well, it only took 60k to get here

[anghraine]

Another soldier looked gravely at me and said,

“May you find the path home.”

“I have,” I said.

title: pro patria (92-98)
verse: Ascalonian grudgefic
characters/relationships: Althea Fairchild, Elwin Fairchild; Vanguard Moeller, Lady Maddigan, Ebon Vanguard soldiers, Ebonhawke citizens, Separatist sympathizers, Scout Leader Tahiri; Althea & Elwin
stuff that happens: Althea gets her first taste of life in Ebonhawke.
chapters: 1-7, 8-14, 15-21, 22-28, 29-35, 36-42, 43-49, 50-56, 57-63, 64-70, 71-77, 78-84, 85-91

NINETY-TWO

1

Stepping out of the Asura gate, I found myself in a quiet corner of the city, grey stone forming both the walls and the ground beneath my feet. Barrels and crates rested near carts and wagons stacked with supplies—an entirely prosaic place, except for the light of the Asura gate bathing it all in pinks and purples.

I gazed around in wonder.

Nobody interrupted me; nobody was even near me, except a worker who walked over to hoist more crates into the wagons, ignoring my existence.

It had been a long time since I found myself in a situation where no one knew or cared who I was. It felt oddly freeing.

Out of the corner, paths headed both left and right; I had only to choose my way.

2

It hardly mattered, but the left looked more official, so I headed down that path, striding towards a wood-framed entrance to the city that soared high above my head. It would have taken a good four or five of me to reach the top of it. On either side, Seraph stood guard. Fallen Angels, I dimly remembered—Krytan soldiers sent to help support the fort.

If they recognized me, they gave no sign of it, simply letting me pass through.

The gates embedded into the high entrance made for a sort of narrow passageway, and once I passed beyond them, the cobblestone path beneath my feet broadened into a street that led to the city proper.

Trying to take it all in, I lifted my gaze up—and up, and up, and up, because the walls of Ebonhawke just kept going.

3

I’d seen dozens of Seraph and Lionguard forts on my adventures, but none of them could even slightly compare to this.

And if it seemed much more of a fortress than the outposts and havens of Kryta, it also seemed much more of a city. Green-roofed buildings, leafy trees, and lamp-posts lined the street ahead of me, leading to what looked like the stalls and and shops of a large marketplace.

Ebonhawke, nestled so far from where I’d grown to a woman, might have seemed a foreign land. Instead, it reminded me more of Rurikton than any place I’d yet seen. Certainly more than Lion’s Arch.

Already, I felt at home.

4

It made a certain sense that our people’s district in Divinity’s Reach would resemble our people’s city. Perhaps it did so purposefully. Still, I hadn’t expected it—hadn’t expected to find myself so immediately comfortable here, even as I tried to keep track of everything I saw.

Ebonhawke and Rurikton had their differences, of course. Ebonhawke, a stronghold that had stood against the Charr for centuries, was naturally much larger than a single district of Divinity’s Reach. Soldiers stood guard and patrolled the streets throughout the city—not just an occasional guard, like the Seraph in Rurikton, but Fallen Angels and Ebon Vanguard soldiers everywhere I looked.

Understandably.

5

The first Vanguard soldier I saw paced past the entrance just as I emerged.

“Greetings, friend,” he said, and continued on his way.

It undoubtedly meant nothing to the soldier, who didn’t know me from Gwen, but for me? I was being met as a friend, in Ascalon. I could feel a shaky smile tugging at my mouth.

Another soldier looked gravely at me and said,

“May you find the path home.”

“I have,” I said.

6

The trees now grew out of the center of the street, their trunks stout and their reddish-gold leaves shining in the sunlight. The fierce upwelling of life within these walls drew my attention more than the sign-post I passed; I followed the trees until I saw a heavily armoured soldier surveying everything around. He seemed as good a bet as any.

When I paused before him, he immediately said,

“I’m not a tourist guide. The Vanguard has real problems to handle.”

Nothing could have encouraged me more. I set my hand on the hilt of my sword and said,

“Can I help with any of them?”

7

The soldier looked me up and down, clearly judging my capabilities. Despite my skirt and sceptre, the judgment seemed to be more or less positive; he lifted his eyes back to my face and said,

“Depends. What do you think of the treaty?”

I’d expected him to ask if I could fight, or something of that sort. This, I hadn’t foreseen.

“I don’t like it,” I said, opting for honesty and praying I got it right, “but I don’t see any other way. If we lose Ebonhawke, we’ve lost Ascalon forever.”

NINETY-THREE

1

The soldier gave a decided nod.

“A pity more people don’t see that,” he said, and held out his hand. “I’m Vanguard Moeller. And you are?”

Deeply relieved, I shook it. “Althea Fairchild.”

His expression cleared.

2

But he said nothing about the Advocate, the hero of Shaemoor, my association with Logan, or even just Lady Althea.

“Ah, another Fairchild,” said Moeller. “I didn’t realize you were one of ours.”

“I am,” I said firmly.

“Though the hope of a treaty has helped us expand our walls,” he told me, “we still have issues within. Throughout Ebonhawke’s markets and residential areas, Separatists pander their cause, sowing dissension and destruction.”

I tilted my head, a little perplexed.

3

I knew a little of the Separatists, the most ruthless and—at least in my aunt’s and cousins’ estimations—most idiotic of the Ascalonians determined to keep the war going. None of us liked the prospect of conceding nearly all of Ascalon to conquerors who had enslaved and massacred our people, scattered the survivors, and waged hundreds of years of war on the last stubborn pocket of those who remained. None of us would forget that. But a painful compromise that preserved a corner of human Ascalon was better than seeing Ebonhawke crumble.

Not everyone agreed, even in my own family. That was fine—except that the Separatists attacked anyone they regarded as even potentially involved in the treaty, a group which included not only the emissaries, but the Fallen Angels, the entire Ebon Vanguard, guards of various kinds, all Krytans, and the occasional shopkeeper.

Still, if there were Separatists who confined themselves to sowing dissension—well, the violence of the others didn’t justify silencing all dissent.

4

“We of the Ebon Vanguard have to be vigilant to keep our training and supplies up to these challenges,” Moeller added. “If you can keep Separatists off the streets and help with our recruits and weapons, we’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, sincerely enough, yet unsure what I meant by it.

I thanked him and moved on, already shifting my attention to the waypoint that glowed just past Moeller, where the street split into three routes. To my right, one of the routes meandered down into a street that curved around a set of raised, fenced buildings and vanished from sight. The nearest route continued forward and narrowed to a wide set of steps, framed by small stone towers, and leading up to a what looked like a plaza. And the third—

5

The third route, lined by more autumn-bright trees, simply headed left to a set of gates.

The set of gates.

I lifted my eyes up the towering slabs of rock that made up the gates. At this hour, I could make out little else of this side, except the very top, where two stone hawks faced each other from either gate. The hawks themselves must have been considerably taller than me; the gates as a whole seemed impossibly vast.

I hurried down the path towards the gates, which were slightly ajar, and without much trouble, received permission to pass just beyond them, where scouts and soldiers stood guard. Then I craned my head back to look up, up, up.

6

I’d been a little girl when we left Ebonhawke. There was a great deal I couldn’t remember; even what I could recall came through a child’s mind and perceptions. In a story, everything I knew would be strange and diminished to my woman’s eyes—expectations existed to be dashed, after all.

I stared up at the Hawkgates, and felt like the breath had been knocked out of me.

Below the hawks, the gates had been shaped to resemble two gigantic sets of wings, first in blocks of slanted quills, and then carved downwards into long green feathers. I’d seen nothing like them, ever—except here.

They were exactly as I remembered.

7

“Do you need assistance?” said a Vanguard at the gates, looking bored. She probably saw dozens of people stopping to gawk at the gates everyday, at least since the cease-fire.

“No, thank you. I’ve been away for a long time and … never mind, I won’t take you from your duties.”

“I see,” the Vanguard replied, sparing me a little smile. “Magnificent, aren’t they?”

“They are,” I said.

NINETY-FOUR

1

I really did leave the Vanguard to her duties, and headed back to the waypoint, briefly vacillating over which direction to follow. I couldn’t remember the layout of the city beyond anything my eyes told me—but then I shrugged and headed up the stairway, not seeing that it much mattered.

The afternoon light had gained a tinge of reddish-orange as evening approached, colouring the avenue’s line of trees even more vibrantly. On either side of the buildings encasing this route, lanterns hung, now casting their own light amidst the rest.

I smiled to myself, obscurely proud. I’d so often thought of Ebonhawke in terms of its walls and its people, without thinking much of what it looked like. But it was beautiful.

2

Beautiful in an entirely Ascalonian way, no less. Perhaps others would find it less lovely by their own standards, but I hardly cared; I looked around with delight at every step.

On my right hand, I passed a merchant with a cat curled up beside him. He eyed me with some doubt, but warmed up when I bought a book from him—one of a set of volumes on Ebonhawke’s founding that I’d always wanted. Perhaps I could finally find them all, here, though reading was hardly at the top of my agenda.

Not far from him, a poster of a particularly unpleasant-looking Charr hung on the wall. Not wanting to outstay my welcome, I didn’t bother to stop and read it—I couldn’t imagine it worth my time.

3

Moving on, I found a finely-dressed lady on my left, hovering over an entire cart of books. We glanced at each other in some surprise; I’d only seen commoners so far, and didn’t regret it.

“I’m Lady Maddigan,” she said. “And you are?”

“Lady Althea,” I replied as I rifled through books on my side of the cart.

She looked still more surprised. “Pardon, I thought I knew everyone—well, not everyone, but—”

4

“I’ve lived in Divinity’s Reach for a long time,” I said: something that I suspected I would be repeating often in the coming days.

“Oh, I see,” she said, her expression relieved.

I hesitated, but I felt on a more comfortable footing with another noble, so I asked, “Do you have any advice for me?”

Lady Maddigan seemed thoughtful. At last, she said,

“Every experience we have is a story waiting to be written. Live life well, and your story will be a good one.”

Well, I hadn’t expected that.

5

Still, I appreciated the sentiment.

“I’m working on it,” I told her, and she beamed at me.

With that, we parted, and I headed further into the market. Groups of ordinary people—ordinary Ascalonians!—laughed and chatted together. Others lounged on benches, sold food from different parts of the world, marched by in Vanguard uniforms, pored over my book stalls. None of them paid very much attention to me.

If not for the Charr posters, which glared down from just about every corner, I would have been entirely at peace.

6

Many of them were faded or tattered, and few people so much as glanced their way; they’d clearly grown accustomed to their presence. I felt decidedly unsettled. Why on earth would anyone want pictures of Charr around, and in Ebonhawke of all places?

I finally paused at another book stall, and strained to read the words on the poster. They were written in Ascalonian rather than Tyrian, but that didn’t matter; Ascalonian was my mother tongue. The letters read:

No peace with beasts!

Well, damn it.

7

I looked at the unconcerned people around me and then at the sign. I couldn’t begin to tear all the posters down. And while I wouldn’t call the Charr beasts, exactly, except in moral terms, I didn’t feel comfortable trying to tear the posters down in any case; this was a public place. Unless forbidden by law, people could say what they liked.

That didn’t make this nonsense productive, though. No wonder the Vanguard was concerned.

And I’d only just turned away, my decision made, when a perfect stranger ran up to me and cried,

“Queen Jennah can choke on that treaty!”

NINETY-FIVE

1

“Have we met?” I asked.

The stranger flushed, the colour rising from her chin to hairline. But she doggedly continued:

“The queen’s going to do it. She’s going to sign that treaty and let the Charr off easily for all the blood they’ve spilled.” She shivered, then set her jaw again. “Disgusting.”

I hardly knew what to say.

2

Not that I needed to say anything at all—but it was disgusting. Just less so than anything else. The treaty meant relinquishing nearly all of Ascalon to brutal conquerors. But it also meant that it was nearly and not all. They would never hold Ascalon in its entirety. They would never be free of us.

Ever.

3

And wasn’t that what they’d fought for all these years? The total conquest of Ascalon? The total eradication of our people from our land?

“Think of it this way,” I told her. “They’ve wasted so many lives trying to take Ebonhawke, and soon it will be over.”

And now they never would have it. The treaty would force them to accept failure—a victory of sorts for us, however small and bitter it might be.

4

She faltered for a moment, biting her lip. But then she clenched her fists.

“You weren’t here!”

I flinched.

At heart, I knew that I could have offered little help during the sieges—back then, would have just gotten myself killed or run away screaming. But it was true nonetheless: I hadn’t been here, where my people most needed support, when they’d most desperately needed it.

I hadn’t been here.

5

“You never suffered through the constant sieges!” she added.

I managed to contain my wince that time, but it was scarcely less true. We’d left Ebonhawke before I understood what was happening, and while we suffered from the centaur attacks in Kryta, they were nothing to sustained Charr assaults. Certainly nothing to Charr assaults that went on for two hundred and fifty years.

Perhaps she sensed weakness. Perhaps she simply couldn’t help lashing out at the first Krytan she saw. Either way, she blinked hard and kept going.

6

“I lost both my uncles, my mother, and three close friends. That treaty won’t bring them back!”

“You’re right,” I said, and she started. “The war took my uncles and aunts, too, took half my family in Ebonhawke. I understand! But treaties never do anything for the past, just the future. We’ll have one out here, now.”

7

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I went on, “but no one else will have to suffer losses like ours again here.”

After another glare, her face crumpled.

“I know,” she admitted at last, rubbing at her eyes. “It’s just … hard to let them go.”

Remembering those terrible years when I thought Deborah gone, I gave a sympathetic nod.

“I thought victory would make it better—I guess I need time,” she said, more to herself than me.

Very sincerely, I said, “I wish you the best.”

NINETY-SIX

1

I left the stranger to her grief, and continued onwards, albeit slowly.

Everything caught my eye, from the cobblestones underfoot, to the purple-flowered vines cascading down the nearest wall, to the merchants calling out their wares. One of the latter, a thin man standing at his book stall, drew my attention for no particular reason, and I paused to look through his books while life went on around me.

There, I made an even greater find than at the first one. He had several editions of The Iris of Ascalon, the historian Kimmes’s definitive biography of Gwen Thackeray. I’d often seen it referred to in my schoolgirl reading, but never gotten my hands on a copy.

“Thank you very much,” I told the merchant, gladly paying his price and then some.

2

“Thank you,” he returned. Meeting my eyes, he opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

I waited, patient enough when I felt like it.

After another flicker of hesitation, he said, “Take my advice. Learn what you can from listening. No reason to repeat the mistakes others have made for you.”

He gestured at the book in my hands.

3

I wasn’t sure what mistakes Gwen Thackeray might have made—it was difficult to imagine—but I smiled politely before I left.

As the market gradually narrowed, fading into a more residential area, I headed down two of the alleys toward the center of town. That brought me to the wall that encircled the inner city. I thought about just heading forward, but I wanted to see and hopefully do more. I turned right and nearly walked into a scowling man.

“I beg your pardon.”

He said, “The Separatists are right!”

4

Oh. Another one.

But I stayed still and listened. This might not be so obviously productive as holding off sieges and what have you, but—well, I’d come here to help my people. I hadn’t expected to do it like this, but … there was more than one way of helping people. I’d already seen that with the girl in the market; perhaps I could help this man, too.

“If we sign this treaty, we’ll become traitors to our own heritage!”

5

Normally, I would have snapped out that my heritage was my concern. But his voice cracked as he spoke, and though I’d never gone that far—it would take something extraordinary to imagine myself betraying anything, much less my heritage as an Ascalonian—I could understand the fear of failing the legacy that had come down to us all.

“No treaty,” he insisted. “Not now, not ever.”

“Would you prefer a constant siege?” I asked.

His scowl faded a little. “That’s not what I meant.”

6

“If there’s a choice between peace and war,” I told him, “I’ll take peace.”

He looked skeptical.

I pressed on, “The Charr are packing up and leaving, thanks to the treaty.”

In fairness to him, he paused to think about it, tilting his head one way and then the other. Finally, he pressed his lips together and gave a decided nod.

“There might be some benefits to the treaty,” he said. “Thanks.”

7

I shook his hand and carried on my perambulations along the wall. As I walked, I saw a group of nobles talking with each other, quickly joined by a third, a brown-haired lady in a lovely shade of deep blue.

“You know the best part about this treaty?” she asked them, not bothering to lower her voice.

I froze.

With a short, humourless laugh, another woman said, “The Charr will stop trying to kill us?”

“That, too,” the lady agreed, “but now we won’t have to rely on Divinity’s Reach for everything.”

I’d heard enough—I stepped forwards, tapped her shoulder, and said,

“My lady, might I have a word with you?”

NINETY-SEVEN

1

She jerked away and whirled around to look me up and down.

“Do I know you?” she demanded.

“That’s for you to decide,” I said, a little unsettled, but mostly amused.

She was plainly not amused; she settled a hard stare on me, scrutinizing my face while her friends watched with interest. I could scarcely have imagined a further cry from the malleable Separatist sympathizers I’d encountered on the streets.

Then her narrowed eyes went wide, all hostility draining from her face.

“Althea?”

2

“How—when—”

She seized my hands, her rings digging into my skin as she peered at me. Then, dissatisfied with that, she threw her arms around me, right there in the street.

I hugged her back, laughing with happiness more than amusement now.

She laughed too, even as she released me and smacked my shoulder.

“I can't believe it! You didn’t say a word!”

3

“It’s good to see you too, Aunt Elwin,” I told her.

“Well, of course it is! But when—” Then she shook her head and tugged me over to her friends. “Excuse my manners. This is my niece Althea, my brother Edmund’s youngest girl.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

4

Aunt Elwin introduced the others as a Lady Phaedra and Lord Joran, and we all shook hands.

“I remember Lord Edmund very well,” Phaedra said, a little distantly, then turned to my aunt. “Weren’t you twins?”

“Yes, we—were,” Aunt Elwin said, her face tightening a little. “He returned to live with us in Ebonhawke for awhile, so Althea was born and brought up for a few years here.”

Phaedra and Joran looked at me with considerably more warmth.

“Then welcome back,” he told me.

5

I smiled, genuinely touched, and the four of us exchanged some polite nothings before Aunt Elwin claimed a need to make some inquiries at the market. We left arm-in-arm, for the first time. We’d often written to each other, but rarely met in person; she only visited Divinity’s Reach now and then, and I was eleven or so the last time—a child following her about, not a woman at her side.

“Althea,” said Aunt Elwin sternly, “what were you thinking?”

“About what?” I said, distracted by the realization that she was shorter than me. I had to cast my eyes down to look at her face, though the face itself was startlingly like my memories of her, down to the kohl about her eyes.

“I had no idea you’d be coming home!”

6

“I always meant to,” I reminded her. Despite her tone, I didn’t feel terribly concerned; she fought back a smile every time she looked at me, and her grip on my arm never faltered.

“When things were more settled,” she said, her brows drawing together.

“I never said that.”

I had to repress my own grin, even though it was entirely true; I would not have ever said such a thing. Why, I’d first stepped out of Divinity’s Reach to prepare myself for Ebonhawke, and that had led to all my adventures since—but through them all, I always intended to return to Ebonhawke when I was worthy, cease-fire or no cease-fire.

“Your mother did,” said Aunt Elwin.

7

“Mother sometimes confuses what she wishes and what she knows,” I said.

She laughed. “True enough—well, what are your plans?”

“I’ll only be here a few days before I have … another obligation,” I told her, “but I do mean to come back once it’s all over. I can’t go around priding myself on being Ascalonian and doing nothing for our people.”

Aunt Elwin turned her head, studying me with a thoughtful expression. Quietly, she said,

“You’ve changed.”

NINETY-EIGHT

1

“I’ve had to,” I said.

I would have liked to deny it, the way I had to Deborah. But I couldn’t, not now. I thought of Kellach, of Ihan and Zhaitan and Logan and all of it.

Not ever.

I couldn’t tell anyone in my family that I was Initiate Fairchild now, that Lady Althea was a preserved outward shell. Yet I couldn’t remain silent.

2

“You know how much changed when Deborah vanished,” I said, “and then at Shaemoor—everything was different after the battle. My friend got abducted, and I became friends with Logan Thackeray while we worked out the plot behind it, and then there was the investigation of what happened to the Screaming Falcons, and I was fighting centaurs and Risen and … I don’t know.”

I’d already written to her of most of it, and in more detail, but she nodded thoughtfully.

“By the end, I was someone else,” I told her. “I can’t say when it happened.”

“It was happening the whole time, I’d wager,” said Aunt Elwin. “These things usually happen that way.”

3

I hadn’t exactly considered it in that light. Silently taking in the chatter and colours of the market, I thought about it.

“It’s just been one thing after the other,” I said, “and—it’s like I just turned around one day and couldn’t find myself in the mirror, but of course that’s not it at all. I think you’re right.”

“Aren’t I always?” my aunt said dryly. “Well, if you’re going to be coming to Ebonhawke, I’ll set a room aside for you—you weren’t planning on staying anywhere else, I hope?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I admitted.

4

She just shook her head.

“Well, some things haven’t changed. Don’t worry about any of that—I can handle all the details.”

“I know you can,” I assured her, and pressed her arm, glad to find Aunt Elwin in person so much the Aunt Elwin of her letters.

We made our way to one of the finer residential districts, where other nobles greeted my aunt familiarly and exchanged introductions with me; none impressed themselves on my mind more than anyone else had, but none offended me or spoke any of the nonsense I’d quelled down on the streets. In fact, any one of them could have slipped into Rurikton society and passed for one of our own.

I didn’t say that; even nobles of Ebonhawke had endured worse than most people in Rurikton ever would.

5

I couldn’t have picked out Fairchild House from any of the other aristocratic residences, except perhaps as a child, but I followed Aunt Elwin unhesitatingly to one near a line of golden trees, framed by trailing ivy. Once inside, however, something about the glossy floors and vaulted ceilings jogged my memory—I knew without thinking the direction of the parlour and the bedchambers, if not much else.

With evening encroaching, the parlour was brightly lit, and Aunt Elwin turned me about to search my face more closely, though I could not have said what she looked for. But she enclosed me in her arms again, before ushering me into a chair.

“It’s so good to see you again,” she told me. “Your cousins will think so, too; several of them are here right now. Calissa is on leave for two days, and Devona’s posted in Ebonhawke, and”—she paused—“well, of course Dian and Jamora are here.”

6

My father had been one of five children, four of whom had children in their turn. None of us were only children; six of us still lived. And Dian and Jamora might not. They didn’t want to leave Ebonhawke, but the family was on the point of moving them to the Vanguard hospital in Divinity’s Reach anyway.

Calissa and Devona remained in the Vanguard, the former a scout and the latter a soldier—with the treaty, I supposed they had better odds of survival than the five buried in the ground.

It had been worse for the family here, of course; I knew my dead cousins, uncles, and aunts more through their penmanship than their faces, affectionate notes that just stopped coming rather than dead bodies.

Still: the Charr had a great deal to answer for.

7

In any case, I looked forward to seeing Calissa and Devona again, especially Calissa. She was only a few years older than me and a devoted correspondent, with no qualms about sharing her many opinions.

True to character, she marched straight into the parlour where Aunt Elwin sat with me as soon as she arrived, took one look at me, and demanded,

“Who are you?”

“Althea,” I said, “but you won’t remember—”

She rushed forward and hugged me so tightly that I squeaked.

“It’s really you?” she said, backing away only to grin down at me. “Then I challenge you to a duel!”