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It’s almost like they’re children again, sparring with sticks, back when they swore to be knights and protect Zofia together.
But now their hands clutch lances and their legs straddle horses, not branches, and Fernand can’t see any trace of the boy he’d grown up with. That boy would never have let commoners flood the ranks of the Knights, would never have sacrificed their honor, would never have promoted a child—let alone a peasant child—to carry the fate of all of Zofia on his shoulders.
Would never have done nearly it all behind Fernand’s back.
He has no real attachment to Rigel. But if the Empire is the only nation on the continent that understands how the world works, so be it. Once he and the Rigelians make quick work of this rabble, Clive will be unable to deny the truth. Not when he’s already clearly having doubts.
Fernand is vaguely aware of the skirmishes around them, but he only has eyes for Clive. There’s a thunk as the wood of their lances collide once more. They know each other’s movements well from years of training and fighting by each other’s sides.
Too well, perhaps. Their strengths and weaknesses cancel each other out. He knows he can make a dent in the battlefield if he goes after the others, lets a stranger take on Clive, but Fernand knows this is his duty. He must knock some sense into the man he’d once trusted above all.
What better way to do so than knock him off his horse entirely? He’ll lose his breath for a second with the impact, maybe fracture something if he lands unluckily, but nothing serious. It’ll be just enough. Fernand guides his horse around for another exchange, this time swinging his lance nearly horizontally, the wood in line with Clive’s chest.
Fernand doesn’t know what goes wrong. Is he too fast for Clive? Is Clive’s heart even in this fight? Whatever the reason, instead of having nothing to do with the attack, the axe-shaped blade of Fernand’s lance tears into Clive’s side.
The force of the blow knocks him from his horse as planned, but he makes no move to get to his feet once he hits the ground. The only thing he does is reach for a spot where his armor doesn’t cover. He pulls his hand away and looks at it. Fernand sees it streaked with red.
Without thinking, Fernand jumps down from his horse. He kneels at Clive’s side and checks the wound. The sight of the slice in Clive’s shirt thrusts Fernand back in time.
Just seven years old, Clive has just lost his balance on the log across the stream. He splashes into the water with a yelp. It’s not deep. He’s able to stagger back to the grass as Fernand hurries to him. As he sits down, they notice a tear in his pants leg, which reveals a cut by his knee. The blood is a trickle.
Here, now, the blood gushes from Clive’s side, staining Fernand’s hands. He did this .
“Get up, you fool,” Fernand says desperately. “I barely scratched you.”
But it’s a lie, and they both know it.
“Fernand —” Clive starts.
“Where are your damned healers?”
Time is of the essence. And Fernand doesn’t want to hear whatever daft thing Clive had on his mind.
The other members of the Deliverance start to notice. There are shouts of “Sir Clive!” and calls for a healer. Fernand filters out the noise. One voice, however, cuts him deep.
“Brother!” Clair cries.
She’s the first to arrive, sliding off her pegasus and dropping to her knees next to Fernand. Clive’s blood makes quick work of her pale blue clothing. Instead of her common complaints of needing it cleaned, she only holds him tighter.
“It’s…okay, Clair,” Clive murmurs.
“Of course it is,” she says, the denial in her voice clear. “You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.”
A healer arrives. Fernand looks up just long enough to see she appears to be one of the new recruits. He has half a mind to demand that they use one of the noble healers, one he knows he can trust. But Clair, who also has much at stake in the healer’s success, makes no argument. He swallows his.
For a moment, they both kneel there, Clive laying against them and taking ragged breaths. For a moment, they’re united, Fernand forgetting his position. But then Clair notices the blood on Fernand’s fallen lance and turns her face to his, confusion and fear and grief in her eyes.
“Fernand, what have you done?” she asks.
What has he done? Fernand holds her gaze for a beat, then looks back down at Clive. The man’s eyes have closed. Despite the glow of healing magic, Clive’s blood continues to flow. Fernand knows a fatal injury when he sees it. He scrambles to his feet, letting Clair bear all of Clive’s weight. The battle is still raging around them, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except for Clair’s tears and Clive’s slowing breathing despite his sister’s cries for him to hold on.
Fernand has never fled a battle, save necessary retreats.
He throws himself onto the back of his horse and flees.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been riding. He doesn’t know where he’s going. The only direction that matters is away from there . When he spots a stream in the distance, he finally makes a decision and guides his horse towards it. He hops down once they’re near enough. Leaving his horse to graze on what little grass there is, he kneels by the water.
His gloves are dark enough that they don’t show the blood that he knows is there. Still, he shoves his hands in the water. It’s warm. Pleasant—if not for the fact that once he starts scrubbing, the water takes on a pinkish tinge.
Memories flash through his mind. Climbing a tree with Clive. The sheep incident. Clive greeting him right after he’s been knighted. Laughing together as they ride their horses, side-by-side across the Zofian plains.
His own lance ripping the life out of Clive.
Letting out an angry breath, Fernand turns his attention to his clothing. The stains are a bit easier to see on the greens and blues. He washes them out as best he can. If only he could just throw it all out, but the clothing and armor is too tied up in memories of his siblings clinging to him and his father’s and older sister’s proud smiles for him to want to part with it.
How would they look at him now?
He gives himself a once-over, then stands. Now there are no signs of Clive bleeding out in his arms. If only he could erase the deed as easily as he’s been able to erase the signs of it. Though, there is still one last cleaning to be done: his lance.
Fernand bends down to pick it up from the stream’s shore, the red still staining the curved blade. He considers the lance. It would be easy enough to fall on it, to have the weapon that he used to kill Clive be the one to end his own life. Yet death in this case is a mercy, one he doesn’t deserve. All the same…
“Fernand!”
The part of him that will always be a knight curses his inattentiveness. How could someone have snuck up on him so easily? But as he turns, that other part—that part that’s been screaming out ever since that night at the manor—wishes that the person hadn’t called out, that they had been a threat creeping up in silence before dispatching him.
Clair stands before him, her pegasus several feet back. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, clothing still bloodstained. He tries to tell himself this is what she deserves. It’s only fair she feels the gaping wound of the loss of a sibling, after all those months of him suffering his while she and Clive could share laughter.
But he can’t believe it. He will never wish that pain on anyone. Not an enemy, and certainly not anyone who’s family.
In this case, she may even be there to do him a favor. Despite the tears, she looks angry enough to do it. Taking his own life would have been too easy; allowing Clair to kill him will be justice. Fernand lets her run at him, lets her strike him as she pleases with fists and open palms. Lets her press her face against his chest as she cries. He makes no move to hold or comfort her.
“How could you?” she sobs.
He doesn't answer. There's no defense, and even if there had been, he'd have no desire to make it.
“Go on and do it,” Fernand says instead. “I won’t stop you.”
Clair takes a step back. “Do what?”
“Kill me.”
“Are you mad? Why would I want to kill you?”
“Because I killed your brother.”
“Clive loved you. What could possibly make you think that he would want me to do that? In his name no less! What would he say if he knew what you were asking of me?”
Clive can’t say anything, as he's dead. “If you aren’t here to kill me, then what do you want?”
Fernand has known Clair since she was born, yet he's never seen her look as small as she does now.
“I don't know,” she says quietly.
So she’d flown after him to cause them both nothing but more misery. She’s never been one for thinking ahead. He gives something of a growl and turns his back to her.
“Then go back to your Deliverance.”
“It already felt wrong without you, but without my brother too, I…”
If she means to make him feel guilty, it's not working. If anything, he's more annoyed. What does he care about the impact of Clive's death on that damned Deliverance? The man would still be alive if he hadn't plotted the foolish course he had. Clair should be more worried about the impact of his death on her life. Perhaps she can't bear to think of it.
“We're going to rescue Lady Mathilda, of course,” Clair goes on, “but it won’t be the same.”
Ah, there's an idea. Mathilda is a warrior. If Fernand goes now to where she's being held prisoner and freely confesses to his crime, if she's then rescued…will she want to avenge her love, or is she the same as Clair, where she won't be able to stand the idea of killing him on Clive’s behalf?
“Did you mean to do it?”
Fernand breaks from his thoughts. “What?”
“Did you mean to do it?” Clair repeats.
He wants to say yes. Perhaps that will make her snap. It only takes a moment to end someone’s life, after all. Even if you love them.
Instead, he snarls, “What does it matter? Clive is dead by my hand either way.”
“Of course it matters! If you’d meant it, then the Fernand I knew would be dead alongside him.”
“The Fernand you knew died in that fire!”
And the gods know there are hardly any days that go by when he doesn't wish it was literally true. He's tired of everyone acting like time will change anything. Time won't bring his family back, just like it won't bring back Clive.
“Come back to the Deliverance,” she says. Almost pleads, even. “You could carry on Clive’s mission in his memory.”
Fernand’s laugh is bitter. As if he would even want to return. “Yes, I’m sure everyone would welcome me with open arms after all I’ve done.”
“I would.”
“You may think so, but you only want me there to pretend like you still have a brother. And no matter how much you’d cling to that idea, you’d see Clive dying every time you looked at me. You’re not a child any longer. It’s time you learn how to stand on your own.”
She doesn’t argue, but perhaps that’s because the tears are starting to fall again. It’s clear she has no intention of ending this visit on her own. Whatever betrayal she feels is dueling with her desire for comfort in familiarity, and he’ll do her one last favor by cutting her free. He strides past her to his horse.
“Goodbye, Clair,” he says.
He doesn’t deserve to live; he doesn’t deserve to die. What, then, can he do? Perhaps one day he’ll know. Or perhaps one day he’ll meet something—an accident, an enemy—that will put an end to the question.
For now, Fernand mounts his horse and nudges its flanks with his knees. Once again, he flees.