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Up there— a small cabin. Abandoned, clearly, because the windows had been smashed in and the door is hanging ajar, allowing the rain to pour in. Catherine zeroes in without thinking and drags Shamir over wet pine needles and mud, as she’s half-stumbling and half-slipping and cursing under her breath. Yet, Shamir’s eerily calm for all that’s happening, in spite of the arrow sticking out of her back and the blood soaking into her jacket. Catherine can hear her breathing steady; in-out-out, in-out-out, in-out-out.
Shamir digs her heels in. In-out-out.
“Bad idea,” she says, tightly gripping Catherine’s wrist. Not the one that’s grasping Thunderbrand, but the one wrapped around her middle and keeping her upright. “We shouldn’t hide there.”
“Got any other suggestions, then?”
“The trees.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but I’m no good at climbing.” Not that she’d even be able to climb these trees when the rain is making the bark slick and slippery, anyway. Catherine drags her over the threshold and into the cabin. Broken furniture had been piled in one corner and a bedframe without a mattress graces the other side. A woodstove that probably hasn’t been used in a million years is the only thing left intact. “Staying still and concealing my presence isn’t really my style, either. But you already knew that, I’m sure.”
She isn’t sure why she’s joking at a time like this. They’re both soaked to the bone and Shamir is bleeding, and there are Adrestian soldiers hot on their trail, and who knows where Alois and the others are.
Shamir is staring intently at the floor, eyes wide. She shoves Catherine off of her and points, though her hand is trembling. Water drips from her outstretched fingertip.
“The floorboards.”
Catherine had grabbed what’s remaining of the door to prop it up, though it does little to block the rain. She holds it in place, shoulders hunched as her mind races.
“What about them?”
She decides the door isn’t worth salvaging and Catherine turns. Shamir is kneeling over and scratching at the floor. She looks up at Catherine. “A basement.”
Impatiently, urgently, she nudges Shamir aside and kneels beside her, blindly feeling along the rotted wood until she finds a gap— it’s slippery, because of the rain and mud, but she manages to pry it open. They’re greeted by musty darkness. It smells of rot and fungi.
Out there, in the storm, the thundering of hooves is faint in the distance.
“After you,” Catherine dryly says, though she’s gentle as she helps lower Shamir into the basement. The ladder is in no condition to use. Something in her chest tightens when Shamir’s breath stutters as she slips and drops the rest of the way down, but her boots audibly hit the ground with a splash and she can still hear her breathing.
“You alright?” Catherine calls down.
“Still in one piece,” comes Shamir’s response. There’s a pause. “Thunderbrand would come in handy right about now.”
That tightness in her chest relaxes, and Catherine allows herself to laugh in relief.
“Yeah, yeah. Get out of the way, or I’ll land right on top of you.”
No matter what’s happening with the Empire and the fragments of Faerghus and whatever Claude is doing with the Alliance, Lady Rhea will always be the priority. On that matter, Catherine and Seteth had easily agreed upon when they gathered what was left of the church’s followers after the attack on Garreg Mach. Shamir… didn’t need any convincing either, though Catherine is loathe to admit that Shamir probably isn’t doing this out of any real personal attachment to Lady Rhea.
Because that’s just the type of person she is.
But Shamir hasn’t left them in spite of these new wartime prospects, when business is booming for mercenaries all over Fódlan. There’s really no incentive for her to stay when the knights are barely getting on what’s left of the church coffer and the few donations that occasionally trickle in. That’s what Catherine had initially thought, and then she inwardly berated herself for having that much doubt in her partner.
She’s just… stressed about finding Lady Rhea. All of them are. Except Shamir.
Shamir never says things like don’t worry, we’ll find her or I’m sure she’s out there somewhere, understanding that useless platitudes would do nothing. But Catherine really could use those useless platitudes. Prayers, even. Their search had brought them to newly-acquired Empire territory, where they weren’t well-received as Knights of Seiros.
So Shamir took an arrow to her back, and for what?
Tell me she’s alright, Catherine wants to plead. Tell me we’ll find her. And she does nothing but hold onto Shamir, huddled in this damp and musty basement, listening to the pouring rain and the thumping of boots above their heads.
Tell me you’re alright.
The soldiers leave as quickly as they arrived at the cabin. Catherine and Shamir don’t move for a long time. All they hear is their own breathing and their heartbeats and the storm, and water dripping all around them.
Finally, when their joints begin to ache, Catherine ignites Thunderbrand.
“Not so close,” Shamir snaps, bleary-eyed. Her rhythmic breathing is less steady now, and Catherine tries not to be too rough as she turns her around to take a glimpse at that broken arrow shaft still sticking out from between her shoulder blades.
There’s a lot of blood. Hopefully most of that is just stained rainwater.
Her breathing is loud— except it’s not Shamir, it’s herself. Catherine pushes her hair out of her face and plants Thunderbrand in the mud to use both hands. She uses a small dagger to cut away the cloth surrounding the arrow, squinting to get a close look.
“I’m going to pull it out.”
“Don’t pull it out.”
“I’m going to pull it out!”
“Are you even liste—arghhh.”
Catherine triumphantly flings the arrow aside, and it clatters against stone. In Thunderbrand’s light, she can get a perfectly clear view of the wound once Shamir stops moving. “It wasn’t that deep at all. And it looks like it just missed your spine, too.”
Shamir scoffs. “Lucky me.”
Silence.
“Does it hurt?”
“You tell me. You yanked the arrow out.”
“You would’ve squirmed if I went slowly!” Catherine takes ahold of Shamir’s shoulders, squeezing. She can’t help herself, leaning in to press her nose against her hair, even when she smells like filth and droplets of water get into her nostrils when she inhales. Beneath it all, she finds Shamir’s familiar scent. Her racing heartbeat is beginning to settle; pulling the arrow out really was a gamble. “… I’m glad it isn’t anything serious.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it! I’ll fix you up, so just sit still for a little while longer.”
Shamir had already been trying very, very hard not to move, stoic and immobile even when the wound must be throbbing in pain. But she shifts on her knees at that declaration, brows furrowed in concern. “If you even think about using Thunderbrand to cauterize—“
Warm fingers graze against her throat, then her jaw, and Shamir automatically tenses up. She hadn’t even realized Catherine had taken her gloves off, and the feeling of bare skin upon bare skin raises goosebumps. Then, to her surprise, a mild warmth washes over her back, and the basement is illuminated just a bit more with the light of healing magic.
The pain is beginning to fade. Shamir wants to look behind her. “When did you…?”
“Shh, don’t talk. I need to focus,” Catherine says, her voice strained. But after a pause, she speaks. “Lysithea taught me the basics. Magic’s never really been my thing— but I figured knowing basic healing would come in handy.”
Thunderbrand’s light is dimming. That eerie red glow is soon replaced entirely with soft green, reflecting off the dirty puddles in the basement. It almost feels as though they’re in a cave with luminous moss, Shamir idly thinks. The warmth is hardly so soothing as Manuela’s healing, of course, but it’s rather astounding nevertheless.
She briefly wonders why Catherine never mentioned this pocket skill of hers, but decides against asking.
“I never thought I’d ever actually have to put my meager practice to use,” Catherine continues, when Shamir says nothing. “I’m no priestess or medic. My hands were made to swing a sword, not to close wounds. Look— this is the best I can do. I’m starting to wear out, so I’ll have to stop here.”
As she speaks, the warmth is beginning to fade. Shamir involuntarily shivers as Catherine lightly presses her palms against her shoulderblades, calloused and rough, their strength undeniable even with such gentle touches. Only then does she realize how light-headed she truly is— hungry and thirsty, too. The pain from her arrow wound must have distracted her from everything else.
“Catherine…” Shamir keeps her head bowed, allowing her to continue rubbing her back. The skin around the wound feels sore, and taut. She clearly hadn’t been able to heal her to the extent that a proper healer would have been able to do, but at least the bleeding had stopped and the wound shouldn't reopen.
“It’s not like you to worry. We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?”
“I’m not worried.”
“Well, good!”
It’s cold, and neither of them want to risk venturing out and bumping into any other Adrestians. Catherine removes all her armor— because the metal is cold, and she can hold Shamir close without discomfort this way. Which seems counterintuitive, given their silent agreement to stay alert and ready for a fight at any moment, but both of them are exhausted enough to let down that much of their guard.
Thunderbrand remains impaled in the mud beside them. Their eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and they feel the freezing chill within their boots, so they huddle together for warmth.
Shamir isn’t falling asleep. In-out-out, in-out-out, in-out-out.
“I think I owe you an apology,” she says, and Catherine’s nose shifts against the crown of her head.
“Mmh?”
“For putting you through all this trouble.” Consciously, she tries to soften her voice. “I would never tell you to leave me for dead, because I know that you’re too hardheaded to ever be that selfish.”
“Damn right,” Catherine murmurs.
“So… I should’ve been more careful, is what I’m trying to say. There was absolutely no reason for me to leave my back exposed.”
Catherine straightens up, loosening her embrace around Shamir. Reflexively, Shamir tries to press herself closer to her warmth.
“Then that was all on me. I should’ve had your back. Because I’m your partner.”
“Ugh, don’t try to bear the guilt yourself.”
“Well, well, look who’s feeling better enough to be a pain in my side!” Affectionately, because she can at least afford to be this brazen just for this moment, she takes ahold of her hair and presses Shamir’s face to her chest. For that, Catherine earns an annoyed grunt from her. “But seriously, there’s no point in figuring out who’s to blame. Let’s just say we were both being careless, alright? Equal fifty-fifty, as partners.”
Shamir makes another annoyed sound, but she isn’t trying to pull herself away.
“We also have the rain to thank for washing away our tracks,” Catherine murmurs, looking up at the floorboards above them. My damn Crest, she thinks. To think that such miserable weather could act as a boon in such dire circumstances.
Eventually, the rain does stop. Neither of them are certain exactly how long they’d stayed in the basement like that, curled up against each other for warmth and listening to the storm. But surely it must’ve been long enough that the soldiers are no longer sweeping the forest, so they gather their armors and weapons and hoist each other out of the basement.
Shamir winces as she slings her bow over her back, and Catherine takes ahold of her arm. Wordlessly, an understanding passes between them in but a split second, and Catherine releases her to allow her to stand on her own two feet.
“I was a bit scared, actually.”
Shamir looks at her from the corner of her eyes. The forest is beautiful after the rain, now that the sun is up and filtering through the canopy of leaves. They can finally breathe again.
“You only ever seem to be afraid when it comes to me.”
She says it matter-of-factly because it's true. Catherine doesn't bother denying it because it's true.
“I’m still afraid of losing you. It’s been worse lately, I’ll admit.”
The arrow had hit her and Shamir didn’t make a sound as she fell from her perch. And Catherine was a tempest, singlehandedly striking down soldier after soldier with Thunderbrand, voice hoarse and raw from her furious shouting before she’d realized Shamir had pushed herself up to spit mud from her mouth.
She’d never seen Thunder Catherine lose her composure like that before, not even when the news came to them that Rhea was nowhere to be found.
Shamir wonders about that.
There’s nothing she can say about it. Death had always been an occupational hazard, and now that rings true even more than before, when Fódlan is at war with itself and people are being cut down every single day. Shamir had already seen her fair share of war. She could simply abandon all these obligations and leave for her own sake.
But it’s no longer exactly for her own sake, either.
They both stop walking and face each other. Shamir places a hand on the back of Catherine’s neck, and their lips meet, chapped and dry and maybe not nearly as warm as they’d been when they held each other in that damp basement, but it’s enough for now. Catherine’s breath shudders against her mouth.
“… Let’s go find the others, Catherine.”
“Yeah."