Spartan
and Rho Voss' Private Quarters - Continuous
Spartan's
eyes snap open. For a moment, there is only the sound of her own
breath; ragged, shallow, scraping at the edges of panic. The world
around her swims in dim, red haze. The scent of iron and smoke hangs
heavy in the air.
Her
hands are stretched wide, pinned to the wall. Two long knives pierce
through her palms, slick with blood that runs in thin rivulets down
the stone. Her head droops forward, hair matted against her face, and
when she lifts her gaze...
He's
there.
Captain
Absjorn, his monstrous frame emerging from shadow. Skin smeared with
ash, the crimson sigils of his faith burned into his chest. He moves
with the solemn certainty of a priest, not a warrior, his every step
deliberate, ritualistic. In one hand, he grips the white-hot poker,
its tip glowing, the air sizzling where it passes.
He
kneels before her. His other hand seizes her jaw, fingers digging
into her skin until she's forced to look up at him.
His
voice rolls out low, reverent, a verse from The Words of Absolution:
"For every mark upon the flesh, the spirit is remade in flame.
The demon is silenced, and the vessel is cleansed."
Spartan's
lips twitch into a faint, defiant smile.
Then
she spits in his face.
The
hiss of burning flesh answers her. The poker presses into her
stomach, the smell of her own skin searing, her teeth grinding
together to keep from screaming. Absjorn carves with patient
precision, tracing letters into her flesh while muttering prayers
through his teeth.
Then,
she jerks upright in bed.
The
room around her is dark, quiet, real. Her breath rasps out in a gasp,
sweat slick on her skin. Her hand flies to her stomach, scarred, the
faint raised lines of Latin burned into her flesh.
Before
she can move again, a hand settles on her waist. Rho Voss is already
awake, or maybe he never truly sleeps. His deep, rumbling exhale
sounds more like a growl, and he shifts beside her, sitting up just
enough to draw her back down.
He
doesn't speak, but the weight of his presence says everything. He
cups the back of her head, guiding her down until her cheek rests
against his chest. His other arm loops around her, a slow, protective
coil.
For
a moment, Spartan resists the pull, instinct, always instinct, but
then the rhythm of his heartbeat fills her ear. Steady. Heavy. Real.
She
exhales slowly, the tremor in her breath easing.
Her
fingers drift down again, tracing over the ridges on her abdomen,
reading the burned words like braille. They are a mark of survival. A
curse. A memory branded too deep to ever fade.
Rho
feels the tremor in her body fade, her breath steadying against his
chest. He shifts carefully, the mattress creaking beneath his weight.
His arm stays firm around her waist as he rolls to his side, bringing
her closer. The massive silhouette of him curves around her smaller
frame like a fortress made of flesh and scarred steel.
He
presses his lips to the top of her head, his breath warm in her hair.
"...You're
safe," he murmurs, voice a low rasp that vibrates in his chest.
"You're safe, my love."
Spartan
exhales, a deep, shaking sigh. For a heartbeat she lets herself
believe him, lets herself sink into that calm rhythm of his pulse
beneath her cheek.
But
then the darkness behind her eyelids turns red. She hears Absjorn's
voice again; low, reverent, monstrous. The smell of burning skin. The
sound of her own breath breaking.
She
thought she was past this. Thought she'd buried it with all the other
ghosts. The Forger had broken her far worse, for far longer. Three
nights with Absjorn should have meant nothing. Yet they still claw at
her mind like living flame.
With
a sudden breath she pushes herself out of Rho's hold, rolling off the
bed and onto her feet. The air is cold, dry against her bare skin.
Rho
sits up halfway, watching her in silence. The room is drowned in
blackness, no lights, only the faint blue glow of their eyes cutting
through the dark. His gaze follows her as she moves to the built-in
dresser, the soft scrape of drawers breaking the silence.
She
pulls on her underwear first, then her fatigues, piece by piece. Her
voice comes quiet, steady, but there's something coiled beneath it.
"I
can't sleep."
Rho
shifts as if to rise, his broad frame creaking the bed's metal frame.
But before he can stand, she stops him with a small motion of her
hand.
"I'm
going to see the Forgemaster."
That
catches him. His head tilts slightly. His gaze narrows, not in
suspicion, but concern.
"The
Forgemaster?" Rho's voice is low, hoarse.
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Spartan
glances over her shoulder, fastening the last clasp on her fatigues.
"Because… he'll understand." Her tone is clipped,
unreadable.
"Not
Master?"
She
hesitates, just for a moment, then shakes her head. "Not
tonight."
He
swings one leg over the edge of the bed, muscles shifting beneath his
scarred skin as if ready to follow. But Spartan turns, stepping close
enough that the blue from her eye catches the sharp planes of her
face.
"Stay,"
she says quietly. "It's best I go alone."
Rho
studies her for a long moment. He could follow. He could disobey. But
the way she stands there; rigid, haunted, refusing to look at him,
tells him this isn't a battle to fight.
He
nods once.
She
steps out into the dark living room, the sound of her bare feet soft
against the cold floor. The door stays open behind her, a silent
invitation, a promise she'll return.
Rho
sits there in the quiet that follows, the faint hum of the Keep's
powerlines pulsing through the walls. His eyes stay fixed on the
doorway. The soft blue glow from his irises fades and brightens with
each slow breath.
He
lies back against the bed, the sheets still warm where she'd been.
But the silence feels heavier now, colder. Sleep will not come easily
without her heartbeat beside his own.
From
the other room, faint sounds begin to stir. He hears her moving,
steady, methodical. The slide of drawers. The dull clink of metal.
The dry, hollow clatter of bone beads as they're disturbed.
Her
scent drifts in a moment later, iron, cherry blossoms, and the bitter
perfume of dried herbs newly exposed to air. He imagines her pulling
from the drawers beneath the altar shelf: the small, personal
reliquary every Vardengard keeps, containing bits of relics,
effigies, weapons from past rites.
A
ritual before seeing the Forgemaster.
He
knows her patterns well enough. This one is new.
Through
the open doorway, he catches the faintest glimpse of her shadow as
she passes by; cloak drawn, hood down, hair falling in dark strands
over her shoulders. Her silhouette moves with purpose, though her
shoulders carry something heavier.
He
listens as the front door slides open with a hydraulic sigh. Then, a
breath later, it seals shut with its usual hiss and thud.
Rho
exhales through his nose, the faint blue light of his eyes dimming as
he lies back down. His gaze lingers on the empty space beside him.
All
he can think now is a prayer for her return.
The
Vardengard Barracks - Continuous
Spartan
moves through the dim corridors with careful, deliberate steps, the
cloak wrapped tightly around her, hood low to shadow her face. The
faint floor lights cast long, trembling reflections on the stone
walls, mingling with the flicker of candle flames that burn in
alcoves and outside open doors. The Barracks are quieter than usual,
but life still hums in scattered pockets.
A
door ahead opens slightly, a low murmur escaping, two Vardengard
trading whispered words, the clink of metal punctuating their
conversation. A faint sway of bone charms and herbs hangs in the air,
sharp and sweet, drifting down the corridor to meet Spartan's senses.
Her
hand tightens on the wolf skull pressed against her chest. Inside,
the pestle moves in slow, precise circles, grinding dried herbs into
a fine dust that smells of earth, smoke, and faint iron. The scent
rises to mingle with the faint candle smoke and the lingering tang of
battle and sweat that never fully leaves the Barracks.
Some
of the Vardengard glance up at her as she passes, eyes catching the
glint of her hood, the skull, the ritual in motion. A few tilt their
heads with quiet respect; others only watch, their expressions
unreadable in the low light. No one speaks. Spartan walks past
without a word, her pace steady, almost meditative.
Every
step carries the weight of the night, the quiet aftermath of war
still clinging to the walls. The herb-filled pestle in her hands is
more than preparation; it's focus, a tether to control her mind, to
steady the storm Absjorn left behind.
Spartan
pauses just before the corner where the crates and barrels crowd the
wall, the dim candlelight flickering across dented metal and rough
wood. She crouches slightly, the cloak sliding over her shoulders
like a shadow. One barrel stands taller than the rest, its lid
scratched and worn, faint streaks of dried blood crusted along the
edges.
She
pries it open carefully, the metal lid groaning on its hinges. The
scent rises immediately, iron, metallic and sharp, curling into her
nose, mingling with the smoke and herbs already clinging to the
corridor.
A
nearby ladle waits, worn and pitted, the handle polished smooth from
years of use. She dips it into the thick, crimson liquid, the surface
trembling slightly as she lifts it. Only a single scoop, precise,
deliberate. She tips it into the hollow cavity of the wolf skull
pressed against her chest, the sticky red liquid pooling at the
bottom, seeping into the carved grooves, coating the inner surface.
The
weight of the blood, the ritual, grounds her. A thread of focus
through the storm that still churns inside her. She presses the
pestle into the herbs again, grinding slowly, methodically, the
metallic scrape and earthy aroma filling the small space around her.
When
she's finished, she seals the barrel with a careful hand, the lid
snapping back into place. The sound is muted, but final, an echo of
control regained.
She
rounds the corner, her cloak shifting with her movement. The skull
held close, the herbs still grinding, she continues down the
corridor, shadows stretching long before her, the scent of iron and
earth trailing quietly in her wake.
Spartan's
boots whisper against the worn stone as she reaches the small flight
of stairs. Each step creaks beneath her weight, carrying her closer
to the door ahead, solid, ancient, painted in intricate futhark runes
and sharp Invictan sigils. They speak of warning and reverence,
carved and painted long before her time, declaring that what lies
beyond is sacred and not to be traversed lightly.
She
places a hand on the cold metal handle, feeling the faint vibration
of power humming through the door. With a measured breath, she pushes
it open.
A
gust of stale, cool air greets her, and her eyes adjust to the sudden
shadowed void. She steps onto a rickety catwalk, suspended in
darkness so complete it seems to swallow sound. The steel groans
under her weight, faint echoes bouncing off invisible walls, far
below a yawning emptiness.
At
the end of the catwalk, a small, metal elevator waits, its cage-like
frame open to the void. Spartan steps inside, feeling the shift as it
lurches downward, chains rattling softly in the deep silence. The
smell of iron and lingering oil from the mechanism mixes with the
scent of herbs still clinging to her.
The
wolf skull rests against her chest, pestle still at work. She grinds
the herbs and blood together, a slow rhythm, until the mixture foams
and bubbles, the crimson froth rising and falling in tiny peaks.
Every turn of the pestle sharpens her focus, a grounding ritual
against the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to her mind.
When
the foam settles, she tucks the skull delicately beneath her cloak,
careful to keep it secure, the concoction hidden and protected. She
shifts slightly as the elevator creaks downward, the faint vibration
beneath her boots the only sign of motion.
Outside,
somewhere below, the Forge waits. The scent of molten metal, smoke,
and fire drifts faintly up, promising heat, sound, and the presence
of the Forgemaster. Spartan exhales softly, waiting for the elevator
to reach its stop, the stillness around her as potent as the darkness
below.
