Chapter Text
Gers stood at the dormitory window on the third level of the VIGILANT SHIELD OF THE FATHERLAND base, his eyes bloodshot after thirty-seven consecutive days of service. Having just completed nine grueling hours at the communications center, he stared vacantly at the intermittent rain. In late summer, Arda's fickle climate alternated between punishing heatwaves and torrential downpours, often rendering the roads impassable.
The weather is doing us a favor, he'd thought initially. No one can reach us. Now he realized the corollary: no one could leave, either.
The Vigilant Shield had been constructed during an era of defensive paranoia, when Montra trembled at the prospect of western invasion. Nestled in the Arda foothills, with underground tunnels and warehouses capable of sustaining a battalion for months, the base served as both sanctuary and prison for his exhausted comrades. Gers smiled bitterly at fate's irony: a facility designed to repel foreign enemies now sheltered the last loyal soldiers from their own countrymen.
Distant voices drifted up from the lower level—most were killing time in the cafeteria, the base's social hub. His friends would be there, shifts completed, and lacking alcohol, they'd be getting high on shots distilled from the hallucinogenic herbs that flourished in the flowerbeds.
He turned from the window and entered the third-level corridor. Patriotic posters from the base's active days still adorned the walls—exhortations to courage, faith, and sacrifice that now read like cruel jokes. Emerging from the rain-slicked stairwell, Gers faced a wave of laughter and shouts penetrating the glass doors ahead. Children's occasional squeals—those forced to follow their warrior parents on this desperate venture—lent a surreal quality to the monotonous scene.
Despite the dismal conditions—empty refrigerators, broken coffee machines, dangerously dwindling supplies—an undercurrent of manic energy pulsed through the hall. As Gers claimed his usual seat, Sania was lamenting "the bitter reality of life without pedigree or money's safety net." He couldn't suppress a yawn.
"You found alcohol and you're hiding it," he accused.
"If only! Sania's regaling us again with how she abandoned that famous director for the revolution." Firs, his childhood friend and partner in every mischief, passed him a plastic cup brimming with cloudy, steaming liquid.
"Did you know she was there when we crashed Sarovian's event?"
Gers knew. Sania had recounted the story at least half a dozen times, but he wouldn't rob them of their narrative pleasure.
"They murdered us with their eyes," Firs recalled. "The bouncers kicked us out—literally."
"Wasn't difficult. Firs was drunk and tripping over his own feet," Gers observed dryly.
"Traitor! Why are you ratting me out?"
"I told you not to stop at Kouroupen's first," Gers reminded him. "The bastard tops off the rum with whatever's left from his workshop."
"True, his beer reeks of gasoline," admitted Ivens, typically the quietest among them.
The table erupted with laughter, as if they hadn't had this exact conversation countless times before. These recycled stories were rituals of exorcism. They always circled back to reminiscing about trips, celebrations, nights of passionate debate and romantic adventures—things now impossibly distant and therefore achingly desirable. When the laughter died and gazes grew heavy—no one wanted to shatter the silence by asking what tomorrow held—Gers seized his chance to leave.
"I need to make a call," he said.
****
At the only spot with decent signal—beside the decommissioned freight elevator—Gers pulled out his phone and spoke the name: "Estier Sevirien." After three rings, the holographic projection flickered to life, bathing the dark corridor in blue light.
"Father," he said as Estier's image materialized through the static.
The aristocratic features of the sixty-year-old nobleman bore new lines, etched by anguish over his firstborn's fate. For a man accustomed to comfort, culture, and life's small pleasures, civil war was a reversal of fortune he'd never imagined facing.
"Gers, are you alright? I saw footage from the last attack..."
"I'm in Arda, Father. We're taking off soon. I wanted to hear your voice."
"Taking off?" Hope sparked in Estier's eyes. "You're finally coming home!"
"An aerial operation," Gers clarified, the familiar guilt twisting in his chest.
"Against the Primarchy Air Force?" Estier's shoulders sagged. "Gers, those are your Academy colleagues..."
"We're surrounded, Father. Primarchy infantry controls the hills."
He didn't mention the airborne platforms lurking kilometers away—floating fortresses bristling with state-of-the-art fighters and cannons that would shred any aircraft attempting to engage.
"They'll annihilate you," Estier paled. "Then it's our turn. The nobles who supported the commonwealth idea..."
"Take Keisen and leave tomorrow." The thought of his brother sharpened Gers's voice. "Go to the Velesian estates. At least temporarily..." The image of the family manor amid Velesia's rolling orchards triggered a wave of homesickness.
Estier's frown deepened as he adjusted his glasses. "Keisen and I have made our choices. Flight implies guilt. If the Primarchy wants to silence Montra's intellectuals, let them arrest me in my study."
"Don't do this." Gers felt the familiar frustration rising—the academic and the warrior: aligned in values, divided in methods. "Your principles, however noble, won't shield Keisen from the consequences."
"I'm painfully aware! You and Keisen are my entire world."
"I've never doubted that, Estier," Gers softened. "Remember we have an unfinished chess match. I still need to claim victory..."
"I thought I taught you not to cheat," Estier laughed, then sobered. "Take care, my son. Montra's history will continue without us..."
Pocketing his phone, Gers realized how tightly wound he'd become. He didn't want his father tormented, sleepless, consumed by worry. But each had chosen his weapon: Estier the pen, Gers the fighter's stick.
****
Still early, he wasn't ready to return to the cafeteria. He crossed the deserted courtyard briskly, passing derelict trucks, empty crates, mountains of tires, scrap metal, and rags—fresh debris atop years-old heaps that had fused together long before the rebels commandeered this forsaken base in their doomed attempt to regroup.
As expected, Marka was in the hangar—a cavernous semi-open space where welding sparks danced across metal walls. She was directing workers loading ammunition onto their battered aircraft.
"Four more crates on number three!" she called to two men maneuvering a laden cart.
Gers caught her hand, drawing her into the shadows behind a truck.
"What?" Marka glanced nervously at the workers.
"You know what," he murmured.
She pressed against him, their mouths meeting in a desperate kiss. Bodies molded together, time dilating to preserve the moment. Then she pulled back, eyes fixed on his chest. She was achingly beautiful—tousled brown hair, luminous eyes, lips still glistening.
"Such a shame," she whispered. "It would've been nice to steal a few minutes, just once more..."
"You think we won't get another chance?" Gers forced a provocative laugh. "I'll be waiting in the garden behind the cafeteria after tonight's business. If you're interested, you know where to find me..."
"Arrogant fool!" Marka laughed, punching his chest. "Is presumption an aristocratic privilege or your personal vice?"
"All mine! The nobility just happened to cross my path, and I theirs."
True enough, though this wasn't the moment for confessions. His parents—impoverished northern farmers—had abandoned him as an infant on the Seviriens' doorstep before vanishing back into provincial obscurity.
No complaints, he reflected. The comforts of Demereta served me well...
Marka, daughter of day-laborer Livers from some nameless southern town, laughed throatily and silenced him with another kiss.
"When I first saw you, you wore that Sevirien hauteur like armor."
"When I first saw you, you were terrified to approach me," he countered.
Her expression suddenly hardened. Metal clanged nearby.
"I have to go," she said, worrying her lower lip. "The attack's imminent. We need to finish loading your bird."
She pulled away, fingers slipping from his grasp.
At the last second, Marka turned back. "One breath higher, Gers. Isn't that what we always said?" Her voice was barely audible before she vanished behind the truck.