Work Text:
Unnervingly, the Emblem is actually warm to the touch; the heat from actually holding it in her hands reminds Guinevere of the almost-pain of holding her palm above a candle's flame for a handful of seconds. The thing feels as though there is a fire inside, but while the burnished gold gleams in the lamplight of her room, the rubies inlaid in the metal only glitter with said light, and shed none of their own. She has handled tomes and staves since she was ten years old, and reckoned mature enough for the dangers inherent in such things; Guinevere can recognize magic when she feels it. "Does this bear the same power as the divine weapons?" she asks, and though she feels a light touch of fear at the thought, none of it can be heard in her voice. "Is there any danger in bearing it without some form of protection?" She knows the answer, but voices the worry anyway.
"The Fire Emblem does not hold the powers that wrought the ending winter," Ellen answers, sitting at the edge of Guinevere's bed, only feet away from the desk where Guinevere herself sits. "The only magic to it is what seals away the Binding Blade; that is what makes it warm to the touch." The words are rote; Ellen has learned her lore well, ever diligent in the service of her country. The irony in that is not lost on Guinevere.
Guinevere stares at it. It is a treasure, one central to Bern's history. How long before its absence is noted? It has never been on display, but there have ever been protective charms in place over its location; she was sure to investigate them thoroughly before allowing Ellen to take it in her place. She wonders that it does not burn her hands, scalding them, marking her as a traitor. Is she one? "There is no turning back, is there?" she says, despair in her voice. Foolish, to entertain her doubts now, when the thing is already done.
"No, princess," her lady-in-waiting confirms gently. Crossing the space between them, she laces her fingers around Guinevere's; her hands are startlingly cool in comparison to the warmth of the Emblem, and Guinevere surrenders it to her after a moment spent looking at it, nestled in their joined hands, Ellen's a shade paler than her own. Ellen sets the Emblem on the desk, right over the letters Guinevere had been drafting the hour before. Guinevere lets out a startled laugh at the image of Bern's most sacred relic being used as a paperweight, then makes another startled noise as Ellen begins to pull her -- gently, as she does everything -- from her chair, toward the bed.
"Is this really the time?" she asks, but when Ellen prompts her to scoot backwards on the bed, she does so, and she does not swat Ellen's hands away when the other woman slides the hem of her nightgown up her legs and down her thighs, or when she sets a hand on each of Guinevere's knees to spread them apart. After years in her service, Ellen understands her better than anyone else.
"You need this," Ellen answers, her cheek and breath warm against the inside of Guinevere's thigh. She can feel the corner of Ellen's mouth twitching in a smile against her skin.
Guinevere looks at Ellen's face, framed between her spread legs, then shudders. "We cannot tarry long," she says, her voice quivering when Ellen kisses the inside of her thigh.
"Then we will not," Ellen says, and continues her progress downward.
------
"It speaks well of you that you wish to perform this task," Zephiel says, voice and face impassive, "but are you certain you wish to risk being so near to the Lycian border?"
Guinevere has learned over the last year not to expect warmth in her brother's tone or expression. It has been a hard lesson, as hard as learning not to trust her father was, and even still she wishes that he would show her even the barest hint of a smile, just as she spent more than a decade wishing that her father would finally relent and show Zephiel a piece of compassion. Seeing her brother now, however, ends such hopes for the moment; his face is like stone even as he speaks of his once-beloved sister putting herself at risk. "I have faith that our borders will prove strong over the course of our war," she responds, careful not to stumble over the unwanted our. “And I believe that my personal guard will be able to ensure my safety if any of our enemies encroach upon our border while I am investigating the integrity of our fortifications,” she adds – another lie. Until she leaves this place, almost everything she says will be a lie, she thinks.
“Then I assent,” Zephiel says with a small wave of his hand: a dismissal. He looks away from Guinevere, past her, and when she turns to look behind her, she sees one of his generals, Brunya, bending her knee with her face downturned. “Leave us, Guinevere; I must give orders to my general.”
As Guinevere does so, walking past Brunya, the woman looks up once more, and just before Guinevere passes her, she sees the same devoted look in her eyes as always. She hurries her pace, unable to bear to see the woman fawn after her brother so; it reminds her overmuch of how Zephiel acted around their father in the early years, when he thought doing so might finally earn him a scrap of affection. He eventually learned his lesson at the cost of his humanity; Guinevere wonders what it will take for Brunya to do the same.
------
“Please reconsider, Princess,” Miledy says, worry plain in her features and in her voice. She has never been one for subterfuge, never had any reason or talent to mask her emotions. It is but one of the reasons that Guinevere chose not to include her in the plan.
She cradles the thought in her mind, focuses on it. She needs to be strong. “I have given the matter all of the consideration that it is due,” she says, and in spite of the neutrality of her tone, she knows the words must cut. They were calculated to do so. “Such force will not be necessary on such a mission.”
“Such force – we are your personal guard, Guinevere,” Miledy says, almost incredulous. “We stand ready for exactly this sort of eventuality. If you must insist on performing the task of some officer's underling, at least do so with the protection afforded you by your birth!”
Guinevere thinks that of all the things granted to her by virtue of her birth – her privileges, her ties to her people, her father and brother, madmen both – she will regret losing Miledy the most. “It is because of my birth that I must carry out my duty, just as you must your own. Until now, yours was to protect me, but no longer.” The words are spoken impassively, and Guinevere holds her expression still as stone; her brother has proven an excellent teacher in this.
Miledy's breath stops visibly, and the color rises in her cheeks. “This is – a dismissal,” she says, eyes bright.
“Yes,” Guinevere breathes, then turns to walk toward where Ellen waits with both their mounts – until a gloved hand wraps like a vise around her shoulder.
“Why are you doing this, Guinevere?” Miledy's voice is as tight as her grip. “If I had failed you in some way – let you come to harm – overstepped my bounds – this is madness, Guinevere. Why?”
Because she cannot bear to see Miledy become like Brunya, dogging her liege's steps and following Guinevere's every whim like a dog desperate for its owner's approval, loyal to a person rather than to her ideals or her country. Because she has already led one person she loves to abandon everything for the sake of a slim hope, and she cannot bear to do it again. Because – “I have not given you leave to touch me,” she says in a hiss, unable to command her voice in this, the pivotal moment. “If you fear overstepping your bounds, it seems you do so with good reason.”
The words hang in the air between them, resounding like the echo of a slap; the only sound is a sharp intake of breath, then Miledy's ragged exhalation Guinevere cannot bring herself to look back. She thinks of pulling her arm free, but before she has the chance, Miledy releases her. She hears footsteps, then wingbeats; when she finally turns, it is to see the receding form of Miledy in Trifinne's saddle, the wyvern's wings stirring the air as they fly away.
It is Ellen who takes Guinevere's hands and brings her to her horse's side, as it is Ellen who raises the reins to Guinevere's numb fingers. “We cannot tarry,” she says, and there is nothing sultry or humorous even as her words hearken back to the ones she spoke earlier, only sorrow; Ellen has always understood Guinevere best, and knows just what she has given up, and does not resent the knowledge that she has always shared Guinevere's heart until now.
Until now. Guinevere swallows. “Then we will not,” she finally says, the itching at her throat a harbinger of future tears, then gives the reins a twitch, setting her mount into motion.
Ellen follows close behind.