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Jymaiyri woke early in the morning, before the sunrise, and stared at her ceiling. She lay on her back- perfectly flat, with her hands over her stomach- and took in careful, measured breaths, one after the other. This was her routine, her ritual, each morning. It had been so for nearly five years now- was it so difficult to imagine, that it had been five years? It could’ve been yesterday, that she was kneeling at the wedding-alter.

She felt her heartbeat begin to increase, her palms begin to perspire. And this, of course, was why she still did it. She would not be free until she could think of it without fear and dread crawling up her limbs. And that would not happen until she tore down everything that had made her this way.

Jymaiyri kept still- perfectly, completely still except for her breath- until she felt she was not in danger any longer. She closed her eyes, and felt for the knife she kept beside her bedroll. She would not be ruined again. She would not let them have their way with her. She could protect herself now.

With a final exhale, she relaxed her grip around the knife’s hilt, and got up.

They had been back at their camp- perched upon the sandy, coastal hills of northern Liayne Ma for only about a week now. Those first few days had passed like a daze- Jymaiyri had her wounds tended to, was administered pain-relieving drugs that left her feeling like she was floating on a cloud, and slept for longer than she ever thought she had slept before- at least, as an adult. Finally, now, she was feeling well enough to leave her private commander’s tent and reconcile with all that had happened. Her doctor might disagree- but, of course, he’d have to go through her if he wanted to do anything about it.

Pushing up from her bedroll and ignoring the pain still burning in her gut, Jymaiyri carefully traversed the cool, peaty ground to her chest of belongings. Even she, arguably the most important person in their entire little army, only packed what she could carry across farmland, or jungle, or even mountainous northern terrain. There had been exceptions made, of course- the regalia she had worn for the attack certainly hadn’t fit in her standard trunk- but Jymaiyri fancied herself as someone who led by example. Her soldiers could look at her and instantly know who she was. A spoiled noblewoman wouldn’t live off of a single trunk like a soldier- and a spoiled noblewoman she was not.

She got dressed in her standard uniform, taking extra care, as always, to pin on her rank badge, and picked up her rifle before she left. She likely wouldn’t need it, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She thought, for a moment, to take her ceremonial spear instead- the one she had slaughtered the Lifebringer with- but reconsidered. The effect would be better spent at some other time.

Though it was still early enough in the morning for the mist to not have evaporated yet, the camp was already buzzing with energy. Soldiers made their way across the maze of tents and lean-tos, on foot, cart, or occasionally by jeep. It was noisy, too- the sounds of machinery filled the air, coupled with barked training commands, shouted real commands, and casual conversation, most of it spoken in dialects Jymaiyri couldn’t be bothered to understand this early in the morning. Everything smelled like petrichor and oil. It was good, Jymaiyri thought, to be back.

When soldiers recognized her as she passed through camp, they stopped to salute her. Jymaiyri gave each a quick, recognizing nod to let them at ease. Though she might’ve liked to catch up on what had happened while she’d been out (both physically away from home base and too high on painkillers to leave her tent), especially with someone lower rank who could not challenge her position, she had somewhere to be- precisely because there were people in this camp that could challenge her position. She needed to make a show of herself- show everyone she was not weak. A wound to the abdomen was not enough to stop her from leading them all to liberation.

As she made her way to Command Central, she was stopped, not by the half-afraid, half-gawking face of a junior lieutenant, but of someone more instantly recognizable. Someone more pleasant to see.

“Commander Naido, Sir!” Kyeora Ma Luesahs gave an enthusiastic- too enthusiastic for how early it was, but Jymaiyri would let it pass- salute, then adjusted her glasses. She was round-faced and freckled, pale for the peasant family she hailed from, and a few years older than Jymaiyri herself. Still, she looked up to Jymaiyri like a younger sister did an older (and physically; Kyeora was a good half-foot shorter than Jymaiyri). She reminded Jymaiyri, distantly, of her own two younger sisters- Gods knew where they were now. Of course, Kyeora wasn’t very much like Nourida or Shainora. Regardless, they were the only two women of rank in their camp, and that led to them spending a great deal of time together. What drew them together more was the fact that, upon learning of who she was, Jymaiyri had made Kyeora her secretary.

“At ease, Lieutenant Luesahs” Jymaiyri said in greeting, and gave Kyeora a nod, urging her to say whatever she so clearly wanted to say. Energy radiated out of the woman like a heatlamp.

“Commander Naido,” Kyeora glanced briefly away, “Captain Myrsros said you were to stay in bed rest for another two days.”

Captain Myrsros was one of their doctors. Jymaiyri vaguely recalled him as having been the one giving her all those painkillers. “I outrank Captain Myrsros. I’ll decide how much more rest I need.”

Kyeora nodded. “I… figured that was the case.” She nodded again. “Well, if you are well enough to be back… Commander Vyeiyda wishes to meet you in the ruins.”

Vyeida. That prick was her only real obstacle here- while she could coerce and argue and even force the others in camp to respect her as the asset- the leader she was, Vyeida was her only equal. Equal only in rank, though- he was a weasel of a man, a mongoose, a sorry excuse for a person that had only gotten to where he was by riding the coattails of others. He was the worst of the Gilded Lilies…

… but even Jymaiyri knew she could not lead an army on her own. If she wanted to get anywhere, she had to work with people like Vyeida.

She sighed. “What does he want?”

“He didn’t say.” Kyeora frowned meekly, “Good luck, though.”

Their camp was built near, and partially within, a complex series of ruins just on the edge of the jungles that dominated the Ma Lowlands. Some thought it was an ancient city built by their once-free, self-governed ancestors, some thought it was a temple complex, some thought it was a tomb. Jymaiyri didn’t care what it was, really. The existing structures made a good defense, and superstition kept the local townspeople away from them. She could trade ancestral respect for strategy. It’d got her this far.

Commander Teyvroura Er Vyeiyda was waiting for her in the remains of a courtyard. When she entered, he was pretending to admire a broken facade etched onto a wall that had long crumbled into rubble. He did not address her, or turn to her- he did not even acknowledge her presence.

“Commander Vyeiyda,” Jymaiyri greeted, having little patience for these games, “You wanted to speak with me?”

He turned around. “Glad to see you haven’t forsaken this rebellion for an addiction, Miss Naido.”

“Commander Naido.” She kept her voice cool. She would not give him the satisfaction of an outburst.

“Yes, yes-” He sighed wistfully. She really did hate him. “You’ve left us in quite an annoying predicament, Commander Naido. Your prisoner-”

“Prisoner?” Jymaiyri asked, though she knew instantly who Vyeiyda was referring to. She had only taken one prisoner on her most recent, most important mission. And before she had passed out from blood loss, she had given her camp one final command- that the cloudy-eyed northerner must not be harmed.

Now, it seemed she would see if her orders had been followed.

“Yes, the northern you hauled down here.” Vyeiyda rolled his eyes. Jymaiyri contemplated popping them from their sockets. “He’s been festering in his filth since you returned. He must be close to death by starvation now, I don’t think he’s been eating the rations we’ve been giving him. Ratios that could’ve fed one of our soldiers, mind you-”

“Get to the point already, Vyeiyda.”

Vyeyida clasped his hands in front of his body. “He will not speak to any of our men. We can’t get anything out of him. He demands you.”

Jymaiyri sighed. Of course. She did not blame the prisoner, and she did not blame Vyeiyda. She had so little regard for either of them, it was hard to feel empathy for them. But, at least one of them had information she needed to know.

And maybe, that misty-eyed, pretty-faced northerner was worth something more. Every instinct in her body told her he was worth something more. And maybe, those instincts were worth following.

“Lead me to him.”

Vyeiyda led her through winding, decaying corridors, all the way to the small rooms they kept their prisoners in. They were the most intact remains of the ruins complex, and may have well been a prison in the structure’s original intent. Regardless, they rarely had prisoners, and especially rarely had any that were more important than Northern foot-soldiers or that lasted longer than a few days before succumbing to infection. Jymaiyri doubted the same fate awaited her prisoner.

She approached the cell door on her own- Vyeiyda, thankfully, lingered at the entrance to the long, dilapidated corridor, and nodded to the two guards posted at the door of the only currently occupied cell. It did not escape her notice that they both wore the blue insignias designating them as under Vyeiyda’s command, instead of her red, but that was low on the list of things she had to be angry about at the moment. The guards saluted her, and stepped aside, and opened the door for her. Jymaiyri took a breath before stepping inside the dim cell.

The sight that awaited her was grisly. The smell, even worse. It seemed very likely Vyeiyda hadn’t been exaggerating, and that her northerner had been festering in his own filth for the better part of a week. The small room- it couldn’t have been more than six feet by six feet- reeked, entirely, of human odor and decay. After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she could make out her prisoner’s form- curled up on the ground in a fetal position, still in the clothes he had been in a week ago. His blonde hair- Jymaiyri had never seen anyone with hair that light- was oily and matted with dirt and sweat. It took Jymaiyri a moment to notice- the cell was dim, only lit by the door left open behind her, and everything was so dirt-caked it was nearly the same color- but, eventually, she realized he was bound- by wrist and ankle, keeping him from even sitting up.

“Hell, Vyeiyda,” She found herself muttering. “No wonder he’s not eating, you aren’t even letting him.”

At the sound of a voice, the prisoner stirred- Jymaiyri had assumed him dead, or at least comatose, but he was proving her otherwise. Even so, he could not move much- from the restraints that tied him, and the weakness that so obviously weighed down his body. Yet, still- even in this state, this weakened, starved state, Jymaiyri could tell he was more than what meets the eye. If Vyeiyda was to be believed, he hadn’t touched food nor drink in the time he’d been their captive. Jymaiyri had been out for nearly a week. A normal person would have perished by then.

Jymaiyri knew, then, one fact for certain. She was not dealing with a normal person.

Setting her rifle aside- he was not a threat now- she crouched beside him. “It’s me-” She said, hoping he might recognize her voice. “I’m here now-”

Unthinkingly, she put a hand on his dirty cheek, caressing his long, still-pretty face. He coughed, and spat up yellowish bile onto her. He blinked a few times. He managed to croak out the word, “Lunar…ris?”

And, he fell promptly back into unconsciousness.

Jymaiyri sighed heavily. “Call a stretcher!” She ordered the guards still posted at the door. “I’m taking him to my quarters.”

It had taken a bit of convincing, mostly of Vyeida, for Jymaiyri to gain clearance to let the prisoner reside and recuperate in her own tent, but once she had reminded him that he was her prisoner in the first place, there was little he could do. The northerner was taken back to camp proper on a gurney, and brought to Captain Myrsros. Myrsros, after chiding Jymaiyri for leaving bed against doctor’s orders, looked over northerner, pronouncing him as: “definitely showing signs of dehydration, but less than I would’ve assumed based on what you described of his situation. Are you sure he wasn’t taking water? Regardless, no signs of infection or disease. Rest and slow intake of food and water will probably fix him up.”

After Mysros’s clearance, Jymaiyri took the prisoner back to her tent, alone. Mysros and Kyeora both had suggested, then nearly pleaded, to allow the northerner to be kept in the infirmary ward, alongwith the other patients, while he recovered, but Jymaiyri knew better. The infirmary was better off saved for wounded soldiers, and she needed to be there when her prisoner woke. Preferably, she could be with him alone.

Once they were back in her tent, Jymaiyri laid the prisoner down on her bedroll. She stripped him of his complex, layered northern robe- unintentionally taking note of how thin and gangly his form was (and how endowed he was in certain respects)- and gave him a sponge bath with the same water, the same hand-towel, the lily-scented soap she used on herself. She redressed him in clothes more suited to the humid, southern weather: an undershirt and pair of sweatpants she slept in, though the pants were far too short for how long his legs were. She undid his braid and combed through his hair as best she could- it was too matted for her to really do anything, but she tried- and she waited. She watched him, she made sure he was still breathing, and she waited for him to wake.

When he finally did, it was with a start. One moment, he was deep in semi-peaceful sleep, his brow creased in a mesmerizing furrow- the next, he was sat upright, eyes wide and alert, hacking his lungs out, Instinctually, Jymaiyri hovered over him, putting a hand to his back as he coughed up spit and bile. When he was finally done, he said, without turning to her, “Wh- who are you? Where am I?”

Of course. He was blind, she had noticed that before. “It’s me,” She said again. “Jymaiyri- but you don’t know that. I’m the one that-”

“You’re the one that killed Ttaekeqeri.” He finished for her,