Bellica

by Katje van Loon

  The screaming stopped abruptly, and Yarrow, suddenly free, collapsed and started rolling down the mountain. She flung out her arms to stop herself but it was too late, and she rolled until she landed in a crevice, her head landing hard on a rock. For a second she struggled to rise, but then darkness consumed her in a wave.

  Anala

  Aro stood with his hands clasped behind his back -- a familiar stance -- face stoic as he watched her read the paper in her hand. Her eyes scanned it once, twice, three times, and then she set it down on her desk and looked up at him, keeping her face unreadable.

  "I cannae say I expected this o' ye, Aro," she said quietly, after a long silence.

  He cleared his throat and looked at his feet briefly before meeting her eyes again. "Neither can I," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  She nodded once, a brief movement that settled the matter. "Verra well then. Ye have a day ta clear out your room."

  He stood at attention and saluted. "Thank you, Ma'am."

  She nodded again and stepped back, needing distance from him. "I'll miss ye, Aro," she said, and by some miracle her voice did not break. "Ye've been a damned fine major. I daresay tha best I could've known."

  They looked at each other then, eyes searching the other's face. This was it, then. It was as plain as night. Even though she screamed inside for him to say something -- anything -- to stop what was happening; even though she could see his eyes begging her to make the move that would save them along with his military career; even though it was obvious neither wanted this, that all they wanted was to embrace, crushed chest to chest, and never let go, neither of them spoke.

  The eye contact broke and she turned her face away, stony as ever. "Go," she said, voice ragged.

  She did not look as he left her, refusing to view him so blurrily. It was only when she heard the door shut and his footsteps recede that she sank to her knees, covering her face and thick tears that ran down it with her hands as her body was violently racked by silent sobs.

  Aro

  Packing up his things shouldn't have taken so long. He didn't own that much to begin with.

  Every few seconds he was stopped, the breath stolen from his lungs, as he thought of her. They'd never spent much time in his room but for some reason, everything he owned made him think of Anala.

  He stopped beside his closet, hand resting on the wall, and leaned his forehead against the cool stone.

  There was nothing he wanted more than to march back into her room and beg her to take him back. Apologise for being so stupid. Ask for forgiveness.

  He moved his head back from the wall a bit and then bore it down again -- not hard, but enough to wake him up.

  No. They both knew it was time. They'd been drifting apart since Midspring. And while there was nothing that said they couldn't stay together as lovers even as he handed her his resignation, he knew that it wasn't possible. Anala didn't understand why he had to resign. As much as he wanted to be with her, he wouldn't stay in the military, in a career that was slowly crushing his spirit, to stay with her.

  He'd meant it when he'd said forever. He'd never stop loving her.

  He didn't think she could return the sentiment. It was apparent that, love or no, they could not stay together.

  So he packed his belongings into his bags and said goodbye to the room that had been his for too short a time.

  No sooner had he closed the door than a messenger ran up to him.

  "Package for you, Major," the boy said, holding out a large item wrapped in cloth and twine.

  He frowned and set down his things to take it from the boy. "Who's it from?" he asked, starting to unwrap it.

  "The master clothier at Corrisa's."

  Realisation dawned on Aro as he pulled away the last bit of cloth. There, folded neatly, was a cape made of jackahare-fur, dyed a deep, dark blue with a violet trim.

  Anala's birthday gift.

  He wouldn't be able to give it to her now. Her birthday wasn't until Septema, and she'd probably never want to speak to him again. Even if she did, this was not a gift for an ex-colleauge to give. It was a gift for a lover to give.

  Numbly he thanked the boy with a gold piece and carefully rewrapped the cape in its cloth. Finding some paper in the room he'd just vacated, he jotted a quick note to Anala and left the package outside her door. She should have it, even if he couldn't give it to her in the way he'd imagined.

  Then he turned and walked down the hall, not looking back once.

  ~

  He didn't know who was more surprised when he walked into the hospitalis and asked for a job, Ghia or her assistant Jera.

  He'd barely been able to keep steady at the sight of Ghia -- she walked with a cane to support a leg that was misshapen, gnarled like an old apple tree. Her right arm was clutched tightly to her side, hand curved like a claw. Her lower lip was swollen and a large scar ran vertically through her mouth, marring her pretty face. She looked tired and defeated, and she spoke not a word.

  At his request she nodded and gestured to Jera, who called for an acolyte.

  "Yana here will take your bags, Major," she started, but Aro cut her off.

  "Not Major anymore, Jera. Just Aro."

  She smiled graciously, in better spirits now that Ghia had been returned to her rightful place at the hospitalis. "Aro then. I'll make sure you get set up nicely in the dormitories." She and Yana left with his things.

  Aro turned back to look at the head healer, who was regarding him in an almost hawklike fashion, her face twisted as an after-effect of the beating she'd received. "Can I speak to you privately?" he asked, and she nodded and gestured for him to follow her.

  He walked after her slowly, careful not to step on her heels as they headed to her office.

  Once there she closed the door and waved the torches to life with her hand. Aro breathed a sigh of relief, glad to see her Magi powers were still in working order. Was it trauma that kept her silent, he wondered.

  She waved for him to sit and got her chair out herself, settling into it with a whump and setting her large cane down beside her.

  Throughout this long procedure she made not a single sound, not one grunt or wheeze or sigh, though Aro was sure she must be in considerable pain. He could see it in her face -- or was that grimace permanent now?

  She reached out across her desk and grabbed a quill and some paper, then, with enormous difficulty and agonising slowness, scrawled out with her left hand a short note. She then passed the paper to him.

  What's on your mind?

  "What's happened, Ghia? Why won't you speak?" he asked, launching directly into it.

  She turned her head, her profile no less proud now than it had been before, and paused a long time before writing something else on the page.

  I cannot.

  He frowned. Had Zardria cut out the girl's tongue? His stomach lurched at the thought.

  "Are you still...whole?" He was unable to be more direct than that, fearing the answer.

  A brisk nod and a wave of her hand was her answer, and he relaxed in his chair. Only slightly.

  She was staring at him, intently, a strange gleam in her eye, and he got the sense he could ask no more, that she could say no more. What had been done to her?

  Painfully she scrawled out another note, longer this time.

  As for you? Why have you left Anala? Are your Oaths no longer important to you?

  It was harsh and to the point, which he expected of her. He almost smiled.

  "Comes a time, Healer Ghia, in every woman's life where she's got to choose which oaths to keep, and which to break," he said, falling on an old aphorism to explain his actions. "I've made my choice."

  She made a jerking motion with her head, the look on her face showing the comparative value she held for his Paxwoman's Oath to her over his Major's Oath to Anala. Her next note confirmed it.

  Anala needs you more than I.

  He looked at her present physical state and pointedly raised his eye
brows. She glared.

  Besides, can you not see she loves you desperately?

  He shook his head and sighed, letting his gaze wander and settle on something of no import in her office. "I don't think she does anymore, Ghia. She's been incredibly distant of late, only getting close when..." he trailed off, raising his hand to his chin and lowering it to his lap again in an incomplete nervous movement. "I'd still be with her, if she'd allow it. Anala's proud, and my resignation hurts that pride. She doesn't see herself as I do -- bellica and woman, each separate from the other, and so can't imagine Aro the man is separate from Aro the Major, and that each one loves her differently." He sighed, feeling helpless. "I couldn't be a major anymore. It felt wrong," he said quietly, then looked back at Ghia. "I've already failed once in my duty as your paxwoman. I won't do it again." He regarded her seriously.

  She shook her head, a small smile on her face, and patted his knee awkwardly. He suddenly felt young again, as if he sat at his foster-grandma's feet, looking for comfort and solace.

  How strange to feel that in the presence of a girl ten years -- or more -- his junior.

  Her next note signalled the end of the conversation.

  On account of your skills, I'm putting you on clean-up, gardening, and security duty. That includes making sure certain healers take their scheduled breaks.

  He smiled slightly at that. "Like you?" he couldn't resist asking, and she shook her head vehemently.

  I'm special, she scrawled. Dismissed.

  He stood and saluted. "Yes, Ma'am."

  Caelum

  Things had continued to grow stranger as time went on.

  For one, he actually found himself enjoying time with Zardria. There were things he disliked about her, but on the whole, her company was something he liked.

  She was funny, for one. That same caustic humour he'd first noticed in her had proven prevalent throughout her life, and she was continually making jokes. Usually no one else noticed them for what they were, however. Once he got used to her sense of humour, which, if somewhat skewed from the way Yarrow saw things, seemed quite familiar, he found himself chuckling quite a bit.

  She was also very intelligent and loved to discuss things like history, politics, religion. He had little to contribute himself, but her voice was pleasant and so he just happily listened to her talk over their evening meal.

  He had the feeling that was something she'd been sorely lacking before he came along. Someone to listen.

  There were times, as they sat at the table in her drawing room and spoke, that one or both of them would stumble over a subject that brought a change to her, and she would stare at the table for a moment, a sadness to her face, and then a second later the storm was over and she was smiling again.

  He wished to know what troubled her, as he flattered himself that if she told him, he could help.

  Strangely enough, he wanted to help.

  This he could not figure out.

  Another thing he couldn't figure out was why she'd still not had him fulfill his full role of Consort. Over a tredicem had passed and still they had not bedded. Not that I'm eager, he thought quickly. No. It was just that her offer to him back in Decima -- was it already almost two months past? -- had led him to believe that as soon as the doors were closed she'd rip his clothing off and claim him for her own.

  She'd put him off each night, saying she was tired or had some other ailment. Until the night before, when she'd turned to him and said:

  "Stop trying so hard. I know you do not wish to touch me." Then had gone to her room, closing the matter with her door.

  Or so she thought.

  Tonight he sat determinedly on a klina in the drawing room, half-heartedly looking through a book he'd found in the library, though he wasn't really reading it. Not now. He was free most days, and had taken to spending his time in the castle library, painstakingly reading old texts about mythology and legend. His mind was on other things at the moment; he was just giving his hands something to do.

  He'd sworn an oath, and he was going to keep it -- even if only because she'd have reason to punish those he cared about if he didn't, he reasoned. Only for them.

  It was a sacrifice he had to make.

  Yes. A sacrifice, he thought, but his mental voice sounded unsure.

  A few minutes before their evening meal was to be served, the door to the drawing room banged open and in stormed a furious Empress. She was muttering loudly to herself as she strode to her vanity, nearly tossing down the Sceptre in her rage. It was only when she glanced in the mirror that she saw him and stopped.

  "Rough day?" he asked unnecessarily, setting his book to the side.

  She made a noise in her throat. "Infuriating! Petition after petition after petition after petition -- you would think they had nothing better to do with their lives. One man actually asked me why did I not just cede the Sceptre to my sister -- can you imagine the absolute gall of that?" She was flailing her arms wildly in her rage now, and trying to undo her bodice but failing in her anger. He rose and came up behind her, gently moving her hands away to undo the laces himself.

  "What did you do?" he asked, trying to get her to expel her anger in ranting.

  She snorted. "What could I do? The man is a metal-worker in the smithy, so I couldn't kill him. I may need his skills. He's cooling his heels in the dungeon right now, but I daresay that won't fix the underlying problem." She sighed, looking exasperated but not spent of her anger just yet.

  He finished removing her bodice and started to knead her shoulders. "And what do you think is the underlying problem?" he said gently.

  She rolled her neck. "Oh, well, of course it's that the Goddesses dared to make me heir and not Yarrow. Of course they can't see that I didn't choose my life any more than they chose theirs, but common sense is not so common with commoners -- Oh!" she exclaimed as his hands found a large knot. "Mm. You're very good at that."

  She leaned forward to give him better access to her back, and he worked diligently to relax her tense muscles. Soon he could feel her relaxing, her anger seeping out as he worked the knots out, and as she stood up straight again his hands slipped to her hips and encircled her waist, pulling her close to him. He dropped his head to the curve of her neck and placed a heated kiss against her cool flesh.

  Her eyes had closed as he'd massaged her. Now her eyelids fluttered open and she regarded his visage in the mirror, her eyes searching his face with a near desperate quality, looking for something she did not appear to find.

  "I don't disgust you?" she asked it calmly, but he could hear the years of pain built up underneath the words.

  "No," he said, moving his head to plant another kiss under her ear, and then nibbled on her earlobe. "Why would you?"

  She said nothing and instead turned in his arms, a guarded wonderment in her eyes. He kissed her lips then, pulling her hips flush with his as her arms floated up to wrap themselves around his neck. He could tell from her shy hesitancy that she was inexperienced, which came as an honest surprise to him. She was not an unattractive woman -- on the contrary, her features and form were quite pleasing to the eye. He thought that someone would have surely have sought her favour long before now.

  As his hands found their way to the buttons of her peplos and slowly started working them through the fabric, his mouth made a trail of faint butterfly kisses down her slender throat and to her breasts, still sitting high though her bodice had been removed.

  She gasped then, a small sound that seemed surprised to have left her mouth. A smile curved his lips briefly, and he raised his head to regard her. Her eyes were glassy with desire, her breathing short.

  "Shall we retire to the bedroom, Highness?" he breathed against her mouth, giving a soft nibble to her lower lip.

  She nodded and made a sound like a whimper, more animal than human. With swift gentleness he picked her up and carried her into the adjacent room, where Empress and Consort both allowed the supper served in the drawing room a few minutes later to g
et very, very cold.

  Zardria

  The Empress lay awake in the darkness long after her Consort had fallen asleep, his arm draped over her waist, and wondered what was to become of her.

  There was something in her -- she could sense it sure as she could hear Caelum's soft breathing -- that was shifting. Changing.

  She feared it might break her Vow.

  She turned over, carefully so as not to wake him, and lay on her back, head turned to regard her lover.

  Lover. She supposed that was what he was now. A laugh echoed in her head and she suppressed it from escaping through her mouth with difficulty.

  His sand-coloured hair fell gently across his face, which was peaceful as he slept. Freckles dusted his cheeks and the bridge of his aquiline nose, and his wide, full lips were turned slightly up in the hint of a smile.

  Quite an attractive man, she thought.

  And for some reason only the Goddess can fathom, that attraction is mutual, she thought, somewhat bitterly.

  It wasn't an act, that much she knew. He didn't feel revulsion touching her, as others always had. He had to be the only person in Athering who felt that way.

  The only human contact she'd received as a child had been pinches and slaps designed to correct her behaviour, ostensibly, although, when very young she'd not been any more naughty than Yarrow. Yet her damnable twin had received all the love and attention that their mother had refused the heir. She could not recall a single time when her mother had kissed her, or hugged her, or even picked her up. The wet nurse had been her only friend at the beginning of her life, and then even she, too, pulled away.

  The only person in the castle who had shown her any sort of caring had been her Aunt Zanny -- and that had been hardly worthy of the word.

  To be fair, her sister had tried, once or twice, to be, well, a sister to the heir-apparent. Zameera's frank disapproval had curbed the red-head's behaviour quickly and soundly. Zardria had never forgiven her twin that.