How would I tell the settings sun? Of its fatigue, perhaps? Or would I tell it as its fall, as its plight when it plummets down the sky and into obscurity? For, though it falls slowly, it falls, nonetheless. With every second, it drops a little lower, comes a little closer to vanishing from the heavens. With every moment, it falls a little more.

Solaria Meridan is familiar with the fall. She knows how the wind drops from her lungs when she lands, the hard dirt of reality slamming into her and stopping her heart for a few moments. She knows of the desperation, the weakness, the feeling that she might never wake up again – but she does. Time after time, she rises, and this time is no excuse.

She pushes herself off the ground, cheeks dyed red and eyes guided down: shame. It's a rare sensation for her, an uncomfortable one, too, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, more so even than the remnants of dirt on her tongue, pinching her taste buds and twisting her face into a grimace. No one saw me. Good. She doesn't know what caused it, can't fathom what prompted her to buckle under the weight of her armour; perhaps it was fatigue, or hunger, or the impact of her first day back on the battlefield after many more spent locked in a dungeon – whatever the case, she knows what it looks like. She's all too aware what it reeks of:

Weakness.

It's a word that has rarely been used to describe her. Even as a child, she loathed the thought. Refuses to cry. Even in love, she is not vulnerable. She watches over her lover, protects her sister, cares for her mother – but she does not need another person. At least, not until the dead of night, when a cold shiver slithers down her spine and she curls a little closer to Mariana, closes her eyes, and nestles her head into the crook of her shoulder. This is a hard position for her to take – admitting she needs warmth is a torment to her, but it is so much more comfortable than going without. She has learned that, over the years. It makes her vulnerable, yes, but not weak.

There is only one time she let weakness get the best of her – and even then, she did not let it; rather it crept up on her, snuck behind her back and reached around to grab her heart. And, from the moment it had her, she could not shake it. It grew stronger each day, sapping her energy, but she grew complacent; permissive; willing, even. What good is pride, compared to a stranger's embrace? But Solaria doesn't think of that. Not when she can help it, anyway.

"You're a wild one, aren't you? A free soul just roaming the world, grabbing whatever thrill you can."

Solaria had smiled. "You're the roamer, if I'm not mistaken."

"Only my body. When my heart finds a home, it settles there until it's chased away."

This had saddened Solaria – hurt her, even. Stung, in that way that only a word can puncture flesh. It leaves no visible marks, but it scars nonetheless, revealing itself only in the middle of the night when you have no other thougths to distract you: what if my mother is right, and I'm wasting my life away? What if that man was right, and I'm incapable of ever feeling love?

He'd smiled. He always smiled when she made such declarations, as though the sight of her showing emotion amused him, as if she was a particularly hard puzzle he was slowly cracking. Perhaps that should've been a sign, only she hadn't known at the time. And why should she, really? She was young – young enough not to know better, at least – and he was worldly. Of course she was amusing to him; that's what made her endearing.

"I know that, darling," he'd replied. "But you don't settle either, do you? Your heart could never be stayed in one place, just like a tiger could never be made into a pet. That's what's so beautiful about you: whatever else you are, you're free. No one could ever doubt that."

She'd blinked, confused. Was it a compliment? It sounded one, sure, and yet there was something hidden beneath it, buried low enough that she had to look for it – but she hadn't wanted to look. Hadn't wanted to ruin the magic. Some things were better left undisturbed, after all. Fairy tales work beautifully on the page, with all their gaps and imagined endings; only when one tried to bring them into the real world did they begin to falter.

"I – I could love you."

"I never said you couldn't," he'd chided. "But loving someone doesn't mean being with them. Can you be with me?"

His blue eyes had shimmered with mischief; his copper haired had rustled in the wind. It always did; it was just long enough to avoid being tied up, but not short enough to resist the strength of the breeze passing through it and blowing it every direction. That was what had drawn her to him, originally. Perhaps there was something wild in him, deep down. After all, he was an adventurer, wasn't he?"

She took a step closer, put her hand on the back of his neck. Slowly, as if she were still making her decision, she moved her lips to his throat, then to his jaw, then to his lips, turning the key in the lock of her cage all the while. She had felt warm, then, and open, and free in a way she had never felt before. It was as though the wind had gotten beneath her flesh and was beginning to blow inside her, now, moving her organs around with the same abandonment as it moved her hair, or her clothes. At that moment, she felt one with nature – what could possibly be more natural than this?

"I could," she told him. "I could be with you."

"A prisoner!" calls a voice, pulling her from her reflections. Solaria blinks, turning her attention towards the sound's origin. Ah, fuck. The man approaching her is all too easy to recognize, causing her to groan as she confirms his identity: mess of a mop for hair, clothes that look like they were patched together by a blind monkey, that awful grin on his face – how is anyone possibly so cheerful? This is a fucking war – it's him, alright. Son of a bitch. Cassius Dandylock strolls in, a handcuffed man following behind him. The knight looks as though he hasn't a care in the world, which would impress her if it weren't so annoying. She can't quite make out the prisoner yet, just a flash of copper hair. I'm sure there's more than one redheaded Elusian in this world, she tells herself, shutting down the ball of dread that's building in her stomach. What are the odds that this one just happens to be the one I was thinking about?

"Who's this?" she asks.

"A civilian – or at least, he claims to be. He had a bunch of knives and daggers on him, but no armour. We found him trying to sneak behind Adrigolian lines – might've been trying to run away. Bit of a coward, by the looks of it."

"Right. Did he give you a name?"

Cassius looks down. "Not yet. Usually Shahin does that, but he's in his tent and I don't really feel like bothering him..."

"Who's the coward now?" she chimes, the hint of a smile on her lips. Not that she intends on being the one to disturb Shahin. Even if he wasn't as quietly intimidating as he is, she'd rather take this one herself. However much she knows she shouldn't, she can't deny she's curious...

"Raise your head," she commands.

The second she sees his eyes, she knows. They're that exact same shade of blue, like the shallows of the sea, and they bristle with all the energy of a ripple in a pond. His smirk, too, is the same; even now, in a position of total vulnerability, he looks as though he's winning some argument no one knows of but him

"Caliban," she hisses.

He flashes that smirk of his; her blood boils even more. Her sight grows red, and she's sure if her skin were any lighter it would too.

"Cassius, you can leave. I'll handle this bastard."

"Sorry, love," he replies, "I don't think I remember you. I've screwed over a lot of women, you know. A few men, too, but those weren't usually as fun – except for this one. He was just the most naïve, most foolish little blonde I ever –"

Cassius clears his throat before replying, his joke of a grin plastered on his face. "If you don't mind, staying sounds fun. Plenty of dramatics, you know?"

"Cassius, if you don't leave me alone with him right this instant, you'll have to mime your godawful songs."

"Right on, then," he agrees, "I think I'll be leaving. Have fun, you two."

"A scary one, are you?" Caliban taunts. "What are you, the troop wildcard? A bit unpredictable? Likely to go off the handle, maybe? I did always like that type...fun to tame."

"You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Tame me."

"You're wild," he'd hissed. "An animal. You aren't capable of a real human connection, are you?"

That should have stung. It was the first thought to go through her mind as she blinked at him; hearing the man she loved say such things about her should be unbearable, yet the words barely grazed the surface, and she knew they wouldn't leave any marks. Even when he'd spotted in their bed, a woman he didn't know in her arms, she hadn't cared. Her pride chided her on, of course, wanted her to prove him wrong, but even that felt superficial. It was insult without injury, but she had always been one to prefer a cut to her flesh than a cut to her honour.

"So? Isn't that what you wanted: a tiger who couldn't be tamed? You have exactly what you wanted, and you can't handle it. You're a hypocrite and a coward – fuck you."

"You said you could be with –"

"I said what you made me say!" she'd interrupted. "We both know you wouldn't have accepted another answer. We would've kept on sleeping together, and you would've kept on expecting more, and we would've kept having that goddamned fight. Agreeing was the only way to –"

"The only way to shut me up?"

"The only way to move on. I would've told you that, if you hadn't cut me off."

"And who's being a hypocrite now? You're the one who interrupted me first."

"Because you were being whiny and redundant!"

The words went on, insults piling together into snowballs which they threw back and forth, always landing but exploding on impact. The argument built until it could do nothing but erupt, and it ought to have done so with a bang – but instead, it diffused softly, like the air slowly leaving a punctured lung. Slowly, their words de-escalated, their anger settled; everything was out in the open, as it should be. Solaria smiled.

"All you wanted was to make me something else, wasn't it? You love me because you think I'm wild, and you hate me because I won't stop. But it isn't really about me, is it?"

"You love me because I'm an explorer," he countered. "You think I'm a roamer; you just want to roam with me."

She paused. "Maybe," she said, after a moment, "it's time we reintroduce ourselves. Try for something real. Start over again."

"Maybe," he mused.

"Tomorrow morning, then. We'll meet right here, right in the middle of all these trees. Where nobody else would think to go. We can watch the sun rise."

They agreed, and they parted ways, the sun setting over their heads. It returned the next morning, and so did she; but he was nowhere to be seen.

"You really don't remember me?" she asks. "I suppose it has been a while. You never saw me in armour – anyways, I was a teenager. I suppose I've changed since then, haven't I?"

"I suppose so," he agrees. "Changed well, too. You're –"

"I'd stop talking if I were you."

Solaria closes her eyes, takes a breath of the air. Much like before the battle, she blesses luck for putting the Adrigolian encampment atop a hill on the cliff over the waters. Salt sea air fills her nose and clears her spirit. She smiles as she puts the sword to his throat.

"Do you recognize me now?" she asks yet again.

"Are you just going to toy with me?" he pleads. "What are you, some sort of feral cat?"

She doesn't recognize the emotion in his voice, but she has heard it in others: fear. There's a satisfaction that comes with realizing this, a cruel sort of pleasure at knowing that for once she has made him vulnerable, rather than the other way around. But, despite this, the sword's metal feels cold in her hands. He's unarmed, her mind argues. Defenseless. Killing him would be cowardice, and it would be weakness – but I suppose he's always brought that out in me, hasn't he? Solaria grins wider as she pushes the blade and nicks his throat. Blood begins to swell at the cut, but it's hardly fatal – not yet, anyway.

"What about now?" she teases. "Am I wild enough?"

His eyes widen; his mouth opens. "Solaria –"

Upon hearing her name, she slices, the a still half-formed on his lips. His chin slumps forward, the shock of recognition in his eyes disappears. It's a haunting image, she supposes, but she doesn't mind it. When she goes to bed later that night, it does not cost her any sleep.

When she wakes the next day, the sun returns, and so does she; but he is nowhere to be seen.