Bridget was lying low in a field of thistle and bramble at the palace’s edge. The bright flickering light of the bonfires ahead was just visible above her. She had seen the fires as Luchar had led her by the arm down the switchbacks and through the overgrown field around the cluster of spires nestled in the center of the valley. The fires were at least eight feet tall, and there had been a dozen or more of them. Around each had been a crowd of shifting silhouettes, their shadows cast wildly outward. She could tell that they were dancers, but getting closer had not allowed her to make out any more detail. 

The closest bonfire was only thirty paces away now. She could hear wild whooping, laughter, and what sounded like chants, although she did not recognize any of the words. Beneath that was the rhythmic thunder of bells and drums. The beat was eerie, as if it was eternally increasing in tempo and intensity without ever reaching a crescendo. 

As they had crossed the field, Luchar had instructed her to crouch. The thistes, burrs, and thorns had grasped at her and coated her fraying tunic, but she had not been able to bring herself to care. She had merely allowed Luchar to pull her along, keeping silent and low as instructed. The Fion wanted an obedient dog to keep at her heel, and Bridget obliged, ignoring her own discomfort.  

As they drew closer, Luchar had ordered her to crouch further and then lie low. There had been figures standing between them and the bonfire–tall, bulky figures. As they grew closer, Bridget saw that the figures were clad in full plate. Each carried a glaive and a tower shield. 

Distantly, Bridget knew she should be worried. These warriors were heavily armed and armoured, and likely freshly rested. 

She looked down at her own tunic and badly sewn breeches. Only her arms and legs were armored. Her chest was protected only by threadbare cloth and burs. She hadn’t eaten a full meal in perhaps a day. She was not even a knight anymore. 

She laughed. 

“Hush,” Luchar hissed. She glared at Bridget, her hazel eyes glittering out from the matte rings of kohl around them. She was crouched less than a foot in front of her, peering out from the dense thistle around them observing the warriors ahead of them. “Silence, pup. We mustn’t alert them.”

Bridget felt the ironic mirth pass as quickly as it had come. She stared at the sky above her–the crescent moon and the sea of twinkling stars. 

Did she want to see Amaryllis again? Could she bear to endure the shame? Had The Princess’ father ordered her entire village razed to the ground? And Princess Amaryllis had lied to her, made her forget. She felt dizzy and hollow. The stars were spinning above her. Somehow the knowledge that Amaryllis had hurt her did not make her angry, she just felt more shameful and filthy. 

Her parents were dead, she realized. 

Bridget’s heart sank. The same drowning tide she had been fighting for the past hour threatened to submerge her again. But, no, she had been fighting that tide for longer than an hour. Was it days? Years? 

She had not intended to visit her parents again, but now she would never see them as long as she lived. 

The last thing she ever said to them was that they were cowards, and that she refused to die afraid in some little village. 

She wasn’t breathing. 

“It’s alright, pup,” whispered Luchar, running the figures of her bare left hand through the ex-knight’s thick locks. 

Bridget looked up at the hazel-eyed woman in surprise. She hadn’t noticed Luchar turn to stoop over her. That felt right, Luchar above her, stroking her head. 

“It will come in waves. Pain is like that. But you’ll be strong for me, won’t you?” Luchar’s sing-song voice was discernible, even in her low whisper. 

Bridget nodded. She wanted that. The ex-knight would be lying if she denied it. “I will try.” For a moment Bright fought the urge to push her head into the other woman’s hand. She paused. Why deny herself the comfort, she thought. She closed her eyes and pressed her head up into Luchar’s hand. 

The Fion giggled softly and moved her fingers down to stroke the ex-knight’s cheek. “That’s a good pup. See, I’m what you really need.” 

Bridget felt her pulse quicken. She opened her eyes to see Luchar smirking down at her, the Fion’s fingers running back into her hair. Heat collected low in her belly. She shivered as she felt the pads of Luchar’s fingers run along her scalp to the back of her head, and then, suddenly, Luchar pulled tight, jerking her head and forcing her to look up into the other woman’s hazel eyes. 

Bridget felt cold panic pour into her veins. She gasped, air filling her lungs again. 

“You’ll do better than try though,” she whispered, her smirk curling further and further. “You are so strong and beautiful. You have endured so much pain already. I’m so sorry you have to endure it a little longer, but you can do that for me, can’t you?” 

Bridget nodded. Feeling the pull of Luchar’s fingers on her scalp. Blood was rushing into her cheeks, driving the drowning tide back down. She was desperate to hear the other woman’s sing-song praise again. 

Luchar loosened her grip, and her smirk softened into a smile. “Good pup. Now we are going to sneak around those guards, as quietly as we can, move through the palace, and find The Princess.” 

Bridget was still floating on the praise, leaning into Luchar’s fingers as they gently stroked the back of her scalp. Eventually she noticed that Luchar was staring at her intently. The ex-knight gazed up, her eyes wide and empty. 

The Fion was searching Bridget’s face for something. “What we need to do when we find her will be difficult, but you’ll be strong for me.” Luchar’s intent gaze seemed to soften, satisfied with what she had found. “I know you will.” She smiled, placing the tip of her tongue in the center of her bottom lip, and trailed her finger down Briget’s jaw. “Stay close.” With that she turned and began to slink through the thistles and tall grass.

Bridget, still wondering at Luchar’s words, pulled her legs beneath her and began to follow Luchar. 

Luchar had sworn to duel her for Amaryllis’ life after they rescued The Princess. She found herself wondering whether she still wanted that. The alternative was Princess Amaryllis’ death at Luchar’s hand. She felt her stomach drop again. She could not lose someone else. 

As she awkwardly crept along at a low crouch, she attempted to contemplate being reunited with Princess Amaryllis. All that would come of their reunion was more berating. She flinched, and her stomach turned at the prospect. She tried to banish that anxious prospect by imagining The Princess running into her arms showering her in thanks for the gallant rescue. That image felt somehow more repellent and perverse. She did not want that after everything Amaryllis had done. 

She looked ahead of her at Luchar’s lithe form weaving easily through the dense brush. Luchar needed her. The hazel-eyed woman had even said she would never abandon her. Perhaps… out of the corner of her eye she spotted a flash of gold. Turning, she saw the guards, glaives and shields ready, approaching them. 

Bridget stood and drew. “Luchar! We’ve been spotted!” She shouted. 

“Pup!” Luchar hissed in frustration. She too turned, her eyes darting between Bridget and the slowly closing guards. “Damn, fine!” she hissed, drawing her sword and placing her left hand against the pockets of her bandolier. 

Bridget advanced quickly. Exiting the thick grass and thistle, she found sure footing and shifted into a longpoint guard, her sword held out ready to deflect a blow from the polearms. She glanced back to see Luchar still in the brush, pressing her hand to her chest. 

Bridget did not like that. She would have preferred to rush an opponent with a superior reach. If she could get inside the length of her opponent’s glaive, she could secure an advantage, but that was fool hardy. Even if she overcame one of the guards, their shieldmate would surely cut her down. Yet, standing here and waiting for the pair of guards to establish an advantageous distance to engage her was equally stupid. “Luchar, we must charge them!” she bellowed. 

Luchar laughed. “No! Hold a moment.” 

The guards were still approaching, breaking slightly so as to come at her from two sides. In the flickering firelight she could make out more of the figures now. Each was armored from head to toe in full plate. It was parade armor, by the look, covered in elaborate filigree and a deep gold. The figures’ weapons and shields were made of the same material. It would likely be heavier and less durable than her own plate, if not for the fact that half of her own armor was missing. 

They were almost upon her now. She had hoped they might overextend and part enough that she could rush one, but they had remained within striking distance of one another. Bridget’s heart was pounding. This was a losing battle. This is how a well-trained knight gets cut down, she realized. “Luchar!” she screamed, fear in her voice. 

From behind her, there was a low buzz and a loud series of crackles accompanied by a flash of blue-white light. “Do not panic, pup. They will not bother us long!” 

Luchar lunged forward at the right-most guard, holding out his blade for a thrust. 

The guard pivoted away from Bridget and swung at Luchar. The Fion ducked under the blow and swung with her left. Long tendrils snapped from her palm and whipped around the armored figure’s legs. 

Bridget turned to face the other guard, Luchar’s gleeful cackles echoing in her ears. She shifted and kicked herself forward into a full charge. 

The second guard widened their stance and readied their shield and polearm. When Bridget came within range, they swung low. 

Bridget leapt over the blade as it whistled under her feet. She smiled as she flew through the air at the armored figure. Seeing the guard shift their tower shield to meet her momentum, she shifted her blade into her left hand and readied her right, eyeing the guard’s glaive. The polearm had swept over the guard’s shield and far to their left. The figure was recovering from the missed sweep and had almost returned the weapon to the ready at their right.

Bridget’s smile widened. The guard’s recovery was swift and practiced, but she was faster.

The figure was already tilting their tower shield up to meet her, readying a painful buffet that would have sent her sprawling across the ground, when Bridget snatched the shaft of the warrior’s pole arm. The guard began to swing their shield outward, but it knocked against their own polearm. 

Everything collided in a cacophonous clatter of steel and bodies. Bridget felt as though half her bones had been ripped from her muscles, and her head ached at the impact, but she kept her grip on her opponent’s weapon. After colliding, Bridget and the guard had stumbled away, but Bridget had retained her grip on the polearm. She slid several feet in an arc behind the guard, pulling the weapon with her. 

The warrior yanked hard, trying to free their weapon from Bridget’s grip while turning to face her.

Bridget continued to smile. 

Using the glaive as a lever, she used her opponent’s strength against them and curved her own momentum back at the armored figure, slamming into their shoulder with her own. She swung her sword at the gap between the figure’s cuirass and pauldron. The blade bit deep between the plates of armor, she felt it bite into the figure’s armpit. The blade came screaming free as she swept it out. 

Her satisfied smile faltered, and her eyes went wide.

The blow wouldn’t have been lethal, but it should have been painful and bloody. Enough to force a quick yield from her opponent. Her sword, though, was clean, apart from a trickle of murky white froth, like the milk from a thistle or reed. Worse yet, her opponent had not flinched or stumbled. 

Across from her, she saw the other guard, glaive in hand, closing on Luchar. The Fion was on her back, the blue-white cords from her left hand were still wrapped around her opponent’s legs, but if the armored figure felt any pain, they didn’t show it. Bridget felt her heart pounding in her ears as she noticed that Luchar had dropped her sword and was clutching a long red gash running down her chest. 

The shoulder of Bridget’s opponent pulled back and slammed into her hard. Losing her grip on the guard’s glaive, Bridget was sent sprawling to the ground. 

Bridget pushed herself to her feet. Her opponent had already turned, and was closing on her. These warriors were not human, she realized. Panic was flowing again into her veins. Her thoughts spun.

A lighter sweep came down at her shoulder, which she managed to deflect with her sword. She hesitated for an instant and another blow came back at her on the reverse sweep. The guard’s glaive clattered against her blade and landed with a scream of metal against her cuisses. She stumbled back–leg numb. 

Backing up several paces to place herself out of range, her eyes swept over her opponent studying them for a weakness or opening. She noticed that the guard’s tower shield was hanging at a skewed angle, too low and drooping toward their side. A steady drip of the same white, milk-like substance dripped from the gash Bridget’s sword had left. 

Beyond her opponent, she saw Luchar tugging at the cords wrapped around the other guard’s legs, only to have the guard kick back sharply, sending the Fion face-first into the ground. The blue cords extending from Luchar’s hand flickered and disappeared. 

Luchar’s opponent tossed their glaive lightly, flipping it forward and reversing their grip, ready to spear the hazel-eyed woman’s back. 

Bridget broke from her opponent and began to sprint. “Luchar, roll!” she screamed.  

Luchar pushed feebly against the ground with one hand. Too slow, Bridget knew.  

Dodging a sweep from the guard in front of her, she closed the gap with Luchar’s opponent. Reaching forward, she gripped the guard’s helm with her right hand and slipped her sword against their neck with the other. Pulling up with her right, she slid her blade across and back with her left. The steel of her blade bit in easily enough, but there was too much resistance. It felt more like cutting through thick brush with a machete than slicing through flesh, but Bridget managed to saw through most of the guard’s neck. When she pulled away, the warrior’s head was hanging nearly against their own back, white sap pouring from the stump that had been their neck. 

The half-decapitated figure turned on their heel, glaive and shield still in hand. 

Bridget’s eyes went wide in confusion and terror. 

Suddenly there was an impact followed by a blinding pain across her back. She fell, rump-first, to the ground. Looking up she saw the second guard readying another blow. She scrambled backward on her hands and heels. The second guard’s blade whistled past, inches from her shin.  She had created a little distance, but now both guards were closing, glaives at the ready. 

She glanced behind the guards, Luchar was stumbling toward her sword, still gripping her chest as a bright red stain blossomed across her gray tunic. Bridget could feel that the back of her own tunic was already soaking, and a hot trickle was flowing openly down her back. Her head was beginning to spin.

She would be dead soon, she realized. She would be lying if she denied feeling, more than anything, relief at that prospect. 

Bridget pushed herself to her feet and readied her blade into a longpoint guard again, ignoring the screaming pain that ran along her back with each movement. “Come monsters!” she bellowed. “Let’s make this bloody!” 

Suddenly, there was a grinding shriek like chalk on slate from the  field to Bridget’s right. From the darkness, Heidrun came flying, her taloned arms stretched out in front of her. She slammed into Bridget’s opponent and went rolling across the open clearing in a clatter of metal and claws, cackling all the while. 

Bridget screamed out a long warcry, wordless and furious. She charged the decapitated guard, batting away the warrior’s thrust when the weapon came into range. Maintaining her speed till the last moment, she bit her heels into the dirt, crouched, and pulled back to dodge the guard’s shield slam. The shield swung out flying less than an inch in front of her face. The warrior’s glaive to her left and their shield wide to her right, her opponent was wide open. 

The guard tried to step back, but Bridget lunged, driving her blade up between the figure’s legs and into the gap above their cuisses, sliding and tugging as best she could. She ripped her sword clean, clearing most of the monster’s thigh. 

The gaping rent between the monster’s thigh and groin began to drip thick, milky sap. The guard’s weight shifted, and their broken leg slid horizontally out from under them, visibly pulling away from their hip. Their entire body wobbled precariously. 

Bridget smiled weakly, but before she could feel much satisfaction, the guard’s tower shield came down heavily on her head. The blow sent the world around her spinning. Ear-splitting pain filled her skull. 

She found herself on her rear again, looking up at the guard, who, glaive in hand, was ready to spear her. 

The blade came down at her with lightning speed. She shifted, but not fast enough. The blade caught against her left rerebrace and with another scream of metal against metal, her armor bent inward as the blade cut through, biting painfully into her bicep. 

Bridget screamed. Squinting through the pain, she saw the guard’s left leg skewed oddly, white sap pouring over their cuisses now. Bridget kicked up and out against it with all her remaining strength.

With a snap like a tree branch giving way, the leg came free and the guard went tumbling to the ground. 

Pulling the dagger from her belt, Bridget scrambled over the fallen guard. Pinning their shield with one knee, she grabbed the figure’s right arm in her left and began sawing at their shoulder joint with the dagger in her right hand. Her left arm and back throbbed with pain, but she fought through, keeping her opponent’s blade arm pinned to the ground. With the firelight at her back and a decent angle, Bridget could make out what was beneath her opponent’s armor, a tangle of vines and brambles. 

The guard jerked and flexed, nearly unseating Bridget and sending shocks of pain across her back and arm, but she slammed her knee down hard on its shields and continued to saw and pry. After a few more moments, she had cut most of the way through the creature’s right shoulder. 

Seeing that the limb was hanging from a few loose tendrils, Bridget sighed heavily and collapsed on her left knee. For a moment, the creature below her was still. Bridget’s vision spun, and she closed her eyes. 

The guard yanked its shield from beneath Bridget’s leg, jostling her awake again. Before the ex-knight could react, the creature grabbed the edge of Bridget’s cuisses and yanked her down on top of them. Pressing Bridget against its chest, the guard began to rain down blows on the ex-knight’s pauldron and back with the shield in its left arm. 

Lacking the strength for anything else, she bellowed in pain as blow after blow collided with her body. Tortuous pain ripping through her. Bridget’s vision spun, she was beginning to feel numb and distant. She tried to angle her body so the blows landed on her armored shoulder rather than her wounded back, but she lacked even the strength for that.  

Suddenly she felt another blinding stab of pain in her left bicep as her arm was pulled outward. She screamed again in pain as she was dragged bodily off the guard. 

Bridget found herself in Luchar’s arms. She could smell charred flesh, and feel the Fion’s trembling arms around her body now. Luchar was slowly dragging her away. The hazel-eyed woman was clearly struggling with the effort, pushing them back with her legs a few inches at a time. 

Bridget, still squinting through the pain, looked up into Luchar’s hazel eyes as they flashed in the dancing firelight. Loose locks of dark hair hung over her eyes as she looked down at the ex-knight. Noticing Bridget’s open eyes, she smiled and placed the tip of her tongue on the center of her bottom lip. When Bridget bumped into her chest as they moved, Luchar winced in pain, but she maintained her smile. 

“You saved my life, pup.” Luchar whispered down at Bridget, cradling her head. “I told you that I needed you.”

Bridget’s head spun. Euphoria surged through her at the words. 

“You are so very good,” Luchar cooed, brushing the hair away from Bridget’s eyes. 

Bridget sunk into the warmth flowing over her, closed her eyes, and let everything go black. 

She awoke to find herself in a new position, her body weight resting on her right arm. Her left pauldron was gone and Luchar was removing the rerebrace beneath. That was painful, she realized distantly. As Luchar pulled the metal away she felt a flare of pain and a rush of blood from the wound on her bicep. She tried to cry out in pain, but nothing emerged from her dry throat. 

Luchar clamped her right hand over the wound.  “It’s alright, pup. I have you,” Luchar cooed. She raised her left fist. “This is going to hurt, but I’ll be as gentle as I can. I promise.” She opened her fist and blue-white cords stretched between her fingers.

Closing all but the index and thumb, she stretched a single cord of blue energy between the digits and turned her hand toward the wound on Bridget’s bicep. Shifting her right hand to press the wound together, she pushed the cord against the bleeding rent in Bridget’s flesh. 

Bridget convulsed in pain, and a weak cry escaped her lips. Everything went black again. 

There was a loud ripping sound, and she awoke with Luchar’s thumb in her mouth, the Fion’s fingers cupping her jaw. Her cheeks went red. She sucked on the metal and leather. Pain was throbbing across her body. She looked up at Luchar in desperation.

“There, there, pup.” Luchar whispered. “You’re doing so well for me. Just a little more, be strong.”

Bridget saw Luchar’s left arm move behind her and felt a sear of pain slowly begin to pass down the length of her back. She screamed into Luchar’s thumb, biting as lightly as she could into the metal and leather of the Fion’s gauntletted finger. 

Luchar bit her lip, her attention focused on Bridget’s back as she worked. 

Bridget stared up at the hazel-eyed woman, tears flowing down her cheeks. The pain descending down her back was intense, but she did everything she could to hold herself still. Staring up at Luchar made it easier. There was something fierce and beautiful in the other woman’s eyes. All of Luchar’s attention was on her and, despite the pain, the ex-knight wanted that. 

The heat on her back finally relented, and Luchar smiled down at Bridget in relief and satisfaction. “What a wonderful dog. You did so perfectly. I’m proud of you.” She closed her left hand, and the band of light disappeared. 

Bridget’s heart seized in her chest. Her cheeks were burning, and her blood was hot. Everything was pain, and it threatened to consume her. She tried to fight back a sob and failed. Sobbing around Luchar’s finger, she felt drool slide down her cheek. 

Luchar pulled away her hand and reached down to help Bridget sit up. 

Bridget tried to rise with Luchar’s help, but a wave of dizziness and nausea hit her. Sweat was beading at her brow, and the world was spinning around her. She fell into the Fion’s lap. Trying again, she managed to shift up onto her right arm by leaning into the other woman’s chest, and looked into Luchar’s face. 

The warrior’s kohl was smeared and a long trail of black ran from the corner of her eye down to her jaw. Her lips were dry and cracked, but a slight smile tugged at their edge. The Fion laughed in relief down at the ex-knight. 

Bridget fell into Luchar, her lips finding the Fion’s. Warmth washed over her as she lost herself in the other woman. She felt Luchar’s arms wrap around her, and she let herself melt.

For a long moment, as the tidal wave of pain and nausea broke over her and passed, Bridget stayed in Luchar’s arms. Eventually, their lips parted, but Luchar continued to cradle the knight in her arms. Blinking heavily, Bridget lost track of the world. 

“Harlot! Snake!” came Heidrun’s grinding scream. There was a clatter of talons as Heidrun’s fingers wrapped around Luchar’s arms, and Bridget’s comfort was ripped away from her. 

Bridget saw Luchar go flying, landing heavily several feet away. The ex-knight was dropped on the ground, shocks of pain flying through her once-numb body. She had to fight down bile as the anguish hit her. Looking up she saw Heidrun’s immense, spindly form, standing above her. Long talons, warped visage, and overlong limbs, all of her was tense and held at the ready. In the flickering bonfire light, the sidhe’s thin shadow flew wildly across the clearing. 

“Villain! Liar!” Heidrun screeched, settling down on her haunches and raising her talons toward Luchar’s crumpled form. 

Bridget felt another cold wave pour into her veins, clearing her head and dulling the pain. She pushed herself up, managing to press her fumbling hang against her dagger’s hilt as she moved. Sweeping it up, she stumbled in between Heidrun and Luchar and pointed the blade at the sidhe. 

“Get away from her!” Bridget attempted to bellow. The words came out of her dry and hoarse.

“Idiot! Fool! Dope!” Heidrun screamed, swinging her talons down in frustration. “Girl, you can not be so easily broken and used as this!”

“Get away from her!” Bridget said again her voice slurred. 

A tear ran down from Heidrun’s inky black eye. “Just stand aside and let me kill her! You may not have the strength, but I do!” 

“No,” Bridget whispered. The tip of her dagger was still outstretched, but it was wavering. 

Heidrun shook her head slowly. Then her eyes darted behind Bridget, and she hissed. 

Bridget did not look away from Heidrun, but she heard the Fion’s boots on the ground behind her.

“I would leave if I were you, Heidrun.” Luchar’s voice lacked its familiar sing-song warmth. It was cold and icy. 

Heidrun flinched at the threat and hissed at Luchar. Turning back to Bridget, Heidrun snarled. “You’ll regret this, fool girl.” And with that, she turned and fled into the night. 

“Good riddance.” Bridget spat after the fleeing woman. “For all I know, that’s the monster that killed Ago’s father.” 

Luchar walked over to Bridget, and held her by the right shoulder. She carefully inspected Bridget’s left arm and the cut along her back. “The bleeding has stopped,” she remarked. Searching Bridget’s eyes, the hazel-eyed woman sighed in relief. Bending forward she kissed Bridget on the brow. 

Bridget’s cheeks burned as she felt a wave of euphoria run down her spine. She poured herself into Luchar’s arms, and the other woman held her close, careful not to put pressure on the wounds on her back and left bicep.  

Luchar guided Bridget to the ground again. The hazel-eyed woman helped the ex-knight settle half-craddled in her lap. “Here,” Luchar said, offering Bridget a waterskin. 

Bridget took the skin as she nestled against Luchar and began to draw greedily on it. Her head was still spinning, and she was drenched in sweat.  

“My poor pup,” Luchar cooed, running her fingers through Bridget’s hair. “You have been through so much.” She pulled a strip of jerky from her bandolier and handed it to Bridget before putting another into her own mouth. 

Bridget took the strip and began to chew on it hesitantly. Between bites and sips, she managed to speak. “Thank you.” She glanced over and looked into Luchar’s eyes as they flickered in the firelight. “For saving me.”  

A half smile flicked over Luchar’s face. She laughed. “You saved me first, pup. Twice over.” She ran the back of her index finger across Bridget’s cheek, took the waterskin from her, and drew deeply from it. 

Suddenly, there was a clatter of metal behind them, and Bridget turned to see the half-decapitated guard flailing on the ground. Kicking its single limb and leg, it was slowly pushing itself toward them. Its right arm was dangling at its side, attached by a few vines still trailing from the stump at its shoulder. 

Bridget stared at it in horror and laughed. “What kind of monster is it?” 

With difficulty, Luchar helped Bridget shift onto the ground, stood, and walked warily around the creature. As she moved, it reached and flailed at her, seeming to track her movements, even though its helm was bent backward, staring in the opposite direction. Careful to stay beyond its reach, the Fion plucked Bridget’s sword from the ground and returned to the ex-knight, offering the grip to the sitting woman. “Fortunately, it’s not a monster we need to worry about anymore, but I fear there are many more in our future.”

Using the blade in Luchar’s grip for leverage, Bridget stood on shaky legs and looked down at the suit of armor still twitching and inching toward them. “We should continue. Heidrun might come back at any moment.” 

Luchar sighed. “I am worried least about our dear hound. She still needs us, and now she knows she cannot turn you against me,” Luchar smiled again, meeting the ex-knight’s gaze, and ran her finger over Bridget’s cheek. “I would not be surprised if she makes another daring rescue.” Luchar paused for a time, staring into Bridget’s eyes, tension slowly growing on her brow, “No, Heidrun is not the monster I fear the most.” 

Luchar placed a hand on Bridget’s elbow and guided her to begin walking toward the palace, away from the battered suit of gold armor on the ground. 

Bridget nodded, leaning on Luchar as she walked. “The battle caused quite a racket. More guards are likely on their way.” Slipping her sword into her sheath, she tore off another strip of jerky. 

Luchar nodded. “True enough, but I do not fear that most either. They would only try to wound your body.” Luchar caught Bridget’s gaze again, the tension in her brow had increased further. “Whatever sidhe we may still face, one monster is waiting for us at the end of this journey for certain.”

As they walked closer to the bonfire at the base of the spires ahead, Bridget could feel the heat of the flames against her skin. 

She stared into Luchar’s eyes as they walked, fearing what she would say next. “What monster?” 

“You well know,” Luchar replied, the firelight dancing across her long features. 

Beyond them the drums and whoops grew louder. From what Bridget could hear, the sound of their earlier battle had done nothing to halt the festivities. 

Bridget shook her head. “We will worry about The Princess after she is safe. We’ll have our duel when the time comes.” 

Luchar’s eyes glistened in the firelight, “After all this, do you not want to be free of her?” Luchar searched the knight’s face. “She has to die, Bridget. I will not let her hurt you again.”

Bridget’s heart was pounding in her chest. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to collapse–to rest. She pulled her arm away from Luchar and stumbled forward. “We can not worry about that now.” Drawing her sword, she closed on the figures ahead over her dancing around the bonfire. 

“Bridget!” Luchar called, but the ex-knight ignored her.

The first bonfire sat between several towers in the middle of a cobble stone street. Even this close, it was difficult to make out clear features on the figures dancing around the flame. Each seemed to be masked and dressed all in black, covered in some fabric that glittered and sparkled in firelight. The dress of each was foreign to her eye, long draped sleeves, flowing skirts, tassels, all of the same sparkling black material. No where was even an inch of skin visible. 

She walked a little closer, hissing and biting her lip as pain ran down her back. 

Glancing around she could not see any drums. Whoops, cries, and laughter continued, but Bridget could not locate the sources of those noises either. They seemed more distant than the figures in front of her. Searching the cobblestone street, she saw only strange waist-height pillars and globes of glass sparkling in the firelight. She could only guess at their function.

Sword in hand she walked toward figures. The heat against her skin was intense, sweat was beading against her brow again. She felt dizzy, and stumbled as she approached. If the figures heard her, they made no indication. They continued to hop and dance around the flame. Eventually she came close enough to reach out and touch one of them. “Excuse me, stranger. I am seeking…”

Bridget reached out to place her hand on the shoulder of one figure, and as her fingers touched it, it dissolved into glittering black dust. The cloud continued to whirl in the same direction as the dancer’s momentum for a moment before whirling up into the bonfire and flying away like ash thrown to the sky. The next dancer in the circle, without the slightest hesitation, frolicked into her hand, and it too dispersed into glittering smoke. 

Bridget sheathed her blade and turned. Luchar had followed her, standing, now, a few paces away. “This place is cursed,” she whispered. She walked back to the Fion slowly. 

Luchar was looking at her coldly as she approached. “We can not stall this any longer.” She whispered in response. “I don’t think you should change the subject again.” Her voice was steady and cold. 

Bridget tightened her jaw. “We do not have time for this, Luchar.” She turned, and started walking away. Pain ripped through her neck. Pain flared again across her arm and back as her muscles tensed involuntarily. She stumbled to a knee, turning back to Luchar. “Luchar! Please.” She looked up into the Fion’s eyes. 

Luchar closed the distance, and cupped Bridget’s jaw with her gauntleted hand. “It is time you face what has been done to you. She violated your mind. You need to be rid of her.” 

“I love her!” Bridget shouted up at the hazel-eyed woman. 

Luchar and Bridget’s eyes went wide in unison, and there was a long moment of silence between them.  

Luchar’s lips parted wordlessly. Then she tightened her jaw and furrowed her brow. She squeezed her left hand. 

Bridget gritted her teeth and growled through the pain. Less intense than the last wave, it still caused the muscles in her arm and back to tense, sending throbbing arches of anguish across her body. 

“No,” Luchar shook her head, looking down at the knight below her, “you only think you love her because of what she has done to you.” She gripped the ex-knight’s jaw hard. “You know she’s been playing with your head. You admit that.” 

“Yes,” Bridget spat. 

“She has lied to you and played with your memories.”

Bridget tried to look down at the ground, but Luchar yanked her chin, forcing her to meet the Fion’s gaze. She stared into the woman’s hazel eyes for a long moment. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and sweat was running down her brow. She settled further onto her knees. She did not want to hurt any longer. Finally, she nodded. 

Luchar nodded in turn. Still holding Bridget’s jaw, she spoke, “Here, pup, you need more water.” She pulled the waterskin from her belt and tilted it into Bridget’s mouth. 

Bridget began to suck eagerly, letting her arms settle into her lap. Both of Luchar’s hands were occupied, she realized. Distantly, she knew that she should take the opportunity. If she moved quickly, she might be able to strike Luchar down. She had the strength, she knew, but she did not want to hurt the other woman, nor did she want to be anywhere but on her knees. She looked up into the Fion’s eyes, and a tear rolled down her cheek. 

She clenched her thighs as she felt heat collecting in her cheeks.  

“There. That’s it, pup,” Luchar cooed down at her. “See, I’ll care for you. You can be my little pet.” The Fion drew away the skin and used her right thumb to wipe away the water that spilled over Bridget’s lips. “I’ll treat you so much better than she ever did.”

Another tear ran down Bridget’s cheek. She thought back to Kettenbach, to her time in Princess Amaryllis’ service. She remembered the overwhelming urge to care for Amaryllis and keep her safe. The Princess had put that desire in her head as well. Even her devotion had been a lie. She bushed, and felt anger building inside her. That frightened her almost as much as the tide of sorrow. 

She imagined staying on her knees for Luchar. Following the Fion attentively, learning how to elicit her approval. The softness of Luchar’s words and the bite of the collar made it easy enough to learn what she should and should not do. She could be the hazel-eyed woman’s dog. She pushed her thighs together, and felt an ache deep between her legs. A dog was less than a knight, but was there really a difference? 

“You know it is true,” Luchar whispered down at her. “You want to be my pup.” 

“I do,” she whispered. Her heart was pounding in her ears.  

“You can have that, I promise,” Luchar whispered. “I know that royal brat got deep in your head, but all you have to do is follow me, and trust what I say when the time comes.” 

“You are trying to get in my head,” Bridget whispered weakly. Her cheeks were hot, and the words felt less an accusation than an invitation. 

Luchar smiled and caressed Bridget’s jaw with her free hand, “I have only hurt your body, pup. I’m not like her.” 

“Are you sure you’re not the monster, Luchar?” Bridget asked. 

“I never said I wasn’t.” Luchar’s smile curled cruelly. “I’m just the monster you need, pup.”