The Woman in White

Constance brushed her hair to the side. She gave a soft smile to her son, looking into his eyes. They wandered, not paying her much attention, arms waving to his side. The woman chuckled. Rocking him back and forth in her arms, she sat him down into his crib. It began to sway back and forth after a quick incantation, as the Lady of House Ducall let out a weary sigh. She closed her eyes a moment, breathing deeply through her nose. Rubbing her eyelids, she took a moment to simply rest. It seemed moments like these had become ever rarer as of late, with the waging of war taking up much of her time. Donning a simple white dress, she sat in a creaky wooden chair next to a similarly old table. Her cabin was old, at least as old as she was. Hardly big enough even for just a woman and her child, it had come into her possession some time ago, though she tried to avoid thinking about the fates of its previous owners.
It was lonely, in this place. Alexander was mostly quiet, save for the occasional babble or cry. But for miles around, there was nobody else but them. Constance closed her eyes again, and thought of times now long gone. Her ascension to the highest echelons of their order. Her many years leading the most important operations. And... The days before that. The long years of study, and training. Countless drills, lectures, and lessons. Trials by fire, all of them triumphed over. Her old friends. Alex, Raphael, Lucien. How long had it been since she had seen any of them? How many of them were even left? Lucien hadn't truly been there in well over a decade, now. And the others were probably dead. She didn't even know. Constance thought about her family. Over two decades since she saw any of them. In truth, few memories even remained. She recalled the day she left home, and the glossy eyed look on her mothers face when she agreed to let her be taken away. Feint images of running through a grassy field with a young boy, her brother, she thought. What was his name? James? John? She didn't even know.
She jumped at the sound of knocking at the door. Her eyes flashed with darkness, the color of the night, as she approached. To her surprise, an older man stood in front of her; Professor Linhardt. A mentor for most of her life, and in some ways, a friend. Still, even as the man gave her a warm smile, she could see the screaming souls of the damned in his eyes; the eyes of a man who had slain more people than she had ever met.
"Constance, my dear!" he said. "I hope I am not interrupting your... erm, vacation."
"I'm afraid you are, Professor." she replied, though despite her annoyance, her voice remained calm. The wrinkled man clasped his hands together, chortling.
"Now now my dear, no need to call me Professor anymore! We're of equal position now, don't tell me you've forgotten!"
He laughed at the absurdity of such a thing. Constance shared the laugh, though she did not mean it. Equals? How could they ever truly be equal? She eyed his clasped hands, covered in cuts and bruises, burn marks and electric scars. Indeed, the marks of nearly a hundred years of carnage extended across his hands, up to his arms, and beyond. The Professor never made any attempt to hide them, though few had time to see them before being destroyed.
"I haven't forgotten, Linhardt. But you are interrupting me. Why have you come?" said Constance, hands held behind her back, her posture upright, almost regal. 
Linhardt nodded, eyes narrowing slightly behind his old, fogged up spectacles. "Yes, yes, straight to the point, you're quite right. The master has summoned you, and it seemed... Urgent. I didn't have a chance to ask why."
Constance scoffed. "Very well. I'll be there soon." Her head crooked to the side, looking at the still-rocking cradle a few feet away from her. The Professor even being this close put her on edge, and her eyes remained the color of midnight.
Linhardt struck a similar pose, though not as uptight as Constance's. Hands behind his back, he gave a nod of courtesy. "Good, good! Oh, you might want to change outfits... That color just does not suit you!"
Grinning, the Half-Orc turned, stepping through a still shimmering gateway in the air, and was gone. Constance slammed the door before he even left, eyes returning to normal, ever so reluctantly. She approached the cradle, and picked her son up again. She held him closely, swaying back and forth again, reluctant to let go, though she knew she had to. The so-called caretakers she would have to leave him with did not instill her with confidence. Leaving him with anyone put a bad taste in her mouth, for that matter. In truth, she only really trusted one person with him, and that foolish, foolish man was doomed to fall to his own pride. If only he could see the folly in his actions. If only he knew how doomed he truly was, if he did not give in. Constance wondered why he refused to give up the fight, even if it was clearly a losing battle. She had asked the master to at least spare him, to give him to her custody, a suggestion that was met with only laughter, and then the grimmest of looks, a face like cold steel. Constance did not dare bring it up again. Especially not after what happened to Cordellia. 
Her eyes widened. They had slain Cordellia, defeated her twice over. Marneus, Linhardt, Claude, all beaten, and even Annette was seemingly captured, if she was not dead already. Was she wrong? Did they have hope? Could they truly defeat the master? Perhaps that foolish man was not as foolish as she thought.