The Shape of Surrender

Carefully navigating around a small knot of civilians, Tor’laen passed through the large doorway of the Citadel’s chapel. He was attracting a lot of attention — more than usual. Unlike before, he was now dressed in the officer uniform of the Saint’s Aegis. The clothes had been dropped off that morning by a very hungover Mikka stopping by his cabin. She had waved off his questions, just shoving the uniform into his grasp, a small cold pack held to her temple with her other hand. It was good timing, probably intentionally so. His old Ydani uniform had been basically unsalvageable after the fight with the assassins, ripped and sliced open in numerous places.

And so, he had changed into it. The fabric was jet black, with a high collar and understated epaulettes, the entire uniform trimmed in gold. Blue accents completed the outfit, with the insignia of the Star Citadel — Nalyra’s personal crest, he had come to learn — on the sleeves and breast. There was no rank insignia, but that felt like it suited his current position: not civilian, but not quite properly inserted into the hierarchy of the Aegis.

A few measures ago, he probably would have called the ensemble wasteful, or perhaps needlessly ornamented. But now? Well, he had spent a few marks appraising his reflection in the mirror of his cabin, pleased with his appearance.

Judging by the looks he was getting, and the whispered conversations springing up around him, he wasn’t the only one.

He skirted another small group of civilians, and entered the chapel proper. It was impressive, even compared to the huge church the ceremony had taken place in yesterday. What the Citadel’s chapel lacked in size, it made up for in beauty. The walls, pillars, and floor were all made of real wood, carefully varnished and maintained. The pillars in particular had been masterfully carved, each one unique compared to the others, with pleasing shapes that curved and spiraled toward the ceiling.

The ceiling itself was gorgeous, every inch of it painted, and many sections inlaid with gold. The image was a collage of different scenes— Zakkili men and women in the midst of the act of creation. Painting, carving, building, playing music…each of their faces full of joy and love. All of the scenes worked together to slowly pull the viewer’s gaze to the center of the ceiling, the highest part of the dome.

In the middle of the paintings, there was a…being of some kind. It was not Zakkili — it didn’t even seem to have a fully defined body. Somehow, though, the figure was clearly a woman, a feeling of femininity and maternal love pouring from the hints of her body and face. Her eyes were the most striking part of the entire ceiling — love, joy, and care radiating from them.

Tor’laen tore his eye from the incredible sight, and moved deeper into the room, careful not to bump into any of the little churchgoers. Lines of velvet-lined seats took up most of the floor, and he navigated his way over to a section that was mostly empty of people.

He sank into the small chair, taking care to adjust his tail so it fit beneath him properly. He had never been in a church before, discounting guard duty during the ceremony the prior day. The Ydani had stopped building places of worship before he had even been born. It left him unsure how he should conduct himself. How did one even pray to a deity?

The Ydani still often swore by or thanked the First Light, but that was more of a vestigial part of their language rather than actual belief. Tor’laen looked around, discreetly checking what the other visitors to the church were doing. Most were deep in prayer — eyes closed, heads bowed, and one hand clasped over the other held close to their chests. He considered just copying what they were doing, but it felt…sacrilegious, somehow. He felt like he wasn’t even sure he could believe, as he looked down at his hands.

“Do you require guidance, Ydani?”

Tor’laen jolted in his seat. He had been so caught up in his head that he hadn’t noticed High Priestess Soreth approach.

“I am…not certain,” he said after a pause. “My people, we don’t really have religion.”

The priestess settled into the seat beside him.

“I had feared as much,” she said softly. “Given what I have heard of your culture’s history, I suppose that is not unexpected.”

Tor’laen simply nodded, unsure of what to say. He let his gaze rise to the ceiling once more.

“What are your thoughts on it?” Soreth asked, looking at the painted dome as well.

“It is…beautiful,” he said plainly.

“The Maker adores beauty in all its forms,” she explained, her voice soft. “But She is especially fond of its creation. The act of shaping something, bringing out its inner grace. Whether that is something as grand as a painted mural, or as simple as humming a tune.”

Again, Tor’laen had no response, so he kept his eye on the mural. A small silence stretched between them.

“Ydani…I wanted to apologize.”

That brought his gaze back to the priestess, finding her looking up at him.

“When you were first imprisoned aboard the Aegis, I tried to Delve into your mind without warning nor reason.”

He blinked at her, mildly surprised.

“I don’t think you need to apologize for that. I was an enemy combatant just a bell before-“

Soreth held up a hand, forestalling his answer.

“No. There was no proper justification for the act.”

She fell silent for a few breaths.

“If I am to be truthful, I was afraid.”

“I think that is a reasonable reaction,” Tor’laen chuckled wryly. “I had just boarded and captured your ship at the time.”

But the priestess just shook her head.

“It was not that.” Her eyes went to the mural on the ceiling again. “I looked at your ships, your technology, even your uniform, and I saw a culture devoid of beauty. I thought you did not value it, or perhaps even disdained it. Such a thing is among the greatest of sins one can show before the Maker. That is what caused my fear, and why I acted rashly.”

Tor’laen stared at the woman. He had not been expecting this when he had accepted her invitation.

“Then I will consider the matter settled. But, in a way, you’re not wrong,” he began, glancing up to the painted ceiling as well. Taking in the details and artistry. “My people do not value beauty, not as we should. Our appreciation for it has been…buried. Under unyielding efficiency and survival. I hope that fact changes, someday.”

Soreth simply nodded, staring at him.

“What changed your mind?” he asked after a moment. “About me, that is?”

“I heard tell that you fabricated an entire board game, strictly from memory,” Soreth replied. “Such a thing proved to me that the Maker dwells within you as well. She would most certainly look favorably upon such an act.”

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Tor’laen bit back a chuckle. It probably wasn’t appropriate to laugh in church. Maybe. Still, he could hardly believe he had changed the woman’s perception of him simply because he wanted to play a match of Dominion.

“I didn’t realize that making a copy of a game fell under the category of religious creation.”

“Why would it not?” The woman had a wispy smile on her face. “Creating an object meant to bring joy and entertainment to others is just as sacred as singing a hymn in Her name.”

“I…see.”

And he mostly did. At least, within his incredibly limited experience. It was…nice. A belief based on creation and joy.

“Unless you wish for further guidance, I shall leave you to your contemplations, Ydani.”

He nodded at her, and the priestess made an odd twisting hand gesture, before gliding away, her robes making barely a whisper against the wooden floor.

Tor’laen watched her go for a few seconds, unsure of how to feel about the woman. She seemed gentle and sincere, but he didn’t quite know how to process her immense piety. It just wasn’t something he had encountered before.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned back in the small seat, letting his gaze find the mural on the ceiling once more.

The eyes of the Maker seemed to press down on him, their stare heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Tor’laen gently tapped a foot against the floor of his cabin, completely unaware that he was doing so. The Ydani swiped a finger across the tablet, sliding the next section of the novel onto the screen. They were quite riveting, these Zakkili works. He would have never imagined himself as an avid reader, but he was steadily working his way through the list of titles Nivi had loaded onto the small device. He would have to ask the woman for more next time he saw her.

He was in the middle of a gripping scene, a terse negotiation between two rival Houses about the fate of their scions, when the door to his room slid open.

The Ydani glanced up, and his eye widened when Crown Daughter Nalyra strode into the cabin like she owned the place. Though, on second thought, that actually was true.

Tor’laen placed the tablet down on his desk and moved to stand, ready to come to attention. Nalyra waved him off. She didn’t say anything, but instead took a slow, idle lap around the room, as if appraising it. Tor’laen tracked her with his good eye, a small amount of uncertainty humming in his stomach. The Crown Daughter had never once entered his cabin, at least not to his knowledge. If she needed him, she simply sent a message to his communicator, or perhaps sent someone to fetch him.

When she finished her casual inspection of his room, Nalyra moved to his cot and heaved herself up, settling in on its edge. Tor’laen had to suppress a grin. Her legs dangled off the side like a child sitting on an adult’s chair back on Ydan. Of course, that wouldn’t trick him. He had seen firsthand how deadly she was — Stilling a man, then executing him for treason with less effort than it would take for Tor’laen to lift a rifle.

Nalyra placed an elbow on her knee, and rested her cheek in her hand. She simply stared at him, her purple eyes traveling up and down his body, as if evaluating him. Her face remained expressionless.

Tor’laen met her gaze, refusing to back down. In many ways, the Crown Daughter was still a mystery to the Ydani. She seemed equally capable of cruelty and mercy, her carefully cultivated mask just one of her many weapons.

Still, he had submitted to her authority, and not once had she given him an unjust order. She could likely unmake his mind with a thought, but she had never moved to dominate, never taken without asking. It was more than he had been expecting when he had first surrendered. And she still wore his dagger.

“You saved my life.”

The sentence startled him, just for a moment. Then again, like any competent leader, she didn’t let her pride get in the way of truth and appropriate acknowledgment.

“I did.”

“I hadn’t expected you to be so…effective in hand-to-hand combat,” she remarked, her gaze still pinning his. “I didn’t take you for a brawler.”

Tor’laen gave an amused huff.

“You don’t earn a place on an Outrunner ship unless you’re good at fighting. You don’t become Outrunner Captain unless you’re the best at it.”

“Still, I never expected you to take down a trio of assassins while unarmed.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I just did what was needed.”

“You snapped one of their spines with your boot, and caved another’s skull in with your forehead.” Nalyra’s grin widened, becoming something predatory. “That’s not even mentioning the fact that you sank a knife into the last woman’s neck from nearly two dozen paces.”

A bit of her feelings seemed to push at his mind — satisfaction, approval, and just a tiny bit of hunger.

“I may not have an expansive skillset, but combat is an area I do excel in,” he returned dryly.

“That is something I can believe.” She shifted slightly on the thin mattress. “You’re more…dangerous than I expected. A danger to keep so close, perhaps…?” Her voice was light, teasing. Clearly the Crown Daughter was feeling more herself once again, at least compared to the previous night.

Tor’laen gave her an incredulous look.

“Dangerous to you or your people? No. Even without considering your Pressing…” He gestured to her hip. “You wear my honor at your side. I can find no word in Zakkili for how strong a guarantee that is.”

Glancing down, Nalyra ran a slender finger over the hilt of the weapon, almost a caress.

“And I assume your people do have one?” She was smirking again, but somehow it lacked the usual bite.

“There is one in Ydanic, but I do not know it anymore,” he said plainly, and the Crown Daughter’s jaw tightened just the slightest bit. “In Hylec, the word would be ‘Ae’don’shi’. In Tali’nev — ‘Kaer’dierin’. The closest translation I can give is beyond where even light may reach.”

“Interesting.” Nalyra returned her gaze to the Ydani, catching his eye. “And where does that come from?”

“In the ages before my people discovered spaceflight, Ydani society widely worshiped our sun and its light. Many of our older idioms and sayings often relate to one or both,” he explained. “However, I doubt you came here for a discussion of my people’s linguistic history. Do you require something of me, Crown Daughter?”

“Not particularly.” She grinned again. “I suppose I should say ‘thank you’.”

There it was, as plain as she was ever likely to state it.

“You are effectively my commander by decree of the Queen. I was doing my duty,” he said, then continued quietly. “However, I’ll gladly accept your gratitude.”

“How generous of you.” She smirked again.

Nalyra’s eyes flicked to the tablet on the desk behind him, then up and down his new uniform. Her gaze lingered on the Saint’s Aegis’s crest, her crest, embroidered on his breast.

“I must say, I never expected you to…adapt to life aboard the Citadel so well.” Her expression was thoughtful. “Among the Zakkili. Among your enemies.”

“Enemies?” Tor’laen scoffed. “I’m not so certain you could even call that true anymore. But more than that…” He caught her gaze once more, and held it. “I’m an old soldier, Crown Daughter.” His voice was steady. “I know my place, and my duty. You can expect me to follow orders.”

The words were true. Yet, for some reason, speaking them under her gaze felt…incomplete.

“Hmmm.” Nalyra made a noncommittal noise, her eyes still upon him.

There had been a shift, Tor’laen realized. A shift in the relationship between the Crown Daughter and himself. What kind of change, though, he had no idea. This was all much too far into uncharted territory for him.

For more than a mark, Nalyra sat there in silence, looking the Ydani over. As if she was trying to make up her mind about something. Like he was some puzzle that she needed to find the solution for. It reminded him of the first time they had exchanged looks like this, but at least this time he wasn’t bound to his chair.

Their first verbal spar felt like it had been half a dozen measures ago, even though it had scarcely even been one. And now here he sat, in a Zakkili uniform, reading their novels and speaking their language, being examined by one of their Crown Daughters in his own cabin. Maybe the Zakkili were onto something with their “Maker”. This certainly had a sense of divine comedy strewn about it.

“In any case, your…contributions to our cause have not gone unnoticed.” Nalyra broke the silence. “Should you have anything you need or want, bring it up with Mikka or Vessa. You have once again earned that much.”

Tor’laen paused a moment, then glanced back at his desk.

“Maybe a few more novels. I’ve almost exhausted my supply.”

She gave him a look of bemused incredulity, then slid off his cot, back onto her feet.

“For that, Nivi may be more helpful.”

The Crown Daughter moved to the entrance of his room, opening the door with a tap on the control panel. She glanced back at him.

“You’ll have to excuse me for taking up your personal time. At ease, Tor’laen. I’ll send for you when you are needed.”

With that, she exited the room, and the door quietly slid closed behind her.

For a long while, Tor’laen sat there, his eye on the doorway, pondering when exactly duty alone had begun to feel insufficient.