It had happened once before. It was back when she was known as Joy, or rather, the first time she was known as Joy, a nickname created once to tease her for her hard, stoic nature by her peers. She was much younger then, but also much quicker in both her ability to neutralize a threat and to suck the mirth out of the atmosphere. She was famous then, too, in the way people are famous for stories that have been exaggerated and warped so much that they are more like fairy tales than reality. In the tales she was a beautiful swordswoman who would only find love and marry when a man was able to best her with his blade. In reality she was already wearing the hard, glum face that only grew more severe with age, and the only thing she was married to was her duty as a Kingsguard and to her country.

In that way, it could be said that she was the most devout wife. She never complained when she grew tired, she never wavered in carrying out her responsibilities, and she went out of her way to make sure that her charges would be able to protect themselves when she was not present. Most importantly, she did not ask questions, even when the orders given to her were questionable. Maybe if she raised her voice in disagreement when her King started his ill-fated march to the West, using the knowledge she had gained from devouring stratagems and military histories to point out the flaws in his plan, then perhaps things would have been different. Knowing Olain, however, she doubted he would listen. She doesn’t blame herself for not speaking up. 

She blamed herself for not being there in time.

She could see her Queen, now, out of reach, beyond a sea of enemies. She could feel the weight on her body as it grew more and more tired with every swing, slash, and parry as she carved herself a path through crowd, the H’kelan sun beating down on her brow. It seemed almost hopeless; with every soldier she fell, another seemed to take his place. She kept pushing, pushing, pushing forward, men and women falling, falling, falling around her like autumn leaves. It didn’t matter that she was tired. It didn’t matter that her body ached. It didn’t matter that she was out of breath. She couldn’t let this happen again. She couldn’t fail again. She had to reach her. She had to reach her. She had to reach—

—Olain. The sun was gone, now, as was the H’kelan heat and the dry, oppressive air, replaced instead by an eternal darkness and a torrential downpour of rain that turned the ground into mud. She was in the West again, some fifteen years ago, and she could see herself fighting. She was fiercer back then, brutal even, perhaps second only to the Direwolf who was left back East. However, despite her fervor she was losing. They hadn’t anticipated the Gifted to put up such a strong resistance so soon after their battle with the God Kings, and they were paying for that. She had fought plenty of men before, but this had been like fighting monsters. It was beyond her abilities, and she knew it. 

But she couldn’t run, because her King needed her. She could see him in the distance, squaring off with the Void Lord himself, outmatched and out of her reach. She kept throwing herself against the other bodies, not carrying of whom her sword ran through as long as it meant she got closer to Olain. She had to reach him. She had to protect him. It was her duty. It was her everything. She saw the Void Lord raise his hand, could feel the energy crackle in the air. She wouldn’t make it in time. She failed, she failed, she failed. She felt her legs buckle, the exhaustion of battle finally overcoming her, and she collapsed to her knees, waiting and watching through the swarm of soldiers around her for the end. The hand went down, and—

—She was back in H’kela. Again, on her knees. Again, defeated. Again, failing in her duties. She watched, petrified, through misty gray eyes as the amalgamation formed itself into being. Once more she was met with an opponent that she had no hope of reaching, let alone even being capable of defeating. Her head fell as the creation lunged at the Queen. She didn’t need to watch to know what happened next. The screams, the crunch, the laughter of a mad man, all of it painted a picture well enough. She felt the will to fight escape her body as she folded into herself, not caring if she was to be trampled, cutdown, or devoured. She heard the continued yelling, screaming, could hear the people around her try and put up a fight. Why were they bothering? It was over. 

Through the corner of her eyes, she could see the red glow. Lifting her head—

—She saw a red explosion turn the night sky into day from where Olain had been fighting the Void Lord. Forcing herself up to her feet, she saw Olain collapse to the ground, gravely wounded, as company of his guards rushed to flank him and form a barrier between him and the Void Lord. The Void Lord did not fall back, but the guards were quick enough to pull Olain onto a horse and retreat him from the frontline. The rest of the Barcean forces followed, all except her. The rebels pulled back, having successfully defended their homelands, and she was left alone in an ocean of death, drowning. She had failed to save him, and although he wasn’t yet dead, she already knew that she would not be spared. Back then, things were harsher. And back then, she still wanted to live.

So she ran.

Some things never—

—Change. She forced herself up to her feet, slashing at the soldier that was prepared to deliver the coup de grace on the fallen woman and smashing another into the ground with her scabbard. The Guratans had broken through and given them a way out, and she was determined to make it out with them. Yes, she had failed. Yes, they had been defeated. Yes, the Queen was dead, and the pain that brought would perhaps never heal. But she had lived and she would run because she wanted to keep on living, because if she lived then she could fight another day. So, despite the darkness and despair that she now felt, she knew that someday she’d make it right, and even as she ran with tears running freely down her cheeks, she couldn’t help but feel a slight warmth in her chest. Because, in the time that she had been Vesta, she had learned that even in the darkest of moments, hidden underneath the sadness and death and destruction, was Joy.

And she would never, ever desert them again.

[center][b]Joy[/b][/center]

Joy had busied herself ever since they had arrived at the camp. She knew her vices well enough that if she took the time to mourn Kori that inevitably she would start blaming herself for her death, and would find solace for her guilt in the bottom of a bottle of rye. That was the old woman, the crippled woman, who did that. She had to be better than that person, or any of the other people she had been in her life before, if she wanted things to come out right. And she really, truly, wanted to make things right. So she began organizing the injured, assigning healers here and there while Diane took care of Ayano, and then proceeded to deal with the quartermasters, finding where they were on supplies and how many they needed. 

But as she worked herself to exhaustion, rushing to and fro amongst the Sentinels and the Guratans, acting as a mix between a messenger and a general, there was one thing that she knew she had to deal with. Or rather, one person: Cyril. The person running around, organizing the troops, giving relief where they could, should be him, not her. She was just a swordswoman, a great swordswoman, but a swordswoman all the same. She had never been a good leader, and she accepted that, but she had been a decent mentor.The Direwolf sure as hell hadn’t taught Cyril how to fight, or the poor Prince would’ve been covered in head to toe with scars. 

Yet she knew that, if anyone did, then he deserved the time to grieve. It wasn’t a weakness, not as long as he did begin blaming himself for the death of his sister, and she had also been vigilant in her efforts of pushing away anybody that had tried to bother Cyril in his time of mourning. However, as unfortunate as it was, she knew that time was the last thing any of them had. Gartian and the Advisor would use this opportunity to strike at them when they seemed the weakest. She had to make sure that when they struck, they struck against unbreakable iron and steel, but to do that the allied forces needed a leader. 

They needed their King.