Angels of the Killing Hymn
Cold and Loud
by RoxyNychus
Tags:
#cw:gore
#cw:noncon
#angel
#brainwashing
#dom:female
#f/f
#hound/handler
#mind_control
#sub:female
#biting
#blood_drinking
#body_horror
#cw:gaslighting
#degradation
#drugging
#fantasy
#graphic_violence
#halo_play
#hypnotic_eyes
#identity_manipulation
#memory_alteration
#mindbreak
#role_reversal
#rough_sex
#trans_main_character
We come upon the tank around mid-afternoon, miles southwest of Fort Kroeder and well outside of the Reclaimed Zone. A fine dusting of snow has settled onto one side of its rusting bulk, the rest of it sheltered by the steep rocky hill it’s been discarded in the shadow of. Atop it is a body, little most than browned bones and tatters of filthy uniform, lashed to a wooden post. A whiff of old rot and diesel curdle the cold air around it.
Vaschael, encased within her silver armor again, stares up at it. She leads our mismatched little band, walking with her two hounds out front, Sholanan and I in the middle, and Brea at the back. We Virtues wear our armor again, but everyone is armed save for Sholanan and I, the last of the Queen-Minister’s faithful.
“Hound,” says Vaschael. “What is this?”
The Proxy’s attention snaps to her mistress. Her bun is half undone, wisps of golden hair falling across her face, and she’s gained a stoop in her posture that makes her trench coat look a size too large on her. There’s something child-like in the way her eyes widen when Vaschael calls on her. “This was a deserter,” she explains. Even her voice has gained an unsettling softness. Vaschael’s song has ground her steel composure down to damp clay. “Every so often one will try to sneak back into the Reclaimed Zone. They would have been executed and left here as an example.”
Vaschael stares out onto the yellowish hills ahead, sloping downwards into a shallow valley. “I see,” she says quietly. Her helmet hides her eyes but I think I hear something beneath the words. Then she moves us down into the valley.
Most concerning of all- as usual- is Brea. SMG at the ready, she divides her attention between Sholanan and I and the path behind us, for the most part. It isn’t as if she’s entirely changed. Every so often her gaze still lingers on Sholanan, and our malleable sister will perk up, still finding some inexplicable charm in her attention. I’ll then put an arm around my pet and pull her up against me, and Brea and I will share a short, contemptuous glare. Once or twice I swear I’ve heard her mumble something behind her mask. Of course, breaking her vow of silence is a trifling sin at this point.
What worries me most, however, is the way the Brea looks at the Proxy. She doesn’t look at our fallen star often. In fact, she mostly seems to avoid acknowledging her. There have been times, however, when Brea’s eyes have swept over the back of the Proxy’s head, and caught there. What I see in her eyes then isn’t the kind of open but controlled contempt she shows me. It’s certainly not the deference she used to have, when the world was still in order. Instead her eyes narrow to blade tips, glinting hot gold in the dark. Hate. Blood-hungry, gnashing-toothed hate. If not for Vaschael, I have no doubt Brea would have filled the Proxy’s back with lead by now.
When this happens, I try to keep myself between Brea and the Proxy. She is fallen, but the Proxy is still our guiding star. She is a girl, frightened, perhaps burdened with power she shouldn’t have been, but she carries our Queen’s divinity nonetheless. I wonder, if I remove that halo from around her neck, will she still be Vaschael’s hound? Can that order be restored? I intend to find out, and soon.
The path behind us has been silent. After breaking free, Vaschael enthralled the rest of Fort Kroeder’s garrison and left her new hounds there with a simple order: cover our tracks. If anyone asks, our choir is still there searching for Imeshan, and the Proxy is still there enlightening Vaschael, who is still chained and subdued in the bowels of the Fort. Normal operations have resumed. The charade will only last so long. Vaschael seems confident it will buy us a day or two, however.
The path ahead has not been quiet.
An icy wind rakes down through the crags over us, carrying with it a light, melodic sound. Singing. Ahead of me, Canrie and the Proxy stop dead, raising their faces into the light snowfall like puppets at rest. Vaschael sets a hand on the stock of her shotgun. “Hounds,” she commands in her deep, gentle voice. “Focus.” They then blink the glass from their eyes and carry on, the seraph’s influence a ward against the Nephilim’s song.
They’ve been hunting us all day. Every so often we hear their tittering at the edge of our hearing, or catch their song on the wind. Sometimes we see them as well, dark spindly shapes creeping between the crags and stones like shadowy insects. In the distance keeping pace with us. Earlier I spotted one behind us, creeping down the gully in pursuit, before it scrambled up the slope once it realized I’d seen it. It’s a game to them. Somewhere, out in the shadows between the hills, the Hierophant plays gamesmaster. I wonder if Imeshan is with it, still bound by that glistening flesh-leash.
We descend into the valley, where stubbly yellow grass and prickly shrubs grow alongside a murky river. Following the bank we soon come upon a long-abandoned log cabin, dusted with snow and windows glinting amber in the setting sun. Drawing her weapon, Vaschael searches around and then inside the structure, while Brea and the hounds keep Sholanan and I corralled outside. Finally Vaschael emerges and waves us in. Then, locking the doors and shuttering the windows, we rest.
For a moment, just stuffy darkness, the cold air crowded with a reek of old fish and burnt oil. This is dispelled by a pale spark, which then crackles into an orb of colorless flame, held in Vaschael’s armored palm. She raises it upwards, gentle as if releasing a bird into the sky. It hovers towards the ceiling to flood the space with flickering silver-tinged light. Has our choir ever done such a thing? The question comes suddenly to my mind. Innocuous on the surface, yet now that it occurs to me I find myself staring into that little fire, unable to let it go.
Removing her helmet and shaking out her auburn mane, Vaschael then looks over us. Brea stands back against a stained kitchenette counter. The hounds huddle together by a fireplace choked with crumbling charcoal, Canrie seeming to have forgiven the Proxy’s role in her imprisonment. I pulled Sholanan over to sit with me under one of the shuttered windows when we entered. The seraph’s shoulders rise and fall in a long, heavy breath.
She comes to Sholanan and I first. I pull my pet sister closer to myself and her dainty form nuzzles into mine, but I notice how her eyes soften as Vaschael crouches to examine us. Her eyes are weary, at odds with her handsome face. A moment of examination. Brushing my bangs out of my face to study me. Tilting Sholanan’s chin up to get a look at her. Then, she slips her hands behind Sholanan’s head, undoes her face mask, and removes it. “You needn’t wear these now,” she says. “My hounds are guarded from your radiance.” When she goes to do the same to me, I pull my face away. I know how absurd I must look- a child craning her head away from the piece of vegetable her parent is trying to feed her. But I am loyal to the Queen-Minister, bound to her commandments.
“Lakera,” says Vaschael, a degree less gently. “Hold still.”
I pause. Just long enough for her to take my face in her hands and remove my mask as well. Big Sister knows best.
Vaschael settles back on her heel, our masks dangling from her hand as she looks us over again. Thoughts turn and flicker in her eyes with the wan light of her silver fire. Sholanan keeps inclining her head towards her, an animal seeking attention- as if my arm isn’t already around her shoulder- and then withdrawing. Tempted as she is, my sister knows her place. Until Vaschael turns back to the Proxy. “Hound,” she says. “Let them speak.”
The Proxy perks up. “Sholanan, Lakera.” A tease of her old authority in her voice. “From now on, you may speak freely.”
Sholanan shifts a little against me. I squeeze her shoulder- stay devoted, sister. Instead, her lips part.
Vaschael leans down towards her, watching with patient expectation. “Yes, little sister?”
“I feel I’ve forgotten something.” Sholanan’s voice is small, uncertain, yet has lost none of its musical lilt from disuse. “I don’t know what. I know I shouldn’t speak of it. The Queen-Minister wouldn’t like it. But...” She pauses, brow tightening as she struggles to grasp thoughts beyond devotion. “I-I wondered if you might help me remember.”
For a moment, Vaschael blinks harder. “Of course, dear one.” The seraph strokes a thumb over Sholanan’s cheek. “Mother willing, you’ll remember everything soon.”
Sholanan melts into into her touch, and the muscles of my back stiffen. Then Vaschael turns her attention to me. Observes, expects that I will break my vow of silence. But even if I’ve been allowed to speak, I have no words for her. I remain devoted. My gaze falls from her sad eyes to the dust-caked floorboards.
Vaschael lingers a moment. Then she rises, an uncharacteristic heaviness to her movements. Going to Brea next, she reaches towards her. For the first time in some time, Brea does something agreeable- she shrugs away from the seraph’s touch. “I’m fine, sister,” she grunts.
“Then remove this.” Vaschael takes her face in her hands and removes her mask as well. Brea doesn’t resist. In fact, once the straps slip out from her hair and her mouth is uncovered, her face eases with what can only be relief. Her moment of faith has passed.
Setting our masks on the counter, Vaschael sees to her hounds next. Both of them raise their faces towards her. Canrie sits up on her knees, a simple little smile brightening her face. The Proxy stays down in her shadow, head sinking into her shoulders like a dog fearing the boot- the sight churns my stomach with its wrongness. Vaschael spares only a moment for the former, kneeling to lightly ruffle her hair. The girl actually whimpers like a puppy at the touch. Again I wonder if only the seraph can enthrall someone so.
But it’s really the Proxy Vaschael has come for. My falling star knows it. She shrinks further as the seraph looks down on her, the fondness her face held for Canrie dimming. Suddenly the Proxy looks like a child wearing her mother’s clothes, playing pretend. Has there always been that hint of doe-like softness to her face? Have I ever seen her flinch like she does now, as Vaschael cups her chin and tilts her face up to hers?
No. There couldn’t have. I can’t have. Vaschael and her breaking song did this to her. A special kind of blasphemy, corrupting our Queen’s avatar.
Vaschael asks, “What’s your name, hound?”
The girl who should be the Proxy says, “The Queen-Minister only ever called me Her Proxy.”
“I will not call you that.” Vaschael’s voice is granite. “That is the title you blasphemed under for Her. If you’re to atone for what you’ve done in Her name, we must scour all marks of Her ownership from you.”
Frightened mouse eyes stare up at the seraph. “Yes, miss. I understand, miss.”
My heart drops.
Vaschael orders, “Up.”
The Proxy rises to her knees. Canrie crawls off to the side, making space for whatever is to come.
There’s little preamble. Vaschael slips off the Proxy’s coat, as she had in the Fort, and sets it aside. She takes the Proxy’s face next, stares into her eyes, tilts her head down to inspect her hair, pries open her mouth with a thumb to peer inside. Scrutinizing her the way one would an animal. The seraph gives a long, thoughtful hum. “Like a doll,” she muses. “Beautiful, but constructed. Not that you were given much choice, in fairness.”
The Proxy quietly lets herself be appraised.
“What to call you...” Vaschael tilts her head. “Do you remember having another name? Or wanting one?”
I lurch with words I cannot say without sin. She’s our Queen’s Proxy. She’s our guiding star.
“No, miss.” Docile. The firmness of her voice only propping up a dutiful facade. “I only remember what She called me.”
Vaschael taps a finger on her knee. “What do you think, Canrie?” She casts a sidelong glance at the other hound. “What should we call your new sister?”
Canrie watches on her hands and knees, that dim smile still on her face. The pup- I can’t think of something so stupidly, happily obedient any other way- takes a moment to consider. “She’s pale and pretty,” Canrie says. “Like fresh snow.”
“So she is.” Vaschael rubs a fingers behind the Proxy’s ear. Our falling star hastens her descent- eyes fluttering at that touch, cheeks brightening with a tinge of rose. “And yet,” adds the seraph, “she’s been cruel like the cold, as well.” She withdraws her hand and watches the Proxy’s face fall back into despondence.
She is the Queen’s Proxy. Bile churns in my throat. She is Her Proxy, and our guiding star, and you’re ruining her.
“Winter, then.” Vaschael releases her. “For your beauty, and for your sins. Both praise and condemnation.”
A pale, pretty face peers up at her. “Yes, miss.”
Vaschael sets her fingertips on the halo glowering around the Proxy’s throat. “Say your new name.”
The girl who had been my guiding light replies, “My name is Winter.”
I feel ill. I feel like weeping. I cannot look at her.
Vaschael, seeming satisfied, grants her another gentle rub behind the ear. The seraph looks to the thin shafts of orange light entering through the uneven shutters. “Brea,” she asks, “How sure are you of where we’re going?”
“Hardly at all.” Brea slumps back against the counter, picking at a scabbed-on stain. “I feel as if I’m chasing whispers through a fog.” I could tell her why. She’s wandering astray from the true faith, chasing delusions and lies. It’s surprising, really. For all Brea has tormented me, she was at least always competent.
“I see.” Vaschael rises, scoops up her helmet from the table, and puts it on. “I’ll take scout ahead. Perhaps I’ll find something which jogs your memory.”
This gets Brea’s attention. “Alone?”
“I won’t be long.” Vaschael looks over the room, giving us each a parting glance. “All of you, stay here and rest. Canrie, lock the door behind me.”
Drawing her weapon, she leaves and Canrie locks her out. We hear the vast thrum of her wings as she takes flight. Then, quiet. I rest my head against Sholanan’s and think. We could attempt to flee. Perhaps bring the Proxy with us, to see if we can’t break her out of Vaschael’s spell. Canrie wouldn’t be able to stop us. But Brea could, her SMG hanging from a strap slung over her shoulder. I weigh the odds of wrestling it away from her.
Sholanan nuzzles into me. “This is nice,” she murmurs. “I like it when it’s quiet.”
I set my finger under her chin and close her mouth.
She draws her head back. “Lakera,” she whispers. “We can speak now. Winter said we can.”
I glare at her. Does she have no idea what’s happening? Does she really not realize we- the Proxy especially- are being dragged away from our Queen’s light?
Sholanan stares back at me. Within a moment, something dawns in her eyes, however dimly. “Lakera…?”
I hold her stare. She will realize the sin she’s been led into, and will correct herself, else I will correct her. I’ve taught her well, after all.
“You see that?” This is Brea, her tone calm but hard. A blade waiting in its scabbard. I snap to her, expecting a fight. But she’s not looking at me. She only has narrowed, bitter eyes for the Proxy.
“Look at them,” she says. “Look at me.”
The Proxy does look. At Sholanan and I, to Brea. There should be nothing in her face but pride, her work well done. Instead, her face hangs slack. It isn’t that she doesn’t understand, I think. She looks to understand very well- and to find the fruits of her labors mortifying.
“You know,” Brea continues, “I barely remember what you did to us. I barely remember anything, really, before the first time I bowed down and licked your boots clean.” The corners of her mouth tremble. “That’s part of the process, I expect. It’s easier to keep these leashes on us if we can’t recall what they deny us.”
The Proxy sinks into herself.
“Look at me, mutt,” Brea snaps, a sudden gunshot which hangs in the stale air. The Proxy flinches and does so. Again, illness, sadness. “We don’t remember what you stole from us. Vaschael has told me such beautiful things, about immaculate choirs and golden skies and a realm of pearl and silver. And I can only take her word for it.” Her voice has lowered to a hiss- that blade drawing free of the leather.
Canrie crawls a few cautious feet forward, before rising to one knee and bowing her head as it in prayer. “Miss Brea,” she says, placating. “Winter knows what she’s done. But she’s going to set it right. Miss Vaschael will make s—”
“Shut up,” Brea snarls. Even Canrie can get that hint, and sulks back to sit at the Proxy’s side. Leaning close to her new sister, a pup’s feeble attempt at a protective stance.
Gripping the edge of the counter, Brea continues. “Now that I can think a little more clearly- now that I don’t have your fingers prodding so deep into my head- I can tell. I don’t remember what but I can feel that you’ve taken something from us. There should be more. I don’t just mean our wings. I mean there should be more.” She raises a shaking hand to her temple, finger grazing her silver halo. “Right here. There should be something warm and calm. I should be able to feel that I’m part of that beautiful music and that beautiful sisterhood, and instead there’s nothing.” The wood of the counter cracks where her grip tightens. “You severed us from it,” she hisses through her teeth, “and now everything is cold and loud.”
I’ve been trying not to look at the Proxy. But the cabin is small and I see her at the edge of my vision. Doll-eyed. Hunched down. Shaking. “Brea,” she says, like a thing already dead. “I’m sorry. I am.”
“You’re—” Brea ducks her head down like she’s going to be sick, short mussy hair falling over her eyes. “You’re sorry!” The sound she makes could be laughter or the edge of weeping. “You’re sorry now! You dim mutt bitch, now you’re sorry!”
The Proxy tries, “I am, Brea, truly I—”
Brea shoves off the counter towards her.
I spring up into her path. She stops, close enough I can see the tears welling at the corners of her eyes, glaring with that same naked dagger hate at me. I don’t care that she has the gun. I don’t care that she has the armor, nor that there’s murder in her eyes. I’m not ready to give up on my guiding star.
A sudden heavy gust rattles the shutters.
Brea and I drift slowly from each other’s orbit. My fists tremble at my sides, eager to feel bones break and teeth dislodge beneath them. Her eyes hold the same wretched desire. But then the front door’s lock clunks open as Canrie undoes it. My traitor sister and I return to our corners of the cabin, just before the door opens and the last candlelight of day and a fresh deluge of cold rush inside.
Vaschael has something cradled in her arms as she enters. A soldier, hair short and uniform disheveled and crusted with old mud, curled up against her chest like a sleeping child. There’s no service pistol in the holster on the soldier’s hip nor rifle slung over her back. A deserter, then. Nudging the door shut behind her, Vaschael carries her guest to the center of the room, and sets her gently on the floor.
Brea cocks a brow. “Is she going to help us find the way, then?”
“No.” Vaschael helps the deserter up to her knees. There’s a hollow smile on her face, and her eyes stare without focus as she allows the seraph to pose her. Emptied by radiance. Despite myself, my stomach growls. Vaschael casts me an acknowledging glance. “Yes,” she says, tinged with flat sadness. “Charith has kept you half-starved, little sisters. You need to regain your strength.”
Sholanan wastes no time, crawling towards the soldier with wide eyes. No doubt she has been hungry. We’ve all been. It’s a tenant of our Queen’s truth. We feed when She permits it, and suppress our hunger when She doesn’t. The suffering, and enduring of it, are expressions of devotion. Sholanan is the newest of our choir. Of course she’d be the first to forget this. Vaschael welcomes her with a warm smile, and begins to strip away the soldier’s uniform.
Brea goes next, her armor chiming against the floorboards as she lowers herself to approach. There are reservations in her face. Brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a tight frown. She knows better. She would have to fight her enlightenment. But she is, and she is winning, taking one of the deserter’s now-bare arms and running her lips along the pale skin.
Setting our prey’s clothes aside, Vaschael then turns her attention to me. “Lakera,” she says. “Please, come eat.”
I swallow the saliva pooling around my tongue and ignore my churning hunger. I remain devoted.
Vaschael turns from me to the broken waif wearing my guiding star’s clothes. “Winter,” she orders. “Give her permission to feed.”
Both of the hounds look to have nodded off, eyes closed to their fellow mortal before them- stripped to a tank top and undergarments, kneeling in vacant bliss as my sisters nibble and lap at her arms, shoulders, and neck. But Winter snaps to attention at her mistress’s voice. “Lakera,” she says. Donning the Proxy’s voice again, as if it’s any more than a performance. “You may feed.”
I clench my jaw. It’s difficult, ignoring her orders. Fighting ingrained knowledge. But the Proxy is fallen astray, not herself. I remain devoted.
Winter’s eyes dart to Vaschael, large and fearful.
But Vaschael seems to have a contingency ready. “Very well,” she mutters under her breath, removing her helmet and setting it aside. Leaning over the deserter, she reaches around and places her fingertips on the woman’s sternum. A small shudder runs through the prey. Then, the spark- a pop of golden light through the skin and bone beneath Vaschael’s fingers. My mouth waters. I can remain devoted. I can’t deny my enticement at the prospect of a fresh soul.
The shudders grow into convulsions as the light travels upwards into her throat. Sholanan and Brea’s eyes snap to it, but Vaschael tells them, “Not today, sisters.” The deserter’s mouth opens and the golden star of her soul drifts up from it. Delicately, as if enticing a pretty insect to land, Vaschael cups it in her hand. She lowers her face to that light, so the wings over her eyes almost touch it. “Your sacrifice will be honored, little one.”
She comes to me, holding the soul in her palm with a mother’s care. I try to resist. My eyes follow that gentle glow but my mouth remains closed. I won’t let her see my tongue lapping eagerly against my bottom teeth. Even as she sits next to me, soft gilded light so close, I look away.
“You always were so willful,” Vaschael muses. There’s no undercurrent of power to her voice now, no warm winds carrying the promise of storm. There’s only a sad fondness. “Always towards a purpose, however. Always with your glory, and Mother’s, in mind.” A low sigh. “I wonder, what purpose do you think there is here?”
I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper and lightning. Is my purpose not clear? I serve the Queen-Minister’s glory now.
“I hope you’ll tell me,” she says. “When you’re ready.” She spreads her right wings to wrap them around my shoulders, and raises the soul higher towards my face. “But for now, little sister, you must eat.”
I try. I truly do. It isn’t the words she says which break my resolve, nor the comforting embrace of her wings. It’s that haze entering my mind again, light and laced with warmth. Big Sister knows best.
Forgive me, My Queen.
My eyes drift towards that light. I can no longer stop myself from craning my neck towards it. Past it, I see Vaschael’s lips curl into a smile. Her wings push into my back, nudging me closer so she can slip her arm around me as well.
I am weak, My Queen. This is a moment of weakness.
Vaschael brings the soul to my lips, its misty warmth teasing them. I open my mouth, letting her drop it inside. It tickles pleasantly against my tongue. Setting a finger under my chin, she closes my jaw and tilts my head back and I swallow, savoring the feeling of its viscous heat sliding down my throat.
I will not stray far, My Queen. I will return to the path You’ve set but Big Sister hunts and kills to nurture me.
Running her fingertips down my throat, Vaschael brings them to rest just above my ribs. Further down, my meal settles, light warmth beginning to radiate into my belly. I try to imagine the Queen-Minister’s face, glowering down on me with contempt. The toe of Her boot beneath my chin, my own pitiful reflection tinged deep red in the glass of wine She nurses. I am failing Her again. Worse than ever before. I should tear myself open and pull out my prey. I should break Vaschael’s wings and put down her dogs, and drag her back to Fort Kroeder so she cannot escape enlightenment again. I should cut Brea’s throat for her treachery and pull Sholanan back to my side so she can never leave again.
Instead of any of that, Vaschael enfolds me in the rest of her wings and arms, cocooning me away from the others. She pulls me gently towards her until I settle in her lap, head on her shoulder, looking up at her bittersweet smile. I will not betray you, My Queen, I will return to your side, I swear it but Big Sister is so strong and yet so loving. Big Sister feeds me from her palm and lets me rest, soft and docile in her arms.
Vaschael holds me close against her body. A dense calm overtakes me, soothing my worries. Part of it is the simple bliss I feel from my prey, her lobotomized contentment dulling my own mind as her essence melts into my being. Part of it is Vaschael stroking my hair. The faint rustle of her feathers as her wings interlock. The quiet peace here in the little space she’s made for us. I can barely hear the damp sucking as Brea and Sholanan feast.
“There you are,” coos my Big Sister, the first crystalline tears rolling out from beneath the feathers over her eyes. “There’s my Lakera.”
I’m sorry, My Queen.
I smile back up at Vaschael and let myself settle in her embrace.
The day fades into soft rain from there. I join Brea and Sholanan in sleepily gorging on the deserter’s blood, until our guest lays withered and pale on the cabin floor, mouth still crooked in a hollow smile. Then, heavy and hazy, I lead Sholanan back to our corner, where we doze together. I’m not quite able to rest yet. Not quite able to settle. My Queen will await my return with barbs and boot heels to my throat. But for now, I can do little more than watch Sholanan’s pretty eye lids flutter as she dreams beside me.
“You never told us what you saw.” This is Brea at the counter, trying to wipe the blood smears from the front of her breastplate with an old dishcloth. She nods towards me. “Before you started babying her.”
Vaschael is knelt by her hounds, feeding them some sort of wet rations from her palms. “I feared you may all be dead, Brea,” she replies. “Of course I will tend to my little sister.”
Brea looks up from her scrubbing. “Aren’t all of us your little sister?”
“Ah.” Meal finished, the seraph gives both the dogs a little scratch under their chins. Even from here I can see Canrie’s eyes roll with elation, and Winter accept the affection with hunch-shouldered hesitation. “In the sense that all we daughters of silver are sisters, yes. But that bond goes deeper for some.”
Brea narrows her eyes. “Something else you’ll explain later?”
“We’re on the run, Brea.” Settling beside her servants, Vaschael draws her shotgun and opens the breach, catching the two unspent shells as they leap out. “Once we find your friends and can rest a little easier, I’ll have more to tell all of you.”
Your friends. The woman we captured in Fort Kroeder, of course, but how many more? I keep my eyes half-shut, careful to give no hint that I’m listening.
“Right. About them.” Brea’s voice is distant. “Did you see anything? While you were up there?”
A soft clatter as Vaschael pulls the remaining shells from her belt to count. “There’s a forest around a dried lakebed,” she says. “About six miles east. It struck me as a good place for a hideout. Does it sound familiar?”
Brea heaves a deep breath. “I think so. I’m not sure, Vaschael. Everything is all…” She rubs at the back of her neck. “It’s like trying to pull things out of muddy water. Trying to tell out what’s a real memory, what was put in my head, what’s just a dream…”
Vaschael looks up from her examination. “Take your time.”
Brea does. The quiet drags out several moments, broken only by the light tinker of her armor as she shifts. “Yes,” she finally says. “Yes, I think that’s familiar.” Another long, tired sigh. “Not sure what we’ll do if we find them, though. I can recall uniforms, voices, sort of, but…”
“We’ll consider that once we find them,” concludes Vaschael. “Just rest now, Brea.”
Sinking back against the counter, Brea lowers herself to sit at its base. I catch her gaze drift towards me. Spite flickers in her eyes but she says nothing. Not until Vaschael catches it as well. “You two haven’t gotten on here, I take it.”
“Did we before?”
“Well enough, so far as I ever knew.”
As if she hasn’t needled and tormented me as much, if not more than I did her. As if she didn’t so gleefully quarrel with me. I long to rip out her lying tongue, but Vaschael would simply break us up. She holds her glare on me, silent as death.
Vaschael sighs. “Another thing to address that once you’re all home.”
Brea’s brow twitches. “Getty and Imeshan won’t be joining us.”
I tense, guilt’s cold sharp teeth on my neck again.
“Enough, Brea.” Count finished, Vaschael begins to return the shells to her belt. “Have faith, little sister. With any luck, this will all be over soon.”
Brea wipes the blood smear across her lips with the cloth. "Of course," she mutters, then returns to trying to clean her armor.