarts. “I know,” he answers, just as quietly. “I didn't see it as a lie.”
Menardi doesn't reply. She undoes his breastplate with practiced hands, eyes widening as she sees the purple bruises that flush merciless across his chest, the deep hue looking like a livid extension of his scales gone wild.
He can hear the others gather around him, no doubt looking at him just as he feared they would. He focuses on Menardi’s hands instead, on the warmth that spills from her skin to his in the wake of her spell, the power of which is staggering even for her.
Someone says something. He thinks it's Felix, his voice tilted by an alarm Saturos hadn't anticipated. Perhaps he believes Isaac and his party to be dead at his hands, the damage to his body the price paid to end them. There’s little else that would provoke such concern; he and Menardi have hardly been the most doting of saviours, even without their insistence on taking Felix’s entire family hostage.
He sees Menardi look to where Alex stands prone, gazing upon the scene with detached curiosity. “Care to help me?” she says, accusation plain in her voice. “Or are you simply just going to stand there, as I assume you dared to do at the lighthouse?”
“Dared?” Alex echoes. He doesn't move a muscle. “It was my confidence in Saturos that stayed my hand, not any desire to see him fall.”
“Yet there must have been a point where you saw the tide turn. You must've even felt it; the lighthouse is of your element, is it not?”
“Such power must be anathema to you both,” Saturos hears Kraden say, situated somewhere over his right shoulder. “That Saturos saw fit to challenge Isaac in such a state–”
“And I left him there assuming you would care to assist!” Menardi interrupts, ignoring Kraden to snarl at Alex yet again. “A pitiful ally you are, to abandon a companion in his hour of need!”
It's testament to her concern that her healing never wavers for a moment. Warmth continues to flow into his chest, her hand steady despite her rage.
“Is an accurate assessment of our enemy’s strength not worthwhile?” Alex asks her.
Only now does Menardi’s psynergy stutter, if only for a moment, and she visibly steels herself before saying: “And that assessment would be futile had you simply defeated them!” Her fingers twitch against Saturos’s chest. “Do not tell me that it was beyond your strength to do so.”
“Menardi.”
A jolt. Menardi looks back down at Saturos, eyes wild, power flaring. He is almost silenced by that look alone.
“We can argue about this later,” he tells her, and rests a hand over hers before he can think better of it. He's glad of it; her eyes soften as he opens his mouth once more, speaking words he prays are heeded: “But now is time to put as much distance between us and our pursuers as possible. Their youth does not temper their tenacity.”
On the contrary, it likely fuels them beyond reason.
Menardi seems inclined to protest. Then she sighs, giving him one final surge of healing before withdrawing her hand from his skin. “Indeed,” she says, straightening up and hauling Saturos up with her. He can only scramble to reclasp his armour as she wraps a supportive arm around him, just as Alex had done yet ten thousand times warmer, an inferno of urgency as opposed to a frigid glacier of composure.
“We leave immediately,” Saturos declares, finally looking back towards the remainder of their party. “And swallow your doubts,” he says to Felix specifically, whose face still twists with something Saturos cannot stand. “We do not stop until nightfall.”
It doesn't take long for Alex to take point at the head of their group. Saturos glares at his back as he staggers through the barricade, Menardi’s arm still about his shoulders. Her healing has steadied him enough that he no longer needs her help, but he cannot deny the comfort in the gesture, the security in the woman herself as opposed to any tangible assistance.
It's her that points out the strange trees stacked against the hillside, their shrunken and gnarled visage marking them as further victims of the curse.
“Those poor people,” he hears Jenna say behind him. There's a certain resignation in her voice that suits her ill. “Isn't there anything we can do for them?”
Saturos almost scoffs at that, almost turns to tell her that far more lies at stake if they fail to reach the remaining lighthouses in time. Then inspiration strikes, and he shares a glance with Menardi that confirms their shared intent.
“Perhaps there is,” he says, just as Menardi withdraws her arm and flexes her fingers. “We may not be able to lift the curse, but–” He nods to his partner. “–perhaps they could be saved by another.”
Kraden seems to realise their aim before Jenna does. “Wait, that's not–”
It's too late; Menardi has already brought the heel of her scythe to bear against the middle tree’s trunk, channelling enough power into the strike to send the top two flying.
Jenna screams.
Felix looks aghast. “Saturos, those are people!”
Menardi returns her scythe to her back and reclaims her place at Saturos’s side. “We’re well aware,” she says, “And who do you think will also pass through here after we’re gone, eager to rescue whoever lies before them?”
“That's no excuse to–”
“Isn't it?” Saturos sneers. “I’m sure it thrills you to know how powerful your friends have become in such a short time.” He glares at Felix, hand itching to grip the hilt of his sword. “Surely you cannot doubt their ability to save these poor souls?”
Felix answers through gritted teeth, face furious enough to burn. “They shouldn't have to.”
Menardi rolls her eyes. “Be that as it may,” she says, “It is done, and will serve our purpose to slow our opponents just as well as any. Now–” She takes Saturos’s arm again, in a way far more reminiscent of a leisurely stroll. “Shall we? We'd best cross the river whilst it's calm.”
Felix looks inclined to boil over in rage; his shoulders heave, his fingers twitch, and his eyes flare with a righteousness far too destructive to belong to Venus alone. Saturos has often wondered at that, at whether Felix’s status as a child of both fire and earth has affected his very soul, moulding his mind into one of molten rock instead of the verdant plains that litter the breadth of Angara.
It is thus a shock to see Jenna’s hand as the calming presence upon her brother’s shoulder. Jenna, the girl he's often seen as the personification of fire itself. Jenna, who houses a quintessentially defiant soul behind a veil of fear, one that festers just under the surface, lying in wait for only the most opportune of moments.
One that Menardi seems adept at bringing to the fore. A Karst for kinder climes in almost every conceivable way.
He wonders if Felix and Menardi see it too. A furtive glance at his partner reveals little; her eyes are dark and heavy as they flick from Felix to Saturos to Jenna, divulging naught but exhaustion and impatience in the wake of their newfound war.
Saturos heeds that impatience, and begrudgingly follows Alex to the river’s edge.
The shiver down his spine is plain. He can try all he likes to ignore it; the ire of Venus lies heavy upon his back.
They make camp at the mouth of a dark forest. Saturos would rather keep moving given the choice, but his legs protest far too keenly to be ignored. Nor does Menardi take no for an answer when he insists he can walk further; she merely commands the others to collect wood to hold their flame, then orders Saturos to the ground to assess his injuries.
“I don't know what you're expecting the old man to do,” Saturos says, allowing Menardi to steer his chin this way and that. “Find a good branch to use as a walking stick, perhaps?”
His comment earns him a sharp flick upon the cheek. “Of course not,” she tells him, and sets about unbuckling Saturos’s cloak to form a makeshift bed. “But I wanted the privacy for a moment, and this way he can pry Alex for the tale instead of you.”
Saturos snorts. “Positively noble of you.” He leans back as she bids and closes his eyes. “And that leaves me free for your prying, yes?”
He imagines a smile gracing Menardi’s lips. “Precisely.” She strips him of his breastplate again, voicing a satisfied hum at what she sees. “But I’d also love to know why Alex did such a poor job of reviving you.”
Saturos looks down at his chest. It's recovered nicely; only the faintest hints of purple surround scars that were red and oozing only hours ago. “I'm almost glad he did,” he says. “Right now, I’d take the feeblest power of Mars over the entire Fountain of Hermes over my head.”
“Oh?” Menardi cocks her head. “Feeble, am I?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know that's not what I meant.”
She smirks. “Do I?”
Saturos puts a hand over hers and tells himself that the answering twitch is excitement rather than concern. “Only a fool would call you feeble,” he murmurs, sincerity in every word.
It's the second time that day that his words fail at their desired effect; she looks back at him with eyes dangerously close to being hurt, and her face twitches as she says, “Yet that's you, isn't it?” and looks exasperated when Saturos grunts his confusion. “I’m not an idiot, I know the hostages needed to be secured,” she continues, “But what I don't understand is why we couldn't have just dealt with Isaac and his friends then and there. It would've saved us both the headache, no?”
Such logic is hard to dispute. Yet that rationale was nowhere to be found when he'd sent Menardi away, and he'd be an idiot if he assumed he could fool her for long.
“Look, it all turned out fine, did it not?” he says. “The lighthouse is lit; I still live and breathe–”
Menardi digs her nails into his shoulder. “I said I was counting on you,” she hisses.
Saturos sighs. “You did.”
Menardi scoffs, shaking her head. “And does that mean nothing to you? Is my faith so meaningless that you'd squander it in a fit of arrogance?”
“No!”
“Then what?! What–”
She stops herself, eyes widening.
He knows her far too well. He knows exactly who she hears in her own voice, whose spirit sees fit to fester in her mind. He feels the weight of it as she collapses to her knees beside him, feels the strain of it as she tips herself to lean against him, her entire side pressing against his own.
She breathes heavily, in and out, loud and pained for what feels like hours. It's all he can do to not place his hands on her cheeks and pull her forehead to his; anything to share the burden that weighs so heavy upon her heart.
The notion is almost hilarious. He's certain she'd loathe the sentimentality, never mind tolerate such an obvious display of sympathy, the sort she'd always kept at arm's length. He himself had been the target of pity when his family had been so brutally erased from the world, so much so that he’d ensured that sentiment died an early death. He can no more blame her for her aversion than he can blame his own parents for their untimely demise. He can scarcely blame her for anything.
“This is absurd,” Menardi says, more to herself than to him, more whisper than is word. “The lighthouse is lit. That's all that matters.”
Saturos takes a breath. It takes all his strength not to wrap her in his arms. He hasn't done so in years; they'd been eighteen when last he'd touched her so, when it'd been her offering him comfort, not the reverse.
He hesitates now, battling against the urge to ignite something between them that has no right to exist. He’s not quite arrogant enough to believe Menardi’s interest a certainty, but he's more than rational enough to know that its existence could never guarantee an action. Despite her temper, Menardi is not impulsive. Her unquenchable fire has always possessed an air of calculation about it, one that flares brighter the more she has to lose.
“Just stay strong,” Saturos whispers, “And know that should there be a next time, you will be right by my side where you belong.”
She simply turns her head and breathes into his neck, half amusement and half relief.
He settles for a hand upon her shoulder, and hopes that to be enough.