[center][b]Vesta & Cyril[/b][/center]

The ambassador had already disappeared up the stairs and into a bed. Surely, a pencil pusher like him would have been exhausted after a long day of traveling. Vesta, too, felt tired and her body ached, but it was a good pain. Riding horseback worked muscles she could actually use; she didn’t have to worry about putting the wrong kind of pressure on her knee or slowly and methodically trudge her way down a road. A simple pleasure, like the kind she found in the mug of mead that she was currently nursing, or it would have been if dark clouds looming in her future. They would be in Gurata soon. The last time she had been in that frozen shithole some bastard had crippled her with a cheapshot. How long ago had that been? She couldn’t even remember. And now she was going back, dragged along by some wide-eyed and bushy-tailed scion.

Tilting the mug back, she drained her drink before pushing herself back from the table and onto her feet. Her scabbard clacked against the ground, betraying her otherwise silent footsteps as she approached Cyril and the Wanderer. Vesta brushed the hair out of her face and faked a cough to get their attention. 

“I am safe in assuming that you are free now? I would still like a chance to have a word,” she said to Cyril, before casting a cold glance at the Wanderer. Her voice dripped with venom; her left hand curled into a ball. “He was just about to go for a walk, was he not?” she said, before turning back to her Prince. Her gaze did not soften as she nodded to the stairs leading to their private rooms. “Shall we, Cyril?”

The cough was enough to apparently physically startle the Wanderer, making him jump slightly, almost threatening to be expeled from his skin. Cyril's reaction was much more tame, straightening slightly before he turned to face Vesta with a smile. Though it didn't fade, his gaze became curious as the sudden, unpleasant turn came into the woman's gaze and words. Beyond that curiosity, whatever Cyril thought about it he kept to himself. The Wanderer, meanwhile, shrank away, seeming to become even smaller than he usually was as he looked away, as if ashamed.

"Sure thing, Joy."

She nodded as if to say "follow me" and then limped her way up the steps, holding the door to her room open for Cyril before stepping in behind him. Closing it, she latched the door and made her way across the small room. It was actually quite a bright and quaint room, but for some reason the atmosphere felt heavy. She set her sword up against a side table next to her bed, offering the chair to Cyril with a gesture of her hand as she leaned against the wall. Pulling her flask off of her hip as she looked out the window, she took a big swig of the burning liquor. [i]You're just delaying this,[/i] she thought, capping her flask. She tossed the object to Cyril instead of putting it back on her belt. 

"Have some," she said with a huff, folding her arms over her chest. It sounded more like a demand than an offer; she eyed him expectantly as she mulled over in her head how to start. Sighing, she lowered her gaze to her feet, her lips pressing into a frown. Finally, after what felt like an almost unbearable amount of time, she spoke. 

"I think the first time we ever met was when I was close to your age now," she said, her voice heavy. "Your father had ordered me to train his son how to use a sword. I was one of the best back then." She drummed her fingers as she continued to fix her eyes to the ground. "I remember being real upset about that. I think both of us were upset about it. I always figured you wanted daddy dearest to spend time with you. I just felt like I was being punished, forced to babysit some little brat because I had upset a few dozen noble families during my younger years. I didn't let it show, but I was furious." For a moment, there was a hint of a smile on her face. "Although, I wasn't nearly as mad as the day your father promoted me and had to find you a new trainer because I had become too busy. Stupid to think about now."

She let out another loud huff, and then peeled her eyes off of the floor to look at Cyril.

"Do you remember my first lesson? The first thing I said to you?" she asked. There was a hint of doubtful desperation in her words, as if she knew he would not remember.

Cyril was not one to drink often, especially not while on a mission. He nearly missed the flask entirely, hands quickly coming up at the very last moment to catch it. Blinking, he almost absentmindedly took the seat she had offered him. In the silence that followed their arrival, he spent the moments looking over the flask, before almost cautiously opening it. The expression on the woman's face made it seem like he didn't really have a choice in the matter, so after a silent sigh he finally took a sip, thinking one was more than enough.

He managed to keep himself from wincing. She was just carrying this around?

The burning in his throat quickly faded at the mention of his father. In the time that she was looking at the ground, the color had drained from the Prince's gaze slightly as he tensed just a little. His finger tapped slightly against her flask, being the only other sign of his irritation. As her words went more away from the subject his father and instead towards how the two of them were in the past, the Prince relaxed some. By the time she looked up to him, the displeasure was gone entirely as he instead smiled to himself, thinking back to the practical beatings in the past that, while at the time and at first he hated, he had grown to understand the reasoning why they happened in the first place.

The response to her question came immediately, straightening slightly in the chair as he set the flask off to the side, with no desire to consume any more. "Never lower my guard. Surprised I still don't have the bruises from how long it took you to whip that into me."

She cocked an eyebrow, surprised by the quick response. She couldn't tell if she was more impressed that he remembered or upset that he had not taken it completely to heart. Her fingers stopped drumming as she chewed over what she was going to say next. The boy had proven he could take a physical thrashing from her; maybe he could benefit from a verbal one. 

"So you do remember," she growled. "Yet you still lower it. Pray tell, why are you not more careful? Traveling with such a small group yet still flying Barcean colors, sending your men ahead to scout while remaining behind with unknown quantities, and know inviting those strangers to join us without even knowing who or what they are! You can't truly tell me that you trust them. Why are you being so goddamn careless?" she demanded, her fist hitting the wall.

His eyebrow rose slightly as her tone suddenly shifted. It had become aggressive, almost violent; a far cry from what it had been moments before. It took him a few moments to figure out just what she was going on about, but when he did... It brought an almost relaxed feeling over him. This he could deal with, as he had advisors and worriers before. It was just more of the same. Not even the sudden fist against the wall startled him.

"A small group moving within the borders, going from place to place to not just scout, but direct and lead." He began to rise then, slowly crossing his arms after he stood at his full height. "A group to react quickly and effectively, to save as many lives as possible. A group to find those unknown quantities, those strangers you speak of..." He brought one hand up even as his arms remained crossed for the most part, one finger lightly tapping his temple. "And to keep an eye on them, rather than simply letting them roam free just after hearing or even seeing them. Does it make sense more from that perspective, ma'am?"

"It made sense to have a ceasefire with H'kela. It made sense to march West to [i]liberate[/i] Aatroia from the God Kings." [i]It made sense for me to run away,[/i] she thought spitefully. "Just because something makes sense does not mean it is a good idea," said Vesta, folding her arms again as she shook her head.

"What if those villages this morning had not yet been destroyed, but were still under siege. What would you have done if we had come across the H'kelan forces? Fight them outnumbered ten to one? Do any of your men even have any real experience outside of a few bandits here or there? Would you be able to give the order to flee, knowing that you were condemning your countrymen to death in hopes that, perhaps, somehow, you could save more later?" She pointed a finger at the Prince. "And if those two idiots can drive an army back, then what chance do we have if they turn out to be enemies of the crown?"

"If you want to do things that don't make sense, I can think of a few. If my father were still along, he probably would have executed the two of them in the middle of the village square, if it fit his fancy. But we wouldn't have been able to do that, now would we? If they were enemies of the crown, we'd be dead already. The village would have been left alive to draw us in, we would have been massacred in the streets in our confusion, and the rest of the village would have been finished off as well. The fact that the village is still alive, that we are still alive, gives me some pause, gives me some reason to be [i]grateful[/i] to them. Because of that, I'm willing to be a little more patient."

Cyril had waited for Vesta, but in that moment the words suddenly spilled from his lips. Once more he was tensed, gaze narrowed slightly as he defended his actions. It was more than just that, though, and really what was directed towards him was the least of his concern. It was what was pointed at the rest of the Sentinels that he saw as the true attack.

"Sampson is a Barcean soldier, through and through. He is one of the most resilient men I know; nothing phases him, and he just doesn't stop. Gortul is one of the strongest within reasonable limits; he's no Direwolf, but for a so-called 'regular' man he's impressive. Alasa is brilliant, and has fought every day to survive. Diane lived on the western border. In a way the reason she was born was because of the constant warring, and she's seen that constant warring, and she's acted during it."

Briefly he paused, closing his eyes as he sighed. Once more his hand went to the bridge of his nose, the habit of a physical attempt at relieving tension bringing pause and giving him a moment to figure out just what he wanted to say next. "Even more, they're more than just the sum of their parts. On their own, they're worth ten men each. Together, thirty men each, easily. You may not believe me, but I believe in them. And I know that if I'm ever faced with that choice of sacrificing the few for the many, or attempting to save those few and face nearly certain death, we will pull through that crucible even stronger than before."

Vesta dropped her eyes. She knew it had been a mistake to bring up his men; she would have defended her own in the same way. If Cyril was ever going to listen to her words in the first place, then whatever fleeting chance there had been drifted away the moment she had attacked his men. However, despite understanding his reaction she couldn't help but feel herself overwhelmed with jealousy again. The jealously quickly burned itself into anger mixed with actual concern. She glared at him.

"I do believe you," said Vesta, thrusting herself off of the wall and placing her hand to her heart. She felt a pain shoot through her knee. "That is why I'm trying to protect you from your own childish thinking." Wrong words again. [i]Damn it![/i] she thought, shaking her head. "It's just that you're being unrealistic. Just because someone is worth an entire battalion doesn't mean that there isn't a person on the other side that's worth a whole army. You can't rely on others like that." She exhaled with frustration; her voice betrayed her emotions. "You put too much faith in these people. You're always like this every time we talk. I don't even know why I try; you never budge an inch. Your stubbornness will get you killed one day, Olain, I—"

She clasped her hand over her mouth and turned towards the window. [i]You idiot.[/i]

In that instant, something about Cyril turned cold. It hadn't been being called childish, or even being called unrealistic; it was the name that caused the change in the Prince. Any hope of the conversation continuing for much longer was snuffed in that moment. Gaze sharp, he slowly brought up a hand. As he did so, it was very apparent he was trying to keep himself calm, breathing in and out slowly... But he only extended his forefinger, pointing as he gestured to himself slightly, and then down.

"The reason why I am not like my father is because I rely on others. Because I put faith in them. Don't ever think of me and him in the same vein when it comes to that." His voice was just as chilly as his eyes. Slowly he lowered his hand, turning to begin walking out. "I'm going down to the main room to get some food. Need to make sure there's a big enough space for all of us. Even if you don't decide to join us, make sure to get some food. We leave early tomorrow morning."

With that, the Prince left, almost too carefully closing the door behind him.

Although Vesta stared out the window she could not see the village in front of her; all she could see was the past. Pulling herself away from the terrible view, the woman grabbed her flask from the desk and fell into her bed. She spat out the swig she had taken. It tasted foul in her mouth. Rolling onto her side, Vesta stared at the wall as if she would find some kind of answer. All she could see was the face of her Prince and her King, blending together into one. She frowned. She told herself that Cyril had been wrong about one thing: Olain did rely on others. It was the reason she was here, was it not? To watch over the ones he had left behind. His final orders; much better than the reality of things.

It was so great of a lie that even she believed it.