Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A mumble.

Avlora's eyes were closed. The world around her was dark.

" . . . h . . . "

She had been dreaming again. A clumsy dream—the type that was simply an oafish reflection of her waking thoughts. She had been walking along the streets of Ironstone, surveying a row of corpses that had been placed at the palace's feet. She had been tasked with identifying them, with finding their crests and family names such that their belongings could be returned to their families: a duty she had performed countless times before when she'd not held a command position.

However, as was usual, this dream made no more sense than any other she had ever seen. These were not her own men at her feet. The first corpse had been Queen Cordelia. The second had been her brother, the crown prince. The third had been the queen's late father, and the fourth had been her brother Roland. Avlora was surprised to see him in particular there upon the ground, and not a little disappointed. She had assumed him to be well, and to be caring for his sister. But, then, his sister was apparently dead as well. A good thing, perhaps, or she might have had to mourn him for a second—or was it a third?—time.

Avlora peeled back the fifth tarp, finding a more recent face beneath. Gray hair, sharp features. He had a gaping wound across his skull, as if he'd been caught head-on by one of Avlora's combat spells.

She moved to lay the tarp back down. As she did, a hand closed around her wrist. She glanced back at his face, keeping her expression calm even as her pulse started to pound in her ears.

The corpse of Ser stared at her, eyes terrified. Silent. Frozen.

"What?" Avlora demanded, the word bitter on her tongue. "What more could you have asked of me? You're a soldier yourself—you know the rules of warfare. Should I have let you kill me instead?"

He opened his mouth. No sound came about. His free hand, however, reached towards a sword at his side. He lifted it, arm trembling with the weight, until the edge rested against the side of Avlora's neck.

That was . . . one way to answer her question.

Still, she had lost the battle in the end. This was his right, technically. As she had when Prince Roland had done the same, she made no move to escape. Not as he gathered his strength and raised the sword a little higher, not as he let it fall, not as it came down against her n—

"Hey," a small voice said.

Avlora's eyes snapped open, heart pounding, choking on her own breath.

The world spun. Ser. That sword. Avlora's legs were bound, her arms were bound—

"There, there," the small voice said. There was another gentle pat on Avlora's cheek. "I hate waking up too."

That was a child's voice. A child on a battlefield, who had put—

No. This was no battlefield. There was a ceiling above Avlora. She was warm. She was bound, but only with cloth, with blankets and bandages. She was—she was only in Elissica's home.

Avlora squeezed her eyes shut again, trying to catch her breath. Her pulse was still roaring in her ears.

The hand on her cheek stopped, just sitting there. "Um." The voice turned uncertain. "You all right?"

"Leave me be." Each word came as a pant, as a barely-intelligible string of sounds that her mouth could only make out of pure muscle memory.

"Oh," the voice whispered. The hand patted her cheek once, twice more before withdrawing. "Sorry," it repeated. "Are you mad?"

Avlora couldn't respond. She sucked down lungful after lungful of air and still couldn't seem to fill them.

The voice disappeared. The child—that was a child's voice—had apparently left.

Avlora exhaled, inhaled, breath shuddering. An embarrassing sort of noise came with it—the whistling sort of whine in the back of her throat that would usually lead to tears if she were alone. But there was no need for it, she knew. She was not under attack, not in danger at all. She simply . . . she simply needed to . . . 

She forced herself to begin measuring out each breath. She unclenched her fists, she loosened her shoulders. She smoothed out her features.

And after a minute of deep breathing, Avlora opened her eyes again. She forced herself to sit up. She was covered in a dry sweat, already exhausted enough to fall back asleep. The sharp fall in her stamina that followed after these dreams of hers could beat out the potency of any sleeping draught, without question. But she pushed the fatigue aside. There was something important to be done.

She turned to look out over the room, looking for the child who had woken her. They had probably moved somewhere across the room after Avlora had snapped at them. But—

"Do you need me to wake up my mama?"

Avlora startled, gaze snapping down. The girl sat beside her. Elissica's youngest daughter, maybe six or seven years old. Melly, wasn't it?

She looked up at Avlora, eyes wide. "She might yell at me, but I can get her if you need her."

Avlora blinked at her. Had she been this close the entire time? Watching as Avlora caught her breath? The thought was somewhat disconcerting. Avlora slowly shook her head. "No. That's . . . all right. Unless you feel you need your mother."

She brightened immediately. "Nope!"

Avlora exhaled slowly. Good. It was never Avlora's intention to make children cry, but she seemed to do it rather often all the same—something about her stature or the armor she wore. But perhaps those factors were mitigated in her current state.

Still, Avlora would not take the girl's apparent goodwill for granted. Avlora leaned forward slightly, opening her posture, making herself a little less imposing. "I apologize if I frightened you," Avlora said softly. "I was . . . having a bad dream. If this happens again, leave me asleep. Understand?"

"Oh." Melly's eyes brightened. "A bad dream? One of those don't-wake-ya-up dreams?"

Avlora paused. " . . . 'Don't wake you up dreams'?"

The girl swung one arm about. "You know. Like when someone's crying and screaming or something. It happens to my grandfather and Ser all the time."

Avlora tried to process that information. The girl's grandfather. No doubt he had lived the majority of his life at the Source. And Ser . . . 

Severe injuries. A year ago. The Norzelia River. It took no tactical genius to put those pieces together. There had been no end of bodies cast into the waters that day and some of them had no doubt managed to survive. It was no wonder he had nightmares regarding all that had happened.

The girl reached over, patting Avlora's knee. "I'll stop waking you up. And I can tell Ced and Anise. You can cry all you want."

Pitied by a little girl. And yet, it was not the girl's fault for feeling that way. "Thank you. I would appreciate it."

"You're welcome, Miss Avlora," she chirped.

Miss Avlora. Despite the situation, a correction rose to her tongue—you will refer to me as General. But . . . the girl was correct, in truth. If he hadn't already, someday soon Gustadolph would announce her formally dead and appoint a new general. Perhaps if she truly were dead, she might have kept the title posthumously. But as it were, she would be stripped of her rank the moment she was revealed to be alive.

There was something almost amusing about it. But more so it simply felt . . . somewhat . . . 

Melly leaned forward, propping up her face on her hands. "What were you dreaming about, then?"

Avlora paused. She glanced towards the girl's parents, still asleep on the other side of the room. Gently, she said, "Perhaps your mother would prefer you not speak with a stranger like myself."

"She never said I couldn't," Melly said breezily.

Avlora studied her with sharp eyes.

After a moment, the girl averted her gaze, a nervous expression on her face. "Well, uh. She did say I should be careful. But Papa said you're just a bag of wet cats, so we don't hafta worry about it."

"A . . . 'bag of wet cats'?"

"You know, all mopey-like," Melly clarified.

Avlora blinked. Then, slowly, as the words sunk in, there was a piece of Avlora that withered away. Mopey-like?

"Well, anyways, what were you dreaming about?" Melly repeated, brushing it all aside. "Getting all killed in a battle?"

Avlora stiffened. She . . . found herself putting her good hand against her neck, pressing her fingers hard against the skin. It still—hurt, somehow. "No. Perhaps you should—"

"Were you killin' all the other people then?"

"Enough," Avlora said, a little too harsh. "You must be tired. Your mother's wishes or no, you ought to return to your bed."

"Nah, Ser's been getting up early to do walks," the girl dismissed. "I gotta get up earlier than him if I wanna go." She shrugged. "I got nothing to do until then. So what was your dream about?"

Avlora glanced once more in her parents' direction. A reprimand and subsequent refusal to speak any further sat on Avlora's lips. But . . . she stopped herself. Forced herself to breathe again. To look at Melly, who was sitting there with simple, innocent curiosity on her face. She was only a child. It was not the girl's fault that she was ignorant of the strife her questions caused. She was simply seeking knowledge. Avlora could give her that knowledge. That was all.

Avlora had invaded this girl's home. She ate of the girl's food, took up her mother's time. If a little conversation would entertain her . . . then Avlora was not at liberty to refuse.

Avlora exhaled slowly. Calmly. Keeping her mind exactly where it was—on a bedroll, speaking with a young girl, far away from any blades or blood. "I was dreaming of my home," Avlora allowed. "I was . . . " She sifted through her thoughts, trying to find something appropriate. "I was . . . lost in the snow, trying to run back to my warm fire. That's why I was short of breath."

Melly tilted her head. "Oh. I guess you are from Aesfrost." In a tone that implied Avlora might not have already known, she informed her, "There's lots of snow there." However, before Avlora could be too amused, the girl continued, "That's what makes the sailboats go. The cold air comes down and the hot air from the desert goes up and it makes the winds go faster. It doesn't happen this far south, but we go to the main village sometimes, and they showed us how you can go upriver when you put your sail up."

Avlora blinked. "I . . . see."

Her eyes brightened. "Lady Frederica said Aesfrost has big metal ships that can go up and down the river even without wind. She said she had never seen the inside of one, though. Have you?"

Avlora gave a slow nod, baffled. She stored away the mention of Lady Frederica. Had she been here in person, then?

Melly beamed. "What did it look like?"

"I . . . suppose it looked like any other ship," Avlora said.

"No, I mean the parts," the girl insisted. "The wheels and things. Lady Frederica said it had lots of parts."

"Oh." Avlora paused, thinking for a moment. "Well. It . . . did have a fair number of wheels, I suppose."

The girl leaned forward, an eagerness on her face that Avlora had only ever seen on the faces of insatiable Archive scholars who were convinced they would be the ones to earn the archduke's favor—how could they not, when their subject of study was something so obviously exquisite? Seeing such an expression on so young a girl . . . It was endearing, if nothing else.

Avlora lifted her good hand, slowly drawing out a clumsy picture with her finger. "They were not unlike . . . hm. Have you ever seen a windmill?"

Melly nodded quickly. "Yep. In the Falkes village. They all burned down a while back, though."

Avlora locked up. " . . . Oh."

"But my brother and I climbed 'em all the way to the top and looked at all the pieces. I know what you mean. But those metal boats don't need wind or anything. What're the wheels for?"

"I . . . don't know," Avlora said. She shook her head, shaking away other thoughts. "Apologies."

The girl reached over, patting her hand again. "That's okay. Lady Frederica didn't know either. But she said she'd find out sometime and tell me! So I'll just be patient. And my grandfather likes boats a lot, so I'm still learning about other things too. He helped make the ones we use in the village, but they're all little rowboats. Not like the ones Lady Frederica talked about." She paused, eyes widening. "Oh, wait! You're from Aesfrost! Do you know Lady Frederica?"

Avlora hesitated. "Not well."

"But you've met her! Right?"

"Once or twice."

A lie—Avlora had personally escorted Lady Frederica’s envoys during their travels more than a few times before this war had begun, and the both of them were frequent visitors at Twinsgate and Lord Svarog’s personal residence. Avlora would never go quite so far as to call them acquaintances, but they had certainly met more than once or twice.

But it was time to put this conversation to a close. If Elissica woke, if anyone woke to see Avlora speaking with the girl . . . 

"Can she really make whole suns?" Melly asked, leaning forward, eyes gleaming.

Avlora stopped short. She had never been particularly adept at following the logic of children, even when she had been a child herself. She spoke slowly, echoing, "Suns?"

Melly nodded quickly. "Yep! She came here once and told me she could. But then she said it'd be too dangerous to do it around all the trees. My grandfather said she was making it up."

Oh. Lady Frederica did have a certain spell that involved a rather large sphere of fire. Avlora knew it rather intimately. "Ah. I would hesitate to call what she creates 'suns,' but she is a skilled mage. I imagine she can create something that looks a fair bit like a sun."

"Huh." Melly sat back, eyes wide. Then, she paused. "Will you tell that to my grandfather? He'll call me a liar."

Avlora's eyes softened. " . . . If you wish me to, I can do so."

Melly laughed, leaning back on her hands. "Good! That'll show 'im." She was back to leaning forward a moment later, eager as anything. "Do you know anything else about Lady Frederica? Anise thinks she's really neat."

Avlora tilted her head. "Anise?"

"My sister?" Melly tilted her head. "Did you forget her?"

"I've never met her."

"She's right there." Melly pointed to a bedroll where a young woman lay. She turned back to Avlora, giving her an incredulous frown. "You're sure you didn't just forget her? You don't have to pretend."

Avlora could only blink in return. Does it matter? " . . . I assure you, I've never spoken with her."

"But you live in the same house," Melly said pointedly. "We say her name all the time."

Avlora winced. She inclined her head in apology. "I . . . see. The fault is mine for not listening more closely. Apologies."

"I'll have her come talk to you when she wakes up," Melly promised. "And you can tell her about Lady Frederica." She hummed. "And . . . I can tell you about everyone else too, if you want."

Avlora paused. "I . . . don't think . . . "

"What?" Melly gave her a judgemental look. "You don't want to learn?"

Avlora bit back a grimace. "It isn't that. I simply . . . "

The girl continued to glare.

Avlora exhaled slowly. "I . . . have the feeling it may be preferable to your village if I keep myself apart. That is all."

Melly frowned. " . . . Keep yourself . . . apart?"

Avlora gave her a softer sort of look. "Perhaps you should ask your parents about all of this."

She huffed. She pulled her knees up, propping her chin on them. "I can't. They're busy all the time. They'll just tell me to go do something else."

Avlora studied her.

Melly buried her head against her knees. She looked . . . genuinely . . . sad.

Like that, Avlora folded.

"Well . . . " Avlora dragged the sound out. "Perhaps you have a point. I should learn more about you and your family."

The girl looked up, expression brightening. "Really?"

Avlora mustered a smile. "Of course. I should attempt to learn more about those who have been so kind as to help me. I—"

"I can start with Ced," Melly noted, pointing. "He's my brother. He's just a little older than me."

Avlora laughed under her breath. She leaned over, following the girl's finger, nodding. "I see. Go on."

*

Ser still lay on his side, blinking away the last dregs of sleep.

Before him, he found an odd sight. Melly was sitting on the general's bedroll, leaning against the wall next to her, gesticulating animatedly with her hands. The general, for her part, was watching the girl with something that could only be called fondness.

Ser stared. He frowned to himself. Was he . . . still dreaming?

"All the boys older than Anise's age are s'posed to go fishing," Melly was explaining—voice a little louder than it should be this time of morning, but still admirably low for her. "A lot of the girls go too, but my mama and some other ones stay here and do lots of other stuff. And then all the rest of us go into the forest and check the traps and pick all the things that're ready. Yesterday Nara showed me how to dig up the roots for plants. I have to be real careful."

Ser sat up, quietly folding his blankets away. He brought his knees up, folding his arms, leaning onto them.

The general nodded, a gentle smile on her face. Gentle. A smile. "I always tended to simply pull things up by the stalk as a child. I'm sure digging helps preserve more of the plant."

"Yep! I used to pull things up too when I was little." Melly tilted her head. "What sort of plants did you have in Aesfrost? You can't really grow anything there."

"No," the general agreed. "Not much. But beets were grown here and there. I was hired to help with the harvest once or twice when I was a little younger than you are now."

Ser paused, frowning again. He rubbed absently at his neck, stiff from sleep. A little younger than Melly? For a hired harvest? That . . . hardly seemed right. He searched his mind, trying to find some supporting evidence for the feeling. There were no hired harvests in this village with which to reference, but it did seem to him simply a natural assumption that children of such a young age would be excused from assisting with something as taxing as harvest season. Other chores, certainly, but . . . 

"Beets, huh?" Melly drummed her hands against her knees. "I don't think I know those ones."

"They grow under the ground." The general held out her hand, bringing her hand flat, pantomiming the soil, and then the bulb that grew underneath. "And have a sweetness. Like carrots."

"Oh. Like carrots." Melly nodded. "I understand."

Ser reached for his tunic. Slowly, quietly, so as not to disturb them, he began dressing himself and preparing for the day.

Was he . . . truly not asleep? As he dressed, he glanced over again and again to find the general, talking, smiling . . . so obliging toward the girl. He realized now that he had subconsciously come to believe that the general could manage no other expression than bleak listlessness, but the sight before his eyes proved otherwise. It was, admittedly, somewhat difficult to look away. She was—she was rather—

That was to say, it was nice. To . . . see her smiling. Given their conversation the day before, he had anticipated his actions might have hurt her—had spend the night tossing and turning over it. The way he had acted . . . it shocked him even now. He had hardly been cruel, but the fact remained that he had certainly felt capable of cruelty in that moment. So furious, so indignant, and over . . . what? Her attempt to help him?

It had been completely irrational. Completely out of line with who he wished to be. Where, exactly, had it come from?

He would need to watch himself more carefully from now on. For now, however, it was only good to see the words had failed to cut her too deeply. She seemed . . . fine, truly. Perhaps better than merely fine. He could only thank Melly for taking the time to cheer her so.

Her voice picked up, drawing his attention. "I should introduce you to people in the village, too," Melly noted. "I think some of them might like you."

"Only some?" the general said, eyes crinkling.

"Well, you're kind of strange," Melly said matter-of-factly. "Ser's a lot nicer than you and there's still people who don't like him, too."

Ser nearly stumbled over himself.

The general huffed a laugh. "I find that hard to believe. He seems the type of man that everyone likes."

Ser's face warmed.

"Mostly," Melly agreed. "But he's not Rosellan, so some people are kind of whiny about it."

"Oh." The general's face was still just as soft as if had been a moment ago. And not just soft, but . . . strangely . . . concerned. "That's a shame. He's a kind man."

Ser watched, mouth flapping aimlessly as he—what was he supposed to say here. Should he call attention to himself? Say something?

But Melly continued, "Yeah, he is. He makes me and Ced toys sometimes when he's sick."

The general nodded slowly. "I've noticed that he stays here more often than the rest of your family. He does seem very helpful." She paused. "How . . . exactly is he sick?"

Ser's throat closed up. He had to say something. And yet—what was he supposed to—

"His leg really hurts sometimes. It was really, really broken when he got here." She paused. "And sometimes he just gets kinda strange. Like an old person. You know. A little . . . " She tapped her head. "Funny."

"Hm." The general's eyes took on a distant quality. They drifted, slowly, to—

Ser whipped his head in another direction, face flaming.

The general mumbled something, barely audible.

"Huh?" Melly asked.

"Seems your friend is awake," the general said flatly. The warmth had been suddenly, completely bled from her voice. She was as quiet, as muted as she had ever been. "Why don't you go greet him?"

Melly turned. She noticed Ser, and then smiled, brightening. "Oh! Morning, Ser."

His heart twisted. He forced his smile a little wider. "Morning, Melly." He glanced back at the general. "And, ah, to you as well, General."

She simply nodded, then averted her eyes, over toward nothing in particular. Simply . . . away from him.

He opened his mouth again. Closed it. Opened it.  . . . Closed it again. He had embarrassed her. Would it help if he apologized for it? She had responded poorly to such words the day before, but . . . 

Melly jumped to her feet. "Are you going for a walk again? Can I come?"

"No," he said, perhaps too quickly. "You should . . . stay here. Speak with the general a bit longer, hm? You two seemed to be enjoying yourselves. I—didn't mean to interrupt."

Melly frowned, but plopped back down. "Fine, I guess. But be careful. Don't get lost."

"I will be sure to stay safe," he promised quickly. His eyes flickered once more to the general. "And—I hope you two, ah, have a good day."

"Thanks," Melly answered. She turned to the general as well. "I guess I can tell you about my mama a bit, but you already know lots about her."

Ser turned, but he caught the general's reply as he slipped through the door. Her voice, soft again, if a little more reserved. "It wouldn't hurt to know more."

Ser left. He closed the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, simply . . . breathing. Then, as he did most mornings, he began walking, passing through the village walls, moving out toward the thick foliage.

Beyond the walls, he began to jog. Perhaps he could check on the bird traps this morning. It was a task Anise usually saw to, but there was no reason that Ser might not assist. And he . . . did wish to be useful, this morning. Melly had no doubt meant no harm with her words, and yet—the truth cut deep.

And sometimes he just gets kinda strange. Like an old person. You know. A little . . . funny.

Perhaps it was natural that they worried over him so. Perhaps he himself should be more worried over these . . . strange quirks of his. And yet, what was the point, really? Nothing could be done for it. There was no antidote for a failing mind.

He sighed, returning his focus to the bird traps. He managed to locate one, then two—both empty and not in need of any adjustments. The weather was beginning to cool, and fewer birds seemed to be taking flight these days. Perhaps there was another task that might be a better use of his—

"No sign of her," a woman's voice called.

Maxwell froze. Just a few yards in front of him, by the riverside. A woman stood, dressed in brown.

That was a Wolffort scout. The Wolffort scout: the one from before who had come so close to finding the general and he as they hid in the children's den. But—why? It had been nearly three weeks since Ser had last spotted any strangers in these woods. Why now? Did they know? Had he somehow revealed them?

He moved closer, though not close enough to attract her attention. As he watched, she moved closer to the river, approaching a saddled greathawk.

And there, to the greathawk's side, was—

"I too found nothing," a young man said.

Ser stared at him. But . . . he couldn't . . . seem to . . . 

Ser couldn't seem to see him.

No. That was not quite right. Ser could make out certain things—the young man's blond hair, his fine noble's clothing. He could make out a braid. But it felt as if . . . as if . . . his mind was . . . 

Ser gripped his tunic, clutching at his heart. It was pounding. His head was spinning. His thoughts were swimming, everything coming to him as if from underwater. It felt as if . . . as if he was slowly being drained. Slowly dying. Slowly . . . 

He sank down, curling against the tree, struggling to breathe.

"I'm sorry," the scout's voice said.

"No," the young man said. "There was never a great chance we would locate her. There is nothing to apologize for."

"Still, I know how much you hoped we would have some news to share with Her Highness."

"What is done is done. The truth is that this likely would have done Cordelia little good anyway. What gift would I be giving her by bringing back the corpse of the woman she grieves?"

"The gift of certainty. It is not so little a thing, Your Majesty."

"Perhaps." A sigh. "But I suppose it no longer matters either way. We have not found her."

" . . . I suppose not."

There was a slight scuffling noise, a creak of leather. "In any case, we have been away long enough. Serenoa is likely growing concerned. Let us depart."

"Of course."

Ser listened to the beating of wings, felt the small gusts of air even at this distance.

But still, he sat. Unable to properly move.

He . . . he could not recall . . . 

Then, a small hand appeared in his vision. "There you are."

Ser blinked, looking up.

Melly looked down at him with an impatient sort of look on her face. "Come on, everybody's already eating."

He shook his head to clear it, then took her hand—though it was the tree he truly pulled himself up with. He smiled at Melly. "I see. Apologies."

She dragged him along. "Ced's going to eat all my berries while I'm gone," she complained.

"You can have mine, then," Ser reassured.

She sighed. "I had really good ones, though."

"Ah. Forgive me," Ser said. "I will do my utmost to be on time in the future. I was—"

He paused, falling quiet as Melly continued to pull him toward the village. What . . . had he . . . 

He nearly stumbled. The scout. Of course. The scout. There had been a scout. And a greathawk. And—no. That had been all. But still, that was— Where had she gone? Was she still searching somewhere? Why in the world had Ser allowed her to leave his sight?

"Ser?" Melly was looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Apologies," he said. "I think I need to go check the river for something, just for a moment. But you go on ahead. I promise I will join you soon."

*

As the others began to wake, Avlora's conversation with Melly began to taper off as the girl was called away by her siblings, her parents. Avlora did half expect to be scolded for having spoken with her, but when Elissica had seen them sitting side by side, she had seemed strangely pleased instead.

Eventually, the entire family left for the morning meal. And eventually, they would go off to their own individual tasks. Tasks that Avlora now knew in detail—Neary, Elissica's husband, accompanied the fishing boats. Anise, Ced, Melly, and Ser cared for the village's small collection of animals, then went along with their grandfather and the other children and elders to gather up plants and fruits from the forest. Elissica dealt with a great deal of many other tasks in the village—healings, but also the making of twine and fishing nets, the preparation and preservation of food, and a thousand other little things beside.

More than ever, Avlora was keenly aware of just what a burden she was upon their village. She took up a great deal of Elissica's time, and ate of their food, without offering anything in return.

So, as Elissica entered in, Avlora drummed her fingers across her knee. Considering.

As Elissica busied herself with something across the room, Avlora rolled different words about on her tongue. Trying to figure out the best way to phrase her request. She did not want to demand, but only to offer.

But . . . the longer she watched, the more Avlora realized that perhaps now was not the right time for even an offer. Elissica looked worried, if not outright distressed. A moment later, she turned her head, looking about the room, as if searching for something. Her eyes fell on Avlora. After a moment, Elissica approached her.

"Something amiss?" Avlora asked, straightening up.

"Well . . . perhaps," Elissica said slowly. "Have you seen Ser?"

Avlora slowly shook her head. "He said he was going for a walk this morning, but I know nothing beyond that."

"Hm." She curled her fingers against her mouth, drumming them against her lips. "Well, I . . . suppose I'll give it a few more minutes. He told Melly he was looking for something along the river. I'm sure he's fine." Finally, Elssica shook her head. She turned away, mumbling, "I need to set some of those seeds drying, anyway."

Avlora stopped short. She forced herself to speak. To offer. "Might I help?"

Elissica stopped. Turned. Blinked at her. " . . . Come again?"

She needn't look so incredulous. Wet bag of cats, indeed. "You have saved my life and continue to care for me. I can never repay your kindness, but I can still be put to work."

Slowly, Elissica noted, "I do not know if you are exactly . . . that well off yet, General."

Avlora worked her jaw.

Elissica smiled. "I appreciate the thought, but . . . you can hardly breathe when you so much as lie the wrong way. With a broken leg and arm beside—"

"I have one working hand," Avlora said stiffly. "I can put seeds on a board."

Elissica's face softened. "That's very kind of you. Truly. But there's no need to strain yourself. Your energy should be put towards recovering."

Avlora held her gaze. "I would be grateful if you would allow me to repay you in some way. Even if it is an insignificant task."

"And I appreciate that, but—"

"It is not entirely selfless," Avlora said quietly. "I wish for something to occupy myself with. Allow me to aid you in return."

Elissica blinked. She waffled, wiping her hands on her apron.

Avlora continued to hold her gaze.

Eventually, she gave an uncertain nod. " . . . Well. I suppose putting seeds on a board isn't likely to kill you."

She retrieved a small basket of large seeds—more pods than anything. She provided Avlora with a wooden board. Avlora went to work, moving the seeds one by one, arranging them neatly on the board. It was slow work with one hand, but it didn't particularly matter. It was being done, one way or another.

Elissica hovered and remained staring at her for a solid minute.

"If there's anything else you—or anyone else in the village—needs done," Avlora said softly, not looking up, "I would be happy to assist. My usefulness is likely limited, but I have experience enough with injuries like this. There aren't many tasks for a soldier, at least, that I haven't learned to do with one hand." Laundry, cooking, reading, writing—Avlora had been forced to do all of them at one point or another with a broken arm.

Elissica hummed slowly, thoughtfully. Watching Avlora with a curious look on her face. "Well . . . I can certainly ask around. Thank you, General."

"The thanks are mine." She bowed her head. "Think nothing of it."

After a few more minutes of puttering, and with another worried look about the room, Elissica stepped out. Unfortunately, it was scarcely another minute before Ser came in the door. He looked around for a moment, then found Avlora. He blinked, as if surprised to find her there. The look of surprise only deepened at the sight of the work in front of her.

She opened her mouth to say something. But—for some reason, all she could think about was that sword against her neck.

Still, he nodded in an absent sort of way, as if she had said something. He brushed his hands together as if to dust them off. "Hm. I . . . ah . . . suppose she's not here, then?"

Avlora regarded him. " . . . Elissica?"

He stepped slowly around the house, taking everything in as if it were new to his eyes. "Yes. Elissica."

Avlora slowly shook her head.

"Understood," he murmured. He pressed curled fingers against his lips. "I suppose I could tell Nara . . . "

"Tell Nara what?" Avlora pressed.

"Oh." He blinked at her again. "Oh! I ought to tell you as well." He stepped a little closer, taking a seat on a stool close to her. He leaned forward, his focus returned.

Avlora, however, found herself leaning away. His behavior was so strange. After yesterday, he had to realize at least some of the truth of his situation, and yet he seemed to hold no anger toward her at all. In fact, especially earlier in the day, he had looked almost ashamed. As if he had been the one to do wrong.

That, more than anything, proved the truth of his amnesia to Avlora. Were he in possession of his memories, if he did know the part she'd played in his suffering—she would be dead. It was as simple as that. No one, after all, would have gone through such effort to save her life if they had known their would-be murderer was the one they were sparing.

He cleared his throat. "Are you . . . all right?"

"Fine," she mumbled. She dropped her gaze and reached for more seeds. She spread them out across the board and arranged the first in its own row. "What was it you wished to tell me?"

After a moment of hesitation, he spoke. "There was a Wolffort scout. The same as before. She was looking for you, I believe."

Avlora's chest tightened. Her head snapped up again. So much for disaffection.

She looked behind him. Looked to the window. What would she do if the scout entered? Try to flee again? She was in better health than she had been the first time, but likely not enough to outrun a scout in good health. Attempting to fight was an option, but—

Ser held out his hands in a placating sort of way. "Easy. Easy. She left soon after."

"You have no way of knowing that for certain," Avlora said sharply. "Overconfidence kills."

"After I lost sight of her, I searched for her along the river for some time," Ser reassured. "I found no sign of her."

Avlora stiffened. "You tried to tail a scout."

"I went unseen," he said quickly. Imploring, as if he had felt some obligation to appease her. "By the time I went looking, she had been out of my sight for some time—and I was careful to remain behind the treeline."

She worked her jaw, fingers clenching and unclenching. Whatever he said, if he had wandered so close to the scout, there was a fair chance the woman would have seen him. But—no. He was likely right. If the prince's retainer had been the wiser, she would be here, throttling Avlora at this very moment. Avlora did not know the woman well, but she knew that much.

The blood was draining from Ser's face. Avlora forced herself to rein in her emotions, to calm herself. " . . . I see. You were . . . not hurt, then?"

He blinked. Relaxed somewhat. "Oh. I . . . " He cleared his throat. "No. I am well. Thank you."

Avlora scanned Ser up and down. It seemed to be true enough.

He smiled faintly. "I assure you, I am fine. It was . . . perhaps startling, but that was all."

Avlora bit back a sigh. "If you see her again, simply run the other direction."

"Of course. Thank you."

Avlora gave him a small, tired hum of approval. "Do you have any idea why she might have returned after so many days?"

He nodded slowly. "I do, in fact. She spoke aloud to her greathawk for a moment. I believe she said something about . . . " He paused, a strange look coming over his face. " . . . making certain of something? In regards to . . . " He frowned. " . . . Is there a princess among Glenbrook's royal family?"

Avlora paused. "I suppose she likely referred to Queen Cordelia. With her brother's return, she has likely returned to the title of princess."

He nodded slowly, his frown only deepening. "She was a princess before?"

Avlora took on a frown herself. "Of course. Before Aesfrost occupied the crown city, it was her father who ruled."

"Right." His gaze drifted to the floor. "I suppose that . . . makes sense." He shook his head, as if to clear it. He plastered on a rather wooden-looking smile. "Perhaps it will do you good to hear that the scout mentioned the queen had been hoping for news of you."

Avlora paused. For a moment, her breath felt to be not enough. A moment later, the sensation faded. "Did she?"

His smile turned softer, more genuine. "Yes. That much, I am sure of."

Avlora curled a hand against her mouth. The news did do Avlora good, in a certain sense. At the very least, it confirmed what she had expected. But in another, those words stung. Avlora, admittedly, could claim no particular knowledge of what missing someone felt like. There had never been anyone to miss. She had wished for there to be, though, and perhaps that was close enough. There were times as a child when she had been so filled with grief over parents she had never known that she feared she might be crushed for the weight of it.

Surely it would not be so bad for Queen Cordelia, not when she had her brother to watch over her, but . . .  To some extent, at least, Avlora had left the queen there to feel that same grief.

Avlora stared at her sling, and her splinted leg. Soon. The wait would not be so long. Only . . . a few more weeks. And then she would make her wrongs right.

"You said it was the same scout as before?" Avlora's gaze stuck to the still-healing scrapes across her knuckles. "That was Prince Roland's retainer. I mean what I said about running if you meet with her again—she is one to tread carefully around."

" . . . Prince Roland?" Ser asked, a curious note to his voice.

She hummed in the affirmative. It would make sense that his retainer might come back as a personal favor to the royal family—or, perhaps, as part of her own personal vendetta against Avlora. Avlora could hardly blame the woman for it; she had an entire Kingsguard's worth of reasons to do so.

"Hm." He sat back. That same strange look was back on his face. "I hadn't realized that there was more than one Glenbrook royal."

"He was presumed dead during the past year," Avlora allowed. She hadn't truly explained much of the situation in Whiteholm, had she? "But he returned the night of the invasion. Apparently he had been living the entire time under the guise of the Dawnspear."

"The . . . Daw . . . ?" he murmured, frowning.

"The Dawnspear. Glenbrook's Master of Arms," she explained. "Or former Master of Arms, in any case. He was . . . '' Avlora stopped. Shook her head. She spoke simply. "I killed him."

"Ah." His face took on a somewhat awkward look. "Well. I suppose that . . . does happen in war."

Avlora brushed it aside, shrugging. "In any case—"

"Wait." Ser looked up, out the window, his gaze turning distant. He tapped his lips again, thoughtful. "What was the other one's name again? Ral . . . "

"The prince?" He nodded. " . . . Roland."

He frowned, his eyes turning only more confused. "Ral . . . what?"

"Roland." Avlora watched him for a moment. He had said it perfectly a moment ago. "Does it sound so strange to you?"

"It does, I admit. I believe I've never heard anything quite like it." He shook his head. "Though I suppose the matter is not of much import."

" . . . Right." Avlora regarded him. His mind truly was strange. "Perhaps you should go inform Nara."

"Yes, of course. I will go straightway." He stood, then paused. "Is there anything I might do for you before I leave?"

She let her gaze drop from him again, back to the seeds. Why did he insist on acting so . . . obliging? "No. Thank you. Please let me know if this influences Nara's thoughts concerning my stay here."

"Of course." Then, more kindly, he said, "Though I doubt it will."

Avlora listened to his footsteps, and then as the door closed. She closed her eyes. She inhaled. Exhaled.

Only a few more weeks.