The Shape of Surrender

Nalyra sat in her place upon the command dais, drumming her fingers on the armrest of her sizable chair. It was only halfway through first watch, and the bridge was fully crewed, her officers and ensigns performing their assigned tasks. It was almost business as usual, but the bridge crew frequently took the chance to sneak glances back at the command dais. At the Crown Daughter and her Shield Consort.

Unfortunately, the bridge crew had not taken the news as gracefully as Nalyra had hoped. There had been whispers and muttering, and more than a few sidelong glances at the Ydani. It irked her. Did they dare to question her decision? The effective deployment of her bodyguard?

Still, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. In the span of a single ship-day, he had gone from an alien provisional citizen to the sworn Consort of their Royal Hand. Perhaps it was too much to ask of them to process without issue. Even Nalyra had been surprised at how quickly her mother had approved the political move. Almost as if she had been waiting for the news.

Regardless, it was worth it. Tor’laen stood in his usual spot, to the left and slightly behind her seat. A custom-made sidearm now sat on his hip, and the insignia of a Consort was now pinned on his collar. The Ydani appeared utterly unbothered by the attention, his posture as rigid as ever. Somehow, his presence behind her felt no more intrusive than it had in the darkness of her cabin. A natural part of the command dais.

At least the Armswomen had already generally warmed up to the idea, according to Mikka. Then again, all those soldier types seemed to understand each other quite easily.

“Highness, Crown Daughter Zikara is requesting permission to board,” one of the communications officers called back from her station.

“Of course she is,” Nalyra muttered. She raised her voice. “Permission granted. Put her in hangar one, officer.”

“You’d think she’d rather get the briefing on her own ship.” Mikka glanced back from her station. The Lieutenant Commander was notably more put together than usual, even wearing her full officer’s uniform.

“And miss a chance to show off her marriage? My sister would never,” Nalyra returned, getting a grin from Mikka.

“Hey, at least this time you can say mine’s bigger.”

Nalyra shot the woman a look, which merely caused her to chuckle, leaning back in her chair.

It would be a lie to say the thought hadn’t crossed the Crown Daughter’s mind, but she would have never worded it so crudely.

A trickle of amusement flowed over the Bridge, seeping through Nalyra’s wall. It seemed that Tor’laen found the whole situation entertaining, despite the man’s carefully neutral expression.

Nalyra’s musings were cut short by the door to the bridge sliding open. Vessa stepped inside.

“Announcing Royal Hand Zikara and Crown Consort Queni’la,” she said solemnly.

The bridge crew moved to stand as one. Even Nalyra rose to her feet, though she technically wasn’t required to. Still, some traditions deserved respect, especially those regarding Royal Hands.

Zikara swept into the room, her consort following close behind. The Crown Daughter favored Nalyra’s bridge crew with a winning smile, the very picture of diplomacy.

Nalyra’s ear flicked slightly. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Tor’laen glance at her for a heartbeat.

Zikara mounted the steps to the command dais, moving with a familiar grace.

“It is wonderful to be aboard the Aegis once more, dear…sister…”

The Crown Daughter’s voice trailed off as she noticed Tor’laen. Nalyra’s smirk returned.

“And just who is this?” Zikara asked softly, her gaze moving between the Ydani and her sister. The woman’s eyes slid to the consort insignia pinned to his collar.

“Allow me to make the introduction, Royal Hand,” Vessa smoothly interjected. “Royal Hand, Crown Consort, I present Shield Consort Tor’laen.”

“Shield Consort?” Zikara asked, her voice incredulous.

Nalyra had the rare pleasure of watching a dumbfounded look slide across her sister’s face.

“Well met, Royal Hand, Crown Consort,” Tor’laen intoned, his deep voice even.

“Well met indeed, Consort Tor’laen.” Queni’la stepped forward, extending his hand to the Ydani with a smile. After a moment, Tor’laen shook it. “I had gotten used to being the tallest one in the room, but no longer, it seems.”

Nalyra watched the two consorts, a bemused grin on her face. After a moment, a mental touch brushed her mind, directed at her alone.

Shield Consort, Nalyra? Have you lost your mind, sister?

Zikara’s thoughts floated into Nalyra’s head.

It is all properly ordained, Zikara. I received approval directly from the Queen.

Nalyra’s face didn’t even betray a hint of the psychic conversation.

From mother? Surely you jest, Nalyra.

I swear, sister. I assume mother must have some deeper plan here, but I’ll not complain about her blessing.

Ever the opportunist, no?

You know me too well, Zikara. Nalyra laced the thought with a heavy dose of sarcasm, and saw the corners of her sister’s mouth twitch upward.

The Crown Daughter returned her attention to their consorts’ conversation.

“My apologies, but…may I ask just what people you belong to, Consort Tor’laen?” Queni’la asked.

“I am a Ydani, Consort,” Tor’laen answered, a faint smile on his face. “A…new race to the Monarchy.”

“A Ydani? Oh, I have heard of your people from my wife.” Queni’la seemed pleased by the recognition. “The Monarchy’s recent acquisition, yes?”

“Yes, Consort.” Tor’laen seemed amused by his counterpart. “Quite recent.”

Before either consort could follow up, Vessa interrupted.

“Receiving a hail from the High Fortress over the Q-comm network, Crown Daughters.”

A thin sheet of tension seemed to settle over the room. Zikara straightened up, moving to stand beside her sister, her face the proper mask of a Crown Daughter.

“Put it through,” Nalyra ordered.

A window appeared on the center viewport, and the face of her oldest sister, Leora, looked back at them. The room seemed to breathe a tiny collective sigh of relief. It was not the Queen Matriarch.

“High Steward. A pleasure to see you again.” Nalyra was the first to speak, as was her right aboard her own Citadel.

“Royal Hand Nalyra. Royal Hand Zikara.” Leora nodded, her eyes traveling to each of them. If their sister found it unusual to see the twins aboard the same ship, she gave no sign of it.

Nalyra noted her oldest sister’s gaze lingering on Tor’laen for the briefest moment before returning to the two Royal Hands.

“Nalyra. I wish to express my gratitude and the High Fortress’s approval at your handling of the Orphila crisis,” Leora said, locking eyes with her younger sister. “The Queen Matriarch has also bestowed her favor upon you. A commendable effort.”

“You honor me, High Steward.” Nalyra gave a graceful curtsy.

“Would that we had time to dwell on your victory,” Leora sighed, lifting a tablet and inspecting its contents. “Unfortunately, events are proceeding at an alarming pace, elsewhere in the Monarchy. This is a grave matter.” She looked up, taking in both of the Royal Hands. “There have been several…incidents that have taken place on and around Kelran.”

Nalyra blinked in surprise at the news. Kelran? It was one of the most important planets outside of the Core — home to the largest shipyards in the entire Monarchy. However, it was Zikara who voiced the sentiment.

“Kelran, Leora?” she asked. “That is one of our most valued and guarded worlds.”

“Indeed it is, Zikara.” Leora nodded. “And that’s precisely why this is so delicate. Two major Noble Houses are claiming rights to the majority of shipments to the planet, from shipyard materials to civilian necessities. Both have reasonable grounds for their assertions.” Her eyes narrowed. “The dispute has already claimed lives.”

“Casualties, High Steward?” Nalyra cut in. “The conflict has already escalated that far?”

Over their Bridge, she could feel Tor’laen’s attention sharpen at the words. He was eager to strike at those who threatened the order protecting innocent lives. A strong sense of justice dwelled within her consort, though she supposed that wasn’t surprising.

“There is no open warfare. At least, not yet.” The High Steward shook her head. “Both houses have employed private military companies to protect their interests. As expected from soldiers outside the Monarchy’s service, they do not follow the Crown’s rules of engagement. We are already receiving reports of civilian and auxiliary casualties.”

“Then, your orders, sister?” Zikara asked, her brow furrowed.

“The High Fortress’s orders are thus,” Leora intoned, squaring her shoulders. Authority flowed through her voice. “The Martyr’s Blade and the Saint’s Aegis will deploy to Kelran! Both Royal Hands shall bring the conflict to an end through any means necessary. The Queen and Monarchy expect efficiency and alacrity in this matter. Do not fail us, Crown Daughters!”

“Yes, High Steward!” Nalyra and her twin recited automatically.

“I shall send data packets concerning the matter to both of your Citadels. May the Maker’s blessing be upon both of you, my sisters.”

Leora cut the call, and the bridge fell silent.

Nalyra sank back into her seat, brow furrowed.

“And you won’t even offer your twin and her husband a seat, sister?”

Nalyra’s gaze slid to her sister.

“You are a damned Royal Hand. You could very well commandeer seats from any number of my bridge crew.” Nalyra sighed. “Have you nothing better to do than needle me, Zikara?”

Zikara maintained an air of dignified offense for just a moment, before chuckling.

“Fair enough, Lyra,” she said. “Though I figured you’d just give me one of your infamous icy glares.”

“Don’t call me Lyra, you trollop,” Nalyra sighed, leaning back in her command seat. The news from the High Fortress had been…troubling. Another formerly peaceful world. Another sudden escalation.

“Nalyra, sister,” Queni’la’s voice intruded upon her solitude. “I would like to invite you and your husband to dinner tonight. We should have time before we dive, yes?”

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She looked over her sister’s consort for a breath. Usually, the Aurelai’s use of the word “sister” irritated Nalyra to no end. But for some reason, this time it felt…acceptable.

“Yes, yes,” the Crown Daughter relented. “My consort and I shall attend. The beginning of third watch, yes?” She glanced at her twin. “I assume you’ve synchronized to Orphilan time, Zikara.”

“Of course, sister,” Zikara grinned.

“Then let us continue our discussion over dinner,” Nalyra replied. “For now, I have preparations to oversee. I’m sure you do as well. Vessa will see you out, no?” She made a gesture and her Admiral stepped forward.

“Until this evening, then, sister.” Zikara gave her a grin, and linked arms with her husband, descending from the command dais.

Nalyra kept her gaze on her departing sister, but internally she gave Tor’laen a mental prod. The Ydani flinched the slightest bit at the psychic contact, then was back to his usual impassive expression. She didn’t push into his mind, simply resting just beyond the edge of it, close enough to catch any thoughts he intentionally directed her way.

...Crown Daughter? The tentative thought floated from him.

He wasn’t used to casual psychic communication, though that was unsurprising. Something she would have to correct.

What are your thoughts, Consort?

About Crown Daughter Zikara?

About my sister, the situation, dinner — all of it.

She had come to appreciate the man’s different view of things. He didn’t think like a Zakkili.

The idea of this conflict makes my blood boil. No civilian should perish in the pursuit of wealth and profit. It’s unheard of on the worlds of my people. A simmering anger flowed below his thoughts, barely betraying the depth of his outrage. As for your…sister, and the invitation to dinner…

His thoughts were quiet for a few breaths. A faint hint of melancholy bled off him, just enough for her to pick up with her mental proximity.

It has been long since I had anyone to call family. An evening to catch up with a sibling sounds…pleasant.

Clearly you haven’t been around my sister long enough. Nalyra replied with the mental equivalent of a grumble. A small pulse of amusement came back from her consort. Regardless, I agree. I can think of worse ways to spend an evening. She paused. ...though I would think that it ranks fairly highly on that scale.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the corners of his mouth twitch.

As you say, Crown Daughter.

Cheeky. She gave him a mental flick, and he actually grinned this time: a small, controlled thing.

“Mikka, send word to the crew, Armswomen, and civilians,” Nalyra ordered, standing once more. “We’ll be doing an overnight dive to Kelran, starting at fourth watch. And get all the citizens and soldiers back from shore leave.” The Lieutenant Commander gave her usual lazy salute, though her hands were already moving toward her console. “Nivi, when we receive the data packet from the High Fortress, get it into the hands of the intelligence team. I want a thorough summary before we arrive at the planet.”

The Crown Daughter moved toward the High Deck entrance at the rear of the command dais. She mentally beckoned to Tor’laen, the man falling in behind her.

“Admiral Vessa has the bridge upon her return,” Nalyra announced. “The Shield Consort and I need to prepare for a different kind of battle — dining with my dear sister and her husband.”

“You simply must see my art collection before you go, Tor’laen,” Queni’la declared, his feathers quivering with pride.

“Art collection, Crown Consort?” the Ydani asked, glancing at the man.

“I have acquired pieces from across the breadth of the Monarchy.” The Aurelai nodded, a smile on his face. “With the help of my dear wife, of course.” He placed a hand on top of Zikara’s, the woman smiling sweetly at him.

“It does sound intriguing. I cannot remember the last time I visited an art gallery,” Tor’laen mused, a thoughtful look on his face. “I appreciate the invitation, Crown Consort.”

“Please, just Queni’la.” The Aurelai gave a gentle smile. “We are brothers now, are we not?”

“Indeed,” Zikara chimed in, still holding her husband’s hand. “All of us here are family. Right, Nalyra?”

“By Crown law, yes.”

“So stiff! My goodness, I had hoped you would feel able to let your hair down a bit tonight.”

“Right in the middle of enemy territory?” Nalyra shot back, but despite herself, she gave her twin a small grin.

“Enemy territory? By the Maker, sister, you are incorrigible sometimes.” Zikara gestured at her sister with a wine glass, the liquid inside swirling around.

The four of them had settled into a small, private dining room in the High Deck of the Martyr’s Blade. The room was cozy, intimate even, with wood-paneled walls, polished wooden flooring, and tasteful decorations placed throughout. Likely Queni’la’s doing, Nalyra guessed. The two married couples sat across a modest-sized table from each other.

One thing Nalyra could not disparage was the food. Zikara had some truly talented chefs aboard her Citadel — women she had personally recruited on Zakkil. There was slow-simmered navar flank, levik eggs cooked into fluffy omelets, and a lovely selection of wines. All four of them were a couple of glasses in by this point, and even Nalyra could feel herself loosening up. Only slightly, though.

“If possible, brother, I would like to hear more of the Ydani,” Queni’la said, looking at Tor’laen again. Nalyra stiffened for a heartbeat, noticing the interest in her sister’s eyes, before relaxing. It likely was just interest. For all her infuriating habits, Zikara was not the type of woman to twist such things to her advantage. She wasn’t Viora.

Tor’laen sat there a moment, pensively twisting the stem of his wine glass between his fingers.

“My people…how would be the best way to say this?” He took a small sip of his wine. “I think the words utilitarian, or perhaps austere, would come to mind. Our lives are shaped around readiness, preparation. Discipline.” He looked up at the Aurelai. “For example, there are art galleries on our homeworld, small ones, but rarely do they attract visitors. My people simply do not have the time or feel the need for art.”

“But that’s so sad!” Queni’la cried, feathers drooping. “Everyone should have time and love for art. What of music? Or poetry? Or perhaps theatre?”

“The same answer would apply to all of those, Queni’la.” Tor’laen’s voice was solemn. A whisper of old, buried pain flowed past her wall from their Bridge.

“By the Maker,” Zikara said quietly, her expression slightly troubled. “I had read the reports, but to hear it so plainly...”

“It is as he’s said.” Nalyra’s mind went back to when she had been forced to Delve her consort. To the memories he had of his homeworld. She dared to brush his mind with a gentle touch of support. His gaze flicked to hers for a heartbeat, a hint of gratitude in his eye.

“Yes, it is…regrettable.” Tor’laen nodded. “It is one of the things I hope can be changed, after we integrate into the Monarchy. From what Nalyra has told me, the process is already underway.”

“Ah, vassalization,” Queni’la said quietly, his feathers quivering with some emotion that Nalyra couldn’t read. “The unpleasant blade that is proffered alongside the Monarchy’s outstretched hand of unity,” he mused.

Nalyra’s gaze shot to her sister’s face. What Queni’la was saying was dipping dangerously close to treason. Her sister was alert, but her face was not troubled. Clearly this had been something the couple had touched on before, perhaps many times. Just as Nalyra had trusted Zikara with knowledge of the Ydani, it seemed that her sister would trust her with her husband’s little flight of fancy.

“I have often felt it unnecessary, if I am to speak plainly.”

“Unnecessary, Queni’la?” Tor’laen asked, clearly puzzled.

“Yes, brother.” The Aurelai nodded solemnly. “Take my own people, for example. We gladly would have joined hands with the Monarchy, we knew it the moment my wife’s ship graced our skies. And yet, still our government was subjugated, nearly dismantled. Could we not have been welcomed as equals?”

“Mmmm.” The noise Tor’laen gave was non-committal, his face thoughtful. Nalyra hoped that the Aurelai wasn’t trying to pull her Ydani into some treasonous fancy of unregulated freedom.

“I am curious about your thoughts on the matter, brother,” Queni’la said quietly. “Surely you would wish for the same equality for your people?”

The twin sisters were both still as stone, their eyes fixed on the unfolding conversation between consorts. Instinctively, Nalyra knew they both could not let any part of this discussion leave this room. It would be disastrous for all of them.

She almost interrupted, almost cut in to bring the conversation back to a safe topic, but she found she couldn’t. Nalyra was too curious about how her consort might answer. A longing for freedom? A wish for his people?

“I am afraid I cannot bring myself to agree with you, Queni’la,” Tor’laen said after a long, thoughtful pause.

“No?” The Aurelai’s feathers stiffened in surprise.

“I believe that the empyrean, as our Zakkili hosts name it, is simply too vast to leave contested,” Tor’laen continued, his gaze still on the liquid within his glass. “Were it not unified…eventually the emptiness between worlds would be filled with fire and death. Wars would be fought, and likely spread across the void like a field of dry grass catching fire in the late Harvest sun. Isolation does strange things to a culture. I have seen what my own people became inside it.” He took a sip of the wine. “I have also seen interplanetary warfare. Seen it from a seat at the very front. It is worse than you can possibly imagine.”

Though his expression was mild, a torrent of memories poured across their Bridge, flooding around Nalyra’s wall. Memories of burning frigates, drifting helplessly into a planet’s gravity well. Of alarms blaring as a neighboring ship blossomed into a massive ball of fire, the reactor rupturing and burning through the cruiser’s air supply. Of maneuvering through a veritable graveyard of dead ships, the aftermath of an intense battle.

Nalyra clenched her jaw, reinforcing her wall. The memories were terrible, but that wasn’t what concerned her. The last thing she wanted was for Zikara to find out about the Bridge from a wince or flicker of pain on her face.

Slowly, the torrent abated.

“So, no, I cannot agree that all must stand apart as equals. We must be brought together and, for better or worse, the Zakkili are in the best position to make that happen,” Tor’laen finished, draining the rest of his glass.

“I…see.” Queni’la looked slightly deflated, but not upset. “I had not considered it from that direction.”

“Tor’laen’s words are not how I would frame the debate, but he speaks truly, I believe,” Zikara chimed in, raising her glass towards the Ydani. “I do not wish to see a time when the empyrean knows anything but widespread peace.”

Nalyra took a slow sip of her own drink. Her consort’s answer had surprised her. He had never spoken disparagingly of the Monarchy, though he had never sung its praises either, but to view it in such absolute terms was something else entirely. A point of view, hardened by what seemed like decades of combat and loss. She had known that Tor’laen fought in a war, of course, but she hadn’t considered just how that would have affected his perspective. It was something she would like to understand more deeply, perhaps sort through old memories alongside him. With her consort’s permission of course.

“Still the old argument I suppose, Kara.” Queni’la gave his wife a sweet smile. “Some things are harder to let go than others.”

“I know, Quen, but think of all you and your people have gained.” Zikara stroked the feathers at her consort’s wrist, more than halfway to a caress.

“I always do.”

He leaned down, and the pair shared a sickeningly honeyed kiss. Nalyra’s ear flicked unconsciously, and she took a sip of wine to distract herself. Her sister must have noticed the tell, turning and grinning at her twin.

“Still such a prude, sister? Even after getting married?” Zikara chuckled. “You’ve got a big, strong consort now. Surely it would be fine for you to enjoy yourself a little as well?”

Nalyra simply gave a small huff and looked away, as her twin continued to openly caress her husband’s arm.

“And how about you, Tor’laen?” the Crown Daughter continued, turning her gaze to the Ydani. “Why not show your wife some affection?” Her voice was light, teasing.

Tor’laen gave her an icy stare that would have earned a round of polite applause from Queen Azora herself.

“I am still learning about Zakkili culture, but among the Ydani such things are kept strictly between partners.”

Zikara leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender, a wry grin on her face.

“Point taken, brother.”

Nalyra took another sip of wine to hide her grin. Magnificent. He out-maneuvered Zikara at her favored type of sparring, in the middle of the woman’s home territory.

Within half a bell, they had finished their meal, and the dishes had been carted away by a pair of efficient crew members, both dressed the part of serving staff. The two married couples were now working their way through one last bottle of wine, everyone moderately past the line of tipsy.

“Hey, Lyra.” Zikara called, from her very undignified place on her husband’s lap. Still, it looked kind of nice…

“What, Kara?”

“I guess…thanks. For Orphila.” She took a deep sip of wine, leaning against Queni’la’s arm at her back. “I…I went to the church. I saw Tai’s body. I’m glad her dream lives on.”

“I miss her.” The admission startled even Nalyra as it came out, unbidden.

“Maker, yes,” Zikara agreed. “It’s all so…unfair.”

“Life tends to be,” came Tor’laen’s quiet addition, the Ydani resting an elbow on the table, and his chin in his palm.

Queni’la looked around, his feathers perking up.

“Alright, everyone to my art room. I want to show it off before we are all too drunk to appreciate it.”

Nalyra weighed the option in her head. Yes, it sounded quite pleasant, actually. Thankfully the Crown Consort had a much better sense of aesthetics than her sister. The thought almost made her giggle.

And, she would like Tor’laen to see it. Or wait, she would like to see it with Tor’laen. One of those two was correct. Probably.

The group got to their feet, the two consorts noticeably less impaired than their wives. They had bigger bodies after all. Zikara clutched at her Aurelai’s arm, steadying herself as they moved to the door. Nalyra was about to follow when she staggered.

Before she could lose her footing, a pair of large, pale red hands caught her by the shoulders.

“Tor’laen. What good timing you have.” She grinned, looking up at him.

“I try my best, Crown Daughter.”

She softly whapped him on the arm.

“Nalyra. We’re not on the bridge, and only my foolish sister is here to witness us.”

“Understood, Nalyra.”

She grinned, and sent a pulse of satisfaction into his head.

“Better. Now, I require your arm. For…stability. You wouldn’t want your charge to fall, would you?”

“Of course not, Nalyra.”

“Good. Now let us go and look at this art collection, yes?”

The Ydani chuckled.

“Yes.”

Clutching the arm of her consort, Nalyra let him slowly guide her out the door.