AU: Apologize for the super long wait. I had my last exams in February, and now I've graduated.
Now I am looking for a job, so in the meantime I have free time now. 
This chapter is very lengthy, and I hope you folks enjoy!

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-Tartarus Base

No matter the place, time, or circumstance, all interrogations can be broken down into three simple steps.

One, establish initial rapport with the victim, and slowly build up an environment conducive to cooperation. Two, prepare a relevant list of questions and employ the appropriate interrogation techniques based on the prisoner's level of trust. And finally, take every answer with a grain of salt. 

That last one is arguably the most important. No one wants to act on false information. 

The frown deepens as her eyes sneak up for another glance—fleeting purple peaking through thin lashes. Easier said than done with her. The woman's chest rose and fell beneath the dark red tunic. Swirling patterns adorned the grimy fabric, adding a touch of flair to an otherwise unremarkable choice of attire.

The door to the impromptu interrogation cell flings open with a sharp thud, and she quickly looks up again from her self-imposed stupor. Firmly secured in proper hand cuffs, the captive could barely move her limbs in the chair she sat in, though it did not stop the brief attempt at fighting off her restraints once alerted to the sounds of footsteps.

She squirms, solemn gaze drifting away, dull purple repulsed by imposing black, her lips parted but guarded against every attempt at meaningful interactions.

That dull, pensive look remains, framing her beleaguered eyes. Wild snowy locks gently frame both sides of her face, their ends flowing past taut shoulders, spilling onto bound arms. Her brows scrunch as the footsteps pause.

"So, look what we found inside her purse... bag or whatever," a voice pulls me from the observation.

I turn around to see James crossing the threshold and closing the door with a resounding lock. Resting on the palm of his gloved hand is a small, eerie pendant—yellow, pulsing, and alive. He walks over and deposits the object right on the table, in plain view of our captive.

A small feminine gasp resounds and her eyes dart back and forth between the two of us before finally sinking to the pendent. She tilts her head to the item and squirms in place, arms fidgeting above the armrests as I pull my chair back to the front and take a seat, opposite to where she is.

Taking this as an opportunity to further progress the session, I take the pendant and loop it through my fingers, letting it dangle ominously in her sights. A hopeful look washes over her face, almost clear in its expression.

That is a start at least. I place it down, watching her eyes follow the decent until the pendant rested on the table's surface with a soft thud, its dim glow radiating like a soft, pulsing bulb across the room.

"Thought it looked important, like one of those translator artifacts," James promptly remarks as he moves across the room. Her hands twitch as the operative steps behind her line of sight, briefly perking to meet his muted gaze.

So, any progress yet?" He inquires, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

"Not really, she's been awfully quiet." I say, planting my arms on the table and setting a stern glare at the woman. She quickly notices the searing look and speaks, voice barely above a whisper.

"P—peace." It filters out her lips, that one word crossing what I initially believed was an insurmountable barrier for communication.

James unfolds his arms, surprise evident from the tone of his voice as he interjects. "Benitez ain't actually kidding," he remarks. 

I keep an impassive demeanor, keeping that mild flicker of surprise from showing. During the course of his debriefing session, the Sergeant provided an in depth account of his ordeal. It was simply an extended version of what he had already revealed just before the team made that faithful decision to take the Euralians as captives.

We knew well in advance that some of them had at least a basic understanding of English. It was further reinforced quickly after touchdown where they complied to our demands, only needing to be told once to remove their armour, empty their bags and pouches, and lie down with their hands behind their heads, something which would have been almost impossible had they not understood us.

Despite these observations, it still was something else entirely to hear it with my own ears, almost impressive—credit where it's due.

"Pretty sure she's fluent," James pauses, "enough to know when I'm calling her out at least."

I ignore his latest quip, entertaining the notion of uncuffing her arms. Nothing ventured, nothing gained I suppose. Digging into the utility pouch, I rifle through the rough assortments of items, hands feeling though them before latching on to a key. I pull it out and stand up, working my way around the table to stand beside the woman.

"Just the arms," I say upon noting a flash of concern behind James' visor. He shrugs, offering no real opposition to this course of action.

"Alright then," the operative shakes his head, pausing to look at the captive, "no one's going to write us up."

His voice shifts to a more serious tone, holding a sharp edge. "Hard to believe she's involved in so many events. First contact, that brief stint in that encampment, and... yeah," he trails off, hinting at her latest involvement with the base before concluding with a shrug.

"And now this," I add, slipping the key into the lock and disarming it with a gentle flick of my wrist.

A familiar clink resounds as the cuffs disengage, freeing her left arm from the armrest, the shackles foregoing its grip. The woman raises her hand, fingers flexing and wrist rotating, testing her arm's newfound freedom of movement with a thankful sigh.

"So far, so good," I pause and move over to the other side and repeat the process.

With both arms now free from restraints, I hand the cuffs over to James and make my way back to the front. Perhaps this gesture of goodwill is enough to set things into motion.

I think back to that word she spoke, articulating it again for her benefit with a flat tone. "Peace," I begin, watching her lips slightly part before closing. In the end, she only offers a curt nod as I lean forward, held captive by that shimmering pair of violet which seem to promise an endless trove of answers.

"Y—yes," she answers, the novelty of it still fresh in my head, "No fight."

"Glad to hear it, but we still have questions. And you're going to spill everything you know," I say, glancing past her head over to the digital clock mounted on the room's far end.

"You and I have the whole day to sort this out, so it's in your best interest to cooperate. Otherwise, I will need to resort to alternative methods to get you to talk."

A frown gathers in her lips. "As, you... decree," she answers, articulating the words slowly. I wince. Even with that much being said, it is clear she has not yet mastered the basics of English. Even a young child had a better command of the language.

Still, we have to work with the cards we have been dealt it and this is still an acceptable level of fluency. Given enough time, I may be able to wring something out from this session—provided she remains cooperative.

I lead the conversation ahead and start with the first question, locking both hands in front.

"Name," I say, addressing the need to have something to go along with that familiar face.

Her name remains at the tip of my tongue, once told a lifetime ago within that walled city—a place of so many firsts. Even today, with all the bad blood associated with her inhabitants, the fortress city's domineering visage still invokes a sense of awe and nostalgia.

"Inora," the woman says, breaking me out of the pleasant recollection.

 She straightens her back, offering a confident look. "Inora Ver'Riya," she adds, beaming a strained smile that faltered at the edges.

"Pretty name," James quips, the light grin he had practically laced in his tone.

I nod, feeling a small rush of agreement as her answer settles in my head. There is little reason now to forget that name again, even if it was, in my opinion a little on the forgettable side. James strolls back across the room and plants a hand on my shoulder.

"It's almost noon. Folks on Eden Pass are due for a rotation. Robert and Douglas are up next to man the checkpoint, and I'm volunteering," he discloses, "you good all by yourself?"

I briefly imagine the possibility of her attempting an escape before shutting off that train of thought. It would be unreasonable to assume that after she and her companions willingly surrendered any and all advantage they had after touchdown.

"I'll be fine," I break eye contact and give James the green light to proceed.

He takes my small nod as the cue and turns around, exiting the cell and shutting the door behind with a soft thud.

Now, we are alone. I lead on and make a brief gesture towards the pendant still eerily resting between us. "What is this?" I say, nursing a strong suspicion it was one of those translation ornaments.

"For... us, speak," she says—Inora says, easily proving that assumption right. It did not sit well with me to use that name. Although petty, I believe it is justified given the nature of her faction's relations with us.

I take the pendant, slipping nimble chains between the fingers and bring it over my head. The ornament's flashing settles over my chest, and a strange jolt washes over me—a brief surge intersecting with my thoughts, almost impossible to describe through words. But there that feeling was, made more palpable with her critical eyes on me.

A few seconds pass before that odd feeling dissipates. I take a moment to reassess myself, and begin testing the functionality of this supposed pendant—or necklace, however they call it. So many ways to begin, but only one stands out as appropriate.

Between the two of us stands an entire day. I can afford to take a few tangents. To air out my grievances, and the grievances of those still left standing. That fated flight back to Tartarus is still fresh in my mind, and only serves to fuel that lingering resentment.

Total radio silence, an entire base gone dark, just a crude remnant laying in enemy hands. Even as a memory, the pungent smell was palpable. The air then was thick, tinged red by the anger I felt as the desolate realization came crashing over me like a house of cards.

I compose myself and string together a retort that came straight from the heart. It is all genuine, unscripted, an entire tangent compared to what I expected to accomplish before trotting into this room.

"Shit move. Real shit move, returning back here," I begin, attempting, but failing to maintain a level tone as a healthy amount of venom sneaks through my voice.

I adopt a steady glare as her own falters. "Why return, after what did." Though phrased as a question, it comes out harsher than expected.

It was hard to resist the urge to antagonize her, even starting with a clear mind. The slurs and insults loomed dangerously overhead, on the brink of being fired at the slightest lapse in restraint.

"I—" she stammers, eyes venturing everywhere but me.

She sips in a breath, releasing the tension on her shoulders and continues, "Unfinished business," she bitterly states in her own language.

The alien words buzzed through my ears, foreign but coherent at the same time. I mull over her answer and charged tone. It sounded ominous right from the start, instigating a hint of concern at what she implied. 

A frown gathers on my lips. "Is that a threat?" I lean in, now actually tempted to hurl back an insult of some kind. What did she mean by that exactly?

I was not blind to the possibility that it could mean something else. Even so, poor choice of words on her part—though I probably shouldn't be surprised. She did not seem the type to have much going on between her ears. She is impulsive, reckless, and possibly a sad excuse of a team leader in my professional opinion, as demonstrated during first contact.

That opinion is a direct consequence of her actions that fateful day, and remains a constant ever since. It quickly gave rise to a question, once dormant, but now springing back to the front as the opportunity to sate it finally presents itself.

'Why fire the first shot?'

True to my prediction, her eyes widen and she flairs both hands out to dissuade me from that previous notion. "No, nothing of that ilk. On my soul, please believe me," she pleads.

I ignore it and bring up that long overdue question, certain it would jog a few old memories on her end. "Why attack us, back then," I say. Her answer will set the tone for the rest of this session. She can make this easy on herself, or give me sufficient cause to revoke that privilege.

"When?" She cautiously replies under my gaze.

"You know exactly when and where, don't make me repeat myself," I intone, not appreciating her attempt at deflecting the question.

She mulls over it with a thoughtful expression, withdrawing into her own shell. Apparently it did not take much to get under her skin. Regardless, this is not the type of response I am looking for. It always takes two to make a conversation, even in cases as one-sided as this.

"I'm waiting," I pause, giving her time to break out of her spell. 

Hopefully this is not going to be a common occurrence. While I did make a commitment to ensure this would not end with me resorting to physical threats, I was fully willing to cross that line if it meant securing a viable lead on our colleagues. I bring it up after a short deliberation, hoping to add another level of incentive.

Finally, she answers. "Rush of the moment. Assumed your garb as Yhunian, a grievous mistake." 

I frown, somewhat expecting a more concrete response. So a simple case of mistaken identity, something I already deduced long ago, but hearing it personally brought me the closure I needed to finally move past it.

"Figured as much," I sigh, now content with leaving that event behind closed doors. Two of her soldiers dead in return for her unwanted assault, and a jarring start to the fireteam's constant involvement in New Eden, all now relegated to memory.

"Let's move on."

I shift the conversation away from that personal tangent, now assaulting her with a myriad of questions aimed at uncovering the string of events that immediately followed after they took over Tartarus. A different account would be good to cross verify what we think happened against what actually transpired.

She holds nothing back, stating the severe cost of the attack where casualties estimates were up almost a quarter of the entire expeditionary force. The guys fought them well and hard, even when severely outnumbered and caught by surprise. I again briefly wonder if the team could have made a difference.

If we weren't sent to investigate Visegrad's sudden blackout, could we have been enough to turn the tide? If only we knew this would happen.

After listening to her accounts of the next following days, I stop her immediately once she crosses into a peculiar topic.

"—wait, I need you to stop for a moment." I say. She pauses, quick to show a hint of concern as I bring a hand up to brush the cleft of my helmet in contemplation, where my chin would have been.

Prior to the Rift closing on us, exploration, geological surveying, and shortly after first contact, anthropological studies was the main focus on the base. Although officially classified, it was an open secret amongst everyone that there was a slew of abandoned cities running almost the full length of the coast to our south—an entire civilization gone dark.

That region is the source for most of the artifacts recovered by the expeditionary teams, and is currently the focus of her recollections. It is on odd fixation, yet her eyes light up with an insatiable awe as she trails off about the statues that apparently depicted her culture's deity.

"According to the reports, those statues were," I pause, not sure she even knew the concept of a year. Even if her culture had an equivalent, there is no guarantee it would be on the same timescale as ours. The oldest ones are at least eight hundred years old, maybe even a thousand according to more daring estimates.

I shrug. "Well, incredibly old."

Her posture changes, prompting me to continue, to which I bring up the question of what exactly was the goal of tinkering with what I presume to be just relics of a bygone era—interesting but practically speaking, almost irrelevant.

She nods, her eyes sinking as she replies. "Elven kind, I know not of what business you had with them, but their mainland ancestors once thrived along the coasts to our south. A prosperous nation, once a potent rival to Euralia when it flaunted itself as an Empire. They too, followed the Herald Faith, she who once sundered herself into the realm to give rise to the arcane, of which the larger statues depict." 

The woman then pauses, and folds her hands together. I gesture her to continue, fixated on this curious revelation. She does so after registering my genuine interest, presenting the relevant history between her people and the Elves which explains why the latter displayed extreme xenophobic tendencies, later culminating in that sudden strike on Visegrad. The resulting silence was what lead to the team's deployment to the island chain—more of a reactionary measure than anything else.

I suppose experiencing near genocide would drive any race to embrace that sort of mentality. It did not fully excuse them from attacking the outpost, but it helped me understand why they acted the way they did. It was not entirely random, not in hindsight at least.

"—once, these victories were sung proudly. Euralian soldiers marching against Elven walls and encampments, all in her Majesty's name—with fire and steel. Now all that, destined only to reside within," she pauses, taking a deep breath before adding further, "forgotten tomes and parchments. The Kingdom seeks to distance itself from its brutal imperial past. The warriors simply were enthralled by what they symbolized, a rarely spoken piece of Euralian history," she finally concludes.

A brief glance up tells me over ten minutes had elapsed. "That was quite a... you've given me much to consider. Thank you," I extend my gratitude with a neutral tone, lacking the hint of malice that initially accompanied my voice.

A small hunch tells me this was already an existing theory made by the researchers, it seemed likely to be the case given that the small Euralian contingent had apparently worked alongside us during my team's distant venture across the ocean. For a time both sides coexisted, and that undoubtedly facilitated the mutual exchange of information, however brief it was.

"They're alive and well," I say, deciding to reference that venture. If she was part of the contingent, than it is possible she already knew of humanity's forays onto the southern archipelago. That notion is also further reinforced by what she said a few minutes ago.

"That, I already know," she remarks, fingers fidgeting against each other.

A calm silence passes between us. I make sure to free both her legs before proceeding further with the session. After expressing her thanks, we continue where we left off. She still has much to answer for and I fully intend on making good use of the time we have.

======

"Consider this a gesture of goodwill, don't read too deep into this." With a light hand on her shoulder, I escort the woman towards the exit as she grunts her affirmation.

"As you wish," Inora weakly murmurs, issuing a brief glance as she allows herself to be lead from her seat. Seeing no objections against the tentative weight on her, I tighten my grip once we reach the door.

With a slight twist and shove on the knob, the door swings open with a slight groan on its hinges. Davis stands outside leaning against the opposite wall, still sporting the distinctive armour of our shared profession. He perks up immediately, brows slightly raised as he breaks the silence.

"Didn't think she'd actually budge. So, how is it?" he asks.

"Better than expected. We've gained a substantial amount of actionable intel, but I'll need to get it all documented while it's still fresh. I know exactly where they are keeping the survivors. In the meantime she won't make any trouble for us, I've already made sure she understands the consequences if she, or any of her guys step out of line," I explain, nodding at my fellow operative.

Davis shifts his gaze to Inora, expression reflecting his thoughts. "Glad to hear it. Fucking muppet's got plenty of history with us, none of it good," he replies, unfolding his arms, eyes drawn to the gloved hand—my hand resting on her shoulder.

He tilts his head and continues after the short pause, weakly gesturing to the both of us. "I thought we agreed on the cuffs, so what changed?" 

"I'm escorting her to the triage to meet her supposed squadmate," I say, tackling the operative's newfound suspicion, "she only agreed to divulge all that information under the condition that we allow her permission to visit our captives. I'm keeping my side of the deal."

Davis silently ponders as I continue on. "Small price to pay I think."

He shrugs, not entirely objecting that assessment. "As long she knows the house rules. I'm not in a position to say this but, you shouldn't be so trusting of her. She's the enemy for God's sake."

"And she still is," I reply, quickly getting what he meant.

From his perspective, it is entirely reasonable to assume this. But beyond that, I considered his opinion and advice slightly biased due to recent events. His time spent as a captive to the Elves, as well as the lost of his fireteam still weighed heavily on his mind.

Even if he, at times tried his best to hide it, I could always tell the loss affected him much more than he cares to admit. That kind of thing is not something one could easily brush aside.

I disregard the train of thought and set off towards the triage, trudging Inora along as Davis matches my pacing. "Tell the folks I'll be right there to fill that report once I've dropped her off," I say with a glance over to the solemn operative.

He nods just as we exit the prefab. The sun still lies at a steep angle but is now on the decline as a brush of wind gently billows past me. Davis stops at the junction, prompting me—and by extension, Inora to do the same. The small thuds of our boots against the ground pauses as Davis turns to me.

"Try not to be late, I'll tell them you'll be there in twenty," he remarks, breaking off towards the Operations' Wing.

"Will do," I promptly reply, resuming the pace with the woman in tow.

Her gaze sweeps across the base in a slow arc before setting down at a disfigured pole just ahead. She slows her strides, eventually coming to a halt.

What used to be a loudspeaker rested at its top. It now resembles a useless heap of slag, barely discernable from what it once was. The once polished silver is charred. In some areas it was almost black, and dented by the intense heat, slightly leaning on one side like a wilted stalk.

"I'm guessing those sirens were annoying," I say, matching her sights on the scarred pole, where the klaxon alarms would have been.

"The sounds were... difficult to ignore. And so it was dealt with," she pauses, gesturing at what remains of it.

After a moment Inora turns around, her voice weakened by a hint of remorse. "So many dead, simply by the decree of a single man, or perhaps the Queen herself," she murmurs, gently brushing my hand off her slumped shoulder.

"Though I am not without blame, this I accept." The distraught soldier remarks, raising a limp hand to her chest. The fingers mold into a fist, digging into the red fabric.

I take note of her reflection, but decide to keep my opinions hidden. Rather than entertaining her musings, I continue onwards. The improvised triage stands only several dozens of metres away, its entrance still faithfully guarded by elements of the recently constituted second squad.

Soon enough, Inora catches up and matches my strides, keeping a fair distance on the left as we conclude the final leg of our brief journey. I can still remember the first pioneering days of Tartarus, of how relatively new everything was. 

Some prefabs back then were still under construction, and barely resembled their current iterations today. Not the slightest hint of those simple days remained as I scoured the valley for the sake of nostalgia.

A stern voice forces me out of that brief tangent. "Lieutenant, what's deal with her?" One of the troopers issues again, glaring at the woman with an obvious scowl.

"The interrogation went smoothly. She's fully cooperating, and has provided a full account of everything that happened during our absence, including where the survivors are being stationed at. The only catch is that she be allowed to visit the prisoners," I explain, briefly glancing at the woman as she timidly sends back a faltering smile.

"We'll need to clear this with Fred first," the other trooper answers, gesturing to his companion to make the call. After a few minutes staring at the distant ridges, the green light is finally issued.

"All good, you can bring her right in. Most of their medics are confined to the second floor until further notice," the same trooper pauses, then points to my companion who still lagged behind, "but only for thirty minutes, then it's back to detention with the folks she came with."

"That's fine," I reply, gesturing the woman to follow my lead. She breaks out of her stupor and catches up, each step carrying a light bounce as she wades past me, negotiating past the sandbag fortifications and its two occupants without sparing a glance.

After bolting ahead to catch up, I place my hand on her arm to stop her from going further into the prefab. Just ahead, past the doorway leading from the lobby was the familiar layout of the improvised triage as well as its associated beds and patients—both human and indigenous. A few turn to look at us, expressing a mix of surprise and confusion at our entry.

One firm squeeze is all it takes to fully get her attention and she turns around. Her lips part as though to phrase a question, but nothing comes out. I think back to that last conversation, mulling over her reflection and how genuine her words felt. It was hard to replicate what I saw as she mused over her own actions.

Just a cog in the machine, loyalty to the state, and obligation to carry out the orders of their equivalent of a commanding officer—all that could be argued as the reason for why she did all that. No one leads a blameless life. Not one person on earth—or here, is an exception to this rule.

======

His hand was firm, yet gentle. But I do not want it on me. With a twist, he relents, and I wait for him to continue. Masked visage or not, I feel there was more to his actions than this—thoughts yet to be expressed behind veiled lips.

"No one leads a blameless life," Jerome says, and with that he ushers me away, heels turning to face the exit without the grace of farewell—not that he has any reason to given my slights against his people.

I—wait!" I raise a hand, maybe to stop him, to urge to him to stay and expand upon his remark. Yet he ignores me, weaving past the sharp turn outside the entrance to vanish from sight, his final visage one of fleeting black.

There was so much more yet to be spoken between us, a kindling warmth that needed to be answered. It aches to see him as he is now, so devoid of hope as though the sun is but a mirage. 

No matter how unwanted, I could have offered a brief touch, to share in that burden. The burden of being shackled to the whims of those in power, to heed their decrees without question, lest there be consequences. Fault lies in the strings fate has woven, not us.

The prattle of his footsteps lingered, but soon fades just like his regards for me. His last parting sentiments kindles a sliver of comfort, however meagre it is. Like a leaf to the wind, I feel drawn to him, to cradle his memory and ponder over those words with intrigue.

"No one leads a blameless life," I murmur. How apt that saying is even to the most righteous of women and men. We all thread beneath this banner. Again I utter the words, feeling the weight of that saying—so heavy in meaning that one could reflect upon it for days on end.

Further into this mending refuge, I notice a fair partition between our two sides. Human wounded rallied on one end, some bedbound with odd trinkets stationed by their beds. Jagged lines wavered upon a black canvas—green, red, and yellow. Each holds a distinct pattern, changing slightly with each cycle from left to right. 

To the right are curious symbols, words, or perhaps numbers—also marked by slight changes. They likely hold relation to those jagged lines—harbouring meaning that I have yet to discern beyond the vague suspicion that it stems from a patient's vitality.

The glares and scowls of its human users forces me to look away. Their distrust is clear as an unblemished sky. I make my way to the far end, now noting the distinct lack of menders to care for my fellow kinsmen—of any patient on both sides.

"Highlander," a Blackhand Vanguard weakly greets, about to continue but I stop him.

"Where are the menders, why are none tending this refuge," I raise my voice, clamping a hand on the man's bandaged shoulder. It is not enough to perhaps cause hurt, but enough to stifle whatever else he would say. He winces, but only slightly as he brushes my hand aside.

Those women swore to never give up on their oaths, going so far as to stay behind as we left, to willingly risk themselves to the whims of the enemy for those too wounded to even lift a finger. They would staunchly observe their duty so long as they could draw breath—everyone of them.

 So where are they? What could possibly explain their absence. The fears slither out from the dark, each one equally dreadful to even ponder about. And the warrior's silence only serves to embroider those cruel visions.

"Up those stairs," the Black Hand warrior points to the steps across the room, voice parched and weary, "the humans have decreed an emergency. And all menders are forced upstairs at the threat of their insipid weapons. There are three of their soldiers upstairs, and two linger at the entrance."

He squints, and after a moment continues, his eyes gaping with a hint of recognition. "Highlander, Inora—21st Royal Cohort, 4th scouting regiment?"

A frown suddenly takes over, twisting his expression into one of displeasure. "I find it hard to believe our Lord Captain would send you, and what remains of your cadre on this fruitless scouting mission."

I shake my head, briefly glancing behind before turning back to honour the bedbound Acolyte Major with an answer. "We've long since parted ways, and I am no longer under his decree. But I am here at the request of the court of Yerune. For what purpose I am bound not to reveal."

"Whatever that may be, it is foolish—" the man scoffs. I halt him, lest he erupts into a fruitless tirade.

"How many menders survived?" Pressing on without delay, I remain undaunted by the brief flicker of displeasure. Without their masks, their visage lacked the menace that their emblem imposed.

With a sneer and fervent look, the warrior answers, his ire brandished. "All of them. None of the women are harmed, in all meaning of the word. Certainly more favourable than what we would have done, had the tides been reversed," he pauses, eyes flicking to the far corner where the steps to the second floor lay.

Soft prattles slowly grow with each moment—muffled footsteps rather. I regard the newcomers, only to be met with the burning glares of two human soldiers as they step into the refuge. Their armour lacked the sleek venomous aspect of my prior inquisitor, but are no less imposing with those weapons in hand. 

A single crackle is all it took to slay, an innocent flick of one's finger.

Behind their fiery gaze, a brush of white locks—its ends no longer than my own. There she stands, now frozen in place behind her human escorts, lips parting slightly to offer a gasp as her gentle eyes met mine.

A lump wells up in my throat. The words—her name remains anchoured behind frozen thoughts. None of that would suffice. She is well and unharmed, treated with dignity. Wetness spreads across my cheeks, little more than an afterthought as I bound forward.

With each step, that looming regret fades. Her cries of happiness mingles with mine as my arms wound around her in a tight embrace, eyes shut as I simply enjoyed my companion's warmth, basking in the glow of knowing Sephra is still alive. Of knowing she never suffered from the nightmares that plagued my sleepless nights.

"Praise the Herald," I murmur, eyes still shut from the euphoria and relief—mostly relief. 

There is never a shortage of rumours of what had be felled those women who were captured by the enemy. Thank providence it did not see the light with her.

"Why?" Is all Sephra could offer as she pulls away, relenting her squeeze.

The innocent question evokes a strained smile. Our return is only at the behest of Yerune's court, to kindle a misguided hope. The humans will never leave willingly, and nor would I expect them to.

I halt the train of thought, answering from the heart. The simple truth, unmasked and free. "You," I firmly declare.

"Leave no kin behind," I further reason, glancing at the two human warriors as they watched.

"It would be... difficult," Sephra's gaze lingers upon the wounded, "I have my patients, both Euralian and... them." She points to the humans on the far end, gaze lingering more than is needed.

A wave of surprise briefly courses over me before I take it in stride. Of course she would insist that both sides deserved care and healing. Mercy and kindness—traits she embodies, and always will. This was well beyond what her profession would ask, be it in combat or interlude.

"Were you treated well?" I scour for scars and bruises across her body, patting over the odd choice of clothing she donned—a simple two piece garment. One consisting of a sleeved tunic and trousers, both an arid gray.

The human-made garment was several notches too big for her chest and arms, like children gifted a tunic well before the turn of their seasons. I pull the sleeve up her right arm, revealing only unblemished and fair skin beneath the coarse fabric. Smooth, unbloodied, and lacking sweat or grime—only possible if she had access to their water.

"They did nothing that is against my will. Menders seem to be well honoured," Sephra softly remarks with pursed lips as she tugs the sleeve back down. She continues with an emerging smile, tone now alight with a strew of solace. "You need not worry. The... worst did not come to fruition." 

"Good," I say, flitting back to the human guards for just a moment. I try to ignore the sight of their weapons as I spare them both a grateful nod.

They knew Sephra is part of my cadre. Perhaps because they have already seen her armour and cape, and knew it matches with mine. The burden has lifted, but more is yet to be done.

The war on our Fringe East has only progressed and expanded upon since my last departure. It is only a matter of time before the fighting spills onto the vale. Her secret inhabitants, and trove of insights will not withstand the ferocity. Not with these paltry numbers.

"How long did Simmons say she's allowed here? " One of the warriors remarks to the other, hushed in his tone.

"Half an hour. But Fred says to cut it short, he wants all hands on deck until we're sure an attack isn't coming," the other answers. 

They exchange a glance whilst I look on, prying into the moment. Some of the words I can discern, but they were mere snippets—not enough to lift the veil of secrecy. Something about their hands, and a sure attack.  Maybe it is a call to arms, yet there should be no need. Every one of their warriors seemed ready, and able to defend.

"The last scare held us for over three hours. I'm betting this one's gonna be twice that." They both drawl on, and take no heed as our gossip carries on.

We discuss only our ordeals at first, taking equal turns in unveiling what had transpired in the days since our parting. It eventually steers into murky waters, much to the ignorance of our guards.

Escape now sits at the fore of our discussion, though I remain the sole advocate for it. Sephra remains undaunted in her stance. She folds her arms, never once relinquishing her doubts.

"Inora, I must not betray the oath," Sephra finally states, bold beneath a frown. "It will take some time until all their wounded are healed. Their menders are few, and lack the affinity of the Herald's gift."

"I'm afraid, it would be to late by then." I mirror the frown, cursing the very existence of her oath. Her kind soul, one which I have always looked upon with fondness, is now something I despised.

I tread alone on this weave. But I will see this through, just not in this moment. Soon enough, my time is at an end.

Sephra averts her gaze, as the human warriors call to me, their pledge fulfilled. One points a stern finger to the exit, and so I heed the man's decree. With a final breath and another hug, I let her go. She excuses herself, and departs back up the steps, shedding one final glance—a brief mirage of violet cast amidst a troubled frown.

In due time, we will find a means of escape. Perhaps in the ensuing chaos. That is within my power. Patience is a virtue in this profession, and so it shall be exercised.

Outside, the fading sun has never felt dimmer as it falls below the jagged horizon. I will find a way through this murk without bloodshed.

======

-1245 Military Hours
-Ship Of The Line Minen'Thra

Alone she sat, powerless to the monotony of this voyage. The priestess casts her gaze far out into the great blue, as she normally did since the death of that human spirit. Time is a seamless weave. One day melds into two, three, and then ten. And always, there is nothing but ocean for leagues beyond. 

Prayers and books can only stave off ones boredom for so long. There is little to do but ponder on what had been lost. And what her people may find, after so many seasons of neglect.

The old Kingdom, Shan'Andu is no more. All that remains is memory and grief. The Elven legions were once vast, their cities immaculate jewels upon which foreign poets would boast in scripture, and chapels the greatest envy of their ancient enemy. All that, unjustly taken so long ago.

With each hour, the fleet sails ever closer to their true home. Perhaps the cities would lie in utter ruins. Plucked free of value, and made a shell of what they once were.

The Priestess wondered, not for the first time if the storied tales told when she was a child were true, and if she could even discern the ruins and landmarks when the time came.

Amidst her muse, a young deckhand approaches, scroll in hand. The sailor leans upon the gunnel right beside her, casting an aimless gaze out into the murk as he begins.

"Ships of the advance flotilla have weighed anchour at the northern end of Sel'Noreh Bay, esteemed Priestess," he announces, gaze torn between her and the ocean.

"The Old Capital?" She inquires, certainly envious of those who must have already laid eyes on the fabled city, said to be a place with towers so imposing and segments so wide that they defied balance. 

"What is it like? Are the legends true?" The Priestess delves further, beaming a hopeful glint upon the young man.

With a hint of a blush, he answers. "I'm afraid we don't know yet. The message is sent in advance, so the ships would have only arrived just as the messenger drakes reached us."

"I see." She frowns, her thoughts left to drift in imagination. So much time has passed, surely things would be different.

She unfurls her arms and tinkers with the seams of her robes, thoughts once again drifting to the brief incursion of those humans upon the home islands. Those who came without dreams of conquest, only intrigue, as they now know. 

"We may expect more of the humans should they choose to seek refuge within our ruins," she says.

The young priestess truly believed there was a greater reason for her presence amongst the sailors and soldiers of the returning fleet. She is a gifted cartographer, certainly one of the best from her birth island. But before that, she is a woman of faith.

A clarion chime, a whisper of divinity, and the voice of her Crystal Herald. The Goddess is the seed of her heart in times bright and grim. She would never forsake the calling, and not give herself fully onto this venture.

"See to it that my brother prepares for such a case. And that my writings be ferried to all other ship masters within the fleet if it is not already done so. I do not wish for them to be kept beneath the waves," she remarks to the deckhand.

He bows, and draws away from her. "Of course, Priestess Aluna."

Once again, she casts her fair gaze back onto the ocean. Far beyond the great blue, is home. Just ten or so more days left until she may renounce life at sea and begin her tale in the land of her ancestors.

What would await her then, she could not wait to unveil. Oh how she dearly missed the surety of land.

With a smile and wave of excitement, she returns to her cabin and kneels before a small statue of the Herald, hands together in sermon.

Her voice begins with a whisper, and lingers with emotion.

"From the shores from which we have left, we return once again, after ages adrift beyond the great blue," she slowly recites.

The light from the window looms over her in a gentle mist, as though the very glint of the Herald is cast upon her entire being. Gentle is her solemn gaze is she opens her eyes, concluding with a final line of her prayer.

"Ila Ado're." Her hope, embedded in one parting breath.

We are home.

===end===

Let old ghosts rest
And for hope to spring eternal

For peace is a worthy cause

-Priestess Aluna, Chaplain, Ship Of The Line Minen'Thra

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Thanks for reading, once again I am open to feedback and criticism.-Renegade