Private Tales Denoument

[Medja]

For once, Medja sat alone within a chamber of the Imperial Palace that wasn't her own study or bedroom. The regent had decreed that there were to be no visitors, no dignitaries, no entertainers within the grand halls. Only guards, Hands, and what few servants were absolutely necessary. There was a malefactor being brought to justice here today...yet there would be no trial. No audacious presentation, no message to be sent to the public, no point to be made. No, there was only one word that rang in Medja's head, a simple question that repeated itself on loop for what had felt like an eternity.

Medja sat atop the imposing stone seat in utter silence, waiting. Though the skin of her hands sat upon its arms, her feet upon the floor, she did not reach out to sense what was coming. She dreaded it. Dreaded the arrival, the question she had to ask, the answer she wasn't even sure she'd receive. All the while her gaze was cold and empty, her eyes like wax as she stared at the doors to the hall outside the empty courtroom.

Until, at last, the sound of their hinges groaning marked the arrival she'd hoped might never come. A young woman, missing an arm, ushered in by a single guard.

"...Nymeasha."

 

[Nym]

The groaning of the great doors was like a death knell through the hollow chamber. Nym stepped into the cavernous silence with her chin held high, her bare feet whispering against the marble floor. A single guard shadowed her, moving her along as she faltered for a moment at the sight of Medja.

Nym’s emerald eyes, heavy with exhaustion, lifted to the throne. For the first time in years, she allowed them to linger on Medja. The sight of her, the woman who had once been her shield, her teacher, her only true mother, drove a spike of heat into her chest. Shame coiled through her like smoke in her lungs, but she swallowed it down. She would not bow her head.

Her lips pressed together, trembling for a heartbeat before she schooled them into stillness. She did not kneel. She did not beg.

She stood tall in the hollow hall, ragged and scarred, her chin defiant as though daring the Empress to carve her down further.

“…Medja.”

Her voice was quiet, but it carried. "I was, summoned..."

 

[Medja]

"Summoned" was putting it lightly. "Brought in" might've been more apt, but by the emphasis the girl put on the word, they both knew that there was venom behind it.

Nymeasha looked as though she'd been put in a tumbler with the roughest stones the Empire could muster. Time had not been kind to her, but Medja could not bring herself to ask what had happened. She could not show care, nor softness. Not now.

For a time, Medja remained stern, stoic. She dismissed the guard with a wave of her hand, and the echoing clunk of the door falling closed behind him marked the solitude the two women now shared. Medja breathed, her tone steady.
"I took you in. I gave you freedom. I trusted you," the Empress started, staring intently at the defiant viper before her. "When your brother came to seize the Salitran throne I denied it to him. I gave it to you, because I believed in you, because I cared for you, so why--"

Medja realized that she had stood from the stone seat. Not levitated as she so often did, no. Her feet were flat upon the floor, her hands balled into fists. Again she breathed, trying to keep her composure. That single word fell from her lips again.
"Why? Why have you done these things?"

 

[Nym]

The sound of Medja’s voice, that raw betrayal in it... Nym felt it coil around her throat like a noose, strangling the air from her lungs, making her chest ache with the weight of it. Her lips parted, but no words came at first. Only silence, thick and suffocating.

Her gaze, sharp as a serpent’s, wavered. She forced it steady, jaw tightening, her spine stiff. The glassy sheen in her eyes betrayed her, though she refused to let a single tear fall.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet, fearing it might crack if she spoke too loudly..
“You should not have trusted me.”

Her chin rose, a brittle act of defiance, though shame burned hot in her gut. "I did not fight, when your hands came for me." she frowned. She knew what she'd done, and she'd accepted the consequence of it before word had likely even reached Medja. "Not so long ago, I would have. I would have had them slaughtered. Might have done it myself.. I might have brought my armies here, and fought you.." she laughed under her breath but the sound was mirthless. She'd have lost, but she'd have convinced herself otherwise, drunk on power and thinking herself as immortal as her father thought himself..

“It was.. Too much… All of it. Your trust. Your care. Your faith. My freedom.. You gave me everything, and I wasn't ready for any of it… I wanted them to believe I was worthy. My people, after what my father left behind in Salitra. They needed to see strength. So I showed them.”

Her breath caught, unsteady, “They did believe. I gave them victories. I raised armies. I took cities. They looked at me, and they saw power.”

Nym’s shoulders rose and fell, trembling with the effort of restraint. Her handless arm hung heavy at her side, she looked down at it for a moment, brow furrowed.

“But I betrayed you,” she finished, the words falling from her lips like ash. Her jaw clenched, her expression hard, daring Medja to see anything else in her face. “That is the truth you already know.. I failed you - but you failed me too. One shouldn't set loose a viper and be surprised when it bites." she said quickly, hurrying along the inevitable.

"So pass the sentence and get it over with." she swallowed.

 

[Medja]

Pregnant silence filled the room as Nym finished speaking. Finally, Medja let out a sigh, squeezed her eyes shut, and pinched the bridge of her nose. If only this could have been easy. Nym held her head high, but everything else about her told a different story. While the girl clung to that facade of pride, her life, her very self, was crumbling about her.

"That you did not fight back, that you surrendered yourself, is the only reason I even saw fit to bring you before me today," Medja started, the hand that had been at her nose falling back to her side.

"You are right. About yourself, and about me. There is little I can say that you haven't already. You failed and betrayed me, and it has cost us both--no, it has cost the Empire much," she continued, taking a step down the stairs her seat sat atop. "I have my own hand to play in that. I saw myself in you, and I came to love you like a daughter. Foolishly I cast you into a role you weren't ready for, because I thought I saw greatness in you. I thought you could be more than a viper. But a viper you remain."

The Empress' eyes fell, her hand reached across her torso to grip her other arm. For a moment she felt small and weak.

"Even now, I cannot bring myself to hate you. I blame myself as much as you, and my heart begs me to grant you mercy..." she spoke quietly before looking back up to Nym. "But as Empress, I cannot. I can only offer you a choice."

 

[Nym]

Nym's heart was racing as she awaited the inevitable, adrenaline flooding her system, causing nausea to churn in her stomach. She had expected fury, fire, some great display of Medja’s wrath, expected to be torn apart by the woman’s power and left in pieces on the palace floor.

But this quiet? This calm? It stripped her bare.

As Medja’s words fell over her like cold water, Nym’s mask faltered. Her gaze dropped, her breath hitching as tears finally spilled over, hot and sharp as acid against her cheeks. She could no longer meet Medja’s eyes, not when she spoke of loving her like a daughter. Not when she accepted any of the blame when she should not have. Not when she still could not hate her.

‘I saw greatness in you... I thought you could be more…’

A sound escaped Nym, sharp and humourless, her shoulders shaking with a quiet, bitter laugh.
“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?..” she muttered, her voice hoarse.

Her chest hurt. Everything hurt. She swiped at her tears with the back of her remaining hand.
“Just. Fucking. Hate me,” she breathed out, a sigh that almost broke into a sob. “It’ll make things easier.”

Finally, she forced her chin up, her eyes crushed emeralds. “Don’t give me choices, Medja,” she said, her tone sharp despite the quaver that betrayed her. “I don’t know how to make them, I think that much is clear. Just do what you need to do. And be done with it.”

 

[Medja]

"Hate me,"

Hearing that, and seeing the dam holding Nym's emotions back break, felt much like the spear that the Emperor had once driven into Medja's heart. Nymeasha was broken and hurting, yet it was too late for Medja to truly do anything for her.

"There are plenty that do. Many of my own Hands. The Haathee Clan, since you saw to the death of Sunder Baktosh. Many of those survivors of your conquests. But not me. I wish that I could, Nymeasha. I have tried. But I can't."

The Empress stepped further down the stairs until she at last stepped onto the same floor the young woman before her stood upon. She met Nym's pained gaze with one that reflected only pity and regret.

"The hatred you've fostered and my own inability to hate you are why I offer a choice at all. The new chieftain of the Haathee Clan wants your head in retribution for the slaughter of Chieftain Baktosh. I can release you to them, and they will do with you what they will, or..."

She continued to approach Nymeasha, pulling her crown, that most prized gift from Fieravene, from atop her head and gently setting it on the floor. In that moment, she was not the Empress. She was not the Vizier of Stars, the Smiter, the sorceress, or any other of her myriad titles. There was no condescension in her eyes, no superiority, no regalia. For Nymeasha, in this moment, she was just Medja.

"Or I can banish you. The Empire can no longer be home to you, Nym. Not until the peoples of the sands forget your crimes against them...and given how long many of them live, that could take centuries. You can still live, if you so choose...but your story here in the Empire is over."

 

[Nym]

Nym hated that look in Medja’s eyes. Hate, rage, even mockery she could survive - she could spit in the face of those things, strike back at them and feel some small victory. But pity? Pity made her want to crumble to dust where she stood. Pity made her want to cease existing.

She swallowed hard, the motion sharp and painful, her head tipping back to stare up at the vaulted ceiling as though it could hold her together while Medja spoke her sentence. Be thrown to a pit of savages or leave everything she had ever known behind.

And go where?

She had never set foot on ground that wasn’t hot and dry. The world beyond the Empire was just a name, a story told by travellers and traders. The thought of stepping into it made something deep inside her shrivel. Fear, sharp and real, lodged in her chest like a rock.

She wished she’d never gone back. Wished she had stayed in Ragash. Wished she’d remained in that quiet room with Settra on the way to Salitra. Wished she’d turned her back on her father’s shadow and chosen peace. Wished she’d been brave enough to be nobody.

How many times could a broken heart splinter? Hers had been shattered long ago, yet still the pieces seemed to find new ways to break.

“Yes,” she whispered finally, voice raw, head lowering again until she met Medja’s gaze with tears on her cheeks that she didn't care to clear any more. “Yes, it is.”

Her throat worked as she fought to speak the next words, but when she did her voice cracked like glass.
“If I can ask one thing of you… Settra—” she stopped abruptly, breath hitching, and turned her face away to blow out a hard breath, steadying herself. “I have been… terrible. And he loved me anyway.” Her mouth twisted into something between a frown and a grimace. “Please do not punish him for that. He deserves peace.”

She drew in a slow, shaking breath and forced herself to look Medja in the eye again, chin lifting with what remained of her pride.

“I will not leave the Empire to die on foreign soil,” she said, her voice and her decision unwavering. “I’ll die here.”

 

[Medja]

Now it was Medja's turn to let the mask slip. Her lips thinned and she swallowed dryly, choking back her frustration. Her hands balled into fists once more as she fought the urge to slap Nymeasha.

"Stupid girl...you're so young. You can start again. I can make sure you're comfortable. You can explore more of what this world has to offer than these barren deserts and endless politics, you could have your Settra join you if you wished...and you would still choose death? Choose that Soleiman pride over life?"

Despite herself, she felt the warm wetness of tears gathering at the edges of her eyes as she glared at the young woman. Another step closer. This time she could not help herself, and she reached out through the floor to feel the girl's heartbeat.

"Be true. Be certain. Look me in the eye. Is this really what you want, Nymeasha?"

 

[Nym]

Stupid girl...

There it was. The anger and frustration starting to breach the surface of Medja's composure. Something loosened in her chest.

She shook her head slowly, almost in disbelief, a hollow laugh rasping out of her as she lifted her arm, staring at the space that her hand should have occupied.. "Start again.." she achoed. "I don’t know who I am now. I don’t know what I would even start as. You speak like Gerra did, as though there’s still something left of me worth saving, but all I’ve done is prove there isn’t.”

She flinched slightly and her throat worked, hard, as Medja's hand pressed to her chest, but her pulse was calm and steady as she held the Empress' gaze.

“You tell me I can live, that I can go and see the world, that I can be free, as though I deserve that.. But I’d carry this with me wherever I went. Every name, every scream, every body, every drop of blood I spilled because I thought that was who I had to be. Do I choose pride over life? No. I choose not to let this thing I’ve become walk another step beyond these sands.”

She swallowed hard, her jaw trembling, her voice dropping to a quiet, almost broken whisper.

“Could you live with yourself?” she asked, her gaze sharp and wet and pleading all at once. “If you realised you became the monster? If you realised you’d killed everything good in you, and that the only mercy left was to stop yourself?”

“I see now. I’d rather die as what's left of me, in clarity and in my right mind and where I belong, than keep living as her.”

 

[Medja]

Medja sighed and withdrew her hand in resignation. The girl's heart spoke true. Nymeasha wanted not for mercy; death was mercy. If that madness which ravaged her father ran in her blood too, then...then perhaps she was right.

While healing magic could do many things, while it might restore a lost limb or purge a disease, that which addled the mind was not so easily mended. At least, not in the bounds of Amol-Kalit.

"My darling..." Medja began, that brief flash of anger falling away. "I have lived so many lifetimes. I have done countless unspeakable things in my own name. I have drained the life from the very earth beneath me to sustain my own. By all accounts, I have been every bit the monster."

She laughed, tears rolling down her face as she cried with the girl who could have been her daughter.

"It has only been in this age, since I've met people like Ashuanar, like Fieravene, like Noelani...and yes, like you...that I have begun to try to make something better for this world instead of solely for myself."

Medja could do nothing to fight her need to hug Nym now. And so she did. She held her for a long while, knowing she might never get to again.

"If this is truly your choice, then it is yours to make. I...can make sure things are painless," she offered softly, behind barely suppressed crying.

 

[Nym]

Nym’s brows knit tighter as Medja spoke. She was never capable of being as strong as this woman. Medja had clawed her way up from the ashes where Nym had been born into fire and had only ever managed to dig herself deeper into it, choking on smoke and ash until there was no way out.

When the Empress’ arms closed around her, instinct made her body tense, every muscle tight as though bracing for a blade. But it didn’t come. It was just… warmth. It was just Medja, holding her. Nym’s breath hitched sharply, and then the sobs tore out of her chest without permission. She buried her face in Medja’s shoulder like a frightened child, clutching at her with the one hand she still had.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered between uneven, trembling breaths. “I was weak. I am weak. I’m… afraid.” The last word came out so small, as though saying it aloud might shatter what little pride she had left.

She shook her head against Medja’s shoulder, tears soaking into the fabric there. Painless. She did not deserve painless. She deserved to be torn apart, to have every drop of blood she spilled repaid to her tenfold. And yet, she could not bear to be in pain again. Not like the venom she had tried to use. Not like the forge. Not like the white-hot coal searing her severed arm. Not like waking up every day with her chest feeling like a hole had been carved into it. The Haathee clan would ensure she suffered, she was sure of that much.

Her breath trembled as she tried to gather herself, to make her voice steady enough to speak again.

“I thought you were going to give me to the Haathee,” she murmured finally, her throat raw. There was no anger in the words, only quiet confusion. “That is justice. That is what I’ve earned..”

 

[Medja]

The Viper of Salitra was no more. Before Medja was only a scared, tired, and broken child. Their hearts shattered together.

Medja gave the girl what comfort she could, holding her for some time before guiding her to sit on the nearby stairs. She sat alongside Nym in the waning moments of their time together, arm around her to provide her what comfort she could.

"Of course you're afraid. Anyone would be afraid," she said softly, stroking Nym's head gently.

Again she sighed. Medja felt weak as well. She did not want this for Nymeasha. She wished that she could change time, stop this all from coming to be as it was. One truth remained constant in the centuries that Medja had lived: time is cruel. There was no going back, no changing what had already been scribed in stone.

"The Haathee will take you if you stay. But I will not see you suffer," she answered, trying not to choke on the morbid words that were about to escape her. "There are...poisons. Near instant, and painless. Or drugs that can put you in a dream-like state. Either way, you will--"

Medja forced back a sob. Gods, how she hated this.

"You will not be aware. There will be no pain. Please don't let yourself be in pain, Nymeasha."

 

[Nym]

Nym shook. When was the last time she had allowed herself to cry like this? To shake like this? Had she ever been so completely undone in her life? She wasn’t supposed to be vulnerable, she had spent her whole life armoured in anger and venom, but then, she wasn’t supposed to be held like this either.

“I deserve pain,” she said at last, her voice small.. “I… tried. I should have died with venom in my blood. I chose that. And that choice was taken from me.”

Her gaze fell to the stump of her arm, and her face twisted in something between grief and disgust. When her eyes found Medja’s again, wet and glassy, pleading in a way that seemed almost childlike. “ I will not take the easy way. I have angered the Gods enough."

 

[Medja]

To be robbed of choice. Such a thing was miserable, yes, but what kind of choice was this? This was already someone Medja cared deeply for begging for release from her mortal coil. Could she really accept her torture as well?

"Is death itself not suffering enough? The sudden and violent end, followed by the eternity of silence? To decide to die is not the easy way, Nymeasha...please do not make the rest of us live on knowing that your last moments were spent screaming in agony."

Medja cradled the girl beside her still. Of all the things she'd done in her centuries, this might have been the most difficult.

"Please, Nymeasha...the gods, even angered, do not want you to suffer. That is the realm of men. And...I already doubt Settra will ever forgive me for allowing this, but I cannot imagine his fury should you not go peacefully," she begged Nym, feeling a small pang of guilt for having to even make mention of Settra now. "I was not ignoring you earlier. Settra will not be punished for aiding you. It was his duty..."

 

[Nym]

Nym stayed pressed into Medja’s side, the warmth of the Empress’ body a strange and unfamiliar anchor. Her tears soaked the fabric of the woman's robes, but she made no move to pull away. The quiver in her chest was slower now, the jagged ache in her stomach dulled only slightly by the nearness of someone who had once been her guide, her protector.

Screaming in agony didn't sound fun. She'd done that before, many times, but she had always still been alive whenever it had stopped. She had been prepared to argue her case, even as Medja pleaded with her, but then she mentioned how Settra would feel and her eyes squeezed shut, squeezing loose more tears.

She was silent for a while longer, head resting in the crook of Medja's neck as she savoured a comfort she'd never been afforded by her own mother. Perhaps if she had, she might have been better.

"I don’t mean to hurt him,” she murmured again, voice small and fractured. Her remaining hand clutched at Medja’s arm as if she could tether herself to that steadiness, to the knowledge that someone cared enough to hold her when the world had not.

Her head lifted just enough to let her lips brush against the Empress’ shoulder. “Or you,” she whispered, each word weighted with shame and fear. “I’m sorry, Medja.”

The apology hung between them, fragile and jagged, like a shard of glass pressed against skin. Nym drew a shaky breath, closing her eyes against the thought of all she had done, all she had failed at, and all the blood she had spilled. She had wanted punishment, but now, pressed against the one person who had tried to give her everything, it felt as though a painless death was something she might not reject entirely.

"Make it painless, if that's what you wish."

 

[Medja]

"I know. I know," was the whispered response Medja was able to muster, stroking Nymeasha's hair in an effort to provide her some small shred of comfort. If only Medja had known better. If only she could have predicted what might become of the darling young woman who'd only come into her life a few short years ago.

"I am sorry as well. I want so badly for things to have been different."
That was what Medja managed to say in response to that apology, one of her own. Medja had been angry, but now there was nothing to forgive. There was no time for anger anymore. Nym had lost herself in power and madness and slaughter, but Medja could not see the monster before her. Only the girl.

The Empress' hand shook as she palmed a vial and placed it in Nymeasha's. It was unbearable to think of, and nearly unspeakable as well.
"By day's end the Haathee will come. Before then, you will dream. No more pain, darling. No more."

Mere hours. That was all that was left.

 

[Settra]

Within those few hours Nymeasha would feel the bliss of the vial's contents course through her veins. She'd be shackled and taken by the beast folk, loaded into a caravan, and bound for her final destination: justice at the hands of the Haathee. It was the fate she had chosen, a sudden and violent end to all her suffering.

Fate, however, is a fickle thing.

Perhaps Nym might have been aware of the sudden jolt as the cart she was within lurched to a halt. Through the haze, the muffled sounds of combat, grunts of exertion and short cries of pain. Men were knocked unconscious where possible, and cut down by a blade where it wasn't.

Within moments, familiar eyes behind a hood and a mask looked down upon the bound form of Nymeasha, and arms that had held her many times lifted her into a princess carry.

"Come on," Settra spoke in a hush as he began to depart the covered wagon. "We're leaving."

 

[Nym]

She was going to her death.

She’d made her peace with that. No, not peace, but acceptance. A tired, hollow surrender. She had swallowed the tincture with shaking hands, reluctant even as she forced it down, and the last thing she remembered clearly was Medja’s face swimming behind tears she’d been too exhausted to stop.

The drug wound through her veins like warm fog, loosening her grip on the world. Sensation dulled. Thought drifted. She curled on the wagon floor, drifting in and out of consciousness as the wood rocked and creaked. Time folded strangely; she could not tell if minutes or miles were passing.

Then something changed. A lurch that jolted her mind upward toward consciousness. A sharp sense of panic pierced through the haze. She heard the muffled thud of bodies, scuffling feet in the sand. A short scream cut off. The drug made it sound far away, as though underwater, but she knew..

They were going to pull her out of here and tear her apart, limb from limb. They were going to enjoy it.

Her breath hitched quick and shallow. Her heart hammered so violently it felt like it might burst through her ribs. Tears welled without permission, and gods she hated it, but she couldn’t stop them. Her father would have been disgusted at how weak she was. But he’d never seen her as anything but steel in human form. Never as a girl. Never as this trembling, ruined thing curled on the floor of a death wagon.

The door crashed open.

Brilliant desert light cut across her vision like a blade, and she flinched, eyes slitting weakly against it. A silhouette stood there. Familiar, and yet impossible. A hallucination, surely, her mind conjuring the one face she longed for as its final mercy.

But then strong arms slid beneath her and lifted her, effortless, into a cradle she knew better than she knew her own pulse. Her body hung limp, barely responsive, but the scent of him, the way he held her, the warmth…

For the sake of her own comfort, she let herself believe it was him.

“Settra…” The name scraped out of her, cracked, voice broken. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, tears streaking unchecked down her temples. Her fingers twitched weakly against his chest, trying and failing to grasp him.

“I’m… sorry…” Her voice was barely breath. “Settra… I’m so sorry…” Her brow creased, lost between despair and disbelief as she tried to focus on him through the haze.

 

[Settra]

A hand, scarred and calloused from the punishment of years, took Nym's with a tender touch that belied his nature and the violence he'd committed just to reach her. A soft squeeze, a thumb rolling over hers, and the briefest of moments where he allowed his eyes to meet hers; they were all in an effort to assure her that she was safe now, and that things would be over soon.

"It's alright, Nym. Rest now," he answered in his low rasp.

Sunset bathed the pair in its golden hues as he trudged out across the sand. A scene of carnage surrounded them, but he instinctively cradled his love so that she might not have to worry over the mess, her head resting now upon the crook of his shoulder. Consequences would come of this, he was sure, but they would be met another day, perhaps by other souls.

For now, his purpose was singular: get Nymeasha far, far from here. He delivered her securely into the soft down of a riding bird he'd procured for the rescue, and once he was certain there was no possibility of her falling, he mounted his own and led the two of them away. Quick and silent, like ghosts across the sands, there before anyone knew what was happening and gone before anyone could respond.

 

[Nym]

Her vision swam, the world blurring at the edges like wet paint, and yet, there he was. She saw him, felt him

Settra’s eyes met hers for the briefest, most precious heartbeat. Once, her gaze had been sharp enough to cut a man down at ten paces. Now it was dulled, heavy with exhaustion and a sorrow so deep it hollowed her out from the inside. A green that had once glinted with ambition and hunger, now clouded by the single wish she’d clung to like a prayer.

Let it end.

And yet he stood before her. Solid. Warm. Too real.

Her lashes fluttered, struggling to focus, her breath trembling. She sighed at the way he took her hand carefully, as though she might shatter, brushing across her knuckles in a touch she’d memorised a hundred times. Too gentle. Too tender.

Her throat constricted.

No. No, this couldn’t be real. Medja must have slipped a dream into that vial. A mercy, a kindness to give her visions of the one soul who had ever truly loved her. A sweet fantasy to carry her into nothingness.

Her eyes burned and she forced them shut, unable to bear the warmth of his reassurance. It hurt to feel such love from a man she believed she had only ever brought pain.

She felt his arms shift, strong and steady beneath her as he carried her away, and she tucked her face weakly against his shoulder, because it was easier to hide there. Easier not to see the devotion she didn’t deserve reflected back at her.

When he laid her against the soft down of the bird’s plumage, her brow knitted, confusion rippling faintly across her dazed features. The world swayed gently, a rhythmic rise and fall, and she felt the faintest brush of wind across her cheek.

She was moving.. Escaping her death, again.

Her heart gave a weak, pained flutter, fear, sorrow and longing all tangled into one stumbling pulse. Why are you saving me…? The thought drifted but never formed on her tongue.

She was so tired. The warmth beneath her, the steady rhythm. A familiar presence.. Her panic tumbled into a calm. Medja's tonic, she assumed. Her fingers twitched once, searching blindly for him before falling still.

The drug pulled her downward, beyond pain. Beyond fear. And as the darkness claimed her again, the last thing she managed was a small, broken whisper..

“…Settra…” Then she slipped under, swallowed whole by the darkness, expecting her eyes would never open again.

 

[Settra]

And so night would come, the two figures riding all the way through it. The birds drove hard, far, far to the south. Taloned feet splayed wide, perfectly built for plodding across the rolling dunes of Amol-Kalit, scattered sand with every scurrying step. Pale moonlight and the shining of stars bathed them, soft shadows cast across hills and valleys, and only the occasional desert fauna to bear witness.

The once-assassin did not dare to break out a torch, lest some scrupulous eyes fall upon their trail. He didn't need the light anyway; their path was a simple one, straight south. Rarely did Settra stop, only to feed and water the mounts, to check in on Nymeasha, and to pray his thanks to the Six that she slept soundly and safely.

In time, Settra was sure she would have questions. He was sure she would be angry. For now, though, she was the calmest and most restful that Settra had seen her in months. It was a slumber well earned, he was sure.

---

Morning would follow. At last, the fatigue of their pace would begin to set into Settra's sore and tired body, and the riding birds too would start to squawk their complaints. They'd covered a great distance now, and perhaps, in this place, far from the city-states of the Empire, they would be safe to rest.

Settra guided the birds to stop among swathes of sea grasses and soft, cool sand. While the morning sun further north, further inland, would quickly become its usual levels of intolerable in its heat, the current locale was more forgiving. Ocean winds brought a comfortable temperature and the scent of salt in the air, and the sound of waves beating their tempo upon the shore joined those gusts in forging their ambience. Some gulls or other sea birds cried their calls to each other, drifting gently around in the light of late dawn.

As the riding birds settled down and made themselves comfortable, their legs tucking beneath the plush plumage of their now rounded bodies, Settra made sure that Nym would be comfortable, wrapped in cotton blankets and given a pillow in the form of one of the bird's downy side.

There he would wait next to her, patient as ever, for her to wake. He was certain they would have much to talk about.

 

[Nym]

She slept deeply, swallowed whole by a darkness so complete it felt like mercy. No pain in her arm. No fear twisting in her ribs. No sorrow, no heartbreak. Just weightless, silent, blissful oblivion. And for a time, however long or short, she truly believed she would never wake again.

So the world that greeted her when she did wake was impossibly strange. There was no fire or screams or blood, but the slow pulse of waves and the cool fingers of ocean air trailing across her face, the scent of salt and the gentle rise and fall of the great bird breathing beneath her cheek.

Her lashes fluttered, and light sliced through her skull like a blade. The headache hit fast and merciless, forcing a wince as she squeezed her eyes shut again. Alive, then. She could feel. The dead didn’t suffer.

Her tongue dragged across cracked lips. She lifted her only hand to rub at her face, chasing away the fog, trying to force the world into focus. It took effort she wasn’t sure she had, but slowly, shapes began to sharpen.

Grass stirring in the sea breeze. Sand pale as bone. Downy feathers warm beneath her. Sky too blue and too wide. And Settra, close and watching over her.

Her breath caught, and for a moment she stared at him uncertainly..

“Are you real?…” she whispered finally, fingers trembling as they reached hesitantly for him to make sure.

 

[Settra]

Settra looked to Nym and managed something resembling a smile as she began to wake. First he raised his hand to meet her reaching, his fingers lacing with hers. There was some relief in his chest, but it was hard to let it surface over the worry he felt. For her, and for how she might soon react.

"I am," he replied simply, then replaced his hand in hers with a small drinking gourd full of water, his expression stony and unreadable. "And you need to drink some water. I've heard tonic from a sun-eater cactus leaves a hangover like no other, and I'm guessing from the empty vial you had on you that Medja's brew was...quite strong."

He made sure the gourd was securely in her hand before letting go, his thumb pausing to brush assuringly over her wrist. Settra cleared his throat quietly, then decided to answer a question that hadn't yet been asked.

"We're over three hundred miles south of Annuakat now. Quite far out of Empire territory."

 

[Nym]

Her fingers tightened around his instinctively at the first brush of his touch. Her hand trembled and her throat ached, but she had no tears left to cry. Nothing was left but the dull throb of exhaustion and the confusion that she wore so openly on her face.

She studied him through half-lidded eyes, brows knitting as he spoke of the tonic Medja had given her. Sun-eater cactus… hangover… None of it made sense, not with the ocean in her ears and her skull threatening to crack open at any moment..

“I don’t understand…” she whispered hoarsely, the words fragile enough to crumble.

But then he kept talking, answering a question she had not yet asked, and something in her snapped taut.

Her gaze sharpened, green eyes darkening with disbelief as she searched his face, trying to find… something. Truth. Or maybe a lie.

Three hundred miles.

Her pulse lurched. She looked toward the endless expanse of ocean, the strange land around her, and the foreignness of it struck her like a fist.

“I made a choice.” Her voice trembled, but the anger underneath was unmistakable. “One of the very few choices I have ever been allowed to make, and you took it from me.”

She pulled her hand from his, the motion shaky, her breath hitching with the effort as she tried and failed to push herself upright. Her limbs were lead, her head pounding with every attempt. But still she tried again, stubborn, desperate, as though sheer grief could force her body to obey.

“You had no right.” A shuddering breath escaped her.

“Take me back,” she demanded, though the demand wavered with weakness. “This foreign sand is not mine.” Her chest rose and fell too quickly, panic threading through her voice. “I don’t belong here.”