Leo lives.
I can't believe it when Lena tells us. I had prepared myself for the worst, for the possibility that we'd lost another one of our own. But he's alive. Lena cautions us, says he's not out of the woods yet. But he's alive. He's fighting. And that's enough for now.
It's a small victory, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. But it's something. It's more than we had yesterday, more than we expected. And I'll take it. I'll take any bit of good news I can get.
We can't really know what the aliens are doing, how they reacted to our successful raids, but it's not hard to guess the general thrust of it. Maren says that she thinks she can access live updates from the database if she can break the final layer of encryption. If she does, we'll be able to adapt in real time. Until then, we have a constant guard and cautious patrol scouts so that if their response is aggression - particularly if they aim it correctly at us - we'll know with enough time to escape.
A few days go by, and no aliens are seen. No alarms are raised. I don't know if it's because they don't know where we are or because they're still reeling from the attacks. Regardless, it gives us some much needed breathing room. Time to regroup, to plan, to prepare for whatever comes next.
My injuries are...well, they're nothing compared to what could have been. A few cuts and bruises, some minor burns. But there's one that's different. One that stands out. It's on my arm, a thin line that runs from my shoulder to my elbow. It's not deep, not life-threatening. But it's there, a constant reminder of what I've done, of what I've survived.
Alistair hates it. He can't stand to look at it, his jaw clenching every time he sees it. I don't blame him. If it were on him, or on Hestia, a permanent mark like this from our enemies would piss me off too. But it's on me, and I... I don't mind it. I don't even think I hate it.
"It's a mark." I tell him when he brings it up again, his eyes dark with anger. "Better than most of us. It's not like I lost the arm-"
"That's not the damn point!" He snaps, pacing back and forth in our room. "You shouldn't have any marks! You should be fine! We should be-"
"I know." I interject, softening my voice. "I know, Alistair. And I appreciate that you're worried about me. I do. But this... it's not a big deal." I look down at the mark, tracing it with my fingers. "It's a sign. A symbol. Proof that I survived. That I fought back. And... that I'm still me."
His hazel eyes snap up to me, and his jaw loosens just the slightest bit. "Sarah..."
"I'm still Sarah." I tell him, meeting his gaze. "They didn't take that from me. Not ever."
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then, without a word, he turns and stalks towards one of the shelves. I watch, confused, as he rummages through the supplies, his movements quick, jerky. He mutters something under his breath, something I can't quite make out, but it sounds like a curse.
Finally, he turns back to me, something in his hand. I can't see what it is from where I'm sitting.
"Alistair, what are you doing?"
"Shut up." There's no heat in his words, just... exhaustion. Tension. "And hold out your arm."
I blink, surprised, but do as he says. I hold out my arm, the one with the burn, and watch as he approaches. Once he's closer, I realize what he's holding with a start and immediately pull back my arm. "What the hell, Alistair?!" I yelp. "You can't-"
"I can." He insists. "You-!" He stops himself, closing his eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath and then releasing it. "Sarah. Trust me. Please."
I stare at him, my heart racing. Trust him? With...with one of those branding pens? Why...? Isn't he the one who hated it, who flung it across the room? Who snapped one with his bare hands? I don't understand, I...
But I do trust him. I do. So I swallow my fear, my apprehension, and hold out my arm again. I just... I can't deny him when he asks me like that.
"Good." He nods, moving closer, the pen in hand. He's gentle, careful, as he touches it to my skin. "This will hurt. It's quick, but it'll hurt."
I bite my lip, bracing myself. I know it will. If it's designed to burn a permanent brand I can't imagine it's gentle, and these aliens would have no reason to make it so. The tip of the pen touches my skin, and I can feel the heat, the sharp, searing pain. I grit me teeth and hiss. My eyes squeeze shut.
"Hold on a little longer..." He whispers.
I've never had a tattoo. Never seriously considered getting one. But I feel like... it's probably a little like this. But this is. Worse. It's over in... a minute? Two? But it feels like eternity. The worst kind of eternity. By the time he pulls the pen away, I'm breathing hard, my body slick with sweat, silent tears in my eyes.
He reaches up and gently swipes at the tears. I didn't even know he had put the pen down. "I'm sorry." He whispers.
I shake my head, my breath still coming in ragged gasps. "It's fine. It's... fine." I turn my head to try to look at it, but it's in an awkward position. I can't see it well. "What did you...?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
He doesn't answer, just takes my hand and leads me to the small, cracked mirror in the corner of the room. He positions me in front of it, my arm angled so I can see. And there, on my bicep, is a new mark. A brand. But it's not one they made. It's one he made.
The burn is still there, but now there's another one, overlapping it. I don't know how he did it, how he made it work. But there it is, black and stark against my skin. It's... it's a symbol. Two crossed blades, the tips pointing down, the handles crossed to make a V-shape. And on each of the handles, there's a flame, burning bright and fierce.
"It's..." I don't know what to say. It's beautiful. It's perfect. It's...
"Thank you." I whisper, my eyes meeting his in the mirror.
He nods, his expression softening, the tension in his shoulders easing. "It's a mark that means something, Sarah. A mark that says who you are. Not what they want you to be."
He touches my chin, tilts up my face to look at him. "No matter what happens...I want you to look at it. To touch it. And promise me again, that you'll never let them take you away from you." His eyes bore into mine. "Promise me, Sarah."
My hand gingerly reaches up to touch the crossed blades. It's still tender, still painful. But I don't care. I'll endure the pain for this.
"I promise." I whisper. "I'll always be Sarah."
"Good." He says, and then he pulls me into a kiss. It's not gentle, not soft. It's... I don't know how to explain it. It's not angry, but it's intense, passionate. It's like he's trying to pour everything he feels into it, everything he can't say in words.
And I... I respond in kind. I match his intensity, his passion. Because I feel it too. The anger, the pain, the determination. And more than that, the love. The love for him, for what he's done for me, for what we've been through together.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together. And for a moment, everything else fades away. The pain, the fear, the uncertainty. It's just us. Just this.
I turn my gaze back to the mirror then, admiring the art.
"I didn't know you could draw..."
He takes a step away from me and shifts awkwardly, rolling his shoulders, lightly touching the back of his neck with a hand. "Used to do designs for Amber's stuff..."
"How did you... think of this design, anyway? It's so..."
"Simple?" He shrugs. "I just did what you did."
"I... what?"
He looks at me then, as if I've said something strange. "On the banner? I saw it when I saved you. You crossed out their stupid symbol and put that one over it. It looked good, so..." He shrugs. "I tried to replicate it."
I stare at him, then back at the mark on my arm.
That's...not what I did.
I mean... I did cross out the symbol. And I vaguely remember... the bullets hitting the fabric near my hands. But...
Oh my god.
"I- I just drew an X..." I cover my mouth with my hand.
"Wh-what?" His brow furrows. "No, you didn't. There were the flames- that absolutely wasn't an x!" He gestures vaguely, as if that would show me.
"I-! I'm bad at drawing!"
"AN X?" He barks a laugh. "Like, a letter 'x'? It was clearly two swords. And- I mean you might be shit at drawing, but you had the flames, too-"
"I didn't do the flames, Alistair, I think that was the holes the bullets made when they shot the banner!"
His eyes widen, his mouth opening, then closing.
We stare at each other a few moments.
He then gently places his palm on my forehead.
And shoves me back into bed.
He doesn't say anything. Just walks away.
"Alistair...!" I call after him, "Alistair!!" I sigh and flop down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
I can't help but laugh.
I'm....
Really terrible at drawing.
But... I love this brand. And I don't care what it means.
It's the best gift anyone's ever given me.