Fantasy All's Fair

[Aerynth]

The sight of Remin's wound made her even more nervous. Was it infected? God, hopefully not, though it certainly looked that way. All the more reason to hurry. They couldn't clean it, but a healer could, and if Remin got to see one quickly, there wouldn't be any consequences. And if it took too long-- well, Cyreia could use fire, she supposed, even if she preferred to avoid going down that route. The healing properties of fire were great, of course, except that they came with a hefty price attached. After everything Remin had gone through, she didn't deserve having to endure being burned alive. Very few people did. They didn't even have any alcohol to ease her suffering, and not even the Eupriunian army forced their soldiers to undergo that treatment while sober. "Alright. Come on, let me help you." Cyreia put her hands together and let her wife step on them; when she did so, she lifted her and Remin ended up in the saddle without any real difficulties. Cyreia then climbed on her horse as well, though not before tearing apart her own cloak and wrapping the fabric around the bite. Infection was bad enough on its own; they didn't need her faiting due to blood loss, too.

Cyreia pulled on the reins sharply and the horse started trotting; if fate was merciful enough, they'd leave that nightmare behind soon. Years from now, this would be just a distant memory and they'd all laugh about it together. (Or maybe not. God, Cyreia couldn't imagine laughing about that. Joking about nearly dying in battle was one thing, but almost losing her wife? That would never be funny. Not when the mere idea filled her with dread so deep that she could drown in it. It would have been so, so easy for Remin to there. What if they had kidnapped her without the communication stone? Or even worse, what if they had noticed her using it? So many things could have gone so terrifyingly wrong and Cyreia wouldn't have even known, much less done something about it. How utterly terrifying.) She didn't have to be afraid anymore, though. Remin was here, hugging her from behind, and the weight of her arms reminded her of the wedding vows they had exchanged. Promises of love and protection. Had she fulfilled them? It didn't seem like that; not the protection part at the very least. Had she been more diligent, Wellan and his goon wouldn't have been able to kidnap Remin in the first place. Would she ever forgive herself for not being there when it mattered? As with many things, Cyreia didn't know.

"Tell me if you ever start feeling feverish," she said to Remin softly as the landscape around them started changing. Slowly, the mountains transitioned into lowlands and, for some reason, it felt safer. Of course, it didn't mean that they actually were safe since Zivra or Wellan could have easily sent someone after them, but still. Cyreia chose to enjoy that tiny piece of peace instead of looking for threats in every single shadow. If there were any pursuers, they would deal with them later. "I don't like how that wound of yours looks." She paused for a moment, not knowing what to say next. It wasn't that there was nothing to say; the opposite was the problem here, actually. Cyreia wanted to ask her so many things, express so many feelings that she didn't know where to start. "Do you-- do you need something? Are you hungry? We took some supplies with us when we embarked on the journey. Nothing fancy - just bread, some dried meat and water - but it's better than nothing, I suppose." Yes, that seemed like a good way to start; taking care of her needs. Everything else could wait.

 

[Conifer]

Remin started to pay more attention to the world around them as they got further from the castle and more out of the mountains, watching the building grow smaller and smaller as they walked. It wasn't just out of mild interest that she watched it, though - being down here gave them the advantage of being able to see anyone who might be charging down the mountainside at them, and with her being the only one not on her own horse and without the environment to pay attention to, she wordlessly took the role of lookout. Once or twice, the movement of wind or birds in the trees rose a sharp spike of panic in her, and she held Cyeria all the tighter until she determined that it was only something natural, not nefarious, that drew her attention. There was nothing that seemed to follow them, though. It didn't leave her feeling too comforted, because the shadowy hand that had taken her was proof enough that they couldn't anticipate everything, but...it was a small comfort, and that was enough for now.

She agreed to some food, even if the still-queasiness of her stomach made the thought of actually eating it unappealing. She'd start with some water, at least, and then some bread, and then perhaps some meat if those had settled it - which, thankfully, they did for the most part. Or perhaps the time it took to eat them did. "How is your shoulder?" Remin asks quietly as she eats. She's had a firsthand view of her blood continuing to stain the makeshift bandage wrapped around it, but it had seemed to her to have slowed down a good amount.

 

[Aerynth]

The fact that Remin chose to eat pleased her. Far too often, people refused food after a traumatic experience, and-- well, it did little to improve their state. Physical and mental comfort often went hand in hand, so they ended up on downward spiral. And returning from that? God, it could be difficult. Cyreia had seen so many lively, young men shattered by a single experience; some of them managed to pick up the pieces and glue them together, but many of them didn't. (She had done it as well in the past, and likely better than certain people, though not perfectly. What she had painstakingly assembled was... similar to her old self, but not the same, never the same, and at times, Cyreia wondered just how much had she managed to stay herself. It probably didn't matter, though. The damage had already been done; she couldn't take it away, as much as you couldn't unburn a piece of wood.)

"It's fine," Cyreia said softly, smiling even if Remin couldn't see it. Speaking with her wife almost always brought a smile to her lips. "Painful, but that's par for the course. I've had worse. Once, back when I served in the army, I managed to fall in a really stupid way and pierce my lungs. It didn't even happen in battle; I was just exhausted after a particularly tough training session and fell on my own weapon while trying to return it back to the armory," Cyreia chuckled at the memory. "Now that hurt. It was the worst pain of my life, really. Whenever something hurts me now, I think back to that moment, compare it to what happened that day and come to the conclusion that, hey, it's not that bad." As her world slowly regained some sense of normalcy, joking around became... not just easier, but also natural. Remin did have that effect on her. Maybe Cyreia shouldn't get too comfortable just yet, though; not when there were questions that had to be asked. Unpleasant questions. "Remin?" she started, slowly and carefully, as if breaching that topic didn't come to her easily. "How did you even end up in that hellhole?" They had to ensure it would never happen again, after all, and in order to do that, Cyreia needed to know what they were dealing with. What kind of security breach were they facing?

 

[Conifer]

It was impossible to laugh as she might have in a different circumstance at Cyeria's story, but it brought Remin more peace than she could easily name to hear Cyeria in good enough spirits to joke with her. It was proof that everything was okay, now. That there was nothing truly to worry about. They were each injured, yes, but there were healers back at camp, and neither of their injuries were immediately dangerous. They might be followed, but they hadn't been yet, and they would likely see anyone coming for them with enough time to prepare. Honestly, Remin would likely feel on edge for ages, still, but there was less and less of the immediate desperation with each step the horses took and each word Cyeria said. It was a simmer, tumultous and present but ignorable, and not a heart-pounding boil.

That became a bit less true, though, when Cyeria asked of how she'd been taken. It was a conversation that was inevitable (as were, Remin assumed, many others,) but even thinking about it made her simply want to crawl under a dozen blankets, or into a cave, or something else dark and safe, and never exit from it. She breathed in, breathed out, and forced out an answer. "Magic," Remin replies, tucking her had back against Cyeria's cloak, her food forgotten for a moment. "Just-- just after I reached out to you. I woke up feeling so much dread...in hindsight, I think the tree was trying to warn me, but I didn't understand. I thought something had happened to you and it was trying to tell me. And then the room filled with strange shadows, a hand grabbed me, and then I found myself in a cell." It was said like a litany of detatched facts; an ancient history, researched and rehearsed for repetition for some expectant tutor in her youth.

 

[Aerynth]

A shadowy hand? Cyreia did not like that. Why couldn't it be, say, a hidden passage that led from the nearby village right into their bedroom? Such a passage could be blocked and then promptly forgotten. It would take almost no effort for them to be able to sleep soundly again. This, though? How could they ever close their eyes again with that threat looming over their heads, as real and tangible as an enemy's sword? In times like these, Cyreia missed Eupriunia. Everything had been more straightforward there; not necessarily better, but definitely more predictable. While you had to be wary of someone stabbing you in the back, you didn't have to be afraid of-- of being kidnapped from your own bed by some nefarious magical forces. She knew better than to say that aloud, though. Remin didn't need to be reminded of Eupriunia right now; she didn't need her fright, either. Too bad that the panic swelling in her chest just wouldn't go away, wouldn't stop choking the breath out of her lungs. It almost felt as if something had pierced them again.

"Well. That's-- that's bad," Cyreia said, and it wasn't eloquent or witty, but she couldn't manage more than that in that moment. The thing was, she had to. For Remin's sake, she had to be stronger than this. Just... think logically. There has to be some way to eliminate that danger. "I'm... uh, sure that something can be done about it. I mean, I've never been exactly popular among your - our - people and nobody tried it before even if it's awfully convenient. That tells me that something must have changed. I don't know, maybe the stars aligned properly and made it possible? Either way, someone's bound to know something about how it works and what to do about it."

"It wasn't the stars that changed," a voice from behind them said. It was Tannis, the one who had tagged along to act as their guide. "My apologies for listening to your conversation, but you were kind of loud. Anyway, I think I know what you're talking about. My mother was a witch, you see. The spell you're talking about... has a lot of prerequisites, one of them being a bat's bone placed somewhere close to the person that is being transported. So, in short, someone betrayed you. Someone close to you, probably," the man shrugged.

 

[Conifer]

Well, that was...one of the least surprising things that could have been revealed. They still hadn't dealt with the adviser that was involved in the plot against Avther, hoping that the whole thing would temper out once he realized that Avther wasn't a threat, and not wanting to draw attention to the fact that they knew he was in on it and further endanger either of them, but perhaps that had been reckless. But he'd have little chance to sneak into their room, or at least, little reason to be wandering that side of the castle without it drawing suspicion. There was always the chance that there was an accomplice, though. Or he hadn't done it at all. But who else might have? Her immediate suspicion went to Maric, but...it seemed unlikely, unless he still held a grudge for them not allowing him back into the room they'd discovered together. That had been weeks ago, at least, though, and he hadn't done anything to make her distrust him more than she already did in that time. Perhaps it was just member of their staff she didn't know well enough to know they were a threat? Or maybe Velka had been lying to them entirely about her reasons, in order to gain entrance into the castle and access to their rooms? There were far, far too many possibilities.

Remin sat up properly, looking to Tannis. "...No, thank you for interrupting." She says. "That's good information to know." It was at least a comfort that they could handle it. She'd still ask Maric, once they were sure they could trust him, to figure out further protections against magic that they could put in place around the castle, but it was easy enough to destroy a bat bone and throw the debris to the wastes. She turns her attention back to Cyeria, speaking more quietly, but there's honestly not too much to hide. "We'll have to figure out a way to vet everyone once we return home. If there's one...I don't doubt that there's a few more. Passive dislike of you is one thing, but actively aiding in a kidnapping attempt on you's another entirely." She sighs softly. "...I'm glad you went. I'm glad you weren't there. I don't want to think about how it might have all gone if I had to be your savior, and I was still in the castle." It so much more distance from there to here than it was from Werough to a slightly different place in Werough.

 

[Aerynth]

They... probably should have expected something like that, really. Cyreia actually had, but there had been to much to worry about, too much to manage, and things she hadn't considered to be immediate threats had simply slipped her mind. God, how she wanted to beat her past self senseless now! How had traitors in their midst not seemed relevant to her before? (Maybe because she was surrounded by potential traitors. Each and every one of her subjects had a good reason to hate her and, well, if she had to investigate every suspicious person in her vicinity, she wouldn't be doing anything else. Deep inside, Cyreia knew it very well, though she refused to admit that. Having someone to blame this whole fiasco on was nice, even if that someone was her.)

"I know," she sighed. "I cannot let this go unpunished." Cyreia might have been tempted to do exactly that if it had been just her, but the traitor had endangered Remin as well. For this, they deserved to hang along with Wellan and Zivra. Their share of blame wasn't any lesser than theirs just because they hadn't jailed Remin personally. Without that initial push, none of this would have happened. "I suppose that we should investigate whether someone in the castle has connections to Werough. Relatives, things like that. It can be just about anyone, though if I had to take a guess, I'd look for our perpetrator among the staff. Only servants can enter our bedroom without suspicion." In the past, Cyreia had thought them to be apolitical; merely smallfolk who were doing their jobs and didn't particularly care about who sat on the throne. Perhaps that had been naive, though. She did know that many of them came from clans that had served Remin's family for centuries, after all. Surely they derived a lot of pride from it. Would it be that strange if one (or more) of them saw removing the invader as their personal duty? Or perhaps someone had bribed one of them to put the bat bone in there without the person in question actually knowing what it would do? The possibilities were endless, though she was reasonably sure that the staff must have been involved somehow. How to reveal them reliably, though? Connections to Werough could serve as a clue, but they didn't necessarily prove anything. Even an innocent person could be related to someone from there, dammit.

"I suppose that we can ask Wellan or Zivra about it later. I'm sure at least one of them will be able to sell their allies out." And if not-- well, Cyreia knew something about making people speak. It wouldn't be pretty, but what they had planned for Remin hadn't been pretty, either, so it seemed fair. "And we probably were lucky in that regard," she admitted reluctantly, "but it never should have happened in the first place. I wasn't careful enough and that put you in danger. For that, I'm sorry."

 

[Conifer]

"We were as careful as we thought we had to be." Remin assures her quietly. She can see how easy it is for Cyeria to blame herself, but no aspect of that's true to Remin - and surely that's what really matters, in the end. There was little they could have done to avoid any of this, besides apparently scope out every room of their castle for bat bones any time they leave it unattended and unsupervised. (Now they know, she supposes.) "And we'll be more careful going forward. This will at least be an excuse to uncover anyone hiding their alliances in the castle without seeming suspicious for it." Even if the adviser had no hand in it, this would be the chance they had to remove him from the employ of the castle and proximity to Cyeria. It was well-past the time to deal with any threats that made their homes near to the rulers. Their castle had to be their place that they could trust to be safe; the world outside it held too much danger already. If that meant firing everyone and starting from scratch, then so be it. They could cook and clean for themselves. They just needed safety, they needed people they could trust at their backs without worrying that there would be a dagger, however potentially literal, stabbed into them when they weren't looking.

Here wasn't the place to plan any of this, though. If they weren't sure who they could trust in the castle, then they absolutely weren't sure who they could trust here. Hawthorne, yes, absolutely, and Tallis was a good bet, but good bets weren't good enough. Anyone could say a word about this to anyone, who could say it to someone else, and then whoever they're looking for could be gone from the castle before they got back, and they'd have little way to know and absolutely no way to find them. So, she changed the subject, hoping that Cyeria would let it rest until they could get somewhere more private. That would also be a better thing to discuss than the other things that she was sure that Cyeria was going to ask about when they were alone, which...Remin was dreading, quite honestly.

"How is everything else going out here?" Remin asks softly. It was unlikely that they'd be able to return to the castle before everything was finished, here. Sure, she could drag away soldiers as an escort back to Athea proper, but those would be swords that weren't helping to end all of this. Maybe Cyeria had other ideas, but Remin didn't. And...really, if those ideas involved being away from Cyeria for longer, after all of that she wasn't sure she could manage it. She could barely even manage the thought of being on a seperate horse than her right now; most of a country away would be far too much.

 

[Aerynth]

Oh, her sweet, sweet Remin. Of course that she wouldn't blame her; it just wasn't like her. That, however, didn't mean that she shouldn't be blamed. Cyreia had been the one who had chosen to give potential traitors the benefit of doubt, after all. The one who had believed that, as long as she treated them fairly, her subjects would have no real reason to stab her in the back. It had worked like that in the army, which... likely was a foolish comparison. The position of a commander who had crawled to the top with nothing but her own skill was different from a king installed against the will of everyone involved. Still, people were people, and Cyreia had assumed that assassinating a king who was more of an asset than a liability wouldn't be worth the effort. Not when doing so would undoubtedly provoke Eupriunia into retaliating. And honestly? It probably was true, at least with most of them, but she shouldn't have assumed it was universal. She should have been less trusting, more willing to send suspicious people away. That was what needed to be done, Cyreia supposed. How to walk the thin line between paranoia and self-preservation, though? Where exactly was the line?

"Yes," she nodded. "Few people will doubt that we are justified in... exercising greater caution. Still, I don't want it to seem as if we're just using the situation to fire everyone who doesn't agree with every word we say and hire sycophants." That would only result in more severe trouble in the future. If advisers - or anyone powerful, really - got the impression that they were going to disturb the balance of power, what would be the response? Likely more rebellions, and this time from regions more relevant than Werough. No, they had to be careful here. "It will be reasonable, I think, to send the advisers away. They can live close to us, but not with us, for safety reasons. And if we don't find out who among the staff betrayed us, we will just fire everyone and get new people to serve us. People we can trust." Servants, after all, had little power; they wouldn't be able to hurt them for this slight.

"And it's going well. When I was leaving, capturing the enemy's castle was all but certain. I just hope they won't kill lord Menryn because I was hoping to use him in negotiations," Cyreia sighed. "I doubt that Wellan will actually accept our conditions because I will specifically ask him for concessions he won't be willing to make, but that's not the point here. I want his allies to notice how little he values them. That's bound to shake their loyalty a bit," Cyreia smiled softly. War wasn't just about using the right formations and taking advantage of the terrain; no, there were things more subtle than that, and she enjoyed those much more. It was more fun to think about that instead of-- well, how to kill more people. "You know, I was actually thinking of a new strategy before I left. Since the people of Werough are so religious, we could... orchestrate some 'miracle' to convince them that the gods favor lady Beleret, not her treacherous brother. What do you think? Any ideas?" Remin had, after all, been born in Athea; surely she'd understand more about the nuances of its culture than Cyreia did.

 

[Conifer]

Remin thinks for a moment, puzzling over what they might do to convince the people of Lady Beleret's validity. Honestly, she had little care if her claims to visions were true or not, not when she wasn't the one who dragged Remin from her bed and threw her to the rats, or even the one who started this whole mess, but through her own experiences with seers, Remin found little reason to doubt it. What stories she'd heard of the woman seemed believable, even if she hadn't heard too many. "Wellan seemed to disbelieve her abilities," She says, eventually. "And thus his followers likely do too. We may be able to do something with that. Prove it in some way, even if it's only truly a farce." How funny that idea was, to fake something to prove it was real, "But it would have to be something large. Something undeniable." Which made the whole faking part of it much more tricky. Yes, they could trick a few dozen people, and word might spread eventually, but they didn't have eventually to play with anymore, if they ever did. They needed something far larger than that, something unlikely to be caused by other means, but something equally possible for them to manage. "...Do you know how many magic users are among the troops? Perhaps we could manage to trigger some weather event." She'd heard of it done, even if she hadn't seen it; in the years when Athea found itself much more devoted to offence than defence, there were stories of lightning storms being called down upon enemy troops, of impossibly-thick clouds blotting out the sun so well that it was as good as night. Could they manage that again, however briefly?

It felt so strange, so detatched, to talk strategy like this. She felt as if this horse carried three; Cyeria, Remin, and her, distinctly different than the woman who sat behind Cyeria and to who everything had happened to. Perhaps this was a good thing. She had no time to not be alright. They'd wasted enough with all of this rescue - any moment wasted to her emotions now was one that had no purpose besides being a potential endangerment to them and this battle and these people, and pushing the thoughts of the rats and the death and-- and all of it, it was easier, it was better - there was no need to think of any of that. It was gone. It was passed. It was over, and so it no longer mattered. They could talk strategy and winning this scrap of a war because the other things didn't matter right now. The present was the worry, not the past.

 

[Aerynth]

"That's a great idea," Cyreia turned around and smiled at Remin, though just briefly; she had to pay attention to where they were going. They had entered one of the populated areas just a few minutes before, so they had to be more conscious of their surroundings. Causing havoc among the people they had to share the road with would not have made any of this better. "I don't know the exact numbers, but I do know that we have enough magic users to not need siege engines and catapults... which, by the way, is still utterly mindblowing to me." Privately, Cyreia thought that they still should have gottem; unlike tools, people got tired, and it felt strange not to have an alternative to them. Even so, she had to admit it was impressive. Impressive and also convenient in some very specific ways. Not having to worry about transporting all those giant machines? That was a great perk. Perhaps later, when she had more time to think about this, Cyreia would ponder over how to combine the Eupriunian and Athean way; how to put them together and create a functioning union, something greater than the sum of its parts. Wasn't that part of the reason their marriage worked so well? Remin certainly had made her a better person by introducing her to new thoughts, new concepts.

"Perhaps we should stop here for a while," Cyreia said to Remin. "We could exchange our horses for animals that aren't tired, and-- well, buy you some clothes. Once it gets dark, it'll be pretty cold. It also wouldn't hurt to eat something warm and get that leg of yours looked at. What do you think?" she asked softly. It was unlikely that Wellan's lackeys would look for them here, in this small and forgotten village; if they found their tracks, they were likely to ride past it, thinking they were too desperate to escape to waste their time in some local pub. Perhaps they should take advantage of that considering how tired their own men were. Hell, she was tired, too. The exhaustion had been easy to ignore when it had felt like the blood in her veins had been replaced by pure adrenaline, but now? Now its weight slowly returned and threatened to crush her. Remin, too, would likely benefit from enjoying a glass of wine in a warm, hospitable tavern where nobody tried to torture her or kill her. (God, did that sound terrible. The bar had never been lower.) Still, Cyreia didn't want to decide that on her own. Even if Remin handled all of this remarkably well, she must have been terribly shaken. Perhaps she was just... trying to be strong until they got back to the camp and if that was the case, prolonging the journey would only hurt her further. No, she had to set the pace here.

 

[Conifer]

The idea of stopping was one that drew Remin back to panic for a moment. They couldn't. They had to get further from here. They had to get as far from that hellpit as they could; they might lose any head-start on the escape that they gained by taking time to rest. But Cyeria had a point. The animals were tired. Cyeria still featured a large sword wound to her shoulder, even if she brushed it off. She wasn't wearing clothing, and she was still covered in grime. Taking time here would only improve their chances to make it the rest of the way, likely, and there was at least the benefit that if anyone were to recognize her out here, they certainly wouldn't recognize her like this, looking more a mess than any form of noble. The recognizable bits of nobility were rarely their faces, anyways; it was the way they dressed and carried themselves, and here, well-downtrodden and filthy and stinking and dressed in a scrap of robe, she looked no more important than the most destitute of farmers - or, even less important than, in that specific case.

"...Whatever you think is best." She agrees, deferring to Cyeria's better judgement of the situation. That was easier. This was her wife's domain; she could make suggestions all she wanted, but honestly, it was so much easier to just follow along at the moment. Clothes, however, and new horses, were probably necessities. "If we're stopping, though, I wouldn't mind finding somewhere to bathe." She'd welcome even a basin of freezing water at this point. It wasn't ideal, but it would be better than nothing and perhaps all they could find in this tiny wayward place. As long as her fingers could stop feeling coated in waxy, morbid grease, she'd be happy. "And we should have your shoulder tended to as well."

 

[Aerynth]

The shadow of panic on her face didn't escape Cyreia, and it drew a dagger through her heart. Of course, it was normal for her to react like that; in fact, it would have been more alarming if she bore what had happened to her with complete nonchalance. Not reacting in any way would likely have been indicative of an even worse wound, of a suppressed trauma, and it was harder to come back from that. Still, it served as a stark reminder of her failure. Cyreia should have been there to shield her from these things, which she... very much hadn't done. Was her excuse for leaving justified? Yes, but that didn't change anything. For all intents and purposes, she just hadn't been able to protect her wife. Dwelling on it made no sense, though; regret couldn't change the past, no matter how much she wished for it, and it would be much wiser to look toward the future instead. To make sure that she wouldn't fail again. Wasn't that the best kind of atonement?

"I'm sure that you'll be able to take a bath in a local inn," Cyreia nodded. "We'll stop for a while, then." Once they did so, she gathered her men and gave them their tasks. Hawthorne and three other were to get them new horses while Tannis was sent for Remin's new clothes. Under normal circumstances, Cyreia imagined that her wife would have wanted to choose her robes herself, but her presence didn't seem necessary now. It was unlikely for the local tailor to have anything that was up to her standards, and so she likely wouldn't keep it. Besides, the two of them had better things to do, such as finding a healer.

Fortunately, the healer turned out to be a tight-lipped old woman who didn't care in the slightest how they had received those suspicious-looking injuries. To her, they were merely patients. She just regarded Remin with a quiet 'hmpf', forced her to drink a concoction so terrible it would make Oren green with envy and sent her on her merry way. Cyreia's shoulder got a similar treatment, except that instead of suspicous drinks, she put some strange ointment on it. The wound immediately felt ten times more itchy, which only told Cyreia that it worked. "I swear that all of healers secretly enjoy human suffering," she told to Remin as they exited her hut. "If they didn't, they would not have chosen this profession."

With that out of the way, they could finally go visit the tavern. When the two of them entered, their men had already been occupying one of the tables and drinking beer. The irresponsibility of that probably should have irked her, but honestly? They deserved it. It didn't happen every day that you broke into an enemy's fortress to save your queen. In that context, punishing them for holding this small celebration seemed downright callous. Let them have it, she decided.

Tannis then handed Remin a small package - her new clothes - and then they headed directly into the washroom. "I'm going to join you since I could use a bath, too." Technically, Cyreia didn't need to be there, but-- she just wanted a moment of privacy with her wife, alright? It felt like they hadn't had one in ages. Wars, kidnappings and various other issues made it rather difficult.

When the door closed behind them and they were greeted with steam, some of the tension fell off her shoulders. Not all of it, of course, but a considerable amount. They didn't know this place, of course, but all the washrooms looked the same, more or less, and this one reminded her of happier times. Of Hadsberry, of the night after the training. Why did so many things seemed to happen im washrooms? It was a funny pattern, really. "Do you want me to help you with something?" Cyreia asked as she took off her own clothes. "Or... talk about what happened? You don't have to, of course, but-- in my experience, it can be freeing. It always helped me at the very least."

 

[Conifer]

The concoction the healer had handed her tasted utterly vile, but Remin drank it down without complaint or, honestly, much change to her expression. It was bitter and too-thick and left a strange film on her mouth that clung well after she'd washed it down with a sip or two of water, but it wasn't the worst thing she'd faced today. This, at least, didn't smell of human rot. It also had the benefit of reducing the hot pulsing from the ratbite down to something more forgettable, and the sludgy continuous bleeding that it had started stopped by the time that Cyeria had gone through her own gauntlet of improved health.

She lingered right next to Cyeria as they wandered back towards the inn, no longer limping with the effort of moving, and was quiet besides a quick 'thank you,' to both the healer and to Tannis when they'd completed their services rendered. Where Cyeria found relief at the prospect of a private moment along, Remin found herself filled with dread. The washroom was warm, though, and the promise of scraping the filth from her body brought with it enough peace to make the whole thing manageable. It was too small, though, and while the vessel of oil that hung from the ceiling was burning away contentedly, lighting up the space more than well enough for use, she had to keep herself from looking into the more shadowy corners. Nothing lingered there; the room was remarkably spotless, but ghosts of rats had filled her eyes and she couldn't help but see them there. Remin focused on her breathing, keeping it steady enough to not raise suspicion. She was fine. She'd clean herself, and re-dress, and then they'd continue on their journey.

"I can handle myself." Remin says, perhaps a bit too hastily and firmly to make anyone really believe what she was trying to convince herself of. She doesn't look at Cyeria, though, as if that will keep the woman from seeing suspicion there. Remin drops away the tattered cloak and then makes quick work of removing her stained underthings, dropping them to the floor to be forgotten as well, before turning to the large basin of water that sat in the center of the room. This washroom was not as cobbled together as Hadsberry had been, and for that, she's grateful. It's not their baths in the castle, with proper tubs to linger in as much as you'd like, with pipes to draw water to the tubs and heat it with effort only for the old enchantments sunk into the metal, but the large basin here seems to be equally magicked to stay at a pleasantly steaming temperature. She begins scrubbing at her skin with a water-soaked cloth immediately, starting on her hands and wrists with a quickness and determinedness that comes with scouring dirt from tile. She's been caked in this filth for long enough; she needs it off, she needs it off now, and she needs it so gone that it's as if it had never been there. Among the rest of the disgusting mess, there's blood under her fingernails and in the crevices of fingers, dried and flaking by now, and she feels sick to be looking at it.

 

[Aerynth]

The way Remin rebuked her? That only confirmed her fears. If she was alright, her wife would have never talked to her like that. She never would have pretended not to see her, either, and made her feel so unwanted in the process. Still, this wasn't really about her. It was about Remin, the aftershocks of what she had experienced in Wellan's dungeon and having no idea how to deal with that, not about... about Cyreia's hurt feelings. She wasn't going to bring the attention to herself. No, that would have been horribly selfish.

"I know you can," she said quietly, and it was true. Remin may not have had the same kind of strength Cyreia possessed, but she was still one of the strongest people she knew. "But that doesn't mean that you have to, you know? I'm always here for you." What exactly did that entail, though? Well, definitely not interrogating her. That much is certain. Cyreia wouldn't deny that she was... morbidly curious about the details. That had always been her curse; wanting to know things, no matter how unpleasant they were. (Sometimes she seemed to be especially drawn towards the ugly aspects, towards the darkness, and Cyreia had to wonder what drove her to seek it out. A desire to understand? Wanting to be prepared or anything? Or maybe it was the fact she had been shaped by blood and fire and was just trying to return home? It was probably better not to know, really.) Either way, Remin's story wasn't hers to claim, so she wouldn't demand to hear it. There was one thing Cyreia resented about the situation, though; the invisible barrier Remin had erected around herself. Her wife had done it for her protection, she was sure of that, but isolation had never helped anyone. It only served to erode one's sanity, not to preserve it. How to break it gently, though?

Cyreia sighed and stepped into the water; for a while, she was silent, seemingly focusing on cleaning herself. While she wasn't as dirty as Remin, she was drenched in sweat and blood, too, and getting rid of that felt heavenly. Too bad that nothing else about the situation felt good. This... this awkwardness almost reminded her of their first night together, except it was somehow worse. Perhaps because they had been strangers back then? Now they were very much not that, but it seemed like they were and that hurt more. Cyreia had learned a lot of things in their relationship, though, the most important of them being that a honest conversation could solve almost anything. Perhaps that was what they needed now, not this strange silence. "Remin?" she asked hesitantly. "I... uh, well. I'm sorry for not knowing how to handle this, and I'm sorry if I'm making it even worse for you. I just... genuinely have no idea, so you'll have to help me here. Do you-- do you want me to joke around and act like nothing happened? Because I can do that. I can do anything you want, my love."

 

[Conifer]

Remin kept her attention focused on scrubbing herself clean, even as Cyeria continued to talk. Her hands and wrists and arms were turning irritated pink as she worked at them, and they were cleaner, now, but would any of her really manage to be clean after all of that? She could scrub for days, and there would still be somewhere she missed, she was sure. The filth clung to her more than skin-deep; it had sunk beneath her skin like some sort of morbid infection, and she just needed to get it out as much as she could. The water left streaks of cleaner skin where it ran down her elbows, until those were hastily and roughly scrubbed away too.
"I don't-" Her voice shook and broke, shaken and rattled as she was. It took a second pass at it, a moment and more scrubbing later, for her to get through it with any degree of success. "I don't know what I want, Cyeria." While she managed to say everything she intended to with this second attempt, it only held together slightly better than her first try. Joking around and acting like nothing happened felt just as uncomfortable as talking about any of it, but in a way that at least let her ignore everything that had happened. Would that be preferable? Gods, she didn't know. Half of her wanted Cyeria to demand that she tell her what had happened, to stop being so delicate and apologetic about the whole thing and just make her face it. Though that, too, she had no idea how preferable that would be. Hot tears stung at her eyes, and she wiped them away quickly. "I don't want anything." That was a lie, but it was so hard to know how much of one, or what she might say that would be the truth.

 

[Aerynth]

How was it even possible, to be standing so close to someone and yet feel so far from that person? It didn't seem that anything she said, anything she did, could help her reach Remin. Even if she was physically there, a part of her seemed to be stuck in the cell. It was to be expected, of course, though that didn't make it any less painful. Cyreia stared at her for a few moments, unsure of what to say. Remin was obviously-- well, probably not lying, but certainly not telling the truth. Surely there had to be something she could do? Not to fix the situation since nothing aside from time could do that, but perhaps lessening the impact wasn't too much to hope for. If Remin couldn't lean on her, what was even the point? What was the point of her loving her, of her being there with her?

Led more by instinct than reason, Cyreia hugged Remin. Not tightly, though; if she resented the touch, she could easily free herself of it. Trapping her was the exact opposite of her goal here. "It's fine not to know," she said. "There's no rush. You can figure it out later or-- or not at all. I'll still be here for you." Was that enough, though? Remin was lost and confused and sad, and perhaps asking her what to do had placed an additional burden on her shoulders. No, Cyreia had to come up with something herself. She still wouldn't force it on Remin, but she'd-- she'd offer her more options. That had to be better than asking her to provide the solution on her own, right? Now she just had to think of something she could do; something that wasn't just standing around uselessly. ('Nothing,' said the mean voice in her head, 'you can do nothing but watch her drift away', and Cyreia ignored it because it wasn't true. She couldn't accept it being true.)

"Maybe, if you'd like, we could compare our experiences," she suggested after a few moments of silence. "I spent some time in captivity as well. It wasn't a dungeon, though; it was... an enemy camp, basically, and I ended up there after a botched mission. I was already famous by that point, so they decided to try and exchange me for other prisoners rather than kill me outright. I imagine it was very different from what happened to you, but-- maybe hearing my story could make it a bit easier for you?" The best way to deal with hardship was to share it. Few people, however, wanted to share their pain with someone who would watch them with pity instead of compassion. Perhaps telling her of this particular time in her life would put them on an equal level, more or less. It would be the difference between 'oh, poor you' and 'I can relate'. For Cyreia, that difference would have been crucial, but would it also help Remin?

 

[Conifer]

She sank into the hug as immediately as it was provided, leaning back against her wife and allowing herself to be held in the way she'd dreamed of nearly every minute of that damned and terrible cell. This is what she had been wanting to return to, and this is where she was. Her hands stilled in their scrubbing for a moment before continuing again - they still passed over her skin with repetition, but only where she could reach without breaking out of the arms wrapped around her. There was too much blood on her hands, though more metaphorically than not anymore, for her to even consider stopping trying to rid herself of it.
Remin wiped once more at her eyes, trying to out-stubborn the tears that threatened to fall, but after that she simply gave up. The comfort that Cyeria provided was what broke the dam, and what did it even matter if she cried? She wouldn't fault anyone in her same place for doing it, so why should she be find disappointment in herself for it? There was no one to see her here besides Cyeria, and Cyeria had seen her in worse of states over far less. But-- But Cyeria had likely been in far worse, and while Remin knew that she'd not judge her for her emotions, she couldn't shake that she would be justified in it. This had been Cyeria's life, and Remin was unable to handle even this tiny scrap of it (though it certainly didn't feel tiny, didn't feel like a scrap.)

Cyeria's suggestion only made that feeling increase tenfold. Of course she'd had a similar experience. She'd probably had dozens, likely worse ones than what Remin had faced. But-- but she didn't speak as if she was bringing it up to point out the unimportance of Remin's own experiences. She could be, she would be justified in it, but she wasn't. Honestly, Remin had little idea of whether or not that would help, but the idea of just listening, without having to say anything herself, and without having to pretend that none of this had happened, struck a chord with her, and so instead of doing the easier thing and rejecting the offer outright, she gave Cyeria the tiniest scrap of a nod - tentative permission, escaped from the binds of her reluctance.

 

[Aerynth]

Remin didn't push her away, which was honestly more than she had expected. If nothing else, it was a start; a hint that things would settle among them eventually as they always somehow had. Probably not now and maybe not even in a long while, but it would happen, as surely as spring followed after winter. And Cyreia? Cyreia was nothing if not patient. She didn't need immediate results; she just needed a promise that everything would eventually fall into place, and Remin had given her just that. Asking for more would have been both naive and staggeringly selfish. No, her wife would get as much time as she needed. It didn't even matter that she cried. Her heart broke for her, obviously, but-- tears, too, could have a healing effect. Expressing those emotions somehow, no matter how uncomfortably, was way better than bottling them in. Hadn't Remin taught her that?

"Alright," she smiled softly and stroked her hair. "I would like to preface the story by saying it was my fault. Unambiguously so. I was... young and foolish. Not that I'm not young and foolish now, but hopefully not to the extent of my past self. Anyway, I concocted a plan, failed to account for all the factors and ended up captured." Once, recounting those events would have been terrifying, but now, with many years between her and the incident? Cyreia felt detached, almost as if she was talking about the plight of someone else. Her tone reflected it, too; it sounded controlled, practically nonchalant. "We were actually fighting to protect an ally's interests. Their country was being invaded, so the enemy didn't really have any fortresses to jail me in. And their brilliant solution to that? They dug a pit in their camp, broke my legs and threw me in there. Suffice to say, it did cure me of any thoughts of escape," Cyreia chuckled. Why was it that her own suffering always seemed funny in retrospect? Could it be that she was just trying to regain some sort of control when there had been none, to create her own narrative? Possibly. It would make more sense than most other explanations. "It... wasn't the best time of my life, but now that I think of it, I don't remember that much. I do remember how hot it was because the sun shone directly on me and-- well, I couldn't exactly take off my clothes. I also remember being thirsty all the time. The physical aspects of it weren't the worst thing about it, though," Cyreia admitted, and her voice grew softer. "What I hated the most was the boredom. Boredom and isolation. Nobody would speak to me, not even the people who brought me food, and I think it got into my head. I talked to myself a lot. I sang. I think I even invented an imaginary friend to talk to at some point. I just... hated, hated silence." And frankly? She still did. All too often, silence prompted her thoughts to run to unpleasant topics. Silence and doing nothing, both of which she had enjoyed in abundance while in captivity.

 

[Conifer]

Well, if Remin had any doubts that what she'd went through could have been worse, they were wiped quite cleanly away now. The only true injury that she'd faced was the ratbite, which was feeling more and more of a simple annoyance by the moment, and she hadn't been stuck there for days; just hours. That so clearly wasn't the point of Cyeria's story, but she couldn't shake it. Gods, why couldn't she just move past this? Clean, dress, and move on. It was over. It wasn't going to happen again. It hadn't been so bad, not really; yes, in the moment, it was horrifying, but now it all seemed like some story told for cheap scares around a campfire, hardly real at all. She'd known Cyeria was coming to save her nearly the whole time. There was no point in lingering here. Maybe she was simply tired, simply still too hungry, and the combination of those was making this all more difficult than it had to be. Maybe she'd feel better after she rested. Gods, she hoped that was true, because she wasn't an asset like this, all caught up in her head, and they needed assets right now, not useless queens who they already had to take so much time to rescue because she can only fend for herself when she gets lucky--

Remin inhales sharply, shakily, and then exhales more intentionally. She scrambles, though it's sluggish and slow and if through honey, for something to say; silence hangs like the steam between them as she seeks for anything. "That sounds...horrible." She eventually says, softly, and that's not enough. "I'm sorry you went through that." And now she sounds like she's spewing hollow words to someone who she knows little of, and she hates it. Why can't she just all of this better? Cyeria's the dearest person to her, and all she can manage is impersonal platitudes like she's apologizing to some farmer for their escaped chickens, and not like she's truly feeling anything about this, when she is, but it's all the wrong things to be feeling. Gods. The heat of the room, the size of it, the shadows that sneak into the corners, she feels like all of them are choking her.

 

[Aerynth]

Somehow, it felt like she managed to make things even worse. What exactly had gone wrong? Cyreia didn't know, but instead of the story bringing them closer, Remin seemed to be getting further and further away from her. Why? What had she done wrong? Had Remin interpreted this as... her fishing for pity? Because it very much hadn't been about that (even if it wouldn't be a strange assumption to make, she now realized. God, why did she have to be so clumsy when it came to things like this? Outwitting an enemy commander usually wasn't problem, but talking to her own wife? An insurmountable issue, apparently. What a joke her life was.) "I... thank you, but that's not why I told you," Cyreia said gently and caressed her shoulder. With Remin in such obvious distress, doing more than that felt inappropriate now. "I think I failed to get my point across, which I'm sure comes off as no surprise to you at this point. I'll try again." And if she failed in that, too? Then she'd simply try again, again, and again, as many times as the situation required of her, because while Cyreia may not have been eloquent, she definitely was stubborn. Stubborn enough not to give up on Remin.

"I... well. I suppose I just wanted you to know that I'm speaking from experience, not just based on my assumptions, when I say this: It'll be fine. Eventually, this will be just a terrible memory. But, at the same time? It's fine that it isn't fine now, so to speak." She... wasn't actually making a lot of sense, was she? It seemed perfectly logical in her head, but the words that came out sounded all wrong. The true meaning slipped beneath them, evasive like fish. "When they bought my freedom, I also wasn't myself," she decided to approach this from a different angle. With additional context, perhaps Remin would understand. "Probably for a long, long time. I don't really remember much from that period. What I do know, however, was that it started getting better once I acknowledged that it was fine to feel like that. That it wasn't shameful. It is what it is, you can't do much about it, and I won't judge you for going through it." Was that enough to convey the general gist of her idea? God, Cyreia certainly hoped so.

 

[Conifer]

Is she that obvious that she's handling this poorly? ...Well. Yes. That doesn't come as much surprise, even if she wishes it did. She's handling this awfully, and that's likely clear to everyone who looks at her. Nothing she's doing is rooted in any sense of pride, or honor, or learning; it's animal instinct. Gods, she wishes that it came from learning - but what a class that would have been. 'Someday, you may be kidnapped and thrown to rats and dead things. Here's what to do when you are.' Hilarious. Twistedly so, but hilarious. What might have been taught? How to kill rats? How to root your hands through guts and gore and suppress the disgust with it? Torch management? What a concept. Should they teach these lessons to whatever potential children they might have? (Yes. Not so specifically, but yes. They should and they would - life held to many dangers to allow them to go in fully unprepared for something like this. But that was for years and years from now, if they both lived that long.)

"Thank you." Remin whispers as she twists in Cyeria's arms, burying her head against her wife's neck with her words, which...help. They do, as much as anything short of purging her memories might. And, with her tucked against Cyeria like this, there's little she can see. It's almost easier, when she can't view the room that threatens her with its existence, but it isn't easier, especially when Cyeria's sword hadn't joined them in this room, and she herself held no sword or dagger or shard of bone. The panic rises more sharply than she expects it to , and she has to look up and around before it overwhelms her. There's not rats in the corners, not dead and rotting things turning to vile goo under their feet, but she needs to see it to believe it, but even then it's only a temporary comfort. "Can we--" She falters, before plunging her damp cloth back into the hot water and beginning to clean herself again, a bit less frantically than before, though with the same rough determination to rid her skin of the mess on it. "...we should be travelling again soon, shouldn't we?" She asks, unsure of what answer she's hoping for. Part of her wants nothing more than to sink into a bed and just sleep, and here has beds, but the rest of her is stubborn about them needing to keep up the head-start they have on any pursuers.

 

[Aerynth]

Oh, how she would have loved to help her more than this, to shatter her fears somehow, but she couldn't. Nobody could. The images imprinted in her mind had to fade on their own, and no amount of reassurance and support would make it happen before its time. It was... a difficult concept to accept; her entire life had revolved around taking a control of seemingly uncontrollable situations, after all. 'You can't' or 'that's impossible,' had been challenges to overcome, not valid assessments of reality. Now, though? There was no enemy to slaughter, no strategy that would result in her simply shrugging the trauma off. The recovery process couldn't be circumvented, as as you couldn't force a flower to bloom before it was ready to do so. No, aceptance was the only thing Cyreia could resort to here. Did it make it any easier? No, very much not, but again-- this wasn't about her.

"There's no need to thank me," Cyreia murmured into her hair. Not how after how much Remin had done for her. What kind of person would she be if she hadn't offered her the same kind of understanding? If she hadn't shown her the same patience that had once been afforded to her? Not someone Cyreia wanted to be, that much was certain. "And you're right. There's not much point in lingering here. We should, at the very least, eat before we go, though." Traveling on empty stomach was never a good experience and eating a bowl of soup or two wouldn't slow them down significantly. Actually, they probably didn't need to rush. It was unlikely that their pursuers would manage to track them; they could have gone into any direction and Zivra didn't seem to have enough people to effectively cover them all. Still, it wasn't difficult to see why Remin felt otherwise. Paranoia rarely responded to reason. Should Cyreia encourage it, though? Surely Remin was tired, and sleeping in a warm bed could do wonders for her. When you were going through a difficult time, you rarely realized just how much your suffering was connected to physical needs that hadn't been met. You just sort of... blocked it out. Cyreia supposed it was a survival mechanism, something meant to assist you so that you didn't need to concern yourself with details such as eating or sleeping when you needed to be doing other things, but-- sometimes it failed to turn off. Maybe she should order that they stay overnight? No, that didn't seem right, either. All choice had been stripped from her in captivity and Cyreia didn't want to emulate that. It... had to be a balancing act. Providing suggestions, but not overwhelming her.

"Maybe we could also get some sleep?" she asked her casually while putting on their clothes. "Not just our horses are tired; our men are, too. Perhaps it would be wise to let them rest." And you as well. "If it makes you feel better, we could bribe the innkeeper into not talking about us. We'd sleep in the same bed, too, with my sword on the night table." The implication of that was clear; 'I'll protect you.' "If you don't feel safe, though, we absolutely can continue."

 

[Conifer]

The clothing was nothing perfect, and honestly, Remin was glad. Tannis had bought what he'd seen that might fit her, without much care for fashion or taste. It was simple and modest as much of the fashion in this area seemed to be; It would feel so strange to dress in finery right now, especially here surrounded by soldiers and fighting. The way it hung slightly too large on her, not-quite swallowing her up but certainly encapsulating her, was a comfort. It wasn't like the dress they'd forced her into earlier, other than the common thread of being made in a similar place by similar people, but it felt unlike anything she should choose to wear herself, and somehow - however silly it might be, it helped. Not quite her, but not quite not, much like how she felt right now. Remin reached to do up the buttons along the back herself.

She considered, for a moment, the courses of action they could take. Cyeria seemed confident enough about their safety, and...she was right. It wasn't just herself that they were considering. These people had traveled for hours to come rescue her, and had traveled for hours again after that to get her to safety. If the fact that they were already reaching for levity and alcohol were any indication, they'd appreciate the chance to rest. And if they were rested, surely they could all travel a little faster and easier when they woke? "...Alright." She agrees, nodding slightly. "We may as well stay, then, if you think it'd be safe enough."

The men certainly weren't upset by this news; they weren't deep in their drinks yet (Remin appreciated their discretion,) but they were more than eager to be, and equally eager to crash into beds when they were well and drunk and fed. The innkeeper was more than happy to see the gold that was offered in return for dinner for all of them, and for rooms to rest in, as well as a promise to say the inn was full-up for now and not to mention anything specific about those who was staying here.

 

[Aerynth]

The food was... satisfactory. Much like the clothes people from Werough wore, it lacked any real flair, but it wasn't especially terrible. Cyreia suspected that her being Eupriunian might have played a role in her perceiving it like that; her countrymen used spices and used them often, and that was perhaps the reason everything felt sort of plain in comparison. Still, she wouldn't complain about it. How did that old proverb go? 'Hunger makes for the best meals'?Soldiers repeated it often when confronted with the terror of the military rations, and Cyreia found it true even now. The soup was warm and filling and anything beyond that didn't really matter.

Their men continued to drink long after they finished their meal; they invited Cyreia and Remin to join them, too, but she declined. They had succeeded, true, though... what had happened didn't seem like grounds for celebration. Remin's fright was too real for that, which added a bitter flavor to their victory. (Perhaps, from now on, everything would taste at least a little bit bitter. How much of their life would be tainted by the experience? Cyreia didn't really want to think about it. Thinking just made everything more difficult at times, it seemed.) After reminding the guards not to drink too much - they would have to leave early in the morning, after all - Cyreia headed off to bed. All the climbing, fighting and riding had exhausted her, no matter how much she wanted to deny it. Was she losing her touch? Probably. She couldn't not, really. Soldiers only stayed in shape thanks to training and Cyreia couldn't waste her precious time with practicing swings. Her body still remembered how to do things, of course, except-- her reaction time was just a little bit shorter, her blows a little more sloppy, and that had resulted in her receiving that wound. Maybe she should practice more, practice to be able to protect Remin more adequately, but when? God, her days already felt too short.

The bed was small, likely not meant for two people, though that wasn't a problem; Cyreia didn't plan to stay away from Remin anyway. Not now and not for the rest of her life. She wrapped her arms around her, tightly and lovingly, and then they could finally drift off to sleep... Except that the intimacy and the cover of darkness made her want to speak. Made her want to be a little more honest, a little more fragile. It was probably a terrible idea, but at this point, she felt too tired to weigh all the pros and cons. "I was so afraid," she whispered. "After this, you're never leaving my side again. I'm taking you with me everywhere."