The Grey Ones

JUNIPER

Once she had returned to her own tent, she tried her best to gather herself. The Vasaath was a composed man, she knew that, and yet she always seemed to get on his nerves somehow. After all that had transpired between them, she knew she shouldn’t feel so offended, but his outburst had made her feel belittled.

She knew she shouldn’t—he was right, after all. She had never been an emissary, and she had never delivered demands of any sort. She wasn’t a politician, nor was she a diplomat. Her first true diplomatic mission was to act as an ambassador for her people, and that ended with her falling in love with the enemy.

The Kas was under an enormous amount of pressure and they couldn’t risk anything. Of course, they would not send someone as inexperienced—and as valuable—as Juniper. Despite everything the Vasaath had promised her, about being free to leave whenever, she knew that was not strictly true. It was more complicated than that. They would be foolish to let her go, and everyone knew that. As long as she was of value to their enemies, she would be of value to them. Even though it was a fact, a wartime constitution, she felt no less like a commodity.

There was nothing she could do to get her mind off the war. All she kept thinking about was strategies to keep as many people as possible alive, but no matter what strategy she could think of, it would either end with the death of her family or the death of her love. Neither was a preferable option.

She knew not how much time had passed when the Vasaath came to see her. His face was troubled. He could barely look her in the eye when he apologised for his foul temper. He didn’t mean to offend her or shout at her—that was beneath him, he said.

“I shouldn’t have treated you like a prisoner. I’m ashamed, appalled. I just… the thought of you going out there to—” He sighed deeply, gritted his teeth, and gazed ardently at her. “Please, Juniper, forgive me.”

Juniper bit her lip. Indeed, she was offended, but she was also well aware of the situation at hand. Had she shown such insolence in front of her father, the consequences would have been very different. For one, she would never receive such a heartfelt apology. So she told him she forgave him.

Relieved, he pulled her into his embrace, held her tightly, and kissed her tenderly. Juniper did indeed forgive him; she did not wish to quarrel and bicker about what was and what wasn’t true regarding her position. She knew the answer already, even if he did not. In truth, she wasn’t even certain she disliked being his prisoner.

He chuckled, caressed her hair, and said, “it was a good idea, the Mud Mire. How did you come to think of it?”

“It’s an old Illyrian tale,” said Juniper, “about the Knight and the Black Pit. In the Wilder Hills in Illyria, just south of the Dawning River, it is said that there is this large pit of ash that turns black when it rains and swallows anything that comes in its way, spitting them into the Netherworld.”

A low, pensive rumble escaped the general as he raised a brow.

“One day,” Juniper continued, “a knight and his squire came across this strange spot of land and set up a camp to shelter from the wind. When the dark fell, the rain came, and the ash turned black and started to swallow the knight and his squire. The squire was light on his feet and escaped the devouring ink, but the knight in his armour sank like a stone. The squire tried to pull his master out, but had to watch him sink further and further down, until all but his hand had been buried in the sludge.”

She gently touched the warm skin on his chest and sighed. His breaths were slow, soothing, and he slowly let his fingers comb through the tips of her hair.

“To this day,” she murmured, “it is said that his hand still sticks out of the ash, ready to grab anyone who crosses it and drag you down with him to the Netherworld.”

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes. “And what is really in these Wilder Hills?” he asked. “It must be something valuable.”

Juniper shrugged. “It could be gold, or gemstones, or it’s simply a cautionary tale to keep children from running about during the rainy seasons. The Dawning River is easily flooded come spring and autumn. Or, it’s to keep them from the bandits.”

“Your stories hold much power over you people,” said the Vasaath and furrowed his brows. “Why?”

“We are superstitious, I suppose,” Juniper smiled.

“Very,” he nodded.

They had their supper, spoke only about fleeting things, and went to bed when the day was over. They kissed for quite some time once they had settled, and fell asleep peacefully nestled in each other’s embrace.

The morning after, they both awoke by the thundering hooves of horses echoing inside the fort and raised voices calling for the Vasaath.

He immediately rose and told Juniper to stay. He was tense, she could see that, as he pulled his breeches on and strode out of the chamber. Juniper felt worry creep along her spine and she sat up while tightly gripping the furs.

She heard him bark and bellow, but she had yet to learn their harsh tongue. It was clear, however, that something was awry. She hurried out of bed and dressed. Carefully, she peaked out onto the courtyard and found the soldiers scurrying about. Suddenly, the Vasaath was striding towards her, and she gasped and ducked back in.

His jaw was set tight, and he barely looked at her as he walked back into the bedchamber.

Juniper followed him. “What is happening? What is the matter?”

The Vasaath armoured himself swiftly but orderly and said, “The army is coming. It will reach Noxborough in a few hours.”

Juniper felt her heart in her throat. “What will you do?”

“If they want a fight, we’ll give them a fight,” the Vasaath muttered.

Her heart thudded loudly and she suddenly felt her knees tremble and almost buckle. The realisation just hit her that she might lose him—two hundred against five thousand Illyrian soldiers and another thousand City Guards was hardly a fight at all.

“What if you don’t fight?” she asked, breathlessly.

He shook his head and turned to leave. “Don’t be ridiculous, Juniper.”

“No!” She rushed to stand before him, placing her hands on his chest, and braced herself. “Please, don’t do this! Don’t leave me!”

He looked at her, his face serious and stern, and grabbed her chin to gaze into her soul. “I will kill them all with my own hands if I have to,” he growled. “I will do anything to keep them from you, menaan.”

Then, he kissed her, more assertively than he had ever kissed her before, and she dissolved in his grip. She didn’t know what it meant, what he called her, but he said it with such heart, it had to mean something good. When he released her, he gave her one last look before he left for the courtyard.

Juniper felt helpless, bewildered, and could do little else than follow him out. All the soldiers were occupied with gathering their weapons and preparing for a fight and Juniper withdrew back to her tent, fearing she would be in the way otherwise.

She could not sit. She paced back and forth, going through the worst possible ending to this conflict, the best possible ending, and everything in-between; the only ones she could imagine that ended well were nothing but fantasies. In actuality, it would end in one of two ways: either the Kas would be defeated and she would lose her love just as she’d found him and be forced to marry Lord Christopher, or the Kas would win and she would lose her family, her home, and her culture. She knew not what end she preferred if she had to choose one.

She finally sat down, after having paced for what felt like an eternity. She tried to divert her mind from the grim world, but with little success. Time seemed to creep ever so slowly, and Juniper couldn’t find peace. In the end, she rose yet again.

She paced the tent once more, walked around the courtyard, and carefully eavesdropped on the Vasaath and his council from outside his tent—why, she did not know, because she couldn’t understand a word they said. She felt restless, worried, and before she knew it, she had sought her way to Neema.

The woman embraced her, quickly noticing her worry, and hushed her. “This is war, my dear.”

“What if he doesn’t return?” Juniper whispered.

“Do you know why the Vasaath’s braid is so long?” Neema asked, and Juniper shook her head. “It’s called a Blood-mane and signifies his prowess in battle. It’s so long because he has never lost a fight. I don’t think he’s about to start now.” She nodded. “He will find a way.”

Juniper sighed. “Then my father and brother will die.”

“Not if they submit,” said Neema. “The Kasenon allows a second chance.”

“My father will never submit,” said Juniper. “He’s too stubborn. My brother—I’m not sure. Perhaps if I could speak to him, he’d be willing to save himself, but if not…” She quickly wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek. “He is Father’s son. Sometimes, he is just as pigheaded as Father.”

Neema sighed and sat down. While inviting Juniper to do the same, she said, “A man’s pride is important, of course. If they will not submit, then at least they will die an honourable death and they will be accepted into the Void.”

Juniper felt a crushing weight upon her, as though a boulder had fallen upon her shoulders. “My father doesn’t deserve the Void, but he doesn’t deserve the Netherworld either. He has been a terrible man all my life, and yet—he is my father. I cannot wish him harm.”

“You are a good daughter,” said Neema. “I was a good daughter too, and yet my father gave me away.” She sighed. “I don’t wish him harm—I doubt he’s still alive, and I genuinely hope he has found peace—but he does not deserve the grace of the Builder.”

Juniper nodded.

“Here, have some camomile tea, it will calm you down.” Neema poured her a cup and handed her the golden liquid. “We don’t know what will happen. No one does. There is no point in thinking about whats and ifs until the future is clearer to us.”

Juniper nodded, but the future was already clear to her. There was only one end to this, where one unbendable part had to bow to the other.