Chapter Text
Run.
It was the only thought in Vynathr’s head. He had little practice running from people on flat ground, having always favoured staying in the trees and leaping branch to branch where others could not easily follow, but he knew how to keep himself going as fast as he could, how to force his mind and body to endure the strain of running long distances without breaks. His typical strategy was internal chants. Run, run, run, run, one, two, three, four, left, right, left, right. Heels struck the ground, toes pushed off. A bouncing stride, one that used each rock and dip as another foothold to give himself momentum. Adrenaline buzzed through him, a tingling sensation filling his limbs while his heart beat fast and hard. His eyes remained forward, absorbing each obstacle in his view without thinking about them. Instinct was faster. His legs were numb.
An arrow flew past the right side of his waist, and Vynathr swore he could feel the way it caught at the fabric of his shirt long before he felt the delayed pain of where it had torn along his side, thankfully not lodging there or striking too deeply. His breath caught, and without thinking, he threw himself to the left, tripping and turning that movement into a roll. The shock of hitting the ground jarred his thoughts back into place, and he scrambled back up without pause, throwing himself to the right again before another arrow could pierce him, and forward, ever forward. He did not trip this time.
Stupid. Stupid, dangerous. No. He could fix this. But he was too close. He had to put more of a distance between him and the archers. Weaving side to side would keep him alive for another moment, but he could only keep it up for so long. It would turn three malms into six. Think.
His eyes drifted to the east, where the mountain began to jut upwards. He couldn’t climb that fast enough to save himself, at least not high enough to warrant the effort, but the bandits didn’t know that, and they did know that he favoured heights. If he went in that direction, they would expect him to climb. He could use that.
Thus decided, his steps began to arc just slightly to his left, darting back right every few seconds, just enough to ensure that the archers anticipating the eastward movements didn’t shoot him down before the plan could finish. It took him longer than he’d have liked to get there, but the moment he did, the archers began shooting higher, and his left side was sheltered by the wall. As he’d predicted, he couldn’t climb higher without being shot, but whenever he spotted an easy slope, he began to run up it to sell the illusion that he planned to climb before dropping down to avoid getting shot. Just one more malm. Just one.
An arrow thudded into the back of Vynathr’s right shoulder and he gave a ragged scream, stumbling forward with the force of it. It was only by the miracle of adrenaline that he didn’t fall then and there. He needed healing. As fast as possible. His leather armour had slowed the arrow, but it was still buried there, almost a perfect mirror to the scathing spell wound on his left. He certainly couldn’t climb quickly now. Tears built in his eyes, but he gasped in a shaky breath and kept running. The mines were in sight, but he knew that they would not be the end of the chase, only a reprieve.
The mountains rose before him, sloping ever upwards, and just before them, the dark pit beckoned. The inverse of the light at the end of the tunnel to Thal’s Heaven of Fire, a promise of life if he could get there. The sight of it brought him to a second wind, and he picked up speed, running up the side of the mountain slightly before ducking right and darting into the entrance rather than continuing up the mountainside as he’d led the archers to expect.
The fastest route through the mines was another three malms, but it was a straight run forward. He couldn’t afford that, not when he was already injured. Deeper in, however… He took the first left turn he could find, then a right, random, every turn he found that wasn’t in a spiral. He couldn’t see, but his lance remained clutched in his left hand, dragging along the walls and keeping him aware. It was another bell before he finally slowed from his run and began to walk slowly, following the mine cart tracks.
Foolish, again, to get himself lost, but he was better off lost than dead. He was reaching his limit, exhaustion bringing an ache in his joints to combat the numbness of adrenaline and overuse, and he wouldn’t have survived any more thoughtless running with the archers still on his tail. Still, this wasn’t ideal. He was no healer, but he knew he couldn’t simply rip out the arrow in his arm without the proper steps to follow it up, and it was in a place he could not easily reach.
He could, however, teleport, now that he was far away enough to stop and concentrate without being caught. Vynathr slumped against one of the cave walls and slid down onto his knees, breathing slowly. In this state, every part of the teleportation spell felt more intense. Coordinates, aetheric patterns, paths, flows. He felt it all build as he focused, eyes closed, before the spell finally snapped into place and his stomach twisted. The aching, cold, numb rush of aether swept him away, and he opened his eyes to see the Black Brush Station before promptly falling forward onto his hands, jarring his injured arms. His breathing hitched, and he nearly gagged on the mix of nausea, dizziness and pain.
Slowly, absently, shaking arms bent until his face met the dusty earth. As he breathed in and out, all he could think of was the internal declaration that he would never teleport while injured or exhausted again. By the time he registered feet rushing in his direction, his eyes were slipping closed once more, and Vynathr drifted into unconsciousness long before the hands of the Blades lifted him up.
He could only barely recall it, the blurred scenery, the darkness, light, green, and forest. The thud of aching legs against hard-packed earth and the ragged sound of his heavy breathing against the powerful wind. Something was wrong, had gone sideways. The memory melted in his mind like sickly cotton candy on the tongue and faded to darkness. No, he had to get there. And so he did, on trembling legs, arrive, and the visuals whirled back together, a horrible puzzle of pieces, and Vynathr recoiled what he saw.
Bodies. They spun in the powerful wind like poorly handled marionettes on singular strings, lifeless and empty, man and Ixal equal in death. That same wind dragged him in, inexorably, uncaring of his scrambling at the earth, until he was caught in the midst of the storm, nowhere near escape and nowhere near the eye. Vynathr’s hands were clamped over his ears, but even through them, he could hear the screaming gale and the sickening thuds of flesh against wood where the corpses were flung into the trees. Tears streaked his cheeks, and the wind left thin cuts even when the twigs and leaves carried by it didn’t pierce his skin, so delicate next to the thick feathers and scales of his Ixali family. His own cries disappeared in the cacophony, and before him, he could see the survivors in the eye of the storm, arms raised and hands outstretched in religious fervour to the monster which hovered before them. Their prayer served a thrumming undertone to Her laughter.
He had to run. He had to run and hope that She would not chase him, pray for Her mercy. For the first time since he’d been eight years old, Vynathr prayed to Halone, too, prayed that She would save him from Garuda.
Vynathr woke with a rattling gasp, lurching upwards and clutching at his shoulder. The chirurgeon at his side pulled her hands back, then gently grabbed him, patting his back until his breath slowed and steadied.
“Shh, it's alright. You're safe, see? Breathe… that's it. I'm just healing your wounds.”
Gods, he could never quite get over the furious itching that came with healing. To hear more experienced adventurers and nobles tell of it, the more expensive mages and chirurgeons could soothe the itch as they worked until one felt nothing at all save a soothing warmth or coolness, or alternately heal so quickly that the itching simply had no time to register, but Vynathr did not have the funds for that, nor did a simple train station. With the severity of his wound, the itching was combined with pain, which had awakened him, and he was distinctly aware of his aching legs and all the other nicks and scratches he'd taken from grazing arrows. No wonder he'd dreamt of…
Vynathr shook his head, then shifted, laying back down to allow the chirurgeon to work. She did so, and Vynathr tried not to flinch at the sensation of flesh knitting together with the aid of stitches or the wave of exhaustion which hit him. Another scar for the collection, in all likelihood. Then came his other shoulder, which was not quite so severe. When she reached for his smaller cuts, however, Vynathr held up a hand to stop her.
‘I cannot afford these.’
The chirurgeon paused, then nodded and sat back.
“Fair enough. Probably not the best idea to heal you much further in your state, anyroad. It would exhaust you even more than you already were.”
Vynathr nodded back, taking a slow breath as he sorted his thoughts, then began to sign once more.
‘Where am I? What do I owe you?’
“An inn at the Black Brush Station, and nothing. Captain Leofric sent a message bidding me heal you as best I could until either you were conscious and refused further treatment, or you were fully well. With that in mind, I can try to tackle those smaller cuts, but you might grow more exhausted, and be hungrier.”
Vynathr considered this, taking a moment to mentally catalogue said smaller cuts and weigh the benefits. Exhausting himself further right then would likely have consequences the next day, and he’d only just awakened. He needed to eat and rest far more badly than he needed to get these smaller wounds handled.
‘Would it be possible to get them healed tomorrow? I do not quite have the strength for it at the moment.’
“Certainly. I will be here at the clinic if you seek me out.”
The chirurgeon would likely be paid not a flat rate, then, but by how much she did. Otherwise, she would have refused the further inconvenience of finishing up at another time when it could be handled now, or he could simply walk them off. Or perhaps he was assuming poorly of a woman who truly meant him well—he couldn’t tell.
‘Thank you, madame.’
“Of course.” The chirurgeon rose from her seat, dusting off her skirt and offering Vynathr a smile. “Is there anything else you need? I can ask someone to bring you a meal. Oh—and the messenger wished me to tell you to return to Lost Hope as soon as possible.”
Ah. Vynathr shifted, sitting up and leaning his back against the wall, pillows supporting him as well as they could. He would probably be able to make it within the day, or in the morning, depending on how bad his wounds were. It was then that he realized his shirt had been removed to access the wounds on his shoulders, and he glanced around before realizing a new one was on the bedside table, which he pulled on, wincing at the dull ache that came when he lifted his arms. Healing magic could do quite a bit, but his body had not yet realized that all was well, and the new scar tissue would take some time to stop being tender. The new shirt was a little stiff, not having quite the same comfort as his old, well-used one…
‘I would appreciate the meal and something to drink. Not alcohol. … Where is my shirt?’
“Hung out to dry on the line outside, ma’am.”
Vynathr’s brow furrowed in confusion as he adjusted his shirt. Why… Ah, his chest, probably. While he had a fairly masculine face, and had to shave every few days if he wanted to look presentable thanks to some stubble that wasn’t near enough to look like a decent beard, he could not quite escape the softness over the muscle on his chest when he took his shirt off, even if he didn’t think of it often.
‘I am a man.’
“Sir. Apologies.”
‘No need. I care not. I assume the shirt is out to dry because the blood was washed out?’
“Yes. We had to remove it anyroad to treat you safely and figured you would not want bloodstains. I hope that was alright?”
‘Of course. I only wished to know what still needed to be done.’
“The left shoulder is torn, unfortunately, and the right side has a tear on the waist and a hole on the back of the shoulder as well. You may have to replace it. By the way, that shirt you just put on is for you to keep, since the old one was so damaged.”
Vynathr sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. He’d quite liked that shirt… it was old and worn, but that was exactly what made it so soft and comfortable. This one was the right length, but it was too loose, leading Vynathr to think that it was likely made for a Roegadyn. Perhaps he could take it in and use the excess fabric for the patching.
‘Thank you. I’ll try to fix it, but the new one is appreciated as well.’
“Of course. Though it was the Blades who provided it. I think one of them simply happened to have an extra.”
“Mmh.” Vynathr let the sound express his neutrality on the subject, then shifted, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and tried to stand. The chirurgeon rushed over, hands hovering uncertainly under his shoulders in case he fell, but he carefully nudged her away from him, bracing a hand on the wall instead. If he fell, he’d rather hit the ground than accidentally fall on top of the very woman who had healed him only moments ago.
Thankfully, he did not fall, managing to stand with the wall’s support, but it came with a wave of nausea, dizziness, and a weakness in his legs he didn’t much like, so after a few moments, he slowly sat back down, shaking his head. The healing had done its job, and he would be well and able to move around and work before long, but climbing, fighting, and running for malms had taken its toll on him, and healing wounds took something from the body. Much as he would like to be able to take his shirt and go, he would have to sit here and hope that the food would make him steady again.
“Thal’s— ahem . Don’t do that, please.” The chirurgeon moved closer once again, hands reaching out as if to try to heal some nonexistent issue and instead fumbling for a moment before adjusting Vynathr’s shirt.
‘Apologies. I wanted to see for myself how bad it was.’
“Not horrible, you just need some food in you, but still. If you had fallen and hit your head, you would have needed more healing and more food. Be more cautious.”
‘Understood.’ The sign came tiredly, an absent raise of the finger followed by an immediate drop as Vynathr felt his body register the effort he’d just exerted, and the chirurgeon sighed in response, stepping back.
“If I had realised how unsteady you’d be, I wouldn’t have offered to heal your cuts before. I’m glad you refused… I’ll have someone get you that food now, then. Don’t move, alright? And don’t fall back asleep.”
At Vynathr’s hum of acknowledgement, she left, and he shifted once again, carefully moving to lean back against the headboard while his hand crept under his shirt to take inventory of his wounds. Somewhere in his mind, there was an inkling that perhaps this chirurgeon was not particularly experienced if she had been unable to anticipate the approaching limits of what his body had to give, but it was no matter. She had not gone beyond the limits, and perhaps the experience would teach her. It didn’t affect him either way.
The idea of suggesting some training in Gridania crossed his mind, but ultimately, Vynathr cast it aside. Many conjurers learned there, and there were places to learn in Ul’dah as well—this woman had likely learned under them, and had done perfectly well. He didn’t exactly have much experience with conjury, but he had a feeling that recognizing the limits of a body’s aether had more to do with experience than tutoring. Her chirurgeon’s garb indicated her focus and experience were likely more dedicated to the stitches over his ribs where the arrow had hit him than managing how much he’d have to eat afterwards, anyroad.
After a few minutes, a knocking sound drew him from his thoughts, and Vynathr lifted his head in time to see a different woman enter, bringing with her a tray bearing bread and soup, still steaming. Hunger twisted in Vynathr’s stomach at the sight and smell, and he sat up carefully, holding out his hands to accept the tray and signing enthusiastic thanks the moment they were free again. The bowl of soup was the first to go, devoured in moments, and before long, the bread followed, relief flooding his body far faster than anticipated. It was rare he received magical healing to this degree, and thus rare that he experienced the side effect he had heard referred to as ‘aetheric hunger’, but he would never forget the first time he had, many years ago, and how instant the relief had been once food was in his mouth.
“Feeling better?” The woman smiled, taking the tray back from him. “I can bring you some more, but I was told to start with small portions.”
‘Significantly. Yes, please.’ Vynathr signed, once again moving to get up. He could actually do it this time, so he thought for a moment and signed again. ‘I will be able to take the next serving myself and eat it in a common area if you show me the way. I wish to go and get my shirt where it was drying.’
“... If you’re certain. But I will remain at your side for a while to make sure you’re steady, alright?”
‘Very well.’
Vynathr walked carefully to his pack, removing the smaller first aid kit inside to reach and pull out a smaller pouch which held held loose scraps of fabric, a few spools of thread, a small pair of scissors (which had been somewhat expensive, but made his life much easier), and a few bone needles. The sewing kit being in the same pack as the first aid one was largely a matter of convenience, ensuring it didn’t get lost in his larger bag, but it worked out well this time. Then, he made his way to the door, minding his step as he went. He felt much steadier, but caution would serve him better than rushing—he had little interest in overestimating himself and letting his face meet the floor. All the while, the woman kept at his side, hands held anxiously ready, until they were both down the hall and stairs, at which point both Vynathr and the woman felt comfortable letting their guards down.
‘Thank you. I believe I have it.’
“It seems that way… I’ll put an order in. I believe the shirt will be hung with the rest of the laundry, around the corner to the right as you’re stepping outside.”
‘Understood.’
After some wandering, Vynathr found that the shirt was, indeed, where the woman had described, drying on one of the lines strung between the inn’s wall and a pole. It had been somewhat in the middle of them, hard to get to between the larger sheets billowing in the wind and obstructing Vynathr’s view, but when he found it, it was dry, that very wind and the desert sun making short work of the matter. Indeed, the shoulders were torn and the side ripped open, but now that he had it in his hands, instead of trying to visualize the damage based on his injuries, Vynathr was able to determine that it would only need some patching on the shoulder and stitching on the side, far from beyond repair. A sigh of relief left him, and he began to make his way back inside, shirt draped over his arm.
“Adventurer!”
Vynathr turned, lifting his head. A man was approaching, armor-clad—a Brass Blade. Vynathr subtly reached into his sewing supplies, grabbing his pair of scissors, though he left his hand in the pouch. Should have thought to grab his knife before leaving his room…
“I am sent by Captain Leofric. You are the one who slew the Quiveron leader, yes?”
Ah. Vynathr released the needle and closed the box, pulling his hand out of the pouch and nodding.
‘I am. What of it?’
“On reconsideration, the Captain has decided that he should not bid you make the trek to Lost Hope alone, lest the bandits spot you and take revenge. You are to be accompanied by myself.”
‘I have a meal waiting for me. ’ That, and he would much prefer to see the chirurgeon again to get her word on whether he should travel before he left.
“Oh—we needn’t leave immediately, worry not.” The man chuckled, giving one of those awkward smiles many presented to people they were trying to humorously relate to. “I only just arrived, myself! The chocobo needs a break, and so do I. Er—unfortunately, there’s only the one, and I don’t think she’s quite big enough for you…”
‘That is alright.’ Vynathr hadn’t expected otherwise. There certainly were chocobos fit for a man his size, but they were a minority, typically owned by Roegadyn men. While he might have appreciated it, he’d yet to ever ride one, even if they were common enough, thanks to their generally requiring a permit to own privately, and otherwise needing to be rented. The Blades could buy permits from their own organization, but even then, only about half of them owned a bird. Vynathr had only spotted the one at Lost Hope, presumably belonging to this man, though he supposed there was a chance that there was another that had been out on patrol. Either way, the chance of his being leant one simply because he’d been injured and healed was unlikely.
“Oh, good. Well, simply find me if you decide you can make the trip today. Otherwise, I will wait for you here in the morning.”
Vynathr nodded and stepped away, taking a moment to make sure the man wasn’t following before he turned his back and headed inside. He… Did not like that. It made sense; the man had likely been ordered to make sure he was well. Perhaps he was simply being paranoid thanks to his general dislike of the Blades and their corruption, but he was not much fond of the concept of having his healing monitored by them to ensure he would comply and go where he was told, even if it was out of concern.
It didn’t matter. He planned on meeting Leofric as he’d been told and seeing whatever mission he was given through. Perhaps after he was finished with Leofric and Fufulupa, though, he would try to take a break from working with the Blades for a while. It would likely do him well, even if it had brought him some satisfaction to aid the people of Lost Hope.
Vynathr settled at a table, laying his torn shirt out before him and pulling out his box of needles and thread to get to work. Sorting through his pouch, he was able to find a square of fabric from a previous garment that had become damaged beyond repair, suitably sized for the project.
The most unfortunate part of the damage to his shirt was the shoulder, by far. He was only lucky it was a scathing spell and not a fireball. Arrows were neat, precise, the hole in one shoulder was repaired with only a few stitches, and the side would be more of the same, though it did have some tearing. Magic, despite taking great precision to cast, did not have nearly as much precision on the receiving end when it came to damaging spells. His shoulder had been both cut, hit with the force of it, and magically burned, not with fire, but with pure energy, as if someone had thrown an object with force great enough to travel straight forward, and said object had exploded on impact, albeit only mildly. His shirt had been ripped jaggedly by it, both on entry of the spell to hit him in the first place and in the release of energy after collission, bursting outward with all the grace a fist tearing through tissue.
By the time the damaged fabric was cut off and the patch pinned in place, Vynathr’s food was prepared. By the time he was finished with his food and repairing his shirt, it had only been an hour, half of that time spent eating. The shirt had been finished, the new seams made to have the sewing on the outside rather than inside, in hopes of making them unnoticeable to the touch when worn, even if it meant they would be more visible to others.
Thus having few other excuses, Vynathr rose, making his way to the counter to ask for the chirurgeon. The clerk hurried off down a hall to get her, and Vynathr stood waiting, somewhat wishing he’d gone to put away his shirt and sewing supplies first.
“Ah, you.” The chirurgeon emerged from the hall behind the clerk, smiling up at Vynathr as she approached. “Are you thinking of leaving?”
‘I am. The aetheric hunger has left me; I feel well, aside from that which could not be healed.’
“Wonderful. Just those scrapes and bruises…?”
‘Aye.’ Vynathr paused, shifting his shoulders. They both hurt a bit, as did his side when pressed on, but it felt more like a bruise. ‘And an ache left behind by the larger wounds.’
“That will happen, unfortunately. Any dizziness?”
‘Not anymore, no.’
“Good. Here, take this with you. Don’t drink it all at once, balance it with plenty of food, and keep any open scrapes covered to prevent infection. That should accelerate your healing—the minor things will be gone ere tomorrow, and the deeper aches soothed within the sevenday, more likely half of it. Seek another healer should anything not follow that.”
The woman handed Vynathr a potion, which he accepted and took a moment to attach to his belt before bowing deeply to her in gratitude.
‘Thank you, madame.’
“No need,” she replied, “it’s my job. Go, get your things. And travel safely.”
Vynathr rose from his bow, nodding.
‘Very well. I will try.’ With that, he left upstairs, putting his sewing supplies back in the first aid kit pouch and tying his shirt around his waist. It was time to return to Lost Hope.