Who knew that each side had a secret? Secrets that could change the tides of war in an instant. They played against the balance--the push and pull of power--invisible to all as the Kinsmen continued to push forward.
Two years had passed since that f...
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Nagan missed this.
Carvolier was no longer his home, and it hadn't been for a long time. Gone were the days classrooms were filled with his peers, the halls filled with chatter, and the outdoors filled with laughter. All the teachers had gone, either under the service of the Council or to teach at Gunford, being replaced by officers. All besides Sir Luxivo, whose duties were of to Carvolier Castle and Carvolier Castle alone. It was hard for Nagan to believe all this wasn't that long ago; only three years had passed. And...he had only been a student for a year and a half before that.
Nagan pushed that thought away, returning his focus to the book in front of him. Milora reclined behind him, a pillow cushioning her back as it rested against the arm of the couch, one foot propped up while the other hung down, idly toeing the floor. Nagan leaned back against her, his head slowly rising and falling every time Milora breathed as his legs dangled off the opposite arm of the couch. If it were later in the day, Nagan could've easily fallen asleep right then and there as Milora carded her hand rhythmically through his hair. If it were longer, he was sure she would be braiding it instead, but he had been put in one too many dangerous situations because his hair had either been caught on something or the enemy decided to grab it. Status symbol or not, he was better off without the long hair he had as a child.
Neither of them expected to see each other during line-up the day after Nagan arrived at Carvolier. Or moreso Milora was, as reserve soldiers rarely trained with those on active duty. That, and she was downright alarmed to see Nagan's arm in a sling. At the time, however, he couldn't bring himself to tell her why.
But that was nearly three weeks ago, and Nagan's arm had healed up nicely thanks to the medics stationed there. There was no longer an open wound, and he had somehow gotten away with minimal nerve damage. He still didn't have much feeling at the tips of his fingers. Not that it would bother him much if it remained that way. He could still hold a book in his hand and turn the page just fine, just as he had been doing for the last hour, alternating hands when the current one became tired.
Nagan went to turn the page again—Milora was the fast reader, hence why he usually turned the page when they read together—but before he could complete the motion, another hand stopped him. Smaller and paler, calloused but free of scars as Milora's hand held onto his. Nagan lowered the book, indicating he was listening.
"You're angry."
Nagan made a confused sound at that, tilting his head to the side. Was he? He certainly didn't feel angry at this moment. If anything, this was the most relaxed he's felt in months—years maybe. He set the book on the ground, keeping a mental note of the page number, before sitting up and turning around, carefully balancing his weight on a hand placed next to her hip. In an ordinary situation, he would've quipped with a joke as proof he wasn't, but something in Milora's expression made him stop. Her lips turned in a small frown and her jaw was set, but her brow was furrowed in confusion as if she was trying to figure something out herself. Maybe she was seeing something he didn't.
"Right now?" Nagan asked. He would've laughed at himself with how baffled he sounded.
"No, not...right at this moment."
She studied him for a moment longer before sitting up as well. He could see the subtle shift of her eyes as she continued scanning his face, lingering longer on the scar on his cheek. After a few seconds had passed, she gently placed her hand over the scar, a small laugh bubbling out of her.
"You scowl too much for someone your age. Always so irritable and moody—in a charming way, of course, but this time..." Her smile slowly faded. "This is genuine. Every move you've made since arriving here has been calculated. Your shoulders always seem tense. The way you look at people is...different." She then glanced down at his left arm, the newly formed skin still pink-tinted and raised. "You still haven't told me what happened to your arm. Does it have something to do with it?"
Nagan slowly inhaled as he pulled away his back hitting the opposite armrest. Maybe he still wasn't ready for her to know.
But she deserves to know.
"I..." made a mistake—did something I shouldn't have—I just wanted to live— "I don't know what's going to happen to me."
Nagan truly didn't know where to start. His story jumped from the attack to the Council meetings he attended to the accusations, the accusations coming out the most stuttered. This wasn't something he ever thought he'd have to tell Milora, or anybody for that matter. How would Aunt Cilara react? Or Master Dagmire? Or even Qentor?
How...how would Carth, Gath, or Professor Fai react? Maybe he was much closer to asking them than any of them wished. Treason charges were never taken lightly.
By the time his story ended, Milora held onto his hand firmly, both palms clasped around it and her fingers turning white.
"They can't—" Milora growled out a frustrated sigh. "They can't do that to you! They have to see reasonable doubt! And even if you—not that you did, but even if you did kill the sergeant, there's no proof that has anything to do with the Kinsmen!"
Nagan raised an eyebrow. "You're more concerned if it's connected to the Kinsmen than if I may have murdered a man?"
"One of those charges guarantees you're alive while the other predicts your death." Milora nearly rolled her eyes in exasperation at the question, but it was something in how Nagan's expression shifted that caught her attention. She could've sworn she saw him wince. "Why do you ask?"
"Does that not bother you?" Nagan asked hesitantly.
"Does what bother me?" Her hands released their hold on his, and she leaned forward, her expression concerned. "Is there more?"
"Nothing, I guess. It's just...something Az said to me a couple months ago." Nagan's leg shifted as he glanced away. A tell-tale sign it bothered him more than he wanted to admit, Milora knew. "Admittingly it wasn't the greatest thing to say at that moment, but it was after we cleared out another hideout that refused to surrender. A little less-than-typical assignment, but nothing too out of the norm. I made an off comment about how those who tried to escape would run into my platoon. Maybe a bit too cheerful of a tone. Then after that Az said, 'You're rather chipper for a man drenched in blood an hour ago.'"
Milora hummed using a neutral tone, both to encourage him to continue and to confirm she was still listening.
"I don't know why, but it just kinda...stuck with me. That, and when I asked if it bothered him, he said it bothers him that I wasn't bothered by it." Nagan rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not like that hasn't been brought up before though. You weren't all too keen on having me—"
"You're doing what you believe is right," Milora cut in before taking a deep breath. "No, I don't like it when you're sent off doing these missions—we weren't ever supposed to be doing this—but it's not like my hands are clean either. It's not the blood that bothers me, and I'm assuming that wasn't what bothered Az, either."
"No, it wasn't. He wanted us to go back and start adjusting back to normal life. I may have scoffed at it at the time because I don't think we can go back to whatever our normal was before the war, but now that I'm here..." Nagan sighed. "I wouldn't mind it. At least if I was out of the war, I'd be guaranteed to live."
Milora didn't reply right away. Instead, she carefully took his hand in hers again and leaned against his shoulder, her lips twitching into a melancholy smile when he tilted his head against hers. "You still have a good chance, you know. With General Meixong on the case, I trust they'll do everything they can for you."
"I know. But the Council will believe what they want to believe."
Neither of them said anything after that, both simply reveling in each other's company as Milora aimlessly traced the scars on his hand. Perhaps she was too quick to judge it as anger. Fear fit better.
