Handcuffs may be more effective than gloves at their purpose, but I certainly don't prefer the sensations they leave behind. While leather tight around my palms was uncomfortable, it was easier to bear than the icy press of metal closed around my wrists, leaving the skin raw and aching. Even with the relief of having them removed, I can't stop rubbing at every spot they touched.

Someone will be back to reattach them soon. Most likely Harlow, since he was the one who left with them clinking at his belt.

Taking a long sip of the water skin clutched in my hand, I lean back into the side of the tent, though I'm careful not to rest too heavily on it. The material's supposed fragility unnerves me somewhat. I'm half afraid that it will come crashing down at any moment and suffocate me in a patchwork sheet of white and blue. Yet the poles continue to hold strong even as the side opposite dips inwards, buffered by the gathering wind.

Then again, I am impressed by how quickly they managed to raise the tent, as well as the half a dozen or so others I saw dotted about outside as Harlow led me through. The carriages have gone now, and the whole camp has shifted southwards. If I listen closely, over the noise of the wind and the flapping material I can hear the tinkling rush of water. We sit on the bank of the River Oscei. I assume we are waiting for a boat of some kind to carry us to Neyaibet, although no-one has precisely informed me.

Beside the tent's central pole, my discarded clothes form a bloodstained heap. Now they're off, they look like little more than greying rags; at first glance, it isn't clear which tear in my shirt was formed by the strike of a sword, and the original colour of the trousers is lost to wear and stains. I'm sure they weren't in that much of a state when I wore them.

Shaking my head, I cast away the prickle of shame. The only aspect the soldiers judge me for is the scarlet streaks -- my own blood, although they've most likely concocted another story. It doesn't seem likely that Harlow will have explained exactly what happened. All across camp, I can picture them: huddled in their own tents, talking in low voices of the Anathe and how he claimed the lives of their comrades without mercy.

Another gulp of water empties the container. I savour the cool trickle of its passage down my throat, then set it aside as I rise, reaching to rub at my wrists again.

The new clothes they've chosen for me don't exactly help matters. With the jet black colour of my tunic, complete with strands of silver thread along the edges of the sleeves, it's almost as if Harlow wants them to be afraid of me.

He has, however, continuously surprised me with his kindness. First the clothes brought by Leofric, the water, and then a piece of salted fish to serve as a meal. I'd thought I would be too sickened to eat, but apparently the lure of something with real taste was able to conquer the lingering coppery scent that still clings to the air.

My lips quirk. I hope Finlay got some fish, too. He didn't seem overly keen on the cracker alternative.

Almost subconsciously, my fingers drift to my belt, running along it until they find the blue feather trapped there. At least they let me keep the belt. It may have been Camdyn's, but I like the growing familiarity of its presence around my waist.

I spin on my heels. I've started pacing without realising it. I glance up, tracing each of the sharp white and blue boxes forming the tent's sides, and release a sigh. A nicer cell, but still a cell.

Perhaps I should conjure a black snake to complete the image. I turn my hand over, a sudden longing for the flame's company rushing in with the thought.

Before I can act on it, however, the brisk march of footsteps jerks my head up. Probably for the best. A hand slips through a break in the tent's material, yanking a blue flap upwards to reveal Harlow bent to pass through the gap. I catch a brief glimpse of the rest of the camp, the bright eyes of a milling group of soldiers following the captain, before he lets the flap fall closed behind him.

Straightening, he holds up the handcuffs. "That time, I'm afraid."

All too soon. Still, I comply, turning my back to face him. I give my wrists a parting stroke and hold them out for him, trying not to wince at the pair of clicks that follow. Air brushes up against the side of my hand. His touch creeps far too close.

"How do you do that?" It slips out before I can stop it.

"A steady hand."

"No, I mean..." I push down a stirring flame. "How you trust me enough to do that."

He grunts. "It's less trust in you and more in the logic of things." The pressure of his fingers on the handcuffs releases, and I turn back around, taking a hurried step away when I realise how close he is.

"The logic?" I press when he remains silent.

He shrugs. "The consequences. I'm the only one in this camp rooting for you. If you kill me, you're left with about twenty vengeful soldiers still adjusted to the ways of the battlefield. You wouldn't last the day."

The urge to touch my healed chest tingles in my fingertips, even if I don't have the ability. He's right, although I'm not entirely sure I'm the one who wouldn't last. I swallow. "That's not the reason I'm not doing it, though. I... I really don't want to hurt anyone."

"Anyone can say that." His eyes seem to deepen in colour. "I like to make sure that wants and needs align before I place any trust. Come on, sit."

He is already lowering himself, pulling his sword sheath up so that it lays flat on the earth beside him. Another surprise from Harlow. I'd expected him to leave once he had done what he needed to do, like everyone else. His trust in logic must run deep.

"Sit," he repeats, pointing to a spot about an arm's length away, nearly the other end of the tent. Maybe not that deep, but it is more than fair. I sit, not taking my eyes off him.

"You look good, by the way." He gestures at my tunic. "It suits you. Matches your eyes."

I flinch. I can't tell if he's making a joke or an attack or merely an offhand remark.

He tilts his head sideways. "Leofric didn't stand and watch, did he?"

"He did." I duck under his gaze.

"Ah." Muttering something, Harlow shakes his head. "Apologies. I should have asked him to leave you to it."

"No, it's fine," I say honestly. Every so often, the guards used to bring a new set of clothes, albeit with little variety. They always stood there, usually with arms folded and a permanent scowl, while I changed from one to the other, refusing to leave until I tossed them the old set through the bars. It was never a particularly pleasant ordeal, but I was more comfortable after. I guessed they were afraid I would light a shirt on fire and use it to melt stone, or something equally nonsensical.

The memory tugging at me, I glance at the red-splattered pile by the pole. That mustn't have happened for at least a season now. No wonder they look so awful. No wonder I do.

"Thank you," I add, turning back to Harlow. "For the clothes. And for the food."

"No problem." Reaching up, he pulls off his helmet, loose black strands spilling onto his shoulders. "I like to think I take good care of my soldiers."

"But I'm not a soldier." I'm more like a prisoner. I tug at the chain of my handcuffs, metal scrubbing the tent's side.

He catches my gaze, eyes sharp. "Not yet you're not."

I'm suddenly aware of my pulse. Taking a steady breath, I build up the courage to reply. "Are you... saying I could..." It crumbles before I can properly start.

"Become a soldier?" A thin smile flickers over his lips. "Perhaps. It'll take a little time, but I would like you to fight for us."

A dazzling room flashes through my mind, with a figure perched on a white seat. "Is that what you discussed with General Velez?"

"Yes. She took some convincing, but she agrees it could work."

"So I would..." My mind is racing. Could I really be something more than a curse? Maybe I could learn to shoot a bow as well as Tyler. I could speak with the others, start to trust them, even let them trust me. Make friends? Probably a little too optimistic, but I can't help the hope. I could learn to deal with my flame, and instead be of some use, fighting for--

It hits me in a wave. Fighting for Neyaibet. It wouldn't be that old fantasy of a battlefield, of me beside a girl with hair like sunshine. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'd be helping the very thing that chased her away, fighting against my own kingdom, against those prisoners I saw threatened into submission in their castle's halls. Against her. Maybe I'd run into her one day, when she was the one behind cell bars or weighed by chains, and our eyes would meet, and she would know.

My heart sinks, yet I shake my head, determined to do one thing right. "No. I can't. That's betrayal."

A heavy sigh draws my head up. Harlow, leaning into the tent's side, the material straining. "I thought you might say that."

I shift under his stare, but plough on regardless. "Besides," I say, more doubts pouring out from the wound I've opened, "I just... I can't. You said yourself that everyone here wants me dead, and" -- I fidget with the handcuffs -- "they have good reason. I could never fight with them, and I don't want to either. It isn't right." I stare down at my black trousers, colour so clean it could have been plucked from the night sky. "I'll go with you, do whatever you tell me, move to any cell, as long as I don't have to hurt anyone again. I don't think I'm made for anything more."

He listens in still silence, and even when I look back at him he only examines me wordlessly. I shuffle forward, casting a nervous glance up. I'd rather our combined weight didn't bring the tent crashing down on us.

"A rather sorry existence, isn't it?" he says eventually. "Shoved in a cell for the rest of your days. How old even are you? Fifteen?"

"I don't know. Maybe." My voice has gotten quiet. I don't want to look over at him for fear I'll find some hope to cling to in his expression.

"You deserve more than that."

"I don't think I do." A bitter chuckle escapes.

"Anyone does," he continues, ignoring me. "But especially you, kid. I can't imagine many people would still hold so much loyalty to a kingdom that abused them."

My head shoots up. "Oscensi did what they had to."

"I disagree." His eyes slice into me, but his tone is measured, purposeful. "Kid, you've got a good heart, and that's hard to come by these days. Yes, your power isn't exactly the safest, but I believe we can work something out."

"I just killed three of your soldiers." I have to hold back a second humourless laugh. It's never a good sign. "That could easily happen again. You must know that."

"That was more a mistake on my behalf." He looks almost guilty. "I knew Camdyn was close with Edita. I shouldn't have let him near you. Them stealing you away to attack you was always going to happen, and I should have foreseen it."

My argument falls away as I frown at him. I never said they were the ones to attack me. "How--"

"I've fought beside Edita and her gang for nearly two years now," he cuts in to prevent my question. "I know what they're like." He shrugs. "You killed them in self defence, and while I'd prefer it didn't happen again, it wasn't entirely your fault. We've all killed before for the same reason."

I scrabble for something else to say. Harlow has an odd way of saying almost the exact opposite of what I'm sure the others are thinking.

"But back to the point," he says, pulling himself around to face me. "Do you ever remember Oscensi giving you another choice?"

I swallow. I don't remember anything before the cell, but I doubt they did. Or maybe time has just yanked free the memory. My chest feels tight.

"Exactly." He takes my silence as his answer. "Doesn't that make us the better kingdom, really? At least from your perspective?"

Yes. It does, and while it is a fact I've been trying to ignore since meeting Finlay, I can't deny it. Neyaibet may have destroyed Oscensi, but it has spared me, and now Harlow is arguing for my benefit. If no-one else, I should be able to trust him.

It doesn't solve the many other problems that come with my closeness to others, but it is something. Neyaibet doesn't have to be my enemy.

At the sound of movement, I look over to see Harlow rising. "Think on it, alright?" He meets my eyes. "I'd like to be able to help you out."

"You've already helped enough," I admit.

"Well, I am incredibly generous." He reaches towards his sword sheath, adjusting it, then pausing his grip at his belt. I frown at him, but before I can ask the question he draws something out from behind the sheath. A dagger, its off-white hilt stained with faint dark imprints. Camdyn's dagger.

He glances up at me, then lays it on the ground in the space between us. "This belongs to you."

I stare at it, then at him. "No, it doesn't."

"If I say it does, then it does," he says, a little exasperated. "Camdyn certainly has no use for it anymore, and, well..." He holds out his palms. "If you're going to be a soldier, you need a more conventional weapon."

I feel something of a fool, tugging helplessly at my handcuffs instead of reaching out and grabbing for it. "Thank you."

The clink of the chain draws his gaze to my hands, but he says nothing of them. "I'll see about convincing Fayre to give you lessons. She prefers her bow, but she is rather handy with a dagger." Turning, he lifts the flap, then pauses and glances back. "Oh, one more thing. Do you actually have a name? Or were you just hiding it when I asked yesterday?"

Dipping my head, I shove back the real name that rises in response. "I don't, really. But one of your soldiers suggested Nathaniel."

"Nathaniel." I sense him scrutinising me. "It suits you." Something unreadable flickers through his eyes. "Which soldier?"

"I... don't remember now." Finlay did seem anxious to keep our prolonged conversation quiet, especially when it came to names. Even without that, our carriage ride in the moonlight seems better to keep to myself. It doesn't entirely feel real after all that has occurred since.

I resist the urge to glance down at the feather resting by my hip. It was real, despite the way Finlay seems to have vanished.

"Never mind then." He takes a backward step. "I'll come and get you when our ship arrives. It'll probably be the morning, although the wind is fairly good." Pausing, he considers for a moment, then gestures to my handcuffs. "And I am sorry about them. They're only a temporary measure. I'll talk to the general about when you can get them off for good."

The thought tugs at a smile. "Thanks, Captain Rakis."

He flashes a brief one in return. "Don't mention it, kid. I'd get some sleep, in case we need to leave in the night." With that, he lets the flap fall, his silhouette through the material slowly fading into the dim sheet of light.

For several minutes after, I simply watch the fold drift this way and that with the tug of the breeze, listening to the stillness of the air beyond. It definitely feels darker now than it did when I first entered the tent. The shadows are deeper now, sharper and longer, enough that I can pick out the shape of another tent looming close to mine. Occasionally, I catch the smudge of a faint figure crossing nearby, though none come near.

The temptation of Harlow's offer shouldn't be so great. Yet every time I glance down at the dagger lying at a pace in front of me, something in my chest aches, like the sealed path of Edita's sword now squirms with longing.

He's offering me a job in fighting. It hardly fits the brief of not hurting anyone, driven by flame or not. And I'd be hurting the very people I want to protect.

With a sigh, I squeeze my eyes shut, enveloping the world in darkness. It isn't just the fighting. Neyaibet's war is coming to a victorious close now. That ache comes from the thought of learning how to use the dagger, of exploring a new kingdom. It is the tentative concept of some sort of freedom.

This new world isn't without its cells and cages, but that doesn't mean I can't expand their walls. Even if that means letting a supposed enemy knock them down.

I tip my head back, thin material bending under my weight. Perhaps it is time to give up on loyalty. No-one expects me to hold it. There is only one person I can truly be loyal to, and there is every chance she is dead. That thought brings a different ache, one deeper and so much more painful, but laced with truth. The sooner I come to terms with it, the better.

She is lost to me. Oscensi's capital is broken bodies, bloodied hallways, dust and rubble. Even if I did choose against Neyaibet, I have nowhere else to go.

One step at a time. That's all it will take. Right now, I should be doing as Harlow says and attempting sleep instead of carrying on down the same futile train of thought. It won't get me anywhere, and in the end, its conclusion is simple.

Despite Harlow's words, nothing has changed. I still have only one choice.

- ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ -

"Hey."

The word is a gentle pull, a hook to wrap around my conscious and draw it, gradually, from the dark's embrace. My head twitches upwards with it, but gives up quickly at the protests coiled tightly in my neck. I wince. That's what I get for sleeping upright.

"Nathaniel."

My heart thuds a little quicker. I know that voice. How do I know that voice?

"Nathaniel!"

My eyes snap open with the realisation. I make to grab for the ground to pull myself up, then hiss in a breath as my wrist digs into the handcuff.

"Finlay," I breathe, twisting against the tent's side to face him. Relief soars through my chest and breaks out in a smile.

It is still dark. Lantern light pales Finlay's face and battles with the bright blue of his eyes. Somehow, his hair is even more ruffled than before, and it matches the nervous way he twitches towards me. My smile wavers.

"Inconvenient of you not to be nocturnal," he says, voice low. "At least you woke up quickly. Now, turn around."

Bending lower, he settles on his knees. I frown at him. "Finlay, is everything okay?"

He laughs softly. "As much as I'd love to chat, we don't really have time right now. Turn around, please."

He points to my handcuffs, and I catch the glint of the jagged object he holds. A key. It isn't hard to figure out what he wants me to do. I shift around as best I can, offering my hands out towards him. Metal scrapes as he reached forward with the key.

"What are you doing?" I ask, subconsciously dropping to a whisper. The final syllable merges with the scraping snap as he frees one wrist. I draw it to my chest automatically.

"What does it look like?" A second snap, and the clink of metal loops knocking together. "I'm getting you out of here."

Drawing away, he stands, first his shadow and then a flood of light cascading over me, presumably him picking up his lantern. I climb to my feet more hesitantly, tracing my bare wrists. He waits as I turn back around to face him. The handcuffs rattle in his grip. I watch him over the dim flame, examining the shaky way he meets my gaze, the hasty glance he sends upwards at the sound of branches creaking in the wind.

This is nothing routine. There is a reason he comes here alone, under cover of darkness. He plans an escape.

Already, he is backing away towards the tent's entrance, the lantern hugged close to him. "Come on."

"But..." I clutch tighter at my left wrist. "Wait. Why must we leave?"

He sighs. "Can't I explain on the way?"

I shake my head. As much as Finlay seems well meaning, I can't blindly trust him. My mind is already replaying the last time I left the camp without permission, with soldiers who promised to keep me safe. My nails dig into my skin.

"Fine." He hurries a few steps nearer, dipping his head so that our eyes meet. I hadn't noticed in the carriage, but he is almost a head taller than me, although with the way he carries himself currently, he would prefer to be as small as a mouse. "I assume Rakis offered to train you up as a soldier?"

"Yes." And leaving with Finlay will prevent that.

"It's a lie." The lantern swings sideways as he gestures. "Well, sort of. You would be fighting for them. Only you wouldn't be a soldier. You'd be their weapon."

His words alone might have been too vague had his gaze not travelled to the fire flickering within the lantern's cage. My fingers slide to my hand, hoping to press down the responding surge of my own flame.

It seems so obvious now he draws attention to it. My power could easily wipe out an entire battalion of soldiers without anyone else having to lift a finger. They would win wars before they even began. Neyaibet have always been ruthless, intent on ruling; why would they give up such an opportunity?

"I like to make sure wants and needs align before I place any trust."

I never thought to turn Harlow's own words on him, but now I do, and the thought shudders through me. Whether the captain wanted to keep me close or not, it is this need that dictates his choice -- the need to protect his kingdom. He spoke with General Velez about the possibility of Oscensi rising again, the necessity of preventing that. She must have seen his point. That's why she allows this, too. Everything slots together with perfect precision.

Finlay is watching my expression with wary interest. "You know what that means. You don't want that, do you?"

Swallowing, I glance down at my clasped hands. I don't want to hurt anyone else. The path Harlow plans for me leads only to hurt. That should be enough to pull me away and out of the tent, yet I find my eyes drawn to the touches of silver on my new tunic, the water skin propped against the tent's side. I didn't leave it that way. Someone has been in to refill it.

I need to move one step at a time. Staying here is a small step, but a stable one, a safe one. Following Finlay is a leap into unknown depths.

My hands relax, pulling apart as I look back up at him then drifting closer as his eyes find mine. "I don't know what I want," I say, treading carefully. "Where do you plan on taking me?"

His hand raises as if to reach for his hair, but a multitude of metallic clinks brings it down again. "I'd hoped to save this little surprise for the road, but..." Even in the darkness, his eyes take on a shine far brighter than yesterday's skies. "I know a way to suppress your power."

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun fact: I very nearly skipped the entire first scene of this chapter. Initially, my plan for the previous chapter was for Nathaniel to return to camp himself, but I decided that didn't work and changed my plans so that Finlay came and found him in the woods, bypassing going back to camp entirely, and it did sort of work. But then I changed my mind again, of course, and dragged Harlow back into it.

And I am so glad I reverted back to original plans (more or less) because this chapter was lots of fun to write xD I'm really liking the character Harlow is turning into. I actually wrote the majority of that first scene on the last day of March, right before my self-imposed AToD ban to force me to write Skayle Union. It took a good deal of restraint not to return to it until I allowed myself xD

Our poor boy, just being used as a weapon :/ If Harlow's intentions really are all that bad. He was looking after our Nathaniel well. Then again, surely Finlay's plan sounds better? We all want rid of that flame, right? If it really is possible.

All I can promise is Finlay won't be vanishing quite so quickly this time :DD

- Pup