Chapter Text
Sand and wind roared in Nozel’s ears. The fine grains dashed against his skin as he was thrown off his feet and sent sprawling through the air. He thrashed to and fro, trying to locate the ground long enough to get his mercury pedestal under him. Through the roar of the wind, voices failed to reach him in their entirety: The Silver Eagles and the Crimson Lions all grew more distant in the moments before he was slammed to the ground.
The impact knocked the wind out of him, and it seemed, out of the air around him as well. He laid face-down in the sand as the heat of the sun bore down on him. His Silver Eagle cape felt heavy and hot on his back.
Spitting out a mouthful of sand, he lifted his head. All around him, dunes cut into the clear blue sky. The sun beat down on him from directly overhead, and the air had the temperature and consistency of burnt toast. There were no signs of the two dozen knights and five rogue mages that he’d been fighting with just a moment earlier.
He dropped his forehead back into the sand. This was a McTastrophy. Twenty-four of the Clover Kingdom’s finest magic knights, sent to the far borders of their kingdom to recover an artifact in an artificial desert made on top of an abandoned town, scattered like roaches. Not nearly enough food. Not nearly enough water. No one with proper experience in the spatial magic that had caused this in the first place. This curse was completely out of their control, and Nozel was so disheartened he couldn’t even be properly livid about it. They’d been entirely unprepared.
Something struck his leg, somewhere between a tap and a kick. He bristled and rose to his knees, mercury swirling around him. But he relaxed when he recognized the tall, broad figure standing before him. Even with the man’s head in the sun, casting him in shadow, Nozel could not mistake his rival's silhouette or blazing mana.
“So you are conscious,” Fuegoleon observed. “Are you injured?”
Nozel scoffed. Of course he was, but not so badly that he had to point it out. He shook his head and rose, dusting the copious amount of sand out of his clothes and hair. “Do you have any idea where the others have gone?”
“No.” Fuego looked out at the dunes, his jaw set in consternation. “I cannot sense any powerful mana. We must have been transported quite a ways.”
No shit, Sherlock. Drawing in a deep breath that made his ribs ache, Nozel gathered mercury under his feet and lifted himself off the ground. As the platform widened into the shape of an eagle, it picked up Fuegoleon, too. “Then we’ll search. There must be something out here.”
The air grew hotter as they rose into the air. Nozel swabbed his brow with his sleeve and kept his eyes trained on the rolling hills of sand. The expanse of sand seemed endless and unbroken in every direction, and the sun was relentless, aided in its assault by the reflective nature of the mercury swirling at their feet. It was hot. And they’d been here long enough to know that it was unlikely to get cooler. The knights had suspected, before their ambush, that this spatial magic endowed this place with an endless sun.
“Your senses aren’t picking up anything, are they?” Nozel asked, expecting a predictable answer. His mana sensing capabilities were perfectly in-tact, but he could not afford to overlook that Fuegoleon’s were better.
“...No. Nothing.”
How grand. They were out here, in the middle of nowhere, all alone. He could only hope that their squads were faring alright without them. As the endless dunes continued to pass without a hint of familiar magic, he prayed that the others were able to escape and find the edge of this hellhole, so they could come back with reinforcements to find them.
The sun was not getting any lower in the sky, and Nozel was dripping with sweat. He was just about to shift out of his magic knight robe when a shift behind him made him turn. Fuegoleon had dropped his Crimson Lion robe and was pulling his hair back, tying it up and off his neck. His face was red and he looked pensive. Nozel decided that, for the sake of hubris, he would keep his robe on a little longer. “Feeling the heat, Vermillion?” he asked, turning his gaze to the sand again.
“Just a bit,” he murmured.
He tugged his sweat-soaked sleeve away from his wrist. His watch told him that they’d been at this for over two hours. Had the sun acted properly, they would be looking for a place to make camp.
Nozel surveyed the desert, hoping desperately that they would spot anything besides piles and piles of sand. Without so much as a disturbance in the cursed magic of this place to give them a direction, they would make no progress searching for their team today. He could feel that his face was burned to a crisp, and they were both in need of some rest. Under all this sand was buildings. If the spatial magic allowed it, they should be able to dig their way into some place where they could take shelter. “I’m going to land,” he declared. “It seems that we’ll have to dig up shelter if we want to get out of the sun.”
Fuegoleon didn’t reply, but Nozel didn’t wait for him to. They lowered to the ground, and the eagle dispersed as Nozel stepped into the sand. “I assume you’re not too tired to…”
His words petered out when he turned around. As the last of the platform disappeared from under his feet, Fuegoleon took one, two staggering steps, swayed like a sapling in the wind, and collapsed into the sand.
Nozel tensed. For an instant he stood poised, prepared for an attack. But none came; they were alone, and there was nothing to brace for. The realization dawned swiftly that this was not an external threat, and, heart pounding in his chest, he darted forward and rolled Fuegoleon onto his back.
The Vermillion’s face was beet red, and not from burned skin. His breathing was quick and shallow, and his mana rippled from him in sickly, uncontrolled waves. He radiated a fierce heat, and Nozel had to fight past the suffocating energy to get to him. He wiped the sand from Fuego’s eyes and landed a firm pat against his cheek. “Fuegoleon! Wake up!”
Fuego’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, before they closed again. His mana quivered like a cornered animal trying to defend itself, but it receded back to its rippling form as he grew still.
Panic simmered low in Nozel’s gut. This was not good. They had been out here for days, and Fuegoleon had never once mentioned that this oppressive heat was keeping him trapped in his own mana. He wasn’t even sweating anymore; his skin was clammy, but his face and hands were dry. From the looks of his clothes, he hadn’t been sweating for a while.
Nozel hissed a curse driven from his reserved lips by panic. Fuego should have said something. He could understand his reservations about mentioning such a weakness in front of his team, but it had been just the two of them. Nozel could have done something. He would have at least offered him some shade.
But panicking would get him nowhere. He drew a breath that brought him no refreshment, and focused his mana downward. Mercury swirled into the ground, the liquid forming a point that hardened into the head of a drill. It bore downward, throwing sand out of the hole as it burrowed. Nozel kept drilling until the head of the drill struck something solid-- and then swiftly pierced it. From what he could sense, it’d just hit a window. Perfect; they had somewhere to go. If it didn’t fill up with sand first.
The drill swiftly liquified, fortifying the walls of the fragile sand tunnel it had just made. Nozel wrapped his arms around Fuegoleon’s chest and dragged him into the hole. He was as easy to move as a pillar of stone, and easily helped as much as one, too, but once they reached the mercury, it acted as a slide. Once he’d shoved most of the unconscious man down the incline, he pushed off, and they slid into darkness.
Their landing was not graceful. Nozel tried to brace for impact, but Fuegoleon was taller than him, and his feet found the floor before Nozel’s could. Fuego crumpled, and Nozel was forced to release him or end up on top of him. He stumbled several feet before catching himself. Once he was firmly on his feet, he took stock.
First, he righted Fuegoleon. The descent had done nothing to rile him, and he laid, unconscious, face down, ass up. Nozel took him around the chest and pulled him upright, allowing a moment of relief that he had not woken up and been aware of the disrespect done to him. But he didn’t let that feeling last for more than a moment. He ate shit and didn’t wake up.
He then turned his focus into finding a place to lay him. They appeared to be in some sort of tower. He suspected that it had once been a small estate; the brick architecture and furniture looked like something of the upper-middle class, perhaps the last remnants of a family with old money. One windowsill was wide enough to be a small bed, if Fuego was curled up, and an old dusty bed frame rested against the wall, but had no mattress on it. Still, at least there the feverish Vermillion could sprawl out.
Getting Fuegoleon onto the bed was an ordeal that Nozel was not cut out for. As he struggled to get the unconscious man onto the bed frame without concussing him, he came to the grim realization that this room was hot; barely cooler than the outside air. They were out of the sun, yes, but thrown into almost complete darkness, broken only by the blistering sunlight filtering in through the tunnel of their descent; and that offered no circulation. This place would keep their skin from burning, but that might be it. He would have to think of some other way to cool Fuegoleon down.
By the time he got him onto the bed, he was exhausted enough to join him. He folded to the floor instead, puffing and soaked with sweat. His muscles were starting to cramp with exhaustion in the heat. His mouth felt dry. He groped around his waist until he found his canteen and gave it a shake. It was half-full; enough for barely half a day, and that was in good conditions, for one person.
He uncorked it and dribbled it over Fuegoleon’s forehead. As the liquid dripped down his face, Nozel caught it and rubbed it into his hot skin. Fuego’s mana lapped at it hungrily, sending swirls of steam rising into the dusty air. The fire mage was radiating heat like the sun.
Nozel corked the canteen and set it aside. He curled his fingers into the sash around Fuegoleon’s waist and undid the knot. His cloak didn’t budge as it did; either sticky with wet sweat or stiff from dried sweat. Nozel pulled it open and dragged his arms out of it. Then he collected the belts around his waist: his grimoire, his communication device, a sack for supplies and an empty canteen. He pulled off his boots and socks. He went after his undershirt next, pulling it loose from his pants and trying to pull it over his head.
No wonder he’s overheating, Nozel thought peevishly. These clothes could withstand a rabid bear. He fought and struggled to get the shirt up and off, but his angle on the floor did not give him the leverage to get it past Fuego’s shoulders. With a frustrated sigh, he climbed onto the bed and straddled his waist. From there, he could drag Fuego into a sit, and supporting him, he tugged the shirt off his large, muscular arms. Fuegoleon slumped against him, his chin falling against the back of Nozel’s neck. Nozel had to lean back at a horrifically uncomfortable angle to keep him there, lest he flop backward and slam his head on the bed frame. But somehow, he managed it.
Eventually, he dropped the shirt to the ground. Fuegoleon laid against him, shirtless, sticky, and unconscious, as Nozel supported him between the shoulder blades. The heat radiating off of him was suffocating; Nozel was panting like a dog and red in the face, for more reasons than one. Fuegoleon had long since ceased to sweat, but Nozel’s palms were slick, and the Vermillion’s tanned skin slipped against it, making his grip precarious. Supporting his head in the palm of his hand, he lowered Fuegoleon to the bed frame like a newborn baby. When the deed was done, it took everything in him not to collapse on top of him with exhaustion.
Fuegoleon was hot. Physically, in all senses of the word. If Nozel didn’t find a way to cool him off, he would be left with a very attractive corpse. He rolled off the bed, landing on the balls of his feet on the floor. Then, he forced himself to stand. As completely and utterly wrong as it felt to walk away from him, he feared if he didn’t get out of Fuego’s mana, he would not have the energy to think of a way to help him.
He swiped his canteen off the floor, and with the same biting guilt, took a swig. The other side of the room felt cooler by comparison, but beads of sweat were still forming on his brow as he pressed his shoulder to the wall and racked his brain for a way to save his rival.
All they had was what was on them: a day’s rations, their grimoires, their clothes, their equipment. He knew already that no one would be in range of his communication device; he’d checked it periodically while they were in the sky. Nonetheless, he pulled it out again and held it to his lips. “Can anyone hear me? I am Nozel Silva of the Silver Eagles. I need backup.”
He waited. Nothing.
He shoved it back in his pocket.
The only other thing he could think to try was Elias’ Booth. He had little hope for the tool’s usefulness, but he returned to Fuegoleon’s side with it. He knelt beside the bed, activated it, and set it on the bed post.
A broad cylinder of green healing magic enveloped them. Nozel felt the ache of his ribs ease; bruises heal, scratches close, sunburns peel. He watched Fuegoleon closely. But although redness in his hands faded, he did not wake up.
Nozel let his head drop against the bed frame. He was failing his rival. He was failing his friend. If Fuegoleon died here with him, he alone would bear the blame. Never mind that this fool had let himself overheat in the trap of his own mana. Never mind that he’d said nothing when something could be done about it. Nozel had been there with him. Nozel should have saved him.
He buried his hands in his sweat-soaked hair. There had to be something he could do. He could not just sit here while Fuegoleon burned alive in his own mana!
A silver light glowed at his side. Nozel's eyes found his grimoire, strapped into its satchel at his hip. He swiftly released it, and watched as the book, propelled by his own mana, floated to eye level and flew open. Dozens of pages raced by before it rested on a new, blank page. It filled with writing and diagrams, detailing a spell unlike any he’d ever used before. He leaned in, peeling through it fiercely. He wanted to bash his head against a wall as he realized exactly what the spell detailed. So simple. So obvious. A spell that he didn’t even need his grimoire open to perform.
He twisted toward Fuegoleon, his eyes still on the book. He couldn’t believe that it could be so simple. Mercury manifested around him, liquid, in long tendrils flowing swiftly through the air.
Mercury Magic: Silver Cradle.
The tendrils wrapped around Fuegoleon’s body, forming a grid of mercury that all met up in a swirling vortex outside the aura of Fuego’s magic. The mercury moved in swift rivulets, lapping at the heat of his skin, carrying it away from his body, and dispersing it before starting the cycle again. Nozel held his breath as the minutes ticked by. Bit by bit, the vicious heat radiating off Fuegoleon’s body cooled. His skin lost its feverish flush. His mana receded, tamed by the gentle motions of the cradle, and released its hold on Fuegoleon and the air around him.
Nozel was delirious with impatience. Shouldn’t he be waking up? He extended a hand and pressed his palm to Fuego’s forehead. Under the cooling throngs of mercury, his skin no longer felt clammy. His temperature was nearly normal.
His panic had passed; he had his solution. And now Fuegoleon was being a slug and a coward for remaining unconscious. Nozel snatched up his canteen, wrenched a finger into the unconscious Vermillion’s mouth, and yanked it open. He filled his mouth with water until it threatened to spill. “Wake up!”
Fuegoleon animated with a strangled cough. Water spewed into Nozel’s face as he coughed and gagged. Nozel reeled, and his concentration broken, Silver Cradle collapsed to a puddle of mercury.
“Disgusting fool!” Nozel spat. Overwhelmed with relief so powerful he could cry, he pressed his sleeve to his face and wicked the mercury away from the bed. “You pass out in the middle of a mission and this is how you wake?”
Fuegoleon continued to hack like a dying cat. The spasms forced him onto his side, and he planted his hands on the edges of the bed frame, gasping in deep breaths between coughs. Eyes swimming, he looked around wildly. “N… Nozel?”
“I should kill you for spitting in my face!” he croaked, running his sleeve over his eyes with an angry flourish. “Have some self respect and stay conscious!”
Fuegoleon stared at him, the gears in his head turning slowly. He licked his lips and spoke carefully, as if he didn’t expect his voice to hold. “Where are we?”
Nozel sucked in a long breath. The air was still sweltering; Silver Cradle did nothing to cool anything or anyone but Fuegoleon. “In a tower underground. I had to burrow us down here, lest you fry in the sand.”
Fuego took a beat to process that before looking down at his glistening, naked torso. Nozel turned away, biting his sleeve in frustration at himself for being so emotional. Of all the things to be dealing with at a time like this, how could he possibly feel embarrassed?
“You passed out from heat exhaustion,” he growled. “Had I not brought you down here, you would have died. Why didn’t you take any precautions against your own mana? You were cooking yourself alive.”
Fuego’s hazy expression was gaining clarity. His lips curved into a frown, and then hardened into a somber deadpan. “I thought I took appropriate precautions. But you know as well as I do that we were not prepared for the enormity of this curse.”
All he could do was scoff. That was no excuse, and he thought he should tell him so, but he didn’t trust his voice to stay level enough to get the words out without sounding like a little bitch.
Fuegoleon looked down at his hands, and slowly ran them down his chest, rubbing the droplets of water into his skin. He did the same to his arms, and then his face. “Did you… tame my magic?”
Nozel pressed his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. “Yes. I did.”
“How?”
“What does it matter?” He groped for his canteen, and relieved to find it shut-- he didn’t remember closing it --he took a swig. Then he shoved it into Fuegoleon’s hands. “Should you overheat again, I think I’d let you. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
“I may have overestimated my abilities,” he admitted slowly. “I guess I owe you my life. Thank you.”
“You’re no good to me dead. But don’t push your luck.”
Fuegoleon took a few slow, long gulps from the canteen, before corking it with unsteady hands and letting it drop to the ground. He rolled onto his back, and his eyes fluttered closed. “So what do we do now?”
Nozel leaned his head against the bed and stared at the ceiling. He had no idea. All he wanted to do at the moment was go to sleep; he was physically exhausted, and his magic was spent. Some time ago, the tunnel that had brought them here had collapsed, cutting off their only breeze. There was nothing to do at the moment. He had nothing left to give. “Rest.”
“And then?”
“We will decide when the time comes.”