Cecelia pulls a coarse shawl over her shoulders as she steps outside into the early dawn, breathing in the brisk air and gazing up past the tree line. No sign of fire smoke or strife nearby, even now. That means no fresh skirmishes or militia encampments nearby...perhaps crossing a border will be easier than it looked on paper.
For the past few months, she's been Chiara, not Cecelia. She's been trying to weave the name into her thoughts, to impress the notion she'd always been a part of this land, another thread in the tapestry of its history. Studying and research did as much as they could to prepare her, but being immersed in proper time again is another thing...and it's so easy to want to get lost as herself in it.
No good. Chiara has to help Joric find his way back to those who did him harm, to try and stave off greater harm. Cecelia by name would mar the progression of history, linked too much to Cecelias of more distant pasts.
Cecelia would be better about being so invested in one man's struggle by now, right? After so many before. But then again, if she had been so easily desensitized, she wouldn't be here. So both her and Chiara will care a great deal.
She looks down at herself, dusting off her skirts. They could do for a better wash, but there's no sense in doing that if they'll be trekking and getting dirty all over again... Engh.
Hearing movement from behind her, she straightens and turns to look.
"I always awaken early," comes a deep rumble of a voice as Joric rubs at his eyes. Years in the army taught him to awaken at first light and even if he tries to lie abed longer he's unable to find more rest. So here he is awake, though not quite alert just yet. His voice may be laced with sleep but it's also measured as he does all he can to remain calm. Trying to head off the rage so it doesn't take hold has been a tough balancing act ever since he became this way, but he still tries his best.
Stretching this way and that, he walks closer to see what she's looking at.
"Not long now," he states simply before turning back to their camp to get breakfast.
She watches him carefully, thoughtfully. She's a lot of things for a lot of people, but she's always been those things with that same amount of consideration. She looks for the color of fever or sickness, for the tics of barely-contained fury that may warrant recoil...
"Do you feel any more or less apprehension about it?" she asks, and not for the first time. She can make assumptions all she wants, but it's far better to hear his truth.
Digging around in his pack, it almost looks at first as though he hasn't heard her. Only when he pulls out a cloth wrapping does he give her an answer.
"Neither would do me any good. Feeling more would place fear and doubt in my heart, and feeling less would lead to overconfidence and mistakes." Unwrapping the cloth, he reveals a simple deer jerky that he wastes no time biting into. Ripping a piece off the whole with his teeth, he adds, "I will do what must be done. What is best for my country."
And whether it does you any good, does that matter? she wonders.
"If you sense no threat to our progress, I can warm up a more proper meal," she suggests at length. "Given we don't know how many will be ahead of us from here, yes?"
There's a moment of thoughtful chewing before he dips his head into a nod.
"I have no objection." And really, who could turn down a hot meal as they ascend into colder temperatures? Though he's used to the snow and his body is made to handle it, that doesn't mean a warm meal in his belly isn't a comfort as well.
"Then..." Her mouth curves up faintly. "You won't object to procuring a bit of fresher fare than that? Nothing we have to carve up and carry, mind, because I won't be doing that."
His chewing slows. Perhaps it was simple thinking, but he'd thought she had something with her that could be heated through.
"I am no hunter," he admits. "I fish and set traps, but that requires a bit of waiting. I cannot hunt with bow and arrow."
And indeed, he carries neither with him. Looking away, he lets out a huffed breath that hints at frustration. Joric has never had good aim, which is why he's a berserker with a mighty greatsword. One can hardly miss in such close quarters.
She hums at that, the puff of agitation prickling at her ears.
"We'll not be mistaken for poachers on foreign land now, will we?" she muses, trying to keep her tone light to diminish the impact. "Let me see what I have left; likely any of it will be better a bit warmer than just that dry stuff."
She doesn't wait for his reply, instead moving to where the horses were set to rest for the night, trying to keep the tension out of her posture as she approaches them. Gads. She's not built for camping or excursions and certainly not animal handling...why do so many of her roles bid her be built for it?
"Show some patience," she petitions the horse in elvish while moving over to the saddlebags to rummage. Fruits and more dried things...but there's a couple eggs left from their last passing-by of a homestead. That will work.
"Just water, then," she calls, gathering them up. "In a cooking pot, please."
It's a situation that would ordinarily mean little. He'd laugh about how he's never had good aim and that would be that. But ever since the spell was put on him any little irritant is something that can be latched onto and grow into an all-consuming rage. He knows this and as she walks away he slowly begins singing a well-loved tune in his head, trying to head it off by distraction alone. He's startled when she addresses him again, but moves to stand.
"I'll head to the stream, and refill our water skins while I'm there." The occupation will be good for him. Having a task will keep his mind from wandering towards danger.
She catches him before he's off to doing as he says, handing him her own waterskin with a little nod and murmur of thanks.
"You do likewise. Though...no need to be too loud; my hearing is quite good, you know."
She feels a touch foolish for making such remarks, knowing levity won't really soothe anything, but she seems inevitably compelled to try. Ever a fixer, no wonder she's in the position she's in...even when she can't wholly fix things herself, she has the want to try in her ways.
When his footsteps crunching through the underbrush fade, she sighs, once again left to worry on her progress. Big picture-wise, she's on the right track...but narrowed down to the matter of this man...she worries. Worries she's going to do wrong by him. It's not like he'd remember it was her leading him down this path at the end of it, it's just...that path has so many divergent points, and not many are kind to him. Whether he remembers her hand at his back or not isn't really the point, isn't it?
Still won't feel good to be the one doing that pushing. It never feels good.
Hearing the snort of one of the horses shakes her out of that line of thinking and sets her to tending to the clearing they'd made yesterday, getting hold of the remaining kindling and lighting it anew, guiding the flame to move most efficiently with gentle breathes and a few curling motions of her free fingers.
After a few minutes of uncertainty, Joric feels that he has control over himself and the rage won't be coming out just yet. He rests on his haunches before the flowing stream, filling the pot and water skins with ease. The woods are mostly quiet this morning, save for the calls of birds who are greeting the day. He returns to the camp with no news to report and hands over his burdens to her so she can get started.
"Weather seems fair," he mentions idly. He's not one to speak when he has nothing to say, but he thinks it a good thing to point out the weather ahead.
Once she's got the eggs in that pot, she bunches up ends of her shawl so she can grip the handles and hold it over the flame. It'd be easier to just hold onto the steel bare-handed, but that's not really a regular thing people do, she's certain.
"Shall it remain so?" she wonders. "It will be my first time passing into that country. What do you recall of it, when the days are the length they are now."
He makes sure everything is shoved back into his pack, but on turning around and seeing how she holds the pot, he frowns and starts scouting around for some flat stones or pieces of wood that can serve as a place for the pot to rest.
"It has not been so long ago that I walked there. Only a year or so." He sighs heavily and kicks at the dirt with the heel of his boot to dislodge a stone. "There is no place like it in the world. Glistening white snow blanketing the landscape in winter, mountain flowers among the tall grass in the spring. There are wide open spaces where you'll see no one for miles; only the peaks of the mountains meeting the sky."
A moment later he comes over with an assortment of stones that he works on arranging so the pot has something to sit on and she doesn't have to hold it.
Alluding to what he must do keeps a frown on his face, but after a moment of silence he nods slowly. Nothing will stand in his way of enjoying the atmosphere as he returns home.
"If all goes well, then yes. I live across the country, so it will be a long journey home. There is much to see along the way. And though I have no family left, you could see my friends in our clan." It's strange to say the word "friends." He lost all his friends in the army when his rage was unleashed, but the people back home won't know what happened to him.
"How long has it been since you've seen them? And home?"
She knows it's been some time, but never fished for exact metrics when she was still more of a stranger and uncertain of how to navigate talk with him.
"Hm, it's not always easy to account for the days, but I suppose over two years. Perhaps three." He sits back to await their breakfast, stretching an arm across his knee.
"We would get times when we would be rotated out and allowed to visit home. So it was thankfully no longer than that. My clan is surrounded by mountain peaks on two sides and forest and plains to the others. To the north at the base of one of the peaks is a lake that I would often fish at."
He takes his pick, but after cracking the shell he sets it aside a moment for some of the heat to escape.
"Yes, I suppose so. I'm still not sure how I let you talk me into this." There's a frown down at his hands, marred by scars and heavy use like any soldier's would be. "But if I can stop this from happening to others... if I can be free of this rage and somehow regain my honor, I'll do it."
There's a little twinge of guilt upon hearing that. She doesn't know if she can do it - free him of that rage. Guide it, yes; mitigate it? Maybe. But dispel what was done to him still eludes her; she hopes she can see enough of what was done to discern a means to undo it, and if so, that she had enough ability to do so.
Either way, he won't remember.
Despite that feeling, she keeps her somber smile affixed, picking at her own share of breakfast with fingers clearly more inclined to avoid the mess where she can. Her hands don't wear scars, just freckles.
"Anything done begins with the will to be done," she murmurs. "Anything followed through to its end meets it on the back of that will. Even if it falters or wavers at times, so long as it's there to carry forward...there's a chance."
She goes quiet to chew a bit; no talking with a mouth full. After that, she looks back over at him and tilts her head just slightly.
"So whatever you do now will be credit to you, not me."
Unlike her, Joric never learned table manners. Not that they're seated at a table anyway, but he has no qualms about talking with his mouth full.
"If only my will was strong enough to overcome this spell." There's a pause as the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. It's not something he's ever had occasion to voice aloud before, but it has often repeated in his mind. He thought himself strong willed, but how can it be so when the spell takes over, makes him black out, and uses his body as a weapon? He has felt weak as a result of all this and for a man like him, he feels strength is all he has. He is not smart, nor skilled in a craft. All he has is his strength.
"But it is not, so there is no point going over it again. You will guide the rage so I can only hurt those who wish to turn more men into monsters, and I don't hurt anyone else."
Not yet,, she thinks, quiet while she eats. But were she to press it, she's sure to irritate him when he's quite convinced of his own state of being. And why wouldn't he? He's the expert for now; she still has to study, to understand. To test.
She wipes her hands clean with an edge of her shawl, rising and collecting the cookware to empty water and pack them away.
"Let us disassemble the camp and start on her way; we've got only so much daylight on our side."
Already done with his food, Joric rises to his feet and sets about packing the last of their supplies away before taking it over to the horse to secure packs to the saddle. Since she's moved on from talking about what they're set to do, he will as well. It's not good to have it all swirling around his head because the rage can manifest so easily that way, but he has nothing more he wishes to speak aloud on the subject.
Instead, he will speak lowly to the horse, then he guides her forward into the clearing.
"No need," she chirps briskly, dumping the water over the embers, kicking some dirt over them. She waves smoke out of her face, straightening up with a sigh.
Meeting him at the horses, she packs up the remainder of odds and ends she'd taken out overnight: Journal and quill, compass, some ribbons she'd tied her hair back with to sleep, that sort of lot (just because she's roughing it doesn't mean she has to look rough, alright?).
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For the past few months, she's been Chiara, not Cecelia. She's been trying to weave the name into her thoughts, to impress the notion she'd always been a part of this land, another thread in the tapestry of its history. Studying and research did as much as they could to prepare her, but being immersed in proper time again is another thing...and it's so easy to want to get lost as herself in it.
No good. Chiara has to help Joric find his way back to those who did him harm, to try and stave off greater harm. Cecelia by name would mar the progression of history, linked too much to Cecelias of more distant pasts.
Cecelia would be better about being so invested in one man's struggle by now, right? After so many before. But then again, if she had been so easily desensitized, she wouldn't be here. So both her and Chiara will care a great deal.
She looks down at herself, dusting off her skirts. They could do for a better wash, but there's no sense in doing that if they'll be trekking and getting dirty all over again... Engh.
Hearing movement from behind her, she straightens and turns to look.
"...Are you already awake?"
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Stretching this way and that, he walks closer to see what she's looking at.
"Not long now," he states simply before turning back to their camp to get breakfast.
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"Do you feel any more or less apprehension about it?" she asks, and not for the first time. She can make assumptions all she wants, but it's far better to hear his truth.
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"Neither would do me any good. Feeling more would place fear and doubt in my heart, and feeling less would lead to overconfidence and mistakes." Unwrapping the cloth, he reveals a simple deer jerky that he wastes no time biting into. Ripping a piece off the whole with his teeth, he adds, "I will do what must be done. What is best for my country."
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"If you sense no threat to our progress, I can warm up a more proper meal," she suggests at length. "Given we don't know how many will be ahead of us from here, yes?"
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"I have no objection." And really, who could turn down a hot meal as they ascend into colder temperatures? Though he's used to the snow and his body is made to handle it, that doesn't mean a warm meal in his belly isn't a comfort as well.
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"I am no hunter," he admits. "I fish and set traps, but that requires a bit of waiting. I cannot hunt with bow and arrow."
And indeed, he carries neither with him. Looking away, he lets out a huffed breath that hints at frustration. Joric has never had good aim, which is why he's a berserker with a mighty greatsword. One can hardly miss in such close quarters.
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"We'll not be mistaken for poachers on foreign land now, will we?" she muses, trying to keep her tone light to diminish the impact. "Let me see what I have left; likely any of it will be better a bit warmer than just that dry stuff."
She doesn't wait for his reply, instead moving to where the horses were set to rest for the night, trying to keep the tension out of her posture as she approaches them. Gads. She's not built for camping or excursions and certainly not animal handling...why do so many of her roles bid her be built for it?
"Show some patience," she petitions the horse in elvish while moving over to the saddlebags to rummage. Fruits and more dried things...but there's a couple eggs left from their last passing-by of a homestead. That will work.
"Just water, then," she calls, gathering them up. "In a cooking pot, please."
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"I'll head to the stream, and refill our water skins while I'm there." The occupation will be good for him. Having a task will keep his mind from wandering towards danger.
"Yell if there's trouble."
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"You do likewise. Though...no need to be too loud; my hearing is quite good, you know."
She feels a touch foolish for making such remarks, knowing levity won't really soothe anything, but she seems inevitably compelled to try. Ever a fixer, no wonder she's in the position she's in...even when she can't wholly fix things herself, she has the want to try in her ways.
When his footsteps crunching through the underbrush fade, she sighs, once again left to worry on her progress. Big picture-wise, she's on the right track...but narrowed down to the matter of this man...she worries. Worries she's going to do wrong by him. It's not like he'd remember it was her leading him down this path at the end of it, it's just...that path has so many divergent points, and not many are kind to him. Whether he remembers her hand at his back or not isn't really the point, isn't it?
Still won't feel good to be the one doing that pushing. It never feels good.
Hearing the snort of one of the horses shakes her out of that line of thinking and sets her to tending to the clearing they'd made yesterday, getting hold of the remaining kindling and lighting it anew, guiding the flame to move most efficiently with gentle breathes and a few curling motions of her free fingers.
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"Weather seems fair," he mentions idly. He's not one to speak when he has nothing to say, but he thinks it a good thing to point out the weather ahead.
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"Shall it remain so?" she wonders. "It will be my first time passing into that country. What do you recall of it, when the days are the length they are now."
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"It has not been so long ago that I walked there. Only a year or so." He sighs heavily and kicks at the dirt with the heel of his boot to dislodge a stone. "There is no place like it in the world. Glistening white snow blanketing the landscape in winter, mountain flowers among the tall grass in the spring. There are wide open spaces where you'll see no one for miles; only the peaks of the mountains meeting the sky."
A moment later he comes over with an assortment of stones that he works on arranging so the pot has something to sit on and she doesn't have to hold it.
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"Suppose when this dirty business is over, you'll show me those vistas properly?" She glances his way, searching his demeanor.
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"If all goes well, then yes. I live across the country, so it will be a long journey home. There is much to see along the way. And though I have no family left, you could see my friends in our clan." It's strange to say the word "friends." He lost all his friends in the army when his rage was unleashed, but the people back home won't know what happened to him.
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She knows it's been some time, but never fished for exact metrics when she was still more of a stranger and uncertain of how to navigate talk with him.
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"We would get times when we would be rotated out and allowed to visit home. So it was thankfully no longer than that. My clan is surrounded by mountain peaks on two sides and forest and plains to the others. To the north at the base of one of the peaks is a lake that I would often fish at."
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After a few minutes, she fishes out the eggs with a ladle, letting him have his pick first.
"This should be a little more filling than dried meat. Or at least...it will help."
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"Yes, I suppose so. I'm still not sure how I let you talk me into this." There's a frown down at his hands, marred by scars and heavy use like any soldier's would be. "But if I can stop this from happening to others... if I can be free of this rage and somehow regain my honor, I'll do it."
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Either way, he won't remember.
Despite that feeling, she keeps her somber smile affixed, picking at her own share of breakfast with fingers clearly more inclined to avoid the mess where she can. Her hands don't wear scars, just freckles.
"Anything done begins with the will to be done," she murmurs. "Anything followed through to its end meets it on the back of that will. Even if it falters or wavers at times, so long as it's there to carry forward...there's a chance."
She goes quiet to chew a bit; no talking with a mouth full. After that, she looks back over at him and tilts her head just slightly.
"So whatever you do now will be credit to you, not me."
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"If only my will was strong enough to overcome this spell." There's a pause as the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. It's not something he's ever had occasion to voice aloud before, but it has often repeated in his mind. He thought himself strong willed, but how can it be so when the spell takes over, makes him black out, and uses his body as a weapon? He has felt weak as a result of all this and for a man like him, he feels strength is all he has. He is not smart, nor skilled in a craft. All he has is his strength.
"But it is not, so there is no point going over it again. You will guide the rage so I can only hurt those who wish to turn more men into monsters, and I don't hurt anyone else."
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She wipes her hands clean with an edge of her shawl, rising and collecting the cookware to empty water and pack them away.
"Let us disassemble the camp and start on her way; we've got only so much daylight on our side."
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Instead, he will speak lowly to the horse, then he guides her forward into the clearing.
"Do you need help putting out the fire?"
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Meeting him at the horses, she packs up the remainder of odds and ends she'd taken out overnight: Journal and quill, compass, some ribbons she'd tied her hair back with to sleep, that sort of lot (just because she's roughing it doesn't mean she has to look rough, alright?).
As for getting one one of these beasts...
"Help me up, would you?"
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