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The Citadel is quiet, being half devoid of its song as it is, the holy choir lost to both haunted threads and time. Those who are haunted are only husks of who they were. They sometimes can be seen within their senses enough to conduct or sing. Often they’re simply shambling from hall to hall or standing still as a statue in one position, waiting for an errant pilgrim to cross too close before killing them or trapping them, too, in the thread’s thrall.
It is this fate that the Sentinel seeks to prevent. It patrols the Choral Chambers, alert and aware of its surroundings, eyes darting across the halls and rooms for any signs or life, audio sensors straining to hear any echoes of song or psalm. Once, twice, some small number of times that nonetheless blurs together, it cuts down one of the haunted choir bugs, its twin blades making quick work at rending their carapace. Its joints grow sticky with hemolymph, the many colors of blood mixing on its metal shell as if it were nothing more than a painter’s pallet. Soon it will need to clean itself. The bugs huddled together at the settlement to the east blanch and scare when it is as untidy as it is now. It will abide by their preferences. To defend the Citadel, to uphold its directive, it must assure the wellbeing of the few who keep their wits about them. It will not do anybody any good for them to fear their defender.
It ponders this for a moment, pulling one of its blades out of the skewered corpse of a chorister, their hooked bell clattering to the floor as their grip fails them in death. If this coating of hemolymph disturbs its functions, then that would be detrimental to the living voices of the Citadel, too. It tears a drape off of a spoliated columnade, covering the choister’s body. Some shoddy semblance of a burial, of funeral rites long forgotten. It bows its head and crosses its blades.
And is washing not a way that organic bugs cleanse themselves? Of both physical impurities and of sin. To tear down the haunted is its directive—Defense of the sacred Citadel, and the voices that fill it, is the eternal duty of the sentinels—so it is not sinning by the will of its creators. But the pilgrims of clear mind, they all cower and scream and pray when they see it go about its duty, even if it is in assurance of their protection. Does it need to purify itself for them? To ease their worries?
Such a line of thinking is not required by its programming. Its directive is absolute, and need not be questioned nor purified from. But the idea does lend weight to the urgency to clean itself sooner rather than later. It straightens from its inattentive vigil over the slain bug, scanning the rest of the room to ensure no other haunted have entered before dashing off, towards the spa in the western chambers.
Even with this set goal, it takes care to continue its patrol, not skimming over any of the nooks and crannies where a pilgrim could be stranded or a haunted could be lurking. It’s a simple task for it. The eternal Citadel is its home, and it knows the layout better than anything, even if it has fallen into some amount of disrepair. It simply must take more care to scan the ruined areas, slowing down some to ensure that everything is as it should be. Doing so now it finds, to its right, a mound of rubble, different than it ought to be, than it usually is. Its eyes flick to the discrepancy, its body veering sharply to investigate closer. There is an alcove in the stones and scrap metal, hidden by silken threads, in which a half-dozen spike traps are suspended. To navigate through the obstruction would be difficult. Either it would get caught in the strands or be injured by the traps.
The machine stutters, shifting from tarsus to tarsus, movements uncertain. Then, it pauses, its shifting coming to a total stop. The traps are familiar in their make, it notes, leaning in to peer closer at one, joints clicking. It’s made up of many blades bound together by a bundle of red cloth. A design of the Hunter in Red’s.
It steps back, taking some moments to perform a wide sweep of the room. Other than this tucked-away den, there is no sign of the Hunter anywhere. None of her silk nor her tools are anywhere nearby, except for here. It crouches at the trapped entrance, peering as far past the gaps between the strings as it’s able, straining its processors to pick up any information it can from the dark recess further back.
There, lying prone on the ground, is the Hunter in Red, her head pillowed on both her arms and her tool pouch. Faintly, it can hear her murmur, then shuffle, then settle once more. She’s deep asleep.
It’s not a bad place to rest, the Sentinel surmises. So near to the bathhouse, perhaps it was the mixture of the warmth and humidity that drew her to tire. Or maybe her body simply needed to sleep. The needs of organic creatures evades it, to some degree, but it has no recollection of seeing her sleep before, though their encounters have all been brief and fleeting, both before and after their duel.
The space she’s found herself in is tiny and dark, such that, if it were not for the fact that the Sentinel is so intimately aware of the exact make of the halls of the eternal Citadel, they would not have spotted it at all. And, though she cannot do anything to defend the location while she is asleep, it is tucked away in an area that most would not have any reason to go to. She put much thought into her positioning.
It could wake her. It has no reason to do so, however, and doing such could just serve to disturb her or upset her, both things it seeks to avoid.
Once more it swivels its head, looking to both entrances of the room, listening to hear if anything will make itself evident. It hears nothing, nor does it see anything. Content with these results, it lowers itself to sit just outside the opening, a chunk of rubble making for a suitable stoop. Slowly, cautiously, it lets its body fall into something close to its resting state, its limbs going slack and eye lights dimming. It does ensure to maintain its senses, keeping its audio, visual, and tactile processors alert and aware. This is as close to sleep as it can achieve without being fully shut down—an operation it does sometimes need to endure in favor of clearing its processors and clearing its memory of anything extraneous to its directive—and it relishes the few moments it can ever get of such.
It has to imagine this is what sleep is like, at least. It can still just hardly hear the Hunter. Her breathing remains steady, and it can pretend that the whirling of its fans serve a similar purpose. They do sound similar, it supposes. Her claws scratch, for a moment, against the marble floors, less a sound of panic and more so as if she’s shifting in her sleep, her body trying to find some more comfortable position than it already has. Once she’s quiet again, it funnels some power back into its limbs, reactivating them temporarily, and scratches at the ground too. This sound is much harsher, the scraping and screeching of metal against stone grating its sensors. It stops almost immediately, the odds of disturbing the Hunter too high to justify continuing. Sleep—the natural sleep of the organic bugs—is just not meant for it.
The moment passes, and it can tell that she is still asleep, undisturbed by its bothersome presence. It lets itself linger near the edge of shutting down, letting time pass it by, moments counted only by many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ticks of its cogwork heart. At some point, distantly, it can hear echoes of a jubilant battle cry, and it stirs from its pseudo-resting state. It recognizes the voice, that of the Knight in Green, whom it has encountered sparsely. The sounds of battle only reach it for some short seconds before it hears a joyful cheer, accompanied by the chittering of the knight’s steed. Afterwards, it hears their voices get further and further, echos fading down some other pathway.
Perhaps it should pursue them. The Knight in Green has expressed some interest in sparing it, a way to hone both of their skills, after recovering from his initial aggression towards it. Or it should follow just to ensure the safety of the knight and steed. They are valued voices in the Citadel, protecting the pilgrims from the haunted bugs. They deserve protection in turn. It looks down at the rubble at its side, straining to listen for the shallow sounds of life that it knows exist within it. So, too, does she need it.
It lets the knight and steed get away from it and returns to its half-resting state.
The time slips by again. To some extent, it wishes it could dream. Such a function is not necessary for it to fulfill its directive, but it has heard of such strange and wondrous visions, shared as small stories among those with such an ability. At best, it can sort through its stored memory, taking some time to glance at long gone instances of camaraderie. Its fellow Sentinels.
Will it fight alone forever, now? Until its service has concluded? Until some reason for decommissioning has been found?
Its fans whirl within its chassis, venting out hot air, the ever present ticking of its heart speeding up. If it were able to dream, then it would also need to grapple with nightmares. Perhaps the absence of both is welcome.
“Sentinel,” a bleary voice sounds from behind it, accompanied by the distinct, intimately familiar sound of taut silk snapping, “what are you doing here?”
It turns, seeing the Hunter in Red facing it, halfway out of her nook, her traps lying disarmed by her tarsi and her setae mussed by the dregs of sleep she’s pulled herself from. Her voice is huskier than it typically is, almost certainly affected by her sleep. One of many traits of organic bugs that it fails to remember until faced it is with the evidence of it.
“Saw y-you resting, did this sentinel. Decided to re-remain, it did.” It stands, vigil apparently over, and crosses its blades over its chest, head angled to look down at her still. “Accept, apology f-f-for the unwanted intrusion-on.”
“Peace, friend. You have done nothing to disturb me.” She exits the cranny fully, remaining in a kneel as she packs the dormant traps back in her bag and pulls her needle to her side, “I simply had not expected to awaken and find myself with any company, but know that I appreciate you watching over me while I was asleep.”
It sets down one of its blades and extends a hand to her, of which is accepted, and helps her to stand. It nods its understanding, grabbing its weapon once more, “Understood. Leave, sh-sh-shall this Sentinel, and see you in-in the halls ahead.”
“Where is it you intend to go? Perhaps our paths may intersect for some time longer?” She speaks as she stretches out her limbs, joints clicking and cracking after some amount of time of inactivity. It watches and listens, almost mesmerized. As she pops the joints of her fingers, it replicates the movement, metal scraping on metal, but ultimately resulting in nothing. Immediately it stops, hand falling to its side.
Blinking, and pulling its gaze away, it points one of its swords out in the direction of the spa, not at all far from their present location. “To the communal-al-al bathhouse, does this Sentinel travel. Query: Will the Hu-Hunter in Red be accompanying it? Please r-reply.”
She hums, glancing towards where it has gestured, tilting her head in a way that it has seen smaller critters do before. A display of curiosity. “What purpose shall you find in such a location? Would the water not damage your inner workings?”
“Clean this one’s sh-shell, it must. In the bathhouse, such tools m-m-may be found.” It shuffles from tarsus to tarsus, restless and ready to continue its current objective. It locks its gaze to her mask, though she is looking down the passage where it has pointed, still. “Repeat Qu-Query: Will the Hunter in Red be-be accompanying it? Please reply.”
She flicks her attention back to it, digits tapping against the hilt of her needle, head tilting in a nod. “I shall. Perhaps what it is I seek can be found there, too.” She makes for the corridor towards their destination, looking back at it. “We ought to go now, before any haunted catch us unawares.” And with that she’s off.
It keeps its gaze locked onto her, following in her footsteps as nearly as it can, almost like a second shadow. She pays it little mind, continuing forward, and together they make quick work of slaying the shambling haunted bugs that they encounter. It does notice an oddity in her movements, though it is something difficult to place a name to. She’s slower than usual, having to take some seconds after dispatching the haunted to breathe. Each time she pauses she’s tilted somewhat forward, a sighed groan passing her chelicerae. It’s clear that she believes she’s being subtle, but the behavior is set so apart from what it knows her to behave like that it would be impossible for the Sentinel to miss. It keeps its observations to itself, however, seeing no immediately urgent or dire situation in which it will need to do otherwise. Privacy, or at least the illusion of such, is something most organic bugs enjoy keeping, to its knowledge.
Although it has let her take the lead for much of their short journey, it enters the spa before her, scanning the area for any threats to her or it. Finding nothing, it steps aside, allowing her to enter after it. Her eyes flick up to it, some imperceptible look flashing. Amusement? Annoyance? Some bugs tread such a fine line between the two. Unknowable feelings are made even more foreign to it by all their nuances, all muddling together in its memory such that it finds it simpler to not try and parse them at all.
It travels the room, keeping the Hunter in its periphery, as it gathers the meager supplies it should need. All it requires is a washcloth—and it finds one almost immediately, an old frayed thing that has halfway fallen apart, time having taken its toll on the fabric—and a simple soap to scrub at any particularly stubborn stains on its metal carapace.
It circles to the steps down into the tub, it sits, legs crossed just beside the water, doing no more than dipping the washcloth in, holding it by a corner, keeping its hand from being submerged at all. She, unlike it, steps fully into the water, only up to the joints of her legs at first. It watches as she pauses, staring down at the water. For a moment, it desires to know what could be going through her mind, to understand what it is she is thinking. Organic bugs fascinate it—a feeling it ought not have, yet it can easily identify it within itself, and it has no desire to squish the emotion down—and the Hunter in Red is no exception. On the contrary, it wants to know her beyond how it understands the pilgrims and choir members that live in the holy Citadel. She calls it a friend. It gave her the token of the Order. Both of their intentions have, by now, been laid clear. But favoritism is not a part of its directive, and could, on the contrary, be seen as veering away from its ingrained orders instead. Defense of the sacred Citadel, and the voices that fill it, is the eternal duty of the sentinels. All of the voices. Probably intended to be in equal part. But so long as that goes unstated, the Sentinel can accept skirting across the edge of the intended meaning. For her.
Once her hesitation has passed, she pulls her cloak off, her back exposed to it in full. Its eyes trace her silhouette. Never before has she born herself to it like this, though their meetings are often short and swift, just chance encounters in the halls of the holy Citadel. For some matter of seconds, her setae and scopulae stand on edge. From what it knows, this is a sign of wariness or alertness, as if she’s expecting some repercussion due to her undress. But the moment passes and they settle, the thick tufts of coarse fur coating much of her body falling flush against her shell once more. She folds her cloak delicately, placing it, her tool pouch, and her needle off to the side, far enough from the water to keep them dry, even in the humid room. Then, she sits on an underwater ledge by the edge of the tub, near enough to it that, if she were to tilt her head back, the horns of the mask would tap against its leg. And her head does fall back, some small way. It shifts over a miniscule amount to stop any chance at contact. She’s vulnerable without her tools and weapon, and it wishes to keep her calm.
It continues to observe her in silence. She looks half asleep, again, but there are enough tells, in comparison to how she was minutes before, that contradict that assertion. Her eyes are screwed shut, pinched together in some display of discomfort, an atypical thing for an organic bug to feel in these waters, if its memory is correct. Beyond just this, her breaths are labored and heavy. Not too strange, with all the steam and heat in the room, but odd when coupled with how she was breathing like this even when they fought together in the chambers leading up to here.
“Your gaze has not gone unnoticed, Sentinel.” Her voice startles it, its head tearing away from her with a horrid squeak. “What about me has captivated you so?”
Its eyes flick back to her shell, coupled with a clicking noise, its internal mechanisms shaken by its rapid jerk just a second before. Its processors cannot help but continue their examination of her. For a hunter, her shell is oddly free of any aged scars, but it can see some newer injuries marking her. Some of them are still tacky, not yet scabbed over. Silk bindings loosely hold the nastier breaks together, but the majority have been left alone, to heal with time alone.
“Query:” It looks away, finally taking its washcloth to its joints, working away the dried hemolymph with warm water, the many colors chipping off bit by bit, and that which does not chip dissolves into the water and is absorbed by the rag. “From wh-where did the Hunter in Red obtain her injuries? Pl-Please reply.”
It’s not an answer to her question, not in the slightest, but she doesn’t seem to mind, instead twisting to face it properly. “I ventured into Whiteward at the request of a bug from Songclave. He sought medical supplies, but instead found himself ensnared in that dangerous place, trapped in some tucked away room. I was able to help him escape, but not without sustaining some injuries, as you have seen yourself, though they will heal in short time, rest assured.”
“Unlike the Hunter, it i-is, to have so many injuries. Deft, she is.” It pauses both its cleaning and its speech, its free hand drawing close to one of the worse breaks in her shell, one on the front of her sternum, of which has been bound with loose silk. “Query: Does another ail-ail-ailment plague her? Please reply.”
Her fur bristles once the question has been asked, a low sigh passing out of her mouthparts, eyes casting down towards the water. “To some extent, yes, but I am unknowledgeable regarding it in many respects.” Its hand makes contact with the injury it was nearing. She doesn’t pull away from its touch, instead leaning minutely into it, breath wavering before she continues: “When I first came to this kingdom I had been significantly weakened by a cage of runes, and I found, early in my journey, that I was struck with these…” She waves a hand around, searching for the right word. “spells of fatigue and vertigo. I had hoped they would fade away as I regained my strength, but they continue to ail me still, often at inopportune moments, like in the Whiteward. Rest sometimes can aid in their cessation, but this one clings to me even now, as I am sure is apparent.”
It does not move its hand from her injury, even still, but its eyes return to her face. It sees, past her mask, that her eyes are only half lidded. If such is caused by remnants of sleep or by the aforementioned mysterious illness it is not certain. Though, if her weakened fighting on the way here was any indication, the rest she got did her little good. It leans closer to her, bringing with it its sudsy washcloth, finding one of her untreated injuries, eyes flicking between it and her eyes, waiting for some unspoken permission of which it isn’t even sure it will be able to parse should she grant it. She matches its gaze, one of her hands coming to rest upon its own. They’re both so different in make. Its is composed of five digits, all proportional to its body, but large compared to her own, one of its enough to engulf hers completely. Her hand is smaller, slender, but rough. It can tell without any further investigation that her shell is thick and old, but she bares no signs of her age elsewise, looking youthful, yet not young. She only has three digits—two fingers and a thumb—which is not atypical of organic bugs, but is customary of the Weavers. And only now, so close, does the flashing warning of its duty to her reignite in its mind, flaring through its servos and demanding its attention. To the Weavers, does it hail, first and foremost, in its service to the Citadel. Her commandment, it ought to heed.
Her hand is still on its own. Their eyes are locked onto the other’s. Neither break just yet, but the Hunter nods, something small, maybe timid, in the way she does so, and it wishes it could know why this has modified her behavior. It presses the washcloth to the break in her shell, gaze now drooping down to focus on its work, its duty. The quartz-white light of its eyes is muted against the pale glow of the water. Against the pale glow of the Hunter.
She seems peaceful. Or at least content, as she leans in closer, eyes fully closing, but with none of the tightness it had detected earlier. She leans in, pressing herself closer to its hand, her setae on edge once more. Seeing that alone makes it want to draw back. It will not have her uncomfortable or frightened under its watch. But, some moments later a warm trill rises from her throat, a melody, but one so unlike the choir or the organ. Something fully her.
It continues cleaning her injuries, one hand washing, the other keeping her held close. There are some moments where she seems to stumble despite being stationary, where it can feel her breath grow more shallow, and only then does it stop its work, pulling her out of the bath water entirely and setting her at its side while whatever bout of her strange illness passes. As soon as it does she is back in the water, and it is back to aiding her. It’s slow work—she’s more injured than it had first expected—but it gladly undertakes it.
When done, all either of them can do for a moment is stare at each other, and it finds something warm in her eyes, past her mask. Once the moment is broken it takes less than a metronome’s tick to archive that vision into its long term memory, safe from any worries of accidental deletion. She moves first, as is typical, it is coming to learn, and adorns her cloak again, after pulling herself out of the water. She sits beside it, one of her digits wiping away some of the hemolymph on its chassis, loosened entirely by its time in the steamy room such that it is liquified once more. It vents out a burst of hot air from its internals, cooling its core almost instantly. Wordlessly, she takes the washcloth from it, drenching it in the water and lathering a fresh layer of soap onto it before taking it to its body, scrubbing off anything it had not cleaned itself.
She is careful with it. Soft and gentle in a way it has rarely known. And she is diligent, attentive not just to the easy to wipe surface, but also to the crevasses and joints between its plating. Her work is quick, but efficient, and that it can appreciate.
She pulls away when she has finished, discarding the cloth at her side, of which is now surely stained in too much hemolymph for anyone to want to make further use of. She stands, and it follows her, grabbing its dual blades, sharing a comfortable silence with her as she picks up her needle. It isn’t quite sure what it ought to say. Usually everything feels so automatic, so simple, to it, but something else flutters now at their core, stirring something unknown, something nearly organic, within them.
“I appreciate your aid, Sentinel. It made for an entirely enjoyable experience. I can only hope you found it to be the same on your end.” She dons her tool pouch once more, shaking some clinging water droplets from her fur as she does, and it watches how the water flashes in her light, just for an instant.
“Agree, does th-this Sentinel. Pleased, it finds itself.” She nods, and already is moving as if to leave, and it cannot help but think of all the times it left so soon after fighting alongside her. It wonders if this is how she felt, this cold ache in her core. Before she can leave entirely, it calls out: “Again, in future, this Sentinel w-w-would appreciate the Hunter in Red’s company.”
And she looks back at it. And she smiles. A coy thing, from what it can tell looking at just her eyes. She means to tease it, it believes, or she had predicted it would say as such from the start. But regardless, she does still leave, and it does not pursue her.
It stands there for many long moments, still looking where she had just been. Maybe it does not need to be organic, to understand what this was.