Chapter Text
Weeks later, what felt like months, not in all the skirmishes and engagements did Malte encounter Sartauvoir again. Not even when the Castrum fell and the Legion buckled to heavy losses and was forced to retreat north to the barren plateaus of Zadnor, employing ever more horrific measures in their desperation. But he knew he would see the other mage one last time – in the short time he’d known him he knew that the older man wasn’t one to make idle promises, and Sartauvoir had left with the parting words that he hadn’t seen the last of him.
“Aha, so it was you who thought to sneak inside. Well, this suits me just fine.”
And so he showed, at the last fight for the IVth when the Resistance broke through the defenses of the Legion’s last hope, their flagship Dalriada. Accompanied by a small force of Resistance soldiers, Malte encountered him, alone, blocking the path that led deeper into the ship where the Legion’s command would be. The Sartauvoir blocking the path in Dalriada was different than the one that had blocked the path to Castrum Lacus Litore – the centurion had the look of a man who knew that the Legion he’d fought for had lost, that there was little he could do to change that reality except to delay the inevitable. The mage barely reacted when the ship’s alarms blared through its halls and the ground shook from the Resistance’s main force led a diversionary attack outside.
Malte raised his staff at the lone centurion outnumbered eight to one. “Step aside and surrender, Sartauvoir.”
“I’m afraid I cannot sully his memory by giving up now.”
“You know you can’t win!”
“If this is where I must die, I will not do so alone. Basch! I pray you are watching.”
It was barely a fair fight. Though Sartauvoir made an admirable effort, it didn’t take long for him to be completely overwhelmed by the forces that outnumbered him. The gunbreakers rushed the mage, shielding the others while forcing Sartauvoir on the defensive. The way he was pushed back so easily – it didn’t feel like they were up against the infamous Inferno at all.
Malte watched as a hrothgar ran forward, gunblade held high and ready to bring it down on Sartauvoir for a decisive finishing blow. Held his breath when he saw Sartauvoir throw his arms forward, palms glowing with fire before they exploded, sending the soldier careening back away from him. Squinted, when he realized that Sartauvoir’s attacks were but a fraction of what he’d demonstrated he was capable of during their duel.
And then Malte raised his staff, focusing on the aether that had dispersed from Sartauvoir’s spell and made it his, landing a powerful counterattack spell that sent the centurion slamming against the opposite wall. It had worked, just as the other man had suggested when they had been stuck in each other’s company weeks ago. He looked at Sartauvoir, all too easily defeated, crumpled on the floor and without even the smoldering embers left of the fire of spirited mettle he’d had before.
“No, wait.”
Malte held an arm out, barring one of the gunbreakers with him from finishing the job. He recognized the hrothgar as the same one leading the scouting party that had found him and Sartauvoir on the Southern Front. He met the quizzical expression of the hrothgar with as steady a gaze as he could.
“Go on ahead,” he said, then nodded to the corridor past Sartauvoir that led deeper into the Dalriada. The explosions that shook the ship became louder, as did the shouts of soldiers – the rest of the Resistance’s forces must have broken through. “I’ll take care of this.”
There was a fraught pause as the squadron accompanying him looked uneasily between him, the mage breathing unevenly on the floor, and the path leading further into the ship. Then, eventually, the soldiers nodded and continued onward, leaving Malte alone once again with the Imperial mage. He waited another moment more until he was sure that the soldiers who had come with him were well out of earshot, and then turned to the centurion on the ground. He let out a long, quiet sigh barely audible amidst the alarms continuing to blare through the ship, and then walked slowly towards him, his boots clicking against the hard metal floor of the ship. Sartauvoir laughed softly as he approached.
“You took my advice about fighting mages, I see,” the centurion rasped through rattled, labored breaths. “It’s good to listen to your elders.”
Boots stopped a foot away from Sartauvoir. The older man’s fingers had some burns where Malte’s spell had connected, and the red of his coat had patches even darker with blood from wounds underneath. “You held back.”
“I wouldn’t insult you or Basch by doing such a thing.”
“Sartauvoir the Inferno, infamous for burning enemies alive, leaving no survivors?” Malte knelt next to him so they were eye to eye. “You spared everyone who came with me.”
Sartauvoir kept his head turned, avoiding the hyur’s pointed gaze that searched for meaning to his actions. It was true, it wasn’t like his usual fights where he left none unscathed. More unusual still that not a single soldier standing against him had suffered grievous injuries; all had walked away to continue the fight for Dalriada. “Perhaps I would have won if I’d focused on raw power than spell speed.” He laughed again, adding just under his breath, “You see, I was right spell speed is inferior.”
The frown on Malte’s face deepened as the other man laughed quietly to himself between fits of rattled breaths. Creases lined between his brows and his chin angled down, heavy from complicated emotions. He’d told his squadron that he would take care of this, and no doubt they assumed he would have Sartauvoir answer to the crimes he’d committed as a ranking officer of the Imperial Legion, but –
“Go on now.”
Sartauvoir interrupted his mess of thoughts with a permission to go. To leave him there to die, either slowly from his wounds, or from whatever dangers the besieged airship posed with its increasing number of failing systems. Both of them only knew too well that Malte would not be the one to deal the finishing blow – all the times he’d had that chance he’d never once taken it.
A difficult expression on his face was all crease lines and furrows when Malte reached into his pockets and pulled out a red feather – a phoenix down he’d saved for himself, in case things took a turn for the worse during the siege. He pressed it against Sartauvoir’s hands.
“Live.”
Two times the treachery, one that would have others question his allegiance and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to do otherwise. The older man chuckled quietly, repeating words he’d said once before but this time without contempt. “Aye, you’re a fool…”
As Malte stood to leave, the soft thud of Sartauvoir’s wounded arm dropping against the floor as he reached in his direction and his rattling voice stopped him.
“Wait. The Allagan weapon.”
A black hat tilted in Sartauvoir’s direction.
“Destroy it. No one was meant to wield such a thing.”
A few seconds passed. Then, with a final nod Malte disappeared after where his squadron had gone, leaving Sartauvoir alone on the floor with the single plume of phoenix down to use as he saw fit.
The ship shook, explosions thundering in the distance. The smell of cinder and heated cabling and metal lay thick in the air, and Sartauvoir was wracked with a wet cough he’d managed to hold back while in the younger mage’s presence. Blood speckled the ground.
The IVth Legion had lost. The hyur had been right – he’d already known when he’d intercepted the small squadron sneaking onto the ship. No, he’d known even before then, when Castrum Lacus Litore had fallen and the legion had been forced to retreat to Zadnor. The legion still had its soldiers, but whatever semblance of honor and humanity they might have had when Basch had gathered them together had all but dissipated when they’d been pressed, backs against the wall and pretending they still had two legs to stand on. Desperate to win, Sicinius had been given free reign to further perfect his sick experiments on Dabog; Gilbrisbert, who had been kept mostly reigned in while Albeleo was still alive, ran unchecked with his Zealots, transforming and warping them under his control as Lucavi.
And no one stopped to ask if they’d strayed too far from the path. To establish a new independent nation, unified and equal for all - a nation where all individuals were to be treated with compassion; Basch’s ideals that had so moved many of the IVth to take up arms and join the IVth – those ideals had been lost, and with it the legion.
He ran his thumb weakly through the fiery plume the Resistance’s mage had left him with. It was warm to the touch like a soft, gentle ember, promising a second chance if he wished to take it.
A troublesome thing, to give me this choice. He could have just left him to bleed out and die and it would have all been easier for it for everyone involved.
Another cough, and he slumped onto his elbows.
Truth be told, he’d almost let the flames consume him during the fight. Burn out like a phoenix, brilliant and terrible, offering his own life to the ashes and take everyone else there with him. For what remained to live for, when the very legion he’d staked everything, everything on… was gone?
Fingers wrapped tightly around the feather, and hands shook as those thoughts pressed heavy in his heart.
He would have died. He could have died. And he would have been okay with that.
...
Except he wouldn’t have.
For you, Sartauvoir. For us. We’ll see a better tomorrow, independent and free from the shadow of the Empire together.
Basch took to the grave before he could see that dream. If he followed him here, who would be left to carry on and see it through? No, Basch wouldn’t have wanted him to throw his life away here.
Water dripped from his chin to the feather clutched to his chest, its plumes warm in his hands. The lone centurion lay there, propped against the wall, shoulders shaking with emotion.
“Forgive me, Basch…”
They’d done it. It was over. The IVth Legion was no more, the Allagan weapon destroyed, and Bozja was free. There was joyous celebration back at the Resistance camps, though Malte politely declined joining the festivities for some much needed rest. It wouldn’t be long until he would be called again to fight, what with the Telophoroi scheming to bring ruin to the world, but for now he could afford to breathe knowing that Bozja was in good hands with Bajsaljen and that he was no longer needed for their fight.
“Did anyone see any sign of Sartauvoir in the wreckage of the Dalriada?”
“No sir, though we are still going through the rubble for any survivors.”
There had been no sign of Sartauvoir after the raid on Dalriada. Lyon, too, remained missing, no body to be found in the wreckage yet.
Malte lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his tent while rest eluded him despite him trying. Sartauvoir had survived. He wasn’t sure, of course, but he just had a feeling. Sartauvoir – a man who’d joined the Imperial Legion with a misguided belief that it was the answer to free the lands it had subjugated; what would he do now, and where would he go now that everything he had gambled on had crumbled to dust?
If we ever cross paths again, may it not be as enemies.