Moira Brighton

She was resplendent. Through the pain and the shock, John was struck with an all-encompassing awe. Moira’s armor gleamed in the cavern’s crystalline luminescence as if it were polished silver. Her hair billowed in the wind of her own movement, bright and red and shimmering. There was grace in her stance, but also power, the power to effortlessly block a weapon larger than herself. She exuded the sanctimonious might of her station with every tiny movement. John beheld her and felt no fear, for who could be afraid when shielded by a Warden? He understood now why she evoked such loyalty in her knights.

The Gnoll was just as dumbfounded, but less stunned. She could at least process the unexpected interruption quickly enough to straighten back up and prepare for a second strike. Moira was on her before she could even begin to lift her weapon again, slipping into her guard with confident, fluid footwork. The size difference was striking, but Moira moved without the slightest hint of hesitation. Her hammer rose as swift as lightning in an underhanded swing that practically carried the rest of Moira’s body with it, reaching high enough to collide with the towering Gnoll’s chin. The impact barely slowed the hammer’s momentum. It crushed the lower jaw and sent shards of shattered teeth flying in all directions. There was a loud crack, and the Gnoll’s neck tore open with a sickeningly wet sound as her head was nearly ripped clear off her body.

+20 exp

The last surviving Gnoll’s startled cackle was anything but a laugh. It stumbled backwards and attempted to hobble away at whatever speed it could manage on an injured leg, leaving behind its dead companions and their kill. It was a useless endeavor; even John could have caught up to him after enough time to heal. Moira closed the distance in no time at all, with the same dull boom and rush of air John had heard before. Stopping just ahead of it, she gave it enough time to acknowledge her presence and accept its fate before caving in its snout with her shield. It collapsed, and John could see Moira’s face for the first time since she intervened. He remembered when she’d accosted him and threw him into that empty classroom last week, how spine-chillingly cold her gaze was in spite of the blazingly imperious aura she projected. That day had terrified him, but it was a pale shadow of what he witnessed at present. For a brief moment, John pitied the barely conscious Gnoll for being the recipient of such condemnation, right up until Moira rose her boot and crushed its skull with a blood-curdling squelch.

+40 exp

And then it was quiet once again. It was eerie to hear nothing but the gentle trickling of the water and his own labored breathing. Even if it had only been for a few frantic moments, the shouting and barking and crashing noises of frantic combat had ended so abruptly that it felt as if something was missing. A heavy sense of foreboding troubled John. He dared not speak and break the atmosphere. Instead, he watched Moira with rapt attention while his wounds gradually healed. She, like the rest of the environment, was motionless for quite a while, staring down at her own viscera covered foot. It didn’t do much to assuage John of his trepidation. What came next? Moira was impossible to read.

“I…” John said, falteringly. His tongue caught in his throat. Talking hurt more than expected, and he was too astonished at the turn of events to form a coherent sentence in his head. Moira turned at his feeble attempt to communicate and began to walk, one meticulously deliberate step at a time, in his direction. It may have only taken her a moment to rocket across the ground, but her pace was painstakingly slow to return. She stared at John all the while, her face ever the mask of impassiveness. By the time she had reached him, he’d yet to move an inch. All John could do was meet the cold emerald eyes gazing down at him. They weren’t haughty, nor were they pitying or condescending. She simply observed for a prolonged second.

“You did better than expected,” she said, “all things considered.”

“Wait - what??” John was thunderstruck. The absolute last thing he expected to come out of the paladin’s mouth was praise.

“You didn’t stand a chance, but you killed one and very nearly defeated another,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Odds are likely it would have succumbed to its wounds before long. Gnolls are far from medical experts, after all.”

“Hold on - ow,” John sputtered as he tried to prop himself up, “why did you save me?”

Shockingly, Moira let out a pained, rueful sigh and broke eye contact as she knelt down beside him. She cast her eyes instead across his broken and battered body.

“You truly think that little of me, don’t you?” she said. John continued to be utterly flabbergasted. If she had told him that up was down and right was left, he may well have believed her, for as much sense as he could make of the situation. “Lay back down.”

“I don’t understan - ow, ow owowow!” John winced in pain as Moira stiffly but not maliciously placed a hand on his chest and **** him onto his back once more.

“You really believed that I would have stood back and watched you die right in front of me?” she asked, meeting his eyes again as a warm, golden energy began to gather around her hands. This time, her eyes had a distinct tinge of restrained sorrow. “How heartless I must be in your eyes.”

“But… you told me yourself that you would!” John protested, despite the sharp pain in his lungs from shouting. It was already subsiding, thanks to Moira’s healing touch, but that didn’t change how remorseful he suddenly felt. Remorse, of all things, for the girl who was putting him through this hell. He chided himself for letting her pretty face and pouty lips get to him so quickly.

“And you believed me,” she replied, moving her hands further down his chest. It was a strangely sensual motion, wildly unbefitting of both her usual demeanor and the situation at hand. “You wouldn’t have believed me if you didn’t already think there was a chance it would be true.”

“Hold on!” John shouted again and tried to sit up, only to be forcibly shoved back down by Moira’s blatantly superior strength. Annoyance and aggravation started to take root where shock and awe had once been. “What happened to that whole ‘I say what I mean and I mean what I say’ shtick? Was that bullshit too?”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t lie,” Moira spat back. Her equally aggrieved expression and the **** she used to get John to submit to her treatment were at odds with how tender the treatment itself was. Everywhere her glow enveloped him felt simply wonderful, like basking in the grass on a sunny spring day, and her touch was embarrassingly soothing. The likewise unfitting arousal returned as well, stronger this time, building a slight flush in John’s cheeks. “I don’t like to lie,” she added, “I’m quite terrible at it, really, but I still can.”

“Why??” John demanded. It was Moira’s turn to grow red in the face and flustered by their exchange. Again, John berated himself for getting caught up on how annoyingly cute she was when she blushed. Now was hardly the time for daydreaming about girls, let alone Moira. “Why the hell would you lie about this?”

“Because I wanted to be able to trust you!” she shot back, pointed and dramatically more troubled than John had expected. The comforting warmth in her hands faded and she fell back to sit on her heels, her eyes askance. It was the first time John had seen Moira with anything less than perfect posture. “I wanted…” She sighed again, shook her head, and slumped even more. Suddenly aware, she overcorrected and straightened her back again in a way that looked distinctly uncomfortable. “You wouldn’t understand; forget about it. Yes, I was testing you, and you passed.”

John blinked several times in silence, incredulous and swimming in a heady torrent of mixed emotions. He bought himself some time to come up with a response by propping himself up on his elbows again and, when that proved to be painless, rising enough to sit cross-legged in front of Moira. He was grateful, he was relieved, he felt remorse for snapping at her, but he was still pissed off, and kind of horny on top of all of that. What he wouldn’t give to trim that list down to just two contradicting emotions, at least then he’d have an idea where to start. Instead, they sat on the cold, stone floor in complete silence, neither looking at the other.

With flared tempers reduced to a simmer, John had time to think about everything. Most importantly: what the hell Moira’s whole deal was. She’d been harsher and even more distant than usual ever since John had accidentally brought them into the Abyss and she’d done nothing to dispel the notion that she felt anything but contempt for him. She continued to present herself as an upstanding righteous leader even while keeping John well aware that she’d rather watch him die than help him. Now she tells him that was a lie this entire time? Not only that, but she’s upset about him taking her at her word. Was she just trying to save face in spite of protecting him when she insisted she wouldn’t? A little retcon to make herself feel better for not being able to follow through on her threat? Nothing she did ever made any sense unless John looked at it through the lens of her just deliberately fucking with him.

Actually, John had to admit to himself that that wasn’t necessarily true. Sure, it did make sense if he looked at it that way, but that didn’t mean it was the only perspective that made sense. If Moira was telling the truth now, it explained how blatantly contradictory she’d been this whole time. Hell, he even noticed for himself how strange it was that she’d let him die but wouldn’t even entertain the idea of allowing him to sleep unsheltered. She even let him stay in the tent after laughing at her pajamas and committing blasphemous taboo by taking off his pants. She healed him, she gave advice on how to fight, and she even slipped up and reminded him that he was under her protection. John’s stomach tied itself in knots.

If anything didn’t make any sense, it was the fact that he didn’t realize she was lying sooner. She never had any intention of letting him die. Why would she? How cruel would someone have to be to do something like that?

“Oh,” John said. He slouched even more, enough for the two of them. One emotion finally won out among the chaotic tide, and now that remorse weighed down on him like his bones were made of lead. “You’re right,” he added, after a while. “I believed you. I one hundred percent thought you were the kind of person who would stand by and not even lift a finger while I died in front of you."

Moira lifted her glistening green eyes to look at him, but said nothing. Her expression was as stoney as ever, but in a new way. She wasn’t wearing her semi-permanent scowl like usual, she looked tired. The way the shadows fell on her normally soft features drew lines and cast her in a vaguely grim light. Her eyebrows tightened a moment later, bringing her closer to form, but John would remember how that new, mysterious side of Moira looked.

“You’ve been protecting me all along, haven’t you?” John spoke up again when it seemed like Moira might be opening her mouth to say something. “Not with your shield, but by teaching. The first lesson of combat…”

“‘Every fight is a fight for survival,’” Moira repeated Erica’s words with the same gravity she had first delivered them to John. “If I fought your battles for you, you would have felt like I was coddling you and rejected my help.” Moira let out one more exasperated sigh. “But if you knew I would step in and save you, you would not have fought your hardest to survive. You’d get sloppy and maybe make a mistake that could get you killed before I could intervene. Even if you lived, I’d be standing between you and learning what you need to last more than a few weeks in the Abyss.”

“And it worked, because I hated you,” John admitted.

“That would seem so,” Moira agreed. John’s already knotted stomach flipped over a few times as he caught a glimpse of dejection behind Moira’s words.

“I’m kind of awful, aren’t I?” John’s head sank. He had, once again, managed to be a complete and utter disappointment. Improved charisma be damned, he was still just a fuck-up.

“I don’t blame you,” Moira said, voice as soft as if she was far away. She rearranged her legs to mirror John’s. He believed her, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t upsetting. “I’ve given you plenty of reasons to dislike me.”

“But you helped me even though you knew I hated you enough to call you a bitch to your face,” John countered, not content to simply accept her acceptance. “Why?”

“Because that’s what a Warden does,” Moira shot back, regaining a portion of her ferocity. “My duty is to protect those that need protecting. What you think of me is irrelevant.”

“I’ve called you a bitch in my head a few more times since we got here, you know,” John said, trying to channel a bit of glibness. He managed half of a weak smirk.

“I’ve assumed.” Moira shot back a flat look, but her eyes looked brighter and she ended it with an almost playfully dismissive scoff.

“I still sorta do think you’re a bitch,” John added. It was true. Revelations notwithstanding, it was hard to simply swing a one-eighty on his opinion of her. Parts of him still bore legitimate resentment for the Paladin. “In my defense, you did manipulate me, even if it was for my own good.”

“I know.” Moira looked off again, but up, this time, in reflection. “I would feel the same way if I were you.”

“You sure about that?” John quirked a brow. “I’ve been told I can hold a grudge.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Moira met eyes with John again, nodding with confidence. “My father did the same thing to me when I was younger.”

“Oof,” was all John could really come up with. Even having just been through it, he couldn’t imagine how vitriolic his emotions would be if he was convinced his own father would be willing to let him die. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” Moira said.

“Twelve!?” John was aghast. “You were just a kid! Holy fuck, that’s brutal!”

“We come from very different places, you and I,” Moira said, “but you’re right. I despised him. I wouldn’t say a word in his presence for a week afterwards.”

“I think just a week is being generous, if you ask me,” John said.

“My mother agreed with you. It was nearly a month before she would even allow him to be in the same room as her.” Moira spoke with the ghost of a smile on her face. John had forgotten that for all the pomp and circumstance of being a Brighton, they probably had their own share of family drama. Weird family drama, but family drama nonetheless.

“Your dad-” John paused to conjure up the intimidating image of Lord Brighton in his head. Even the thought of being subjected to his frigidly piercing eyes sent a chill down his spine. “Your dad, who could probably stare down a charging rhino and win, was sent to sleep on the couch?”

To that, Moira laughed. A genuine, if brief, flutter of giggles. John’s heart, which had sunken down with his turbulent gut, skipped a beat.

“My mother was a kind and beautiful soul, gentle as snowfall,” Moira said. “But when her anger was roused, not even my father stood a chance before her. He may as well have tried to put out a blazing bonfire with a thimble, for all the good his strength of presence was.”

John didn’t miss the notes of sadness that tinted Moira’s smile, nor how she had referred to her mother in the past tense. That would be a can of worms for another day, he decided, but it did effectively end the conversation. Moira must have noticed too, because she fell back into a neutral expression and let their rapport fall away. A minute passed in poignant silence.

“We should get going, shouldn’t we?” John finally asked, eyeing the carnage around them. Surrounded by monster guts was a strange place to have an even stranger heart-to-heart.

“That we should,” Moira said. She pushed down on her knees and rose to her feet in one swift motion, then extended a hand to help John up. “Come on.”

John took her hand and let her heft him up without complaint.

“The rest of this trip is going to be pretty awkward, isn’t it?” he said, not quite looking Moira in the eyes.

“It might,” Moira replied, “but it might not. It hasn’t even been a day and you’re already speaking to me again.”

“Huh.” John mused on what an obstinate and grumpy adolescent Moira must have looked like while ignoring her father. For some reason, he envisioned her in the girliest, pinkest room he could imagine. He offered her a small smile. “Guess I don’t hate you that much.”

“I don’t hate you that much either, John Newman.” Moira smiled back.