Fantasy All's Fair

[Aerynth]

Hadsberry. Cyreia froze. It had to happen eventually, had it not? That was one of the major reasons behind this journey; not just to get to know the land, but also to rectify her past... well, they weren't mistakes, not since she had meant to bring Athea to its knees back then, but they were certainly crimes. All crimes had to be atoned for if she could ever hope to win the loyalty of the Athean people. Knowing that didn't make it any easier, though. "Remin, I'm sorry to say this, but I don't think that we'll get to enjoy much of a honeymoon just yet. Hadsberry... Well, you don't need to tell me how that went down. It was my job." Unlike before, when she had been afraid to look her in the eye, Cyreia didn't falter. Trying to avoid responsibility now would have been an insult to those who suffered because of her. No, the least she could do was to accept whatever contempt Remin had for her actions. "I, uh, saw it as a way to end everything faster. You couldn't very well fight without a steady supply of weapons." Strategically, it had been a sound decision. Eupriunia would have defeated them even without taking away their means of fighting back, but they would have drowned them in their own blood. It had been the merciful choice, it really had been, except that the inhabitants of Hadsberry couldn't be expected to understand that. She didn't dare to hope that they ever would.

"I'm also familiar with Cinzia," she continued, feeling as if every word only dug her grave deeper for her. "And she's familiar with me. Not the with the... most charming aspects of me, unfortunately." That was quite an understatement; Cinzia had gotten to witness just about the worst Cyreia had to offer. Well, there's no point in sugarcoating it. She deserves to know what I'm capable of. And if it happened to extinguish those feelings that Remin held for her? That would be... understandable. Absolutely soul-destroying, but understandable. (Oh, how beautiful it would be if she could just keep the whole affair secret, but Cyreia couldn't be selfish, even if she wanted to be. Especially because she wanted to be.)

"What I did was that I marched there, with an absurd number of men behind my back, and with trebuchets, siege engines and liquid fire. I demanded to talk to her and I did get my audience. I... threatened her. Told her in graphic detail what exactly would happen if they didn't give up. I bluffed, of course. I don't kill civilians, but she couldn't have known that - that was kind of the entire point - and so it must have felt very real to her." Perhaps it had been real in a way. What would Cyreia have done had Cinzia refused to fold? Well, not the atrocities she had threatened to commit, but it wouldn't have been pleasant, either. Most likely, she would have tried to starve the city out. That would have probably worked fairly fast, too. "Cinzia was sensible and let us destroy whatever equipment they had. As for us, we didn't hurt them." There had been a few incidents with undisciplined soldiers terrorizing the locals, though. Cyreia had personally beheaded the offenders in the main square and that had prevented further issues, but it couldn't have erased her guilt. The damage had already been done. So much damage. Livelihoods destroyed, people terrified out of their minds.

"Well. Now you know," she said. "You should... probably keep your distance from me while we're there. This is my cross to bear, my mess to fix and we don't need another Caldora."

 

[Conifer]

Her wonderings were answered quicker than she would have liked them to be. It had been easy to ignore so far the realities of what landed Avther here, in this position - she wasn’t ignorant to the fact he must have done terrible things that Eupriunia saw as wonderful if they offered him the position of king when the war ended. It had all just seemed so abstract until now. She hadn’t had time to keep track of every war hero whose name rose out of the mess. She hadn’t had time to keep track of every detail of every attack on her home. But this one she knew well enough. It had hit them hard, and wiped out most of the meager hope that they might have some chance at winning. How interesting to hear the other side. Was Avther being honest, that he had been bluffing? Maybe he thought he was, or wanted to be, but when that many men at his back, hungry for something to end...it seemed unlikely that the threats wouldn’t be seen as orders by some of them.

There was no clean way to handle this. Gods, perhaps this wouldn’t end in more death threats, but it wasn’t going to make the people of Hadsberry want to offer her any form of support. She couldn’t blame them. She wouldn’t want to love the ruler that swept in, hand-in-hand, with the omen of doom that had destroyed their livelihoods not too long before. “...We’ll arrange for somewhere else to stay.” Remin decides, her judgement of Avther difficult to discern in her tone and her expression. It was difficult to discern even in her thoughts, but it certainly wasn't her husband that sat across from her in this moment. It was a man who had played a large hand in Athea's falling, though she understood that it wasn't personal. He was likely only even following orders. But at any rate, she won’t subject Cinzia to having the man that threatened her and her community in her home. “There’s an innkeeper somewhere in town that won’t turn us away at the sight of you if we offer enough gold, I’m sure.” She wasn’t too good for bribery. "We don't have enough guards for us to stay in seperate places altogether, and I have the faintest feeling that we'll need what we have." Thankfully she'd managed to eat before this was news; her appetite had turned sour rather quickly.

 

[Aerynth]

There was a sudden impulse to apologize, to somehow absolve herself of the guilt, but Cyreia suppressed it. She had meant to do what she had done and would have likely done it again under the same circumstances, so any apology would have been hollow. At the time, it had been the best course of action to take. Even if Cyreia had refused to take care of Hadsberry, someone else would have, and probably with a heavier hand. Their fates had been sealed the moment Eupriunia had declared war. Besides, it wasn't Remin who could grant her forgiveness. Only the inhabitants of Hadsberry could do that and, well, that didn't seem like a likely outcome. Cyreia still had to try, though. Try, try and try, probably for the rest of her life. Maybe it wouldn't be enough, but that, too, was a part of repentance. Carrying the burden despite not knowing whether her efforts would amount to anything.

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "I... don't really want to bother her, either." Talking to her and trying to fix what had been broken was one thing, but dwelling in her house? Even her audacity had its limits. "Well, I suppose that we should go if we want to make it in time." Cyreia would have preferred to stay in this little inn forever, but this wasn't about what she wanted, hadn't been from the very beginning. "Thank you for your hospitality, Rost," she turned to the innkeeper and bowed. Rost probably hadn't heard their conversation, at least judging from his warm smile, and if he had, then he was a better actor than Cyreia. "It has been a pleasure, your highness. Come again." Perhaps they would if they could spare some time in the future. It really had been a lovely visit, all things considered. Too bad that their next stop wouldn't be nearly as pleasant. Cyreia just regretted that Remin had to be dragged into this as well. This had been her fault, unambiguously so, and she didn't mind being the target of their anger, but Remin was innocent. Her only crime had been marrying her. Not that she had had much of a choice in that, either.

The journey simultaneously felt unbelievably short and unbearably long. Funny how that worked. Cyreia didn't talk much; she reacted if someone talked to her and answered all questions with no hint of annoyance in her voice, but didn't really initiate any conversations on her own. There was a time and place for jokes and this wasn't it. She retreated to the same shell of silence that had served her so well in the past when she had wanted some privacy and spent most of the journey in her own head, with her thoughts being her only company. What should she do? What could she do? Curse you, Loran. First you order me to destroy everything in my path and when I obey, you also make me pick up the pieces. Now more than ever, Cyreia realized that she wasn't a builder, wasn't a healer. She understood how to kill and that was it. What a sad existence. The people of Hadsberry had no king but her, though, so she had to do something. What, though? What could possibly make it right? Money could reverse the effects of her actions in time, true, but they couldn't take them back. Nothing would ever do that.

Hadsberry was a pitiful sight. Cyreia had made sure not to destroy people's homes, but she had destroyed everything related to weapon crafting. All of the workshops had been razed to the ground; the ruins were still there, each of them a gravestone to someone's dreams. The streets were conspicuously empty. Well, of course that the locals didn't want to meet her. Cyreia had made quite the impression when she had been there for the first time, an army behind her back and a promise of death on her lips. Cinzia probably also wished to skip the meeting, but she was waiting for them near the main gate with her wife by her side. Mithra, if she remembered correctly. Their children were nowhere to be seen and Cyreia was thankful for that. They didn't need to be involved.

"Your highnesses," Cinzia said simply. There was no venom in her words, merely resignation, and that stung more. Anger would have been better. Cyreia had a lot of experience with handling anger, but how to deal with this? And what was she to say? Glad to meet you? Glad to see you again? Those would be lies, though, and they wouldn't even be kind. Cyreia doubted that Cinzia cared for pleasantries from the mouth of an Eupriunian soldier.

"Greetings, mayor Cinzia. Mithra." God, she must have looked so uncomfortable and she had no right to be. Was this not her creation? Shouldn't she feel proud? The lives of those people had been spared, after all. Not many commanders would have shown them the same mercy. Mercy. Did she really believe that? It had looked like that to her at the planning table, but there was no mercy to be seen in this once prosperous city. Just ashes. That's what war looks like. It's the closest thing to mercy I could grant them. I had no choice. All true, but it didn't change anything about the situation. It couldn't soothe her conscience, either. "I, well. I know that out first meeting was... terribly unfortunate for you. I am sorry for what I have done. I do not ask for forgiveness, but know that I am sorry and that I intend to help the city in any way I can."

 

[Conifer]

Remin also stayed quiet in during the ride, keeping mostly to the carriage. She wasn’t sure what she saw when she looked at Avther anymore, and it was too much to keep looking trying to figure it out. One glance was the same fondness that made her want to lean over and kiss him again, and again, and again, repercussions be damned to the deepest, and the next was him drenched in fire and blood and every terrible thing that he did that left his hands stained with war. It was easiest not to look, even if the carriage gave her too much time to think. She was no fool. She knew she’d made decisions, had given orders - not many, the advisors not trusting her in her grief and inexperience with all the bits of war (for which she was grateful), but some. What places had she left just like this? What people had she ruined? What orders didn’t she give but allowed carried out? What cruelness? Some. Her skin was no more clean than his own. It was just hidden beneath the covering sleeves and thick gloves of nobility.

Despite the scene they walked into, Remin almost felt grateful when they arrived at the front gates. Best to get it over with, however that might be. In the travel she’d reached for ideas how to solve this, but...it wasn’t her apology to make. It wouldn’t fix anything if she tried her hand at it. It would just seem hollow and forced. She could offer the aid of the kingdom, and she would if Avther didn’t first, but there were no words beyond that which would help. Still, the relief they arrived did nothing to temper the terrible sight or the worn expressions on the women’s faces as they approached. She greeted them as Avther did, but then fell quiet, allowing what had to happen to happen.

“Terribly unfortunate, he says, like it was some fuckin’ natural disaster,” The taller woman - who, frankly, looked like she could life a cart singlehandedly (The wife, Remin assumed, who she’d heard was a blacksmith,) scoffed, but fell silent at Cinzia’s hand against her shoulder.

“We don’t want your aid, your highness.” Cinzia says, voice plain, so carefully controlled, controlled better than even Remin managed often. It was tired, yes, and sad, but evoked no sympathy - this is just how things were, and there was little to be done about it, her voice said. “Unless it comes from your own hands, it’s unwanted by all here.” Something about her indicated that she highly doubted that the king was going to step off his horse and personally hammer and nail homes back together. “Have no worry. Hadsberry will give you the respect of your position while you rest from your journey, but there’s no forgiveness here. It’s very good that you’ve not come expecting it.”

 

[Aerynth]

That went about as well as she had expected, which meant not at all. Still, they hadn't welcomed her with a barrage of arrows, so Cyreia couldn't exactly complain. She didn't intend to, either. The cold reception was entirely warranted. It didn't make her particularly happy, of course, but, well, people of Hadsberry weren't happy, either. Hadn't been for a while now. Mithra's remark cut deep, but she ignored it, mainly because there was something that Cinzia said that intrigued her.

"My own hands," Cyreia repeated. Did Cinzia think that the suggestion would offend her? That it was beneath her to work manually now that they had turned her into a king? Well, she couldn't be more wrong if she actively tried. Cyreia had spent most of her life utterly exhausted from physical activity and almost missed the sensation now. That kind of fatigue could be pleasant. If nothing else, it tended to drown out all the thoughts that plagued her mind when she felt well-rested. "Alright, if that's what you wish," she said matter-of-factly and got off her horse. "I'm not much of a builder, I'm afraid, but I'm sure I can think of a way to put my hands to good use. Clearing the rubble, for example. Even someone like me should manage to do that. Just get me an axe or something else to work with and I'll start right away. I don't need to rest. I don't want to. I want to help."

It would be a small, symbolic act that wouldn't really solve anything, but maybe, maybe they'd be more inclined to actually accept official aid when Cyreia proved that she wasn't all talk. That there was a genuine desire to help, despite her being the one who had brought the city to ruin in the first place. Pressing the issue now wouldn't do her any favors. Sure, if she put her mind to it, Cyreia probably could force Cinzia to accept the royal funds even against her will. Coercion was one of her greatest talents, after all, and she could accomplish much more in that regard as a king than she ever had as a soldier. A soldier's power was restricted; a king's power, on the other hand, was absolute. They couldn't very well refuse to obey her orders. Cyreia hadn't come to bark orders at the people of Hadsberry, though. She had come with a heavy heart, a lot of shame and an olive branch. Accepting their conditions, no matter how petty they were, was a natural course of action here.

"Well? Do you care where I start or am I free to choose?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, somehow both stubborn and humble at the same time.

 

[Conifer]

Remin bites back a quiet tease about him definitely not managing to keep his clothes intact for their bet if he’s truly going to sink his hands into the work, but the time and place for that isn’t here (and after last night, she wonders if it’s going to be ever. Probably not. Best to let that bet die as some sort of silly memory.)

Both the women regard Avther with a long look, before Mithra lets out a soft, rough ‘huh’.

“You can start wherever you wish.” Cinzia says after the silence where she watches Avther climb from his horse. “There’s a factory at the edge of town that we’re dedicating most of our effort to repairing,” She acts as if she’s not very, very aware that he’d done damage there personally. “But the whole town’s littered with places that would benefit from some rubble cleared away. The factory has others working there at the moment.” It’s clearly another challenge, seeing if he’ll be so bold as to face the people or if he’d simply work alone. She keeps her gaze on him for another terrifying moment before turning, expression softening (but not by far) as she looks to Remin. “My queen, would you--”

“I’ll help as well.” She interrupts, as polite as she can, shifting off her horse and landing neatly in the dirt. It would be a good show of dedication, and honestly, sitting somewhere while everyone else toiled was what she did enough of on the usual. She wasn’t going to be much help, surely, but extra hands were extra hands.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia wasn't at all sure whether they'd accept her offer. Hell, she expected them to laugh at her. What could a lone man accomplish in the face of this destruction? A lone man who didn't even plan to stay here for long? Perhaps she should. Perhaps she should forget about the rest of the journey and work here until her hands bled, bled in the same way this city had a few months ago. That, though, was just a self-indulgent fantasy and Cyreia knew it. She couldn't very well leave the kingdom unsupervised forever. She also couldn't singlehandedly rebuild what had been lost, but maybe she could reduce the damage at least a little bit. It beat doing nothing.

And, to her surprise, they actually allowed it. Well. In that case, there was no time to lose.

"Right. Factory it is, then," she said, her voice firm. Working alone would have been more comfortable, but it wouldn't have been as effective. Cyreia didn't have a lot of experience with work of this nature; setting up tents was about the extent of her expertise and something told her it wouldn't be nearly enough. If someone guided her, though? That would be a different story. Well, that, and the people of Hadsberry deserved to be acknowledged in some way. The thought of meeting them terrified her, but it had to be done. "I imagine that they have all the equipment necessary, so I'll just ask them for tools when I get there. If you'll excuse me." Remin's words, however, stopped her in her tracks.

"Remin," she turned to her wife in wide-eyed shock, "you... you shouldn't have to do that." It could be dangerous, especially for someone who had spent most of her life not having to lift a finger, spent most of her life in a fancy castle. Not that Cyreia blamed her, but such was the reality of her situation. Princesses and queens could hardly be expected to handle hard work. Then again, Remin had exceeded all of her expectations so far. "But if you really wish to do so, then I won't stop you," she said, unable to hide her fondness for her from the tiniest of smiles that settled on her lips. God, this wasn't the place for that. Not here and not now, not in front of Cinzia and Mithra.

When they reached the factory (in about twenty minutes), the people there looked as if they had just seen a ghost. A spectre of war that had come and claimed everything they had held dear. Cyreia didn't question the fear in their eyes. The last time they had seen her, she had been executing her own men. She had done that to punish them for crossing the line, for hurting civilians, but there were few thigs as terrifying as a man who could do such things to his subordinates. That was why she had done them in the first place. In the army, it had been impossible to show kindness only. Fear also had to have been present; often, it had been the only thing to hold some of her men in line. She didn't need fear now, though. Didn't want it.

"Greetings. I've... I've come to help with the repairs," Cyreia said, acutely aware of her ridiculous that must have sounded to their ears. She didn't avert her gaze, though. They didn't deserve that.

"Help? You?" One of the men, bearded and sturdy, finally said after a moment of silence. He seemed old enough to be her grandfather and the way he had talked to her - you, not your highness - was more than indicative of what he thought of her. It also told her plenty about the disregard he held for his own life. A man who dared to address her of all people in this manner was ready to die. Death wouldn't follow in her wake, though. Not anymore.

"Yes," she said simply.

More silence (and hushed whispers in the background, things that Cyreia probably didn't want to hear). "Well. There's... enough work for everyone thanks to you, I suppose. What can you do?"

"Not much," Cyreia admitted. "I don't know a single thing about building, well, anything. I'm strong, though. I can move heavy stuff and hold things in place. I can also follow instructions. Say a word, tell me how to do it and I will." That was... decidedly not regal, but Cyreia had no interest in being the king today. Today, she wanted to be a person.

"... Alright. We've been struggling to clear one of the corridors. It is blocked with debris. Big, heavy pieces of wood. There are nails, too, and various metal parts, and they're sharp."

"Understood. I'll see what I can do," Cyreia bowed lightly. Nails didn't scare her. Who cared about a few (likely inevitable) injuries? They had carved her to pieces so many times before and, well, this time, she could actually do some good. It wasn't a terribly high price to pay.

"You should probably find something else to do, though," she spoke to Remin. "Not that I want to underestimate you, but this hardly seems like the sort of thing you should be doing."

"You want to help as well, your highness?" the man asked, almost scandalized. "We can't accept that."

 

[Conifer]

“Indulge me.” Remin asks, gently but with little room for argument. Queen, through and through, but respectful of the plight of the people here and honored by the respect they showed her. “Consider my hands an extension of the king’s in this situation. I may not be capable of the sort of work he’s doing, but I’m sure I can find somewhere to be more aid than nuisance.”

There’s silence for a moment - relative, at least. There’s hushed talking and the sounds of building all around them - before there’s a woman that peers her head from around a corner.
“You ever cook anything in that castle of yours?” She demands, just as brash as the man who had spoken to Avther, not caring for titles or the like. It’s...new. Remin isn’t the sort to find herself needing that sort of address, of being insulted when it’s not there, but it’s unusual enough that it stands out and leaves her feeling a little off-kilter. Or maybe that was the idea of helping rebuild a factory by hand.

“Hardly a thing,” She admits, feeling ridiculous for it. “But I’ve watched plenty.”

“Well, it’s time you learn. I’m sure you can stir a pot, at any rate, you’ve got arms. You’re helping with dinner. C’mon.” She disappears back behind the door that apparently seems to lead to a makeshift kitchen for preparing food for the workers, but her voice carries. “Greta, you get out of here, go help your boy with the doors.” Remin makes no attempt to argue her role, glancing at Avther one last time before heading into the room as a short, dark haired woman (Greta, she assumes) leaves and heads off to work.

The kitchen is hot - it’s hardly a kitchen at all, as she expected, but some mismatched tables for preparing food and someone’s old stove burning hot as anything against one wall. The already warm temperature doesn’t help - but she’s not given much time to lament the heat that fills the air before the woman, whose name she learns is Beatrice, sets her in front of heaps of flour and yeast and yells instructions across the room to make bread as she busies herself with chopping varied vegetables to toss into a broth with a speed that’s rather alarming. The meal being prepared seems to be a collection of whatever meager amounts of things people can contribute - there’s a handful of eggs, some undergrown but edible potatoes, the like. But there’s plenty of flour and water for bread, and when Remin’s done, there’ll be plenty of bread for the workers to eat that evening.

 

[Aerynth]

Well. That was... unexpected, to say the least, but Cyreia trusted Remin to adapt to the new situation fast. She always had, from the very moment the two of them had met. Either way, there was little time to worry about her wife.

"Well? Are you helping or are you just going to stare, boy?" Boy? Alright, that was a first. Had the circumstances been a little bit different, Cyreia would have laughed, but the very concept of laughter seemed so distant right now that she didn't remember how to do that.

"No, I have no desire to stare. Show me that corridor of yours." With a heavy sigh, the man led her inside the factory, if it even could be called 'inside' anymore. A large part of the roof was missing, one wall had been destroyed entirely and the rest of them were full of gaping holes, but... it wasn't the embodiment of hopelessness Cyreia had expected. People were unwilling to let the factory go. They worked tirelessly and even though the whole building was a husk of its former self, they had made some progress in restoring it. It was... uplifting, really.

"See who I brought? Our dear king," he announced to the other workers. Most of them stopped doing whatever they were doing the moment they saw her, too unnerved by her presence to continue. "He promised to help, so let's see if he is also good at things other than threatening unarmed women." Well, that hurt, but again, it wasn't unwarranted. That was exactly what she had done to Cinzia. Hearing it from someone else's mouth kind of put it into a new perspective, though. Threatening unarmed women. Some hero she was. Cyreia rolled her sleeves up, revealing her scarred arms. At least the wound she had received in Easthaven had closed already, probably thanks to Remin's help. "I should hope so," she said, her tone carefully measured. This was no time for emotions. Cyreia could have made it about herself, could have tried to convince them that it hadn't been an easy thing for her to do, but that didn't seem appropriate. Not in the middle of the ruins of their old lives. No, she would just take whatever abuse they needed to dish out for them to feel at least a little better about this debacle.

The corridor was blocked almost entirely, with the debris stacked in a way that made it difficult to pull out the individual parts. There was also a danger of the whole pile collapsing and causing even more damage if they approached it with a lack of caution. No wonder that they struggled. Cyreia observed the mess carefully, touching it at a few selected spots to ascertain the stability of the whole structure. It didn't seem very safe. "Any idea where to start? Because I don't know," she admitted.

"Not that I'd expect you to. But listen, if we pull out this and you hold it there, it won't fall down immediately, and if we remove this piece after that, it will probably collapse in a more gradual manner. After that happens, we can proceed with greater confidence."

Cyreia did as they instructed her to. She didn't feel too useful - they had to direct her every move as if she was just an overgrown child - but her strength did help. Significantly so. By the time the leader (his name was Dyran, as he had said at some point) told them to take a break, the corridor seemed much emptier than it had been before and she, well, she was drenched with sweat, her hands a bloody, bruised mess.

"You really don't know how to do this, huh? Absolutely no technique at all," Dyran said when he noticed her injuries. None of the men seemed to be quite as covered in bruises as she was. Clearly, they valued their well-being more. Not that that surprised her. Cyreia was notoriously reckless; it had been a small wonder that she had managed to reach adulthood.

"I never claimed the opposite. I can go on, though." The pain wasn't too horrible, really, at least compared to what they had gone through.

"I'm sure that you can, but a break is a break. C'mon, we're going outside. They're waiting for us with a meal. There is no point in you working yourself to death. It isn't finished yet, after all." That was true, so Cyreia gave up and followed him outside. Even if she wouldn't admit it aloud - certainly not in front of these people - she did feel exhausted. Exhausted, thirsty and... somewhat content despite all of that. This really wasn't so bad.

 

[Conifer]

By the time the bread is baked and cut into thick slices and butter’s been made to top it, and the stew’s cooked enough to eat without encountering anything raw, and tables and chairs are dragged out into a messy configuration just outside the factory for everyone to eat in fresh, clean air, Remin’s thoroughly exhausted and sweat stains every inch of her. Her hair clings to the dampness covering her skin where it falls from the messy bun she’s struggled to keep it in all day. It’s probably the most undignified she’s looked since she fell into a mud puddle when she was barely ten. It’s overwhelming and she feels like she needs to bathe for a week straight, but it’s also satisfying in a way she hadn’t entirely expected.
There wasn’t much talking on her end while they worked, the heat in the small room too stifling for that, but Beatrice barely stops barking out orders (seeming to take some sort of delight in bossing around the queen with no consequence) for the hours they work. For as unfamiliar as it is, Remin’s glad. It keeps her working usefully and not floundering for what to do next - she would have made an utter fool of herself then.

The pot of stew and the pile of bread is lugged out to one of the tables outside, and nearly as soon as it’s there, people come filtering out of the factory. They have bowls in hand, which Beatrice fills with with stew, and then they move down the line to Remin who hands them a thick slice of buttered bread. (“Gotta keep ‘em honest,” Beatrice had explained. “There’s enough for seconds, but some ‘f this lot’ll take thirds before they take firsts. So we serve ‘em, then we can eat.”)
The line progresses quickly - they’ve obviously done this a few times, and have the routine down. Avther comes through eventually, and Remin gives him a wide smile as she hands over his bread. His hands are an utter mess, and scrapes are all up and down his forearms, and Remin feels terribly guilty for thinking the whole picture of him looked unfairly attractive. She’s sure he was even more exhausted than she was or he looked, but it was...well. It was a good look. It suited him well. “Glad to see you’ve made it out alive, my king.” She teases lightly.

 

[Aerynth]

"Maybe I shouldn't eat here," Cyreia suggested as she waited in line, surrounded by all the other workers. It was hard to tell whether they had gotten used to her presence or whether they just happened to be too tired to mind, but they looked much more comfortable with her than they had been in the beginning. The stifling silence that had once followed her everywhere had somehow morphed into friendly chatter. True, they didn't talk to her, but at least they didn't feel the need to restrain themselves anymore. "Why?" Dyran, who stood in front of her, asked. "Well, I mean, it's me," Cyreia shrugged. "You haven't forgotten who I am, right? There's no need for me to spoil everyone's mood." Dyran looked at her, studying her expression carefully. "You keep saying the strangest things. You've already spoiled everyone's mood, you fool, but now you work with us, so you get to eat here. That's how it works." Cyreia couldn't stop herself from smiling. There was something endearing about the way he addressed her even if she should have been insulted by all accounts. "You can just call me Avther, you know. You're bound to run out of synonyms for 'idiot' at some point." That probably wasn't the correct etiquette, either, but etiquette could go to hell. She couldn't very well stay formal with people who had helped her haul away a piece of debris larger than her.

The queue moved slowly, but it moved and soon enough, Cyreia was faced with Remin. Remin, who, it seemed, had gone through her own personal hell in the meantime. Still, she looked breathtaking, perhaps even moreso than usual. Or was it because she hadn't seen her for a few hours? God, Cyreia had grown so attached to her. "Well, I am good at surviving if nothing else. Shame that I can't say the same about my clothes," Cyreia raised her left arm to show off a torn sleeve. The whole robe was dirty beyond recognition, too, and she doubted that anyone would be able restore it to its former state. "So it looks like you win. I suppose that I can start my artistic career now." She wanted to talk some more, but the people behind her were getting impatient and the last thing Cyreia wanted was to make them wait longer than they already had to. "When are you going to eat? I can wait for you. I'll be sitting... somewhere." Very descriptive, but she felt too tired to think about... well, almost anything, really. Cyreia just knew that she wanted to spend some time with Remin. She deserved it after all of that, didn't she?

 

[Conifer]

She can’t help but laugh at the torn sleeve - a tiny, constrained thing, but still delighted. “Perhaps we should just put you in chainmail and nothing else. I’d be impressed if you managed to rip that.” Remin says, before there’s a pointed cough from Beatrice - right. Bread to serve. “I’ll find you once this line’s through.” She promises, waving him off out of the line. What was that he had said this morning? It might be best to keep distance from him? And yet, here they were, chatting and teasing in the dinner line and promising to sit together while they ate. So much for that, though circumstances had turned out differently than either of them had expected at that time.

The rest of the line went quickly enough - Avther had been near the end of it, and so she was released from her work however temporarily, passed a bowl and some bread, and told to go sit down only a few minutes later. Remin scanned the crowd for her husband, before eventually spotting him and the spare seat across from him. She made her way through the group that seemed to take ‘work hard, play hard’ very seriously - one table was singing some terribly bawdy tune that would have made her blush if she wasn’t intentionally ignoring it - and sat down in a tired heap across from him.

“I feel like I could sleep for five years.” Remin says by way of greeting, grinning across the table at him as she starts to eat - there’s some amount of ingrained refinery in her eating habits even here, and it looks kind of ridiculous in this environment where formality is the last thing on literally anyone’s mind, if the way that the two of them have been treated is any indication. “Or at least for a good straight week.”

 

[Aerynth]

"Watch out, Remin, that is a bet I could actually win," Cyreia smirked. She would have liked to add something else, but the man behind her tapped on her shoulder, clearly impatient, and she raised her hands in apology. "Sorry, sorry. I'm going." Stealing one last glance at Remin, Cyreia beamed, took all of her food and went to look for a place to sit down. God, it was so crowded here. The entire city must have gathered here just to undo the damage she had caused. "May I?" she asked one of the workers for the permission to sit next to him (there were no conveniently abandoned spots she could isolate herself in) and the man just nodded. If he minded, he hid it successfully. It felt strange to sit among the people whose lives she had ruined and be treated... well, not with kindness, not exactly, but without ostentatious contempt.

"Didn't you use to be taller?" her unexpected compatriot asked her. "Excuse me?" Cyreia asked in turn. "Well, when I saw you the last time on the main square, you looked taller than that." Ah, that. It baffled her which details some people bothered to remember. "I wore high heels," she admitted with some degree of shame and the table erupted in laughter. "What? Appearances are important." Cyreia was relatively tall, but only for a woman; her height didn't really inspire respect in anyone and she had used to make up for that with some strategic footwear when her image actually mattered.

Well, hopefully Remin hadn't heard that. It was slightly embarrassing. "Tell me about that," Cyreia said in response and smiled at her wife. "I mean, I should be used to this, but it turns out fighting and construction work aren't the same. At all." Both activities required different muscles, different kinds of moves and while Cyreia did have hidden reserves of energy built up from all the training, she had used them up much faster than she had originally expected. How did these people manage to go on and on every single day? "I forgot how satisfying it feels to actually do something, though." She grabbed her bread, dipped it in her stew unceremoniously and then took a bite. "Delicious. Maybe you can cook for me when we get home, too."

 

[Conifer]

If Remin caught the bit about the heels (she did. It was hard not to, with the way the table reacted, and she bit back her own laugh - though with much different implications than theirs. Hers was all fondness, theirs was amused laughter that wasn’t quite mean-spirited, but wasn’t far from it,) she did a wonderful job of not letting on. Who was she to fault strategic dressing when it was one of the few things she had at her disposal?

“We’ll see about that.” She laughs softly, shaking her head. There was a slim chance of it. But maybe. The thought was, admittedly, somewhat appealing - the two of them tucked away in the cozy privacy of the kitchens, chatting as she kneaded dough, and then sitting together at the small table by the fire and ignoring everything outside that room. Gods give her strength, what had happened to not falling for him? What had happened to it being a terrible plan? What happened to that being dangerous?

But...but here, in the place where it should feel dangerous, where he was as much an enemy as he could possibly be - no one really seemed to mind. No one seemed to hold her fondness for him which she was unfortunately aware she was having a hard time being subtle about against her. She wondered what would happen if she reached across the table and took one of his work-worn hands into hers. Who would look? Who would care? Somehow, it felt like it would matter very little. Remin keeps her hands to herself, though. Not everywhere was as willing to overlook his status yet. Maybe someday, when they had the time to apply the balm of proving themselves dedicated to righting the war, but...not yet. She couldn’t have this yet.

“Well,” She says anyways, foolishly, selfishly. “You could perhaps convince me. If you ask nicely. And you want for nothing other than bread, butter, or stew, because that’s my entire repertoire at this point.” Maybe she could have the cook teach her some other things.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia observed Remin's mannerisms, not even bothering to hide the warmth in her eyes. She would have failed anyway. It wasn't even about her being a terrible actor. True, that played its role in it as well, but mostly, she just didn't think that anyone would have been able to conceal the kind of emotion she felt now. It shone through her fatigue, burning bright somewhere in her chest, and filled her with... well, a lot of things. Hope, for example. A hope that, despite everything, things would work out somehow. That the fortune teller that had allegedly seen her fate in her palm had been right. That she would be allowed to treasure this feeling forever, whatever it was.

"Stew and bread sound good," Cyreia agreed easily. "I could it eat for the rest of my life if you cooked it." And the funniest thing about it? It probably wasn't even a lie. Cyreia had been used to absolutely terrible food from her days in the army; food that was both bland and lacking in variety. They used three recipes tops, that was her estimation. Switching to meals that were tasty and lacking in variety would have been an improvement, especially if Remin prepared them. God, what did the idea of it feel so appealing? Cyreia knew that there would be no time for cooking once they got back to the castle, knew that they probably wouldn't even see each other as much as they did here on this journey. The castle was large, after all, and she had no idea whether Remin would want to spend so much time in her company. She seemed to want that now, almost as much as Cyreia did, but there had been the last night along with her assurance that she just couldn't. Oh, if only this trip could last forever. She wouldn't mind working here every day, paying off her debt to Hadsberry bit by bit. Perhaps, in time, Cyreia could learn how to actually build things and be truly useful to these people. Fantasies, fantasies, nothing but fantasies.

"Perhaps I should start convincing you now, as I am quite terrible at diplomacy and it might take a while," she tilted her head aside playfully. "Now, what could I possibly do to sway my beautiful wife's opinion, hm?" Alright, Cyreia wasn't even trying to look subtle now. If people wanted to watch, well, that was their prerogative. It wasn't scandalous at all to flirt with your spouse, now was it? "Is there something I could do for you in return?"

 

[Conifer]

“You could owe me another painting,” She suggests, laughing like a worryless child - as if there weren’t people just beside them, listening in to their whole conversation, watching their every movement. It’s thrilling that they don’t care. She’s almost giddy with it - or maybe it’s the tiredness. She hasn’t been this truly worn in ages, and it feels kind of delightful in a strange way. “It could be your first series. ‘Things I’ve Painted Because I’m Terrible at Bargaining With My Wife ', you could call it. Or,” dangerous, dangerous, but so what? “While you lost your bet before, my hair’s going to be an utter disaster after I wash it this evening. Perhaps I could employ your services in tending to it.”

She just...wouldn’t kiss him again. That should be simple enough. They could still spend time together - they still should spend time together! They would be ruling beside each other when they returned. They should be comfortable with each other. She just wouldn’t kiss him, and wouldn’t fall more for him, and it would all be incredibly simple and fine. She could cook for him all she liked, and he could play with her hair, and they could sit together at meals, and it would be-- fine. It would be perfectly fine. Nothing could go poorly about that plan at all.

 

[Aerynth]

Did... did Remin actually like the idea of her doing her hair? It certainly looked like that to her. Since she couldn't have known that Cyreia actually knew a thing or two about tending to long hair, it was an incredibly bold move. Essentially, her wife risked her entire image here. "Well, I'd be a terrible husband if I refused to help in a time of crisis. I can even wash it for you, should you want it." Cyreia doubted that luxurious bathrooms could be found in Hadsberry. At best, they would get a barrel of warm water. At worst, the water would be cold. Either way, washing one's hair in such conditions couldn't be too pleasant, especially if you happened to be used to maids helping you with such things. (Not that Cyreia knew whether this was customary for nobles in Athea, too, but it fit into her narrative conveniently, so she didn't feel like asking Remin to confirm the validity of that little factoid for her). It wasn't strange at all to make that particular offer, now was it? Anyone with a heart would have volunteered to assist.

It occurred to her with some delay that washing your hair usually meant washing the rest of your body, too, and that she had just indirectly requested to be present when Remin bathed herself. Amazingly, Cyreia blushed at that prospect. God, how old was she? These things weren't supposed to happen to her, but, well, maybe they happened now because she had missed out on love as a teenager. Wars tended to cause that, except for the one that had resulted in her getting married. Well. What a plot twist. "I, I didn't mean it like that," she raised her hands in a defensive gesture before Remin could say anything. "Only after you've bathed the rest of yourself, of course. It's just that long hair is a hassle to wash, isn't? I wanted to be helpful, that's all." Would Remin believe her, though? It wasn't even a lie - Cyreia really hadn't considered all those implications before - but she must have looked incredibly suspicious in her eyes. Speaking of incredibly suspicious things, she could still feel the flame on her cheeks. Curse her complete transparency!

 

[Conifer]

If there was any doubt that they were being listened to,that was quickly cast away when the man sitting beside Avther, who had commented on his height, elbowed him, chuckling. “Gotta get a little more confidence into you.”

If Remin hadn’t been blushing at the implications of his words at first, she was now, skin flushed rosy-red with equal parts embarrassment from being noticed and from the idea of Avther aiding her bathing. That was...gods, she was going to die. What had she done to deserve any of this? Why did here, this place where their flirting (it was inescapably flirting at this point, which even she, in all her inexperience, could tell. All the rest of it could simply have been conversation, but this was just flirting,) should be hated but isn’t, have to exist so soon after her resolution to avoid giving in to her terrible ideas? But washing hair wasn’t kissing. Kissing was-- different, than all of this. She wouldn’t kiss him. It would be fine as long as she didn’t. Somehow, to her tired mind, that plan seemed infallible.

“I--ah.” she laughs, ducking her head to laugh into her stew. “Your assistance would be appreciated, my king, and I’ll take you up on it. Thank you for your offer.”

“And yet it works,” The man sounds amused, nudging Avther again. “At least you can do something without razing a town for it, eh?”

 

[Aerynth]

"What? I'm not doing anything," Cyreia defended her-- what did she even defend, exactly? The man wasn't accusing her of a misdeed. If anything, he seemed to be... weirdly supportive. Well, at least one person in the whole Athea approves of our union, which is more than I could reasonably ask for. It just surprised her that this support had come from Hadsberry of all places. None if it was going the way she had expected it to; not just this particular visit, but, well, this entire marriage. Her life in general. For the first time in god knew how many years, Cyreia caught herself actually looking forward to the future. It was a bizarre notion. Before, she had mostly just existed, waiting for the next big war to chase across the continent. This felt different, though. A taste of something Cyreia thought she had forgotten a long time ago.

To top it off, Remin proceeded to say yes. "Um, well. I'll-- I'll try not to disappoint," she replied, suddenly quite unsure whether this was even happening or not. It couldn't be happening. Wasn't this some elaborate illusion? Perhaps she had fallen off her horse, hit her head and the entire week or so had been just a feverish dream. That would explain a lot. If it was, though, then Cyreia didn't wish to wake up.

The man's amused reaction only made her blush harder. "I said that I wasn't doing anything. Sheesh, a man can't even be courteous without being accused of having some sort of ulterior motive."

"Right, courteous," another man sitting close to them laughed. "You are a terrible liar, my king." It was the first time someone from Hadsberry had actually used her title, but it felt even more mocking than when Dyran had called her an idiot back in the factory. The man then pulled out a flask full of some transparent liquid from a hidden space in his coat and poured two glasses for Cyreia and Remin. "Have a drink. It's from my personal stash. Good for courage," he practically winked at the couple. God, when had they become the primary source of amusement for the entire table? Cyreia supposed that it kind of was her fault, but Remin enabled her.

Still, she smelled the liquid carefully and her nose wrinkled instantly. It was obviously some kind of alcohol. "Well, thank you for your kindness, but I don't like alco--"

"And you call yourself a soldier? Don't you dare to refuse, you coward. You're a guest. Drink. It's a command."

Well, that was one way to put it. Alright, it doesn't seem like we have much of a choice," Cyreia smiled as she looked at Remin. "To your health. Is that the proper way to toast? That was what we used to say in Eupriunia."

 

[Conifer]

The offered drink set off alarm bells. The dinner, just days before, and wine from a stash she had trusted. She didn’t know what this drink truly was - it could be, if she were to lean into dramatics, straight poison tipped from the bottle. And it would make sense for it to happen here - they had every right to hate Avther and her and their rule. It would make sense to want them dead - and the two of them sat foolishly unguarded, the others having pitched in to help and were resting and eating at another table. Within earshot and eyeshot, and she was sure they were being carefully watched, but perhaps not carefully enough? Help would be rare here, and the things they’d need to treat poison, if the town let them be treated at all. They, even with the guards, would be quickly overpowered. They could be dead in an hour and no one would know for weeks if the town kept quiet enough about it.

And then the man took a hearty drink from his own bottle before passing it off to someone else, and her worries settled. She picked up her drink and raised it to Avther. A command was a command, and this seemed the way to win their favor. Be bossed around a bit, be the brunt of some jokes, and put in work. She couldn’t very well jeopardize that now, could she? “I suppose we don’t,” Remin agrees, grinning back at him. “That’s as proper a way as any, my king. To your health.” She said, before pouring the liquid down her throat in the way she’d seen the man do. She wasn’t an entire stranger to things harder than wine, but the bitter-acid taste of it was still a shock that left her coughing. It might have impressed them for her to keep a straight face, but there was no possible way that was going to happen.

 

[Aerynth]

"To your health, then." And with that, Cyreia swallowed the liquid in one go. The original plan had been to drink it so fast that she couldn't even feel the taste. That seemed sensible in theory, really, except that things didn't work like that and her throat was suddenly on fire and she started coughing violently, perhaps even more than Remin. "What the... what the hell," she managed to get out between the spasms and reached for a glass of water instead to wash off the aftertaste. "People actually drink this voluntarily?"

There was more laughter. "And to think that the solution to our problem was so simple. We should have just made you drink when you came for the first time. You'd never have recovered from my uncle's slivovitz." Cyreia had no idea what that was, but it sounded positively awful and just imagining her own reaction to it made her burst out in laughter as well. Damn. How utterly fun. During the course of one short day, Cyreia had managed to out herself both as a lightweight and a fool in love in front the entire town. That couldn't be good for her reputation, there was no way it could be, and yet she couldn't find it in herself to care. Maybe she would come to regret all of this tomorrow, but today was... well, today. The issues of tomorrow would be dealt with tomorrow.

"I swear I'm going to cry," Cyreia looked at Remin again, still smiling from ear to ear. God, her mouth hurt from all the smiling. That, too, happened to her suspiciously often since her arrival in Athea.

"Well, you had your fun, didn't you?" Beatrice emerged from somewhere and put her hand on Remin's shoulder. "C'mon, there are still dishes for us to do. You can go rest after we're done with that." It probably made sense for the women in kitchen to do the dishes since everyone else had been doing construction work all day, but it still seemed incredibly unfair to Cyreia. Remin was so just so tired. "I can help, too," she heard herself saying despite her own exhaustion. Additional hands meant that they would finish their task faster, right? "Washing plates might be a nice change of pace."

 

[Conifer]

Remin couldn’t help herself but laugh herself breathless with Avther, the burn of the alcohol still clinging to her throat. Gods be truthful, when was the last time she had laughed like that? She couldn’t remember a day in her life. It certainly wasn’t any time in the last years, when she scarcely remembers having much to laugh at at all. And yet it was proving so easy with him at her side. She met her parent’s murderer yesterday, and here she was today, sitting at a table and eating makeshift stew with the commonfolk and having the time of her life - it shouldn’t be possible. She should still be wallowing in the pain of it, not - chugging alcohol pulled from coat pockets and delighting in the way that Avther’s laughter sounded or the way that Avther looked when they were more in his element than hers or the way that his smile made her feel warm. Or maybe that was the alcohol already.

Thankfully or cruelly, she wasn’t sure, she was pulled from the moment by a firm hand on her shoulder and an instruction to get back to work. These moments of utter happiness could only last so long, and the faster they got all of this over with, the faster she could feel less like she was going to either melt into a puddle of uncleanliness or fall asleep standing up. “Understood,” Remin agrees, saying a quick, polite goodbye to the rest of the table as she stood, when Avther spoke up.

Beatrice looked Avther over, clucking her tongue. “...Well, alright. Another set of hands never hurt, as long as you’ve finished up what you have to do out here.”

There thankfully wasn’t too terribly much to do - the men handled their own cups and bowls, simply rinsing them clean with water that Remin and Beatrice had pulled in earlier in the day, but the amount of mess that cooking for that many people made was decent. Avther’s help would certainly make it quicker. It was simple to settle into a rhythm - Beatrice ordered Avther onto drying duty, and Remin onto putting the things away when they were dry enough, taking on the proper cleaning herself (not seeming to entirely trust either of them with it, but Remin couldn’t find herself minding not having to sink her hands into increasingly murky water).

 

[Aerynth]

As long as you've finished up what you have to do out here, Beatrice said. Technically, today's shift had ended already, but could she ever really consider her job here to be done? It had been easy to destroy the city. A few swift commands and then she had just watched her men tear down everything these people had held dear. They had cut through Hadsberry like a hot knife through butter; quickly, efficiently and without emotions. Rebuilding it wasn't nearly as simple, as Cyreia had come to learn, and she would have to abandon the locals to their plight soon. How many days did they have left before they had to embark on their trip again? Two? Three? Either way, it was woefully little to make any real difference. Sooner or later, she would have to talk with Cinzia and hope against hope that the woman would accept the kingdom's aid as well. Cyreia wasn't looking forward to that particular conversation, but, well, at least it didn't fill her with dread anymore. The day spent with the workers showed her that maybe, just maybe, with a lot of dedication and some humility, this could be fixed. She stood at the beginning of a long journey, granted, but the first step had been made.

Drying the dishes, at least, was something Cyreia had experience with. Low-ranked soldiers had to help out in the kitchen from time to time as well and she had gone through almost all of the ranks at some point in her long, long career. Too long, it seemed now. She could have spent some of that time doing different things, like learning skills that would actually come in handy in non-military life. That was the thing, though. Cyreia hadn't really considered the possibility of surviving long enough to have that kind of life. Either way, her hands still remembered how to do that, so she worked fast and worked well. It didn't take them too long to deal with the pile of dishes - Beatrice's organization skills certainly helped - and then they were free to go.

"Alright, if I wasn't wasted before, now I certainly am," Cyreia confessed to Remin as they headed towards the inn they were staying in. (Hawthorne had been sent out earlier to find an establishment that would be fine with providing them shelter and, with a lot of money and some persuasion, he had succeeded. Cyreia didn't want to know how much he had had to pay, though. She had a feeling that it would make her head spin.) If nothing else, at least the inn was relatively close to the factory, so they didn't have to walk too long. The night air smelled pleasantly and Cyreia couldn't help but enjoy how clean it felt compared to the factory. "I'd like to return there tomorrow and finish what I started, though. It will probably take ages to repair the entire structure, but the corridor is almost clear now. I think we should finish it in a few hours at most. Will you come as well? Not that I'd blame you if you'd like to rest instead, but... well, it was nice to work with you. Or in the general vicinity of you." Just existing in the general vicinity of her was nice.

 

[Conifer]

"I'll come," Remin agrees without a second thought. Of course she'd come. Any amount of work they did would help to build the bridges they needed to build to help this place that, even if they didn't want it, clearly could benefit from aid. Even if that aid was simply sending money so the workers could be paid for their efforts rebuilding the town, they'd benefit immensely from it. They'd have to discuss with Cinzia before they left town what help they could offer that wouldn't upset their independence. "The work's hard, but… It feels nice to be doing something, doesn't it? To not just sit in a room all day." She wondered what of this she could bring back with her when they returned home. Very little, she assumed, but maybe she'd find something. Something tangible, something that was real effort, and not just telling someone else to do something that she'd decided.


They made their way into the inn - it was quiet, nearly entirely empty besides the woman in the corner who didn't even glance their way, and of different standards than she was used to, but Remin certainly wasn't going to complain. It was a roof over their heads and a bed to collapse into.

A small bed, as it turned out, when she opened to door to their room (a singular one, shared again,). The room was tight, with a bed just barely large enough for two and a washbasin opposite the door. She glanced at Avther, nearly offering to take the floor this time (despite there not being much space for even that,) before letting the bit of alcohol that still clung to her decision-making take the lead. She says nothing; if he says something, she'll offer, but if he says nothing...well. They'd held each other closer before.

 

[Aerynth]

"Exactly my thoughts," Cyreia nodded. To be entirely honest, she had no idea how to cope with that aspect of her new life. With the expectation of not really doing anything, or at least not physically. She had gotten a taste of it back in the castle while studying some of the books Remin had recommended to her and, well, it hadn't been pleasant. It would have driven her mad if not for the frequent breaks to stretch her limbs she had allowed herself to take. Cyreia would have to develop some strategies for handling that later, but for now, she just wanted to rest. Needed to rest. Today had been quite exhausting, after all, and tomorrow would not be better in this regard. If anything, it would be worse if she didn't manage to get a good night of sleep.

... which might turn out to be a problem. Cyreia hadn't expected the same kind of luxury they had been offered at Vestat's castle, but this? This bed was positively tiny. The whole room was tiny, of course, but she couldn't be blamed for focusing on the bed out of all things. Uninvited, certain ideas crept into her head. Ideas of holding Remin against her chest as they fell asleep, of stroking her hair, of-- No, no, no. It was fun to daydream about these things, of course, but daydreams were risk-free. That was the entire appeal. In her imagination, Remin could never take initiative and discover something she wasn't supposed to, like the fact that her husband was, in fact, her wife. In reality, though? Entirely within the realm of possibility. What a predicament. Cyreia stared at the bed, her expression a strange mix of panic and... excitement. Excitement? Why excitement? This should frighten her. It did, of course that it did, but a tiny part of her also wondered whether she'd even mind. Remin seemed to accept so many things about her. Her inability to act like an actual king, her shameless flirting in broad daylight, hell, even her past stained with fire and blood. The fact that she was a woman almost seemed like an unimportant detail now. God, what a dangerous, dangerous way of thinking. It should be discarded immediately.

"Well. I suppose that we're not bathing today, then," she said, trying to gain some time. For what, though? Eventually, they would have to go to bed anyway. Well, we are both tired, so there's not a large risk of something happening. This is safe. This is fine. Probably. Cyreia could simply opt for the floor, of course, but that seemed like an incredibly bad idea with all the work she planned to do at the factory. Back pain wasn't exactly something that would aid her in that. "I guess I can wash your hair tomorrow if we actually find something resembling bathroom. Well, good night." With those words, Cyreia tucked herself under the blanket, not even bothering to change into new clothes (it wasn't like she could, not with no place to hide), and waited for her wife to do the same. Damn, her heart was beating so fast that even Remin must have heard it.