Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Shrike!” The word leaves Harper's lips at the same moment he throws the dagger to Helene. Blood Shrike, he reminds himself. But she is not just the Blood Shrike to him, she has not been just the Shrike for a long time. And now she is on the ground, bleeding and weaponless, and he isn't going to reach her in time. She told him to stay away, but how could he stay away in a moment when she needs him. She once told him that if he had been with her in Antium instead of Faris, she would have died with him. And so it is that he would die with her today, die for her, willingly.
It is not the Shrike who catches the dagger, but Keris Veturia, the Bitch of Blackcliff. Instantly his hand finds another weapon, hoping this one will give the Shrike a chance at survival. He releases it, and breathes a sigh as the Shrike plucks it from the air.
His relief lasts only a moment, in the time it took the Shrike to catch the second dagger Keris releases the blade in her fingers. He sees it fly through the air, and he makes to move, but for the first time his training as a Mask has failed him. The dagger finds it's mark, and he staggers back, gasping.
“Harper!”
His eyes dart to the Shrike, her face filled with fear.
She begins crawling towards him, mud coating her arms and legs, a growing patch of red spreading across her left side from where Keris wounded her. He can reach her, even with this wound he can reach her and pull her to safety. The thought has barely entered his head when another flash of steel catches his eye. This blade, he knows, is more than his body can survive.
He doesn't feel himself falling, but Helene, his Helene is beside him, blood and dirt and tears on her face, reaching for his hand.
“Harper, no—” she whispers. “No—please—”
“Helene—” He says her name, warm and sweet on his lips. “Em-emifal F-F-Firdaant—” it is all he can do to whisper the words, the words she taught him, the promise he made to himself, before the world around him drifts away to nothing.

* * *

Harper's hand falls to the mud and Helene gasps, unable to hold back a sob. She will sing him back, sing him back to her. There is still time, he cannot be gone so soon. She cannot lose him, quiet, thoughtful Harper who understands what she needs even when she does not know it herself. Harper, who countless times made her rest for the night, brought her plates of food when she would otherwise have forgotten to eat, who held her last night against his warm body.
In the moment she opens her mouth to sing his song, pain tears into her side, and instead of the song she releases a scream. But she knows his song, she has sang it before. Unable to speak, barely unable to take a breath, she fills her mind with him. His green eyes, his cat like movements, his rare, tentative smiles. It must be enough, she thinks, for she has little else to give.
Keris approaches and watches her, dagger in hand. Helene looks up into her face and sees only glee. But her mind does not stop echoing with Harper, with all that he is, in these last moments, she holds on to him.
She tries to rise, but her legs give way. Helpless on the ground she cannot look at Harper, to see if her magic is helping. For if he is gone she will not be able to do what she must do now. Now, she must be loyal to the end.
“You sad creature,” Keris says. “Look at you. On your knees in the mud. Your army dies around you, and not one of them is brave enough to come to your aid. You weak, broken bird, mourning a man who was dead the moment he called out your name. You are a fool, Helene Aquilla. I thought I trained you better.”
Helene gazes up at her. She never imagined the end would be like this, bleeding out beside the body of the man she loves. But if she is to die, at least it is beside Harper. She meets Keris's eyes and summons all her strength.
“Lovey.” The word is barely a whisper, but she can see by the look in Keris's eyes that she has heard it.
“That’s what she called you.”
Keris crouches before her, rage and confusion and alarm flitting across her face.
“Who told you that name?” Keris hisses. “A Scholar? A Martial—”
“No one living,” Helene whispers. “A ghost told me. Karinna Veturia. She waits here in the Forest of Dusk, Keris. She has waited for more than thirty years.”
Somehow, Helene finds the strength to stagger to her feet, gasping at the pain that lances through her body. Still, in her head, she sings Harper's song.
“She only wants to see you.”
A shadow appears out of nowhere, and Keris falls to her knees, her hamstrings slashed cleanly by Mirra, who stands before her.
Helene shrieks a warning as she sees Keris draw a blade. Then she is falling, falling into the dark. She does not have the strength to hold herself up anymore. Harper's song falls silent.

* * *

Her eyes will not open. Why won't her eyes open? She tries to gather her thoughts, to remember where she is, but for a moment, nothing will come. And then, as though a dam has been breached the memories come flooding back. Keris throwing the dagger, Harper's body on the ground, his final words, his hand falling from hers. Keris, stood before her, eyes shining with triumph. And mirra, Mirra who could not have come a second too soon.
Perhaps she is dead, she thinks. But death shouldn't be so painful, and skies, everything hurts.
She hears a rustling and then the sound of approaching footsteps. Instinct takes over and her eyes snap open. Even in her barely conscious state, her hands reach for a dagger, a scim, anything.
“About bleeding time.”
She'd know that voice anywhere. It is a voice she has known since she was six, a voice belonging to someone who she has missed these past two years.
“Elias,” she whispers, his name sticking in her throat.
His face comes into focus, high above her at first, then closer, as he kneels beside her.
“Wh-where am I?”
“In one of the infirmary tents. You've been here for hours, I was worried you were going to leave me to do all the work myself.”
“H-Harper.” She doesn't know if the word is a question or a plea that her song on the battle field was enough.
Elias's face softens, and his eyes fill with sadness. She knows then that all is lost.
“He's alive, but he hasn't woken up yet.”
At first, she doesn't hear the words, so consumed is she by the pain of her failure. Slowly they enter her consciousness, and her heart lurches with shock and relief.
“Bleeding skies Hel, stay still.”
Elias tries to push her back down but she fights him, needing to stand, to find Harper. Finally he relents, pulling an arm over one of his shoulders and gently hoisting her to her feet. The world swims around her but she grits her teeth and manages to stay standing.
They make their way slowly through the tent and only then does the compulsion to heal the wounded who lie around her wash over her. It is all she can do to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving with Elias, so drawn is she to each person they pass.
Finally they reach him, and before she has even sunk to her knees his song rises up inside of her.
She reaches for him, stroking the silver of his cheek with a finger, tracing the outline of his lips. He is alive, but barely.
“Avitas,” she whispers, staring into his unmoving face. His eyelids flutter and his chest rises slowly. Even with her song, these wounds will take time to heal.
“Hel.” Elias's voice is quiet as he kneels beside her. “What will it take from you to heal him?”
“I—I don't know.” She meets his eyes. Whatever it takes, she will gladly give it. For without Harper, without Avitas, how will she endure?

* * *

Three weeks later they make it to the Estium garrison. The dead are buried in the waiting place, laid to rest the night of the battle, though Harper had not yet awoken by then. He feels a twinge of guilt and sadness that he was not there to say goodbye to those they lost that day. Saying goodbye, he reminds himself, is a luxury. That he is still alive is a gift.
He stands quietly in the corner of Helene's tent, watching the others. Laia spreads jam and a soft cheese on flatbread, handing it to whoever enters. Though she greets each person, her body is tense, a spring coiled tight with grief at the loss of her brother. Musa flirts shamelessly with Afya, though Harper knows it is only an act. He saw him the day Nikla died, and he knows that it will be months, years, before Musa's heart begins to heal.
Helene is speaking with Quin Veturius. They stand apart from the others. For a moment he wonders if he should go to her, but he knows she will look to him if she needs him. Instead he contents himself with watching her. Her armour and boots are splattered with mud, the only neat thing is her hair, which Laia braided for her earlier. She is beautiful, even when she is exhausted from battle and loss she is beautiful.
Soon after, they all leave the tent, making their way through the empty camp towards the training grounds. He stays close to Helene, he cannot bring himself to call her the Shrike, never letting more than a few feet come between them. His wounds still pain him, but he is thankful that he can be at her side.
A sudden clatter of hooves breaks up the conversation and he looks up to see a column of masks, led by Dex, followed by a carriage. His face stays still and detached, but his heart is a little lighter, seeing that they have arrived safely. The carriage rolls to a stop and Coralia and Mariana Farrar emerge, Zacharias held to Coralia’s shoulder. It is then that he does smile, for even he can't stay so composed at the sight of the emperor.
Quin does not stick to the speech that he agreed on with Helene. He is not surprised by this, his interactions with Veturius have taught him that the man is determined and will not be perturbed by something so insignificant as a pre-arranged speech. He almost smiles again at the panicked look on Helene's face.
“Gird your loins, Shrike.” Musa murmers. “You’re about to get quite the promotion.”
It is at that moment that the chant begins. “Empress! Empress!” It spreads through the Martial army, to the leaders of the Plebeian Gens. Then the Illustrians begin, followed by the Mercators. The Scholars and Tribespeople remain silent. Harper does not blame them. He has inflicted pain upon both of their people as a member of the Martial army, but he wishes the injustice would end. They deserve their freedom.
“I don’t want this.” Helene glares at Quin. “I don’t even want to be the bleeding regent. We have an emperor.”
“Shrike.” Quin lowers his voice. “Your first duty is not to yourself or your Gens or even your nephew. It is to the Empire. We need your strength. Your wisdom.”
The Martials still shout and Helene turns to Harper, a question in her eyes. Harper, what the bleeding hells do I do? What do I say? He knows what she is asking without her having to say a word. But he does not answer, instead, he reaches for her hand and squeezes it, giving her the strength to decide what must be done.
The chanting goes on, the audience hardly seeming to notice the exchange.
“I’m the second: the scourge,” Laia says. “Elias was the last: the commander. And you—”
“The first,” Helene says faintly. She looks a little sick, a little scared, but he does not take his eyes from her face or let go of her hand. He will be with her in this moment, in every moment she needs him from now on.
“The Augurs knew, Helene,” Laia says. “This is your destiny. And the Empire shall be made whole. It means you can change things. Make them better.”
“But will you?” Afya says. “Will you renegotiate the Tribes’ place in the Empire, Helene Aquilla? The Scholars’? If you don’t, we cannot support you.”
“I will,” she says, for if I make this promise, I’ll have to keep it. And the Empire shall be made whole. “I swear it.”
“Empress! Empress! Empress!”
Helene faces the crowd, still gripping Harper's fingers tightly in her own. She speaks of all those who stood beside her. Laia, a Scholar rebel, and the Tribespeople. The crowd goes silent at her words and he knows that some of them do not want this. They fear what they may lose, those who have had everything. But he grips her hand even tighter in his own, letting her know that there will always be Martials who stand with her.
She continues speaking, letting go of his hand to take her knife. She cuts her hand with her knife and swears a blood oath to the Empire and all of its people.
The crowd roars and he leans in close to her, whispering the words so only she can hear them.
“Loyal to the end.”