GW2 fic, 106-112

[anghraine]

I inhaled, then strode forwards, catching sight of a couple of tables and banners before my body jerked back, my skin cold and my chest hot. I only just restrained a gasp, my hand instead flying to my sword and nearly unsheathing it.

At the opposite end of the cave stood, unmistakably, a Charr.

title: pro patria (106-112/?)
verse: Ascalonian grudgefic
characters/relationships: Althea Fairchild, Wade Samuelsson, Agent Kaela; Agent Dorian, JoAnna, various unnamed Ebonhawke residents, "Ebon Vanguard Soldier"; Althea & Samuelsson
stuff that happens: Althea is disturbed by the Separatist attack, and even more disturbed by a new acquaintance.
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, 92-98, 99-105

ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

1

“Ah, Lady Elwin,” said Samuelsson. “A fine woman, and a pillar of Ebonhawke. One of my best captains is another niece of hers—Devona Fairchild.”

“My cousin,” I said proudly. Although I hadn’t actually seen Devona in years, she was a faithful correspondent and not one to conceal her opinions. I liked her very much, though in a different way than our aunt or Calissa.

“I see. And your name is …?”

2

“Althea Fairchild,” I said, almost reluctantly.

He looked thoughtful. “Althea—I had a remote aunt by that name, before the Searing. And during it, I suppose. She was the fiancée of Prince Rurik himself before the Charr—”

He broke off.

“Killed her,” I said.

3

“You know the story, then,” said Samuelsson.

“I was named after her,” I told him. “She taught my foremother, Irene Fairchild, before Irene escaped and the Charr burned Lady Althea. Irene left all kinds of family records.”

“An interesting choice of namesake,” he remarked. “Few of our people’s stories end well, but not all are quite so tragic.”

“My parents always admired her,” I said, adding firmly, “and so do I.”

4

The duke didn’t seem alarmed, or even surprised. “Good. It’s important to remember the past, all the more now, when so much is changing.”

“That’s exactly what I think,” I said, ignoring a man who smiled politely in our direction, glanced down, and then stared at my stained skirts; at least someone had noticed. “I don’t condone the Separatists’ actions”—I shoved the memory of the battle out of my mind—“and I understand why the treaty is necessary, but I can see why some people are angry at everyone telling us to forget the last two hundred and fifty years. Most of us are angry, even in Kryta.”

He did look a little startled at that, and said, “It’s good to hear that our people have our backs.”

5

“Always,” I said.

Samuelsson smiled, his entire air lighter, though he quickly sobered and said,

“Speaking of the Separatists, what can you tell me about the attack?”

I hesitated, wishing I could keep pushing it away from my thoughts, but dutifully let my memories rise to the surface and told him everything I could.

“They were screaming about the Searing,” I said, shuddering. “But this isn’t the way to remember.”

“No,” said Samuelsson. “Surviving is our best revenge.”

6

I’d known who he was, but not what he was like. It came as an undeniable relief that he seemed so cool-headed, without dishonouring our history or looking to shove it under a rug, the way that so many wanted us to do.

“That’s right,” I said. The road we were on curved; with another shiver, I pointed at the market now visible ahead. “Well, there it is.”

Every impulse urged me to stop, get away, but I forced myself to keep walking. Nobody intercepted us, and though the Ebon Vanguard and Fallen Angels clustered in the marketplace seemed on high alert, all the bodies and bloodshed had vanished as if the attack had never happened.

7

Samuelsson headed straight for the Vanguard who’d sent me to find him, though I hadn’t given his name and didn’t know it. Uncertain of my place now, I trailed after him, listening to the Vanguard’s report; it seemed roughly the same as mine, but more orderly and thorough—this wasn’t anything new for him.

Afterwards, Samuelsson gave a few orders to his soldiers and the Fallen Angels, who both hastened to obey, though I hardly listened, thinking of the slashes of my sword against Ascalonians, the shouts and dying and—gods.

The duke, turning slightly to take in the marketplace, gave an approving nod, then looked down at me. I didn’t know what he saw, but he said,

“There’s a nice respectable place with some excellent ale that way, if you’d like to try it.”

“I could use something bracing,” I admitted, and bowed. “Farewell, your Grace.”

ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

1

I made my way home, conscious of my ruinous appearance even if hardly anyone else seemed to be. Maybe it was nothing unusual in Ebonhawke, but I was a creature of Divinity’s Reach, too.

I thought about handing over my skirt to the best efforts of a servant, but recoiled from the thought of wearing it ever again; instead, I cut it to pieces and slowly burned the scraps, images of the battle parading through my mind without the duke there to distract me from them. I’d protected Ascalonians by killing other ones, but the necessity was hard to accept. Damn the Separatists, anyway—Samuelsson was right. They could do so much good if they’d turned that passion and dedication to something actually productive, and instead they forced us to this.

I could definitely use a drink.

2

Of course, I might have simply ordered a servant to bring something to me, but something about the idea sat poorly with me. Instead, I headed out for the place that Samuelsson had suggested; it ultimately took me to a respectable inn-and-tavern that reminded me forcibly of the Maiden’s Whisper back in Rurikton.

Someone in the main room was saying loudly,

“I’d take a strong Ebonhawke ale over watery Divinity beer any day!”

I might have taken offense, but it was true. I just sat at a table, relieved that the chairs seemed pristine. I’d put on my plainest, most practical clothes—brown, even, to hide any further stains—but I preferred to keep them as clean as I could.

A barmaid said, “You can taste a difference?”

3

“It’s about the soil. We got good soil here.”

“That’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it?” said a woman a few chairs down from him. The man looked startled, but gave a decided nod. She went on, “This is our soil. Our land. Our ale!”

4

I gestured at the barmaid, who came walking over to me with a politely inquisitive expression.

“I’d like your smallest cup of your best ale,” I told her.

She laughed. “All right then.”

Another man had broken into the general conversation. “Two hundred and fifty years, give or take. Two hundred and fifty years.”

5

The words were slurred and the wave of his arm barely missed his tankard; I guessed he was considerably less sober than the other two.

The barmaid sighed. “Here we go again.”

“These walls have stood against the Charr since 1080,” he went on, with a gulp of ale. “Why are we giving up now?”

“No more for you today,” the barmaid said firmly, walking over to him. “Go home and dry out.”

6

Sobriety might make him more restrained, but I doubted it would change his mind, or those of the people here who thought the same. This wasn’t something I could defeat by shooting aether at it, not something that I could defeat at all. Hells, I had barely conquered it in myself.

It’s for the best, I told myself, watching him grumble to himself as he staggered out. The duke’s right—surviving is the thing. They might have tried to kill and enslave us all, but they failed—and they’ll have to put up with us here now.

The barmaid brought my ale in a cup that I suspected was usually used for tea, and I sipped it, letting the taste linger on my tongue as I reminded myself that we’d come out of this as well as possible, and Separatists would gladly see the rest of us slaughtered if it meant taking a few Charr with us.

7

I felt a little better by then, my nerves steadying. All the better; I knew I’d have to fight Separatists again, once I headed out to help my people beyond the walls, and I’d meant to do today. And I would, just—not quite yet.

As I stood up to leave, I saw the bartender muttering something to a different barmaid, which I heard more clearly once I passed by the bar.

“I don’t like this treaty idea; I don’t like it one bit,” he said.

The barmaid replied, “Look at it this way: peace will mean more business.”

“I ain’t serving no Charr in my place,” he told her, “you can count on that.”

ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

1

I walked around the city for a little while, forcing myself to take deep, regular breaths as I did. Eventually, I had the idea of returning to the duke’s farm; something about it struck me as significant, though I couldn’t say what.

I’d ended up on nearly the opposite end of the city by then, so I made my way along the southern edge, returning nods and pleasant greetings, while occasionally talking down the not-quite-Separatists who condemned the Charr and Queen Jennah all at once. After the battle in Kestrel Market, it felt more necessary than ever.

Not everyone could be talked down, of course; at one point, I turned down an alley to find two farmers talking. One, a blonde woman, said,

“I was born inside these walls. I’m probably going to die trapped inside them.”

2

I couldn’t help but give her a sympathetic glance, and she turned her head to look at me, her eyes narrowing.

“I’ve had enough of this,” she snapped out. “Queen Jennah sent these Fallen Angels to lord over us, and they let the Charr do whatever they please. It’s disgusting. Someone should do something!”

My mouth tightened. I knew why so many people assumed—in some ways rightly—that I was Krytan at first glance, but it didn’t make it easier to accept the judgments about my heritage and my other home.

3

“I take it you’re a Separatist, then,” I said, and her scowl deepened.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Separatists are deserters and scumbags.”

Well—all right. But her unwavering expression didn’t win her any favours. Maybe she should think about identifying people at first words.

Instead, she looked me up and down scornfully, then said,

“We were fine before the queen barged in here with her boot-lickers.”

4

Feeling my lip curl, I said, “Boot-lickers? Who do you think you’re talking about?”

Who do you think you’re talking to?

She shrugged. “We just need someone who can defend Ebonhawke and get results.”

Jennah had gotten results, and Samuelsson, too. They might not be the results we wanted, in a more perfect world, but they’d extracted the best we could get in this one.

5

“Never thought I would see someone nostalgic over the sieges,” I said. “You really miss all that bloodshed?”

“I miss freedom,” she said fiercely. “We were stronger back then. We knew who we could rely on. Now, Charr roam freely and we have outsiders telling us what to do. Turns my stomach.”

6

I could understand that, of course. But for one, she was going around ranting to a perfect stranger—perhaps any stranger who looked vaguely Krytan—and for another, she was wrong. Ebonhawke would always be able to rely on Kryta, our people had been anything but stronger with a constant siege adding to the Ascalonian death toll at the hands of generations of Charr, and I had yet to see one of them in the city.

“At least you still have a stomach to turn,” I said, and turned on my heel and walked away.

So much for that.

Nobody else accosted me on the way to the farm, at least, though I found a little girl in an alley leading out of the main thoroughfare, frowning at the ground with a bewildered expression.

“Hello there,” I said, wearily hoping I wasn’t about to face a tiny Separatist.

7

“Hey,” she said, “a Charr came through this gap and headed to the farm. Then it went all wavy and disappeared like a ghost! Nobody believes me, but I saw it!”

I was inclined to doubt it myself, but the possibility still chilled me. What could a Charr be doing here? Well, anything: reconnaissance work or sabotage or only the gods knew what, if they could somehow get past the gates, the Vanguard, and the Fallen Angels without being noticed.

It’d make for a challenge, to be sure—but I knew better than most that challenges could be met.

ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

1

“Did you hear anything? Did the Charr say anything?” I demanded.

“No. It just ran by,” the girl said. “You couldn’t hear the footsteps, even. I only felt the breeze. Then, gone.”

2

She looked inquisitively up at me. “What do you think it was doing here, miss?”

Not bothering to correct her, I said, “No idea. I’d keep an eye out, if I were you.”

I had every intention of doing so myself, at any rate. And if random children about Ebonhawke weren’t precisely my responsibility, I didn’t like to think of what a stealthy Charr might do to an Ascalonian child who noticed it.

“And be careful,” I added.

3

She nodded soberly. “That’s what my brother is always telling me.”

“Good for him,” I said.

Scrunching up her nose, she said, “I’d better go meet him or he’ll be mad—goodbye!”

“Goodbye,” I said, and she ran off.

Relieved that she no longer fell under my care, however vaguely, I continued on my path to the farm, more determined than before.

If a Charr was here, I’d find them.

4

When I reached the farm, I peered around, but saw nothing suspicious; it looked exactly as it had when I found Wade Samuelsson here. There were farmers, all human; chickens, all … chickens; and various small, innocent crops. If the girl’s imagination hadn’t misled her, the Charr’s destination must be through one of the walls that edged the farm.

After chatting with a resting farmer, who claimed not to have seen anything unusual, I walked around the field and scrutinized the first stretch of wall. Nothing except a shelf in the rock that made it easy to climb up for a good view of the city. I supposed it might be useful for a reconnaissance mission, but I was so visible up there that I could only imagine the reaction that a Charr would elicit.

No—if they had gone anywhere, it must be the western wall, by the barracks.

5

Surely, I thought, the Vanguard and Angels would have noticed a Charr at the edges of their barracks, or perhaps even inside them. But it was the only thing I could think of.

I clambered down the rock ledges and headed back around the northwest edge of the farm, closely attending to every feature. The wall seemed unremarkable. Feeling a bit foolish, but set on searching for every possible sign of intrusion, I turned the corner into the barracks.

Even in my plainest dress and leggings, I earned a few odd looks, but either my reputation or Commander Varalyn’s favour preceded me, and the soldiers made no attempts to impede my progress.

Everything seemed as orderly and normal as yesterday.

6

At first glance, in fact, it was all so unsuspicious that I wondered if I hadn’t already reached the conclusion to my search. But I decided to look as closely as I had thus far—no point in shoddy work now. I walked through the barracks as calmly as I could, pretending to be looking for someone. Well, I was looking for someone.

I found nothing, until the door to a large building caught my eye. It didn’t look suspicious, either, but it had fallen very slightly ajar. I walked over and opened it all the way, finding a room with a few soldiers milling around, and a narrow hall leading out of it.

7

The soldiers looked up sharply as I entered, but one of them relaxed at the sight of me. He muttered to the woman next to him, and they both gave me friendly waves.

Hm.

Nodding at them as I went, I walked down the hall as unobtrusively as was possible for a civilian out of Divinity’s Reach to look. At the end, I found another door, guarded by an Ebon Vanguard soldier—or—something seemed off about her. Maybe it was just that she didn’t stand as rigidly as the rest, or the fit of her armour, or something else I couldn’t consciously pin down, but she wasn’t right.

She looked me up and down, then said, “We’ve heard of you, Althea Fairchild.”

ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

1

Taken aback, I studied the soldier—if she was a soldier.

“Have you?” I said at last.

“Go on in,” she replied, “but tell no one what you see inside.” Her stern expression gave way to a slight twitch of her mouth. “Secrets must be kept, after all.”

“What is this place?” I asked.

But I was pretty sure I knew.

2

“It’s a place where we can come and go freely,” she told me. “Our first safehouse was compromised when the Fallen Angels took over the barracks. If we stayed, we would have risked exposure.”

It seemed a risk here, too.

“But you’re impersonating the Vanguard,” I pointed out. “They’re going to get wise and discover you sooner or later.”

“Our people in the Vanguard will keep this place a secret, one way or another.”

3

For a moment, I just blinked. They had agents in the Vanguard?

Maybe it shouldn’t be that surprising; they had agents everywhere. But did that mean that I could—

“We also have a secondary entrance, for our non-human agents. Keeps things discreet,” she went on.

“Impressive,” I replied, though I hardly knew what came out of my mouth.

4

She gestured towards the door, which opened readily at my touch. I’d expect more resistance, but presumably they knew what they were doing.

Past the door, I set food into a narrow path edged by stone walls. I seemed to be in a cave of some kind, the path curving and broadening up ahead, though I couldn’t see much beyond that.

I inhaled, then strode forwards, catching sight of a couple of tables and banners before my body jerked back, my skin cold and my chest hot. I only just restrained a gasp, my hand instead flying to my sword and nearly unsheathing it.

At the opposite end of the cave stood, unmistakably, a Charr.

5

In the moment, my thoughts didn’t so much race as freeze; everything froze, from shock if not fear. Then a realization crept on me: the Charr stood right next to a human in a sleeveless black and red robe, and a couple of other humans milled about in the same sorts of robes, all in the same shades. None of them appeared to pay any attention to the Charr.

And the Charr, though its shape naturally required a different cut, wore black and red robes, too. All of them, just like Ihan had. Every one of them was Order of Whispers.

Even the Charr.

6

My heartbeat didn’t calm, but it did slow a little. I’d known that Charr joined the Order sometimes; this must be one of them. And this, undoubtedly, was who the child had seen. That didn’t make them trustworthy, but it did mean I shouldn’t immediately attack.

Why would the Order place a Charr in Ebonhawke , though? There was hardly a place where one could be more obtrusive. Or more unwelcome.

7

This must be the Order’s base out here, I thought; maybe the Charr wasn’t in the field, or something like that—some kind of paper pusher. The idea amused me enough that I managed to recover my composure and my resolve, my hand releasing the hilt of my sword.

I marched straight up to the Charr, imagining how much of my people’s blood had been shed at their hands.

They had a handkerchief of some sort over their lower face and a hood over their head, but I could make out their eyes.

“Welcome, Initiate Fairchild,” said the Charr, in a higher growl than I expected.

I stared, my body nearly vibrating.

She said, “I’m Agent Kaela.”

ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

1

It took every scrap of resolve I possessed to unclench my teeth.

“Agent,” I grated out.

The Charr glanced over my shoulder, then looked back down at me.

I had no idea what she would do next; I had no idea what I would do next. But if I’d thought beyond the warring impulses shouting in my brain, urging me to lift my sword to her throat and to hide my true thoughts, to attack and to wait, I wouldn’t have imagined what came next.

“Ah, you got to come in the front door,” she said. “Must be nice!”

2

I frowned, still on guard, but suddenly uncertain. Nice? Since when did Charr talk about nice?

“Everywhere I walk in this town, I’ve got eyes on me,” she went on, as if this were a chat over tea. “Makes it tricky to shake them so I can get in here.”

My heart bleeds for you, I almost said.

She paused, clearly waiting for a response.

3

“Do you get into much … trouble?” I asked at last.

I’d like to think that habits of picking my words carefully stood me in good stead now, but I couldn’t imagine what would seem normal to a Charr. Instead, I settled for that bit of ambiguity and watched her closely, alert to any sign that she’d gotten up to Charr business under cover of the Order. If she’d harmed any Ascalonians—

I did, I thought, but shoved that out of my mind. I had bigger problems at the moment.

“Just hard stares and the random epithet,” said Agent Kaela indifferently.

4

None of my senses caught any sign of deception. I was more inclined to doubt the senses than my suspicions of her, but I was most inclined to wait for the right opportunity to act, if action was indeed called for. I wasn’t going to let a Charr jeopardize my initiation and all I might accomplish once it was over.

There were Charr in the Order of Whispers; unless they had some species-wide conspiracy at work, there would always be Charr in the Order of Whispers. I’d interact with more of them than this. And if I’d never trust one of them, I couldn’t afford to make them all personal enemies, beyond what we already were.

I forced myself to remember Kellach, and what the dragon had made of him, and the grisly scene afterwards; that had to come first.

5

We’ll become traitors to our own heritage! the man in the street had proclaimed. Was that what the Order had made of me, already?

No: there’d be no Ascalon to preserve if the dragons triumphed. I was working to save my people, not betray them. I knew that—or the rational part of me did. But I felt as if my ancestors screamed their rage into my ears.

Maybe they were screaming, off among the ghosts.

6

“I had a couple of Separatists follow me once,” Agent Kaela was prattling on, “but I utilized the old sewer systems. No one’s been watching them much since the truce talks started.”

Silently, I noted that I should tell someone about that. Maybe Devona, whose hatred of the Charr could have eclipsed the sun.

I swallowed. “So what are you doing in Ebonhawke, then?”

Even through her mask and unfamiliar features, I could see her guard go up.

7

“It’s my assignment,” she said shortly. “If you’re attached to the operation, then you’ll know what I’m doing. If not, you won’t. Got it?”

I didn’t do anything so obvious as clenching my hands or glaring at her; I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. Instead, I lifted my chin and looked her directly in the eyes.

“Got it,” I said.

ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE

1

Agent Kaela turned away, evidently dismissing me.

Anger coiled in me all over again, but dismissal was among the least of the Charr’s offenses. I tamped down on all signs of emotion and walked over to the human agent standing at the main table, near the Order of Whispers banners that hung on the walls.

They must be very certain of their security.

I didn’t relax; that was impossible, with my back unguarded, a Charr in the room, and no certain allies. But I felt a little less troubled, facing another human.

“Agent Dorian,” he said, without looking up.

2

It was a compliment, I decided, that he didn’t instantly sweep his papers away at my arrival.

“Initiate Fairchild,” I replied. As you know. “What’s the state of things here, if you can tell me?”

He looked at me, his mask somehow managing to conceal more of his expression than Agent Kaela’s had. But he didn’t strike me as angry, anyway, or even impatient.

“Our agents at Summit Peak are pushing discussion in the right direction,” he told me, “but treaty building is a slow, delicate task.”

3

I imagined so. Thanks the gods that Queen Jennah hadn’t decided my duties as Advocate of the Crown should involve the negotiations.

Cautiously, I said, “Why does the Order of Whispers care?”

“It’s in our interests to see Tyria united against the dragons,” he said. “If that means we have to push certain events into being, then so be it.”

I nodded; that’s what I’d thought.

“Quietly, assuredly,” said Dorian, “this treaty will happen.”

4

I took a deep breath, then let it out. Whatever else the treaty might be, it was necessary; I couldn’t say I felt relieved at anything to do with it, but I found some reassurance in his conviction. The Order of Whispers might not support my people in particular—couldn’t really function if it did—but it had swung its power behind the route that would enable us to survive. Perhaps even in peace, someday.

“What about the Separatists and”—I strained to remember the name of the Charr’s own rebels—“Renegades?”

I couldn’t even recall where I’d heard it. But somewhere along my way, I’d picked up the idea that the Charr legions had trouble with dissenters who refused to accept the cease-fire, much less a treaty, and would accept nothing less than the total obliteration of the Ascalonian people—though in that, I could see only a vague difference between them and the rest of the Charr.

5

Agent Dorian considered me a moment, then said,

“We prefer to let the Ebon Vanguard and the Charr legions bloody their swords with them.” His glance flicked towards the sword at my side. “Should the situation change, we’ll make our move.”

I didn’t know if I should take that as a suggestion that I should be prepared to make that move, or a judgment on me for bloodying my sword with the Vanguard instead of waiting patiently with the Order, or what, exactly. I did feel sure it meant something; I had the distinct impression that nothing this man did was meaningless.

I prodded, “And that move would be?”

“Made known to those who need to know it,” said Agent Dorian—more graciously than Agent Kaela had ended our conversation, but meaning very little different.

6

“I understand,” I told him. “Until later, Agent Dorian.”

He inclined his head. “Perhaps.”

An optimist, clearly. I turned, almost twitching now that my back was to Agent Kaela, and headed out with slight smiles and nods at the other operatives. As soon as I came back out into the sunlight, I hurried my steps, even though I had no particular destination; after this morning, the thought of traipsing out beyond the walls held very little appeal.

7

In fact, I felt a little sick.

Not really—just at the idea of leaving Ebonhawke to its own devices. But it had stood over two hundred years without me, and the Order was here, and anyway, I had to leave in just a few days to return to Logan and my mysterious new mentor, and … and yet.

I finally sat down on a stair and covered my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t that, after all. I’d come to Ebonhawke after all this time, only to kill Ascalonians and play nice with Charr.

What was I doing?