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It was not a song. A song would imply something beautiful, Canach thought. Estranged as he was from his own mother, a song reminded him of her; the way she would move her arms, the soft sound of the leaves fluttering in the morning air, the newborn turning in her womb to wake into a new day.

Useless. You walk towards your Fate.

It was not a threat. One wouldn't want to follow a threat. A threat would make you run, would make you rebel, would give you a weapon and a place to stand your ground.

Fool. Why do you run?

Canach found he couldn't truly define Mordremoth's call. It rammed against his mind at every waking moment, it tugged at his consciousness making his teeth grit and only pure stubbornness kept him walking. He hadn't fallen prey to the dream and its obligation, why in the world would he walk freely into slavery? No. He was good as he was, even with his Countess being the annoyance that she was, even being dragged into battling what was almost his father in a way. No. He was fine.

This is inevitable.

Raising his head towards the path they were following (if one could call it path; it was barely a stretch of dirt), he directed his eyes towards the Commander. Her back was straight as a rod, confident steps barely touching the ground. She didn't speak. The only proof that she was alive and conscious were those steps and the sound of her staff – tic tic tic – against the stones.

"Commander?"

Of the whole group, the Charr seemed the less bothered with the concept of corruptible sylvari. He didn't know if it was because she knew the influence of a dragon on her own skin or because she simply liked the Commander. He was willing to bet on the second. She certainly didn't seem to like him any better, dragon influenced or not.

Tic tic tic.

"Yes, Rox?"

"It's late, boss. We should stop."

Tic tic tic.

"Are you tired already?" The woman joked (sounding everything but a joke. For it to be funny, some inflection in her tone should have been used). "It has barely been…"

"Seven hours," the Charr completed dryly. "We haven't stopped yet. And not that I'm complaining but it's likely Braham is about to collapse."

The same norn who was just as fixated in the path before him as the Commander? And who didn't react even though his resistance had been called into question? That norn? (Didn't that sound likely).

Tic Tic.

A nod. That was all the Commander gave her before she stopped, signaling the rest of the group to the same. Everything else was painfully normal, solidly efficient. A fire (small since calling out every other Mordrem in the blasted forest was perhaps more stupid than any of them felt ready to do), the share of whatever water and food they had left and the quick agreement over shifts.

Neither him nor the Commander would do so alone. They were risks.

(Idiots. If they were to turn, they would do so at any given moment, not wait until they were asleep. Mordremoth liked his kills. He would want them wide awake and wriggling underneath his hold. Who would expect a dragon to be such an attention-seeker?)

"Canach?"

The Commander had come closer while the others rested and he sat, jumping from one thought to the other. (It was so much easier to resist if his mind was filled with his voice, his words, his own nonsense). The short leaves on her head were usually of a light purple color, almost like lavender, the same tone which colored her eyes. That day they were darker, shadier, deadlier. Neither had seen the sun for a while, a sun without the whispers of the jungle dragon in their ears, and it was taking its toll, even in the invincible Commander of the Pact and Killer of Dragons.

(Or so everyone called her; did other races have any sense left?)

"You look well," he declared uselessly. "Almost as well as I'm feeling."

Her lips twisted in a familiar motion but the end result was so far from a smile, it could be considered in a different hemisphere.

"You know how it is." He truly wished he did. Especially why she remained trying to joke when every sound she uttered was so false. "Such a nice track through the forest, I almost feel right at home. Much more so than at Orr."

She was right. It felt like home. Like a Grove, wrong and dark and without his mother's arms around him.

It is right. This is your place.

It wasn't a melody. It wasn't a threat. It was a calling to a purpose which wore shackles upon its wrists and a whip on its hand.

"Sit down, Commander. You look about to fall down."

He pulled her to the ground, forcing her to sit by his side. It was their little sylvari group, the corruptible all joined in the same place, all ready to be offed if they said the wrong word.

(Yes, I see you, Charr. I also see what you do. What part of your soul did you exchange for that power? How can you dare to deem us worse than you?)

"It's alright, Canach. They don't understand," Synthaer didn't bother to raise her voice. "They can't hear him. But you do. That is enough." Her hand found his, uncaring of his wishes for solitude and sheer lack of contact, entwined her fingers with his and tightened; tightened until the sap in his body beat bluntly against the unexpected obstacle, until he was sure she was going to break them underneath her hold. For such a small sapling, the woman could summon a ridiculous amount of strength. "It's fine like this. You won't let me turn," she stated with a conviction he certainly didn't feel. "You see me falter, you will end it right there and then. You know what to see. You know what to expect. You know the signs."

Violet eyes, darker with each passing moment.

"You speak as if I'm no danger of being taken."

Another smile.

(False, false, false!)

"You wore chains before," she stated lowly. "You'll never let him put those on you."

"That makes me sound stronger than you."

"You're the secondborn here, not I."

Canach made his disgust of the nomenclature well patent in one sound.

"Zaithan didn't fall because of the secondborn." He shivered unconsciously. Something in the calling raged against the notion of a dead dragon, pushed against his shields with more and more strength. Looking into Synthaer's eyes, he saw the same renewed fight. Her fingers tightened further, as if that hold was enough to keep the calling away.

"I am asking you, Canach," the Commander whispered softly. Almost inaudibly. A prayer in the eye of the hurricane. "Don't let me be them."

She fell silent. The male had the impression nothing he said in that moment would make her utter sounds ever again. Back straight, eyes wide open and with that very same crushing hold on his hand as the moments ticked away, Canach watched her throughout the hours. The moon slowly made his track over the sky and he vaguely followed its movement, listening to the melody of the forest, the sleeping group and the promises and threats of the dragon. He found it was easier to deal with the latter like that, holding something so very solid within his grasp.

(Even if the Commander was scared.

Terribly so.

Even if that.)

With the sunlight, the remaining members of the group began moving. He saw the little Asura slip her head out of a pile of blankets, pretending very hard she hadn't been holding onto the norn's arm the whole night. The Mesmer hadn't bothered. She had barely moved from the Necromancer's side and he could read the lack of interest in anyone else's attention. Each of them battled their demons in their own way, it seemed.

(So she could stop staring at them at any moment. It felt like she was ready to comment on something which was completely out of her depth.)

"Commander." The Charr again. Worried, supportive, tail twitching in the air. "We can continue, if you'd like."

(If she'd like? What they'd like the most would be to turn right around. March up to the Grove and sleep for an Age. How would she like to walk right into Kralkatorrik's jaws?)

He felt impassively as Synthaer smiled again and released his hand before rising. The sap began flowing once more through his fingers, rushing through the last traces of warmth her hold had left behind, and the world felt the tiniest bit less real without it.

Mordremoth screamed, nails digging against the shield wrapped tightly against his mind.

Canach stared forward, watching as his Commander took to the front of the group, staff on her hand (back straight and defiant and pained).

Tic tic tic.

He followed without hesitation.

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Her arms were opened, her smile so wide it reminded her of the first time he had seen her, running through the fields in the exhilaration of adventure. This time the Commander simply gave herself to the wind, feeling every draft, every trace of wind as it propelled her further. Canach couldn't see a single trace of the dragon's call in her features. It had been replaced with fearlessness, happiness, even foolish bravery.

"Commander! What in the world are you doing?"

"Flying!" Synthaer yelled as if it was completely obvious. (It kind of was. The Jungle was visibly getting to him if he needed to have the obvious pointed out to him). She landed in front of him, stumbling a little before managing to right herself and all of her many attached weapons. "Well, more like gliding. One of our people said everyone here uses it to wander around and it's amazing! Did you see? Do you want to try it? You should try it! Please try it! Even Rytlock did it and you know how he is with anything that might amuse him and doesn't involve the death or bloodshed of others."

She carefully dismissed mentioning he had done so because there had been no other way to cross a particularly stubborn precipice and the Mesmer had been too injured to provide him any other type of passage.

"I believe I can cater to my suicidal tendencies in a manner that won't bash me into several pieces, Commander."

She kept moving in the same place, small jumps in the same place as she held the glider between her arms.

"You're being ridiculous."

(Yes. Because he was the one who really wanted to jump off a cliff. Couldn't she see he was not an elementalist; he was a plant! Plants were fine with staying away from large updrafts of wind and on the bloody ground.

Why were her eyes open like that?)

"It's not every day we can do something so amazing, is it?" The Commander continued (un)reasonably. "I mean, if we had the design back at the Grove, I'm very sure we could do it there. Isn't that an idea? I could speak to Mother when this is all over! They will love it!"

He was never going home again.

Ever.

Synthaer stopped moving and her lips moved; a little candid smile tinted with mischievousness.

"What are you so afraid of?"

The warrior couldn't help but to roll his eyes. (That plot was so obvious, woman, even a sapling would notice. And tell her to stop laying it that thick.) Sometimes he did wonder how she managed to fool anyone. Her ploys were so black and white, all honesty and childish motions. What was Caithe teaching the kids nowadays?

"I'm not falling for that," he stated bluntly.

"For what?" Her eyes didn't move from his form. "I'm doing nothing."

"Commander. It's not happening."

And she kept staring. Her eyes grew brighter and her smile wider. It looked vaguely insane.

"Synthaer, I am not jumping off this cliff."

(Yes, he could hear her say without words, even with the dragon call, even with their fear, I have everyone in my hand. And you too. I am the Commander here. You're jumping and you're having fun and you're going to like it.)

"Think it like this," she continued blandly, coming too close with that contraption for his tastes. "You either do it." And circling around him, her low voice fleeting against ears. "Or you'll have to stay behind because I'm very sure there are no real tracks from now on and Kasmeer cannot do portals at such a great distance." Holding his arm and slipping a strap underneath even as his mind whispered 'bullshit' as loud as possible. "I'm sure this time this isn't a fight you want to leave half done. Not with your pride on the line." Lithe fingers all over his buttons, moving in a siren song. Canach understood then and there why it was just so easy to hate the Commander. "What do you say?"

He felt her hands rest on his lower back and tug him forward.

"You're a bitch, Commander."

The abyss awaited.

"So everyone says. I frankly can't see it."

If he managed to live through this, he would make sure to find a place on the other side of the continent of wherever the Commander was. The woman would find a way to convince him to kill himself through sheer will to amuse him.

Inwardly, Canach wondered if the creation of the Commander was his mother's way of saying 'well, hope you enjoyed being free because she's going to haunt you from now on'.

(That damned tree.)

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This fight was supposed to be hard from the get-go. Canach had made his peace with that concept throughout Verdant Brink, reminded himself every time the dragon would tug at his consciousness, noted it down just before closing his eyes to try and sleep a little as everyone else around him still carried weapons and were close enough to subdue him. Just in case.

This, however, made all his previous thoughts into nothing.

(Afraid, afraid, he was so afraid he couldn't breathe, he couldn't remember where he stood and why, feeling as those claws ripped through his consciousness and dug deeper and deeper until it bled.)

He should kill her.

(He didn't want to kill her. She was his friend.

When had been the last time he had had a friend?)

Synthaer was the enemy though. Who else but an enemy would turn against their own father? Only. Only they didn't have a father. They had a mother (fallen, unconscious, why doesn't she wake, Caithe? You think you know everything). They had brothers and sisters (some of them who he wouldn't mind not having and no, I am not thinking of you, Marshal, you're too small.

Faolain, you used me.)

Canach fell to the ground; sticks and stones strangely real against his knees. He couldn't attack her, her of all people. She had saved him more than once, if only by trusting him when no one else would.

He would never know if he had actually managed to call out to her physically. Somehow, the Commander was just suddenly by his side, weapons trained on the illusion his fear had conjured. Not on him; never on him.

"It will be alright, brother." The elementalist slipped the shield from his half paralyzed hold. "I'm right here."

Through the pain, the warrior forced himself to look at her. Her movements were horribly stilted, carrying none of the confidence she had when moving her specter through the air. Synthaer even failed in simply holding it up properly, causing the wooden artefact to falter when struck by a stronger projectile. But she held on in front of him, slow beads of liquid running down her forehead as she kept all harm away.

(In short, the only reason for her to ever carry a shield should be to offer it to him before she hurt herself.)

"Commander, once more," came the voice of the norn through the battleground which was the dragon and his mind and hers. "Give me time."

"Oh, all the time you need," she commented far too blandly for the situation. "All the times. It's not like I can't use this thing or anything."

"Less complaining, more shielding, boss!"

Might be his mind on the last stages of breaking into nothing but Canach could swear the dumb woman had stuck her tongue out.

(Pale Mother, his sanity was on the hands of a fool.

A strong one though. The shield kept slipping but it got up right after, he noticed somehow, surrounding them with the magic from his own weapon and whatever force of nature she conjured around them.)

"All good?" Synthaer's free hand rested across his shoulder, strong and tight, brimming with magical power.

It'd be so very nice if he could throttle her. "Better only if refreshments were being brought."

The damned woman had the gall to shrug.

"Stick your feet in the soil. It works for Mother."

Wind roared around their forms, steadily replaced at every odd moment with sharp pulses of magic. At any other moment, the man would have noticed how the Commander wavered, how she tried harder and harder to keep casting even though she was likely tired but he hurt. He truly hurt. Everything around him was painful and (everything around him was a cage, a cage and asura with clinical eyes and painful instruments. Unsurprisingly, he still hated them just as much as on that day.)

The dragon roared louder, demanding blood.

And then, suddenly, Canach was back in the present. The cage had disappeared. His torturers, the ones from his memories and even the dragon had faded into the background. The world seemed solid, painfully solid and marvelously so.

(Was he in a blasted pool? Since when?)

"See?" Synthaer smiled up at him (he'd dare say proudly) before pushing him out of the rift and sticking the shield back in his hands. Now free, her hand touched his cheek fleeting before vanishing into her side. "Nothing to worry about."

Her understatements would kill him. "Only having me on the other side," he declared, forcing his voice to work. "Which I assure you, would bring no trouble at all."

The world around them shifted once more, reminding them they were in unknown parts and calling them right off of a possible round of conversation better done somewhere else. They had power there too, though, and it wasn't with surprise that their enemy finally made an appearance.

How small. How… unexpectedly small. The fist in his mind was so strong, its physical form so imposing, the sylvari had almost expected his mind to be something impossible to comprehend. Larger than life even.

It was just small.

Lightning rushed through his side, heading straight to the dragon in graceful deadly arcs. "Are we going to appreciate or kill it?" Synthaer yelled over his surprise. "I'm pretty sure no one lost time before going for Zaithan."

Couldn't she see why? This was the creature which had given them birth. This was the one who had made him. And it was small, so much smaller than the monster he had painted him as. Surely, still strong and frightening but without the haze of complete control, it was like some of the enchantment had been taken.

Ash covered his skin as he joined the frontlines, side-by-side with the norn. He could feel warmth, the heat of impossible power beneath the apparently physical form.

"Just keep at it!" The Commander screamed over the chaos. "Don't stop."

Yet, her own lightning had succumbed into nothingness. Why would she stop, he wondered somewhere between his attacks. It was her preferred element; underlined by her nearly constant use of it everywhere, even (and especially) when not required. His sword lowered slightly even as his shield raised, eyes frantically searching for the Commander's form. The one supposed to be behind him.

(Ten steps back, two to the right because he was such a damn handy barrier for most things that wanted to kill her.)

The Commander was right where he expected her to be. Instead of casting, however, her eyes were screwed shut, her weapons fallen to the ground and her hands, they held her head with so much strength it felt like she was attempting to squeeze the pain out.

Of course. Of course the dragon would come for her. After Trahearne, who else would he want the most? After Caithe? After their Mother?

Canach forced down the fear (which truly had no reason to exist) before running towards his Commander's form (who never knelt, who was supposed to never succumb because she always tried so damned hard not to) and touched her shoulder.

She raised her eyes. Purple was streaked with red, flooded with a shimmering sheen and he saw fierce determination staring right from their depths.

The warrior couldn't help but see himself either.

(Help me, the male could hear in the desperate way she clawed at his arm. Please, help me.)

"It will be alright, sister," Canach whispered beyond the sounds of battle, slipping a finger down her cheek, hiding the tears which threatened to appear. "I'm right here."

With those words, he carried her into the rift.

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(What was her wyld hunt?)

Canach barely noticed the little looks he kept giving her. It was a mystery, waved tauntingly in front of his nose and that kept wandering away every time he attempted to grasp it. Or the people wandered away every time he questioned about it. Replies ranged from 'it was hard' to 'something to do with the corruption' which he translated into 'why don't you ask her instead of annoying us?'

(Thanks, charr.

…

What in the world was it?)

He knew she had one, like every other born of the Pale Tree. He knew she hadn't turned from it because she was obstinately stubborn, moronically driven and periodically drawn towards the Grove, something the Soundless refused to do. He knew it had been related to the Elder Dragons because of course it would. No one else would throw itself into this kind of life without a proper reason. To do otherwise was for madmen and she, while occasionally ridiculous, was exceedingly grounded. No pun intended. He also knew it had been as impossible to finish as Trehearne's or Caithe's. Just what exactly was it? What had the dream given to her that would bring all the way to the other corner of the world?

"All right, what have you speaking about on my back?"

His carefully constructed brooding crashed and burned into the ground, pushing him from the relative safety of his mind into the reality. Reality consisted in a purple eyed Commander, complete with a dark frown and a twitch over her eyebrow which spelled annoyance.

They were alone, a good ten steps from where the last member of the group had disappeared. Synthaer, on the other hand, had stopped in the middle of the path, one hand smack against his chest to keep him from continuing his mindless stroll.

"What?"

(Mindless indeed. If he kept this up, he'd end up just as eloquent as the norn).

"You. Talking. Everyone," she enunciated slowly as if he was particularly dull. "Rytlock noticed. I noticed. The merchant from the last village noticed. Are you going to tell me what's going on or should I make assumptions? Like you are planning on running away again? Steal Rytlock's sword? You're interested in Marjory and wanted to make sure Kas wouldn't portal drop you into a clif—"

"Your wyld hunt!" (Mother, why would she assume he was a mind-numbing gossip like half of this group? Surely he hadn't been that out of it!) "I was just curious about your wyld hunt. You never speak about it."

Confusion slowly whispered through her expression.

"Why didn't you ask me?" (Because that'd be logical?) "I mean, no one should expect Taimi to know. She thinks the Dream is a collective hallucination caused by some sort of unexpected nature phenomenon and that shouldn't have such hold on a community."

Apparently only for the Commander was normal to ask what she had dreamed during her gestation and what the aim of her life at birth. He couldn't remember if everyone shared it (it had been that long, it seemed) but his own was silent, finished and forgotten, cautiously put aside with his memories of the Grove and the animalistic cage he had been thrown into as a sapling.

"Wait." Little lines which had formed on her forehead during her rant slowly faded, giving origin to one of her customary smiles (which appeared far too much for someone with that sort of purpose in life). "You do think that. For you it's ruder to ask me rather than ask everyone else around me. That's… well, special."

That special didn't sound like a compliment.

"I'm sorry for respecting your privacy, Commander."

"Except you kinda didn't," she retorted, annoyingly sensibly. "You gossiped with everyone else on my back."

Flawless logic, that one.

"It was just the Asura."

Possibly the norn. And the noblewoman, she was terribly chirpy and liked to gossip. That was also possibly the most ridiculous excuse he had ever formulated ever since leaving the tree.

The Commander clearly agreed. Her lips trembled lightly, that way she had to try and control herself in front of someone else (the queen, her soldiers, her mother) before she laughed herself until tears appeared in her eyes. She had a way to allow herself that. To feel joy. To be happy, even though the world around her was clearly going up in flames. How she managed, he clearly didn't understand. Her half smile grew, even as Synthaer contemplated her reply.

"My wyld hunt was to Kill Zaithan," she said, unveiling her secret (which hadn't been one to begin with, it seemed. If only he had asked directly instead of losing his time.) "That was my task. I had to kill it. Not just help or support. I had to personally be invested in its destruction."

Spoken as if it was nothing, as if it wasn't a death sentence (which she had survived, reminded his damned annoying logic, which it had spared her). Damn that tree. Damn the tree and its thrice damned Dream.

"How can you still follow her after all of this?"

(There was no other her in their lives).

That question slipped without his awareness. Had that been his purpose all the way? To know how this woman bend her knee, how she accepted their shackles and leash, how she followed without question where he couldn't and didn't dare to try?

Again, there was no hesitation. No fear, no disgust; just a half-smile without explanation.

"Mother is… well, a mother, Canach." The Commander shrugged after that particularly enlightening piece of intelligence. "She always wanted what was best for us. The problem is that the only way she found to do that was to show us a way to walk right as we got out. That's silly. We didn't get to experiment. We don't get to stumble like all the humans do. Do you think Kas thought she'd be here as a child? Of course not," she replied without giving him time to speak. "She thought she'd marry and have kids and live in luxury because that was the universe she could see. Mother didn't want us to be lost but in her wish, she closed us off. She didn't let us see if the fire would burn. She forced the knowledge into our minds and stifled the urge to check."

During the whole tirade, Synthaer never stopped, moving from one side to another, hands rising and falling to underline her points.

"You're defending her and attacking her at the same time, Commander. Take a moment to analyze how stupid that is."

(And not replying to my question. Not replying.)

Her hands stilled, shoulders slumped in apparent defeat.

"I'm not attacking her. I'm saying that the moment I knew she would have me attempt to kill an elder dragon, I was so scared I couldn't breathe." The confession came out abruptly, fingers tentatively touching a barely healed wound, flirting with a truth she didn't wish to be seen. Canach opened his mouth to comment and then closed it without a word being said. What could he said that would show how much he empathized?

Her eyes searched for him and her smile returned, full, wide, loving. "But the second she looked at my face," Synthaer continued gently. "The second she held me, I understood she was crying for me too." The Commander shrugged. "I love her for that."

And so do you, he could imagine her saying, beneath that lavender gaze, I know you do.

Maybe. Maybe, she was right.

Though, her words probably made his path in life nothing more than adolescent rebellion against his mother's choices.

(Lovely.

Why in the world did he still speak with the Commander?)

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"But are you sure?"

"Yes."

"But how can it not involve flo—"

"No."

"That doesn't make any sense! You can't just pop up out of nowhere! You are practically veget— "

Enough was enough!

"I will not give you sex education about the Sylvari, girl! Would you mind studying someone else? Anything else? Preferably far away from me?"

Silence fell on the group, as sudden as lightning in the middle of a storm. All eyes moved to him. The Commander raised an eyebrow, the very corner of her lips twisted upwards in a movement he was sure meant she was rolling on the floor laughing inside her own mind. And he was deadly sure it wasn't of herself.

"Shut up, Commander."

Her smile widened imperceptibly.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're saying nothing so loud even a deaf mute would hear!" He accused, struggling to not stick a finger in her direction. It was bad enough that the entire guild was still staring.

"I call your attention to the fact that that was a very weird statement."

Damn the Asura.

But especially damn the Commander. Canach was sure this was her fault somehow.

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The conversation was akin to daggers into his skin. It was not unusual. Anise was a viper for a good cause, honeyed words and kind smiles hiding a sadism the sylvari was more than used to. Oh, but this conversation. It was worse than ever before, played as it was in the home he had sworn never to return to.

"Worried your mother might not approve of all your naughty misadventures?"

But there he was, there she was, holding his leach and rampaging into his wounds like a wolf after its dinner.

"I'm sure she has far larger concerns," he snapped out.

"True. You are only one among her thousands of children. Not as dear as her firstborn, like our heroic Pact Marshal."

The knife dug deeper; the blade twisted more strongly. Canach felt his hands trying to move, body tense and ready to close around the façade the Countess had chosen. The one she didn't and could never understand.

"It may be wiser…"

"It may be wiser to not speak of that you do not understand, Countess."

They were no longer alone. Without their awareness, the Commander of the Pack had joined them. Perhaps it was the homecoming but the sapling had not bothered to cover her heritage, choosing to don the light armour which was so common to their people. And while her weapons were hidden away, as expected from a mission of peace, her eyes were virtually slits, harsh lavender for once not against him or focused on his form and words but on the human.

Dislike flowed from her in waves; a magic without physical form.

"I appreciate your games as much as anyone else," Synthir continued (was it Synthir? Senier? Sinaer? So many saplings, so many names.) "It is your choice and your right to play them. But in my home, on the slopes of my mother, I won't allow you to use her name to harm him. I will not. You have no right."

Anise's eyes, an unnatural tone conjured by magic, narrowed lightly. Displeased.

(Perhaps Senth was not completely useless.)

"I did not mean any offence, my friend."

(You did. Of course you did. You just didn't expect to be overheard or that anyone would care enough to interfere.) And she cared, Canach realised as he watched the familiar face. She might play the game, follow the Pale Tree and the Firstborn and all of their many (many) commands but she had been born after. Born last. Born when love was little and she was a drop in an ocean of like-minded tools all wrapped up in a single dream. (How tiny was her presence in their mother's heart, how little she mattered in such a large picture? How much could she ignore that fact in order to continue loving the shining white figure?

How tiny was his, how little he mattered, how could he continue loving her?)

The Commander's fingers, lithe and thin, tightened against her clothing.

"Then I'm sure you will find charity in your heart to not touch such a subject in a careless manner, Countess." Her tone lost great part of its initial aggression and sounded almost gentle as the woman forced a smile upon her expression. A lovely one indeed, nearly as real as the Countess's disguise.

"Brother." Her head lowered the tiniest bit as she moved past, ready to join her group. It was likely the first time she had addressed him as such. An united front born of wounds shared, was it?

"Sister." For just this once, that was fine.

"It seems I should have known better than to meddle in your family affairs," the Countess continued. Her tone carried an odd trace of apology woven in between her words, more than likely not directed at him but at the sapling which was slowly enveloped by her companions. "I must speak with her at a later date. It is not a good idea to have the Commander of the Pact upset at you. It makes diplomacy so much more complicated."

"I thought your diplomacy usually involved blades," he commented blandly.

Anise crossed her arms and he could swear she was a little thrown off her game. Which he liked. He liked it very much indeed. "Not with her, Blossom. Synthaer is very adept at using them herself."

"I have noticed."

Synthaer, was it? He guessed it wouldn't be a bad idea to know at least that, especially considering she had managed to defeat him. And, after all, she was his sister. An annoying, violent interfering sister who meddled in far too much, especially when not required to.

After all, she understood.

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While the Commander was generally well liked among her guild, there was one personality trait of hers whom everyone agreed it was just incredibly annoying.

Synthaer had the tendency to rush forward and disappear far too often.

Even with Mordremoth, even with its servants littering the pathways, the sylvari was filled with a sense of wonder, curiosity which kept her up and moving even when everyone else was begging for a couple of moments laying down. A more poetic man than he would declare how amazing that was; how the wonder befit her station and expression, how the staff resting in her hand as she ran ahead seemed a part of her body, how anyone would never think twice before following her. There was something in her stance, in her eyes and countenance. It made one run after because otherwise she'd keep walking and finish the battle by herself. It made one wonder whether she'd take a ship with her own two hands while rousing giants to do her bidding.

Canach was not a poet; he was a warrior. As such, his conclusion was simple.

"We follow an idiot."

His eyes followed the sapling as she disappeared round the next bent of what passed by a road in Verdant Brink. The mutated giant frog (or, as she called it, her new best friend) yammered about one thing or another as he followed but everyone else had reached the conclusion, more or less quickly, that she was about to run herself into yet another band of Mordrem.

"It was too much to hope we should not have to battle anyone else today," the necromancer grimaced as the first signs of an electric storm reached their ears. "It is bad enough that we're a magnet for them. Does she really have to search every nook and cranny in case any has missed us?"

The Asura hugged her Golem's ears (?), collapsing into a small bundle of annoyed progeny.

"I'm hungry," she complained loudly. "And tired. How about you guys get the boss back while I sleep?"

"You want to sleep in the middle of a clearing filled with bodies?"

"I want to sleep! Period!"

It was easy to remember Taimi was little more than a kid when she started whining about sleep. Her voice would raise and sharpen and his patience would fade water on a hot summer's afternoon. By the Mother, couldn't they just deal with the fact that their Commander was an idiot in silence and contemplation? It was what he did. Of course, he also threatened her with several accounts of bodily harm where she couldn't hear him (the storms were far too easy to appear otherwise).

"I'm not sure why you're all so surprised," he commented blandly. "Her name means literally 'tumble out'. She didn't even wait for her pod to be grown before she pushed herself into the world. That literally spells the kind of person she would become."

It was bullshit but believable bullshit considering the person. Suddenly, he was gifted with the group's attention; incredulous but very focused.

"You're kidding," declared the Mesmer.

All he needed was not to laugh. Her expression wavered, changed, showed doubt.

"You're not kidding."

And all he had to do was to keep his expression neutral, to not smile. That was incredibly easy.

"Well," Rytlock grumbled from his corner. "That explains almost everything. Get settled. If she needs us, she'll make sure to yell loud enough. I'm good with resting for a while."

(Mission accomplished.

This should end up in a report.)

Synthaer took her time to return. Time enough for several of the members of the group to find their way into their blankets, calmly enjoying the pause granted by their bloodthirsty slash stupidly adventurous leader. When her feet whispered through the campsite (with a spring in her step, the little sadist), all that welcomed her were snores, sighs and a silently smug sylvari.

"All settled. Nothing dangerous for quite a while. I got a couple of Vigil sentries from here till the passage to the Basin." Her voice didn't rise above a murmur, even as she threw herself to the floor by his side. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing interesting. Food, sleep. I did explain to them the meaning of your name."

Two little lines drew itself between her eyebrows. "Whatever for?" She asked slowly. "It just means purple."

"Yes. A clear sign of the Pale Tree's originality going."

"Yours means pointy." The little crease between her eyes deepened and, for the first time since forever the woman seemed honestly puzzled.

"Or she never had it to begin with," Canach corrected. "What do I know?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

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Humans were confusing. A particular one had taken to chase him when he least expected it, generally with a small group of giggling children right behind her. They’d look at him, turn the least fetching shade of red he had ever seen and then laugh into each other’s shoulders when his eyes searched for the origin of such an annoying sound.

He, on the other hand, had taken to climb up the nearest tree as soon as they set up camp because there was little way he’d be the amusement piece of another dumb human.

“What are we doing here?"

He was hiding. Synthaer was with him because apparently he couldn’t be let off her sight or the unstoppable urge to run away might attack him. (Better she though that. It’d be better than confessing to be hiding from humans).

“Canach,” she prodded when he didn’t bother to answer her. “You’re on top of a tree when food is being served. That’s weird. Tell me. Tell me.”

The sapling jumped lightly on the branch they were occupying, feet hanging as she attempted a surer support. In that exact moment, of course the human group would sit down by the tree’s roots, plates of food in their hands while making those awful laughing noises which made him want to rip his ears out.

“I’d totally let Canach bone me!” The tallest one declared.

Silence between them. Sadly, not between the humans.

“Same!”

“Ditto!”

“It’d be great!”

The Commander’s eyes widened comically as she stared at the human’s heads. And then at him. And then at them. And then, miracle of miracles, he saw her beginning to snicker between her teeth, even as she covered her lips with both hands so the group wouldn’t be alerted to her presence. Of course, that meant she almost fell onto the group which would not alert them at all.

Canach looked at his hand, gripping her shoulder and contemplated seriously throwing her down, discovery be damned.

“Commander,” he whispered out, trying to bring her back to reality. “What in the world are they talking about? What is to bone?”

(Was it to club someone to death with a bone? Harm with a bone? Mother helped him, was she actually crying?)

Her fingers moved slightly and off came her voice, muffled and scratched by laugher. “You really have no idea?”

(Offer their bones as a sacrifice? As a bone talisman? Debone themselves for their Gods?)

“If it means killing me, I’d rather you tell me so I can dispose of them without witnesses.”

(Hm. Perhaps that shouldn’t be confessed to the Commander of the Pact.)

Synthaer finally stopped laughing at that even though he knew, he just knew that little tick at the corner of her mouth meant she was having the time of her life.

“They want to have sex with you,” she declared bluntly.

That sounded incredibly wrong.

“I’m a Sylvari,” he told her uselessly.

“I’ve been told that’s not a problem with the right tools.”

(But. But!)

“But they are humans!”

“And you are being loud.” Canach gritted his teeth together. “My answer still applies.”

“I don’t even care for their race, never mind them!”

“And that makes you unattainable,” Synthaer completed. ”I’d start sleeping with an eye open and possibly with a chastity belt.”

“What does that even mean?”

Her lips trembled again. Canach could see the new bout of laughter about to be born even before the woman opened her lips.

“Will you stop laughing?”

She grinned. “No way, stud.”

“I’m not a horse, Commander.” A small pause ensued before… “Commander, I’m going to throw you off this tree and into my sword if you don’t stop laughing.”

Chapter Text

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His world in Divinity’s Reach was tidy, ordered, everything in a place and the place where his mind dictated. It helped that he was restricted to the Shining Blade because, if anything else, Anise was terribly anal with the smallest things which meant even the outside world matched his. Arranged. Neat. Tidy. A place for each thing and each thing in its own place.

The small package resting on his desk broke his well-arranged sanity like a black spot on a white canvas.

Canach should be worried at the blatant lack of security. He would be, if he didn’t feel a hint of ozone in the air, the kind that might be left behind by a silly thoughtless Commander who didn’t know how to use doors but sure loved gliding all over the place. 

A bag. He curled his fingers around it slowly. Light. So not fireworks in celebration of their recent victory as the woman threatened so many times. Possibly not food or candy. There was a high probability it was dangerous but that was merely because Synthaer didn’t have the same definition of danger as everyone else. For her, jumping into a chak nest was just Monday. Trying out mushrooms that may or not be poisonous? Wednesday. Poke a wyvern with a very short stick to see what it does? Every bloody day.

A leather bag. Small, light, old and well used. He turned it between his fingers, trying to figure it out before actually pulling the strings apart. It could be a prank; he wouldn’t put it past her.

 “What’s this all about, you dumb sapling?” The empty room didn’t reply. Only the small bag did, innocently laying between his fingers. “I suppose leaving a letter or actually showing up would be too much work.”

The warrior shook his head before pulling the vessel open. It came apart easily,

Ash.

It was a bag of ash.

Ash?

Canach poked a little inside, searching for something (anything) else but all he found was more of the same. Ash. Grey dust, freshly baked from the faint smell. Couldn’t she have gone with gold instead? Something useful? “Seriously, Commander? Ash? Were you bored?” Mother help him, why is he speaking to no one?

(Because she wasn’t there anymore. Because she would always walk in front of him, hands moving carefully over the foliage, gripping for her weapons at random moments. She would stop and call his attention with a look. Point. Share. She was his sister and he was no longer used to soft skins and sharp teeth.

She should just have used the door and spoken to him like a normal person.)

Ash.

(Ash.)

A little piece of paper poked its corner through the grey remains. Canach reached for it, cleaning it from the dark soot. He could discern his name at a corner, faded and almost invisible but little else. Flowing letters, written with precision and a handwriting that looked far too familiar. The Countess’?

“You know your billet is valid with or without a physical proof, don’t you, blossom?” Anise’s words rang in his mind, echoing from early that morning. He had thought at the time that she was merely reminding him how she held his leash tightly. Rubbing salt on his wounds, as it was her ever so kind habit every morning. Only, the male realized there and then, it had been because she thought he had done something.

The paper winked at him in its bed of ashes.

(Only the Commander had instead).

Canach didn’t know when he started laughing. Only that he did and that he kept laughing far after the ash of his billet (his paper shackle; his flimsy paper bars) spread all over the wooden desk.

Through the window, purple eyes glinted lowly in the late night.

Chapter Text

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The first thing Caithe had asked him after the whole Consortium debacle had been whether or not he had finally run onto the arms of the Nightmare. As always, his sister was an idiot. Considering his life for the past years, why in the world would he want more Nightmares?

Canach did not like Gods. He did not follow rulers and he disliked leashes. The Nightmare was a leash by another name, one wreathed in cruelty and despair, cold stony walls and beeping instruments for which he had no name. If he had to describe it, he’d describe the exact place where he stood, watching as Asura ran from place to place in unnamable tasks.

If Anise had not sent him, if she had not promised this would be the last time, Canach would have never crossed the threshold of the laboratory.

(Cold walls, cold halls, the dripping of water inside test tubes, the screaming of his siblings inside the laser gates, the feverish activity of small hands.)

His face set in a customary frown, a shroud without name wrapped around his features, tight and strong. It was his most perfect lie, one that not even the Pale Tree would see beyond. None of these creatures would see him tremble again.

“Her sylvari arrived,” one of the little vermin muttered. “Call the Commander.”

The warrior was about to ask what in the world and I’m whose now and maybe I can change my non-threatening policy when the laboratory became stage to a series of small detonations. In the midst, the roar of a warhorn heralded fire and storm and he was already shaking his head well before the purple eyed elementalist made her entrance. With explosions, of course, because the world would fall if she managed to visit any place without several minor attacks occurring.

His smile was smothered under the cover of a renewed frown.

“Canach!”

The battle was no surprise, the fact that she ignored the stairs in favor of her glider, wide metal mechanics whispering against the cold air of the laboratory as she stumbled down, was not one either. He saved his surprise to when she touched down, a tired (honest) smile upon her lips, and jumped onto his unexpecting arms.

His eyes lowered to the head right next to his then to his arms, which had enfolded the smaller woman and tightened her to him (without a hint of hesitation?); whole and safe and brimming with the same energy which always preceded her steps. As fast as Synthaer had appeared, she stood back, hands holding his face between her fingers.

“You look worried and possibly bothered. Stop frowning.” The Commander’s eyes glinted lowly in the bright laboratory; her expression soft and pleasant as if they were meeting for tea instead of prodding his (non-existent) bad mood. “Did you like my gift?”

“It was a little charred, Commander.”

Her fingers did not move, her bland smile did not dim.

“Not possible. I didn’t send you Rytlock.”

Canach almost groaned. “You did, however, just made an incredibly bad joke. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“So it is bluntly obvious.”

Synthaer frowned as she stared up at him, her banter dying on her lips unexpectedly. Her eyes were still bright, he noticed, still lovely but older in some manner he could not explain. The leaves decorating her head were longer now, her clothes a mixture of their cultural apparel with whatever random pieces Verdant had brought her. She looked grown, adult; she fit in a way he could not explain. She also looked attentive and worried.

It made him wish to pull back from her hold.

“I missed you.”

He didn’t get this. How the Commander could speak these words so clearly, so honestly, so bluntly. How she could hold him like that, like she cared to begin with if the blight upon her existence came by or not.

“I did not miss the chaos you bring with you.” (When all he could do was to keep skirting the truth like it prickled his skin).

Her hands lowered to grip one of his and tugged him without asking for permission.

“Come on, we’re leaving.”

Canach wasn’t sure if he managed to verbalize the what which crossed through his mind but Synthaer didn’t seem ready to listen to begin with.

“I don’t know why or how or who but something is bothering you so much that your frown looks stuck there. It’s bothersome,” the elementalist drawled carelessly as she crossed through the halls without hesitation. He barely saw her free hand moving, tasting the air for the way out. It was a neat trick. He focused on the movement of that hand, on the steady feet leading him out like he was a child because her words, those hit far too close to home. “As it is, I am planning on taking you outside and forcing you to get some fresh air. Truth to be told, it’s not like we have anything else to do here. Taimi has already told me whatever I needed to know.”

And she tugged more strongly. Pale Mother help him, his body kept following.

“You’re coming with me, aren’t you? I mean, you have your own task but there’s no real reason for us to not go together.”

Outside. Out in the warm sun. Where the breath in his lungs was sweet and savory, where Metrica seemed almost like Caledon.

“You want me to?” His traitorous mouth spoke slowly.

 “Of course.”

And where he could feel the remains of the morning fog on every leaf, the shadows cast by people just like him, just like her.

“Then I am by you, Commander.”

(How could she know when their own mother would have missed it?)

Synthaer stopped then, her fingers releasing their hold slowly while her impish smile bloomed like a newly born sapling. “You should stop calling me Commander,” she said. “Haven’t you heard? I just quit.”

“As you wish.” Canach allowed the pause to extend, long and uninterrupted. “Poobah.” 

Her glare could have melted the Shiverpeaks.

“How did you hear about that?”

The warrior did not bother to hide his laughter, loud and honest, carrying all the gratitude he could never put into words.

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

Canach did not know this woman. Mismatched armor, old pieces incompatible in both color and set covering a girl of medium stature. He could see the short leaves decorating her head whispering through the helm, the light green skin which peeked through clothing here and there, eyes which were narrowed in concentration when facing one of his many attacks. She was one leaf of the great tree, one among many, a drop of water in a lake without beginning nor end. One of the many who had tried to stop him.

If he had to name one thing that set her apart from the norm would be the bright staff on her hands. The outrageous object, all of it gold and orange, stared over her shoulder as a monstrous guardian, almost outshining the bright flames which encompassed her form and swallowed the earth around them. Briefly, he wondered who had had the idea of gifting her such a stupidly cumbersome object. What a waste.

She didn’t get it (the stupid little shit).

This, what he was doing, what he was attempting to do, it would save lives. It would destroy the Consortium until all that remained were bad memories and ashes. And now she wandered into something she did not understand, grasping at straws and literally blowing away his carefully drawn plans with uncaring hands and desperate gestures.

(Moving through the air like she was born to it, like it welcomed her in its waves and moved her as part of itself. An Elementalist, a good one, perhaps)

He’d fought better than her.

(Even if the closest gasp of air did not attack him but instead drew her closer; even if the flames she conjured were more to grip his attention so she could sneak closer when he was looking elsewhere. He could deal with it. He could finish this. He could save them.)

“These look interesting. A little dispersive. You would be able to deal much more damage if the range was closer and dispersal area smaller.”

Their dance stopped, as sharply as a glass shattering against the floor. Her offhand comment had been said simply, calmly, drawing his attention to where she stood. On her free hand, she held one of his bombs. (Why stop instead of attacking, staring at him as if they were in one of the Tree’s shelters, waiting for a mender to fix everything?)

“Fire though,” she replied, ignoring his unasked question. The sapling wasn’t smiling and there was a frown contorting the youthful features (and still, she sounded amused. Was she laughing of him? At him? Because of him?) “You are using fire to detonate them. I’m wondering whether it’s stupider to use wildlife in a mad scheme or to use fire against an elementalist.”

“It is not a mad scheme!” (How dared she? How dared she to judge him?)” It is necessary! It will save lives from those vultures of the Consortium!”

The bomb in her hand moved. Up and down, her lithe hand dancing through the air, uncaring of the danger of explosion.

“I thought you’d be more upset by the whole you’re an idiot part,” she confessed. “Is there any way we can stop this madness? I understand what you are trying to do. It’s just not right. You cannot justify something like this with your good intentions.”

She was attempting to discuss his actions in the middle of battle? Canach allowed himself to laugh, long and hard. (Insanely, some would describe later, pure madness of a man who didn’t hear the calling of his life and fell down the wrong edge.)

“How naïve are you, little sister? Did mother teach you nothing about the world?”

“She taught me life is precious.” (Ventari’s tablet, spoken word for word and showing indoctrination at its best). “That you shouldn’t squander it. That no one has the right to take it.”

“And neither to use it or constraint it!” He bellowed, cutting her dictation short. “That’s what they did. They killed off people for gold and then used them because why the hell not? I am just taking their own methods. You cannot revolt without shedding blood. No one will pay attention until they are forced out of their homes with a sword on their hands!”

“What of the children?” Canach could see her frown from where he stood. “What of the mothers and fathers? What of the elder who cannot bear arms?”

“Acceptable losses.”

Her lips mouthed the two words, slowly, again and again as her features contorted with disgust. The air around them grew hotter. He could feel the humidity raise, heavy and smothering in the air rushing through and around his body. The sapling did not seem to notice her reaction. Fury filled the air, it raged against his skin, it roared in shapeless light encompassing her form. 

“If I kill you now to save hundreds of others, will it be acceptable as well?” Her voice echoes with the certainty of a judge in the midst of a trial. “If I kill you now, will it be acceptable when I tell it to mother?”

The air pressed, oppressed, suffocated.

“You got to catch me first, sapling. How well did she teach you?”

It halted. One second in the middle of nothingness and a flash of sharp teeth.

“You tell me.”

He didn’t have the time to see her move before the world in front of him faded into chaos. Air, he realized as she moved, as she disappeared into a hurricane, air was her main element, the very essence of what she was. How had he failed to notice? Canach crouched against the floor as her magic ran through the chamber, lacking any of the control she had shown until that very moment. Like, suddenly, she didn’t care against whom she was fighting. The bonds of family and (possible) kinship mattered nothing.

(It had taken her long enough).

“Here, catch.” Her voice against his ears, angry and disgusted. Horrified.

One of his bombs was thrown against his form. And then another. And another. Soon enough, he noticed it wasn’t even his bombs. Somehow the child was mimicking their effect with fire, small condensed flames which expanded as soon as they were close. They weren’t that strong, he realized as they beat against his shield. Little distractions, at most, since her main power seemed to be focused on the winds grasping around them.

Growling against the roar of the explosions, he fought fire with fire, aiming his own weapons to her vicinity. It was hard though. The woman appeared and disappeared as soon as he caught a glimpse of her. He turned his head from side to side, growling as she slipped back into vaporous form. Pale Tree, he hated her kind. A sword, a shield, armor. Those were the weapons of warriors. This was ridiculous.

“Face me properly, sapling. Are you going to hide behind your tricks the whole battle?”

“Of course I am. I’m squishy,” her voice replied without hesitation. Her body stopped in front of him, staff held tightly and a free hand already moving in another spell. “Behind you.”

Canach turned just in time to shield himself against another one of fake bombs.

(The damned annoying child).

“End this, you dam—“

Her form flashed in front of him, one mere moment before all he could see was air. Another hurricane had been formed, this one voracious, far stronger than he had seen so far. Gales of wind roared from side to side while enveloping him in their embrace, swallowing all which came close. Canach attempted to move, to leave the eye but, everywhere he looked, all he could see was flames and destruction.

“Get down.”

It seemed as smart a move as any. Canach crouched on the floor, eyes anxiously searching for a way out.

“You’re wrong,” her voice surged from above, close (too close), right behind him, by his shoulder, by his back and everything in him yelled danger. “No loss is acceptable. No life is disposable. That’s just wrong.” Her teeth flashed again in a smile which was all of wicked and dangerous. The hurricane faded abruptly into nothing, a vacuum where chaos once was. The sudden silence left a ringing sound echoing through his mind.

(No!)

“You’re wrong.” The last thing Canach heard was her voice, loud and derisive.

The last thing he saw was the behemoth of a staff being raised in the air (in a move clearly not taught in elementalist lessons) before it was smashed against his skull.

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

Canach wasn’t easily startled. Life had taught him how to avoid it. Pay attention to your surroundings, think twice where you walk, watch what you do. Still, being part of a group had changed that slightly. Nothing had made the Commander or the Asura more pleased than jumping at him from the most random of places when he least expected it.

“Canach.”

There was little reason to change merely because they were continents apart.

“Commander?”

(What in the world?)

The warrior turned around quickly, expecting her to have appeared from who knew where, scepter and warhorn in hand and ready for battle. Instead, he was faced with the Shining blade warriors sent with him by Anise. The confusion in their expressions mirrored his.

“Canach? Are you there?”

The soft voice came from him. Not from behind him, not in front, but from his body. Frowning, the sylvari patted his body confusedly, trying to find the place where the Commander’s elusive voice kept sounding. One which was quickly replaced with soft footfalls. Pacing. She was pacing. He could barely remember the last time he had seen her doing such a thing.

“Commander, I’m sort of busy at the moment.”

(Where in the world had the Asura planted the device? Because it had to be her, of course it did. Damned kid was too damned smart to begin with. How had she, to begin with?) He waved his companions away, attempting to ignore how their eyes were open in curiosity. Ears almost twitched with every sound. Anise had obviously sent all the spies with him.

Synthaer didn’t reply. That, more than anything else, more than the soft tone or the unexpected call or even the odd device dwelling on him, whispered trouble.

“Tell me what is wrong,” he almost ordered.

The warrior made yet another gesture at his group, trying to convey they should go away and leave him be. It was late evening, anyway. It wasn’t like they would be able to find anything without proper daylight or an actual guide to lead them through the night.

(A little more effort and the pause would make total sense).

“Talk to me, Synthaer.”

It was likely the use of her name, so frequently ignored by those around her that shook her from whatever thoughts were plaguing her. Canach could almost see her in his mind’s eye, stopping mid pace, raising her head to stare at whatever was in front of her as if it was him instead. Her eyes would narrow, would analyze. Would zero in and focus as if he had all the answers.

“He told me it was my fault.”

As replies went, it was a completely useless and rather uninformative one.

“Everything,” the Commander continued, voice lowered, as if she was trying to get out the greatest amount of information before she lost her nerve. “He turned to me and said I didn’t plan right and people died. He accused me of not caring enough about the dragons and that’s why I wanted to wait instead of charging ahead like a brainless bear. He told me I disrespected Eir and Snaff for not taking over their guild before filling it up with new people! He told me it was all my fault!”

There were no tears in her voice. There was something else, however; anguish, sorrow, a charged tone which screamed guilt even if there was no water leaving her eyes.

“Alright,” he said simply, finding the most comfortable rock on the blasted nothingness she had forced him to take a break in. Someone had spoken too much, a he who lacked a name and apparently the common sense a mother would bestow on her child. Still, hardly enough information. “Explain. Carefully. Slowly. As if I wasn’t there to begin with.”

In any other moment, those words would draw the smallest trace of amusement from the woman. All he received as reward was silence, a pregnant lack of sound which turned the environment around him all the more oppressing. When she spoke it was in a clinical tone, the same he had heard whenever she spoke to the members of the Pact. And yet, with every word which drew her closer to the end of the story, emotion slipped in. Unwarranted and hated, it filled every syllable, it traced her tone until he couldn’t force himself to ignore it.

“I didn’t want anyone to die, Canach!” Synthaer snapped, rage mingling into sadness. “I tried my best not to let anyone die. How dare Braham blame me? How dare he tell me I didn’t do enough? I had to watch my mother be defiled and wounded till death’s door! I had to run off after a creature that made me! I had to kill my brother! With my own hands! How does he think that felt? Does he think is the only one suffering?”

It was quite possible that he would have to kill the Norn in the bloodiest, most painful way he could devise. If only because the sheer stupidity of blaming the Commander of the Pact for everything his foolish mind had devised meant he needed to be taken out of commission before he stumbled into the yet unawaken dragons.

“Does it matter what he thinks?” The warrior asked bluntly.

There were times Canach forgot just how young Synthaer was. It wasn’t the fact that she had been blamed for the deeds undertaken by Mordremoth which bothered her. It was that a friend had done so. Hearing her like that was like sitting by a side on the Grove, watching as the newborn saplings began interacting and worrying, trying not to be harmed but still not strong enough to understand some things should not impact one’s life. Synthaer cared still. No amount of dragon spawn had taken that from her.

“Commander,” he attempted once more. “Listen to me. It doesn’t matter. You can’t control the actions of everyone around you. You can only analyze them and react accordingly.”

Silence was his only answer. He took it as his cue to continue.

“He wants to do this and his people wants to follow him. Good for them. You gave them another option. You cannot control all their decisions and all their actions. That’s insane. What you can do is to continue whatever you are doing, find the weaknesses of the dragons and bring them forth whenever possible. Think of your path and yours alone. Think of your guild. Are you doing the right thing? Are you doing what you need to do?”

There was a long pause before he heard her reply, assured and unhesitant.

“Yes.”

For a reason Canach could not name, that made him feel almost comforted. The last thing they needed was a dragonslayer confused about what she had set out to do.

“Then keep at it. You’ll get to the same goal eventually,” the warrior concluded. And because that was honestly not enough. “Also, he’s an idiot. I do not know why you trust him so.”

Finally, there was a snicker from the other side of the device. A little laugh, over a second after starting but enough for him.

“I’m glad I called you,” she whispered.

“Hm.” He could say she was welcome but then again, emotions were something she did much better than he. Logic, however? That was his ballgame.  “No chance you’re about to tell me where the kid hid whatever she planted on me?”

Her renewed silence held no anguish that he could sense, the emotion pulled back until a later date. There was a little relief, a little gratitude, both drowned in the familiar drive and focus which began returning.

“It wasn’t her,” the (blasted) woman declared calmly. “Call me when you need me. Stay safe, Canach.”

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

First, there were socks. Dark, a greenish tone which brought to mind muddy swaps, unwashed human noses and rainy days. The pair appeared just as they entered Verdant Brink for the first time, carefully placed inside his pack during the night.

In the following weeks, several others were added, always when he was distracted, stuffed inside his backpack where it he least expected them, always made in the most awful colors one could imagine. The purple of branded beings, the blinding orange which reminded him of human children though not for the best reasons, the horrible blue tinge of the ice dragon's minions and the charred remains of Ascalonian spiders.

Canach was sure it was a prank (a horrible, ugly, colorblind prank) when the socks evolved into leggings (puce green, bright yellow and pale pink) and shirts which were either too small to envelop his form completely or too big to be used as anything less than blankets (a mix of black and near purple which should have been forbidden in the entirety of the five kingdoms of Tyria). Eventually, his anonymous torturer managed to get his size correctly enough (which was, in a way, distressing) for him to actually be able to use the aberrations. If he wished to blind anyone else he shared a road with, of course.

None of this would matter, if he hadn't woken up to find his tunic missing in action and himself with nothing more than one of the horrible pranks to use. He was sure he had left it on top of his pack the night before. The small group had been so exhausted than anything else beyond collapsing on the driest patch of land would have been far too much work.

Grimacing in the direction of whatever fabric he did have to cover himself, Canach tugged the shirt over his head. At least it wasn't a green as disgusting as usual? And it was a lovely soft fabric, resistant and well worked. He tugged on it despondently, mourning how the high quality material had been criminally defaced with the disgusting color and bright golden buttons in the form of small bears (because, why in the world not?). Still, it was soft and warm, possibly better than his Grove clothes, which had seen far better days, and likely better than sheer nakedness.

"Oh."

Of course someone was awake. It'd be too lucky if they weren't.

Synthaer was sitting on the opposite side of the fire, her backpack half open by her side, a ripped shirt spread over her knees and a needle carefully held between deft fingers. And she was smiling, he noticed absently, a small smile, a little shy as she tugged the shirt closer to her chest.

She looked ridiculous. Cute and ridiculous; like a puppy made of branches, leaves and sunshine. He could feel the air dancing around her form, rippling around her ankles like a well-trained beast even when relaxed.

"You're using it."

Again, putrid green or near nakedness while facing Mordrem. He would rather not have such a tale to regale all Shining Blade upon his return.

He blinked slowly, moving his eyes from Synthaer to her moving hands, trying to understand just why there was something much like his tunic on the sapling's hands.

"I'm mending it," the Commander declared in response to his unsaid comment, raising his shirt with both hands while analyzing the several holes critically. "It was more holes than fabric at this point. I don't know why you continued to use it instead of exchanging it for the newer things." At his elongated silence, the sapling's hands stopped, effectively stopping the rather distracting waving of her needle through the air. "The new things?" She pointed at his backpack with a small frown. "I've been working on them for the past months or so. Nor armor, of course, you don't use lighter materials but everything else that you might need. Made for good practice."

(Only if she was practicing how to horrify the children of Divinity's come Wintersday).

"It was you?"

Stupid question. Still, it was early and his Commander was darning his shirt and slipping socks made in unnamable colors into his backpack without his awareness. The situation deserved some stupidity that wasn't hers.

"Of course!" Again, the disarming smile of someone completely confident in herself. "Those are gifts."

"So the socks, the" (horrible, horrible) "sweaters and whatever that pink thing was…"

"Muffler."

Right.

"Those were gifts?"

Suddenly, it all made sense, so much that he was an idiot for not realizing it sooner. The Commander was a lithe and fast fighter and it did make sense for her to practice a craft which would be useful for such a position. But it even made more sense when he noticed that her armor, a gossamer and silk confection which had likely costed someone's arm and leg, was made of a color between green and yellow that seemed a random passerby had thrown up on the yarn.

"Do you want some like mine?" Her grin expanded, blinding and beyond ridiculous. "Because if so, I'll get my threads out right now. I have this lovely shade of red which I bought on Lion's Arch. I can enchant it just right for you!"

"No!"

Pale Tree, any shade she considered lovely was likely something one of Zaithan's decaying minions would sport on their rotting skin.

"Is there a problem…?"

Her eyes opened further. Wide. Innocent. Ignorant and idiotic.

Canach opened his lips, likely to tell her that he'd rather eat his partially ruined tunic, all his wayward socks and possibly the leggings covered in tomato sauce than using anything that she might consider pretty or, heaven's forbid, beautiful.

"I prefer heavy armor," he blurted out instead (because why not?), before the sapling resolved to start measuring him. Wait. Dearest mother, she likely already had. Did that meant he should feel violated? Something in him told him he should feel violated. Synthaer was the stalker with the oddest priorities he had ever seen.

Her expression crumbled.

"Yes, that makes sense. You spent far too much time in the frontlines to use something like this. It's a shame. I'm not too bad at it now, I'm sure." He took a deep breath (too soon, too soon) before her smile returned, bright and soft like new fallen snow. "But I can still make you underclothes and tunics, right?"

His very green shirt was currently being stitched in purple.

Canach resigned himself there and then that he would look like a fool until the situation with the Mordrem was resolved. At least everyone they met eventually ended up dead or incapacitated.

"Sure, Commander."

Bright spots.

Like this future clothing, even.

xxxXXXxxx

"Canach? Are those birds on your socks?"

"Shut up, Asura."

"They really look like birds. Purple birds."

"I call your attention to the fact that your Golem is an incredibly large target and I have grenades to spare."

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

Canach rubbed an arm uncomfortably, trying to discern why in the world he was so bothered. Something in the air felt like home. Worse, it felt like Trahearne, like that strange tinge of power the Marshall of the Pact began carrying as soon as he took up the position. It felt suffocating. At any moment, he expected Mother’s Avatar to run through the fields of Lake Doric, checking whether he had been a good boy instead of going off with his old tricks.

He did not like it. There were (several) (most important) reasons for the warrior to keep his distance from both the Tree and the Dream. (None of them were petty at all).

Trying to relax seemed to be impossible. The White Mantle did their best to keep him busy, the Seraph did scream for help at appropriate intervals but he could only feel that strange energy. It reached for him even where he stood, whispering like newly fallen leaves in the updrafts.

“Ah. There they are!”

Suddenly, those whispers became a steady stream of mumbled words as the Commander made her appearance. Synthaer flew down from a nearby updraft, bright glider contracting sharply against her back upon landing. Her expression was joyous, energetic as he had only seen her prior to the battle with their Father. There was even a spring to her step, energy in her every cell, in her every trace of flesh.

None of those details drew his slightest attention.

Her scepter was new. It seemed like born from the ground. A giant flower flourishing with life and power, longer than the one she had carried in Magumma. Stronger, messy even, several small tree trunks entwined in a single object which was almost impossible to consider such when held in her hand.

It felt like their Mother. It felt like Trahearne. And, Tree help him, it even felt like another Firstborn whose memory he had long buried.

“Hello, Cana—“

The warrior did not let her finish. Ignoring her confusion, Canach took hold of her elbow and dragged her away from the rest of the group before anyone could stop him.

“Where did you find that thing?” The words tumbled from his lips, sudden and piercing.

Synthaer did not reply for a long moment, waiting until they had stopped to give him all the weight of her serious frown. Tight little lines occupied her youthful face as she contemplated his most recent madness.

“Are we talking about Caladbolg?”

The scepter sparkled at her waist, trailing light and energy with her every movement.

“Of course we’re talking about it!” He snapped out. What else would carry the feel of the Firstborn so deeply imbedded in its surface? “Wasn’t it broken in Magumma? How is it here. How is it that?”

The Commander’s smile was so innocent, it made him want to throw up, a feeling he hadn’t known to be possible until that very moment. Candidly, she told him how she had been contacted by some newly born sapling with a death wish, told to run all over the world for pieces of wood and essences (and who knew what those last implied) before losing her time battling ghosts and imprints of their lost family.

“What were you thinking?”

The previous joy faded from Synthaer’s expression. It made her look much more the Commander of the Pact than the sapling she truly was. Annoyance sparked behind her placid expression.

“… you do know I’d appreciate if, at any moment, you’d make sense?” She asked mildly.

Idiot. Guild and Pact, they followed an idiot. “That thing!” He repeated loudly. “It killed them. It’s cursed from the very moment mother took it from herself. It should have been left to rot in the middle of Magumma never to be seen again. Instead, you go back and you fix it as something you can actually use? Are you insane? Do you think there is any way you can make yourself any bigger of a target than you already are?”

Synthaer stared up at him, purple eyes calm and sedate as he raged. No. No, he was the insane one, he could read in her gaze. Who else was yelling and shouting in the middle of enemy lines about curses and long dead people?

“You cannot carry it.” Every word dragged in his throat.

To her credit, the Commander did not laugh. She did not even mock his insanity or patronized him (completely, he was sure she was doing it on the inside). Her hand, however, moved to touch the one holding her (hadn’t he already released her?) and slowly pushed the fingers away.

“You are afraid for me?”

(That was what a normal, rational being would deduce from his drivel, yes). His eyes were hauled towards the weapon once more, noticing how the cursed thing would whisper and move with the breeze even though there was none to begin with. It made him want to break it into countless pieces. To throw it onto the ground and bash it until nothing was left but dust. To cast into fire and let it be undone in the breeze. He was pushed back to Synthaer when callused hands touched his cheeks, gently pushing until they nestled his face and forced his eyes onto hers.

His throat was clogged now. His eyes narrowed and sharp, acid covering the words running through his mind and a fear without reason to exist expanding underneath his skin until he felt ready to burst at the seams.

“You’re being foolish, Canach.”

All of this, Synthaer saw with her calm purple gaze.

“Riannoc died because he was caught off guard by a murderer,” she continued slowly (as if any faster would not get through his running thoughts). “Trahearne died because he faced a dragon. You cannot blame their weapon for their actions. A good weapon will always call warriors to it and, sadly, warriors do not die on their bed with large families around them.”

No. That was not right. The thing fed upon their souls. It gave courage to its bearer and prodded the rest to follow its simmering trail.

The Commander was struggling not to roll her eyes, lips pressed against each other in a parody of a displeased mother. “I’m a dragon hunter, Canach. Are you really sure it’s my weapon which will kill me? Or the fact that I keep throwing myself onto places where a lot of murderous things inhabit?”

He knew. He knew. And yet, it felt like that weapon could only worsen the situation. Bring more attackers to where it shone with its promises of power. 

Mother, when she became the logical being in a discussion, something had to be incredibly wrong. Synthaer winked, apparently attempting to defuse the tension whispering through his limbs. It wasn’t working. He could disassociate that object from the two elder brothers he had lost most stupidly. 

“And when I put it this way, it makes total and complete sense that I’m going to go out possibly in some skirmish by stumbling onto a tree?” Her hands slid down his cheeks, fingers trailing down gently until the touch was no more. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

Canach couldn’t argue with that. She most certainly would.

“I don’t think you should place yourself in more undue danger, Commander.” His voice sounded like his again. Steady and strong even though he could feel the slight rasp worry had left in its wake. “I think it is foolish to use something which paints yet another target on your back. And yet.”

“And yet?” She repeated slowly.

“If you believe it will give you an edge in battles to come, I should not be the one to put any obstacles in your wishes. You have, after all, survived thus far though only the Tree knows how.”

Her smile finally bloomed, wide and bright as sunlight across the nearby lake.

“Hiding behind better armored individuals, of course.”

Obviously.

Silence fell between them, a well-deserved pause which the warrior had decided to use wisely. As in, rejoining their companions as soon as possible, perchance before Synthaer chose to make questions about this unthought actions. Her fingers lay upon his arm, however, keeping him in place until she had his attention.

Should have been faster.

The sapling hesitated before taking a step back, distractedly reaching for her most recent weapon as if taking comfort in its presence. “I’m not sure you want to keep battling once you’re done with the Shining Blade and apparently, you really hate Caladbolg.”

Hate could not begin to describe what he felt towards that repulsive thing.

“Still.” A new bout of hesitation, punctuated by sharp teeth digging onto her lower lip. “When it’s done with me will you return it home?” Synthaer carefully avoided his form, eyes searching for the mansion they were supposed to be invading. “I’d like for someone else to keep up fighting. It feels wrong to have it rotting by a road somewhere, lost until some bandit stumbles upon it.”

She was asking him to retrieve her likely murderer? Canach bristled in his place, feeling that mix of rage and fear tugging for control yet again. But it had been enough for one day. They were adults (he more than her, of course) and this was a discussion that he would not win. Especially when she looked at him from the corner of her eye.

“You need to stop asking me to do things I do not want to do.”

Purple eyes and an impish smile, determined and fearless.

“If I don’t ask, how will I know if you’re up do them anyway?”

Who else would make sure the little things she asked got done? The personal ones? Who would make sure she would rest easy knowing the details were taken care of even when she was not there but family?

“You’re a bitch, Commander,” he replied instead.

“So you keep reminding me.”

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

The horrible portrait was not going anywhere. Canach would know. He had tried closing his eyes several times, move them to the sapling’s instead and wander around the room so he could see literally anything else. Sadly, none of that worked. It did not seem to work for his companion either.

“Close your mouth, Commander.”

Her obedience lasted for a total of ten seconds.

“It’s…”

“Yes,” he interruptedly briskly because that thing should not be named or described. “I am aware who it is and why it is here. I am also aware of your mouth remains open and it is not as distracting as it disgusting.”

Synthaer blinked several times. She seemed to be trying to clean the image from the back of her eyelids.

It was a strategy that persisted in yielding no results. Logan Thackery’s painting stood silently on the wall, hanging over the former minister’s desk in all its glory like some sort of cursed item.

“You think that’s why he wanted the throne?” The elementalist asked slowly, purple eyes shifting from surprise to curiosity with nary a moment in between. “Jealousy?”

“Synthaer, might you not put odd thoughts in my mind?”

“Maybe he’d want to marry him. You know, make him his king.” As her thoughts ran from her, Synthaer continued speaking, hands waving distractedly in the air as if they too couldn’t handle the oddity. “Do you think that’s why he kept needling him randomly? You know, a request for attention Jenna couldn’t allow him otherwise?”

Canach pinched his nose, eyes tightly closed. “At any moment you wish to stop, Commander.”

“Do you wonder if they would adopt?”

Now she was just having fun at his expense.

“I certainly do so now and I thoroughly wish I didn’t.”

Her smile widened widely, eyes relaxing a smidge as she took the opportunity to forget what was happening on the floor below them. Canach was sure the silly sapling would continue the dumb conversation had they been alone in the mansion.

“Commander? Where are you?”

Logan’s voice cut through the hissed conversation. For the first time since the tree knew when (ever), Canach saw his reaction mirrored in the younger’s face. Eyes opened in alarm, urgency as she looked everywhere for some sort of exit which the locked windows clearly did not wish to supply.

“We need to!”

“Commander!” The smooth voice repeated. “Ah. Upstairs.”

He shouldn’t bother. He definitely should not worry about the subject. But the sheer idea of explaining to the human Commander the atrocity sitting on the wall was not going to happen.

“Do something, woman!”

Synthaer’s expression shifted into certainty as she exploded into action. A loud sneeze heralded a torrent of fire rushing from her hands towards the offending painting, nearly swallowing it with its strength. The flames slipped through the painting, carelessly swallowing paint, wall, wood and canvas. “Oops. Oh, dear mother, I am so very sorry.” And with that lovely bit of refinement, her fist closed, a rush of cold enveloped her form as attunement shifted (whatever that meant; elementalists had a lingo of their own, it seemed) before the sapling drenched the entire wall in icy water.

It was a subtle action all around.

“Discreet.”

“You told me to do something!” The woman hissed as he observed the ruined wall.

He would not smile. He would not. “I am very glad I didn’t say ‘do it fast’ or you’d set me on fire.”

“Commander, is there a problem?” A harsh footfall heralded the entry of the human warrior in all its half-wounded glory. Frowning, he stopped at the threshold, blinking slowly for whatever reason. (It could be the smoke the Commander’s action had caused which was,  by then, invading the room. Who would know?) “What happened here?”

Logan’s eyes turned from sylvari to sylvari to a still fuming wall, an eyebrow firmly raising towards his hairline. His expression neatly spelled the feeling of a wearied father facing terribly unruly children. And vastly destroyed property.

“Why is there a hole in the wall, my friend?”

“I’m quite sure the man poisoned this chamber somewhat." At any other moment, Canach would be appalled with the horrible reply. "The Commander’s body merely reacted. Elementalists do so often.”

“It was a lovely painting.” There was a pause which seemed to resound in the silence and the scent of burned paper. He struggled not to look at his sister because the whole situation was not hilarious at all. “I am sad.”

(She surely did not look like it.)

“We can see that.”

Logan gave them another look. It made him share more than a few particularities with a shining Avatar in the Grove. “Caithe was not as difficult as the both of you.”

“She’s special,” Canach commented lightly.

A light eyebrow rose on the girl’s face. “I thought we were.”

“We are special in an advantageous manner, Commander. Your Valiant is just annoying.” 

Synthaer’s shoulder bumped into his companionably. It was there, staring at the human Seraph’s back as he turned from there, commenting about the inanity of the sylvari race as a whole while his Commander’s expression showed nothing but amusement and a badly acted regret that Canach realized he would miss it. This. Her.

“You could have simply exploded the whole room,” Canach advised calmly. “It would take care of any need to clean it afterwards.” 

“Next time, you’re explaining."

“What, are you planning to find another secret white mantle lair ruled by a creature with strange attachments to the Seraph?”

“With the strange way my life is going,” said the dragon-slayer with an impossibly correct amount of logic. “It’s not completely impossible.”

It would not be awful to miss her.

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

Being a Commander was hard.

The Elementalist learned that fact when suddenly thrust upon the job, learning the ropes as she went, leaning against her Marshall when everything became too confusing (too big, too large, too messy, too bloody) to be handled alone. And her story grew before she was aware of it, taking proportions which she would never be able to measure up to. The Elementalist knew what people said once they met her. The legend was strong, amazing, impossibly capable. She was not.

Synthaer was a young sapling barely away from the Tree, rather good at destroying things, too curious by far and someone who could, with some time, find the necessary solutions to a given problem.

The hardest detail of being a Commander, however, did not deal with dragon minions, running all around the world or surviving when all odds were stacked high against you. No. In her (humble) opinion, the worst was to see someone dear in danger and place everyone (everything) else first because that was the right thing to do.

The people she had sacrificed during the years because it was the right thing to do. The castle walls destroyed into nothing. The hearts shattered. Her own grief carefully hidden whenever necessary beneath an upbeat demeanor and a blinding smile.

Synthaer was a good Commander, everyone said. They followed during hard times, watching as she kept jumping forward into danger and ignored the rest. Ignored her mother dying due to corruption or her struggle with a father’s command she didn’t want. Ignored the many nights awake, staring at a moonless sky and hoping for a better tomorrow. Ignored all because to pay attention was to see beyond the legend and that’d make them fear.

She wasn’t a Commander anymore. Not really.

(So screw everyone.)

Her communicator pinged gently bringing her awareness away from the mess Doric has become, ringing with Canach’s ever so pleased voice. Sometimes she wondered how hard it was to be so constantly a killjoy. Then he made snarky comments and stupid jokes, lightening her heart with joy and she forgave him the dour grey cloud he carried everywhere.

“Can anyone explain what is going on?”

“Commander’s orders,” a less familiar voice confessed loudly. It was not Canach’s communicator, Synthaer realized quickly. Which meant the patrol who had been supposed to keep out of reach had been caught by their prey. She almost hit herself as the words crossed the air. What part of the word secrecy bypassed people? Sure, Canach was efficient, brimming with awareness and care but he often forgot one did not need to trample through the wilderness. It should not be that hard to follow him from afar.

Next time, she would send someone from the Order.

“The Commander? Synthaer?”

(No. The other Commander of the Pact).

“Synthaer!”

And then, it became his communicator.

With a hidden sigh, the woman grasped the device hidden underneath her clothes and prepared her many many amounts of evasiveness, which would be required for her to finish the following conversation without threats of future harm.

“Dulcet tones so early in the morning,” she commented lightly, finger tapping against Caladbolg gently. Sparks licked her skin in a makeshift game. (Laughter echoed in her ears, male and gentle and not one she had ever heard in her living memory.) “It makes my day so much brighter.”

Canach’s voiced snapped out, blunt as a sword against armor.

“Synthaer, you can’t have soldiers of the Pact following me around! It’s ridiculous! I don’t need a minder!”

Her lips curled into a smile.

“Strangely, their presence says I can.”

 An irritated sigh preceded his next words. “Why are they even obeying you? You don’t belong to the Pact anymore! You’re Dragon’s Watch! It’s not like you have the authority to order them around.”

“A, Almorra did say I would always belong to the Pact so I’m still a Commander.” She still belonged, her heart whispered, she did not abandon them. No one could take this from her any more than they could take the Tree. “I know,” the elementalist continued blandly before something in her chest hurt and she wavered. “Perks of having killed two dragons. And B, I killed two dragons. People like me.”

“People who don’t know you,” he snapped.

“Potato, potahto. Enjoy your travels.”

“I won’t be able to enjoy anything with two sniffing dogs around my heels!” And he said she was the runt of the family. What a big baby. “Why are they following me?”

Synthaer carefully heard the question, acknowledged it and then avoided answering with the ease of experience. “Don’t call them dogs, brother. It is not polite.”

“You call polite being followed through a continent? They… wait.” Suspicion rolled through his voice with the strength of a small Orrian Abomination. “Are there more, Commander?”

(Smart, smart sylvari).

“Of course not.”

Smart enough to know when she was lying through her teeth.

“Commander!”

It didn’t matter. Canach was her brother. Out of all of those who belonged to the Pale Tree, he knew her best. Better than Caithe, Trahearne and mother, better than any soldier who had fought by her side or the menders who had guided her first as a Valiant. He had crossed battlefields with her, complained and fought and yelled while keeping her sanity tightly held together with teeth and claws. He was her brother and, in his own special way, she knew he loved her. It was one of the few certainties in her life. Canach loved her.

Almost as much as she loved his stupid prickly pointed face.

Another sigh found its way through the communication. Exasperated. Such a Canach sound.

“At any point will you explain what is happening?”

(That was a solid no).

“I’ll tell them to back off a bit,” she replied instead. As good a warrior as Canach was, they were not supposed to be noticed. (What were people teaching in the Vigil these days? Knit sweaters and dance through the woods?) “Don’t forget to call. I worry otherwise.”

And with those last words, the female closed the connection. Better he remained alert while her men kept to his back and shared her message to any White Mantle still biting at his heels.

(If you harm this man, the Commander will come).

Her eyes turned to the small bunch of soldiers standing in front of her. Synthaer was not a Commander of the Pact or a Warmaster of the Vigil anymore. They owed her no loyalty. But she knew these men. She had survived through dark days and nightmarish nights by their side, both in Orr and later on in the middle of the jungles of Magumma. She loved them and they loved her. War had wrought this too.

“Let us find that thing parading as a Mursatt before it tumbles even more into our territory, shall we?” Without hesitation, they saluted their Commander before trailing down the path.  Synthaer followed, a smile gracing her expression.

And if, this time, that smile looked a little less happy and a lot more dangerous, none bothered to notice.

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

Canach did not know why he kept watching the duo. A little of morbid curiosity probably. Like watching a cart crashing against a wall or something so rare it could not be described in a credible manner.

“Commander.”

The Firstborn rested his large hand on the younger’s shoulder. From his place, he could see the male’s lips move in silent words, the little smile which bloomed on her face (slight and happy), the gentle glint on the elder’s eyes. The way that soft touch turned into a tight embrace and she disappeared between her brother’s arms. There were fingers smoothing clothes, firmly closed eyes and slow breathing in a kind act which he had once watched every day, standing on his mother’s slopes.  

It was, nevertheless, an odd thing for the secondborn to observe.

Trahearne had always been a symbol, the steadiest, the strongest – after Rhiannoc, of course - the most level-headed. Where Caithe and Faolain had flitted back and forth in discovery and wonder, he had stood back, learning at their mother’s knee all she could spare to teach. The younger saplings had had the chance to grow and evolve. Trahearne had been born grown, wise and ever stuck in his arrogance. To see him leaning on another like that was unexpected, to say the least. Uncomfortable even.

It felt wrong.

That and seeing the one who had defeated him be so soft, dragged against his pride like nails upon a chalkboard. Could they bear to be any more disgustingly affectionate?

As it was, they could. The Marshall stepped back, long fingers tracing the short leaves of the other’s head and her smile was so sweet; it virtually dripped sugar and candy corn.

“Will do, brother,” her voice trailed back to him. “Send me a message when you arrive, yes? I’ll follow as soon as the forts are settled.”

“I have no doubt you will, Commander.” He patted her leaves carefully even as he lay the law of the land onto the other’s shoulders. “Relax and worry only about your mission. I will be waiting when you are done. Only a couple more dragons to go, yes?”

“Speak for yourself. One more and I’m retiring.”

The duo shared a laugh, as grating as the affectionate embrace.

“I will see you soon.” A last pat and Trahearne was stepping back. “Be careful.”

Once upon a time, the firstborn had told him such words. He had been the unofficial guide, the inexistent father to a generation of newborns. Years had passed, however, and the only words he had sent his way had been not so veiled admonishments over his choices. Canach attempted to remember those days. Had he really tried to impress the older man? He was sure he had. Everyone did. There was something about the Marshall, so unattainable and shining, that made all those beneath attempt to follow if only to catch a glimpse of that light. But it was hard to do so. It was tiring.

It didn’t matter how many times Trahearne would look back with kindness, he would always be looking back and Canach would always be beneath.

Well. To each, its own. If this woman wished to feel inadequate at every moment by following the Marshall, then that was her plight to bear, not his. He had had enough.

Like waking from the dream, the Commander blinked slowly, turning her eyes from the area which had so fascinated her for a long time to meet his. Worry lurked within, a frown so deep it traced every inch of her expression before being pushed under her usually flamboyant demeanor. Her newly born smile was so bright, it could have blinded a lesser man. Or fooled him, at least.

“Yes?”

It wasn’t a sharp tone from the Commander – she had gifted him enough of those since his capture to last for several lifetimes – but it sounded like she expected him to comment upon the scene he had interrupted. The air around them stilled, sharpened, traces of wind struggling to move underneath her will.

For a moment, he barely dared to breathe.

“What are we to expect in the Silverwastes?” No, no, he had not been about to comment on the two siblings, to laugh of her foolishness as the air struggled and her eyes burned against the fake smile. “I do hope your reply isn’t silver, wastes or wastes of silver. While undoubtedly funny to you, it would be terribly unimaginative.”

Eyes which had been narrowed in suspicion, blinked quickly in surprise. 

The air around them moved sharply before resuming its natural flow.

In a way, it was a reaction as grating as their previous affection. As unthoughtful as Canach could be sometimes, he was an honorable man. Besides, what a crude weapon it would be to use a hug between siblings to mock her. Better to use the fact that she clearly had no control whatsoever over her emotions and powers.

“Sand. Lots and lots of sand,” she eventually replied, traces of tentativeness in every sound.

(The new saplings were idiots.)

He nodded slowly. “A description as insipid as expected. Well done, Commander.  You never disappoint.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew what imagination was.” The smile was still there but less happy, a hint of a curve that spoke of venom. (Was anything in there bar duty? Was she able to distil hatred like any of the other common mortals? He was almost curious over the matter.) “Would your mind falter if I expanded my description further?”

“Is that what takes for a new sapling to break?” The warrior needled further, (not amused, never amused). “The secondborn are made of far sterner stuff.”

She scoffed in a manner more adequate to an old drunk in a seven-day binge. “You needed one of the saplings to kill a dragon. Talent over the secondborn’s fabled endurance, perhaps?”

“Better than the firstborn, at least. That one has such a large amount of people watching his every move, he’ll only hurt himself if he stumbles upon a rock.”

The Commander vacillated as their banter was abruptly cut short. That wide purple gaze fell upon his expression, incredulous beyond anything words could describe.

“Are you trying to assure me he will be fine in the most ridiculous manner possible?”

Canach did not even hesitate.

“Is there any reason why I should bother to say anything else but the truth? I am an honest being, Commander. That much you can trust from me.”

Mother’s lessons still held, if nothing else.

Her fake smile slipped into honesty as her eyes glinted in humor. Body straightened as the air around them moved in lazy patterns and any thoughts which she had hidden behind that smile were relegated to where they wouldn’t bother her.

It occurred then it was likely the first time she had responded so amiably to him.

(He didn’t understand why. He had just been honest.

Pale Tree.

Would she think he was attempting to become friends?)

“Stop looking so disgusted, Canach. I was just smiling.”

(Good.

Crisis averted.)

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

The grimness on Synthaer’s face did not suit her.

It was understandable. Facing a God, facing a creature so far out of one’s understanding was hard work. One they had already undertaken and won.

The fear did not suit her either.

Canach watched her cautiously as she moved through the camp. There was a nervous energy to her path. He could see the trails of lightning running up and down her arms every time she moved, as if she had declined to deal with something as inconsequential as control and not kill everyone around them with an ill-placed storm. Elementalists.

Purple leaves moved awkwardly in the breeze as the woman turned from side to side, watching her domain (guild) and the few people who heard her words nowadays.

And then nodded.

Balthazar’s hit had probably more than just scrambled that brain of hers.

“Kas, I’m done for now. We’ll be back by morning.” (Done with what? Back from where? We who?)

Kasmeer rose her eyes from her stew. Her smile was as false as any she had sported since the appearance of her God in the physical world. (He had no compassion for her. His father had been a demonic being bent on destroying the world and no one had heard him complaining. Most of the time.) “Do you have everything you need?”

“Mhm.” The Commander tugged the objects she was carrying – a very uneven pile of blankets – more closely against her. “I even bring a couple of things for the grump. Stop Rytlock from freeing any more Gods while we’re distracted, yes?”

Said charr made a noise from the back of his throat which would have felled a lesser opponent.

“I can hear you just fine, boss,” he grumbled.

“I have high hopes you’ll continue to do so and not free any more Gods while we’re distracted.” Synthaer nodded, her smile straining near the point of a grimace.

When she turned to him, however, the grin had disappeared only to be replaced by seriousness and worry. Her purple eyes stared him down, whispering quietly that her plan was underway and there was little he could do but to go with it. Whatever it was. It was generally a bad idea to do so. It was usual and expected but it also tended to end badly for his side of the equation.

“Here, hold this.”

An oval shaped item was extended to him; gold, beautiful and thoroughly useless.

“Because I need home decorations?”

The Commander gave him a look. It was an offensive look. Translated into words it would read something as ‘did the Tree forget to give you any sort of reasoning skills, do what I say, why are you not doing what I said?’. Very upsetting.

Synthaer did not argue. With an expression which clearly stated she wanted to punch him with the item, she rested it forcibly against his chest instead, all with a smile which promised horribly things to take place. Canach had the time to start to yell at her before the world around him collapsed into a tunnel of lightning and void. Something held him around his waist cruelly, pushing him through the nothingness as if he was nothing but a stone in a catapult. Had he been a human, had he been weak, the sylvari was sure he would have passed out.

Instead, he found himself on his knees, staring at a golden floor and attempting to regain his bearings.

“It’s not that bad.”

(Because it was totally natural for a stomach to wish to leave its intended body).

The golden item was released onto the ground, heavily tumbling at his side, before the Commander’s arm pushed him upwards and onto his feet. Yellow light flooded his vision, caressing gentle plants and lovely flowers all around him. It was a courtyard she had brought him into, large and well lit, surrounding what he could only describe as a Temple.

In the middle, stood a dragon.

His heart stopped.

Mordremoth roared in his ears, tightening his claws into his mind.

(Dead. He was dead. He had been dead for months and he cannot.)

“That’s Aurene,” Synthaer informed softly, fingers closing on his arm. He could not flee – he did not wish to flee! – not with her steady support by his side. “Glint’s child. Vlast’s sister. I have been looking after her for a while now.

Mordremoth had been large, huge, greater than imagination. He had been dark and demonic, consuming all around him with the encompassing aura of destruction and wrong which permeated every territory undertaken by the dragons. He had been his father, his disgusting hated father who Canach had been more than happy to see dead and buried.

This dragon was, in comparison, barely a babe. Shining and sweet, with big blue eyes and large shards erupting from its scale-covered body. Her head rose silently when she noticed she was no longer alone – there was a little snuffle as she turned to the newcomers – but otherwise did not move.

Did not attack.

Did not corrupt the world around her.

“Come, Canach. We’re staying here tonight.”

Balthazar had done far more than scrambling the Commander’s mind, it seemed.

Canach found himself being dragged towards the creature – towards the large snout and thick teeth, towards the moving tail which had crystals larger than his head – all by a Commander who had gone completely mad if she thought he would do anything bar leaving. In that exact moment. Right then.

“I am not sleeping near a dragon, Commander,” he declared bluntly.

Synthaer did not bother to glance at him. Her hands were sure and careful as they placed the blankets on the floor. Thin fingers moved to scratch at the dragon’s head, caressing a long ear before pulling the large tail to the side. A little cocoon of scaly creature and sharp deadly fangs.

“Commander.”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” She continued ruffling the pillow. There was a narrowing of her eyes which spoke of danger and a trace of a smile on her lips which was everything but amused. “You are going to get that blanket and are going to follow me so we can show Aurene she still has someone who adores her and you are going to like it.”

The scaly tail reached around him, entwining around his feet.

“We are her family, Canach,” the Commander murmured. Her fists closed around the fabric she still held; pain and worry echoed from her figure, so much sadness he could not understand surrounding both creatures. “The last sane children of the dragons. We are her cousins and she just lost her big brother.”

Aurene chose that moment to look up, bright blue eyes wet and gentle beyond words.

As unlike a dragon as he had ever seen.

Something in him tightened. So did his jaw, teeth grinding painfully and throat closing before he could say anything he would regret at a later date.

Synthaer smiled sadly then. Softly, very slowly, she lowered herself to the dragon, resting her pillow against a large paw, tucking herself against the warm belly. A rumble of approval ran through the air as Aurene’s head rested against the Commander’s, tucking itself close until one could not see where the dragon or the sylvari began and ended.

“We’re here, baby girl. You’re not alone,” she cooed. To a dragon.

He hated her so much.

Silently, the warrior lowered himself to the floor. His sword was pushed to the side – not too far, of course – his armor slowly being discarded because if he was going to do something as incredibly stupid, might as well be comfortable, his shield resting by his feet. Blankets were thrown at him from the bundle of Commander on the floor.

“What would you have done if I had said I wouldn’t stay?”

Her sleepy voice rose from the mountain of blankets. “I’d send you to mother with messages and letting her know you wished to speak to her about the wonders and amazingness of the Grove again. And again.” He could hear the smile in every word. “And again.”

“I’d leave the guild if you did that.”

Aurene’s tail chose that moment to tighten further around his body, accompanied by the opening of a very large, very blue eye. It stared directly at him.

There was an unsaid request in that gaze.

(sadness and longing and love all twisted into an uneven mesh)

“Only I would never.”

The satisfied grumble reverberated through the scaly body. Without looking, he knew Synthaer to be smiling also, hidden by the light crystals of the dragon’s body.

“We love you too, Canach.”

(

...

Annoying little pests, the both of them)

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

(Wake up, wake up, wake up)

Canach was not sure for how long he had been staring at the commander’s form. It couldn’t be long. She had yet to breathe so it could only be a couple of minutes, if that much. She was silent and still and she would move in two more seconds.

(Wake up, wake up, wake, you fool)

They had been delayed, that was all. A rush of wind they did not expect and that the airship had needed to avoid. It had been just ten minutes. Five. A few seconds. Balthazar wouldn’t be able to defeat the Commander of the Pact so easily. She had faced dragons and he hadn’t. It was supposed to be difficult to battle her. It was supposed to be impossible to defeat her, all seven feet of her with fire in her eyes and lightning between her fingers, wasn’t that what the stories claimed?

(And it had been difficult, hadn’t it?)

The area around them was scorched to the ground, bloodied and broken underneath their feet. The Commander was known to unleashed pretty much everything she had at her disposal when pushed against a wall and Balthazar didn’t exactly hold back. The ground told that story well. Debris and ash (and dark green sap) dribbling slowly onto the dry earth.

(You were not supposed to fail.)

But she had. Her body seemed as shattered as the floor beneath her, ripped and slashed. Stained beyond belief. It was almost impossible to believe she would walk away from such wounds. Even the hand in his was cold and lifeles… (no no, it was asleep, it was unconsciousness and resting and not dead, not leaving him in such a stupid disgraceful manner, how dared she? How dared he?)

Canach tightened his hold.

It did not hold back.

“She’s gone, Canach. We need to go. We need to… contact someone. The Queen? The Pale Tree?”

It would accomplish nothing. The Commander was a tool to them, a large cog in their machine, sure, but still a piece to be discarded under their fingers. None of them knew how she lived and breathed on the road, how she loved to explore, to try new things, to push her blanket closer when deeper in sleep and roll herself into a little ball of plant material when dreaming. They knew she was a good warrior but none knew how she was a good person, giving a second opportunity to someone who didn’t deserve it.

“I don’t care.”

(You don’t care, she had said, too much work. Then why did it hurt? Why did it bother? Why did the urge to break Balthazar into a thousand pieces was growing and growing and growing until it would either suffocate or rip him apart?)

“Canach.”

Shut up, he wanted to say, don’t meddle where you are not called for. He didn’t meddle between her and the necromancer, did he? He just kept quiet. So should she and let him watch over her. It was his job now. Watch over the Commander.

“She’s going to wake up,” he told her instead because anything else widened the chasm inside his chest until the gaping wound was all he could feel.

Kasmeer’s voice was filled with tears. “She’s gone.”

“She’s right here and she’s listening.”

(And you’re making me a liar, Synthaer. You goddamned idiot. Wake up.)

In a story, in a book, she would wake then. She would open those large eyes and stare up at him as if wondering why he was holding her, tugging like a child and waiting for her reaction. This was not a story. So she was not dead. She could not be. Even if her face was stained with sorrow and cruelty, if her eyes were closed and lifeless, if her body refused to move even after sensing his touch. She could not be.

His forehead fell against hers slowly.

It was cold.

A hand reached for his arm, unforgiving talons ripping him away from the Commander and forced him to look away from the woman. Rytlock was not a nice creature. A kind one, perhaps, someone who could empathize but not nice. There was nothing nice in his hold, in his eyes staring onto his ordering for him to get a grip on himself.

“We need to go.”

There had never been more pity in the charr’s stance than in that moment.

In any other moment, Canach’s pride would have bristled against it. He would have yelled. He would have attacked the other warrior because what else could he do except to rage against injustice?

In any other.

But then the body by their feet spasmed painfully. A quick short breath followed by (dearest mother) a dozen more before steadying in an ending stream. Purple eyes opened because she was not dead or gone, just wounded and pained. (See? See?)

“You are late,” she accused softly.

The warrior swallowed, feeling thin fingers tightening against his.

“This time alone, I apologize, Commander.”

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

Ever since joining Dragon’s watch, Canach had found staying in the background was mostly unwished, unwarranted and impossible to accomplish. And that was how he wanted it, he would admit – if forced by circumstance and enough drink to poison a charr. This style of living, this odd road which took him to every corner of the world was fun. Dangerous, fun, dark and so filled with wonders that he couldn’t help but pursue it through every difficulty.

Then something happened, an event they could not predict, and he’d wonder if he was doing the right thing.

“I’m sorry, Taimi. I’m so sorry. I’m here and you’re safe. You’re safe. I won’t let him get you. I’ll never let him get you again.”

The Commander sat down in the middle of the golem’s rubble, tugging the asura closer into her embrace. Her litany was muttered under her breath into Taimi’s hair, again and again only to repeat as soon as her breath recovered. Rox lingered by their back, both hands resting on the Commander’s shoulders while the Norn… oh, that one. Canach could hear his voice even when he didn’t speak. Words were spelled out in the stiff posture of his shoulders, the thick pressed lips, the frown drawn over his brows. The sylvari warrior had spent enough time in the middle of humans – and on the dubious company of Anise – to read his conclusions all over that dumb wide face.

He was about to dump all his guilt on the Commander.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been doing that ever since Mordremoth had fallen, was it?

“It wasn’t her fault.”

(Because apparently someone needed this obvious and most simple fact spelled).

The norn’s lips pressed, if possible even further.

“She’s the guild leader,” he declared, as if it was information for anyone else. “It was her decision for Taimi to be where she was. It was her responsibility to keep track of what was going on.”

“And it was her also the ability to break herself into several pieces and be everywhere Palawa was sending warriors? My, Commander. You must tell me how you manage such a wondrous task.”

Synthaer did not favor him with her attention. Not even a glance.

“You mean to tell me you can’t keep track of a kid?” The norn was on the threshold of violence. Canach could see it – could taste it – that edge right before the explosion resounded. His body tensed, fingers tightening on his sword’s hilt until sap threatened to break through his skin. He could see Rox’s fingers releasing slowly, her attention moving from the Commander to her friend. Or from her friend to her Commander?

(He couldn’t keep track of the relationship status of these people anymore).

“Taimi shouldn’t have been alone,” the man kept going, allowing himself to unwind all the stupid, foolish, moronic thoughts running through his mind. “She should be home, she should be in her lab, protected, not following some idiot in another harebrained scheme.” (Spoke the idiot who thought a dragon could be felled by a fire arrow). “She should have never gone through this!”

“And you were, of course, the perfect leader who we should had followed. Just see the most spectacular fashion you have helped us over the last year or so. My, one could almost ignore you were around.”

Braham’s hands reached for his quiver. Canach’s tightened around his shield, even as his lips twisted into a soft grin. Finally. Finally, he would make this idiot shu—

“Shut up!”

Synthaer’s voice rang, shrill and desperate through the room. Her arms were tight against the little asura, desperate in a manner no words could ever translate. Her chin rested on Taimi’s head, her legs encircled the small body and even her fingers were closed on the leathery fabric. It was like a Golem in sylvari form, all of her green cells and leaves in a protective shell.

“Not here and not now, do you hear me?”

Purple eyes moved from the norn to her fellow sylvari and they were as aggressive as Canach had ever seen them. The air around shifted and then pressed, enough to rip the oxygen away from the norn’s lungs, enough to push them against the floor and make their legs buckle. It felt like standing in the middle of the eye of a hurricane, a storm which would clear everything in its path.

“If you don’t keep quiet,” she dug deeper, a cocoon of rage and fear around the child. “I will push you out of this platform! Don’t think that I won’t!”

Silence descended upon the room.

Deadly silence, even. It reminded him of a moment best forgotten, on the top of cliff shattered by Balthazar’s sword (of a broken body, unmoving and silent in the middle of the desert). Canach found himself swallowing tightly as he stared down at her eyes. The Commander knew what it was, to be that close to death.

She knew what it was to cross that border into oblivion.

“Syn.”

Taimi burrowed into the sylvari’s chest, hiding her face in the protection the other woman was providing. The Commander’s form only tightened around her.

“I’m right here, sweetie,” she whispered softly, her magic fading into nothingness as the group around them finally quieted. “I’m right here.”

Slowly, Canach released his shield, allowing his sword to slid into its sheath and away from his reach. This was not the time to battle among themselves, not with Palawa Joko still running rampant with the Tree knew what in mind. It was not the time for war when they had so many open wounds to heal.

When they had their Commander to mend.

Chapter Text

xxxXXXxxx

Outwardly, everything was fine. The Guild was working properly, a finely tuned machine trying to keep danger at bay at all moments. That was the image they gave to others. If they faltered – if the dragonhunters faltered – the world would weaken, would be afraid, would doubt. Joko would win if the defense had such a large opening from the get-go. They knew their parts and they played them properly.

Synthaer was still herself, Canach knew, still capable and able. She would do everything to keep them safe.

That was exactly the problem.

Since Taimi had been attacked, their Commander had been a walking pile of tension. A muddle of worry which would keep them under her gaze even at odd inconvenient moments (the less said about that, the better), reaching for them whenever possible (or whenever rebuff was not possible, again, personal space, Commander). She was afraid of losing them. Afraid of them being hurt under her command. Terrified of failing.

Twice had he found her checking if everyone was asleep in the last week alone. It was like a Pale Tree; small, overbearing and maddening with the even more upsetting capacity of following him around.

“Commander, a word.”

The camp was on the cusp of falling asleep. In one tent, necromancer and Mesmer kept Taimi protected between them, keeping any nightmares at bay. Rytlock’s steady snoring kept everything else well away from the campfire.

“You should get some rest, Canach. It is late.”

The Commander sat by the fire, a pile of clothing by her side and her trusty needle between her fingers. Everything was normal (her hand shook lightly), everything was common (just not the smudges heavy underneath her eyes and the veins, dark against her lighter frame). She was even smiling.

It was a lie and he hated it seeing it more than he hated the Consortium. That was saying something. It was time to do something about it.

“Here.”

The pack he had been carrying was dumped unceremoniously onto her lap.

“I talked with the kid earlier today. She made a whole bunch of them for us. It won’t get us closer to each other faster but we can keep you updated so you won’t start imagining we have all stumbled into a cliff.”

Synthaer stared up at him like he was an idiot before, very slowly, placing her needle aside. The confusion barely disappeared as she inspected the pack and its contents, the half a dozen communicators Taimi had spent the best part of one month to finish up for him.

“I also dropped a communicator with the bafoon-ish norn,” Canach continued. “I am not sure why you would be worried over him but you are very well known for your awful choices and potentially damaging taste so there you go.”

There was only one thing to do.

It would be difficult but he was nothing if not perseverance in solid form.

Slowly, Canach raised his arms, side to side.

The Commander did not bother to look intelligent in the slightest, forehead furrowed, a deep crease between her eyebrows making her seem more foolish than normal. Her head tilted to one side like a wayward puppy confused by sunlight. Why did he bother?

“What are you doing?”

His position seemed self-explanatory. The last stressful events had damaged her capacity to infer the obvious, it seemed.

Air in, air out..

“I am to give you a hug.”

The creases on her forehead relaxed slightly, her eyes wide open as the smallest twitch lightened her expression.

“Are you sure?” The answer was a solid no. “You look like you are about to sacrifice yourself in the altar of duty”.

(What an apt comparison).

“Can’t you just accept when someone’s trying to help you out, Commander?”

It seemed like she could not. Like it was against her very nature. Her purple eyes remained impossible open, tracing his features carefully as if she doubted his sanity – which was possibly an acceptable conclusion – while she hugged the small parcel closer and closer until Canach was certain she would break the devices apart. Wasn’t this what she needed? He looked around them, searching for a helping hand but, as he had planned, there was no one to witness his slow descent into uselessness. The warrior considered yelling for someone. Maybe the female charr. She seemed like she cared if her Commander ended up in a ditch somewhere.

“You are ridiculous.”

It was the only words which warned him of Synthaer’s movement. Before he could assimilate them, she had thrown herself at his neck, apparently forgoing any hug in order to just strangle him instead of losing time. Her hand tightened behind his neck, bone thin fingers digging onto his clothing and across it until he could feel her nails against his skin. Her breathing was shallow, broken by sniffling sounds and small gasps. Oh Pale Mother, no one had told him hugs involved bodily fluids.

“Thank you, my well-intentioned, grumpy mess.”

Who was the mess now? Who was the one bathing him in snot?

She smiled (a little, a smidge) as her face hid carefully against his shoulder. Oh. Oh, then this was fine, wasn’t it? This had worked? Because, Canach couldn’t remember the last time he had seen that smile. It was honest for once, a bit broken but that was it. In that moment, everything was fine; she was fine, she was pleased, he was settled and unworried so it was fine if these types of gesture did not come easily.

(or often at all).

He could feel the moment when the Commander started gathering herself (all of her broken edges, all splintered pieces and bruised bits) into an armor made of elements and sheer dumb stubbornness. She was there. She was all of it. And it didn’t matter that she was kept complete by frail glue and frayed rope. She was pulling herself together. That was all he wanted.

His worries – well hidden beneath metal skin, barbed words, years and years walking farther from the Tree and his family – slowly unwound. Like a leather knot covered in shackles, they began falling apart. Piece by Piece.

His Commander smiled again. A hint of teeth.

“I’m fine,” she declared, stepping back before he asked her to. A long breath was exhaled before she drew herself to her full height. The light armor she wore fit her well and felt like it belonged against her skin. Wind picked up, tugging at their clothes. “I can do this.”

“No one said you can’t. But you’re not fine,” he declared, cutting her declaration short before she kept lying to him. “And it’s fine if you are not. Let us pick up the slack after you.”

Synthaer paused.

“I can do this,” she repeated as if he had failed to hear her the first time.

“Not alone, you cannot.”

Canach could see the words running through her mind. What if you’re next? What if he comes for you? What if he kills one of you next time? Hmph, as if the sylvari expected anything else. That was her mistake. She couldn’t see that they had the same drive that she had. The same reasons to fight, the people to protect, one or another bet to win. They had as much reasons to be there as she did. And she was not the only powerful being in the group. He could do quite well, wasn’t she aware?

Another broken breath became a slow, long one as she attempted to relax. It was hard to realize one was not alone. He, of all people, could relate.

“You still can’t punch Braham,” the Commander declared, sitting back on her original position, the pack of communicators back in her lap like it was the most valuable of treasures.

(There she was. Part of her. Parts of her).

“Don’t be juvenile, Commander. I will settle for stabbing him whenever the occasion presents itself.”

Canach sat by her side, preparing himself to keep her company through the long night ahead.