Florence’s expression changed as soon as he walked out of Aster’s tent – leaving every bit of warmth inside.
Outside, the snow had stopped falling, as if the skies had decided that was enough cold for the night. Florence snuggled in his coat anyway, knowing it was big enough to hide his shivers. It wouldn’t do well if the commander found another reason to dote on him.
He didn’t know what lies or exaggeration that Sir Marzio told the commander, but for some strange reason, the commander was fixated on winning Florence’s favour – as if he truly held a smidgen of the power that Sibylla household does. In the entire time Aster was unconscious, the Verusian had gone from promises of marriageable women (which Florence vehemently denied), to marriageable men (which Florence also denied), along with wealth and power within Verusian ranks.
All he needed to say was the word.
You understand, don’t you, Florence? The Sibyllas made your life a living hell. You’re an idiot if you think His Highness will keep his bargain – he’ll kill you even if you made it back. You and I were never meant to be on this mission anyway.
When Sir Marzio had presented his case, Florence found that there was little room for him to counteract the lieutenant’s points. In any standpoint, the man simply chose the most logical and sustainable option.
Better work for an enemy than an empire that eats itself, he said.
Florence agreed.
But if working for the enemy doesn’t include the General, then Florence would have none of it. Sir Marzio will simply have to give up his plan or convince Percival somehow, because Florence wouldn’t work for anyone else other than the general.
A familiar figure made its way to Aster’s tent. At first, it appeared to be just another lackey, but then the firelight revealed a black cloak and a shock of white hair. It was the healer, the one they call Mother Charon.
Florence briefly considered making a run for it. He owed Aster’s life to Mother Charon, but something about her unnerved him. This woman called Aster headless and a walking ghost.
The woman stopped in front of Florence, heterochromic eyes peering at him. Florence briefly caught a whiff of oil and incense.
“A pleasant evening to you, my lady,” Florence bowed his head.
A soft chuckle. “A pleasant evening to you, as well. Oh, and please raise your head, Your Highness.”
This was another part of the problem: the old healer insisted on the honorific, as if he was some kind of monarch, when both Florence and Sir Marzio had insisted that Florence wasn’t even a pure blooded noble.
Florence looked up. “I–thank you, my lady. But if you may, I would really appreciate it if you didn’t call me—”
“What, Your Highness?” The woman gasped, incredulous. “I don’t know what you take Verusians for, Your Highness, but we know how to pay our respects. Especially to someone of your stature.”
Florence’s throat went dry. For the second time that day, he felt strange in his new clothes – the weight of the coat was too big for him, the sticky feeling of cosmetics in his lips, the cold kiss of accessories dangling from his ear.
“I’m no one special,” he murmured, “despite what your commander says.”
Mother Charon smiled. “We’ll see about that.”
Strangely enough, her words reminded Florence of Aster’s out-of-context quips, as if he was something that Florence didn’t. But that was quite the reach, even for someone as paranoid as Florence, because there was no way that the idiot who almost got himself killed shared some common knowledge with someone as powerful and otherworldly as this woman.
“I-I’ll be going now,” he stammered, no longer able to bear the old woman’s scrutiny. “I’ll leave Aster in your care—”
“You’re not going to ask about him?”
A dead man walking. A headless ghost who’s gone back in time.
Those were Mother Charon’s own words upon seeing Aster, spoken on foreign tongue. Language that someone like Florence has no business knowing – and so he had to pretend that he doesn’t hear or understand a single word.
“Of course,” Florence put on a placid smile. “He’s recovering well, isn’t it? All thanks to our lady’s care.”
The old woman’s gaze sharpened. “Choose wisely, Your Highness. You can only waste so much ink before you run out.”
***
Florence almost rushed to his own tent.
Cold as the temperature might be, he longed to take the heavy coat and the dangling earrings. He wanted to collapse on his own cot – perhaps even the cold, hard floor – if it meant being spared from one second of thinking, and needing to make sense of whatever bullshit the healer lady wanted to tell him.
But of course, like everything he’s ever wanted in life, this simple wish too, refused to be granted. The commander’s imposing gait stuck out in his field of vision as Florence walked, like a tree too tall to fit in a weed garden. But before he could turn away or hide, the commander had long locked eyes with him.
“Master Sibylla!” The commander beckoned as soon as he saw Florence, immediately dismissing his own soldiers. He made his way towards the scribe, and Florence could only watch, almost mystified, how everyone made way for him, carving a path made of people.
Instinctively, Florence took a step back.
“Hello, commander–mph!” He bit back a groan as the commander swung an arm over his shoulders, heavy and imposing like reeling a fish.
Too friendly too, but he supposed that’s a natural reaction to having people exactly where you needed them to be. The commander still sported a bruise on his cheek, right where Florence hit him, but the rest of his injuries had been gifted by Aster.
“How was your servant?” He asked.
“He’s doing okay,” came Florence’s sheepish response.
A chuckle. “Gone back to the world of the living, eh?”
No thanks to you.
“To where he’ll stay, if I can help it.”
If the commander caught on the veiled threat, he showed no signs of it. Instead, he continued steering Florence as they walked. “Responsive?”
Florence bit his lip.
“Barely,” he lied.
“That’s strange,” the commander hummed. “Marzio told me he could speak full sentences.”
A brief moment of panic seized Florence’s throat. He hadn’t talked, no –refused to Marzio – since their private discussion, unable to trust himself on what he’d do if the opportunity presented himself.
But as he made his way to Aster earlier, he took extra precautions to make sure he’d be able to visit him alone.
Was the lieutenant eavesdropping on them?
“Did he now,” Florence repeated, feeling lightheaded. “What else did he say, sir?”
The commander removed his arm from Florence’s shoulder. He straightened up, highlighting the difference in their height and build.
“It’s nothing new. You said you needed time, we gave you time. You said to wait until your servant wakes up, he’s awake.” the man stepped forward, leering over Florence. At first he thought the man would finally snap at him – maybe throw a punch or two, or perhaps threaten Florence.
But his hands only handed on the lapels of Florence’s coat, gingerly adjusting the fabric and the fur to fit his frame better.
“We’ve got a war to wage and an empire to conquer, Master Sibylla. Won’t you finally say yes?”
***
Earlier:
“I need you to be honest with me. There’s something you need more than the House Sibylla’s resources.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“You tell me. If it’s connected to the emperor, then the most I can promise you is some degree of influence. But as for the rest, I can’t account—”
“Let’s cut to the chase. We know all about your job as a scribe, Mister Sibylla. But if it’s a lapdog we want, I’m sure there wouldn’t be any shortage from the capital.”
“That’s quite harsh, commander. Did Sir Mario teach you that? That my job was nothing but feet-kissing–”
“I’ll have to stop you right there. He said no such thing. He actually had high respect for your job as a scribe, Master Sibylla. He talked highly of you more than he does to your, erm, general.”
“...flattery will get you nowhere. I certainly don't appreciate the slander towards our empire’s white knight.”
“Is it slander if it’s the truth? Why are you here instead of your so-called white knight?”
“Percival is too important for this.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m a scribe. I’m indispensable.”
“That’s not what Mother Charon sees in your future, though.”
“Haha! Betting your kingdom’s future over some foreigner bastard. You’re crazier than the general. Maybe that’s why your kingdom lost to Ambros.”
“Ambros lost the day it decided to be an empire. It’s been dying since then.”
“...Sir Marzio said the exact same thing. You’re the one who put all those ridiculous ideas in his head, aren’t you?”
“Does it matter? He defected anyway. And soon, so will you.”
“I thought I was being given a choice.”
“You are! It’s just that you can choose to join now or join later. You can save your general as an enemy, or watch him die as an ally. Your choice.”
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