Elara. The Southern Plain "You should go inside, Your Majesty," Marrard said, his voice nearly drowned out in the heavy downpour. From their spot atop the ridge, the battle was little more than moving and shifting masses of mud and fog in the distance, the colorful standards obscured by the weather, leaving nothing but brown and gray. Elara looked across at him, both high atop their horses. "I will do no such thing," she said plainly, looking back out toward the battle. It had raged most of the day, but through the fog they could not tell who held the upper hand. "My men will not retreat, and neither shall I." The queen knew she could no sooner pick out individual soldiers from the mess than count the stars in the sky, but that did not stop her from scanning back and forth, hoping for a glimpse of the indigo and red Ingraham standard. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast, making her queasy. Promise me anyway, she had told William, knowing full well that promising her his safety was something he could not and should not have dared to do. But for the moment it had soothed the burn he'd left in her heart, and she could only hope that the rest would follow through. Elara reached up, pulling the hood of William's cloak further over her face, practically obscuring it from sight. She was still cold, her gloved hands still wet, but the cloak made her feel safe despite it. I want this back. She was not sure she was so willing to give it back if – when, she forced herself to repeat – she had the option. Lost in her head, as if beneath the hood she were in her own world, Elara had not at first noticed that the rain had begun to slow, not until she blinked and realized the melee in the distance swam clearer in her vision, sharper and more distinct. It was then that she the standards come into focus, held above the muck, flapping heavily with rainwater. But they were all unmistakably blue and silver, some with gold. Her army had won. Elara's heart skipped ahead, blood pounding in her ears louder now without the beating of the rain on her hood. Her eyes wide, she scanned the battlefield from afar, seeing there was nearly no more fighting, and that horses were running off in the other direction, not toward her. The Southmen's survivors were fleeing, hers were affirming their victory. Marrard and the others let out a great cheer, some rearing their horses, whooping and hollering without any stoicism. Elara stayed nearly still, all the activity under her skin. Her eyes sought only indigo and red. Whatever of their standards had fallen were now rising from the muck all over the plain, waving in the air as shouts and cheers rose up from her army, celebrating their success. And finally, in the midst of them all, Elara saw the dark but unmistakable indigo field slashed with red. Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and stinging. She was queasy with the hot desire to be joyous that conflicted with her longing to be a stoic and logical leader now more than ever. One hand clutched at her heart beneath William's cloak, fingers holding tight to its fur lining as she felt her heartbeat thumping fast and heavy in her chest. Her vision still trained on the battlefield, Elara marked the moment a group broke away from the masses, moving in her direction. It carried with it the Ingraham standard along with her own, and the sight killed her patience. Elara nudged her horse forward, and soon she was cantering down the ridge, Marrard's voice a dull thunder behind her. The hood of William's cloak blew off her head as she urged her horse further into a gallop, wind screaming in her ears as the misting light rain pricked her face. Ahead there were maybe ten horses and their riders, with more figures tied to the saddles and walking behind. Prisoners. Elara swept her gaze across the group, all shades of brown and muddy gray occasionally broken with the glimmer of steel armor. She raised her eyes to the standards and followed them down to their bearers. She immediately recognized William's squire, apparently uninjured but looking rather rattled. His horse trotted close to another, which she noted as Ricaud's immense black destrier, his lustrous dark coat spattered with mud and blood. Her heart lurched, hot in her chest, beating painfully quick in the absence of William's own impressive chestnut mount. Had the horse lost the rider, or the rider the horse? Slowing her horse to a heavy trot as she approached the group, Elara focused intently on Ricaud, looking for an expression in his bare face even from a distance. But all at once she saw the second silhouette behind him on the horse and reined in her own without thinking. Seeing William alive made every bone in her body stop. Live, William. He had. A moment's hesitation, allowing her body its visceral reaction, and then she pushed forward again, the war horses reined in as their queen approached. "Your Majesty, the day is yours," Ricaud called to her. Elara did not entirely hear him, instead transfixed on the figure dismounting behind him, William trudging through the mud toward her. Elara forced her horse to still, pacing side to side in the muddy earth until a firm hand took its bridle from below. Only then did Elara look to him again, meeting William's eyes immediately, eyes that betrayed nothing beyond weariness and relief. The queen could find no words. "We need to talk," William said finally, moving his hand from the horse's bridle to the pommel of its saddle, the other resting behind where Elara sat. "Not here," he clarified, and all Elara could do was watch as he hoisted himself up behind her. She only realized how winded he was when she could hear and feel his breath in her ear, uneven and heavy. "Back at the camp," he ordered, this time very nearly intimate with the quietude of his words. Elara was quick to nudge her horse back into a quick trot, not wanting to strain the animal unused to bearing two loads, least of all including a soldier in full armor. William braced himself with a hand on the front of the saddle, seeming to carefully avoid holding on to Elara herself. The queen could not find it in herself to mind, or ask why. He was alive, and that was all she had asked of him. They finally turned up the ridge to the camp, the rain nearly stopped. Elara noted the mixed looks of joy at the victory and panic at her flight on the faces of her councilmen and advisers, and was sure her appearance now, hood down, windswept and wet, her battle-worn commander behind her on her horse, did nothing to change the latter. Undeterred, she trotted past them toward her tent, reining the horse in. William swiftly dismounted and took hold of the reins before even the squires could come attend to it. He offered his other hand to help Elara down, all very prompt as if planned and routine. Elara took the invitation, landing with an unpleasant sound in the mud beside him. Marrard had caught up to them. "Majesty," he began, sounding more like her father than Elara ever remembered, "you cannot endanger yourself as you did, racing off--" "Not now," Elara interrupted him, though she did not fail to catch that Marrard's gaze was directed more at William than at her. She ignored the look as she did his tone, pinning him with a serious expression of her own before nodding to William to precede her into the tent. "I will summon you shortly, when the Lord Commander has had a word." Elara ducked inside her tent after William, turning to the entrance to make sure none could see inside, carefully laying one canvas flap over the other. It was only then that she realized her hands were trembling. When she turned to look at him, William was already watching her, standing in the center of the tent with his eyes on her and his breath still heavy, his chest and shoulders rising and falling under the plates of his armor. Now, in close proximity in the dim light of her tent, Elara examined him once over, head to toe. His hair was wild, matted, muddy, his face pale but flushed, marred with a few minor scrapes and cuts. His cuirass was dented in places, but he was steady on his feet. Her gaze fell to his left arm, then his right, the vambrace on his forearm smashed. She had not been looking for injury until then, only his survival. "You're hurt," Elara said, her voice breaking over the words as she advanced toward him. "It's nothing," William said almost tenderly, like he was afraid to say it as she came close. Elara took his wrist in her hand anyway, the cold steel almost burning her palms. He winced, giving away his pain. Elara looked up at him briefly, before turning her attention to the ties that held the ruined vambrace in place. "Let me take it--" "Stop, Elara," William said, lifting his left hand as if to push her away, but instead grasping behind her neck, the gauntlet catching on her wet hair. He pulled her head toward his and kissed her fiercely. Elara relented immediately, releasing his injured arm to find his face with her hands, exploring the lines of his jaw and brow and neck, knees suddenly weak at how alive he felt beneath her fingers and lips. When they broke apart, Elara felt sick with relief and desire, almost dizzy. She let her eyes close, breathing heavily with her head bent against William's chest, his armored left hand now touching the hood of the cloak he had draped around her shoulders just that morning, stroking the wool and fur lining almost lovingly. "I meant it, when I said we had to talk," William finally said, still panting. He took hold of her upper arm and held her at length, pinning her with a grave look, his blue eyes dark. "Much as I thought of--" His voice caught, gaze slipping to her mouth, her hands, and he furrowed his brow as if in disbelief at his own honesty before he tugged her close, kissing her again though with intentional brevity. William sighed. "That is not what I needed you alone for, much as I needed it," he finally said, the words spilling out like he'd rushed to say them before he lost his nerve. Catching her breath, Elara once again took his right wrist in both her hands. "Sit, then," she finally said, nodding to the low bench beside the bed. He followed her order, though she did not let go of his hand. Instead, she tugged at his gauntlet, pulling it off and laying it on the ground. "And speak," she said, kneeling on the ground beside him and carefully starting in on the battered vambrace. "We took prisoners," William started, eyes fixed on Elara's fingers as they deftly untied the bindings holding the steel to his arm. "One whom I fought, he-- he is almost certainly one of their leaders, or at least has been since Renfry's death." Elara stilled, unable to stop herself from looking at him at the mention of her husband. She caught herself after a long moment, refocusing on his injured arm. William winced as Elara began to lift up the vambrace, but continued. "He was... he was familiar to me," William said, stumbling over the words as Elara pulled the armor off his forearm, revealing blood seeping up between the links of his hauberk. "Familiar how?" Elara asked, refusing to be disturbed by the gruesome mix of blood and steel. She rose, taking the small wash basin beside her bed and placing it on the floor in front of William. "William, familiar how?" she asked again as she rooted in a trunk, coming up with a plain muslin shift. Kneeling before him again, Elara tugged at a seam on the shift, ripping it apart and dipping one piece in the water. Beginning to lift the hauberk up his arm, Elara watched as William gritted his teeth against the pain. "What is it, William?" she asked softly, as if she were not tending to a wound at all while they spoke. He breathed heavier still as she revealed the gash on his arm, patterned with the links of his hauberk. But it was as she finally pressed the damp muslin to his wound that William stammered, "Garratt. It-- I swear, on Derrick's life, it is Garratt."