Time passes by at a pace that few understand. For some a few moments can seem to stretch for hours. For others, months, even years, pass by in the blink of an eye. For all the hardship that I had suffered, I garnered little memory of my days traversing the planes, vying with the forces of nature to wet my tongue and fill my belly before fatigue finally overtook me. Those experiences, those vile lessons left me with a foul aftertaste and a seething hatred that could not be quenched by time or by will itself. 

I remember the first time I saw her, standing there on the terrace, dressed in green, hair low in the manner of a lady unbound by marriage, and horridly unsure of herself. She looked about in a manner of both confusion and apprehension, and her face surely red with shame and uncertainty beneath expertly applied cosmetics. Despite that uncertainty, and despite the way she clung tight to her companion, I could see that she had come into her own. She was who she was meant to be, and she had found her place. The sins of the past were washed away by a newfound innocence that should have been punishment enough for her sins.

And I knew that by my hand, she would die.

-Sage and Sane Page 131

 Rupert Pelletier cracked his knuckles and looked out, away from the wall, toward the open landscape before him. A soft wind caressed his bearded face as he took in a deep breath, taking in the natural scenery. They were six-hundred miles from the towering walls of Auglire and perhaps fifty miles from the nearest source of hot water. The sweeping vistas and crystal skies didn’t quite make up for the lack of basic amenities even if he did enjoy the solitude. He sighed and straightened his uniform jacket, finally turning away from the idyllic scene before him. A few steps later and he was on his way down a set of narrow steps that descended from the top of the wall to the courtyard below. 

Perhaps fifty feet below he saw a group of ten soldiers outfitted, in Auglire blue performing rifle drills. He scowled at their loose formation and cursed the fact that every bit of new blood they brought out here seemed to be polluted with sewage. As he made his descent, the shouts from the courtyard grew louder; grunts and groans, the sound of rifles being thrust forward, the stamp of hard boots against the gunmetal gray courtyard floor. A young soldier ran laps around the outer edge of the courtyard, his face red with both exhaustion and frustration. The lad had never run a day in his life. Well, he would learn.

“Breathe, soldier,” Rupert commanded as the boy passed him, uniform drenched in sweat and hair matted as if adhered to his head. In an almost exaggerated response, the young solder violently exhaled, spittle erupting from his lips as a ragged, labored breath trudged down his windpipe. It did little to help him as he stumbled and proceeded to hold his breath as he continued his run around the courtyard. Rupert shook his head. He would speak to Raymond regarding the training of these new soldiers later; what good were they if they couldn’t run? He grudgingly exited the courtyard, stepping through a low arch and into a sleek brick hallway. Electric lights lined the wall every few feet, their dull yellow glow courtesy of generator humming somewhere beneath the stone floor. Had they been in Auglire, these lights would be powered by the city’s Arctesconite reserves. Here, they had to make do. 

“Sir!” Raymond stalked down the hallway toward him, offering a salute which Rupert returned, even though they were indoors, and salutes were strongly discouraged. 

“What news, Raymond?” Rupert asked as he tried to quell the exhaustion that must have been evident in his voice.

“We intercepted an Axock citizen, ten miles south of the Klocby border, Commander.” Raymond explained as he reached his hand to his face to brush aside a stray hair. 

“Hardly a matter for us,” Rupert shrugged. “Immigration laws are clear, send this person back across the border, bid that they should not return under pain of death.”

The nation of Klocby was by no means at war with Axock, but that didn’t mean they would welcome refugees with open arms. If the man, or woman, had not come through the proper channels and had not presented the correct paperwork, then they were to be sent back without exception.

“I would, sir, only…”

“Only what, sergeant?” Rupert demanded. “Is it that your tongue has failed you? Out with it, man!”

Sergeant Raymond pursed his lips and swallowed, his face partially darkened in the dim light of the corridor. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe dripped, and water pattered against the tile. 

“This person,” Sergeant Raymond said. “he has…requested political asylum.”

“Political asylum,” Rupert grunted. “We closed the borders three years ago. Even to asylum seekers.”

“Sir…I…it is possible we may wish to entertain the request,” Raymond said. “You should see for yourself, sir.”

Rupert grunted and pushed past Raymond, making briskly toward the door near the end of the hall. He gripped the handle, shoving it open and stepping inside the room.

“Dear Goddess,” Rupert said as he was completely unprepared for the sight before him. There in the center of the room, seated at the metal interrogation table beneath the single hanging lamp, sat a face that he would recognize anywhere, though admittedly, he’d been taken aback by the lad’s appearance; the long hair was new, and he was far thinner now. “Micah Lavoric. Pray tell, what is the son of Lord Stephen Lavoric doing this far south? Lost, are you?”

“I am here to request political asylum,” Micah said simply. He was dressed in the traditional Axock battle uniform, though it was tattered, and his insignias had been torn from the fabric; perhaps by his own hand? 

“And why ought I grant that?” Rupert demanded. “We ought ransom you back to your miserable excuse for a father and-”

“Sir,” Sergeant Raymond spoke up from the doorway. “Protocol isn’t clear but I think we ought inform the High Lady. She’d be rather cross if-”

“I’m in command here, Sergeant!” Rupert snapped. “Go train those recruits, teach them to breath, why don’t you?”

“You should listen to your man, Commander,” Micah suggested, the slightest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. “He seems to know better than you.”

“Silence your tongue before I have it,” Rupert warned. “even should I grant you asylum there’s no stipulation that you be whole.”

“Why is the heir to the throne of Axock out wandering the demilitarized zone?” Sergeant Raymond asked, stepping forward and staring hard at Micah. “oughtn’t you be out punishing your citizens?”

“Acts done at the behest of my father,” Micah shrugged. “I’d never developed a taste for it.”

“Ah, look at that,” Rupert rolled his eyes. “A new man, he is.”

“My father’s methods are not necessarily incorrect,” Micah clarified. “certain actions are necessary to keep order. I, however, opt for a different path myself.”

“Amazing,” Sergeant Raymond rolled his eyes.

“Aye, yes,” Rupert nodded. “I suppose your sister, Robin, can keep up the brutality in your stead.”

“I suppose,” Micah shrugged.

“Enough with these games,” Rupert growled; he placed his palms flat on the table, leaning forward and eclipsing the glow of the overhead lamp as he met Micah’s eyes. He beheld the boy of seventeen as if he were a man grown, barely making an effort to mask his rage. “Why are you here, Micah Lavoric?”

“I am here, to request political asylum,” Micah sighed. “I am loathe to repeat it such.”

“What did you do then?” Commander Rupert smirked. “Pissed daddy off? Did he take a leather to your arse? Well, go ahead, speak your terms then.”

The boy cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. In the doorway, Sergeant Raymond shifted weight from one foot to the other as tension rose in the small space. This was not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Refugees, they had plenty of, and they had duly turned them away, but to see Micah Lavoric sitting in this chair? To see him requesting asylum from Axock, his home country? It would be just scarcely more shocking if the High Lord himself had walked through the gates proffering a white flag. 

“I, Micah Lavoric,” The boy spoke, his voice solid, tone stoic. “make a bid for political asylum within the country of Klocby and also bid for the protections this status implies. Furthermore, I have a message for the High Lady Jenwise.”

“And what message is that?” Rupert shot a look to Raymond before returning his attention to Micah, who spoke but a single word.

“Orchid.”