Public The Veterans’ Relief Gala, Ardennia

[Laphisto]

Ardennia's capital gleamed beneath the twin moons, its skyline awash in soft gold and silver light. From the Governor's Hall, music drifted through the open terraces, slow and deliberate, the kind meant to soothe restless spirits rather than stir them. The Veterans' Relief Gala had drawn the city's wealthiest patrons, each dressed in formal elegance, their conversations a careful balance of grief and self-congratulation.

Among them moved Laphisto.

He wore his armor, though not as a symbol of intimidation or authority. The plates had been polished to a muted sheen, the edges softened by time and care. Without his helmet, his face was bare to the rooma calm, unreadable expression that carried more sincerity than the chandeliers' glow ever could. To most here, he was little more than a curiosity; a soldier among statesmen, a relic of wars they discussed only when the music stopped.

He had come as a guest and donor representing the Lilaste Order's contribution to the relief effort. Supplies, field medkits, prosthetics, and credits all already delivered long before tonight's pageantry. His presence was a gesture of solidarity, or so the invitation had phrased it. To him, it felt more like standing inside a museum built for wounds that hadn't healed.

Servers passed by with polished trays of wine and fruit. Conversations drifted around him like soft currents mentions of reconstruction bids, supply contracts, and tax breaks disguised as donations. Every laugh felt rehearsed. Every sympathetic nod practiced. He drifted toward a display near the back wall an auction table arranged with donated relics: hand-crafted medals, fragments of old armor, and a folded banner framed beneath glass. Each piece bore a story, or at least the illusion of one, sold for the sake of remembrance.

He studied them for a while, quiet and still. Not out of nostalgia he'd long stopped indulging that but out of respect. A voice broke the lull beside him. "Commander Laphisto," came a polite greeting. A woman stood there, wrapped in formal attire marked with the Relief Council's crest. "We're honored by your attendance this evening. Your presence has encouraged quite a few of our guests to open their purses."

He offered a faint, courteous nod. "Then perhaps this gathering will do some good after all." Her smile lingered just long enough to feel polite, then she was gone pulled into another conversation somewhere deeper in the hall. Laphisto remained where he was, listening to the slow music and the rhythm of too-careful laughter. Beneath it, something subtle pressed against the edge of his senses a tremor in the Force, faint but deliberate, like a candle flickering against the wind. who or what caused it was yet to be seen

Alwine Bergen

 

[Alwine Bergen]

Alwine Bergen had not been invited to this gala. But she had also not-not been invited to it, which was a good enough reason to attend. Word of the gala had reached her on Figaro Favoura through the regular grapevine, along with some details that had made her want to use some of the Bergen family funds to donate. The galaxy had been torn by so many wars in recent months, and the number of broken up families broke her heart. It was a sentiment she had not thought she would ever feel in such a manner. But after being through many herself, and then becoming a mother… Something in her chest had shifted in response.

She had believed the donation would assist in opening some doors for her, along with the Bergen name. So a donation followed, even if it were a modest one, and that had been sufficient to secure polite entry and a name on the guest manifest.

Charitable contributions to the Veterans' Relief Fund, in memory of the fallen.
The phrasing had tasted like dust, but it served its purpose. Her not liking it did not mean it was inefficient.

Now, inside the Governor's Hall, Alwine Bergen moved at an unhurried pace through the crowds. The air was heavy with cologne and hollow sympathy. Strings played something slow, graceful, utterly devoid of truth. She had seen real aftermaths of war more than once. She had seen the mud, bone, the thick iron scent that never left your throat. There was nothing elegant about war, not even in victory. She knew. She had often found herself on the side of the victors. And still, she believed it to be grotesque and obscene. And yet here they were, draped in gold, mourning their own comfort.

She took a glass of something pale from a passing tray but didn't drink it. The chill of the stem was grounding, an anchor to the present as her thoughts drifted through older battlefields. Names, faces, the ugly sounds of death that never learned to fade.

It was the relic display that stopped her.

Dozens of artifacts arranged for aesthetic effect, including but not limited to medals, fragments, a folded banner. But one piece drew her in like a breath caught in her chest. Her gaze focused on the broken sword handle, half-eaten by time, its hilt etched in runes only the old tongues still recognized. Stewjoni. Valkyrie.

She felt the recognition settle in her ribs like a quiet accusation. This wasn't a relic of any recent war. The Valkyries hadn't drawn breath in decades. Their weapons were not trophies, they were markers, left where they fell, sanctified by the earth that drank their blood. To move one was to disturb a grave.

Why was it here?

The glass above the hilt caught the chandelier's light, splitting it into fractured gold. She could almost see the hand that had once gripped it, could almost hear the vow sworn over it, and the silence that had followed when the Valkyrie didn't return home. But more than that, she could easily imagine it in the hands of one of the Valkyries that had mocked her. That had said she was too small to become one of them, at her full height of 5"0. They had sentences her to a life of servitude, and she had never forgiven them for it. And yet here now, looking at the hilt…

Alwine's jaw tightened.

"You shouldn't be here," she murmured, not realizing she was standing close enough to Laphisto to be heard.

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto, to say the least, wasn't enjoying his time but neither was he suffering it. It was a kind of purgatory he'd long grown used to: a space between duty and tedium. Political gatherings like these always felt hollow to him, like parades without purpose. The hall was beautiful, yes polished marble, crystal lights, and enough perfume in the air to choke a platoon but beauty never quite masked the artifice. He would've rather been planetside, overseeing reconstruction, or walking a camp perimeter in the rain. Anything with dirt under his boots instead of carpet beneath them.

He lingered near the exhibits mostly because they were quiet. The conversations here were more honest than those happening over glasses of champagne etched into the weapons and fragments behind glass. Real stories. Real scars.

When a voice near him murmured, "You shouldn't be here," he gave a small, amused snort. For a moment, he thought it was addressed to him. A soft chuckle escaped as he shook his head, rolling his eyes with a wry smile. "Maybe you're right," he replied easily, voice carrying a tired warmth. "It's no battlefield, but sometimes it's good for the common folk to be seen among the eli-"

He cut himself off mid-sentence as he turned toward the speaker. The woman wasn't looking at him at all. She stood close to the display, her posture still and focused, eyes fixed on something within the case a sword hilt, broken and half-consumed by time. There was a weight in her expression that wasn't the shallow melancholy most of the guests wore tonight. Something real.

A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Ah," he murmured, tone dipping toward humor. "You weren't talking about me, were you?" He folded his arms loosely, giving her a moment before stepping closer not intruding, but curious now. Whatever she saw in that relic, it wasn't simple nostalgia. He recognized the look the kind carried by soldiers when ghosts whispered louder than the living.

Alwine Bergen

 

[Alwine Bergen]

Laphisto

---

The memories of that dreadful night flooded Alwine's mind. It had been night, and a bonfire had been lit. The Valkyries were relaxing and drinking, and sign ups had been closed. She had missed the window of time to add her name because she had been cleaning the Growling's estate and one of their children had made is extra messy. She wasn't allowed to leave until everything had been cleaned up, even if it would've taken her days. She'd been hungry, and thirsty, opting to run to the bonfires instead of taking care of herself first.

And they had laughed at her.

In that moment, standing in front of that hilt, Alwine no longer felt like she was what she had become. Not the grown woman, with several lifetimes of experience under her belt, but the girl who had truly believed that the entire galaxy was split into people who were either servants or warriors, and their overlords. The little child who always seemed younger than her age due to her tiny stature, mocked at every turn when she wanted to taste just a touch of freedom.

She barely registered the words that were hauled at her, her consciousness snapping back into the now and here when the winged giant had almost finished speaking. He had mistaken her words for something they were not. Though, in fairness, people often did. Alwine blinked once, slow and measured, before turning her head just enough to look at him.

The man wore his fatigue well. It was there in the corners of his eyes, in the posture of someone who had long since learned to carry the heaviness of duty without complaining about its weight. She recognized it. She had worn it, too.

"No," she said quietly, voice smooth, unhurried. "Not you."

Her gaze returned to the glass, to the broken hilt resting beneath the fractured light.

"That," she added, a tilt of her chin toward the relic, "it shouldn't be here." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. Did she really wish to explain it to this stranger? "They moved a grave marker. Valkyrie issue, from Stewjon. Anywhere between few decades and a few centuries old. These were left where their bearers fell. Always. To touch them was considered taboo."

Alwine finally turned fully toward him, meeting his eyes for the first time. There was no challenge there, only calm assessment. "You strike me as a man who's seen his share of graves," she sighed after a long pause, "Perhaps you could humour me. Does that ever stop feeling wrong?"

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto's gaze lingered on the relic for a long moment, his reflection faintly warped in the glass above it. The etchings along the hilt caught the light like old scars, and though he didn't know their language, he understood the reverence in her tone the quiet anger beneath it. He gave a small shake of his head, a low chuckle slipping out under his breath. "Can't say I know much about that one," he admitted, voice quiet but steady. "Never encountered a blade of its make before."

For a few seconds, he said nothing more just studied the hilt the way one might look at a name on a headstone. Her explanation had left a mark. The idea of someone disturbing a warrior's rest struck him deeper than he expected. When he finally spoke again, his tone carried that weight the kind that only came from living too long with memory.

"'Wrong' isn't the word I'd use," he said slowly, eyes still on the relic. "What I feel when I see something like that is closer to sorrow. You can train them, guide them, even lead them into victory but loss doesn't stop. It just… changes shape." He drew in a quiet breath, his voice softening as he continued. "When someone dies under your command, that life never really leaves you. It's an echo you carry every decision, every moment you hesitated or didn't. You learn to live with it, but you don't forget. You shouldn't."

Only then did he look toward her, his expression calm but sincere. "So no," he said after a pause. "It doesn't stop feeling wrong. But maybe it's not meant to. Maybe it's supposed to hurt so we remember them properly." He gave a faint, rueful smile. "If we ever stopped feeling it, I think that's when we'd start losing more than just the people we bury."

Alwine Bergen

 

[Alwine Bergen]

Alwine's eyes lingered on the broken hilt, letting the fractured light dance across her fingers without touching the glass. His words hung in the space between them, quiet, weighty, and for the first time she allowed herself a long, unguarded breath. Sorrow, he had said. Not anger, not blame, just sorrow.

The word settled differently than she expected. Sorrow was something that had taken her so long to understand. She had grown up with more than enough reasons to feel it, but instead, she had felt anger. After the anger had come resolve, and then when she became a mother, love and worry. Ever since Godwine's death, despite having friends and family, she had carried it privately, more often than not opting to pretend it didn't exist.

She drew in another slow breath, the faint scent of wine and polished wood grounding her to the room. Around them, the gala carried on with laughter carefully tuned, glasses chiming, and conversations drifting. Hollow sympathy. She noted the politeness, the practiced grief, the endless self-congratulation… and yet, she didn't feel the need to escape. That was new.

Her gaze flicked back to Laphisto , measuring, assessing. He looked to be carrying his own ghosts well, Alwine recognized the weight he bore. Perhaps they were not the same ghosts, but there was familiarity in the way his eyes softened at the relic, the same slight tightening in his jaw, the same quiet acknowledgment of loss as a living companion.

"Sorrow," she repeated quietly, a shadow of a smile brushing her lips. "Yes… I suppose that is closer."

Alwine allowed herself one small, human gesture in the shape of a faint exhale, the tiniest relaxation of her shoulders. Enough to signal that she had heard him, processed him, and acknowledged him without needing to perform.

"Perhaps," she added after a moment, her voice quieter still, "I used to believe there is value in remembering the pain, if it reminded of us of what should never be forgotten… But I am not certain I believe that any longer. Some things, perhaps, are best left to be forgotten anyway."

Her jaw tightened imperceptibly, and she turned her attention back to the hilt, letting the fractured light and her reflections carry the conversation now.

"But not all things," she quickly remedied herself, "For example, I would never want to forget my children. They are my cubs."