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vii.
When the news finally reached Marsha’s ears, she was too tired to be surprised. After such a lengthy period of silence, of waiting and waiting with nothing to show for her patience, it was increasingly obvious that some unfortunate fate had befallen Marianne. Marsha was only uncertain what shape that misfortune had taken.
Creius was the one to personally inform her. Not out of compassion—he’d called his entire team into his office to discuss their next assignment.
Yermolai was uncommonly silent, glaring at their briefing as if the words would change if he stared them into submission. Paravyan kept glancing at Marsha like he wanted to give his condolences, or perhaps he wondered if condolences were appropriate when Marianne wasn’t even dead.
Would it have been better if she was dead? Dead, instead of… of…
Marsha looked her commander in the face, leaning on her artificial calm until her field of vision started to narrow. “Is there any chance that Sentinel can recover from her…”
She wasn’t sure what to call it. Corruption? Curse? Some kind of arcanum-derived malady, apparently carried through gargoyle ancestry like a dormant disease, quietly tallying acts of bloodshed until those compounded transgressions reached some arbitrary threshold. The specifics were lost to her. Marsha had not been there for the consultation with the Ténébruns, only read over the investigator’s report afterward.
This burden on Marianne, her suffering, reduced to a summary of a few sentences. It seemed unfair. This was not how Marsha should have found out such a blade had been hanging above Marianne’s neck. Marianne should not have hidden this from Marsha at all.
She wanted to make Marianne explain this madness herself.
Creius waited, hands folded on his desk, but when Marsha didn’t continue, he answered her unfinished question. “There are no records in the Ténébruns’ archives of any of their kin recovering once the condition has progressed beyond a certain severity.”
Grief wanted to crawl up Marsha’s throat, root down into her chest and twist between the gaps of her ribcage. She shut the feeling into a box and turned away, as she always did.
“Is there anything Laplace can do? Treatments to pacify the bloodlust?”
“I wouldn’t place my hopes on it.” Creius locked eyes with her. This must be the piercing gaze that had extracted many a confession from suspects during his Vigile days. “Are you certain your history with Sentinel won’t be a hindrance? Given the circumstances, I won’t order you to join us.”
Marsha didn’t blink. “I—” Don’t use past tense. “—know her the best out of all of us. And you know what my arcane skill does. My mind is clear. I won’t hesitate.”
Paravyan’s swallow was audible. “Marsha…” he began, but whatever he planned to say, it remained inside his mouth.
Beside her, Yermolai exhaled through his nose and shoved the briefing into his pocket. “Then you understand our objective, right?”
“Yes,” Marsha said. The scars itched beneath her gauntlets. “Stop the gargoyle’s rampage.”
They found her in Schwarzwald, and a brief but violent fight ensued. Marianne was quick to realize that she could not overcome the might of the XII and two other Foundation support teams combined, so she fled. They pursued, spreading out to herd her away from the settled areas and into rugged woodland.
Reducing the risk to civilians also made tracking her more difficult. But the counter-arcanum devices they’d brought along did their jobs, and the dense forest refused the gargoyle’s efforts to fade into its shadows.
By luck or by fate, it was Marsha who finally cornered her in the depths of that verdant maze. And whether by instinct or some lingering shred of reason, Marianne did not run further, but engaged Marsha in combat, with the same desperate ferocity as she had that day in the trenches.
This time, Marsha prevailed.
Pinned on her back with her arms trapped under Marsha’s knees, Marianne thrashed with all the strength she had left. Here, Marsha was finally able to get a good look at her.
Marianne’s eyes were no longer familiar gray, but lit by a hellish glow that reminded Marsha of how flames would smolder in the craters for hours after an artillery strike. Stone crept up her neck and the sides of her face even now, preparing to shield an incoming blow. Her collar was speckled with the blood her petrified claws had drawn from Marsha.
Marsha searched for the woman she loved as she raised her club. “Marie,” she whispered.
Her thundering pulse was from exertion, not fear. She was not allowed to be afraid right now.
Instead, Marsha threw herself into the comfort of memory: a pen etched in silver; sunlight and sugared coffee; tiny talons on a steel wing.
Then she swung down.
------
vi.
Marsha was slow to wake, for the darkness of her bedroom had her mind grumbling that it wasn’t time to get up yet. She turned over, eyelids drooping, ready to tip back into slumber—but the shadows on the other side of the bed were too flat. When she stretched out a hand, the sheets were still warm, but missing the person she had expected.
Quiet movement at the foot of the bed pulled her further from sleep. Marsha rose on one elbow to see Marianne getting dressed with her back turned towards her. Her bag sat on a nearby chair; her rifle leaned against it.
“Marie…?”
The groggy mumble turned Marianne’s head in the middle of fastening her cloak. She responded with her voice pitched low.
“Did I wake you? My apologies. The hour is early; pray return to your rest.”
Marsha glanced at the window. The sun hadn’t started to creep through the curtains yet. She almost asked why Marianne was up—but then, yesterday’s conversation surfaced from the fog of her torpor.
“Are you leaving for your mission now?” Marsha pushed herself upright. “This early?”
“Indeed. I have a great distance to cover.” Metal scraped softly over wood as Marianne picked up her headpieces from the table and tucked them into her hair. “That aside, the sooner I can complete the Timekeeper’s task, the sooner I may return.”
That was not logic Marsha could argue with. And she supposed Marianne did owe the young Timekeeper a favor. Both of them did, really. As was custom for entrants of the Suitcase, Marsha and Marianne had each been given rooms of their own. Yet, when Marsha finally banked enough audacity to ask if Marianne could stay in hers, Vertin not only readily agreed, she didn’t bat an eye at the request, either. Marsha wondered if Vertin had already anticipated it.
It wasn’t like she and Marianne tried very hard to hide their relationship anymore.
“When you said you had to leave in the morning, I thought I’d at least get to sit and have breakfast with you first.”
Marianne’s silhouette briefly disappeared as she knelt, probably to put on her boots. “You still may, if you can will yourself out of bed.”
Marsha heard the provoking smile in her reply, but had no resolve to meet the challenge; she was far too comfortable to leave the blankets. She fell back onto her pillow and groaned.
The noise must have sounded petulant, because Marianne came around her side of the bed to lean over and brush the hair from her forehead.
“I jest,” Marianne said warmly. “I had intended to eat upon the road. You may sleep more without guilt if you wish.”
The thought that Marianne had planned to leave without even waking her up, ironically, brought Marsha to full wakefulness. She caught Marianne’s hand and shot her a glare. With Marianne’s superior night vision, Marsha knew she could see it even in the dark.
“You weren’t even going to say goodbye? Just let me wake up and find you gone? Hm. Just for that,” Marianne tried to pull away, sensing imminent danger, but Marsha tightened her grip, “I demand that you eat here in the Suitcase. With me. A nice, leisurely breakfast to give you energy for your journey.”
Marianne made another half-hearted attempt to escape. “Marsha, no. I would not like to disturb Bunny Bunny at this hour.”
“You would be surprised how early she gets up to cook for all of us.”
When Marianne remained silent, Marsha pressed a long kiss into her palm, where skin met stone, and gave her a coy look over her fingers.
“Please?” she added.
Marsha felt Marianne’s resistance evaporate as she sighed. “... Very well. But you will nap later to compensate for your lost sleep.”
“It’s a deal.” Marsha grinned into Marianne’s hand and planted another kiss. “Help me get up, then.”
------
v.
Marsha had told Marianne that she didn’t need to knock before entering her room, but Marianne still kept the habit. Her insistence on observing decorum was charming, in its own way.
“Marsha?” came the call, slightly muffled through the wood. “May I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.”
Marsha didn’t look up from her desk. She’d only just come back from vacation, and while she’d sorely needed the time off, she’d also returned to find a daunting pile of paperwork waiting for her attention. And honestly, flipping through the stack, Marsha had to wonder if some of it was actually supposed to be on Yermolai’s plate. Still, duty was duty, and it needed to be done.
The sound of the door opening and closing came from behind her. Then, the gentle rustle of fabric as Marianne approached.
“Oh, pardon. Are you occupied?”
A tender, almost fragile note to the question paused the scratch of Marsha’s pen. She’d had to turn down Marianne’s last two offers to go for a stroll through the Wilderness, and had likewise begged off spending their lunch and dinner hours together, for it was far more efficient to stuff a nutrient bar down her throat and rush back to her desk.
Perhaps Marianne was feeling a little neglected. Marsha would have felt the same, in her shoes.
She put down her pen and turned in her chair, offering Marianne a smile that she hoped conveyed her apologies, but not her guilt. She wouldn’t put it past Marianne to weaponize those sad gray eyes of hers if she knew how effective they really were, no matter how strongly Marianne might assert that she’d never stoop to such a low.
“A bit, yes, but I have a few minutes. What is it?”
“Well…”
Marianne’s eyes darted to the side. She took a halting step forward, one arm behind her back, body held stiffly as if presenting for an inspection. When she opened her mouth to speak, no sound emerged, and she only wet her lips instead.
Marsha watched this with growing unease. Marianne was only this hesitant when she had something important to discuss. Marsha rose from her chair.
“Is something wrong, Marie?”
At that, Marianne jerked to attention, eyes wide. “No, no. Not at all. I—ah, forgive my gracelessness.” She cleared her throat. “I wish to give you something. Here.”
Marianne unfolded her arm, revealing a small box. This she passed on to Marsha, who ran her fingers down its length, her concern now morphing into curiosity. The box was of fine make, covered in soft faux leather, and held shut with a small clasp. Marsha clicked it open.
Nestled within was a fountain pen. The body was a deep cerulean blue, polished and shiny like glass. The cap was topped with black rubber, its band engraved with silver detailing, the design sharp and elegant. Marsha uncapped it to find that the nib was also silver, and likewise carved with delicate lines fine enough to suit a piece of jewelry.
And down the side of the barrel was her name. Marsha Rosenhart, also silver, etched in graceful script.
Marianne watched her reaction with the diligence of a knight waiting to hear her liege’s decree. “When we visited town the other day, I saw how your gaze lingered on this design. Yet when I suggested that you purchase it, you declined. Marsha… your devotion to your work is truly admirable, and your compassion towards others is unparalleled.” Marianne’s smile was warm with quiet pride and welling affection. “This is clear to me, for I have witnessed it time and again. That being so, I would like it if you granted yourself small luxuries more often. But if that is not agreeable, then permit me to indulge you in your stead. I— why do you laugh?”
Marianne cut herself off, because Marsha was laughing—only giggles, true, but the horrified look on Marianne’s face only made it that much harder to contain her mirth.
“Marie. Oh, Marie. The pen caught my eye because—” Marsha bit her lip in a bid for composure. “—it reminds me of you.”
“It— what?”
Marianne looked down at the box. The pen lay there in the silk lining, innocent.
Blue, black, and silver.
Marsha could pinpoint the exact moment Marianne came to the realization, because she went abnormally still, as if preparing to enter a state of stone. She didn’t, of course, and Marsha was glad, for Marianne looked much prettier as flesh. The tips of her ears had gone pink.
The sight only made Marsha laugh harder.
The sound broke whatever spell had Marianne in its grasp. She blinked quickly and cleared her throat again, the noise coming out somewhat strangled. Her fingers floated up and across her body to touch the steel curve of the ornament on her shoulder.
“... I see the resemblance now, however slight. And…‘twould explain the shopkeeper’s amusement when I asked him to add the engraving.” Marianne knitted her brow, eyes darting to Marsha with something approaching panic. “I swear to you—vanity played no part in this. I had not even thought to make the connection until just now. I… I would never presume to gift you myself— No— that is, an item resembling me—”
Her plea was so earnest and helpless that Marsha finally had to take pity on her. She closed the distance between them and pulled Marianne into a one-armed hug. The gesture stopped Marianne’s stammering, and she gradually relaxed in Marsha’s hold, arms coming up to tentatively return the embrace.
“It’s fine,” Marsha said into Marianne’s ear. “No, more than that. It’s wonderful.” She stepped back, beaming. Her hand slid down to join with Marianne’s and gave it a fond squeeze. “Thank you, Marie. I’ll write all my reports and letters with it. That way, it’ll be like you’re here with me, even when you’re away on a mission.”
Now the blush was in full bloom across Marianne’s cheeks. But she answered Marsha’s praise with a smile, eyes bright with wonder, and stroked her thumb tenderly across the ridge of Marsha’s knuckles.
“If the notion pleases you, then it shall be so.” Marianne leaned in close and whispered. “May this pen accompany you when I myself am unable.”
------
iv.
Marsha was reading by the windows of the Suitcase’s library when Marianne approached from between the shelves. The smell of coffee reached her before she looked up; Marianne wordlessly set one of the two cups she carried on the table beside Marsha.
She took a small sip, murmuring her thanks when she found that Marianne had remembered to add sugar.
“Thank you. I needed this.” Delighted, she enjoyed a longer sip and exhaled, letting the taste settle in her mouth and the warmth in her belly. It was a lovely match for the sun on her shoulders. “How did you know I was here?”
Marianne hovered by a corner of the table, cradling her own cup in her hands. Marsha didn’t need to ask to know that she was taking hers black. “The young vampire told me she saw you carrying books and a notepad. I also heard the turning of pages when I passed by.” Her weight shifted, and so did her eyes, trying to glean the contents of Marsha’s book without leaning over. “What is it that you are reading?”
Marsha pushed the pile of books towards Marianne so she could peruse their covers. “The Timekeeper was kind enough to lend me some medical texts. They’re from her era—the future. I wanted to see what the scholars of that time know, and take what I can back with me.”
Foundation regulations ensured that wisdom from the wrong time periods didn’t contaminate whichever era the Storm had dropped them into now, but rules were less strict regarding employees’ personal use of aftertime knowledge, as long as it was wielded for moral reasons. In the name of peace for mankind, and all that.
Marianne’s attention drifted further to the notepad by Marsha’s elbow, scanning the writings that had accumulated over the course of the morning. “Then you do not read for relaxation, but for study. Are you not tired?”
There was a faint edge of concern in Marianne’s tone, sharp with unspoken words. A sudden inkling had Marsha glance down at her drink. “A little, but… Is that why you brought me coffee?”
Marianne straightened as if she’d been caught in the middle of committing a crime, but proud to have committed it anyway. “Yes. ‘Twas late in the evening when you returned from your venture, and I know well that your slumber was too brief.” Her gaze softened. “Even now the circles are still dark beneath your eyes.”
Marsha resisted the urge to run a finger over said circles. She wasn’t sure if she was more touched or annoyed that Marianne had apparently taken it upon herself to supervise Marsha’s sleeping habits. Marianne’s gifts of observation had served her well, and continued to protect her to this day—for which Marsha was grateful, of course, but that didn’t mean she liked being on the receiving end.
She raised an eyebrow. “And whose fault is that?”
Benevolently, Marsha had waited for Marianne to finish sipping before she replied. All the same, a choked noise emerged from Marianne’s throat, and she jerked as if burned. A splash of coffee slipped out of her cup to land on the floor, and a French curse likewise slipped from Marianne’s lips.
“Marsha!” she hissed. She yanked a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe up the mess. “Mind your words! You invite strange rumors to nest in the others’ ears!”
Marsha laughed. “I’m sorry!” She was not sorry. There was something inherently satisfying about catching a gargoyle off guard. “I couldn’t help myself. Don’t worry; there’s no one else here. All that happened between us will remain a secret.”
Her impish ‘apology’ proved insufficient, because Marianne’s posture still radiated displeasure. Through valiant effort, Marsha tamped down her amusement and let her smile fade to one that was more sincere.
“But really, thank you for staying with me last night. It was nice not to be alone after… well…” She trailed off.
For some reason, this only upset Marianne further.
“You should not have been alone, not after that tragedy of a mission.” Marianne’s voice was tight with agitation as she worried a loose thread on her handkerchief. “… It was not the first time I have seen you cry, but that these are repeated occurrences only pains me more. I know you considered yourself responsible for their lives, but there was truly nothing more you could have done. I… I wish you would forgive yourself, Marsha.”
Marsha felt herself go still. Forgive herself? Marianne could say that because she had not been there. She had not been there in the mud and rain and tremors of bombardment; had not been asked to mend ruptured flesh even after supplies ran out; had not met the pale and grieving faces, eyes red and wet with accusation.
But Marsha’s anger cooled before it could be stoked, for she knew she was being unkind. Marianne had lived and breathed war, too—only, she had taken her hurts and buried them so far beneath stone that even Marsha couldn’t convince her to excavate them.
Despite that, Marianne still had space in her heart to worry for Marsha. To be alarmed by Marsha’s dishevelment when they ran into each other in the hallway; to help Marsha out of her boots and into bed; to hold Marsha as she finally unstoppered herself and let the day’s trials pull her under.
All the while, Marianne had whispered gentle words. Marsha couldn’t remember what Marianne had said, only that she had stayed.
“You give so much of yourself for the sake of others,” Marianne was saying, “and that is commendable. But… I hope you understand that in doing so, you are not obliged to grind yourself down to dust.”
“It’s not a burden.”
Marsha believed that with all her soul. This was the calling she had chosen—had rescued from ruin, reforged and retempered. But Marianne’s distress wasn’t the price she wanted to pay.
She sighed, inhaling the scent of coffee. “However, I understand what you’re saying. I’m sorry I’ve worried you so much. I will take better care of myself—where I can,” she added quickly. “But when it comes to helping others, I refuse to try less than my best. That part is not negotiable.”
Marianne lowered her gaze to oaken whorls as though Marsha’s reply was expected. “A knight, indeed,” she murmured, but it was not said bitterly. She folded the handkerchief back into her pocket, and her eyes returned to Marsha. “Then, will you permit me to care for you as well?”
“You already do, Marie,” Marsha said, voice soft. Marianne cared more than she realized. “But how about this: if I need help, I’ll come find you.”
“Do you swear on it?”
The way she’d asked was almost a challenge. Marsha tilted her head. “Are you asking me to make it an oath? Hah, alright.” She lifted her hand, scarred side up, and Marianne took it, hooking their fingers together. “Only on the condition that you do the same. If you ever need help, Marianne, come find me.”
The rigid set of Marianne’s shoulders eased, and at last she smiled. “Very well.” Her laugh was a quiet exhale. “I can but imagine what catastrophe would bring us each running to the other, then.”
------
iii.
Sheltered beneath the dappled branch-shade of an alder tree by the lakeshore, Marsha tried her best not to peek at Marianne’s progress on the garment she was sketching. It wasn’t that she thought Marianne would object, but her friend seemed to have achieved a state of supreme concentration. Neither of them had spoken for many minutes; the only sounds to fill the quiet were pencil scratching on paper and warbling birdsong overhead. Marsha would hate to distract her now.
She didn’t mind the companionable silence. The day was mellow with the sort of dreamy peace only made possible by the wonders of the Suitcase. When she’d been told that the Timekeeper could alter the Wilderness’s features at will, Marsha’s skepticism had only lasted the time it took to walk outside and see a shining lake where there had once only been a green field.
It was not the lake whose mist reportedly caused people to faint, so Marsha had wandered its shore for a while, before she found Marianne seated on a high branch, working on her fashion designs. Not much coaxing had been needed to bring Marianne down, and they’d passed the afternoon in idle conversation.
Marsha didn’t know what time it was now. She debated lying back against the grass, unsure if the movement would disturb Marianne.
Then, something else moved in the corner of her eye. Marsha turned her head and immediately grinned; one of the birds had fluttered down and alighted on the tip of Marianne’s headpiece. Perhaps it was drawn there by the steel’s sparkle when it happened to catch sunlight. The bird’s head flicked to and fro, curious about Marianne’s sketching below.
Marsha waited, but Marianne made no indication she had noticed their little guest.
“Marie,” she said softly. “Don’t move.”
Marianne made the faintest gasp, and the motion of her pencil stopped abruptly, but as commanded, she remained still. Her eyes darted sideways, searching for danger.
“What?”
“There’s a bird on your head.”
Marianne’s eyes instinctively shifted upward, but of course she couldn’t see it, so she again glanced in Marsha’s direction.
“What would you have me do?”
“I’m not sure… Maybe we ought to give it a name.”
That brought Marianne’s head around to give Marsha a flat stare, and the startled bird retreated into the sky. Marianne watched it go, touching the edge of her headpiece.
“Oh,” said Marsha, still grinning. “Never mind. So, what are you drawing?”
Marianne hesitated, then brushed the pencil crumbs off her sketchpad and angled it towards Marsha. “Know you the feathered dress the Timekeeper has in her lobby? I drew inspiration from it for an evening gown.”
Marsha’s knowledge of high fashion was woefully lacking, but to her inexperienced eye, the sketch was gorgeous even while incomplete, all elegance and soft edges. One day, when the fighting stopped and Marianne was able to open that clothing store she talked about, this gown would surely feature front and center.
“It’s beautiful,” Marsha said.
Marianne’s reply was a quiet hum. Silence started to seep back into the space between them—but then Marianne seemed to come to some wordless determination, and she set her sketchpad and pencil aside.
“Forgive me, I have not been an attentive companion. My sketches can wait until later. Was there aught you wished to talk about?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mind.” Marsha dismissed the apology with a casual wave of her hand. “Besides, I’m the one who bothered you in the first place.”
“You are not a bother.”
She stated it as simple fact, her inflection perfectly neutral. Still, Marsha’s heart skipped a beat to hear it. She smoothed down the wrinkles of her skirt.
“In that case…” Marsha looked to the steel wing where the bird had just been perched. “Would you tell me about your family? I didn’t get to talk with many of them back at the monastery—aside from your aunt. I think they were wary of me, being from the Foundation.”
Not unlike that bird, Marianne tilted her head, curious. “My family?”
“Yes. Your clan’s traditions, or any stories, perhaps? I know your family goes back many generations.”
“Stories…” Marianne’s brow knit in thought. “Then, I would share one known to all my kin, and the one we hold closest—the tale of our clan’s founding.”
When Marianne turned back, she found a look of anticipation on Marsha’s face, so she continued, her gaze wafting out across the lake.
“It was more than a millennium past when the lands around the Seine were beset by a savage demon. Neither crops nor lives were spared. Hearing the people’s cries, Bishop Romain de Rouen set forth to find the beast and end its reign of terror.”
Marianne’s fingers were in gentle motion where her hands were folded in her lap, one thumb tracing the stone-clad surface of the other. “Romain was successful in his hunt, and he subdued the demon, bringing it back to town to face judgment. Yet instead of killing it, he allowed it to live. From that day hence, the creature vowed to abandon its demonic nature and heed the word of God. It and its descendants—the gargoyles—would stand evermore as guardians of the church.”
Marsha leaned back on her hands, watching the sunlight sparkle over the water. “Romain spared it, even when everyone expected an execution,” she said lowly, turning the story over in her head. “I wonder what he saw in it.”
“Who can say?” said Marianne. “All we know is that his act of mercy echoed far into the future, and we gargoyles shall ever honor the chance for redemption.”
------
ii.
The latest letter Marianne had sent gave no indication there would be any surprises. Then Marsha reached the last paragraph and felt her mind stumble to a halt. She read it again, more slowly.
In other news, I have accepted a partnership with the Timekeeper. I heard tell you were invited to her ‘suitcase’ as well. Perhaps we shall meet again very soon.
Regrettably, the XII had just been deployed on a mission, and Marsha didn’t expect to make it back for two weeks at minimum, even if all went well. More regrettably, the circumstances surrounding their assignment were dire enough that she didn’t need any stray thoughts distracting her. Distractions were a death sentence in times of war.
Well. Restraint was threaded through Marsha’s being, after all, and she had full faith in her discipline. That aside, having something to look forward to wasn’t the most terrible motivation for a soldier.
Marsha sent Marianne a reply expressing her delight and congratulations, and quietly tolerated the excitement that squirmed in her stomach as the days went on.
When they returned to the headquarters at last, Marsha bid her confused teammates a hasty goodbye and went straight for the Suitcase. She strode its halls for about a minute until Sonetto noticed her restlessness and kindly directed her to the kitchen.
There, she found Marianne speaking with a woman whose braid draped long over one shoulder. Argus, Marsha recalled. Argus was examining Marianne’s rifle, one hand running up and down its barrel, while her own gun presumably leaned against the counter behind them. Marianne’s posture held the subtle tension of someone ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.
Marsha just stopped and looked. From the regular exchange of their letters, she had already known Marianne was alive and well, but to see the proof with her own eyes prompted a different sort of relief altogether.
She pressed a hand to her chest and drew a deep breath. Then she stepped forward.
“You have no remarks?” Marianne was saying as Argus handed back her rifle.
The other woman shrugged. She fetched her shotgun and planted it butt-first to the floor, leaning on the muzzle. “Like what? When it comes to guns, the only things that really matter are ‘Can it shoot bullets’ and ‘Can they hit your target’? If the answer to both those questions is ‘yes’, then you’re golden.”
Whatever reply Marianne might have had for that bit of wisdom, she never got to voice it, because Marsha’s footfalls turned her head. The sight of Marsha drew her spine straight even as her stance went loose. Marianne’s voice lifted an octave.
“Marsha.”
“Hello, Marie,” Marsha said warmly. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” said Marianne. Her tone was still bright with faint disbelief. She glanced at Argus. “Pardon, this is—”
“We’ve met,” Argus said. “The medic joined us a while back.” Her eyes bounced between the two of them with lazy interest. “You two know each other already?”
Marsha came in beside Marianne. “Yes. We met on the—” she cleared her throat, “—the battlefield, but our duties took us to different fronts.”
“We have been in correspondence,” Marianne added, still looking at Marsha as if to confirm she was really here, “but it has been some time since we last saw each other in person.”
“I get it. So it’s a little reunion.” Marsha thought she saw a flash of envy cross Argus’s eyes, but the mercenary dipped the brim of her hat, and the moment passed. Argus nodded to each of them. “Well, I’ll leave you folks to it. Thanks for the chat, Sentinel. Medic.”
After Argus’s exit, Marianne turned to Marsha. “I presume you only just returned from your deployment. Have you settled in yet?”
“Yes,” Marsha lied. “It’s good to be back. I missed this place.” Among others. “How about you? I’m not keeping you from any business, am I?”
“No. My afternoon is yet free.”
Joy bloomed between Marsha’s ribs. “Good. Then we have plenty of time to catch up. So, tell me: how have you been doing since your last letter? Have you made any progress on your fashion designs?”
“I have been well. And yes, the peace of the Suitcase has been a welcome balm, and the diversity of its residents a potent muse. There are many designs I have yet to put to paper.” Marianne paused, cautiously eager. “… Would you like to see my sketches?”
“I would,” said Marsha. “Very much.”
A soft kind of cheer lit Marianne’s face. She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve. “Then allow me to go and retrieve them. I shall be but a moment.”
“Alright.”
Marianne left for the hallway. Before she turned the corner, she cast a lingering glance back at Marsha. Marsha gave a little wave, to which Marianne chuckled, almost to herself, before the edge of her cloak vanished behind the wall.
------
i.
She woke to singed nerves and smoldering bones. Her senses fought to rise from the languid swamp of unconsciousness, to limited success. Marsha could only perceive broken fragments of sound and color. Disoriented and in pain, she opened her mouth and tried to speak through a parched throat—but her chest met restriction as she breathed. Something had been tightly tied around her torso.
Restraint. Capture?
Panic spilled in to join her confusion. Marsha lurched, croaking a strangled note, and suddenly hands were on her body as she struggled to get up from whatever it was she was lying on.
Voices rose in urgent, clipped tones. Marsha picked out the words “wound” and “sedation.”
Then the darkness reclaimed her.
The next time she awoke was to the canvas ceiling of a medical tent. The nurse watching over Marsha let her know that she was not a prisoner here, only a patient. Their organization had made this their mission: roam the battlefield after the guns and artillery fell silent, and determine who could still be rescued.
Marsha’s case was whispered among the personnel like a miracle. They’d found her with a bayonet lodged high in her chest, almost at her throat. The injury should have been fatal, and yet she had survived.
The contradiction sat wrong in her gut. She remembered her balance failing before the gargoyle soldier’s lunge, and the sinking realization that blood-slicked hands lacked the friction to stop a blade from sliding further.
She also remembered how the gargoyle had left her there instead of finishing the job. That fact floated in the morphine haze, refusing to leave her dreams.
When she was healed enough to stand and walk around a little, Marsha found a spot where she could observe without getting in the way. The camp was alive with organized chaos—doctors and nurses and orderlies flowed between the tents like river water between rocks, swift and purposeful in their movements. Groaning and crying sometimes drifted above the noise, but they were always soothed back to silence by gentle reassurances.
A short distance from where she stood, a pair of men sang loudly as they unloaded supplies from a truck. Another man scolded them for disturbing the peace, but after he left, they resumed their merriment, only at a quieter hum this time.
Marsha’s stomach tightened. She missed her comrades.
She missed them, but she did not miss that their bond had been held together by the promise of honor and glory for their nation. They hadn’t known back then that the price would be so high: villages bombed and burned; fields yielding mud and ash instead of bounty; friend and foe in pieces too scattered to be identified.
She had been taught that their oath endured as long as their knight still drew breath.
Marsha wondered, then, if it was correct that she had lived.
When she finally grew weary of convalescing, Marsha asked if she could help. It was the least she could do for the people who had dressed her wounds, used their medicines on her, fed her, and asked for nothing in exchange.
They allowed it, as long as the work wasn’t strenuous. Someone asked her to boil water. Another taught her the proper way to change an old bandage. She passed out meals and drinks.
One day, as Marsha brought in clean bedpans, a patient in a painkiller-induced stupor called her ‘nurse’ and thanked her.
She didn’t dislike how the title sounded.
“Where will you go now?”
The question was a long time coming. Marsha was, by all accounts, fully healed. There was no reason for her to linger.
They had given Marsha her armor back. No one in the camp had the knowledge or tools to mend the damage, but even if they could, she wasn’t sure she wanted to take it along.
She stared at her reflection in her helmet. “I’m not sure. What if I return to the battlefield, and someone I fight ends up in your tents?”
“Then we will help them. And if you end up in the same position again, Miss Marsha, we will help you as well.” The attending doctor’s gaze was kind. “Our mission is one of succor. We don’t judge.”
These past weeks, Marsha had seen how their devotion manifested. They promised aid and comfort. They did not bend, despite the undeniable hardship. They were not in service to the war, but they did serve the people affected by it. The mission they carried was as noble in purpose as any oath, if not in name.
Marsha put her helmet aside and met the doctor’s eyes. “I’d like to join that mission, if you’ll have me.”
When they packed up camp to depart for their next destination, Marsha did end up taking her gauntlets with her. One of the recovered patients had told her there was a blacksmith in the nearby town who could provide repairs.
The scars were too deep to ever fade completely. The one on her chest would remain hidden as long as her collar stayed high, while the ones on her hands would go unnoticed if Marsha wore gloves.
In idle moments, she found herself tracing those scars, still struck by the novelty of the sensation beneath her fingers. They cut across her palms from side to side, a canyon to mark the end of her old life, and the beginning of her new one.
The memory of that battle was seared beneath her skin. She still wondered why that gargoyle had looked down at her, an enemy who had fought her tooth and nail, and chosen to let her live.
It was unlikely she would ever get to ask.
But Marsha did hope that someday, she would be able to repay that mercy.