Written by Arcahan

The two guards snapped to attention as Richton approached the commander's tent. Somewhere in the depths of his mind the lieutenant both envied and pitied the two men of their assigned post. Envied because being considered worthy of guarding the commander's tent was an honor. Pitied because the duty entailed having to stay in the close proximity of the commander all the time.

Richton studied the guards as he lifted his hand to return their salute. Even despite the cool evening breeze, both were sweating profusely under their helmets, glimmering beads of moisture clinging to their jaws and rolling down their foreheads. But they were good men, both of them: their faces remained calm and impassive even in their obvious discomfort.

"Lieutenant Richton seeking permission to enter", he said, loudly enough for his words to carry inside the tent as well. "I have a report for the commander."

One of the guards nodded. "You are free to enter right away, sir. The commander is expecting you."

Richton did not need the talents of a thoughtwalker to know what was moving behind that carefully neutral mask. The guardsman was both envying and pitying him. Envying because being required inside the commander's tent was an honor. Pitying because it entailed having to stand face-to-face with the commander.

With a gruff nod Richton removed his helmet and tucked it into the crook of his arm. This move also served to mask the deep breath he inhaled to bolster his wits and ease the knot that had lodged itself deep into his guts. As one of the lieutenants of the Pale Angel Brigade, he had entered the commander's tent numerous times before, yet the task never seemed to get any easier.

And frankly speaking, Richton dreaded the day he would grow hardened enough not to give the deed a thought anymore. A healthy amount of fear kept people alive.

The guards were watching him, so he could hesitate no longer. Without another word he pushed past the soldiers, parted the oilskin covering the entrance, and stepped into the tent.

The night was fast approaching the camp, and thus it was dim and shadowy inside. A brazier filled with glowing embers, however, spilled some warmth and illumination to the tent and in its light Richton could perceive the austere field furniture, the chests, the tables, the simple bed and --

The lieutenant's heart lurched and he had to clench his teeth together to be sure that his mouth did not fall open at the sight.

The commander was in a bath.

The metal bathtub was large enough for her to recline comfortably in it, yet the due to the position she had chosen, the steaming water could only barely cover a chaste amount of her body. This left a considerable portion of her skin quite visible and where-ever Richton's eyes darted, her neck, her shoulders, her arms, the tip of her knee, that skin bore the color of the purest of milk. Her hair was white and silken like freshly-fallen snow, and it cascaded straight and true like an avalanche to rest on her shoulders, float on the water and lounge on the ground around the bathtub.

Her features were regal, her forehead high, her jawline graceful, her beauty cold and distant like snow-cloaked mountains. She was leaning her cheek against the slender fingers of her hand, and Richton thanked whatever god had spared him when he noticed that her eyes were closed.

It took only a breath for the lieutenant to compose himself, yet he found himself hoping that she had not paid attention to the faltering as he drew up his frame, clicked his heels together and saluted. "Lieutenant Richton, present as ordered."

"At ease, lieutenant", she said without looking up, her voice soft and silken like the footsteps of a prowling panther.

Richton suppressed an urge to bark out a hysteric laugh. At ease? In the tent of Lady Vorpal, the dreaded Pale Angel, the avatar of Death and Demise herself? The lieutenant did his best, however, moving his boots a little apart and allowing his hand to drop from the salute.

"Report", Vorpal purred, and that was the moment when her eyes opened. Her gaze was red like gleaming rubies, like freshly-spilled blood, and it cut through Richton like a frozen lance, nailing him to the ground with the force of a screaming blizzard.

Fighting down a sickening feeling of panic that was beginning to form somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, lieutenant Richton cleared his throat and licked a dry tongue over his teeth. "Evening patrols have returned. The last of the sentinel posts has been established to the Lyon's Pass. Scouts report that they saw some smoke rising somewhere in the other end of the Pass, but there seems to be no sign of any military activity heading our way."

"Unless commander Daggermoor has somehow gotten his troops already massacred by the enemy, that smoke is probably from his camp", Vorpal mused, the force of her gaze seeming to diminish slightly. "It is likely that we won't be seeing any kind of enemy for a very long time."

Richton nodded. "Yes, ma'am. That is what I thought as well." The air was far from hot within the tent, yet drops of sweat had begun to slide slowly down his temples. He longed for an opportunity to wipe his moist forehead.

Lady Vorpal was sitting in a bathtub bare and weaponless, yet to the lieutenant, she could just as well have been sitting on an obsidian throne in the confines of her armor and her gleaming sword as her scepter. Her dignity was hard and unyielding like an ice wall. Her aura of command filled every inch of the tent, seeming to press the air itself against Richton's skin.

"And the troops?" the commander asked languidly and stretched her white arms. Her hands were slim and supple, yet Richton knew well that they hid more than enough strength to make a heavy claymore seem light and nimble like a feather.

The lieutenant drew a deep breath. This was the part of the report that he was not all that enthusiastic to tell, but… Orders were orders. "The troops have settled down, yet…"

"Hmm?"

Richton cleared his throat again, hoping that the commander would turn her eyes away. "Frankly speaking", he blurted out, "the men have been wondering why we are camping in this end of the pass when commander Daggermoor and his troops engage the enemy in the other end. Why has the Pale Angel Brigade been demoted to the role of a backup?"

The lieutenant feared that his tongue had gotten better of him by the time he had finished speaking his mind. He truly expected the worst when Lady Vorpal, who had listened to him silent and unmoving, suddenly shifted. She grabbed the edges of the bathtub, pushed and rose to her feet. Cascades of water streamed down her milky skin, and Richton bit back a strangled sound that threatened to break through his lips. She stepped out from the tub, grabbed a towel from a near-by bench and proceeded to dry herself up. Her moves were just as graceful and dignified as always, and she was not caring a whit of the fact that there was a male in the tent with her.

Lieutenant Richton knew that the Pale Angel did not consider this an act of shamelessness. It was not worth of her time to pay any attention to the admiring gaze of a mere lieutenant, and thus, he was not worth of her shame, either. Richton knew all too well, however, what had happened to some other officers whose gazes had lingered a little too long in similar situations, and thus, he quickly looked into another direction. When dealing with Lady Vorpal, it was the safest thing to do.

As Richton turned his head away, he also missed the little smile curling on Vorpal's white lips. She liked lieutenants who were prudent enough to know when to look away. "It seems that the other commanders thought that sending the Pale Angel Brigade into a border skirmish would be like thumping an angered rabbit with a claymore", she explained coolly, her hands working as efficiently with the towel as they did with her blade.

"I… see, ma'am", Richton remembered to reply faintly.

Vorpal decided to make things a little bit easier for her lieutenant and turned her back to him. She did, however, notice how he attempted to steal a glance at her white shoulders and smooth hips. She would be sure to remember that. "Personally, I think they just want to make certain that I don't hog up all the glory on their little battlefields."

Even Richton managed to smile slightly at that. The Pale Angel had that sort of reputation among the commanders.

"Whatever is the case", Vorpal concluded, set down her towel and reached for a white spidersilk robe. "We have been ordered to the standby and act as backup for commander Daggermoor until the situation changes." She tied the cloth belt and brushed her frost-colored hair from her face. "We are not going anywhere."

Finally seeing that the commander was dressed again, Richton dared to turn his head back. There had been one horrible moment when his eyes had seemed to move on their own accord just a little while ago, and he hoped from the bottom of his soul that Vorpal had not noticed his failure. "Any, er, orders, ma'am?"

Her fingers still sorting out her hair, Vorpal strode closer to her lieutenant. The swaying of her hips, a shapely leg flitting in the gap of her robe, every one of her steps was filled with the lethal beauty of a tiger ready to pounce, a serpent preparing to strike. The white robe seeming to glow against the whiteness of her skin, she was beautiful like an ice-statue of a goddess, her eyes like two demonic coals smoldering in a face made of frost.

"Not much", she purred sweetly, quite aware how Richton's heart was hammering in his armored chest. Then a wave of chill washed over her voice, turning it cool enough to freeze running rivers. "Inform the higher officers that they must be prepared to assemble all companies to the field right after breakfast tomorrow. Only those on patrol, guard posts or other active duty are excused. I will hold the drill for them personally. We will very likely sit on this spot for a very long time, and I don't mind if you check the resources and see if you can find something to make the men feel themselves a little more comfortable. However, I want them to know that the orders to move can come any moment. I will tolerate no slacking, lieutenant."

With those words, she turned her back to Richton, and the lieutenant felt as if an enormous weight had just been pulled off his shoulders. "Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed", the Pale Angel said without turning, and Richton was all too pleased to comply. He saluted to her back, turned on his heels and left.

The lieutenant strode away from the commander's tent, knowing that the guards noticed how long and hasty his steps actually were. He masked his hurry by adding purposefulness to his stride and did not slow down until the tent and the guards were both well out of the view. Only then did he dare to stop, wipe his soaked forehead and fill his lungs to the brim with crisp, night-time air. He let it all out in a slow, shuddering breath that cleansed his insides and washed away a portion of the knots in his guts. The Pale Angel was the avatar of Death and Demise, cold and merciless like winter itself, the deity of war who never failed to lead her troops to the victory…

Richton knew well that a lowly lieutenant such as himself would never, ever, get used to being near her. She was not a human -- no person of this world could be so utterly cold and unattainable.

*          *          *          *

Soon after her poor lieutenant had left, Lady Vorpal summoned men to take away her bathtub and amused herself by speeding their task up with a few icy glares. She had learned through and through what sort of effects her mere presence had on people, and she did not hesitate to exercise that ability. It kept her men wary and attentive and quick to obey her commands… and, she told herself, she rather enjoyed it as well.

After the soldiers had finished their task and Vorpal was once again alone in her tent, she next gave orders to the guards outside: "I do not want to be disturbed tonight. Unless the matter is of critical importance, it can wait until morning. Turn away anyone who seeks audience. Relay these orders to the guards who come to change you as well."

"Yes, ma'am", came the quiet voices from the outside, and Vorpal smiled silently. Only capable men were considered worthy of guarding her tent, yet she also had another criterion by which she chose her guards. Only the soldiers who were particularly terrified of her were assigned to the commander's tent. She could trust them, because the fear of what might happen should they fail in their duties was an excellent way to motivate warriors to give her their utmost. Not to mention that it also kept them from defying her orders of not peeking into her tent under any circumstances.

After that was done, the commander of the Pale Angel Brigade lighted a lantern with an ember taken from the brazier and snuck over to her field-bed. One more glance to make certain that she was indeed alone, and then she thrust her milky hands under the mattress.

Out came a book. Not a bundle of battlefield reports or maps or resource accounts, but a real, leather-bound book, its pages tattered and corners malformed by plenty of loving handling. Into its cover, surrounded by pretty decorations of flower-studded vines, was emblazoned the title: Helen and Julian.

Placing the lantern onto a near-by table for light, Vorpal crawled into her bed, sought out a comfortable position and opened the book with ginger hands.

By the time Julian and Helen met in the flower garden, there was a hot and healthy blush on her usually so white cheeks. When they realized the depth of their love, she was writhing in the claws of silent, girlish titter. When the parents of the young couple forbade them to see each other anymore, she sniffed and almost had to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. Her heart leapt and fluttered when Julian defied his father and climbed over the garden wall to meet his love. Her eyes burned brightly as she flipped over the pages, her gaze drinking greedily each and every word. From the height of their fiery passion to the furious battle as Julian risked his life to defend Helen against highwaymen she read, to the public proclamation of love and Helen's decision to elope with her beloved.

Finally, many hours later yet all too soon, she reached the final page of the story and read the last words: The End. It was then that she snapped the book shut, reluctantly, yet utterly satisfied. The warm, giddy feeling bubbled within her, tingling in her toes and sending shivers up and down her spine. With a sigh she squeezed the book tightly against her chest, closed her eyes and rocked gently back and forth on her bed, a broad, happy smile on her lips.

Tomorrow she would strut around the training field, magnificent in her cape and black armor and shining blade at her side. She would shout orders to her troops, stamp them into the mud with her boot heel, make their legs tremble under the weight of her gaze alone. Tomorrow she would once again be their commander, their avatar of victory, their Pale Angel. Tomorrow she would be their mascot, their exhibition show, their zoo animal.

But tonight…

Tonight, she was alone. Tonight, she could devote her time to her secret little dreams. Tonight, she could be someone else than who everyone thought she was.