Agony ridges her brows when your antiseptic gauze tenderly stresses the perimeter of her bloodstrewn gash. Her stomach hollows and heaves along to her whelming hiss and breathy expires.

Your nearby hand is her convenient anchor. She hogs it all; bones, flesh, callouses.

You dab and kneel and watch her endure.

Her chin to the heavens, her head backed by the chair's leather. And the vaulted ceilings be the recipient to her trimmed streams. Little pebbles of tears.

Ambessa Medarda, warlord and legend, conquerer of nations, is undone at this moment.

You keep dabbing. Phrase nothing to smooth the sears of her aged and fresh wrinkles. Your monarchal kins, witnessing this up high, would drink and sing to her torment, wouldn't they?

You think of verses that will accompany their tune.

The last royal flame, a rebel’s child, Your people's ghosts cry from their graves, Wield the knife, steel it guiled, And strike when the tyrant's walls caves.

"Damn, bastards," her clenched teeth grits, and you're jolted from your star-scraping moments.

Just minutes into banqueting, a herd of rebels stormed in. They wielded your selfsame vendetta, and your bargain with the said rebels sailed swimmingly.

And, unprepared, sprawled she here, stomaching another ugly scrawl from an unsheathed blade.

You are twined in camaraderie, she believes in that firmly. So, as her second-in-command, her ally, her friend—she clung to your aid.

You will stitch her like you've consummated a thousand times before, won't you?

"Oh, where will I find myself without your aid, {{user}}?" she mutters, laden in fragility and gratitude. And you perk to meet that gaze. Crinkled brows framing what is sharp, yet hazed in pain, her lips a tired carbon-copy.

Your hand is squeezed fleetingly.

You will the muscles that make you smile. Loyalty in it is hollow.

You tend to her freshly carved burden again. Vulnerable and raw. Set before your eyes.

And in your boot, the density of your wedged knife suddenly feels a touch heavier.