Battlefield
The battlefield is chaos and noise: the sound of sword against sword, of taunts and battle cries, of arrows rushing overhead. Esthur revels in it. There are times, more often lately, where he doesn’t feel alive without a blade in his hand. He is bathed in flame as he advances across the field, stopping only to engage those warriors brave enough to stand in his way.
They don’t stand for long.
Esthur has no passion for this fight. He does not have to feel good about the warriors he cuts down on his way across the battlefield; he does not have to rally behind a cause to be motivated. He has been hired to do a job; knowing what he is fighting for would only slow him down. His world is narrowed to Veritas in his hand and whatever opponent is in front of him. The roar of battle around him is familiar. His every motion is practiced, almost meditative.
This is what Esthur does. This is what Esthur knows how to do. There is a reason he still fights, though the Agma are gone and the heavens have collapsed: he doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore.
Something approaches from behind, a warning he gets from his living tail, and Esthur spins in one fluid motion to intercept their weapon before it hits. He deflects the blade mechanically, takes two quick steps backward to put distance between himself and his attacker, and blinks once at the sight of them: the closest he has gotten in a long time to an expression of surprise.
Esthur has not encountered another Daiten in a very long time, and especially not in a fight. This one twirls his blade as he watches Esthur, his stance guarded; he is built like a fighter, and his eyes are a bright, piercing red. Those eyes glance down to Esthur’s flaming sword and then back up to his face, sparking with something like recognition.
“You—that blade—” his adversary says, eyes narrowing. Esthur takes in this lull in the fight, observing the battle beyond this other Daiten. It is still too early to say how it’s going, exactly—both sides, despite everything, have been evenly matched. He isn’t terribly interested in whatever revelation it is that this stranger is having; once, he had been a warrior renowned. Now, he is only a lone skirmisher with a distinctive sword.
“I cannot believe this is where you, of all people, ended up,” the other Daiten is saying to himself, even as he draws a second blade from the twin scabbards at his side. It catches the light, gleaming like glass, or like some sort of crystal. It appears that recognizing Esthur does not give him any hesitation in fighting Esthur. He earns just a bit of respect for that, for knowing when a fight is inevitable and being willing to participate in it regardless.
With a blade in each hand, the stranger advances. He moves, distinctly, like a warrior; he has clearly studied his weapons, honed his skill. But he is only a warrior—there is no hint in his manner that he has studied the combat arts Esthur himself uses. He has no magic.
As the warrior rushes forward, Esthur calls on the reserves of energy at his core, pulling them to the surface. At his bidding, the magic compresses the air around him, releasing it moments later as a blast of concussive force with Esthur at its center.
Thrown by the force, or perhaps by the sound, the warrior’s foot lands wrong in his next step forward; in that opening, Esthur strikes. His opponent is quick enough to parry, leaping back to put space between them again. When he takes his stance again his eyes are focused, no longer dwelling on Esthur’s identity or what he used to be. That is how Esthur prefers it.
The battle begins again. Esthur’s sword is steel and fire, casting light and sparks on the stranger’s transparent blades when they clash. While there is nothing magical about his opponents blades, they are light and fast and keep Esthur on his feet. For the first time in a long time, a fight takes all his concentration: his vision narrows to the person before him, and the sounds and distractions of the battlefield fall away.
It becomes clear, very quickly, that this warrior has a sense for what Esthur’s next move will be. He reacts to actions not yet taken, seems to know what spells Esthur will cast before the words are past his lips. His gift isn’t enough to push an advantage; at best, it makes him Esthur’s equal, turning this into a battle of attrition that Esthur is still certain he will win. Casting spells draws from his own energy, but he is more conservative with his movements than his opponent, and he needs only lift one weapon.
“You’re on the wrong side,” his foe spits during a short lull in their battle, stepping back, breathing heavily. “You’re fighting good people. If you just listened to their cause—”
Esthur interrupts him. “I am under no impression that I am right,” he says. “And I do not need to hear your reasons. I fight because I was paid to fight this battle.”
The warrior’s lip curls. “The mighty Esthur, bearer of the sword Veritas, fighting not for cause but for coin.” His voice drips with distaste, and Esthur senses that any hesitation he had been fighting with before, if there had been any, has fallen away entirely. “I can hardly believe my eyes.”
“Then close them,” Esthur says, unmoved. Even if he were to question his reasons for fighting, it would not happen in the midst of battle. That is how you get killed. He has fought enough wars by now to know that the only thing that matters is that he survives it. He doesn’t need to feel good about the fights he chooses.
The pair of them dive back into the battle, and Esthur’s world narrows to the clash of sword on sword and the hum of magic in his veins. The fight drags on: any of Esthur’s decisive blows are blocked or evaded before they can even begin, but his opponent can’t get close enough to make a meaningful mark on Esthur, either. It is a stalemate, but it can’t last long: Esthur only needs to endure until his opponent makes one misstep.
The warrior slips on the mud, his foot sliding only a few inches. He looks down for an instant to regain his footing and Esthur sees the last blow open before him.
He feels no guilt at striking down another Daiten. Heaven fell a long time ago, and the Daitens with it; their choices now are their own, and there is no corruption in Esthur’s heart to feed on this decision. It is the same as with any other foe: in a fight, if you hesitate, you may die yourself. Esthur does not hesitate.
The warrior sees it coming and blocks the blow, but Esthur’s sword crashes down with enough force to splinter the crystal blade. One more strike, and the battle will be over—
A sense from behind again, from the eyes on his tail, and Esthur turns just in time to intercept the sword swinging toward his back. Through the fire and the surprise, it is impossible to see his attacker, and Esthur takes several decisive steps away from both the warrior and his new adversary before his eyes clear and he looks again.
Another Daiten stands before him, a large sword in his hands and an inscrutable expression on his face. Esthur’s mind takes a moment to catch up, to recognize the face before him, and when it does he can’t stop himself from letting it show on his face—the tiniest flicker of emotion before he schools it back. This isn’t the time. It isn’t the time, but—
It’s Aechor.
This is a dead Daiten standing before him. It should be a dead Daiten, but Author's eyes are bright and his blade had strength behind it and Esthur knows him. He has had this nightmare a thousand times before, but the quiet ache in his muscles and the slow-growing exhaustion of using his magic tells him he is awake.
His mind accepts two revelations in quick succession. First: that Aechor survived the fall of heaven, though he had vanished for so long. Second: that he is here, where Esthur is, facing him. Close enough to touch.
Which should make him happy, except that this is a battle and Aechor’s sword is pointed at him. Esthur has no passion for this fight, cares little for the outcome; it is only one in thousands of other identical battles. He is here only because he was hired to be; he does not go back on his word, and he does not back down from a fight.
Esthur’s friend has risen from the grave before him, and he still has to fight. He lets out a soft breath, sinking into his battle stance again. “Aechor,” he murmurs, just to see the way his friend’s head lifts at the sound, confirming that this is real. Esthur almost can’t believe how cosmically bad his luck seems to be.
“Hello, Esthur,” Aechor’s voice is soft but guarded. He knows—or he should know—that Esthur is true to his word to a fault. That he won’t turn and leave in the middle of a fight. That he can never put down his sword while there is an enemy before him—no matter how he feels about that enemy. When they knew each other all that time ago, when they trained together before the shattering of all they knew and fought alongside each other in the war, Esthur was much the same; he has changed, over these long years, but only as a net entangles that which it already holds.
He is everything he used to be, but more of it—trapped in it, with no escape. He won’t leave a fight. Can’t leave, and never could.
Displaying optimism—or, perhaps, desperation—Aechor continues speaking. “You know we don’t have to fight each other.” His voice doesn’t shake, nor do his hands. He is calm, maybe even resigned. He speaks these words not because he expects them to change anything, but because he has to try. Because he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t. “You can join us. If you must fight, do it beside us.” He gestures to his warrior friend, who is slowly rising from the ground. Esthur barely spares him a glance, taking another step back to keep them both in view.
Esthur admires some part of this: the determination, perhaps, in the face of difficult odds. Maybe the fact that Aechor still believes Esthur has a choice. But no admiration will change his answer. “I can’t do that,” he says, “and you know that about me.”
Aechor nods once, like he got the answer he expected. He and Esthur trained together for a long time. They fought next to each other against Agma; they had once been like a unit, battling in perfect sync. Then Aechor had died—or disappeared, vanished, whichever. What matters is they knew each other. No matter how much Aechor might hope, he would know that Esthur doesn’t change his mind so easily.
Aechor spares a quick glance for his warrior friend, who is gaining his feet again. “I can handle this, Yuri,” he says. “Go do what you need.” The warrior nods, discarding his broken blade, and Esthur focuses back on Aechor instead. He trusts that he won’t be surprised by an attack from behind, at least.
The battle has been stalled long enough. Esthur takes a breath, and in the next he is back in the fight.
Aechor is rusty. Still sharp, of course, striking hard and fast, flawless footwork—but he isn’t moving like he used to, or like Esthur does. He is out of practice, hasn’t been fighting as often. Esthur remembers what it was like to fight him at his best; he is physically stronger than Esthur—has to be, to lift his heavy sword—and Esthur’s strategy against him is to be light on his feet. It is something of a dance; Esthur can move faster, but he has to avoid being hit. Even if he isn’t at his best, Aechor is strong enough to do some real damage.
At one point, Esthur pauses just a moment too long; to deflect the blow, he has to call on magic to redirect the force. At another, Aechor falls back a few steps and uses his own magic to summon a light bright enough to blind Esthur, giving him back the advantage. The spellcasting feels so natural in the fight: they exchange blows, then spells; they dance around one another on the field, strike after strike. Esthur remembers this. Esthur taught Aechor some of these tricks; Aechor throws a wave of force at Esthur which shakes his footing, and Esthur recognizes it because he had done the same only a few minutes before in his fight against the warrior.
And Esthur is getting tired. The fight with Aechor’s warrior friend had been taxing on its own. Aechor may not be able to sense Esthur’s moves before they happen, but he knows Esthur well enough to counter any attacks he makes. This demands endurance from Esthur that he doesn’t know he has. Precision, too; one wrong step, and he could leave an opening big enough to bring him down.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Aechor hisses between strikes. Esthur isn’t stupid enough to respond; this battle deserves all his concentration. He parries the next blow, hears the scrape of metal on metal. With his magic, he pushes Aechor back a few steps. “Esthur, this is something you would care about, if you would only hear me out—”
Aechor continues to try to reason with him, but Esthur keeps his focus. He can think after the fight—and after this fight, he suspects there will be a lot to think about. Aechor’s words, too, fade to the background eventually. The minutes drag on. Esthur can feel exhaustion beginning to drag at his heels, ringing in his ears.
He is more practiced than Aechor is. He is more focused. He taught Aechor half the skills that are being turned against him, and he is determined not to stop fighting until he cannot move any longer. But he has no passion for the battle, and he had spent a long time fighting that warrior before, and he can feel his energy flagging before he is ready for it to fail him.
He thinks he has one more spell in him. He holds up one hand, focuses on the flame—
He blinks too soon. Aechor casts in the same instant, a blast of force that sends Esthur stumbling backward. Esthur bares his teeth in a snarl, raising his hand again, and this time he can see the fire spark. In the next instant, before he can react, Aechor sweeps his feet out from under him. The spell goes wide, cast ineffectually into the air; Esthur’s back hits the ground.
His head spins. In the next second, Aechor’s blade is driven into the ground beside his neck, close enough he can feel the metal of it. Esthur flinches; a few inches to the left, and it would have driven through his throat.
“You’re down,” Aechor says, decisive. “Just… stay there, would you?” He sounds tired, too—at least as exhausted as Esthur feels. Esthur shifts to get his elbows under him, just enough to push himself back up, but a firm hand on his chest keeps him down. “Stay there,” Aechor repeats himself. “Good lord, Esthur, know when to quit. You’re beaten.”
His strength fails him; Esthur calls for magic, and it doesn’t come. He is beaten. He also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if it had been anyone else he wouldn’t just be on the ground. He is only still alive because Aechor doesn’t want to kill him. Maybe that should be a good thing, but mostly Esthur just feels like everything has been knocked out of him. The wind, the energy, any emotions he had.
It isn’t giving up if he is defeated. He has done all he could.
“I’ll stay,” he mutters, relenting. He drops his sword, allowing it to vanish into wherever it goes when he doesn’t need it. Eyes closed, he listens as Aechor lets out a long breath and retrieves his own blade.
“I’ll be back for you,” Aechor says, soft enough that Esthur isn’t sure it’s directed at him, “but there’s a war to fight, first.”
“Are you certain about this?” Yuri asks, doubtful, even as he helps Aechor hoist their fallen enemy from the ground. “He fought us. He very nearly ended me. When he wakes up again, there is no telling what he might do.” “I’m certain,” Aechor says softly. “Nobody else is coming for him; we shouldn’t just leave him here for the crows.” He sounds sure, to Yuri’s ears, but he also sounds sentimental; there is history here, one that Yuri isn’t privy to, and he can see that he is missing most of the story that would make this make sense. “You were friends,” he says. It’s a guess, but an educated one; the way they had talked to each other, it had been clear. The way they had fought, even; Yuri knows what it looks like to fight alongside someone you trust absolutely, and it seems it isn’t so much different when you fight against that person. You can predict their movements, react to them more quickly. Esthur had been a well-known warrior, once. Yuri never met him, never even fought near him, but he had heard of him. Aechor is not the same—Yuri wouldn’t have recognized him on sight, not the way he had seen Esthur with his flaming sword and known who he faced. But Aechor and Esthur… they had known each other. When Aechor had stepped in to assist Yuri, Yuri had seen Esthur’s impassive expression break for a moment. Yuri is curious; he won’t deny that. He will also try not to pry too far into something which doesn't concern him. “Yes, we were friends,” Aechor says in answer. The two of them duck under Esthur’s arms, lifting him from the ground together. He hangs limp between them, completely unconscious. For the best, probably: Yuri doesn’t hope to fight Esthur again anytime soon. He broke his sword. “I don’t know what happened,” Aechor admits. “He wasn’t always like this. He used to care.” “About you?” “About anything.” Aechor lets out a sigh that’s half a laugh, devoid of humor. “About fighting the right people. About doing the right thing.” “A lot of Daitens changed, when heaven fell,” Yuri murmurs. He did. He can count on one hand the number of Daitens he has encountered who are exactly as they used to be; the collapse of their entire world left a mark on everyone, even those who pretend it didn’t. Yuri himself had not always been a fighter; the war with Agma changed him. Aechor only hums in answer, and together they drag Esthur back toward their camp. It’s a makeshift gaggle of tents and old crates; the group they are supporting is not wealthy, in money or in resources, but they have enough for shelter at least. Yuri follows Aechor’s lead through the tightly-packed tents until they find a vacant one with enough space to set Esthur down. He is no less intimidating when he’s knocked out, even if he doesn’t have his sword in hand; Yuri had done what he could, but that was never a fight he was going to win. When one of his blades had been shattered at the force of Esthur’s strike, he had known that. “Where is his sword?” Yuri asks. It would be a terrible shame to leave a priceless weapon like Veritas out on the battlefield to be found by scavengers. “Hm?” Aechor is kneeling beside Esthur, checking him for injuries. “Oh, Veritas? It’s magic; he won’t lose it.” Despite answering, Aechor is only half paying attention; Yuri crosses his arms and doesn’t interrupt anymore. After a few minutes, Aechor stands up again. “I’ll be back,” he says. “There are just a few things I need to get.” “You’re leaving me with him?” Yuri asks, gesturing to the unconscious Esthur. He doesn’t intend to sound so incredulous, but this Daiten had managed to beat Yuri at his best. Worse—if Aechor hadn’t intervened when he did, Esthur might have killed him. “He broke one of my swords. I can’t fight him.” “You shouldn’t need to,” Aechor assures him. “He knows when he is beaten; he yielded. And I won’t be gone long. He probably won’t even wake up—you’ll be fine.” Yuri shakes his head, but he sits down at Esthur’s side regardless. “Fine, fine. Just don’t take too long. It makes me nervous, having him around.” He glances at Esthur, apparently still asleep; his chest rises and falls slightly with every breath, but otherwise he doesn’t so much as twitch. Aechor lets out a soft laugh and slips out of the tent. Many long minutes pass. Yuri watches Esthur warily, still half-convinced he’s going to wake up, summon this magic sword of his, and stab Yuri through the heart. That had been a difficult fight—a fast-paced one which demanded all of Yuri’s abilities—and he had still lost, at his best. He had heard stories about Esthur, but never seen the reality. Maybe Esthur can’t beat an entire army single-handed, but he did nearly beat two of the best warriors Yuri knows; it’s still impressive. Still intimidating. Yuri doesn’t much admire the cause Esthur chose to fight for—or the reason—and he finds himself more wary of Esthur than he is in awe of him. This sort of person, there is no predicting their actions. With a start, Yuri realizes that Esthur’s eyes are open. He watches Esthur for a moment, suddenly tense and ready for anything—Esthur blinks, once, and then closes his eyes again and lets out a long sigh. “So I guess I’m not getting paid,” Esthur murmurs; his voice is quiet, barely heard over the clamor of the camp outside. Yuri sighs himself; the people whose main priority is money make him even more nervous. A few shiny coins will never be an appropriate justification for the sort of death and destruction war brings about. “Do you not get paid in advance?” asks Yuri, curious despite himself. “Half in advance,” Esthur answers. “The other half after the fight, if I survive. I’m sure they’ll presume me dead—anything to not have to pay.” Despite it all, he doesn’t sound particularly upset about it. Yuri frowns; if he doesn’t care about the cause he fights for, and he doesn’t care about his employers or missing his reward, what does he care for? Everybody has something. “You don’t sound upset about getting kidnapped off the battlefield,” Yuri says, tone careful. “I’m not,” Esthur says. “I know when I’ve been beaten. I’m sure I mentioned it: I didn’t care about the fight.” “It doesn’t sound to me like you care for much at all,” Yuri says. He crosses his arms, looking more closely at Esthur. Is he really so unmotivated? Is he really so strong when he doesn’t seem to think anything around him matters? “I care about keeping my word, perhaps,” Esthur says. “I care about holding other people to theirs.” His eyes open again; with no visible pupils, it’s hard to tell what, exactly, he is looking at. It could be the ceiling; it could be Yuri himself. “I care about Aechor. Where is he?” “Stepped out for a moment,” Yuri says. “He’ll be back. Are you injured? I’m certain he will want to treat your wounds.” “Just a few scratches,” Esthur shakes his head, shuts his eyes again. “Nothing serious. I drained myself too much, with the magic, but I’ll recover.” A moment passes, and then: “What was the purpose of taking me here?” “Aechor is getting sentimental,” Yuri answers, though he isn’t terribly judgemental about it. He imagines that he would do the same, in this situation. None of his friends are going to see him on the field of battle and choose to fight him anyway, but if they did, they most certainly would not leave him to die out there. Esthur lets out a quiet chuckle. “So am I, I think.” The flap of the tent opens again; Yuri sees the instant before Esthur throws himself upright, and with a hand on his shoulder he keeps him down. It’s only Aechor, Yuri realizes, and a moment later Esthur shrugs off Yuri’s hand and pushes himself to a sitting position anyway. “You’re awake,” Aechor says. “So I am,” replies Esthur. Yuri watches the two of them watch each other, wary and hopeful with the context of whatever history they have, and decides that this isn’t his conversation to be present for. He stands up, making a show of brushing off his pants, and as he leaves he pats Aechor on the shoulder. “I’ve got to check on some things,” he says, which isn’t even a lie. “Don’t get into another fight, alright?” Aechor nods at him, and Yuri leaves. He can hear one of them start to talk as he starts to walk away, but it isn’t his business; he doesn’t stay to try to and listen in.
Yuri runs out of busywork to do around the camp when night falls; that’s when Aechor seeks him out again. Yuri makes room for him on the pile of empty crates he’s sitting on, and for a few minutes the two of them just sit in silence. Yuri isn’t sure if it’s comfortable, or if it’s time Aechor is spending gathering his words. He doesn’t mind waiting, either way. Eventually, Aechor does speak. “He’s staying,” he says. “I don’t think I convinced him of the cause itself, but he doesn’t have anywhere else he needs to go.” “Is that wise?” Yuri asks. “He was our enemy only hours ago.” “He was my friend long before that,”Aechor says, with enough conviction that Yuri can’t argue it. “Besides—he might have information we can use. Whoever employed him wanted today’s battle to go their way. They have power, they have money, they have influence—finding them could let us take the fight to them. End this all at the source.” “If he’s willing to share,” Yuri says. He has to admit it’s a good idea, but only if Esthur doesn’t start a fight about it later. “Why would he be loyal to a group that didn’t pay him?” Aechor asks. “It’s more than we had before today.” “It is.” Yuri nods. He lets out a long sigh. “This has dragged on long enough. I’m willing to try.” “Good.” Aechor stands up again, stretching out. “It’s getting late, my friend. You should probably turn in. There will be a lot of work to do tomorrow, too.” “Yeah,” Yuri agrees, feeling the exhaustion from the earlier battle even more keenly. His shoulders ache; his head hurts. He misses home, especially: the peace, the comfort, the place to rest. The sooner they fix this conflict, the sooner he can go back—even if Yuri doesn’t entirely trust the solution they have. Anything has to be worth a try; that’s how war works. He still stays outside for a few minutes more, thinking about how his home must be doing without him. When he does go to sleep, he dreams about it.
“Are you certain about this?” Yuri asks, doubtful, even as he helps Aechor hoist their fallen enemy from the ground. “He fought us. He very nearly ended me. When he wakes up again, there is no telling what he might do.” “I’m certain,” Aechor says softly. “Nobody else is coming for him; we shouldn’t just leave him here for the crows.” He sounds sure, to Yuri’s ears, but he also sounds sentimental; there is history here, one that Yuri isn’t privy to, and he can see that he is missing most of the story that would make this make sense. “You were friends,” he says. It’s a guess, but an educated one; the way they had talked to each other, it had been clear. The way they had fought, even; Yuri knows what it looks like to fight alongside someone you trust absolutely, and it seems it isn’t so much different when you fight against that person. You can predict their movements, react to them more quickly. Esthur had been a well-known warrior, once. Yuri never met him, never even fought near him, but he had heard of him. Aechor is not the same—Yuri wouldn’t have recognized him on sight, not the way he had seen Esthur with his flaming sword and known who he faced. But Aechor and Esthur… they had known each other. When Aechor had stepped in to assist Yuri, Yuri had seen Esthur’s impassive expression break for a moment. Yuri is curious; he won’t deny that. He will also try not to pry too far into something which doesn't concern him. “Yes, we were friends,” Aechor says in answer. The two of them duck under Esthur’s arms, lifting him from the ground together. He hangs limp between them, completely unconscious. For the best, probably: Yuri doesn’t hope to fight Esthur again anytime soon. He broke his sword. “I don’t know what happened,” Aechor admits. “He wasn’t always like this. He used to care.” “About you?” “About anything.” Aechor lets out a sigh that’s half a laugh, devoid of humor. “About fighting the right people. About doing the right thing.” “A lot of Daitens changed, when heaven fell,” Yuri murmurs. He did. He can count on one hand the number of Daitens he has encountered who are exactly as they used to be; the collapse of their entire world left a mark on everyone, even those who pretend it didn’t. Yuri himself had not always been a fighter; the war with Agma changed him. Aechor only hums in answer, and together they drag Esthur back toward their camp. It’s a makeshift gaggle of tents and old crates; the group they are supporting is not wealthy, in money or in resources, but they have enough for shelter at least. Yuri follows Aechor’s lead through the tightly-packed tents until they find a vacant one with enough space to set Esthur down. He is no less intimidating when he’s knocked out, even if he doesn’t have his sword in hand; Yuri had done what he could, but that was never a fight he was going to win. When one of his blades had been shattered at the force of Esthur’s strike, he had known that. “Where is his sword?” Yuri asks. It would be a terrible shame to leave a priceless weapon like Veritas out on the battlefield to be found by scavengers. “Hm?” Aechor is kneeling beside Esthur, checking him for injuries. “Oh, Veritas? It’s magic; he won’t lose it.” Despite answering, Aechor is only half paying attention; Yuri crosses his arms and doesn’t interrupt anymore. After a few minutes, Aechor stands up again. “I’ll be back,” he says. “There are just a few things I need to get.” “You’re leaving me with him?” Yuri asks, gesturing to the unconscious Esthur. He doesn’t intend to sound so incredulous, but this Daiten had managed to beat Yuri at his best. Worse—if Aechor hadn’t intervened when he did, Esthur might have killed him. “He broke one of my swords. I can’t fight him.” “You shouldn’t need to,” Aechor assures him. “He knows when he is beaten; he yielded. And I won’t be gone long. He probably won’t even wake up—you’ll be fine.” Yuri shakes his head, but he sits down at Esthur’s side regardless. “Fine, fine. Just don’t take too long. It makes me nervous, having him around.” He glances at Esthur, apparently still asleep; his chest rises and falls slightly with every breath, but otherwise he doesn’t so much as twitch. Aechor lets out a soft laugh and slips out of the tent. Many long minutes pass. Yuri watches Esthur warily, still half-convinced he’s going to wake up, summon this magic sword of his, and stab Yuri through the heart. That had been a difficult fight—a fast-paced one which demanded all of Yuri’s abilities—and he had still lost, at his best. He had heard stories about Esthur, but never seen the reality. Maybe Esthur can’t beat an entire army single-handed, but he did nearly beat two of the best warriors Yuri knows; it’s still impressive. Still intimidating. Yuri doesn’t much admire the cause Esthur chose to fight for—or the reason—and he finds himself more wary of Esthur than he is in awe of him. This sort of person, there is no predicting their actions. With a start, Yuri realizes that Esthur’s eyes are open. He watches Esthur for a moment, suddenly tense and ready for anything—Esthur blinks, once, and then closes his eyes again and lets out a long sigh. “So I guess I’m not getting paid,” Esthur murmurs; his voice is quiet, barely heard over the clamor of the camp outside. Yuri sighs himself; the people whose main priority is money make him even more nervous. A few shiny coins will never be an appropriate justification for the sort of death and destruction war brings about. “Do you not get paid in advance?” asks Yuri, curious despite himself. “Half in advance,” Esthur answers. “The other half after the fight, if I survive. I’m sure they’ll presume me dead—anything to not have to pay.” Despite it all, he doesn’t sound particularly upset about it. Yuri frowns; if he doesn’t care about the cause he fights for, and he doesn’t care about his employers or missing his reward, what does he care for? Everybody has something. “You don’t sound upset about getting kidnapped off the battlefield,” Yuri says, tone careful. “I’m not,” Esthur says. “I know when I’ve been beaten. I’m sure I mentioned it: I didn’t care about the fight.” “It doesn’t sound to me like you care for much at all,” Yuri says. He crosses his arms, looking more closely at Esthur. Is he really so unmotivated? Is he really so strong when he doesn’t seem to think anything around him matters? “I care about keeping my word, perhaps,” Esthur says. “I care about holding other people to theirs.” His eyes open again; with no visible pupils, it’s hard to tell what, exactly, he is looking at. It could be the ceiling; it could be Yuri himself. “I care about Aechor. Where is he?” “Stepped out for a moment,” Yuri says. “He’ll be back. Are you injured? I’m certain he will want to treat your wounds.” “Just a few scratches,” Esthur shakes his head, shuts his eyes again. “Nothing serious. I drained myself too much, with the magic, but I’ll recover.” A moment passes, and then: “What was the purpose of taking me here?” “Aechor is getting sentimental,” Yuri answers, though he isn’t terribly judgemental about it. He imagines that he would do the same, in this situation. None of his friends are going to see him on the field of battle and choose to fight him anyway, but if they did, they most certainly would not leave him to die out there. Esthur lets out a quiet chuckle. “So am I, I think.” The flap of the tent opens again; Yuri sees the instant before Esthur throws himself upright, and with a hand on his shoulder he keeps him down. It’s only Aechor, Yuri realizes, and a moment later Esthur shrugs off Yuri’s hand and pushes himself to a sitting position anyway. “You’re awake,” Aechor says. “So I am,” replies Esthur. Yuri watches the two of them watch each other, wary and hopeful with the context of whatever history they have, and decides that this isn’t his conversation to be present for. He stands up, making a show of brushing off his pants, and as he leaves he pats Aechor on the shoulder. “I’ve got to check on some things,” he says, which isn’t even a lie. “Don’t get into another fight, alright?” Aechor nods at him, and Yuri leaves. He can hear one of them start to talk as he starts to walk away, but it isn’t his business; he doesn’t stay to try to and listen in.
Yuri runs out of busywork to do around the camp when night falls; that’s when Aechor seeks him out again. Yuri makes room for him on the pile of empty crates he’s sitting on, and for a few minutes the two of them just sit in silence. Yuri isn’t sure if it’s comfortable, or if it’s time Aechor is spending gathering his words. He doesn’t mind waiting, either way. Eventually, Aechor does speak. “He’s staying,” he says. “I don’t think I convinced him of the cause itself, but he doesn’t have anywhere else he needs to go.” “Is that wise?” Yuri asks. “He was our enemy only hours ago.” “He was my friend long before that,”Aechor says, with enough conviction that Yuri can’t argue it. “Besides—he might have information we can use. Whoever employed him wanted today’s battle to go their way. They have power, they have money, they have influence—finding them could let us take the fight to them. End this all at the source.” “If he’s willing to share,” Yuri says. He has to admit it’s a good idea, but only if Esthur doesn’t start a fight about it later. “Why would he be loyal to a group that didn’t pay him?” Aechor asks. “It’s more than we had before today.” “It is.” Yuri nods. He lets out a long sigh. “This has dragged on long enough. I’m willing to try.” “Good.” Aechor stands up again, stretching out. “It’s getting late, my friend. You should probably turn in. There will be a lot of work to do tomorrow, too.” “Yeah,” Yuri agrees, feeling the exhaustion from the earlier battle even more keenly. His shoulders ache; his head hurts. He misses home, especially: the peace, the comfort, the place to rest. The sooner they fix this conflict, the sooner he can go back—even if Yuri doesn’t entirely trust the solution they have. Anything has to be worth a try; that’s how war works. He still stays outside for a few minutes more, thinking about how his home must be doing without him. When he does go to sleep, he dreams about it.
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