19: Restraint

Alexandrie Aerith Donadieu whimpered, curled up on the ground - on a horse? On the ground. No, mounted on a horse, surely. She felt La Chanson with her as always, but this woman… just being around Genofeva and the way she used her magic was discordant. Distracting. Wrong. Why was it so wrong? How could something be so wrong? With each strike at Lucas, Alexandrie shook more. And as she shook, she was unsure whether it was in rage, or fear or pain.

“They’re all going to die.”

She’d tried to heal Lucas, but whatever the sorceress had done was beyond what Alexa could heal then, there, when he needed it. And her attempt to hurt the werekin had been weak, too weak, too hesitant, too afraid to hurt - she was too weak, why so weak - and Genofeva was strong.

“They’re all going to die.”

She didn’t need magic. She didn’t need anything more than words to see the slaughter that would come if Chevalier abandoned her - if Chevalier ran. She was too weak - needed protecting. Grandmère sent a protector because she couldn’t do what needed to be done alone. Why La Chanson gave her the ability to do things when she was so weak…She saw Vee take half a step, transfer his weight from one foot to the other. She could not see the mask of his face, and it would not show expression if she could, but she could see the fear in Lucas’ eyes - familiar… she’d seen him afraid before - and she saw Chevalier’s body shift slightly, from its upright strength to a softer, submissive hunch, almost - almost like an animal. If Chevalier ran, she would be alone. There would be no one between Genofeva and she, for La Chanson said not to run. It said not to run, to hold. It said to hold. And so she would. She would hold and do what she could. Eyes never leaving Genofeva, through the screeching discordance trying to interrupt La Chanson, her Chanson, her mind screamed, though it came out in smooth, lyrical giantkin. Layers of calm she did not have. 

“Chevalier, please don’t leave me.”

Good. Sounded strong. Music bound her to the saddle, love bound her to him - for good or ill. And he stood firm, stood and protected - no, not protected. He wasn’t a protector anymore. He stood and attacked. He attacked with no concern for her survival and she bore witness to this Praetorian from another time. He stayed and fought, and she watched him try to kill. “Combat restrictions Level 0” could be nothing more. Not with what followed. Steps in front of her, her best friend. Best friend. Fifty years and nothing changed: A praetorian and his friend.

“My mistress revels in the moment.”

So much blood. Alexandrie screwed her eyes shut then opened them wide on the hard, ashen ground. So much blood. Her hands moved from the ash to her face to her mouth in shock, the gritty taste of death. No. On a horse. So much blood. And yet Alexa remained mounted. La Chanson whispered to her to stay put. Not to move. Stay mounted. She’d done what she could - not once had her hands stopped conducting the music streaming from her, one hand on the scroll she kept by her, reading as if with braille, roses tucked inside. He could stand - oh gods, Lucas stood, broken, bleeding, strong. He stood with Chevalier against Genofeva. Both stood before her in defiance. Defiance of what? What did she want? No time to think, only protect however she could.

“Run!”

The Voice of the World was clearly not the target. There was no need for her to be here. Genofeva had not moved. She wanted what sat, powerlessly before her, doing nothing more than meeting her gaze. A lamb to be slaughtered. A sacrifice? Did she want Alexa to run? Was she waiting for Alexa to bolt? 

“Be quiet and run.”

 Do what I cannot.

She could have run. She was mounted. But she was also the target. In order for Chevalier to look after me, I have to be somewhat consistent. Somewhat. It was she Genofeva wanted dead. Why, if it was supposed to be this way, couldn’t La Chanson break through properly? Or rather - what was powerful enough to disrupt it and was it worth trying to escape that? Was it possible? Still it whispered through her mind, soothing, binding her with golden chains. Hold.

No. If she ran, who else might become ash beneath her feet? On her hands. In her mouth… One thing the Sinrou knew by now was that when fate arrived, running would likely do little to help. All she could do was trust La Chanson in its whispered refrain of hold.

As the electricity arced from Chevalier through her, La Chanson held her firm. To run, run far away, was her impulse, but then Vee had looked at her and…he had not abandoned her. She would not - could not - abandon him. Her best friend. Her muscles, all of them, tensed. Contorted by electricity for just an instant she heard and felt everything. The crackles of electricity, the cackles of the woman, the rearing of a terrified horse held by her locked fingers… and resolve. 

She was going to kill this woman. Not now. She could not now. But she would not be weak anymore. She refused. La Chanson chose her for a reason, and she would prove it right. 

La Chanson du Monde.

The Song of the World. 

Song of Life. 

And Death.

“Run.”

When Lucas and Spider had run, she’d nodded and smiled imperceptibly. Good. Good. Better that way. 

They knew Maman. They could tell her what happened.

Grandmère, though… better she not know. Elle ne devrait pas savoir. Si Alexa l’a ratée…non. If Alexa failed here, at the first hurdle, better for Maman never to tell Grandmère. And yet, was she brave to stay here, or stupid? Still she sat her horse, waiting, now. Daring Genofeva to kill her.

Irony, then, that the only harm she endured was from her best friend.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Everything.”

What did that mean? Did Alexandrie have something she wanted? Chevalier? Did she want Chevalier? La Chanson? 

What was everything?

And who was her mistress?

“I have no intention of going anywhere.”

All was still. Quiet. Dark. A moment ago - perhaps an hour, perhaps it was her imagination altogether - she’d heard Genofeva run into the night, and the deep thud of a heavy crossbow.

She couldn’t see, so it didn’t matter that tears streamed down her face thick with sweat and singed hair. She pried aching, tense fingers from reins and slipped from the horse. Free. Hands on the ashen ground, she pulled them to her face as she curled up by the horrifying, nauseating sickle - so much blood - it took a moment for her to realise Chevalier was prowling nearby. Not safe. Protect. Live. Unable to be hide from rage or fear or pain, clawlike fingers reached into her satchel to push aside the roses - was the opera that night? - brushing the sheet music with the side of a hand and dig out a dagger. Hands tightly wrapped around the hilt she sat, curled up in the dark, gown torn, boots missing - over there - at some point she’d torn them off - sat quietly, listening to the quiet inquisitive melody playing through her mind. The one that said it was safe now, the one that said she would need to learn, that this was a good way to learn, that it would never have let her come to harm, not really, that there were things to be done and she could do them. Unsure if she was hearing a story or creating one, she sat, the comfortable weight of a dagger in her hand, poised, until she realised Spider was on the ground nearby - where had he been? - and Lucas…Lucas she could tell by the smell of him - blood and sweat and viscera. Her lip trembled but she said nothing until 

“No. Nononononononononono”

As he rolled to standing she found herself dropping the dagger to press her hands to his chest.

No - he would not fight Genofeva - no matter how hurt the sorceress was. For all his strength, she was sure that in this moment she could push him over herself.

And in the haze of confusion - When had the fighting stopped? When had she dismounted? - she heard The Voice.

“I found help.”

A slow blink, a shuddering breath and Alexandrie stepped so she was standing between Lucas and the Engwyr he’d insulted, fingers already tracing notes.

D’accord. Encore.