Chapter Text
“Lora! Lora ! ”
Desolate in the remains of the village, Jin stands rasping her name, dust haloing his head as each stir of wind coughs more dirt into the air. Thrumming frostbite bleeds up his knuckles. Ether trembles, particles quivering in shuddering patterns as Jin’s desperate concern seeps sour into the atmosphere, an astringent strain wailing in muted tones in the air amongst the ash. Silence reigns, here, an avaricious visitor enforcing an austere instigation of heavy breath mingled with blank terror.
It was just a tree. It was just old, rotted wood splintering and downing other such dilapidation like dominoes. It wasn’t danger.
He feels foolish.
He abandoned her, too caught in what could hurt her. His head jerks, coinciding with the dismay and disgust wringing his insides. He’s been too on edge- with Lora mentioning Gort, her worth as a Driver- he needs to step up more, but apparently he’s only been slipping down. Cascading through the slinking space of his forearms, silvery ice spends its glare. Ether warbles, flowing rushes pried to warp, abiding by the unaligned stretch of a tense jaw.
He staggers forward. “Lora!”
She isn’t dead.
That is all Jin is supporting himself with, sturdying the structure of his bones- he is alive so she isn’t dead. She couldn’t be.
She should be waiting for Jin by a pond, tending to a fire of a campsite. She should be rambling about some literature or lecture she’s absorbed into, giggling into her tale with the crackling of the fire. She would have fresh ink for Jin, maybe a newly-crafted pen or charm, and a small knowing smile as he silently shuffled into the ring of the fire’s light. And then maybe they’d spar, or Lora would taunt him into singing, or quietly worry about each other to themselves. Maybe Lora would actually get some sleep.
She could be playing between the leaves, twiddling and twirling and laughing at Pippitos drawn to her bouncy gait, her exuberant demeanor, her beautiful voice. Maybe she just got carried away. She could be hiding, awaiting Jin to pounce as soon as he registers within her grasp. Maybe she’s simply waiting.
Perhaps Jin is overreacting.
No .
Something, an insatiable search slinging razoring chides in his insides vehemently disagrees. Deep in his gut, he knows, in the recesses of his mind, he knows, from the flit of his blinks to the instincts buried in his muscle, he knows.
Lora’s gone.
But she isn’t dead.
Lora isn’t dead.
Jin’s mask is heavy on his face. The ashes that float with the remnants of smoke curl dents into his hair, as cold and empty as the damp ground they rose from. He can taste them in his mouth. Stale. Bitter. An odd feeling the back of his throat. Lora’s not dead.
Somehow, the thought reaches him through his numb stupor, springing a stiff, thawing leg forward a step. Then another.
They’d had a disagreement, a conversation ebbing towards argument. She wouldn’t run from him. She wouldn’t even-
Another step. Lora isn’t dead.
Lora isn’t dead.
***
It’s cold.
Belatedly so, Lora realizes this. It’s a kind of cold with no bite, rather a slow gnawing of pulpy, fleshy gums upon one’s warmth until it secedes prickly feeling and drowns into numbness. Blunt and lapping, it crowns a crest of icy languor to delve into a frozen, dull desolation.
Her head hurts.
Dizziness swirling in odd rotations along the inside of her skull, Lora’s head spins incessantly . Drowsiness heaves heavy weights upon her limbs, tempting her eyes closed, splicing her focus to whorl alongside the swirling ringing in her mind. Her fingertips tingle, an odd sensation bordering upon the numbness twisting in a burrow that borrows the heart curling in her chest.
It’s cold. Her head hurts.
The thrum of movement echoes under her, the hitch of wheels across uneven terrain, the squeal of axels turning. Lora flinches, gathering herself in a fit of rash, hurried, and harsh determination, scrabbling hands under her to rise, but her head swiftly meets wood, leaving yet another dull ache and undoubtedly a bruise.
Where is she?
She freezes. Her limbs don’t cooperate. She’s hauntingly still.
Terror inundates her mind, splicing disjointed slivers of sharp, panicking dread throughout the lacework of her veins. It’s dark, and Lora can’t make out anything. Colors eclipse in paths of twisting light, splitting shadows bruising into her vision. She can only frantically feel along the inside of the dirty box she’s housed in.
Her vision promptly blurs, another wave of disorientation crashing down upon her. Curling around herself, she forfeits to press an ear against the grimy ground of the box. There’s a small gap that she can twist her fingers into, but with it being at the bottom, it doesn’t give her much insight into her surroundings. While on her mad hunt for any vestiges of her pack, she notices- her battle braid is gone.
What happened ? All she remembers is Jin dashing off to fight, then-
Someone. A form, a figure, pouncing. Could it be the raiders who burned the village? Was the village burned maliciously? Jin must’ve run off because he thought so, in case some remained.
And apparently they did.
Lora shivers, quivering jolts lining the spark of her muscles. Fear floods her veins, shackling the rush of her heartbeat’s rhythm to abide by the sheer horror heralding possibilities of her death.
Of Jin’s.
Panicking isn’t helpful, she tells herself, yet she continues to tremble. Taking a deep breath, Lora assesses the situation, wringing her shaking hands. She was taken. Kidnapped. She’s probably being transported somewhere now, by her cage of wood being in motion. She doesn’t have her battle braid, nor her pack. She can’t-
“What have we got here?” A man grates out, a gravelly Gormotti accent scraping along the words. The crate Lora is housed in shakes violently, as if treading across rough terrain- her brain rushes to supply reasonings, perhaps this is a loading dock? Suddenly the box tilts, depositing Lora upon the ground, in which she flails wildly to maintain some form of orientation. The abrupt halting swings her to fall hard on her side, causing her to hiss in pain at the large bruise no doubt forming there.
“Some mangy mutt from the south. Was wandering by themself in the ashes of a village. Not fully Tornan, I can tell you that, so they’re completely disposable,” another man states, banging a fist on the crate. Lora shrinks back from the sound, wincing. In the small gap on the bottom of the box a sharp metallic glimmer shudders in the shadow. Scrap metal. Are they at a scrapyard? If she’s being transported to a Titan ship, she might be at a port of some sort. How far has she gone from the village?
Will Jin be able to find her?
Her breath starts coming quick, but Lora forces herself to hold in her inhales, elongating her exhales. She needs to get out. She can get out.
She’ll find a way back to Jin.
Quickly scrambling in the small space to grab the metal, Lora shoves it in the thick, now matting hair at the back of her head. Jin wouldn’t be pleased with how tangled it has gotten, but right now Lora needs to survive. The piece tapers to a point at one side, and is vaguely reminiscent of a screwdriver on the other, when Lora runs her hand over it. Score! She might be able to use this to escape. If this is a Titan ship, she may be able to sharpen it or shape it on the metal comprising the fuselage.
The box shudders again. “Let’s get this brat out and off to awaken some new Blades,” the Gormotti man states. “If they can’t, just kill them earlier than when we were going to.”
The crate shakes, the wood splintering and cracking as it’s pried off. Light flooding in an obdurate pour prompts her to act quickly. She scrambles to place her feet on the ground, crouching low, palms braced on the floor. In split seconds, Lora can see her captors peering down at her. She springs herself forward into the daylight, flinging limbs uncoordinated by fear, pouncing upon the man standing in front of the crate.
This is for Jin, you lowlife bastard , she thinks.
“ Great Architect! ” He screeches, Lora all thrashing limbs punching, scratching, and biting blunt nails as hard as she can into his skin. “ Get them off me! ” She sinks her teeth into his hand as he tries wrap his arms around her. He does successfully, but Lora wriggles and scratches and bites and flails.
There’s the sound of a Blade weapon being summoned, and suddenly Lora is being attacked with the blunt edge of a Chroma Katana, swiping her off the man, leaving her to thud on the ground. She breathes heavily, fighting through the fierce pain, scrambling to get up, but the sharp edge comes to rest at her throat.
“A feisty one aren’t we?” The other man states, with dark hair and dark eyes, goggles set on his forehead. A female Blade next to him holding the weapon stands stolid, impassive to Lora’s struggle.
“Master, I recommend getting them into a cell quickly,” the Blade says flatly. Narrowing her eyes, she sneers, “It seems this one has a lot of potential.”
Both the men inhale sharply, the Gormotti heaving, still recovering from Lora’s attack. “Botania, you mean-?”
Botania, the Blade, nods. “Maybe even two Blades.”
“More bang for your buck, eh mate?” The other man guffaws, procuring some rope from somewhere. “Alrighty kid, time to get you settled in. We’re quite gracious hosts, you’ll find.”
Lora herself sneers back at her captors, but internally her hopes are mounting. They don’t know she’s a girl, that’ll keep her safe. Best to not speak until necessary. She’s also valuable- whatever they said about her potential. With the advantage of the metal scrap she could possibly utilize it as a tool or even a shiv against them. She needs to stay calm, she can’t afford to panic. She needs to take in her surroundings. She needs to stay calm .
Rope is tied around her wrists behind her back, and she is hauled up roughly by her shoulders, scraping her knees on the uneven floor. Her heart beats frantically in her chest, swinging in undulating pulses along the inside of her ribcage. They might take her to a cell. Would it have vents? Metal bars? She can use her environment to her advantage. From what they speak about, they mean to use her to awaken Blades.
Lora’s blood runs cold.
It’s a tactic of gruesome, and notably illegal, Core Crystal traffickers when getting new Core Crystals smuggled straight out of Titans, avoiding the reach of Indol. They kidnap potential Drivers, awaken the Blades, and see what Blade forms. Then, they kill the Driver, knowing the package they’ll be selling. Usually they kidnap children, those who don’t know how to be proper Drivers. Those who don’t know how to fight back. Jin had a mercenary job tracking people like them down, his solemn expression smeared vengeful when he returned to Lora. Gort haunts him still. Lora hugged him with all her might that day, while Jin scribbled viciously in his journal, refusing to cry. Now she’s in the clutches of them, and Jin might not even know. But she knows more about her captors than they do her, she reassures herself. She can use that to her advantage. She has an edge. She can get out.
A blindfold is placed over her eyes, roughly tied at the back of her head. Lora freezes, hoping they won’t find the metal scrap in her hair.
One of the men then kick her harshly in the back of her calves, spurring her to move forward. “C’mon kiddo, let’s get going.”
Lora exhales. They still don’t know.
Good.
They lead her, kicking her feet, letting her stumble away, led by a strident grip on her forearm. She can hear the clacking steps of Botania echo behind her, the shifting of the weapon mounted at her hip, settled in her hands. The rumble of machinery vibrates in Lora’s ears, an intense humming filling the air. It’s most likely a Titan ship that she’s on- one in motion.
“Aris, lead them to their cell,” the Gormotti man announces suddenly, halting with Lora’s binding still in hand. He lets go, her first instinct flaring to flee, but she roots herself in her heels. That would get her nowhere. Lora has to play the long game. She has a cell, she can work with that.
Aris, the other man, takes hold of her hands, stringing her forwards with a rough grasp. “C’mon, boy, let’s get you home, eh?” He gargles a scruffy laugh, one that causes the Blade’s clicking footsteps to falter.
They amble along on uneven gaits, and before long, Lora’s hastily pushed into an open space, her blindfold harshly yanked from her head. A metal door’s closure resounds in a space which echoes further into a larger room. When Lora’s vision returns, she confirms her suspicion- she’s been shoved into a cell, metal bars enclosing her in the front, metal walls surrounding her on all other sides. There’s a vent hidden on the wall to her right, blending in with the metal about halfway up. She could scale the wall if she had her hands free.
Chuckling, Aris shouts, “Don’t get too comfy now, Gratt’s coming back for you soon.”
So Gratt must be the name of the guy with the Gormotti accent. Aris is the man with the Blade, Botania, it seems. They’ll be identifiable to authorities-
The same authorities Jin and her have been running from.
Who’s to say Jin won’t be caught, looking for her?
Anxiety thrums rampant through her veins, shuddering her muscles, squeezing her heart. Jin’s not caught. He can’t be. He won’t be.
Slumping down into herself, Lora spins her gaze across the room in listless circles. She can’t risk failing to escape. She might have to awaken another Blade, tie another life form into her very essence, to her own survival, unlocking great power but instating a timer. Instating a permanent relation. A permanent relationship.
Is that fair?
Is any of this fair?
Catching a sob blubbering through the staunch blockade of sterile senses, she forces it back down her throat, suppressing an onslaught of tears. When she awoke Jin, she didn’t know what she was doing. Now she does it in full knowledge of the faults of her humanity, those she inherits, those she harbors, those she makes. Horribly flawed, she binds some hopeful being of light to share her burden- a Blade- and leads them to death same as herself.
Why?
Why can’t they simply live?
She wants them to live. To be untethered to those futile and selfish desires of her kind, unencumbered by human flaws. They are better than them. Than this. Their worth is not a relationship. Their worth is inherent to their own personhood.
But is a personhood shared by a Blade and Driver?
She’s scared. Architect, she’s so scared .
Right now, she’s just a little Tornan girl, twisting clabbered deformities of her human nature in the endless spiral of her mind. Was Jin right in saying she’s a good Driver? It seems, right now, she doesn’t have a choice. She must abide by the whims of the nature of this world, no matter her qualms with it.
Gratt collects her after what seems like hours.
She hears the clicking of Botania’s footsteps first, then incessant blabbering from the other man about Aux Core prices.
Gratt hums an noncommittal sound, the noise rising in polluted poise, coming to stand at Lora’s cell. He crouches, “Alright, small fry, showtime.”
When they unlock the cell, the temptation to flee blares bright in the taut muscles of her legs, but Botania stands ever present with the threat of her Chroma Katana. Lora’s dead if she tries to run that way. There’s a possibility she can use the vents to escape- but what will she do if they’re just floating across the Cloud Sea, away from all Titans? She needs to incapacitate the three of them, or-
Or kill them.
Jin has killed people before.
There would be less people like them, less Drivers like them if she killed them, is what Lora steadies herself with. She’d be fifteen and a murderer. But she’d be alive.
Lora chooses to live.
It’s best to simplify herself out of this conundrum rather than rationalize. Her youth bends mirrors and warps glass in her internal reflection and inspection. Let her live, she breathes, and let this sin drown with the blood she gargles in between bruises courting death upon her throat.
The hallway is long and monotonously furnished, clearly a cargo ship with its rough and haggard appearance. Slashes decorate the walls in gouging indents, while burnished metal clads the floor. It doesn’t bode well to her survival. Aris grips her restraints in one hand while gesticulating with the other, animatedly spinning some exaggerated anecdote. Botania, for all her lacking charms, actually manages to look somewhat interested. Could she utilize a distraction to escape? Easily invested, her captors bend to concede to impulses. That may prove agreeable to her fleeing.
Lora notes that she isn’t blindfolded, which flares sour in her mounting hopes- her execution must be coming soon. She needs to make a plan and quick. Aris and Gratt then walk forward into a room, Botania acting guard, poised behind Lora.
Coughed in retching belches, out into grimy fuselage like bloody phlegm, Lora staggers out of the twisting metallic throat of the Titan ship’s hallway. Botania’s sharp blade is still cupping the small of her back. The Blade smirks, mirroring her Driver, as Aris sifts through a briefcase spilling with a lurid blue glow, the hue dancing in wavering curls around his fingers and upon the wilting table. With a crooked grin, he swipes a Core Crystal out of its dent of a pedestal in the case, eyeing it closely with a ruddy-veined sclera as he presents it to the room.
“Only the finest quality for you sir,” he taunts, sweeping his hand grandly towards Lora, his accent sharpening as he mocks her. “Gratt was lucky to find this supplier.” He inspects the Core Crystal with caustic contempt. “This one comes from the Tornan Titan herself.”
Gratt laughs, “Our supplier had some nerve to infiltrate Torna for Core Crystals, certainly. He got arrested by the Royal Guards three days ago.”
Hideous smile sharpening like disease hardens to death, he moves towards Botania, coming to the other side of Lora, palms resting on his dual daggers. Nodding to Botania, the Blade raises her Chroma Katana in response, slicing through Lora’s restraints. Hands freed, Lora looks up- never wincing, never faltering- keeping her chin high. Exposed plumbing, pipes, and beams run across the ceiling, a falling vent on the south side. She focuses on the ceiling, refusing to even grant her eyes to the men in front of her. Vents. The vent system connects here. How can she use it?
“They’ll be able to wake at least two Blades,” Botania states. “I sense lots of potential in them.”
“Could’ve been a soldier, or even a knight, if you grew up with this potential,” Aris drawls. “Too bad that’s not going to happen,” he pouts derisively, roughly capturing her raw wrists. “We’ll keep the kid until we can awaken another Blade tomorrow,” he says to his companions. He leans in close, face creeping into Lora’s curtailed poise. “Let’s see what this little boy can do.”
Lora narrows her eyes, staring him down.
The Core Crystal is forced into her hands, surreptitious winds sluicing the hairs on her arms in rippling, comforting patterns. It thrums with hushed life in her palms, and despite Lora’s stoic, daring veneer painted on her since her kidnapping, tears spring to her eyes. She thinks of Jin. She thinks of her mother, the pleated facsimiles of her with Lora’s memory bending to breathe a stuttered rush against her brow, an imprint of a cradling embrace replicated upon her palms.
“I’m sorry,” Lora whispers to her new Blade, bringing the Core Crystal to finally touch her forehead, chasing this limpid sanctity of a promise of a friend. The sculpted mien of its seared skin of geometric patterns is reassuringly warm, a placating assurance seemingly calling in sheer sheets of dusty breezes for her eyes to dry. In a futile, faint gesture, she ventures to cradle it with as much tenderness she can muster, closest to her chest, shirking the prying, avaricious eyes of her captors. “I will get us out of here.”
And the Core Crystal begins to levitate.
Whirling winds coalesce into an illuminated form colored with pure light, a blinding aura piercing the room with slashing air. Within the periphery of Lora’s cloying focus, she can see her captors wildly whipped astray, slamming against the walls. The room begins to shake, moaning grunts of the Titan founding the ship resounding among the churlish grate of the metal’s unsteady pleas. A wondrous cacophony of chanting gales cry within the tempest, Lora standing still in the cyclone, moist eyes wide and arms outstretched.
The light dissipates, scattering in motes flashing in a collective inhale of the winds, centering upon a figure clasping a beautiful Crosier. An older version of Lora stares back at her, hair long and lighter than Lora’s, face set in a kind smile. At seeing Lora’s bewildered yet deeply wounded face, the woman steps forward in flowing robes to reach out to her.
“Many monikers may be applied to me, but I am truly called Haze,” the Blade lilts. She tilts her head, analyzing Lora’s expression, before smiling kindly. “The wind and ether follow my every command, as I will follow yours.” She bows, but as she lowers her head, she catches the rope burns circling Lora’s wrists. She snaps upright.
Her expression flips to horror.
Lora snaps her gaze in a bleeding burst to assess her captors’ position, uncertain hope rooting in the keen whirl of her head across the room. Lingering in clobbered unconsciousness from Haze’s powerful winds, they renounce no actions, disavow no inhumanities done. She snaps the gaging sight she ensued back to her new Blade, flouting their outreaching threats by hurriedly approaching this unfamiliar figure that reminds her of dewy morning winds brushing the verdant underbrush.
“Haze.” The name is settling on her tongue like a fresh sacred incantation, an unusual blend of awe and fondness claiming the curl of the syllable.
“Haze.” She repeats again, reverent. Yet the hallowed divine presence lingering upon her hands and out into the open air rusts, dissipates, breaks into a ruined moment. Her wrists ache.
“Haze,” she chokes, croaking a plea.
Haze gracefully flows- yet as a river gushes overflowing, she flows in a merciless, drowning rush- towards Lora, fierce frantic disquietude burning in her eyes. It unnerves Lora more in her shaking queasiness, this selfless worry, this kinship charred clear in an unbreakable bond. Wandering, wandering thoughts, quick and razor-like slashes of overlapping rapid layers of words and phrases and thoughts inundate Lora’s mind in a brief, breathless moment.
Haze.
Haze needs to live.
“Haze,” Lora crests this pouring picture of a trough in the wave by gripping Haze’s arms, uncaring of the incessant pain pinging in her own wrists. The words then blurt in a blurry, fleetingly brisk pace. “We have to get out of here as soon as possible- the people here are Blade Traffickers , you have to-“ a heaved, panicked breath shatters her ramble, head tilted up to meet the other’s eyes. Finally, she softly calls in a childish plea, “Please, don’t suffer for me.”
Whirling her head around in the same nimble surge of motion as her winds once did, Haze blinks, assessing the situation. She catalogues the sparse Core Crystals gathered in a graveyard of muted birth on the table, the cut rope on the floor, the people with sharpened weapons lying by the walls. She rolls her gaze back to Lora, curling a hand over her Driver’s cheek, lingering fingers just above the skin speckled with bruises and scrapes.
“Please,” Lora wheezes.
And Haze finally speaks again. “Not without you,” she snaps, expression determined. Crosier vanishing, she dips to collect Lora in her arms, evading her wounds, “We can-“
Neither of them had noticed the blight of movement shuddering in shuffles in the corner of the room.
Botania readies her blade with shaking hands.
A Chroma Katana flies in the air to intercept Haze’s side.
Lora rips Haze away from its trajectory with crushing, grasping hands, seizing the sharp edge with her palm. Shrieking with pain, she molds the blade into a cultivated fall with both hands, face distorted with uncensored agony, gripping the Chroma Katana to yank it out of the Blade’s hands.
She succeeds.
Motivating a shallow throw, she stiltingly puppeteers the weapon into the hallway behind them. It clangs ceremoniously in an empty sound. Laboring in evanescent energy, Lora fights to force her aching body to swirl into a low kick, sweeping her opponent’s feet out from under her. Botania topples, tumbling on her back, head bouncing grimly as she hits the floor. Gushing from the deep gouges buried in Lora’s palms, blood rushes down the lengths of her arms in steady streams, staining her dirty sleeves. Haze’s gasp pierces the languor, and horrified she reaches a bursting a wave of wind to grab Lora to escape.
Lora twists out of the coughing tempest, riding the pulse of wind to curl around Haze, bearing her elbows up to catch dual daggers prepared to dive into her torso. Ripped from her throat, a strangled wail breaks the air. Trembling, she stays still, taking the bending pressure Gratt spends, falteringly standing her ground. Her opponent retracts his weapons, sliding out of her skin with a slick sound singing of split flesh, readying to strike again in the flit of an eye elsewhere- to Haze- and Lora catches this, Lora will reiterate again and again, she will not let them hurt her Blade. Lora screams a raucous blur, ramming her side into his chest, throwing the entirety of her body weight into him in a hopeful attempt to topple or distract.
He stumbles, but doesn’t fall.
Instead, he seizes the situation, roughly puppeteering her limbs around with grasping hands, twisting her raw, blistered wrists behind her back, raising a dagger wet with her blood to rest at her throat.
“Not so tough now, eh little guy?” Gratt heaves breaths blended with indignant exertion, taking his time to jeer while his strength slips.
She tries, Architect, Lora tries so hard to not cry, but everything is crumbling down, chunks of hope for a new life crashing like meteorites, burning their craters in the gouges and bruises buried in her skin. Haze . Another person to love. Another face to smile when she collects insects by the shore. Another face to be adorned with flower crowns and charms and handmade gifts. Another face to share Jin’s burden of her, to share camaraderie with. Another face forgotten and revitalized blank and bare when Lora dies here .
She sobs openly now, thrashing in his hands, before this realization collides with her mind, granting her one more gulp of breath before forfeiting and sagging down, limp.
Gratt’s eyes flick up to Haze. “Don’t try anything,” he growls, “or the kid gets it.” He jolts his knife closer to Lora’s neck, drawing a bead of blood.
Tilting her eyes upwards, Lora tries to apologize to Haze with another resigned smile saturated with all the love she can’t give, but Haze’s expression is closed off. It’s steely, the determination Lora once saw now hidden in a faux complacency. Haze puts down her Crosier slowly from where she’d been holding off Aris, as Botania groans behind her and he scrambles upright to seize her, yanking her to him via her long hair.
“Oh, spent are we?” Gratt taunts, an intense, strident anger roaring in his voice. “Little bastard. Aris, throw the Blade in the cell. I’ll deal with our feisty Driver over here.”
Ice slithers through her bloodstream.
Letting go of her wrists, he steps over her as she collapses to the ground. Lora whines weakly, blood burbling fervently from her wounds and gurgling phlegm blocking her throat. She hits the floor with her knees, twisting to land on her side, cradling her sliced forearms and hands into her chest. However, as soon as she situates a trembling arm tucked into her stomach, Gratt buries a foot in her torso. Lora coughs a mutilated cry, gargling with the slime of congested tears.
Haze snaps away from Botania, pure terror consuming her features, but a Chroma Katana forces her back into Aris’ grip harshly. She stumbles, righteous fury razoring between blinks and breaths, but she doesn’t struggle. It seems she knows not to escalate the situation, actively choosing to abide by the demands of their captors. It seems she has a plan. It gives Lora a sliver of hope as she’s smothered by austere dread.
“Got enough, eh? Let’s see if you even survive the night, brat,” he spits back at Lora. He jerks his head to the hallway. “Drag ‘em to the cell, we can throw both of them in there.”
“But-“
“What’s the kid gonna do? Break out? As if. And,” softer, he adds, “we need to know what the next Blade will be, it’s part of the deal. We already have the kid, and Drivers for non-Indol Blades are extremely rare. We got lucky.”
Minutely, Haze’s eyes brighten at the information- Lora can see her head through her own lidded eyes attuned to the movements of Botania’s Chroma Katana, aware of all threats and savoring the view of her surroundings. Haze jerks her chin up to feign a gasp, instead looking at the ceiling. Her eyes linger on the vents. Aris leads Haze into the hall, his Blade’s weapon poised to strike at any moment.
“You, pipsqueak, got some fight in you, huh?” Gratt sneers.
Lora doesn’t respond.
Taking her silence as an act of defiance, he harshly grasps her forearm, dragging her after Aris, letting the rest of her body limply hang and scrape on the rough metal of the floor. Weakly struggling, Lora finds no remnants of strength within herself, face contorted in pain, letting herself be worn down bleeding until her arrival at the cell. What Lora does find within herself is a new, weak hope, finding distinct memorization of the path they take, counting the turns and committing the walls to memory. Where are the vents? Where are screws? Where might the exit be? Haze was strategic in her capture. Maybe Lora can be, too, even in this state.
Gratt halts. They must have come before the cell.
“Good riddance.”
And the metal bars clang their hazardous indifference.
The cellblock spits its threat of grime when Lora is thrown to the ground, splicing indents of metal rivets into the coagulating wells of blood sparsely spurting from her hands and forearms. Efforts exhausted, she resigns to merely remain in her twisted form cradling her arms to her chest, edge of her forehead flush on the floor. Knees are scraped and settled close her chest as well, better to protect her from any more kicks to her aching torso. The grasping splits of sinew cording muscle through her arms and legs concede to the enviable omniscience of gravity, causing Lora to be splayed in a tangled haunt of limbs, a child bearing the bloody footprints of her staunch support of protecting. She gasps in shuddering sobs, yet tears do not come. It’s just air and breath jolting harshly through her lungs, spasming with the sharp fear that resides in her diaphragm.
In her floating daze, the sound of a sharp gasp warbles through in undulating pulsations of sound. Reacting on instinct, Lora scrambles in her misery, peeking a pained eye through shaggy red hair, placing herself in a mustered protective posture. She sees an echo of her face, older and wiser and sullenly saccharine, pulling together an expression by the swipe of her eyebrows to furrowed concern. Lora always hated her golden eyes, but Haze makes them look beautiful.
Gently lowering herself down, Haze greets Lora with an adoring yet grim look, the shifting of her robes and pants ricocheting a rough susurrus of fabrics through the cell. It reminds Lora of walking through the weaver and tailor’s stalls when in town with Jin, wandering in between textiles and hearing them swish an orchestral chorus as she hid from him. Haze smells of wildflowers swept with wind, with the scented flavor of breezy weather, and Lora exercises her splintered control to stagger into her lap. Dread swimming in her stomach is tamped down and curtailed by the soft touch of Haze’s tunic. Lora finds she wants to play with the tassels sewn onto it, another mirror to her own clothing, but her hands screech and resound a scatter of pain, halting any movement.
When Haze speaks it’s low, soft, and comforting. “I never got your name, my Driver.”
“…Lora.” She replies, letting Haze slowly and gently untangle the knots in her hair as she lays upon her lap. “I’m sorry, Haze,” she says, voice a hoarse rasp. “I tried. I tried to protect you. And now… now I’m going to die, and you’re going to go to the highest bidder, and Jin -“
“My lady,” Haze offers, “you’re not going to die here, not if I can help it. Give me your hands.”
Obliging, Lora drags her stilted movement to give Haze the broken forms of her hands. “…Why did you call me ‘my lady’?”
“You’re too noble to do without a title,” she responds with a lilt, taking Lora’s hands into her own. A soft green glow begins to emit from her hands, ensconcing Lora’s in a repleting embrace of verdant light.
“You’re a healer?” Lora chokes out.
“And we’re going to get out of here,” Haze says earnestly, gazing deep and pointedly into Lora’s eyes. “Together.”
“I don’t want you to suffer,” Lora admits pitifully, ugly strands of tears and snot running down her face, voicing a pathetic and paltry attempt at a concession. “I don’t want you to be torn out of this life.”
“Neither do I want your suffering, my lady.” Her gaze catches upon Lora’s wrists, “I’m sorry you’ve already been hurt so much because of me.”
Scrambling upwards, Lora jerks a fierce, “No! No, it’s not your fault, how could it even be your fault? It’s theirs, and blaming ourselves merely perpetuates their power.”
Haze smiles gently. “You’re very wise.”
A surprised, frail laugh gargles out of Lora’s chest. She whispers, voice hoarse, “I suppose so.” She takes a breath, lingering in the bruised sensation of her lungs expanding. “We’re not going to die here,” she says, but it’s phrased with a cadence of a question. “Haze?”
“Haven’t we already established that?” She smiles. Her face shifts, hardens, as her eyes linger on Lora’s injuries. “I suppose now’s the time we discuss strategies. Time is of the essence.” She continues focusing her healing along the gouges embedded in Lora’s hands as well as the slices spent in her forearms while talking evenly. “I have no memory to harvest history from, but I noticed the vents in the main room. The wind currents I can sense create a system in this ship, one which this cell is connected to. We can sneak out through their utilization, I should think.”
Lora smiles weakly. “We have a chance.”
Haze mirrors her smile, yet with a sweetly sardonic quirk, “Must I repeat myself again?”
Laughing a delicate laugh, Lora curls her body further into Haze, the latter once delighting at her joy, then wincing as her laugh wilts into retches and wet coughs.
“I- I have another Blade,” Lora blurts. “His name is Jin. He’s been raising me in Torna these last five years, and- and I need to get back to him.”
Eyebrows raised in surprise, Haze murmurs, “Torna? You’re from Torna?”
“ We’re from Torna. All three of us. Me, you, and him. I know I’m young to be a Driver-“
“But that doesn’t make you any less of one,” Haze affirms.
Lora moves a hand experimentally, colliding a pinky softly with Haze’s inner wrist. “You sound just like him.”
“Then he proves to be very agreeable.” The dazing green of recovering light ebbs, slighting away upon the hale sheen of healthy skin.
Marveling at her hands, Lora tips her shoulder further into Haze, attempting to gather a semblance of balance to properly inspect the healed wound. Haze grunts as an elbow is jutted into her side, “Lady Lora, let’s not get this ambitious-“ she wheezes.
“Sorry,” Lora croaks, swiping at the smooth skin of her palm. All the nicks of finicky knives and bloody gouges from crashing blades have vanished, scars melted away to a radiantly new pallor. Her wrists, in addition, have melded the rough, flaking, mulchy mess of skin into a clean surface. Scars and wounds on her forearms that could have lasted a lifetime have disappeared in an afterglow emitted hesitantly in the shine of her repaired skin.
A tug at her hair startles Lora out of her awed reverie, causing her to yelp and swing around to weakly glare at Haze, levity pressing through her dread, hope recovering into ascertained joviality. “What’d you do that for?”
When she was younger, and her hair was longer, Jin was adamant in its care. However, Lora hated the painful tugs and pulls that ensued from it, and came home to him one day with a head of hair sheared short by her own hands and a rusty pair of scissors. It somewhat mimicked Jin’s, with stray pieces flitting this way and that, strands chaotic yet cohesive. Lora likes it short. It’s easier, as her hair is too thick.
Holding the scrap metal that once hid in Lora’s hair, Haze examines it with a keen eye, flicking about her gaze to the vent situated halfway up the western wall. “This certainly helps. Where did you manage to get this, my lady?”
“There was a scrapyard at the port where my cage was being transported,” Haze’s curious expression sours at the word ‘cage’. Lora continues, “I smuggled it through a hole at the bottom, and my hair was too matted for those thick-headed bastards to notice.”
“Good job,” she smiles, ruffling Lora’s hair. Dust and debris float down, disturbed from their resting place, showering Lora’s face. Petulantly, she coughs, sending the floating particles flying. Haze retracts with a wince of distaste. “When we get out of here, you need to take a bath.”
“I’m covered in blood and grime, I kind of assumed.”
“Point taken.” Somehow, in such a dour and dire situation, they manage to share a laugh and a smile.
Efforts unexhausted, Lora finds the ebullient flow of Haze’s determination warming in her chest, steadying her restless shifting of limbs, helping strengthen the spread of her arms upon the floor. She clutches Haze’s shoulders as the latter guides her way to her feet, slipping strong hands supporting her cultivated rise up. Body aching vehemently, Lora bends her torso to abide by a crumpling pain, but then bites her lip and straightens.
“Lady Lora, you’re still heavily injured,” Haze worries, navigating Lora to lean upon her, but Lora shakes her off with a jolt.
“I feel much better already.” Lora lays her hand out in a silent bid for the scrap metal. “I can climb to the vent, I just need you to tell me where to go to get you out.” Courage flares fierce in her eyes, an unwavering resolve mirrored in both Driver and Blade.
Conceding, Haze lets her hands fall, instead shifting her focus onto Lora’s outstretched one. She places the key to their escape in her palm without much fanfare, just an easy transference of weight and pressure levied as comfort. Lora flips it, handling it as she would a screwdriver, limping over to the vent.
A solemn understanding dawns on Haze’s face as she analyzes Lora’s expediency, a knowing of their precarious and dangerous situation as it relates to time. “Let me help you,” is what she decides upon, however, as an offering. “You needn’t do this alone.”
“I can’t do this alone,” Lora corrects, situating a wobbly smile on her own face. “Where do these lead? Let’s assume the largest place is the storage faculties, where we were when I awakened you. It was two rights and a left from there to get to the cell, and the distance between the turns felt even.”
Haze closes her eyes, sending an experimental burst of wind through the vent. “It would be… following straight, the first right turn, then- then miss a turn and take the next… two lefts? The winds are hard to follow, this might just be an approximation.”
Blazoned on Lora’s face is adoration and hope when Haze opens her eyes. Lora shakes her head, shifting her expression with a straightening of her lip, then stating a simple, “Thank you, Haze.”
The screws of the vent are quickly removed, Haze lending a helping hand to allow Lora’s injured body to scramble into the open cavity of the system. In the small space, Lora can feel along every surface the extent of her bruises, the scrapes on her knees exacerbated by the friction of crawling, the only respite being in her arms and hands. Dutifully following the directions provided by Haze, another stroke of luck is had when she discovers the vent into the open storage bay is rusty, brittle, and luckiest of all, falling off already. Articulating her limbs carefully while withholding various exclamations of intense pain, Lora manages to make a controlled fall from the vent, only making minimal sound. She winces at each thud, each shuffle of her clothes, shoes, movements.
Distantly, she hears arguing.
“You said you weren’t seen!” A harsh accented voice shouts a bitter shudder of words, ricocheting them through the hallway and into Lora’s ears in an intense sputtering. Tensing, she carefully presses feet into steps, silently pulling tendons to mend a scatter of movement quiet and quick.
“I wasn’t,” the other man whines, slipping a sanguine flavor discreetly into his words, “and if I was, it had to have been someone interested in our wares. No immediate action was taken.”
Two rights and a left, Lora repeats in her mind, counting her paces, grimacing at the pain blaring in her body.
“What do you mean?” A flare of a timbre breaking bemusedly resounds, the Gormotti man holding his syllables tight.
Two rights and a left.
“We took off legally, just with dubious cargo. The only other people who know our port are in on this . Thus, if I was seen, it had to have been a potential buyer. Our names are in the right circles.”
One right and a left.
“That Blade, Haze- Botania says she’s the most powerful Blade she’s encountered.”
One left.
“You felt what I felt. Botania couldn’t even lay a finger on her during the awakening. None of us could.”
The hallway stretches. One. Left.
“Their resonance was strong. Do you think-“
Their voices muffle from the distance as Lora swipes her torso in an acute ache across the boundary of a doorway. The hazardous indifference of the bars respond in muted glares at her, but through them, Haze’s face alights in hope, flowing to the front of the cell.
Her face falls. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to lock-pick, my lady.”
“Good thing Jin taught me, then,” Lora shares the words in a concealed reassurance bordering on a jest. With the tapered, sturdy, yet thin edge of the scrap metal, Lora starts lifting the assortment of pins to the correct level within the lock. Jin is horrible at lock-picking, but learned from fellow mercenaries, and passed the skill down to her. She quickly exceeded him, yet he always reminded her to not go crazy with the illegality. Ironic, she would tell him.
The cell door clicks open. In an inundating pour, Haze rushes out in a flow of robes akin to a torrential rain, catching Lora’s hand and slipping outside the doorway.
“I’m proud of you, Lady Lora,” she whispers, giving her hand a squeeze. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I second those statements,” Lora wheezes. Her injuries are starting to catch up to her, curling her spine and pulling her gait uneven. Haze notices this, brows furrowed in concern while her expression sternly remains determined. Nodding, she then blows out her winds, lithe and spry enough to not whirl the air in a noticeable rush of noise. Eyes closed, she assesses what she senses, placing every keen feeling fretting upon their exits.
Her eyes fly open. “Here,” she murmurs, and she pulls Lora along in a fervent flurry of silent movement, gliding along the surreptitious winds sluicing upon the fuselage. Lora staggers along, attempting to keep up.
“The Titan has docked.” Haze snaps her gaze to Lora. “I… I’ve guided it to take us back to Torna.”
“If you can control ether…” Lora trails off, thinking.
Haze nods. “Never mind that. I need to get you out of here.”
She pushes the door open.
Lora’s body is tense with anticipation, swinging a fearful and expectant gaze about, inspecting the gaping maw of the doorway as if it will throw her captors insidious and pious back to her. Haze clasps her hand, leading her out into the deck.
“Let’s go, my lady.” Her voice is stern, but its undercurrent carries deep concern.
Lora staggers backwards, onto the port deck. With a flash of her Crosier, Haze shines a radiant pulsation of ether warbling into the air, spurring the Titan comprising the ship to groan and withdraw.
They watch as it leaves.