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Captain Fanilly Danbalion
A splash of dark liquid hit the soil, breaking the mournful silence that pervaded the funeral grounds as a taste of stout was shared with the dead. It was custom to honor those that passed ahead of you in this way the world over, at least in his experience— be it a mound marked only by a planted sword, high in the northern latitudes of Estival…
He glanced up at the elegant stonework, the same polished marble that raked the skies of the spikes of Aimlenn staring back at him, the silent vigil of the stone edifice mere months into however many countless centuries it would stand. Entombed here, with full honors as a Knight of the Iron Rose and no less, were the remains of Sir Rickert. Down here in Thaln, surely, the custom was hardly any different. The worst he could have done was perhaps not observing proper decorum as a member of the Order— but he had made his prayers to Lady Reon with the same priority of intent over ceremony for a long time, and her watchful eye had yet to blink— perhaps, in these ways, the world made concessions for your familiarity.
Gerard took a swig of his own, letting the roasted cacao notes coat his tongue as he quietly quirked a brow. Regarding familiarity, the truth was that he’d only really known the man below in passing, still very much a greenhorn to the Order even nowadays. Back then, it had only been a scant few that had deigned to try and pry the erstwhile mercenary out of his comfortable, quiet solitude; men like Rickert were welcoming enough that he’d made a fair impression, but at the same time they were perfectly content to live and let live.
They’d not spoken much. Likely less than three occasions total, before he was brutally cleft from the mortal coil by Jeremiah. The first sortie Gerard had seen with the Order had been Rickert’s last. For a moment, he wondered if such an offer as the one he’d poured would have been accepted if the man still lived…
A shrug of the shoulders, a shake of the head.
It didn’t matter. They had brought their blades to bear upon the same enemy, in the same battle, staking their lives for the cause. That had been enough for Gerard, long before his dreams of knighthood had ever remotely seemed like they were to ever be realized. Sharing a battle was sharing spilt blood, as good a reason as any to share spilt drink in the aftermath.
He had no reason to fear he was disrespecting the dead unduly. If anything, choosing Rickert’s grave to stop by had been a long time coming with all that in mind.
Ah—
She wasn’t alone this time.
Every week since he was interred, Fanilly had visited the gravesite. It seemed only right.
It was because of her that he was here in the first place. Even if it had been in the line of duty, Sir Rickert had still died under her orders.
The least she could do was this much. His family had already received support from the Order, so now all that was left was to pray for him over his grave.
And so, that is what Fanilly had been doing every week, usually at the mid-week. While it was not a proper religious teaching or doctrine, from a young age Fanilly had been told by her parents that both Sun and Moon were highest at the mid-week. Thus, it was the best time for your prayers to reach the Goddesses.
Perhaps it was just a simple principle told to a child to help her become used to regular ceremonies, or perhaps there was some merit. Either way, it was what formed the basis of Fanilly’s prayer for Sir Rickert.
But this time, she wasn’t alone.
“Captain.”Sir Gerard had demonstrated his capabilities multiple times, particularly as he was among one of the four knights who had slain a gannek.
And now he stood before her, at Sir Rickert’s grave.
“Ah—”
The Knight-Captain cleared her throat.
“Sir Gerard, greetings.”
“Evening, ma’am.” He’d heard her coming. By now, if he listened for the differences in cadence and pitch, he was beginning to learn how to identify his peers by the sound of their strides. Part of his ongoing efforts to cultivate a more active, observant mind— and just as much downwind of all he’d learned from his mercenary days, watching gait rather than listening for it. Her steps were light, careful, but in a certain way rigid. Different from the soldierly regimenting of his own, or Renar’s, or even Fionn’s— however much that one carried the rest of himself boisterous and easygoing.
He rose from the knee he’d taken in making his offerings, seeming to loom over that little leader of his even from afar. His golden eyes caught the last light that burned behind her, wolfish and measuring. A chance encounter, definitely, but… one that, much like visiting this knight he hadn’t known, was somewhat overdue.
It felt he barely knew his leader, too, though maybe not for lack of shared field experience. In a way, she seemed guarded, hard to take measure of beyond the capacity of her rank. The rank thrust upon her maybe only half a year ago, as dozens of memories featuring their departed Lioness were quick to remind him.
“Hardly a place I’d expected I’d meet you. What brings you this way?”She had only held the position for a month or two before he had been accepted into their ranks. The deployment upon which the knight looking over the both of them from beyond had perished was also their first in this official capacity they now occupied. He’d previously accepted that it was beyond his calling to question the tradition, but facing the reality made it seem all the more prudent. Bluntly put, were she an employer and he a mercenary, every part of him would have rankled at the state of affairs being so unknown.
After all they’d been through together, too. It seemed a waste of that good blood the three of them had shed in eachothers’ names.
A blink later, and the mug, still a third full of the dark stout, was gently pushed into the gap between them, an offering to partake.
Fanilly’s eyes lingered on the grave, then on the mug, for a few moments. While she’d rarely drank anything particularly strong, in the span of a few more heartbeats she had reached out and gently taken the mug. Her tastebuds were greeted by the strong taste of alcohol she was unaccustomed to, as she suppressed the desire to wince. Her lack of familiarity with the beverage most certainly made it difficult for her to detect any other flavors.
But the solidarity was what mattered, here before the grave of the man who had died under her command.
“... It’s for Sir Rickert’s sake,” she responded, after taking a pause to recover, her blue gaze returning to the grave. Its solemn nature suited what she knew of the man interred beneath it.
“I was in command when he lost his life,” continued the knight-captain, eyes downcast and voice soft, “Even if he was performing his duty, it’s only right that I repay him…”
Fanilly trailed off. The rose symbol hanging from her neck made her intentions to pray for the fallen knight quite clear.
“---I suppose you must have had similar intentions, Sir Gerard?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the older knight huffed, a brow raised as he took the words in, turned them over in his head. Eventually, his gaze followed hers, casting itself again over the stone of the grave, sliding across name, date, memory.
“Not so specifically him, as much as everyone under the banner that finds their way here.”His eyes narrowed, just a hint. Behind the amber depths, a thousand battles flashed, countless names learned and forgotten blazing by. A deluge of red at the tip of the spear. So many of those same faces could have been him. Each one was no more or less favored by the Goddesses than he. For all he had accomplished beneath this new banner…
“I come by every now and again to remind myself that death holds no clemency for station, for tenure, or for risen standing.” He folded his arms, seemingly long at peace with the grim topic.
“Nor achievement. It’s worth remembering each time you ride out could be your last. I owe it to those that have come before me to learn that lesson.”He glanced her way, folding his arms.
“That our recent tutelage seems to have made me so much stronger than I was when I began this tradition only makes it more worth doing, I think. Even our mutual acquaintance from that time met his end on the field. How he did it was the stuff of legend, but his story ended just the same. As those who survived when men like Rickert fell, it’s our duty.”A small smile, somewhere between wistful, wry, and wan, crossed his fangs. He cocked his head after a momentary pause, before offering a much more mundane angle to it all.
“It’s also just nice to have a place where I can sit with the dead, pay my respects with a little more time to breathe. Or, hell, pay them at all. In the free companies, attention is a rare privilege, remembrance rarer, and graves rarer still. We were on the move quite quickly— never more than a couple weeks away from the next dispatch.”Fanilly had known of Sir Gerard’s past, in a company of mercenaries who exchanged lives for librans. It wasn’t as if she had been totally unaware of the details, of the implications. But the idea of the bodies of those who passed going unmourned, unburied, left without the rites to help them reach the Moon and Sun—
It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
The Knight-Captain’s blue gaze drifted from her knight, to the shape of the lamplighters carved on the tombstone that marked Sir Rickert’s grave. The young girls raised their candle-tipped staves, forming an arc over the inscription that bore his name.
“Even though they reach the next world, losing someone here is still painful,” she half-murmured to herself, before raising her head and turning to face Sir Gerard. Her early life was punctuated by two deaths: First, the death of her father’s pet highland griffin, the first one she had experienced directly. One day, she had been doing quite well, preening her feathers and accepting snacks as usual. The next, she had taken ill, and the next, she was gone.
The other had been the death of her grandmother on her mother’s side. They had never been particularly close, but she recalled the details of the procession bearing her corpse to its final resting place sharply at the conversation of the end.
In both cases, they had been seen to their rest.
But those who Sir Gerard had fought alongside—-
“... Then… then perhaps today’s prayer should be for your former comrades, as well?” Fanilly proposed, after a moment’s hesitation, “In case they are still lost, then a few words may help them find their way.”
“How considerate,” he smirked around the word, inclining his head all the same despite a quirk of the brow. As snickers at her expense went lately, his was hardly acrid. A light jab between the ribs, maybe an elbow to simply prod and annoy for half a second.
“If you wish to, then go for it. I won’t stop you, but I have said what words I could, and made peace with the ones I couldn’t. More than some of those scoundrels deserved, to be blunt— I almost worry the folks interred here might take offense at being lumped in with their lot last minute.”He chuckled, nevertheless dropping to one knee at the foot of the grave, and bringing his hands forward. He’d go without speaking his overtures to the goddesses this time— even putting aside that he tended to beseech Lady Reon alone most often, there was only so much their time in the dreaming world had done to tighten up his old habits in mind and body both. Gerard was well assured that the young girl beside him would be so much more precise with her words.
And, in saying that…
“Far be it from me to advise against giving the dead their due— but for those of us that live, you needn’t be so stiff, Ma’am. We’re off the field.”The first point he wanted to test, while he had her here. Admittedly, he hadn’t framed it great, but he could start by getting that thought in her head. He bent his head low, and clasped his hands, falling silent after a soft invitation.
“Do lead though, please. I’m curious.”“Ah, I… only those who are truly wicked in life cannot reach the sun and moon, so…”
Well, that cuts your list in half if I’m generous.She trailed off, before sucking in a deep breath. Stiff? But she was the Knight-Captain of the Iron Roses. What else suited her position? She had to conduct herself formally, and with grace. Was anything else appropriate for the one who was carrying on the legacy of the vanished Saint Elionne?
Speaking of that legacy—
Despite her position, and the Iron Rose Knights’ history as a true holy order, Fanilly herself had never personally led a prayer. Her words had been between her and the Goddesses, not for the purpose of guiding others.
It was somewhat unfamiliar to her, but wasn’t this something she would have to do some day, regardless?
Besides, she was the one who had mentioned it in the first place. It was only right.
“Very well.”
Facing the gravestone, the girl clasped her hands tightly together and bowed her head, gently shutting her eyes. It took her only a few moments to find her words.
Fanilly’s lips parted.
“O Lady of the Moon. O Lady of the Sun. Please, may these words reach you.”
Her voice was soft, but firm. She had to make sure that the Goddesses could hear her.
“May your light shine upon those who have passed. Those whose lives ended long ago, and those who fell in nearer days.”
It was a simple prayer, one that in some form or another was uttered at the sites of sudden deaths. The words varied, but the meaning was always intact through them.
“May those who light the lamps guide their way, shining a path to your eternal paradise. Let the darkness be driven away, let no foul spirits stall their journey. May their days lead them to bliss, may their days lead them to peace.”
The sight of Sir Rickert’s fallen body re-emerged in Fanilly’s mind. A small knot, coiling in her chest for a few moments, had reformed.
“Please, hear these words, Lady Mayon, Lady Reon. So that those who have passed on find comfort.”
It was a plea on behalf of the fallen knight and on behalf of those she had never known, who had died years ago. If they still wandered, then Fanilly could only hope these words would serve to help guide them.
The knot had loosened. Her hands lowered.
For a time, there was only silence upon the wind that passed through the graves as the sun continued to creep low to the horizon. Gerard diligently observed it, allowing the sobering moment to linger with them. The Goddesses both heard ones’ words before they were even spoken, he had been taught, but it was the act of saying them that guided the wish a prayer carried towards their hearts, rather than be lost among all the world’s noise at their ears. Befitting this, it served one well not to distort the message by speaking too carelessly, or too quickly, while your own heart was still lingering upon that desire, that plea to the divine.
But, all such things, eventually, did pass. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her slight frame, still clasping her hands, still hunched over at the foot of the gravestone. There was a subtle cruelty to this, he knew well. Anyone with two thoughts to rub together in their skull could tease it out of the sight— a young girl, thrust into this mold at her birth, with only another gravestone, somewhere in here, to look to ahead of her on the path. Even with all the training in the world… the real thing weighed upon you more than you could really prepare for.
He knew that very well, even as a cog in the war machine. Even as someone that had the luxury of a choice in the matter. War and Death weighed heavy on old minds, let alone the young. And Command… Command was the heaviest of all mantles.
Finally, there was an easing of the quiet tension in her shoulders, and he let his voice free once more.
“Well said,” he began simply, inclining his head in a small, appreciative nod before seating himself cross-legged, turning to face her. His wolfish eyes seemed to study her for a moment, casting themselves along her bearing before settling on her eyes.
He spoke in a low, but level voice. A statement, not a question. An observation, not an interrogation.
“...Sir Rickert was the first beneath your command. You feel responsible, don’t you? More than you bargained for.”That stiffness of hers had betrayed her, in the end. She’d spoken very well, firmness and sincerity coating every word… but towards the end, it was like her breath had drawn tight on her. After what they had been through, Gerard wasn’t keen on attributing that to a real fear of dark spirits.
The way she carried herself socially among her subordinates was fine to be left as an ongoing project, at the end of the day— no different from the ongoing project he himself was. There were far, far more important ways he and she seemed to be cast in opposition— though, thinking about, it was curious how many parallels the two of them ran in, if you squinted at it from the right angle.
“Am I wrong?”Most of all, for what the two knights were… was their relationship with death. It was why Cyrus had been the one to mentor them both in the dream world, as far as Gerard was concerned. It was why they had met here, if fate ordained such.
“---Ah…”
The soft breath that left the Knight-Captain’s lips hung in the air for a few moments, slowly drifting downwards like a discarded feather.
It shouldn’t have been surprising, really. She hadn’t tried to make it so overt, but the mere fact she was here in the first place spoke of her feelings.
Fanilly opened her mouth and shut it once, as she tried to compile her thoughts, the knot in her chest tightening a little once more.
She had accepted by now that the possibility of death was within the duty of one of the Iron Rose Knights. They put their lives on the line for the sake of Thaln’s people, for the sake of justice.
That much was only natural.
And yet—
“... A part of me still wonders if I had been more prepared, or considered the possibility of a trap, he may still be here,” Fanilly said, softly, her gaze downcast.
It was her command, so ultimately the fact that her leadership led to Sir Rickert’s death could not be ignored, even if it were only in part.
That was why she had to come to his grave and do what she could. It was the only thing she could do for him, now.
“Idle wondering. A lingering pull.” he mused almost tonelessly, boring into her with his gaze.
“Bringing you back here. Do these thoughts carry themselves with you onto deployment? That you’re missing something, somewhere? That he’s gone because you’re flawed in your judgement?”He leaned forward, the approaching night a heavy, warding cowl over his shoulders.
“To put it another way:”The wolf huffed, gazing down his snout, fangs yet to bare. Searching, searching, always searching— as cast from stone as the many statues that bore the cold wind blowing down upon them from the north.
“Do you think you can tame war, if you’re clever enough?”“I…”
Fanilly hesitated.
Was that how she felt?
She wanted to approach the battlefield in a manner that would lead to victory, that would lead to defeating the enemy and sustaining as little damage as possible. She was hardly unique in that regard, of course, but it was nevertheless the goal she placed in front of herself every time she set foot into combat.
But did that mean that she thought she could tame the battlefield?
Fanilly’s right hand clutched into a fist at her breast, her gaze once more drifting towards the green grass.
If it were possible, then of course. She would want to ensure everything went exactly as planned, perfectly, without the slightest deviation.
However—
“... I… I don’t think it’s possible,” she half-murmured, “No matter how I might wish it were, I…”
The Knight-Captain sucked in a deep breath.
“Even the great Conqueror-King of Talderia didn’t believe he had perfect control of the battlefield, there’s no way I could claim that I do.”
He seemed to accept that, following her eyes to drink in the waning greenery in turn, watching the grasses slowly blacken as dusk slipped further and further away. Though his shoulders loosened, his voice held firm.
“Good. That’s a delusion you can never hold. Otherwise you’ll never escape this place.”The grass’s blades danced with the breeze, almost imperceptible, like the waving banners and swords of a tiny, verdant legion. Wide blockades of men at march, their war cries a light scent upon the wind. In some way, it must have been how the Goddesses had looked upon the armies of their mortal realm, all its conflicts a trifle.
“It’s no beast. It falls under no yoke. Not yours as commander nor ours as soldiers. Not even the King’s. I would argue even the Goddesses would be hard pressed.”He snatched some of the little green soldiers at his feet, lifting them and letting them fly from his fingertips. They would have no idea where they were going— only that they were gone.
“The field is a river.” he arrived at his analogy after some time.
“You can plant seed in the plain and feed yourself if you know when it spills over. You can reach a new land by using a bridge that passes across it, but it’ll always be there, just under you. If you don’t mind your step, it’s where you end up, soaked to the bone. Or drowned.”Apt for diplomacy and war, by his measure, but not the point. His brows narrowed.
“You can even influence its direction. Build along the banks. Bend it, dam it, create channels to expand it. But those are all done from the outside. From within… the current takes you.”A deep, deep red, the last of a retreating day, painted blood over the western clouds.
“You can’t fight the rapids. You can’t control them. In the middle of it all, you’re at the river’s mercy. It will cut through stone itself. It will drown you, if you ever believe you’re completely safe. It’ll sweep you away and dash you on the rocks, if you ever stumble.”Absently, his hands clenched around the hilt of an imagined blade. A grip hammered into him, his only rope to brace against the current.
“That is the path we walk in taking up the sword. Wading into chaos, with you at our head. You know as well as me, but it still bears saying—“Beneath the hard-knot brow, he continued to glare into the middle distance, focus and steel behind his eyes. An expression that looked more at home on him than any other he wore.
“Every time we ride out, we know we might not come back. We might meet that same fate out there— cruel, merciless, unexpected, unpredictable. It’s our job to accept that and trust your judgement. It’s yours to trust that we do, and pass your best judgement along.”It wasn’t necessarily new information. The tomes of strategy she had been instructed to read as a child were often quite explicit that there was no way to approach a battle with utter certainty to how it would progress. Even if the outcome was almost guaranteed, the progression of the battle and possible uncertain elements could never be taken for granted.
But hearing it spoken like this, by one of her knights, was still a new experience.
Fanilly’s gaze remained somewhat downcast, as she sucked in another deep breath.
“I hope, then, that I can make judgement worthy of trusting.”
It was a pervasive worry deeply-rooted within her mind, one that she could not so easily push aside.
“…Hope isn’t enough.”The wind parted around the stone all through the graveyard, its currents split by each hard, unyielding face into shivering, fraying eddies. They tended to die out before they hit the next few yards, little more than whispering nudges against one’s frame.
“Hope is something outside of yourself. It can betray you. It can refuse you. It can skip out when you need it most. For many, it keeps them around far too long.”Six years. Six years of vain, vain hope— Even having his answered, beyond anyone’s dreams, the hundreds of unmarked graves in his wake the two knights had shared a prayer for told their own stories. They were never far from a wise man’s mind.
“For many, it leaves too much out of their hands. As your Knights, we are the sword arm of your will as much as every ideal we uphold. If that will is ‘I hope this is right’…”He paused, seeming to mull his words over as he regarded her sidelong.
“You’re going to lose more of us, you know. No matter what you come out of this chat believing, heeding or ignoring my advice— it’s inevitable. Fionn, Renar, Gertrude, even me. If we’re being honest, I’m more likely to go than anyone else. But the going will get tough. When it does, we’ll be looking to you to ferry us out of the maelstrom.”More than anything else.
A leader had to keep everyone moving, out towards the other side. Any confusion they had about where to go would give the current room to tear the lot of their people apart. He’d seen it enough to know. And if there were thoughts that always took her back to this grave, then…
“That’s what it means to be Captain, Fanilly.” her name felt alien upon his tongue, but the gravity of the words held it in place.
“You can’t doubt yourself, or the decisions you make. Least of all when it’s a mess like it was that first ride forth. If you aren’t confident… how can we be?”“I…”
Fanilly trailed off. Hope… just putting faith in hope wasn’t right either, was it? Even if she had a more optimistic outlook on the concept, at the same time it was hard for her to find it in herself to deny what Sir Gerard had just said.
Hope on its own wasn’t enough, was it?
Fanilly’s gaze fell downwards again, her hands clutching at one another. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to lose anyone else if she could possibly help it. The great Conqueror-King of Talderia, the Minneria the Strategist, the Seer of Terios—All of them had conviction in their decisions, their conclusions. Be it in battle, or anything else.
Was that what had carried them forward, in spite of their inability to truly tame the battlefield?
Was that what she had to embody, even in spite of her own doubts?
—Did previous Captains ask this question of themselves?
Fanilly didn’t know. She’d long thought that those who filled this role prior to herself could never question themselves as much as she did.
But she didn’t know their minds, so it was a question that could not be answered.
But there was one thing she could do, no matter her doubt.
If nothing else—
“... I… I’ll do everything in my power to lead all of you to tomorrow, no matter the battlefield.”
—She could say that much.
A nod.
The sun slipped behind the horizon in full, leaving only its final rays behind as the threshold had been crossed. Lady Mayon arose opposite, surveying her domain through the gentle glow of the moon.
“That’s what we’ll have faith in, then. As you do us, in doing everything in our power to carry out your orders. Even sacrifice, should we have no other way through.”The wolf rose again, glancing aside to the blue-white of the polished marble standing guard above their talk, seeming to capture the silvery filaments as they blanketed Aimlenn.
His gaze then followed the light upwards, towards the palace of the kindly shepherd, the shield to the weary, the weak, and the lost. Doubtless, the Moon Goddess had an eye on her ordained champion— another weight upon those slight shoulders of the Captain’s.
He huffed, a small, relenting puff through the snout.
“The night’s coming in,” the taller knight intoned as he turned towards the gates, towards the retreating sunlight.
“I’d best get going— I’ve paid what respects I’m able with prayer. Best I not keep you from the rest of yours.”One step forward. Then two, then three.
In his desire to take her measure as his commander, he had come across a few confirmed suspicions. That her mantle was as heavy as he’d imagined, that she was prone to agonizing over mistakes, the way all greenhorns did, that her schooling, however quality, could only prepare her so much for the real mass of this undertaking, thrust upon her.
She was rigid. Distant from her troops. Prone to flustering. To getting herself into trouble. And so shackled by doubt. Only an old tradition would put a young woman like her in such impossible shoes to fill. To choose a Commander like this flew in the face of all the hard-earned reasoning a mind like Gerard’s could muster.
A total washout.
He stopped, five or six good paces away, and thought for a moment, before looking back over his shoulder one final time.
“…Take this for what solace it’s worth, Captain.”Even so.
“I was younger than you when I took up the sword. I never reached a position of leadership in that time— I’ve always stayed on the front. There are many parts of this I don’t understand. Little diligences that are simply beyond me.”Even so, all that said.
“In that time, since I left that little wide-eyed know-nothing farmboy behind… these six months have been the cleanest. Rookies or otherwise. That’s worth a little faith you’re running the place on the right track.”—The cleanest.
Despite everything, despite her shortcomings, her doubts—
Despite all of that.
Those words managed to reach deeply into her being.
Even though she could never live up to the Captains who came before her, she could never live up to Saint Elionne herself.
Sir Gerard had said those words to her.
“I—”
Fanilly faltered. It was hard to grasp that such a thing was possible. Even in the dark dealings of the sort of mercenary company that Sir Gerard had once been a part of, the brutality and cheap death that she could only imagine, never to touch—
She managed to give her knights the cleanest six months he had ever experienced.
“I—”
What did she say to that? Was this the sort of faith the past Captains had received from their knights?
How could she keep living up to such an ideal?
—No, it wasn’t how, was it?
She had to try. She had to do it. For the sake of all of her knights.
Wasn’t that what this was all about?
“---I… I won’t betray that faith, Sir Gerard.”
A firmness found its way into Fanilly’s voice, even if only for a moment, her hand clutched over her heart.
“You have my word.”
As Captain of the Iron Rose Knights, that was the only path forward.
He was silent for a moment more, then…
“And you mine. We’ll hold eachother to that.”… He turned away, accepting whatever he saw in her burning twilight gaze for what it was. The sound of fine gravel shifting between leather boots sounded again, as he started off towards Candaeln anew. Towards their home.
A hand rose as he left, waving a stolid goodbye once, then twice.
“Be seeing you, Ma’am.”“And I, you, Sir Gerard.”
It wasn’t that this had assuaged her self-doubt—
But Fanilly couldn’t allow herself to let her knights down.
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