A Dance of Swords, Part II – Oziah/Delilah

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The journey north to the tanner’s home had taken the party more than a day, but Deimos stretches his legs across the sweeping hills at a pace he’s never attempted before. Together, he and Oziah try to outrun the clamouring in her head, try to escape the finality of what happened in the cave. The wind picks up and the heavens open, the rain chilling her to the bone but Oziah feels none of it.

They arrive back at Fort Ettin at sundown. Deimos’ hooves clatter on the cobbled stone, his heaving breaths misting in the dying light. Oziah dismounts, pulse somehow still hammering as she looks around the courtyard, not sure what she’s searching for – something to banish the howling in her mind. Anything. Anyone.

As if summoned, a slight figure slips out of the shadows and stands silently in the training yard, regarding her. Oziah’s feet are moving without conscious thought and suddenly she has crossed the courtyard and drawn her sword.

She raises her shield and levels her blade at Delilah.

“Fight me.”

Black, pupil-less eyes regard her above a mask that hides the Pale Daughter’s face. Normally she is hard to read but this time there is something in those pitiless eyes. Oziah does not see it, cannot see it through the storm of emotions following her like a physical cloud – fury, grief and powerlessness written across her face as plainly as in the pages of a book.

“What happened?” Delilah asks quietly, a shadow of worry woven around her words. She glances at Deimos, but the demonic mount is still trying to get its breath back after its harrowing charge into the Fort.

Oziah offers no further explanation, instead rolling her shoulders once and raising her sword again.

“I said, fight me.”

There is no testing of the waters, no careful steps in the opening bars of the dance. Oziah just swings with magical speed and brutal force. But whatever is fuelling her anger is making her sloppy. Between one fumbling step and the next, Delilah’s blades are in her hands, deflecting the worst of the initial attack before giving her own rebuttal. She lands a blow to Oziah’s ribs that somehow freezes her entire body. The fierce, angry warrior is held, trapped in her rage for what feels like sixty years, but it’s a mere six seconds before she stumbles, her body free to move once again. All the while, Delilah stands silently at the ready, waiting. Her dark eyes track the other woman’s face. Even with half her face covered, there is obvious concern in the dark pools of the half-elf’s eyes. Oziah suddenly feels naked and vulnerable, exposed in a way she hasn’t been since-

She shakes her head to clear it, furious.

“Don’t you dare offer me pity.”

Oziah lunges again, once more channeling her magic into supernatural speed. She lands a blow, then another and then Delilah strikes her again with that controlled, precise accuracy. A slash to the neck, not cutting anything vital but staggering her for a moment. Her spell falters and she almost takes a knee in the dirt.

Oziah is defenceless. Had this been a fight between enemies she’d be dead by now, but Delilah doesn’t go in for the killing blow. She backs up again, ready, waiting.

“Your anger is making you reckless. Focus.”

For a single moment, Oziah teeters on the edge, torn between emotion and discipline. She closes her eyes and screams as the ghostly, tattered remnants of her wings stretch out from her back. When she opens her eyes again they are dark, but clearer. Delilah nods and beckons her forward with a single eyebrow.

“There she is.”

Oziah reaches for her magic again and casts another spell, this time on the half-elf. The aasimar gets to her feet and the two begin to dance, for real. Their blades cleave the cold evening air and slash at any opening in the other’s defence. A distant part of Oziah’s mind marvels once again at how evenly matched they are, how many blows they can trade without one of them falling.

And then, as suddenly as the first time they fought, it’s over. Oziah sees an opening and takes it, landing a brutal blow to the other woman’s head, and Delilah crumples to the ground.

Her body moves without conscious thought, again, and Oziah drops her shield to the ground. She sinks to her knees and places a trembling, icy cold hand over Delilah’s heart. The magic that she’d sworn to never use again – the one in her blood, the one they used to control her – flows from her palm with a hot, bright light.

Delilah slowly opens her eyes, seeing the last vestiges of radiant healing fade as she takes an easier breath. The shadows feel far away – they retreated from the light of Oziah’s touch – but they come back to hold her now, as they always do. When Delilah fell she held onto her blades but now, she lets them go, placing her right hand on the one over her heart.

Oziah clenches her hand into a tight fist in Delilah’s dark tunic and falls forward on her knees, resting her forehead on the other woman’s shoulder. The reality she outran for miles catches up with her and she is helpless as it consumes her. Her entire body is shaking as she tries to slow her breathing long enough to form words.

“He killed him. He killed Faust. For nothing. For absolutely nothing. He killed Faust. He killed him.”

Delilah’s brows draw together, mind racing as her conscious mind catches up. “Who killed Faust?” A jolt of sudden intuition makes her place a careful hand under Oziah’s cheek to lift her head up gently, trying to catch the other woman’s eye. “Was it-”

Her cobalt eyes glisten with tears she refuses to shed. She nods, leaning into Delilah’s hand just a fraction.

“It was him. Langston Farstep. A Disintegrate spell. There was nothing to Revive.”

Her free hand comes up to grasp Delilah’s wrist, her knuckles white and her grip almost painful.

“For nothing, Delilah. He had no reason. He killed him because he wanted to.”

Delilah stops breathing for a moment. Faust. The face and the name come to her as she is held in the grip of Oziah’s eyes. Sweet, kind, gentle Faust, a versemaker, sure, but cut from a different cloth than most. And Langston Farstep. The Outlaw. The Fugitive’s accomplice. More rumours have been swirling through the Fort of what Jack has been up to lately and she had become so focused on the hexadrone that she had not been giving equal concerned attention to the one who helped him escape. Once, twice, and thrice damned them both. Now their schemes have taken one of us – it did not occur to Delilah then that she thought of herself as one of the adventurers in that moment – making it personal.

But if there’s one thing the Pale Daughter knows it is that the light in Oziah’s eyes is the beginnings of a promise to hurt the one who did this. She may not know how quite yet, but given time the flames of revenge will burn Langston, turning his joy into ashes in his mouth.

And she is a girl who is to murder as maestros are to music. Delilah sits up, finally, not letting go of Oziah, never looking away.

“There are those whose only purpose in life is to be as dangerous as a sack of blackmark vipers – to be right cunts. Make no mistake, they are full of malice with not a redeeming quality to be found. They have an intent, they are malevolent and completely self-aware, and damned be the ones who try to stop them. Jack and Langston Farstep are cut from the same cloth. They are not to be lightly fucked with.”

Delilah places her other hand on Oziah’s cheek, gently but firmly. Her thumb brushes at the tears as they finally fall, an oddly soft gesture that belies the harshness of the words she speaks. The shadow’s coil around the two women as Delilah continues.

“But neither are we. There is a saying where I come from: Neh diis lus’a, lus diis’a. We are not made of iron or glass, Oziah. Oh no.” She shakes her head, her dark eyes are alight with fire. “We are steel. We never flinch. We never fear. And we never, ever forget.”

Oziah leans in, resting her forehead against Delilah’s, her hand creeping up from her chest to grasp at the other woman’s neck. “Never,” she gasps, “Not ‘til my dying day.”

She stays there with her eyes closed until she gets her breathing under control. Her shoulders drop slowly and when she leans back and opens her eyes again, they’re calmer and colder.

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to rip him limb from limb, and lay his still-beating heart at your feet. Whoever you work for, whoever you know, tell them I want in.”

Delilah believed her. The vehemence in her words was undeniable and the conviction was one she had seen in her own eyes many times before. But on Oziah it made her achingly alluring to the point that the Pale Daughter found herself wanting to lean in close once more. To take off the mask and-

This was getting dangerous.

Movement from the corner of her eyes catches Delilah’s attention. In a whirl of an alchemical-dusted coat, Viridian was dashing over, a handsome, priestly man chasing after him.

“Viridian, I don’t think-” the priest starts to say, but the wizard was pulling out a large stone and holding his hand out towards Delilah. She tenses for a moment, long trained instincts already kicking in when she catches herself. The mage has a history of healing. He wouldn’t be so bold as to try something here and now on her, not with Oziah kneeling beside her – and the other woman is indeed reaching for her sword out of pure instinct.

But the stone bursts into healing shards of magic and Delilah feels her vitality and ki surge back into her limbs. Fingers prickling from the restoration, she reaches for her dagger and shortsword, sheaths them, and gives a grateful nod to Viridian. Oziah draws a ragged breath and rises swiftly to her feet, turning her back and walking several long paces away.

“That was, well, pretty intense,” Veridian says. “I thought for sure you would win Delilah – no offence Oziah,” he throws to her tense, retreating back, “– but then it all turned so qui-”

“Veridian!”

The priest finally catches up and with a small huff claps a very heavy hand on the mage’s shoulder. He turns an apologetic smile towards Delilah and a glare in Viridian’s direction.

“You have done your healing. Let us leave these two to their, ah, discussion, hmm?”

Viridian gives the man a confused look, whilst Delilah nods a subtle thanks. She nimbly stands and quickly catches up with Oziah, going to reach for the other woman’s hand before catching herself and choosing to step in closer instead. Oziah has sheathed her black blade and slung her shield across her back. She is frantically wiping her damp cheeks, trying to erase any evidence of her loss of discipline.

“We should go somewhere quieter.” Delilah looks to the still lingering crowd of adventurers, their not so subtle glances making her want to melt away into the shadows. Oziah nods mutely in agreement. Delilah feels a small prick on her legs then a soft mmrph in her ear. Little Beastie stands on the shoulder farthest away from the other woman, giving her a long, hard stare before looking at Delilah.

She ignores the look and continues to speak quietly.

“Come to my room. We can speak further there.”

She finds a calloused hand creeping carefully into her own outstretched one.

“Please tell me you have something to drink,” Oziah says, still trying to build her walls back up and not quite succeeding. Her eyes are almost as dark as the night sky above them when she finally meets Delilah’s gaze. The half-elf quirks an eyebrow and tugs gently on Oziah’s hand, leading her away.

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The room hardly looks lived in. It is one of the smaller, private rooms on the ground floor in the north-east corner, with a comfortable enough looking bed, a desk with a chair, a chest, a mirror and water basin, a cupboard, and a window with the curtains drawn. Delilah walks in first, touching a sequence of spots along the door frame before gesturing for Oziah to follow her in. Once inside, Little Beastie leaps down from her shoulder as Delilah checks down the hall again, and then silently closes the door and locks it.

The one personal possession Oziah sees is on the small desk. A curious cube shaped box, it has maze-like patterns on each side, giving the impression of a puzzle. Although, with no visible seams it looks more like a paperweight than anything else.

Delilah busies herself with opening the curtains, the sun well set at this point and the sky quickly darkening to midnight black, then unlocking the chest at the foot of her bed to rummage around in it. Little Beastie delicately leaps up, goes over to the pillows of the bed, walks across both of them, and then settles down carefully on the one – all the while never breaking eye contact with Oziah.

“I hope you like spirits.”

The half-elf pulls out a red-tinged bottle decorated with thorned roses, and two tumblers. Going over to the desk she brings out her dagger, cuts the seal and pours two generous glasses. One glass has a fraction more of the dark amber-red liquid. Delilah holds this one out to Oziah, who takes it and downs half of the liquid without hesitation.

When she registers the actual flavour she tastes apricots, berries, vanilla and oak, and the smell of raspberries, cloves and nutmeg drifts up from the glass in her hand. She raises her eyebrows briefly, obviously impressed by the quality of the liquor.

Delilah lets out a little sigh. “When I left my home, I stole several bottles of this from my mother’s stores. They were collecting dust, not being drunk. It was my father’s favourite, apparently, though I’ve never met the man.” She swirls the glass a little, but doesn’t take a sip. “He has good taste.”

“Clearly,” Oziah agrees, sitting down at the foot of the bed with a brief, suspicious squint at the cat before giving the other woman her undivided attention.

Delilah sets the glass to the side, folds her arms across her chest and leans against the desk. There’s a long pause as she gathers her thoughts. Then she looks at Oziah and tells her what she knows about Jack, his imprisonment, the mass memory wipe of all those who were in the Twilight Palace on the day of Queen Sarastra’s murder, and that it was Langston who helped him escape.

Oziah listens intently, her tears now long gone. She’s mellowed either by the drink or by the familiar routine of learning intelligence about a hostile target. Halfway through Delilah’s description of the Amaranthine Games – and how both Jack and Langston were involved and whose sides they were competing for – Oziah silently holds out her glass for a refill.

Delilah then speaks about her recent discoveries and when she saw Jack on Mechanus stealing something that was like a Containment Seal. The trip to Gadenthor the other week was so she could get the research the scholar held ransom from her. Oziah takes it all in with a small frown of concentration. Delilah can almost see the cogs turning in her head (for lack of a better expression). She sets her glass on the floor and stands to undo the straps of her armour while still clearly listening to Delilah’s words.

“Gadenthor was of course where you first saw Jack. I’ve mostly been keeping my ear to the ground since then. One party went to Sigil and chased Langston all over only to be faced with a simulacrum version of him that left behind a soul coin.” Her scowl is visible even through her mask, and the distaste is obvious in her voice. “Nasty things. A prison of the worst kind.”

Her pauldrons and chest piece now on the floor, Oziah looks up briefly before making quick work of the straps on her vambraces. “But very effective. And powerful.”

Delilah gives her a sharp look but says nothing.

Oziah stacks the vambraces on the neat pile on the floor and undoes the buckles for the fauld covering her hips and thighs. She places it carefully on the rest of the armour and picks up her tumbler before sinking back down on the bed with a small sigh of relief to be clad in only her leather trousers and a soft, grey gambeson.

She takes a thoughtful sip. “Anything else?”

The half-elf shakes her head, tearing her eyes away with effort. “Haven’t heard the latest from those who went out this week, besides…” Delilah trails off. This time, she knows there is no need to finish that sentence.

Oziah nods, worrying her lower lip with her teeth as she considers the different strategies that could be employed to find the elusive duo. She blinks suddenly, turning the full force of her cobalt gaze onto the other woman.

“Thank you. For sharing this with me, Delilah.”

Oziah’s voice isn’t necessarily very warm – or grateful for that matter – but it has a gravity to it that lets Delilah know those words aren’t ones she says lightly, or often.

“I appreciate the effort you must have gone through to find this information. Rest assured that while I may be late to the game I intend to play until it’s done. And as you know, I’m a professional.” A shadow of her usual sharp grin tugs briefly at the corner of her mouth. “I’m going to win.”

She hesitates briefly, taking another sip before speaking.

“I have a… friend.” She stumbles over the word like it’s unfamiliar in her mouth. “They make it their business to know things about people. I’d be very surprised if they aren’t also gathering information on Farstep and Jack. Perhaps a comparison of notes at some point could be helpful.”

“Who is this friend?” Delilah asks, trying not to let her voice sound too suspicious, though her fist does clench underneath her crossed arms. Has she made a mistake in telling Oziah what she knows? “If they make it their business to know things about people, how can you know you can trust them?”

Oziah’s eyes go distant for a moment, an almost sad smile crossing her face briefly.

“Because we have bared our bellies to each other. We have shown our weaknesses to one another and walked away still breathing.” But she knows the real question Delilah isn’t asking outright.

“Delilah, I am done with… politics.” She looks tired, all of a sudden. “I am done with the parlour games and masks and trading secrets in the shadows, only to be stabbed in the back at the earliest convenience. I am done being used. Likewise I do not intend to use anyone else.”

She meets Delilah’s dark eyes without flinching.

“I will never be beholden to anyone ever again, in my life. I won’t bind myself to- to an organisation or an individual or a cause that isn’t mine. I’d rather die. I’m not going to hide. I cannot. I will act in the open and I won’t hide my desire to find Langston and slash him to ribbons. But that doesn’t mean I’ll sell you out to the highest bidder.”

It is Delilah’s turn to be stunned. For the first time in her life she is presented this gift from another with no strings, no hidden agendas, no quid-pro-quo and she does not know what to do with it, let alone what to say.

She glances down to the untouched glass by her hip on the desk. In one fluid movement, Delilah brings her right hand up to her left ear and appears to take off her mask – only to have thick, black shadows obscure her lower face. She turns away slightly as she picks up the glass and kicks it back in one smooth motion. In less than a few seconds the rich spirit is gone and Delilah is replacing the minor illusioned mask with her real one once more, her breathing heavy, heart pounding.

She carefully places the empty tumbler on the desk. Still facing away from Oziah, choosing her next words carefully.

“I believe you, and that’s what scares me. I-...” She takes a sharp breath in, holds it, and lets it out slowly. “I am good at what I do because if I wasn’t I would have been dead a long time ago. I have had to strip away any weakness… piece by piece, death by death… until all that is left is the Blade I have become.”

Shoulders hunched, the Pale Daughter feels for the first time how empty and hollow she truly is. Damn this woman and her impassioned words. Damn her trust that is like burning hot coals under her feet. Damn her beguiling beauty that a girl might want to slay a god or a daemon with.

Or, in this case, track and kill a Fugitive and Outlaw, together.

She closes her eyes and opens her mind to listen to the Shadows, but they are mockingly silent. Instead she hears the rustle of fabric, the thud of careful steps moving closer and the soft clink of adamantine being placed gently next to her on the desk.

Oziah finds herself moving without conscious thought for the third time that evening. When Delilah opens her eyes again she is there, right in front of her, an almost looming invasion of her personal space. Her blue eyes are filled with both a familiar resolve and something that could only be described as hunger. She empties her own glass, sets it on the desk and reaches out.

Slowly, telegraphing her every moment, searching Delilah’s eyes for a sign to stop, she reaches her hands up and touches the edges of the mask with her fingertips, delicately tracing Delilah’s cheekbones underneath. After a moment that may very well have been an eternity she unsteadily draws a breath and closes her eyes, cocking her head and frowning slightly with concentration as she navigates by touch alone.

Her calloused fingers carefully pull Delilah’s mask off. One hand gently grasps her jaw and the other traces the contours of her cheek, a thumb stopping at the corner of her mouth. When she finally presses her lips to Delilah’s own, she tastes of apricots, berries, vanilla and oak, but she smells like leather and steel, like rain and smoke.

How much time passes, Delilah has no idea. Their world narrows down to this room, this moment, this kiss. Eventually Oziah pulls away, worrying Delilah’s cheekbone with her thumb one last time before stepping aside and turning away to give the other woman privacy. She gathers up her discarded armour, clutching it to her chest the way one might cling to a stuffed animal for comfort.

“Think on it,” she says quietly, her voice raspy and thick with emotion. “On all of it.”

And then, without looking back, she quietly walks out into the night.

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Briefly continued in Oziah’s Post and Delilah’s Post in ‘A Farewell to Faust’ 🖤