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i-mybrunettelady · 1 year

Text

Just one mistake (is all it will take)

Summary: Smodur the Unflinching and Alysannyra Ainsaph have a difference of opinion. Renira wants to know more about it. Content warnings: Mentions and allusions to shooting. Spoilers: General spoilers for Icebrood Saga’s episode No Quarter. Title taken from Centuries by Fall out Boy. Also this is a long one.

It’s cold in Drizzlewood. Renira almost envies the charr, who have all the fur on their bodies to keep them warm; she has no such luxury so she has to rely on other means to preserve bodily warmth. It’s less than satisfactory sometimes, though. Sharp wind blows hair into her eyes, and she has to risk getting her fingers out of the hot press of her legs to nudge the thick, woolen coat tighter around her body.

Yet today the Imperators have decided to convene and discuss strategy. As a Pact Commander, Renira has to attend. What gives her a little comfort is the fact that the rest of the humans find themselves in a similar predicament - Nyra’s pale cheeks are bright red from the cold, Kasmeer Meade sits stiffly on her chair and Logan Thackeray is the only one seemingly unfazed by the weather. Renira knows better, though. He’s shivering slightly as well.

She settles more into her seat and her oversized coat. Words reach her ears, a diplomatic response from Crecia Stoneglow, and she wills herself to forget the fucking cold and focus on what’s being said. She doesn’t know if her superiors at the Order will require reports, but she needs all the things she can reasonably get to even work here.

“Wise information to remember,” Malice Swordshadow whispers in Renira’s ear. “It’s about troop numbers. One of my agents gave his report to Crecia two hours ago.”

Renira feels her ears tingle hot under her hair. Her face betrays nothing. “They’ll be written down and given to us later as reports.”

“Us spymasters need to help each other out when we can,” Malice says smoothly. “Your all-charr Whispers unit has given the Legions a lot of usable information, so I wanted to return the favor.”

Renira smiles. That unit’s an idea she’s vaguely proud of, inspired by Laranthir’s Pale Reavers of the Maguuma campaign. “Much appreciated,” she replies. Malice certainly caught her drifting off for a minute, though, if the glint in her eye as she leans back is any indication.

“That’s not going to work, Smodur!” Nyra’s voice booms, firm and unrelenting. Her face is tighter than usual, brows furrowed just that much more. “We’re lacking in proper manpower. If I’m seeing correctly, we’re lacking fifteen people for that little operation of yours. And how many people did you shoot last week?” The sound that leaves her is best described as an aborted breath of overflowing frustration. “Fift–”

“They were defectors, Ainsaph, not just any soldiers!” Smodur says lazily, tapping a claw against the table. “I’m sure even young commanders understand that we don’t need traitors on our operations.”

Nyra breathes deeply. Renira’s eyes are trained on her, on the tension in her neck. She isn’t blinking, staring Smodur down like he isn’t around three and a half times her age and height. “Do not speak over me, Smodur,” she says. Her voice is colder than the sharp wind around them. “Do not interrupt me when I’m speaking and do not, for fuck’s everloving sake, patronize me.”

She then straightens her back and lifts her chin. “You shot fifteen people last week, Smodur. Reconsider not wasting manpower when we need every fucking head in this war!”

“You’re not listening, Ainsaph. They turned their backs–”

“Stop it, both of you!” Crecia yells and everyone almost cricks their neck to look at her. Smodur huffs and growls and Nyra’s eyes are harder than steel. Rytlock Brimstone, who’s been blessedly quiet next to her, leans down to grumble something into Nyra’s ear. “If you have any issues with each other, I’ll have to ask you to sort them out elsewhere. Here, we are a unified front and you’ll have to act like it.”

“Nobody’s gonna hear us, Cre,” Rytlock says. “Especially not Ryland.”

“He’s too busy doing other things,” Nyra adds, voice strained. “He’s not gonna pay attention to us here. Bangar won’t either. We’re certainly not louder than his ego. I should know. My ego’s as big as his.”

Renira shakes her head. Nyra’s statement would’ve been slightly amusing if it wasn’t for her stiff posture and the unblinking stare she keeps pointed at Smodur. She looks like a predator ready to strike, one bad word away from giving him a fist to the face, and Renira knows her well enough to say with certainty she would attack.

She knows people like her. She’s sustained by ego, an idea of inherent self-importance that Renira’s seen in her since their first meeting back in Ebonhawke all those years ago. In another life, she may have been bitter about that fact, that Nyra could afford to have the sense of grandeur because of her high birth. To Renira, though, that’s a statement of fact. Alysannyra Ainsaph has brown hair and ego the size of Tyria and Elona combined.

In no life, however, would she call that idea a delusion on Nyra's part. She knows what she’s capable of, she knows what she must do to satisfy it, she holds herself to impossibly high standards in achieving her goals. She wields it like a weapon and as a driving force. It is a source of power.

It’s made her look a god in the eye, rise from the dead and pay him back double.

Renira’s still a little hung up on rising from the dead, actually. Death’s always felt a little strange. Regardless of any of that, Nyra’s ego is a big, glowing spot in every room she’s in and Smodur’s just stepped on it carelessly, like he’s frolicking on a meadow.

This is going to end in a murder attempt at some point.

“We were talking about the new report on troop numbers,” Renira says conversationally. Kasmeer shoots her a grateful look. There’s a feather-light feel of magic and Nyra’s face loses all tension and remains as impassive as it usually is.

“Yes,” she says, much calmer than a moment ago. “The new report on troop numbers. Crecia, the word is yours.”

***

There’s meatloaf in her hands. A good meatloaf, all things considered - Tybalt would enjoy it, if that’s any indication of its quality. Renira’s always maintained that she has better tastes in food than her friend does, to which Tybalt’s first response would always be that not everyone can look at Queen Jennah’s feet when working.

Renira likes shoes. It’s a weird luxury that Jennah can avoid them, but she’s not the one to judge such matters. In Drizzlewood, anyway, shoes are a must, as is strong, hearty food that can keep you fed for long watches and missions.

She looks at the meat in her hands. The slice is big enough for both her and Nyra to share, a perfect opportunity to discuss whatever the fuck came to be in the Impretarors’ pavillion a few hours ago.

She finds Nyra in her tent - a somewhat bigger than most, perks of being a commander on the field - seated on the bed. She’s rested her elbows on her knees and is rubbing her temples, hiding sighs of lingering frustration. Her hair, once in a tight braid, now falls messily over the furs on her shoulders. There are no torches, so the lingering source of light is the cool, icy shine from her crystalline weapon, Lightbringer, that she’s willed to form a lamp.

“I brought you food,” Renira says, certain Nyra’s heard her steps.

“Soon, we’ll be fighting the Dominion with meatloafs,” Nyra replies. Renira bites down a chuckle. “I’m not complaining. It’s good meatloaf. Once we kick Bangar’s ass, though, I never want to see it again.” Ever the optimist, their Commander.

“At least this one feeds you,” Renira shrugs. “I know many people who could not stand the bread they ate during the Zhaitan campaign.”

“We don’t have a choice during a war,” Nyra lifts her head. Her eyes are muted and unreadable, yet her voice gives away the tiredness. “So they better get used to standing both the meatloaf and the bread. I’m a little hungry.”

Renia sits beside her on the bed and puts the plate between them. Nyra divides it and bites into her slice. “If you tell me we can’t choose allies either, I’m going to smack you.”

“What you told Smodur–”

“Was deserved. He needs to get called out more and if I need to be the one to do it, I will.” Nyra purses her lips. “I just don’t understand him. He’s wasteful. He doesn’t offer second chances. Nobody with a head for strategy will make them squad leaders or officers, or even leave them unsupervised, but he’s being.. Wasteful.” She lets out a long breath. “I said that already.”

“So you support defectors, then?” Renira daintily bites into her own meal, licking her lips clean. It’s salty. “Traitors?”

“Gods, no. We just disagree on what a defector is.”

“Definition of a defector is very clear,” Renira says slowly. Without judgment. “Not all people are worth saving, Nyra.”

Nyra frowns. Her lower lip pales with how harshly she’s biting into it. “I’m tired of losing people, Ren. They may be monsters and traitors and whatever else, but who’s to say we’re not, to them?” She kicks her foot. “War is ugly and unfair and brutal. They may have defected, but I don’t think they should have their personhood denied for it. We should be inspiring them to stay with us rather than scaring them into joining the other side!”

Other, rather than the enemy side. Renira would call them the enemy side, but Nyra’s always been the more sentimental one of the two. “So you agree with the shooting, as long as Smodur accepts them as people?”

“I don’t know,” Nyra says after a long pause. “I guess I’m just.. Upset about it. It distresses me, seeing prisoners and traitors killed. How do you look at that and still say you’re a good guy in the end?” Her eyes water slightly and she blinks it away. “He asked me to drop a bomb down a stuffed bunker. I chose to not say fuck you, no and did it anyway. I can say without a shadow of a doubt I am not a good guy. But guess what? Neither is he.”

You’re better than most, Renira wants to say. She knows it won’t go anywhere. Nyra’s walls of guilt are too strong and impenetrable right now.

“I’m afraid I’ll hear the rifles go off when I lay down, and think why I didn’t do anything,” Nyra continues. Her voice is wobbly. “I should’ve yelled, ordered, argued, anything, but instead, I just walked past like I’m some sort of powerless mouse and not…” She laughs bitterly and points at her chest. “Whatever the fuck I am right now.”

“You couldn’t do anything,” Renira says gently and places a hand on Nyra’s. “They would have hurt you too.”

“One of them asked for mercy,” Nyra whispers. “One was unrepentant, but the other asked for mercy. The rifles were louder than both.” She wipes her hand and rubs the tears off her cheeks. “I’ll remember the rifles when I go to sleep.”

“Nyra–”

“Mercy, Renira, he asked for mercy and I didn’t do anything!” Nyra stands up and holds her hands near her face. They’re shaking. The burn marks on them are still harrowing to look at.

Renira’s on her feet as well, towering over Nyra in what she hopes is a comforting shadow. “You may not have saved him,” she says softly, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. Nyra’s cheeks are wet. “But you can save many more. I know it’s distressing, I know it’s overwhelming, but you shouldn’t try to save everyone at your own expense. He made a mistake and he paid for it.” She wraps an arm around her. Nyra digs her face in Renira’s neck.

“He cried for mercy,” Nyra repeats. “He cried for mercy and was denied.”

Charr Legions are not well known for their mercy. But that’s their business. Renira knows better than to questions as firmly established as the Legions, especially as their ally. Besides, it’s not like the Whispers’ conditioning is any different in that regard. But Nyra’s a different kind of beast altogether, half-way heroic, half-way self-serving. There’s no way she could fully understand.

Renira doesn’t begrudge Smodur for doing this. But if she had to pick sides, she would immediately side with Nyra.

“Then you make sure as few people as possible have to plead like this,” Renira says into Nyra’s hair. Nyra’s hands tenderly wrap around her waist. “Then you make sure the Legions are victorious. You, Crecia, Efram, Rytlock. Hell, even Logan and Kasmeer. You’re not alone, remember?”

“I suppose I have to remember that,” Nyra whispers. There’s wetness on Renira’s neck. She presses a kiss to Nyra’s temple and doesn’t let go for a long time.

The rifles do not go off that night.

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