Woven in Time
Soldiers stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together, breath steaming into white plumes as they waited for the morning drills to begin.
Vivian stood among them, bundled tighter than most in heavy wool, her practice sword resting against her shoulder like an unfamiliar, heavy burden. She shivered once, a brief tremor, then squared her shoulders with a defiant gesture, as though daring anyone to notice her frailty.
"Your grip is still wrong," Gessa said sharply, striding past her on the slick ground.
Vivian's lips curved into a small, tired smile. "It's warmer if I hold it this way, Gessa."
"This isn't about warmth." Gessa turned back, her impatience warring with a strange, burgeoning compulsion to instruct. She took Vivian's wrists in her calloused hands and adjusted them again—her touch firm yet surprisingly gentle despite her tone. "Here. Balance it this way. Always balance."
The contact lingered a moment too long, a shared point of heat in the cold air. Vivian's pulse quickened, though she kept her expression composed.
From the fence, Lyra, ever the observant, hopped down with her stick, eyes twinkling with childish certainty. "She means she cares."
Both women froze, startled by the unexpected truth of the simple statement.
"Brat," Gessa muttered, releasing Vivian's hands too quickly and stepping back as if burned.
Vivian bent to pat Lyra's head, her eyes flicking back to Gessa. "Perhaps she does."
After drills and the noon meal, Vivian often retreated to the sanctuary of the dusty regimental library. She found comfort among the stacks of scrolls and large campaign maps, candlelight flickering over her furiously scribbled notes. She was translating battlefield movements into patterns and strategies, applying the scholar's method to the warrior's art.
One evening, as rain pattered ceaselessly against the tall windows, she looked up to find Gessa leaning in the doorway, framed by the shadows.
"You'll ruin your eyes," Gessa said, her voice rough.
"You'll ruin your temper, standing there glowering," Vivian replied, amused by the warrior's awkward attempt at concern.
Gessa snorted, crossed the room with two long strides, and dragged out a heavy chair, sitting opposite the scholar. "Fine. Show me what you're scribbling. Boredom is ruining my temper faster than rain."
Vivian traced the course of old rivers on a large, leather-bound map, speaking of ancient trade routes, military choke points, and long-forgotten battles.
"What's this one?" Gessa asked, pointing a blunt finger at a faded icon.
"A battle with Estoria long before the peace treaty was ever made," Vivian explained, her voice gaining the familiar speed of a woman reciting a beloved text. "They wanted to seize Oakhart, and they almost did. At that time, they even had dragons by their side."
Gessa's eyes showed a flash of pure, unadulterated interest, the kind of curiosity a warrior reserves for a truly worthy foe. "Really? What kind?"
This display of genuine awe made Vivian smile. "Two thunder dragons. Legendary creatures."
"I really want to see a dragon," Gessa said wistfully, leaning back in her chair.
"I think there are dragons in Avalon," Vivian suggested.
"No one can enter Avalon," Gessa sighed, the dream quickly fading. "Anyway, what happened in the battle?"
"Well, Oakhart people are known to be great fighters, masters of weapons. One man in particular that time was General Arkem. With his exceptional strategy, they managed to kill the dragons. He secured and protected the Kingdom of Oakhart."
Vivian leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, beginning the tale:
"The dragons, twin siblings named Zorn and Storme, did not breathe fire—they summoned the very sky. Their wings, black as a winter storm, created hurricane winds, and the sound of their roar was a deafening crackle of electricity. The Estorian army knew they could simply wait for the dragons to shatter Oakhart's walls with lightning."
"But General Arkem, a master of strategy, did not meet them on the ramparts. He led his elite knights to the northern ridges, armed not with swords, but with thick, non-conductive rope and specialized, blunted steel harpoons. He knew they couldn't cut the dragons, but they could bind them to the earth."
"The fight was less a battle and more a chaotic storm. Zorn, the elder, dove first, a bolt of blinding lightning striking the stone just behind Arkem. But as the dragon rose for a second pass, Arkem's corps simultaneously fired their harpoons. They didn't pierce the hide, Gessa, they simply lodged in the surrounding rock, the attached ropes trailing."
"Arkem's true genius was revealed when they cornered Storme. They had dragged massive, weighted bronze shields onto the ridge. As Storme unleashed a massive electrical blast, it harmlessly struck the shields. The General then yelled a command: 'Net the lightning!'"
> "His men used the ropes to toss thick, chain-linked nets—meant for siege engines—over Storme's head. The ropes, wet from the rain and wind, conducted the lightning that constantly played off the dragon's scales. The sheer force of its own raw power, redirected and contained, convulsed the beast. It broke its own neck trying to escape the electric cage. The loss of its sibling, Zorn, was enough to break the Estorian line. Arkem's strategy wasn't about strength; it was about leverage and prediction."
Vivian finished the story, her voice carrying quiet, absolute certainty. Gessa was silent for a long moment, leaning closer, her mind already dissecting the logistics of the harpoon strike and the positioning of the bronze shields. She challenged every word, arguing fiercely about tactical failures and defensive formations—yet she listened more intently than she ever admitted.
Lyra sat nestled on a stool between them, a woolen blanket draped over her shoulders, her eyes heavy with fatigue but still wide with attention. The way the two women bent toward one another, the low, intense hum of their voices, the mixture of steel and scholarship—it was as though the very air in the cold library had changed, thickening with their shared intellectual energy.
One morning, the frost still thick and unforgiving, Vivian coughed violently into her sleeve, a deep, rattling sound.
"Stay in," Gessa ordered flatly, planting herself in front of the scholar.
"If I rest every time I cough, I'll never stand again," Vivian replied, pushing past the concern and the obstacle. She walked on, slower than the others, but her pace was steady.
When her step faltered moments later on a patch of slick, unseen ice, Gessa caught her arm instantly. Her hand lingered, firm and warm at Vivian's elbow, guiding her balance.
"Reckless," she muttered, softer this time, the phrase having lost its bite and become a term of exasperated endearment.
Vivian met her eyes briefly. Something unspoken flickered there—acknowledgment, gratitude, a profound warmth that startled them both with its sudden clarity.
"See?" Lyra piped up, skipping between them, swinging her stick like a metronome. "You like each other now."
Two pairs of eyes—one fiery, one composed—snapped toward the little girl.
"She's imagining things," Vivian said quickly, pulling her arm away.
"Definitely," Gessa added, folding her arms tight across her chest.
But their gazes met again, just for a heartbeat, and neither spoke a word to deny the charge, confirming Lyra's observation in their silence.
The rest of the soldiers began to notice the profound change as well.
When Vivian collapsed during a grueling set of endurance drills, sweat streaking her pale face and turning the mud to paste, Gessa barked for water. Not a sound of mockery this time, but genuine, urgent command.
"She's worth ten of you weaklings!" Gessa snapped when a bewildered squire hesitated with the canteen.
Vivian, sipping the water, arched a wry brow. "Ten?"
"You're lucky I didn't say twenty," Gessa muttered, trying to recapture her previous tone of scorn, but failing completely.
The men exchanged looks. Whispers spread—not of ridicule now, but of quiet respect for the frail scholar who had somehow earned the formidable Gessa's protection.
One afternoon, a sudden, cold downpour soaked the training yard, turning the dust into quick mud. Soldiers abandoned their drills instantly, fleeing for the dry shelter of the barracks with muttered complaints. Vivian, however, remained. She stood at the center of the yard, her face tilted toward the heavy, gray sky, the water washing over her thin training clothes as if cleansing the weight of her exhaustion and her endless studies.
Gessa found herself frozen beneath the shelter of an awning, unable to join the rush for cover. Her heart, usually a steady drumbeat of readiness, suddenly seized and hammered against her ribs, a frantic, confusing rhythm. Vivian looked utterly fragile—drenched, pale, and slender—yet at the same time, she was absolutely unyielding. The sight of the scholar, lips slightly parted, lashes glistening with rain, facing the storm with such defiance was beautiful and terrifying. She seemed elemental, a force of nature that Gessa suddenly felt compelled to protect, and simultaneously, to surrender to.
What is this? Gessa's internal voice, usually so clear and commanding, was a confused whisper. She felt a profound, aching tightness in her chest, a terrifying unfamiliarity. This was not the coldness of adrenaline, but something hot and desperate.
Vivian turned slowly, catching Gessa's fixed, intense gaze. "What?" she asked, the rain washing the question from her lips.
"Nothing," Gessa said quickly, the word a choked lie. Her throat felt tight, and the unusual thickness in her voice betrayed the sudden, overwhelming yearning to stride out into the rain, pull Vivian close, and hide her from the cold world. It was a terrifying realization: she wasn't just admiring Vivian's will anymore—she was falling.
The Duke himself noticed the shifting dynamic. One evening, watching the yard from the colonnade with the General, he murmured, "I had thought hardship would break her. That she would beg to leave this life and return to a life more easy for her." His eyes followed Vivian, who was laughing softly as Lyra clung to her arm while Gessa scolded the child half-heartedly for splashing mud. "But perhaps she has found reason to endure."
General Grey's gaze flicked knowingly to his fiercely loyal warrior. "Or someone."
The Duke's lips twitched into a faint smile, but he said nothing more. The transformation of the scholar was undeniable.
Winter deepened. The bond grew steadier and more defined, woven tightly into the fabric of their days.
Gessa no longer called Vivian fragile aloud, though her every protective action belied deep concern. Vivian no longer answered Gessa's barbs with only quick wit—sometimes she smiled, small, knowing smiles that unsettled Gessa more than anger or a direct challenge ever had.
And Lyra, ever the perceptive shadow at their heels, seemed to watch them with wide, knowing eyes, the silent, satisfied chronicler of their relationship.
One quiet night, after a fierce snowstorm, the three sat together by the roaring hearth in the common room. Lyra, utterly exhausted from a day of play, dozed soundly with her stick clutched in her arms, her head resting on Vivian's lap.
Vivian stroked the girl's hair gently, her voice low and reflective. "She adores you, you know. Follows you everywhere."
"She's a pest," Gessa muttered, staring fixedly into the fire. Yet her gaze lingered on Lyra, tender despite her words.
"You love it," Vivian teased gently, the comfort of the fire making her brave.
Gessa's mouth twitched, her prolonged silence louder than any denial.
"And you?" Gessa asked after a pause, her voice unusually soft, a rare vulnerability showing through. "Why do you let her cling so?"
Vivian looked down at the sleeping girl, her expression softened by the dancing firelight. "Because she needs people who truly cares for her," she murmured.
"Yes, 'cause her mother is so controlling," Gessa said, not thinking.
"Gessa!" Vivian quickly covered Lyra's ears, despite the girl being deeply asleep.
"What? It's true," Gessa muttered defensively.
"Because she deserves gentleness," Vivian concluded, letting her hand rest on Lyra's head.
Her words landed heavy, the meaning clear: gentleness was a gift, a necessity, and a shield.
The silence between them thickened, not awkward, but alive with unspoken thoughts. The fire crackled and spat. Snow whispered against the shutters outside.
Gessa's hand twitched on the armrest, almost reaching toward Vivian before she consciously caught herself.
Vivian, catching the aborted motion, said nothing—but her breath hitched, and her eyes did not leave Gessa's.
For once, there was no scorn. No guarded distance. No lesson.
Only presence. Only friendship.
And beneath it, unspoken and powerful, the first, fragile, yet persistent threads of something deeper—something frighteningly potent, but which neither woman could now truly deny.