Derdriu - Noon - Cool
Devon Margrave
“Finally."
After half a year, they'd finally made it to Derdriu.
Devon couldn't say he felt much relief at this, but it was so much better than the prison camp it was almost ridiculous to find fault with anything, even if the tidings they were here to deliver were about the worst he could possibly think of. And at least—at least he had Sylvi, still.
It had been uncertain, for a while there. He'd almost been taken from the camp and killed outright because his skin marked him as being from Duscur or Sreng, both presently such hated enemies of Faerghus that it didn't really matter which. He'd had to rely on everything he'd learned from Mercer and culture exchange afternoons at the Monastery to pass himself off as Almyran instead, and while that was hardly any better, they were the Alliance's problem and at least didn't require immediate elimination.
And so it had been months. Months of hard labor building fortifications, months of thin soup and hard ground and hoping against all hope that no one figured out that Sylvi was Sylvi, because her family had sided with Rodrigue and if she'd been taken away as a political hostage they might never have seen each other again. Months of observing, of planning an escape, of trying to ask himself what the Professor or Reynard or Mercer or Vridel would have done. Months of careful planning until finally they'd risked it during a prisoner transfer, their news delayed but their promise to Sorcha kept.
“You think... you think he'll see us?" He turned, running a hand through ratty, too long hair with too-thin fingers. He still had trouble, sometimes, believing that any of his noble friends would really care what he had to say now. He wondered, honestly, if Mercer would even recognize him, after nearly three whole years. Would he recognize Mercer, even?
Sylvi nodded her head. “I want to say that he will. Mercer is..." she paused, swallowing thickly. Her appearance had changed, too. Thinner than she used to be, and her skin wasn't as vibrant as it once was. She didn't say what she'd been forced to do, what labors they'd made her endure, but she didn't seem inclined to speak of them.
“He deserves to know what happened. And it's best that he hears it from us so he can see. See what Faerghus has become and..." she shook her head, her hair falling over her shoulders. “Mercer's not the type to forget his friends so easily. Even if he doesn't think we can be trusted, he'll at least see us. We... we have to try, Devon." She reached out a hand towards him, grasping his softly and giving it a light squeeze before dropping it to her side.
He had just enough time to squeeze back before she let go, and then he nodded slightly. “Okay," he said quietly, as firmly as he could. They had to try. They'd come this far, after all.
Guiding his horse along the path they'd once taken escorted by a party of knights, Devon figured this entrance couldn't be more different. Derdriu itself was not yet ravaged by war, but surely... surely they had to know it was coming. The pinched looks on some of the faces gave that away, as did the occasional baleful, untrusting glare. He was sure they looked a sight—scruffy, obviously foreign, clearly soldiers... and that was reason enough for distrust.
Devon did his best to ignore them, tracing the path towards the von Riegan estate from memory. It was the furthest thing from cheering and an honor guard, but that was the way their world was now.
He still wasn't brave enough to ask Sylvi if she was okay. He didn't know what she'd say, and he hated himself for fearing the answer so much. But if he didn't know, he could pretend they were both okay, that they'd both be okay, and that maybe having each other was enough. Even if he couldn't quite believe it, he could try with all his might, and for just a little while—
They arrived before the gate, and Devon dismounted first. The least he could do was speak to the guards so she didn't have to. “Hello," he said, a bit nervously but also just tired. “My name is Devon Margrave. This is Lady Sylvi Galatea. If you give our names to Lord Mercer, I believe he will be interested in speaking to us."
The guard looked hesitant for a moment before he nodded his head. He disappeared, perhaps, to tell Mercer they were here. Sylvi dismounted her horse after a moment and came to stand next to Devon, her eyes dull and not so bright. She looked as tired as he felt, and she let out a slow breath.
“We can do this, Devon. I just... I want you to know that, whatever happens. If Mercer decides we're his enemies and has us locked up, I want you to know..." she paused, glancing away from him for a moment as her shoulders heaved.
“I want you to know that I'm glad I met you. You're... you mean a lot to me. More than anything in the world that... I've decided that once this is all over, once we're free. I'm renouncing my claim to Galatea. I just... I want to spend whatever time I have left with you. I don't care about anything. I don't care about my title, my family. I just... I care about you. And I want to be with you." She spoke in such a low volume that it would have been hard to hear what she'd said if she weren't so close.
Before anything else could be said, though, the guard returned with someone who looked like Mercer. His hair was longer, falling just a little past his shoulders, and his eyes seemed a bit darker, more refined and a richer green than they used to be. He was slightly taller, too, perhaps an inch or two. His eyes landed on the both of them, though, and he swiftly descended the steps, pulling to an abrupt stop in front of them. Sylvi glanced up to meet Mercer's eyes, and he seemed to be studying them.
“Devon, Sylvi," he spoke, finally, exhaling a relieved sigh as he pulled the both of them into a hug. “You're both okay," he continued, sounding relieved if anything, but Sylvi shuddered under his embrace, pulling away slowly as he let them both go. “It's good to see you," he stated, but the smile on his face didn't quite reach his eyes. There were dark bags beneath his eyes as if he hadn't slept in a few days.
Admittedly, Devon was still reeling from Sylvi's words, and her reaction frightened him. But it was a different kind of fear this time. The fear that if he didn't ask, didn't remind her how much he cared, she might—she might come to believe that he didn't. She might suffer more. And that was the last thing he wanted.
He managed to return Mercer's hug, barely. He was taller himself now too, he supposed, though he'd hardly noticed it until realizing he was actually taller than Sylvi. He'd never used to be.
“Mercer," he murmured quietly. “Can we—can we come in? There's news... and I don't think we should give any of it in the open."
Mercer nodded as he motioned for them to follow him. He lead them through into the estate, crossing the foyer into a room tucked into the back corner. It was large enough to be a study, or a place similar to where a large meeting could be held, but there was only a single desk, a few chairs, and a lot of shelves with books on them.
“Please, sit. I'll have someone bring some drinks in, if you'd like," he stated, pulling two chairs up to the desk before taking a seat on the other side. “What news do you have to tell me?" he asked, arching a tired brow in his direction. The room was filled with all kinds of papers, some of them like official documents of sorts. They were strewn all over the desk in no particular order, though. Sylvi swallowed thickly as she glanced at Mercer.
“It's... about Sorcha." Sylvi's voice wavered, though, and she glanced towards Devon.
He didn't want to say it any more than she did, but he would. At the very least, Mercer deserved to know—the whole story. “About six months ago," he started softly, “Faerghus was in real trouble. You might have heard that the regent, backed by the majority of the nobility, seized power in a soft coup. The Princess and the rest of us grouped up with Duke Fraldarius, and a few of his allies like Duke Gautier and Count Galatea." He flicked a glance at Sylvi, but soldiered on.
“The problem is, not long after, the Imperial army attacked again, about the same time they did here, I'd guess. Faerghus was fighting a war from the inside and a war from the outside, and... and Sorcha knew it would break the country sooner rather than later if she didn't do something. So... when Lady Cornelia wrote from the capital, promising to help us sneak in to see King Rufus, we knew we had to do it. The group was just the four of us: us two, the Princess, and Senka. When we got there... it was an ambush. Soldiers appeared, as if from thin air or nowhere at all."
He swallowed, curling his hands into fists on his legs. “We tried, Mercer. We really did. But there were so many of them. Sorcha tried to get us all to retreat, but Senka wouldn't... and when Sylvi and I tried to draw them away, we were captured and sent to a prison camp. Senka... Senka died on the field, and they captured Sorcha. Someone killed the King, and they blamed her for it." He shook his head slowly, meeting Mercer's eyes. He tried to deliver the next part levelly, but there was no helping the crack in his voice.
“They executed her on the first day of Blue Sea Moon, last year."
For a moment, Mercer didn't react. He just sat there, staring at Devon with blank eyes. It wasn't until something shined behind his eyes that Devon could see the tears falling down Mercer's face. His face twisted into something like despair as he leaned his face into his hands, a desperate sob escaping him. Sylvi stood immediately and walked to his other side, laying a hand on his shoulder. His cries were loud, and they echoed in the room. There was no doubt that anyone inside the estate could hear Mercer, however; he reached up and wrapped his arms around her. She didn't resist, and merely held him to her as he cried.
“I'm sorry, Mercer," she spoke softly, rubbing his back in a comforting manner. She was trembling, though it was hard to tell if it was her own or if it was Mercer's cries as they continued to escape him. “I'm so sorry," she continued. If anything, his hold on her tightened, and she did not seem inclined to relinquish him any time soon.
Devon was neither too proud to join them nor so indifferent that he didn't want to, and so he did, folding his arms around both Sylvi and Mercer and resting his chin on her shoulder. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing else any of them could do. first the Professor, the strongest fighter Devon had ever known. Then Vridel, the Emperor of Adrestia, and then Senka, and then Princess Sorcha. He had no idea what had become of Thea or Reynard, or where Sofia and Deirdre were.
It felt like everything he'd come to rely on was falling apart. His friends were dying, hurting, all around him, and he couldn't do anything for them at all. He couldn't save anyone. Not even himself. Not even Sylvi, when he loved her so much it physically pained him sometimes. He couldn't do anything. Not one thing, for any of them.
And there, in Mercer's study, Devon made his fallen friends a vow: not one more.
No matter what he had to do, or who he had to become, not one more of them would die. Not while he was still alive.
He tightened his arms, and closed his eyes, and swore it would be true.
After half a year, they'd finally made it to Derdriu.
Devon couldn't say he felt much relief at this, but it was so much better than the prison camp it was almost ridiculous to find fault with anything, even if the tidings they were here to deliver were about the worst he could possibly think of. And at least—at least he had Sylvi, still.
It had been uncertain, for a while there. He'd almost been taken from the camp and killed outright because his skin marked him as being from Duscur or Sreng, both presently such hated enemies of Faerghus that it didn't really matter which. He'd had to rely on everything he'd learned from Mercer and culture exchange afternoons at the Monastery to pass himself off as Almyran instead, and while that was hardly any better, they were the Alliance's problem and at least didn't require immediate elimination.
And so it had been months. Months of hard labor building fortifications, months of thin soup and hard ground and hoping against all hope that no one figured out that Sylvi was Sylvi, because her family had sided with Rodrigue and if she'd been taken away as a political hostage they might never have seen each other again. Months of observing, of planning an escape, of trying to ask himself what the Professor or Reynard or Mercer or Vridel would have done. Months of careful planning until finally they'd risked it during a prisoner transfer, their news delayed but their promise to Sorcha kept.
“You think... you think he'll see us?" He turned, running a hand through ratty, too long hair with too-thin fingers. He still had trouble, sometimes, believing that any of his noble friends would really care what he had to say now. He wondered, honestly, if Mercer would even recognize him, after nearly three whole years. Would he recognize Mercer, even?
Sylvi nodded her head. “I want to say that he will. Mercer is..." she paused, swallowing thickly. Her appearance had changed, too. Thinner than she used to be, and her skin wasn't as vibrant as it once was. She didn't say what she'd been forced to do, what labors they'd made her endure, but she didn't seem inclined to speak of them.
“He deserves to know what happened. And it's best that he hears it from us so he can see. See what Faerghus has become and..." she shook her head, her hair falling over her shoulders. “Mercer's not the type to forget his friends so easily. Even if he doesn't think we can be trusted, he'll at least see us. We... we have to try, Devon." She reached out a hand towards him, grasping his softly and giving it a light squeeze before dropping it to her side.
He had just enough time to squeeze back before she let go, and then he nodded slightly. “Okay," he said quietly, as firmly as he could. They had to try. They'd come this far, after all.
Guiding his horse along the path they'd once taken escorted by a party of knights, Devon figured this entrance couldn't be more different. Derdriu itself was not yet ravaged by war, but surely... surely they had to know it was coming. The pinched looks on some of the faces gave that away, as did the occasional baleful, untrusting glare. He was sure they looked a sight—scruffy, obviously foreign, clearly soldiers... and that was reason enough for distrust.
Devon did his best to ignore them, tracing the path towards the von Riegan estate from memory. It was the furthest thing from cheering and an honor guard, but that was the way their world was now.
He still wasn't brave enough to ask Sylvi if she was okay. He didn't know what she'd say, and he hated himself for fearing the answer so much. But if he didn't know, he could pretend they were both okay, that they'd both be okay, and that maybe having each other was enough. Even if he couldn't quite believe it, he could try with all his might, and for just a little while—
They arrived before the gate, and Devon dismounted first. The least he could do was speak to the guards so she didn't have to. “Hello," he said, a bit nervously but also just tired. “My name is Devon Margrave. This is Lady Sylvi Galatea. If you give our names to Lord Mercer, I believe he will be interested in speaking to us."
The guard looked hesitant for a moment before he nodded his head. He disappeared, perhaps, to tell Mercer they were here. Sylvi dismounted her horse after a moment and came to stand next to Devon, her eyes dull and not so bright. She looked as tired as he felt, and she let out a slow breath.
“We can do this, Devon. I just... I want you to know that, whatever happens. If Mercer decides we're his enemies and has us locked up, I want you to know..." she paused, glancing away from him for a moment as her shoulders heaved.
“I want you to know that I'm glad I met you. You're... you mean a lot to me. More than anything in the world that... I've decided that once this is all over, once we're free. I'm renouncing my claim to Galatea. I just... I want to spend whatever time I have left with you. I don't care about anything. I don't care about my title, my family. I just... I care about you. And I want to be with you." She spoke in such a low volume that it would have been hard to hear what she'd said if she weren't so close.
Before anything else could be said, though, the guard returned with someone who looked like Mercer. His hair was longer, falling just a little past his shoulders, and his eyes seemed a bit darker, more refined and a richer green than they used to be. He was slightly taller, too, perhaps an inch or two. His eyes landed on the both of them, though, and he swiftly descended the steps, pulling to an abrupt stop in front of them. Sylvi glanced up to meet Mercer's eyes, and he seemed to be studying them.
“Devon, Sylvi," he spoke, finally, exhaling a relieved sigh as he pulled the both of them into a hug. “You're both okay," he continued, sounding relieved if anything, but Sylvi shuddered under his embrace, pulling away slowly as he let them both go. “It's good to see you," he stated, but the smile on his face didn't quite reach his eyes. There were dark bags beneath his eyes as if he hadn't slept in a few days.
Admittedly, Devon was still reeling from Sylvi's words, and her reaction frightened him. But it was a different kind of fear this time. The fear that if he didn't ask, didn't remind her how much he cared, she might—she might come to believe that he didn't. She might suffer more. And that was the last thing he wanted.
He managed to return Mercer's hug, barely. He was taller himself now too, he supposed, though he'd hardly noticed it until realizing he was actually taller than Sylvi. He'd never used to be.
“Mercer," he murmured quietly. “Can we—can we come in? There's news... and I don't think we should give any of it in the open."
Mercer nodded as he motioned for them to follow him. He lead them through into the estate, crossing the foyer into a room tucked into the back corner. It was large enough to be a study, or a place similar to where a large meeting could be held, but there was only a single desk, a few chairs, and a lot of shelves with books on them.
“Please, sit. I'll have someone bring some drinks in, if you'd like," he stated, pulling two chairs up to the desk before taking a seat on the other side. “What news do you have to tell me?" he asked, arching a tired brow in his direction. The room was filled with all kinds of papers, some of them like official documents of sorts. They were strewn all over the desk in no particular order, though. Sylvi swallowed thickly as she glanced at Mercer.
“It's... about Sorcha." Sylvi's voice wavered, though, and she glanced towards Devon.
He didn't want to say it any more than she did, but he would. At the very least, Mercer deserved to know—the whole story. “About six months ago," he started softly, “Faerghus was in real trouble. You might have heard that the regent, backed by the majority of the nobility, seized power in a soft coup. The Princess and the rest of us grouped up with Duke Fraldarius, and a few of his allies like Duke Gautier and Count Galatea." He flicked a glance at Sylvi, but soldiered on.
“The problem is, not long after, the Imperial army attacked again, about the same time they did here, I'd guess. Faerghus was fighting a war from the inside and a war from the outside, and... and Sorcha knew it would break the country sooner rather than later if she didn't do something. So... when Lady Cornelia wrote from the capital, promising to help us sneak in to see King Rufus, we knew we had to do it. The group was just the four of us: us two, the Princess, and Senka. When we got there... it was an ambush. Soldiers appeared, as if from thin air or nowhere at all."
He swallowed, curling his hands into fists on his legs. “We tried, Mercer. We really did. But there were so many of them. Sorcha tried to get us all to retreat, but Senka wouldn't... and when Sylvi and I tried to draw them away, we were captured and sent to a prison camp. Senka... Senka died on the field, and they captured Sorcha. Someone killed the King, and they blamed her for it." He shook his head slowly, meeting Mercer's eyes. He tried to deliver the next part levelly, but there was no helping the crack in his voice.
“They executed her on the first day of Blue Sea Moon, last year."
For a moment, Mercer didn't react. He just sat there, staring at Devon with blank eyes. It wasn't until something shined behind his eyes that Devon could see the tears falling down Mercer's face. His face twisted into something like despair as he leaned his face into his hands, a desperate sob escaping him. Sylvi stood immediately and walked to his other side, laying a hand on his shoulder. His cries were loud, and they echoed in the room. There was no doubt that anyone inside the estate could hear Mercer, however; he reached up and wrapped his arms around her. She didn't resist, and merely held him to her as he cried.
“I'm sorry, Mercer," she spoke softly, rubbing his back in a comforting manner. She was trembling, though it was hard to tell if it was her own or if it was Mercer's cries as they continued to escape him. “I'm so sorry," she continued. If anything, his hold on her tightened, and she did not seem inclined to relinquish him any time soon.
Devon was neither too proud to join them nor so indifferent that he didn't want to, and so he did, folding his arms around both Sylvi and Mercer and resting his chin on her shoulder. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing else any of them could do. first the Professor, the strongest fighter Devon had ever known. Then Vridel, the Emperor of Adrestia, and then Senka, and then Princess Sorcha. He had no idea what had become of Thea or Reynard, or where Sofia and Deirdre were.
It felt like everything he'd come to rely on was falling apart. His friends were dying, hurting, all around him, and he couldn't do anything for them at all. He couldn't save anyone. Not even himself. Not even Sylvi, when he loved her so much it physically pained him sometimes. He couldn't do anything. Not one thing, for any of them.
And there, in Mercer's study, Devon made his fallen friends a vow: not one more.
No matter what he had to do, or who he had to become, not one more of them would die. Not while he was still alive.
He tightened his arms, and closed his eyes, and swore it would be true.