Chapter Text
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From the highest levels of the great mountain that made up the city of Haven, the capital of the once mighty and beautiful nation of Mistral was not so beautiful when soaked red with the blood of it’s people. Winter Schnee watched as Atlesian soldiers marched along the streets on every level below, a constant parade of them as they went door to door and room to room in a search for any lingering members of the resistance that had done their best to hold the city against the ocean of swords and shields that Atlas had smashed against the rocks like the tidal waves of legend.
The waves which were said to have formed the coastline with their might, now shaped an empire that was growing every day. And it had only been a matter of time until the forests of Mistral had turned from green to crimson. The small pockets of Mistralian militias that made up its primary fighting force hadn’t stood a chance against the legions of the Altesian Empire, nor had their guerilla tactics throughout the trees and swamps done more than simply slow them down.
While the kingdom of Mistral hadn’t completely fallen yet, the capital now crumbled off its mountain and sent up great plumes of ash into the air almost like the snows of her home.
Crossing her hands behind her back, Winter narrowed her eyes as she cast her gaze over every road and level she could see from the balcony that was her vantage point, jutting out from the Serene Palace as a spot reserved for meditation and reflection. The beautiful timber and rice paper that made up the architecture of one of the most beautiful palaces on the planet was now pitted and scratched, partitions ripped from blade and arrow, and carved floors scorched from vials of flaming oil that had failed to take hold on the treated wood.
Beautiful no longer. Now it was merely useful, and that was what was needed at the current moment.
Humming low in her throat as she watched three Mistralian soldiers be dragged out of a shop where they had been hiding, forced to their knees by the captain of the Atlesian squad that had found them, Winter watched impassively as swords were swung and three heads began to roll down the inclined road, tumbling down to the next level down and likely coming to rest in the gutter.
The men in the squad grabbed up the weapons from the now headless guards, before one gave a cold laugh and tore the silken stripes that declared each man’s rank, pocketing the fabric as a token to keep tally of just how many they’d cut down in the subjugation of the city.
Winter had made it very clear to the men in her elite squad that they were forbidden from the same practice, and she knew they obeyed. They didn’t need to keep a tally of their bloodshed, everyone already knew they were among those soaked the heaviest in both Mistralian and Vacuan blood.
One of the members of her small but elite unit stepped up next to her to look over the railing as well, placing her hands on it to take some of her weight from her exhausted legs from a rough four days of fighting, and she let out a low whistle.
“Party’s still going, huh?”
“I wouldn’t call it a ‘party’, Harriet.” Not bothering to turn her head in order to address her subordinate, Winter’s eyes caught sight of a fresh source of smoke coming from near the central district of the city, and she scrutinised it as she spoke. “I imagine we shall be finding lingering members of the city’s guard for days. We’re going to lose plenty of men to sneak attacks in the night.”
Harriet scoffed and waved a hand dismissively, sneering. “Petty and spiteful vengeance, and nothing else. Haven is ours. A hundred limping guards can’t scare off forty-thousand of our best.”
Giving a hum to acknowledge the point, Winter ran numbers in her head as Harriet went back to watching the troop movements below, and the fires that began to sprout up as the looting began. Mistral had been fighting a dirty war, so while looting had been expressly forbidden under punishment of court martial…plenty of the men were going to take advantage of the lingering screams and flames from the battle itself in order to get their own little sparks of vengeance for the friends lost in the past months of war.
They would punish whoever they caught red-handed, but the sneakier and more cunning ones would get away with it, and carry riches with them when their battalions rotated back to the rest camps at the fall-back line. Considering half the army was due to rotate out, especially after such a bloodsoaked few weeks as they’d ground and chewed their way to the capital, it was the perfect time for shoving gold and gems into pockets and pouches or hiding them in bedrolls.
Besides, if the smoke coming from the central district was any indicator, the official fires were starting to burn. A few smaller ones might escape notice, the occasional house or shop, with everyone’s attention on the crackling and blistering mound in the town square.
The sound of footsteps behind her normally wouldn’t have attracted her attention until she was spoken to, but when she heard the rest of her men - sprawled around and recuperating from assaulting the palace itself - snap to attention she immediately spun on her heel and brought up a salute as General Ironwood stepped out to join her on the balcony. Despite the fact she knew the swords on his hips had been dripping red only an hour earlier, the man looked absolutely impeccable, his white and silver armour scratched but with no signs of blood or ash. He didn’t even look tired.
Taking Haven had been a long bloodbath, no matter how much bravado the men dismissed it with, it had taken them four days without sleep as they’d cleared level by level, but while Winter was almost swaying on her feet she still wasn’t surprised that Ironwood was completely at ease and in his element.
“At-ease, Aces.” Nodding to the rest of Winter’s unit, his eyes lingered on Harriet for an extra second, and at the unspoken order the woman snapped another salute and then strode away to give the general and Winter privacy. Eyeing up his exhausted Legate for a moment, taking in how despite her fatigue her eyes were still clear and her posture strong, he gave her an approving nod as he joined her in looking over the city. “Anything to report?”
“No sir. We shall be finding lingering resistance for days, if not weeks, but the casualties caused by retributive attacks will be negligible.” Shaking her head, Winter folded her hands behind her back again as her eyes once more went to the fires in the central district. “You’ve ordered for the pyres already, sir?”
“Not officially, but the men knew it was to happen soon. I’ll hardly criticise them for taking the initiative.” Ironwood’s lips didn’t twitch even as he chuckled, making the sound seem dead. “We have the council, and the king himself.”
“Well it’s not as if it was in King Lionheart’s nature to go down fighting…” Muttering her reply as she scoffed, Winter’s lip twitched into a smirk when Ironwood chuckled in agreement. She looked over at him again and raised her eyebrows. “When are they to be executed?”
“Two hours, once we’ve gathered the people into the square. It appears that the pyres being constructed and lit prematurely is convenient after all.”
Winter frowned, tilting her head in curiosity. “We’re not even waiting for the standard three days, sir?”
“Not this time.” Ironwood gave a single shake of his head, looking over at her to meet her eye. “The Mistralian army specialise in resistance and guerilla tactics, I don’t want to give them three days of lingering morale here in the city under any delusion of rescuing their king.”
Thinking over it for a few moments, Winter gave an obedient nod as she looked away, her eyes going in the direction of where the plumes of smoke were getting bigger and bigger as relics from the libraries, galleries, and museums were dragged out and tossed onto the mounds as kindling.
The history and culture of Mistral would fuel the pyres where the bodies of their leadership would burn to ash. First the commanders and captains would burn, their bodies turning black as each was found either already dead or hiding and then dragged to be thrown. Considering how well the Mistralian army had proven to be able to hide, Winter suspected that it might take a while to find them, leaving her plenty of time for her men to get some rest before they would make their way down to oversee it and make sure it was all done swiftly and without any unnecessary cruelty.
They were plucking rotten fruit from a vine in order for something fresh to sprout instead, it wasn’t meant to be an act of torture.
Seeming to sense what she was thinking, Ironwood gave a single hum of permission, turning from the bannister as well to head back inside.
“Report to the pyres, Legate Schnee. As little mess as possible, as per usual. Make it quick, and get the people gathered. I shall be down with the council in two hours.”
“At once, General.” Snapping a salute in obedience as the man walked away and vanished back into the still smouldering interior of the palace, Winter looked around pointedly at each member of her unit and gave a nod. “Let’s go. I’ll give you your orders once we see just how hard we need to crack the whip.”
None of her men grumbled or complained about their rest being cut short, they were all veterans who had fought longer battles on less sleep and in worse conditions, all of them remembering the desert campaigns in Vacuo only four years ago. So they shot back into focus immediately, swords going back into sheaths and each of their unique weapons flourished and brought to the ready as they followed Winter out, spreading out behind her in a loose but well-ordered formation.
Winter didn’t pay it any mind as she stepped over bodies that were still being cleared up, whether they be from the palace guard who had been surprisingly competent, or from the members of the nobility and palace staff that had tried to make a run from it and simply got in the way. But most of the nobles had done exactly as nobles always did and behaved themselves, allowing themselves to be captured along with the rest of the council and even the king himself as they huddled in a throne room that was now swarming with Atlesian soldiers.
A violent tearing sound caught Winter’s attention, and she looked over to watch as a soldier used a dagger to cut through the silk ropes holding up a massive banner of the proud Mistralian Shield, the ancient sigil of their kingdom, the thick fabric crumpling to the floor in preparation for the Atlesian Spear & Circle to be hung in its place soon enough.
Every hallway of the palace was slick and scorched, littered with broken arrows and cracked shields, and all went unacknowledged by Winter and her men as she led the way out and into the city. Ash drifted down from the sky in grey flakes they mixed with the blood on the stairs and formed a slick and slippery layer, and Winter heard as Marrow, one of her men, let out an ‘oof’ as he almost lost his footing until he was caught around the shoulders by Winter’s second-in-command.
“Careful. It’s a long way down these steps, but that particular shortcut isn’t worth it.” Chuckling as he shifted Marrow back onto his feet, Clover clapped the younger soldier on the back with a grin before he stepped forward to match pace with Winter. “Of all of us, I think young Marrow is going to benefit the most from a rest.”
Winter chuckled, the corner of her lips twitching into a smile as she carefully stepped over a particularly dangerous slick of ashen blood. “Most likely. Don’t fret. You’ll be dismissed back to a fallback camp soon enough.”
“...that makes it sound like you won’t be coming with us.” Clover gave a frown as he also hopped over the slick. “You’re going to stay deployed for another rotation? That’d make it your fourth in a row.”
“I appreciate what is clearly concern, Clover. But I assure you that I am aware of my own limitations. Haven may be ours now, but Mistral will not fall just yet. The fighting is only going to get nastier and crueller from here on.” Thinning her lips as her eyes moved over to the smoke that was their destination as they reached the bottom of the palace steps, Winter’s voice lowered in thought that was still loud enough for Clover to hear. “Vacuo may not have had any sentiment towards Shade, but Mistralians are far more…spiritual. Especially when it comes to the protections of the forest and the mountains.”
Clover pondered her words, raising his eyebrows as his own gaze went to the smoke, and ignoring as they began to pass by other clustered units of the military that were either still searching houses or were taking the opportunity to rest and recharge before continuing on.
“You almost sound like you admire them for it.”
“I…suppose there’s an element of admiration in it. Belief is what has given them hope, until now. It’s all they’ve had.” Biting her lip for the briefest moment in thought, Winter drummed her fingers on her thigh as she walked, increasing her pace slightly once she began to see where the citizens of Haven were beginning to be marshalled towards the town square. “Mistral is the graveyard of the old faiths, Clover. These are the forests where campfire stories come to be whispered for the last time.”
“That faith clearly didn’t do them many favours…” Clover’s own voice dropped so that the people they were passing by didn’t overhear them, as he was clearly referring to the slums and filthy alleys they passed. “From the looks of it, things here are just as bad as they were in Mantle before the Rise Of Reason…”
Regarding the hovels they were passing, the signs of poverty in many of the streets as they descended to lower and lower levels of the city, following the one massive winding trail down towards the bottom of the mountain where the town square was already burning and ready for what was to follow, Winter’s eyes lingered on filthy wide-eyed children.
“Haven has…problems. But, we can fix them now. And we will. ”
“I sure hope so, ma’am.” Clover gave out a sigh as his eyes flicked to one of the small but aged churches, it being the nicest building in the dark street they passed through, and his eyes narrowed for a moment. “I sure hope so…”
“The Mistralians cling onto superstition because it is the closest thing to true protection they’ve had, so far. But that can change now.” Slowing in her pace for a moment so she could look over and place her hand on Clover’s shoulder reassuringly, Winter gave him a firm nod. “Once they watch us rebuild the walls of Haven even stronger than before, they’ll feel a peace that they’ve been denied for too long.”
Meeting her stare, Clover’s eyes were just as confident and optimistic as hers, and he gave a nod when she lowered her hand from his shoulder. As they continued their march towards their destination, Clover dropped back into formation behind her, leaving Winter to her thoughts as her eyes flicked around constantly to take in everything they were passing. She could see the signs of poverty and slums that had clearly been present even before the assault on the city had added even more filth to the streets, but her practiced eyes could also see the occasional sign of wealth.
Some shops were in better condition than others, almost all of them taverns or brothels, with temples and other places of communion for the thousand dead faiths also in better repair here than they were anywhere else in the world. The people of Atlas hadn’t even seemed to notice when their own ancient temples had been torn down so that the space could be repurposed for things more useful, and while a few shrines in the deserts of Vacuo had clearly still been in use a majority of them had been swallowed up by the sand and left as skeletons of an age that had passed by long ago.
But not in Mistral.
Deep within the forests, small sects still gathered around the old obelisks and whispered to the nameless spirits of the trees and rivers, they still offered sacrifices to gods whose names were uttered in a tongue where all other words were forgotten but for the prayers passed down from one believer to the next. They still told bedtime stories of the great heroes that had never existed, of fairy tales that too many believed to be true history.
And yet when Atlas had marched, those spirits and gods hadn’t seemed to take to the battlefield. Those legendary heroes hadn’t appeared with flaming swords and riding on beasts of black flesh and white scales. Instead it had just been a spiritual people who lived in fear, against a people who no longer had anything to be afraid of.
Winter couldn’t help but wonder just how many Mistralians still believed, three years after Atlas had left the Vacuan desert and landed on their shores.
What were the old gods waiting for?
Where was the Thornfather and his children made of leaves, whose blades dripped the venom of every serpent and spider? What about the Forlorn, who were said to ride through shadows on their mounts made of nightmares? The Old Warden, guardian of camps and keeper of the roads, with his bow of pure moonlight with which he watched over every traveler who prayed over their campfire for him?
Instead the only Mistralian arrows fired had been iron, not moonbeams, and had splintered on Atlesian steel.
Despite herself, Winter couldn’t quite contain the scoff that came out of her lips as she tore her eyes away from another temple, instead straightening her shoulders as she led her men through what was now a constant procession of guarded citizens towards the square. Many of the people were filthy, covered in ash and dust from the rubble, but as usual the Atlesian army had done everything they could to minimize civilian casualties.
So of the people of Haven, hundreds of thousands likely still lived, and tens of thousands would be shepherded into the town square until it was filled to capacity. Not every person needed to see what would happen, word of it would spread fast enough that by nightfall the point would have gotten across to every set of ears in the city, including those soldiers who were still hiding in basements or in the numerous caves dotting the walls of the mountain. Caves which Atlas would be clearing out in droves in the coming days.
The falls of the mountain hadn’t finished roaring with red water quite yet.
Getting closer to the town square, Winter mentally blocked out the stench of clustered filth and sweat, both from the civilians but also from the battleworn soldiers that were visible in large numbers, all watching over the crowd with expressions that all fell on a spectrum between perfectly disciplined and borderline predatory. But Winter knew that now that she had entered the square and could make her way up to the balcony of one of the taller buildings, visible to all, they would all behave.
The tallest building, clearly the largest of the city temples, was already opened and guarded, with a satisfyingly little amount of blood on the fine rugs and carpets inside. The Atlesians didn’t kill priests and clerics, not if they could help it, instead it was only fair that the men and women of faith be given the chance to watch as Atlas did for the people what they couldn’t. They could renounce their faith at any time, but they wouldn’t be forced to.
Though she supposed that the massive roaring fires that dominated the center of the square might be…an incentive. The pyres were already taller than most of the nearby buildings, and the true fuel hadn’t even been added yet, only being anything flammable grabbed from public buildings so far.
Winter could see several of the finely dressed priests and priestesses still alive, kept at the front of the crowd with the clearest view of the pyres and under heavy guard to make sure they didn’t whisper to any of the people behind them clamouring for their words of reassurance or guidance. There were the bodies of two dead priests dragged to the side, clearly having disobeyed, and two lessons was all it had taken for the others to be silent.
Pausing in the entrance hall to the temple, she turned to her men.
“I don’t want a single body going onto the pyres until the General gets here. Find where the men have been dumping them, and make sure they’re sorted into the right order. I don’t care if there are twelve bodies, I don’t care if there are twelve hundred, you have an hour and a half to get them organised.” Flicking her eyes to each of her men, driving the order home and waiting until she got obedient nods from each of them before looking at the next, Winter pointed in the direction where she could see the first pile of corpses. “Go. And I know you’re tired, but rest comes tonight, so until then you better not drag your feet.”
“Yes ma’am!” All of them saluted with perfect discipline, their respect for her fuelling their obedience, before they turned and marched back out the door and scattered to the streets to get to work.
Winter watched them go for a moment before giving a hum of satisfaction as each of them vanished, taking advantage of the high ranks each of them held in order to take over the organisation of what was always the most important part of taking each town or city that they did as they rolled over the lands they conquered.
She knew that war gave the people no reason to trust their invaders, and the initial act of executing their leaders and figures of importance always spawned despair and anguish, but once war faded and Atlas could get to work on rebuilding things as better than before she hoped that the people would one day see that the weeds had to be ripped out in one go in order for there to be any hope of true new growth.
Ignoring the main chamber of the church, she instead walked between the pews until she reached a door on the far right, more than familiar with the designs of Mistralian temples from the monumental amount of research she’d done on the culture and history of the other nations since she was a child.
The door wasn’t so much ‘unlocked’ as much as it was loose on its hinges, clearly having been kicked open and left to hang, and the brutishness of it was enough for her to scoff as she nudged the loose door open further and began to make her way up the winding stairs to the door that led out onto the large balcony that overlooked the town square.
It was a balcony typically used for the high priest to give their main sermons to crowds too large to fit into the church itself, but it had served that purpose for the last time.
The door to the balcony itself was open as well, though only slightly ajar, so she gave it a simple nudge to gently swing it open. The balcony was beautifully decorated, with a long rug that would have been rolled up and kept inside during storms, several exotic plants in pots, and a spectacular stained glass window behind it that would have been sending radiant cascades of coloured light into the church interior if the sky wasn’t so choked full of ash and smoke.
Four guards stood at attention, two on each side, and each straightened up into a salute as Winter emerged.
Then it was simply a matter of keeping an eye on things.
She ignored the murmurs and glares of both hate and fear that came from the crowd as they stared at her, instead her attention was only on the actions and obedience of the soldiers, watching as they performed their duties with a precision that many of their enemies and detractors had referred to as inhuman. But the results couldn’t be dismissed, as the town square gradually but consistently filled until it was completely packed to a capacity that had the people all pressed against each other tight enough it would have been hard to breathe if she was one of them.
Many of the tower-shield squads within the city who were still fresh were on duty on the perimeter of the square, armed and at the ready in case of any sign of trouble, their massive steel shields firmly planted in the ground as makeshift walls and the spears of those behind them ready to be slid into the slits at the exact moment that a lethal wall of spikes might be needed in order to control the mob.
But their presence seemed to be enough of a deterrent for now, the people simply staying curled in on themselves and clutching their loved ones close, whispering comforts to scared children between anxious breaths filled with dread. It was always this part that had Winter’s shoulders tighten as she watched.
These people were so…scared. Because they were used to being scared. It was second nature to them, but it didn’t have to be.
Soon that millenia-old infection would be able to begin to heal. But seeing it with her own eyes always made Winter uncomfortable.
The noise from the crowd increased as new figures entered the square, the heavy hammering of marching metal feet parading down the same main street leading from the palace that Winter had led her own men down, as Ironwood’s personal squads escorted the chained and gagged members of the Mistralian Council in a bound line. With the visors of their helmets down, it was impossible to see any inch of skin in the heavy infantrymen at all, making them look almost as if they were made of solid steel as they marched with their shields and swords raised in perfect discipline.
And leading the march was General Ironwood himself, pushing along a chained King Leonardo Lionheart with his own hand, his face impassive and cold as he entered the square.
A collective groan of despair rose from the crowd in a racket that Winter felt vibrate in her very bones as the people saw their king chained like a common criminal, his armour stripped from him and leaving him just in the filthy yet fine clothes he’d been wearing underneath it. The man had tried pretending he was a soldier, but he hadn’t even had the courage to leave the palace walls, putting every single fighter in the city between him and the unstoppable steel wave of Atlas.
He hadn’t even attempted a single swing before Winter’s blade had been at his throat, and his sword had clattered to the ground without a single mark or blemish on it despite his lifetime on the throne.
But despite his cowardice, the crowd still despaired at his treatment as he was marched directly through the center of the square, down a path kept clear by a solid wall of tower shields on each side, and through the doors of the temple. With each member of the high council that was forced to follow, the energy of the crowd grew more desperate, palpable in their anxiety and dread in a way that almost had it rising like ripples from heat. Winter’s shoulders tightened further as she watched, but her face remained cold and impassive, turning on her heel and snapping a formal salute when Ironwood emerged onto the balcony alone.
With the members of the council, and the king, kept downstairs for now until it was their turn, it was a long process up until that point, and Winter could see in Ironwood’s eyes that the man knew they needed to get it over and done with. There was still more fighting to be done, since despite taking the capital they’d barely taken a quarter of the massive sprawling territory that made up the Kingdom Of Mistral, and every bit of morale and momentum they could gather and maintain would shorten the fighting by days.
A simple beckon from Ironwood’s fingers, low enough it was unseen by the crowd, had Winter obediently step away and out of sight from those below as well so that they could speak quietly and in private.
“Any problems, Schnee?”
“No sir.” Shaking her head, Winter looked into her superior’s cold and dead eyes, something she’d seen before and after every battle since Vacuo. “No disturbances at all.”
“...none? I would have been expecting at least some fighting, with so many of them.” Frowning in surprise, Ironwood hummed in curiosity as he looked over at the banister in the direction of the crowd. “Even the larger towns tend to attempt at least one or two acts of resistance.”
“I…I suppose so, sir. But, nothing. Two priests, nothing more than that.” Matching Ironwood’s frown with one of her own, Winter folded her hands behind her back once more as she kept her posture straight.
“Curious…but not a gift horse we have the time to look in the mouth of.” Humming for another moment, Ironwood gave a single shake of his head as he dismissed it, patting Winter on the back. “You fought well today, Winter. There will be a moment to rest soon enough. But before then, it’s time.”
“Yes sir. My men have everything in order.” Following Ironwood when he stepped back up to the banister to look over the crowd, Winter immediately found Clover’s eye, and when her second-in-command gave her a wave of confirmation she simply responded with a nod that things were to begin. “Shall I give the full order? Or would you like to address the people first?”
Ironwood seemed to mull over it for a moment, his expression blank but for a slight thinning of his lips that only Winter would have been close enough to notice, as his eyes went over the crowd and took in their despairing and anguished state. The people were more tired than they were angry.
“No.” Ironwood gave a slight shake of his head. “Words from a conqueror before the blood is even dry will only work them up further. Let’s simply begin.”
Winter’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, her surprise obvious as it touched her eyebrows in a slight dip, when the man simply continued to look coldly over the crowd. She knew how crowds worked, and the normal platitudes may not be convincing but they gave the despair and anxiety from the crowd a direction to be channeled to. The crowd would be so busy using their emotions to disagree with everything the General would say, that none of that bottomless wellspring of broiling aggression would boil over into everything else.
But it was clear that Ironwood simply wanted to crunch the blackpowder of the city under the boot of Atlas so quickly that a fuse being lit wouldn’t even have a purpose, and would simply fizzle out.
Even if she disagreed with the sheer frigidity of his coldness, it was an order, so she met Clover’s eye once more and gave a second nod, the man’s face immediately sobering and taking on a focus gained only through discipline, before he turned to give his own orders for the bodies of the military leadership of the city to be taken forward and thrown onto the massive burning pyres.
Body by body, the people would watch as the roots and stems of their kingdom’s fragility were burned away right before their eyes.
With the attention of the crowd immediately being drawn to the crackling flames, the energy of their anguish grew more electric as they spoke and wept among themselves, many recognising some of the figures who were placed into the flames. The bodies kept coming in a steady procession, and Winter couldn’t help but tense tighter and tighter as the atmosphere radiating from the clustered people reached a high point and held steady there, kept in check as the last body was placed on the flames. Every time the noise of the crowd grew too high, the walls of shields would hammer on the ground, a steel drumbeat on the paving stones that always cut off any uproar before it began.
But it was barely working. And even Ironwood had his eyes slightly narrowed as he scanned the square below.
Eventually it became clear that the crowd wasn’t going to settle, and while Ironwood’s eyes focused on the crowd as a whole Winter instead zeroed her gaze in on the priests, each of whom were practically vibrating with the need to say something, to say anything, as the people behind them clamoured for guidance. But the people needed to watch as their spiritual leaders said nothing, unable to call on any gods to aid them, and their failure would be a slice across the throat of the faiths in the city.
And while they did obediently stay silent, Winter could see one in particular who was getting closer and closer to speaking up, and she made note to keep an eye on him during what was to come next.
With a small gesture from Ironwood to one of the guards on the balcony with them, the door was opened, and the first member of the high council was brought out.
The new figure appearing was enough for the crowd’s attention to immediately swing back up to the balcony, one of the leaders of their entire nation chained and gagged and filthy in full view of them as the guard escorting them dragged them so they were right against the banister. This was always Winter’s least favourite part, and her reason why made itself known when the crowd actively roared their protest and anguish at what was coming next, reaching a fever pitch that could not be suppressed by the soldiers and their shields, even though the people themselves were contained within the makeshift barriers.
Ironwood placed his hand on the councilman’s shoulder for a moment and quietly whispered a few words into his ear, asking him if he had any last words. Winter didn’t hear whatever they were, but she imagined they were the usual request to spare his family, or bury his remains a certain way, or both, and she watched as Ironwood gave a single nod before drawing his sword.
With a single expert thrust, the sword pierced straight through the councilman’s chest and heart, ending his life as quickly and painlessly as possible, and the guard that had been escorting him made sure to catch the body once Ironwood withdrew his sword.
The guard waited for his orders on what to do with the body limply in his grip, and Ironwood gave the answer simply as he wiped his sword.
“To the pyre.”
Winter kept her expression as schooled as possible as she watched the body be carried out the door, and then a few moments later appear carried out onto the street towards the flames, tossed on with the others to be left only as ash.
The crowd reacted just as she expected; despair, grief, and an anger that was the snarl of a wounded animal in a corner.
Taking advantage of their moment alone and without much attention on them, Winter looked over at the General.
“Sir…”
“Speak, Winter.” Already giving a nod to the guard for the door to be opened and the next member of the council to be dragged out, Ironwood finished cleaning his sword. “And make it quick.”
“Sir, I…would advise that we don’t go through with this. Not today.” Winter’s eyes nervously flittered to the crowd, her hands clenching each other so tightly behind her back that her knuckles hurt. “The crowd…”
“Are responding exactly how the people of Mantle did, and exactly how the people of Shade did. There’s no need for concern, Winter.” Raising a hand to the guard to prevent the councilman from being brought any closer for now, Ironwood gave Winter a firm look.
Hesitating for a moment as she tried to word her argument, Winter couldn’t stop her eyes from going down to the priest she had singled out earlier, and she watched as the man’s fists were clenched tightly at his sides and his face was so outraged and desperate he was likely close to cracking teeth from the tension in his jaw.
“Sir, Mistralians are…they’re not going to…” Letting out her anxious breath as a hiss, Winter forced her eyes back to where Ironwood was waiting for her to speak with a cynical raised eyebrow. “The people of Mistral react to grief and defeat differently than any other.”
It didn’t surprise her too much when Ironwood disguised a mocking scoff as a hum, and beckoned for the councilman to be brought over and shoved into the same place as the previous one.
“And what is it about the people of Mistral that unnerves you, when our own people didn’t? When the people of Vacuo didn’t?”
He knew Winter wouldn’t have an immediate answer, so Ironwood took advantage of her pause in order to end the exchange while he briefly spoke to the councilman in low words, asking the same question and getting only a slowly different answer before stepping back and driving his blade through his heart.
Another body for the pyre, and the crowd grew even louder, their clamours more desperate, their anguish building up like a dam only held back by a wall of shields and spears that would not buckle under the pressure of any sort of emotion. The days where Atlas did anything in consideration of emotion and sentimentality had ended a decade ago with the Rise Of Reason, and even under the despair of a people that weren’t their own they were unbowed.
Despite her objections, Winter held her tongue as the council was individually brought out and executed by the General himself, though she barely noticed the deaths as she instead kept her entire attention on the crowd, specifically on the priest.
They weren’t even through the entire council when the man refused to be silent any further, shoving away the guard who had been standing just behind him so he could look up at the General and Winter, and the councilwoman who was about to be slain, and shouted in a voice trained to carry across assembled masses.
“You may disbelieve in our gods, you monsters, but the Maidens will hear our call!!”
The man’s bellow carried all the way up to the balcony and rippled across the crowd nearest to him, bringing a moment of stunned silence at the defiance even as the shoved guard stepped forward and grabbed the man, attempting to wrestle him to his knees.
But the man resisted, twisting in the guard’s grip until he was facing the crowd, all the eyes of those closest upon him as he made desperate eye contact with everyone he could, his own eyes full of a burning defiance that was carried on his tongue like flames as he took a deep breath and shouted once more.
“Against the maidens fair, may all soaked in blood beware!!!”
The shout sundered through the crowd like a wave, and he gave his fellow priests one last look of inspirational defiance as he was finally shoved to his knees and another guard stepped over while drawing their sword, and even as the blade swung and removed the man’s head the other priests had turned to the crowd to repeat the call.
“Against the maidens fair, may all soaked in blood beware!!”
From next to where Ironwood was staring impassively down at where the priests were forced to their knees one by one and executed, he saw as Winter went almost completely rigid next to him, her eyes seeming to widen slightly. Looking over at his subordinate, he opened his mouth to demand to know what she’d noticed, only for his own ears to pick up the noise from the masses below. What had been discordant shouts and screams of objection, despair, and outrage, had shifted. No longer a cacophony without rhythm or shape, Ironwood was gradually able to make out words as more and more people took up the chant.
“Against the maidens fair, may all soaked in blood beware!”
Leaving the councilwoman in the custody of the guard, Ironwood stepped over to Winter with a scowl, raising an eyebrow at her when she looked over at him with an expression that seemed genuinely nervous.
“What are they doing, Winter?”
“They…” Wanting to give the honest answer, Winter also knew she was standing in front of one of the three figures of Reason within the Atlas Empire. Superstition, mysticism, faith, none had any place or value. “...nothing, sir. A fairytale.”
Both of them looked out over the mob again as they continued to chant, no longer saying the same phrase over and over again and instead turning into almost a chorus, carried by tens of thousands of voices as the chant gradually carried through the streets packed tight with the people of a city still smoking from its invasion and capture.
“For through the love of snow and sun, beauty and joy have always won!!”
The noise of the song rising in volume, Winter saw as many of the soldiers within the square began to fidget nervously, looking at each other and unsure how to react to a crowd that was chanting in unison, as one voice, instead of the thoughtless and fragile objections that they were used to encountering.
“Freedom’s season hear our call, for wrapped in our noose we are soon to fall!!”
Having enough of whatever was happening, Ironwood spun his head to the guard at the door and barked an order, his grip on his sword so tight the steel was shaking.
“The king. Now. We’ll settle this.”
“SIR!” Winter’s objection came out in what felt like a wheeze as her eyes widened, and protocol shattered under her anxiety as she stepped forward and entered the man’s space. “That’s…sir, I could not advise against that enough!”
“What on Remnant are you so afraid of, Schnee???” Whipping back around to glare down into Winter’s eyes, Ironwood’s own stare was terrifyingly intense, his grip on his sword tight enough that Winter flinched when she noticed it. “They’ll fall silent soon enough.”
As the crowd grew louder, Winter was forced to squeeze her eyes shut and run her hand through her white hair as the wind picked up powerfully enough it stung her eyes and threatened to rip her tight bun free, her padded white leather coat whipping as the wind grew from a gust into a gale, but still the voices of the crowd grew louder, the chant growing clearer as it repeated over and over again, the people of Haven more determined and desperate with every recital.
“You’re wrong, sir. They won’t. ” Swallowing, Winter watched as the door to the balcony slammed open and King Lionheart was dragged over by two guards, his appearance causing the crowd to raise their chant into practically a scream. “This is old magic, sir…a magic older than Mistral. Sir, this is a prayer older than bedtime stories. ”
Stunned into frozen silence for a moment by her answer, an answer that went against everything that Atlas believed, Ironwood’s mouth dropped open only for his stare to become incredulous. With deep disappointment entering his eyes, he gave a stressed but slow shake of his head even as he grabbed Lionheart by the shoulder and shoved him up against the banister.
The timber of the church felt as if it groaned and warped slightly beneath her boots, and Winter forced an eye open into wind in order to look down, and despite the blurriness in her vision she could have sworn the wood returned to a more lively brown despite the decades spent as mere planks.
“People aren’t protected by fairytales, Winter.” Forced to shout for his voice to be heard over the roaring wind, Ironwood’s eyes were filled with scorn as he took a step away. He brought his arm back for a swing instead of a thrust, with his eyes lingering on Winter for a long moment. “They’re protected by us. ”
Splotches of rain began to drop from the sky, fighting through the ash as the clouds of smoke were banished by the wind and revealed the dark sky of a storm, thunder cracking loud enough that metal helmets rang like drums, fork lightning splitting the sky with flashes, the hair on Winter’s arms and the back of her neck standing up from the electricity.
“Against the maidens fair, may all soaked in blood beware!”
Ironwood swung his sword, and the moment the king’s head hit the paving stones below Winter could hear nothing but a roar of thunder so loud her knees buckled, she could see nothing but the white of lightning that blinded her and drove thought from her mind, and feel nothing but the gale of a hurricane and the slicing stings of a torrent of rain that felt as if it was tearing her apart.
And as the roaring wind tore through through the streets of the city, ripping leaves from trees and shingles from damaged buildings, it picked up the chant from every voice it passed, carrying the desperate choir high into the sky in a swirling vortex of something far more ancient than even the steel worn by Mistral’s invaders.
A plea only answered when it was made at the most desperate of times. Only when it was needed more than any of the languages still living or now dead could properly word.
One final crack of thunder shattered the sky and the vortex gave a final howl, the chorus splitting into four storms of their own, and shot away in a torrent of wind and rain in different directions.
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