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He remembers landing in the harsh sands with his yol, still hearing the faint echoes of Lord Hien on the winds calling them to seek shelter.
Shelter. Pah.
If they were afraid of a storm, then he would continue alone. He would scour all the Burn if he had to. He would march straight to Garlemald and rip this fake Zenos’ throat out a second time and torch his infernal body if he found so much as a hair on Alphinaud’s head had been damaged.
Like hell he was about to sit and wait when he was in danger…
Alisaie wasn’t here right now. He didn’t need to keep up the calm air of faith and be the steady rock between them. The level head else it would send them both weapons drawn straight to the Garlean border.
There were monsters. A few machines he thinks. A stretch of time running in metal corridors with the baleful cry of the sandstorm against the hull of a broken ship.
It was all cloaked in red, and he didn’t even try this time to reign it in with the single-minded purpose and anger coursing in his veins. Rage was preferable to the coiling knots of terror. Fighting better than an endless assault of potential death or capture or- His heart pounded a staccato as his bow creaked and hummed with every snap of the string. A lone lupine howl of his song wailing higher and more fearsome than the storm in his wake as he cut a bloody path through whatever moved to oppose him.
Alvaar was not afraid of wind and sands when they beckoned to his call. He was the eye of this storm and God’s be good and true if they did not find some sign Alphinaud was alright...
He would bury the empire under a mountain of fire and sand and ash. He’d ask penance from corpses and play a dirge even Nidhogg would envy.
There are white scales and teeth. A draconian form slipping through the fog and sands to harry him, slowing his frantic search. And its fire and snow and the bitter cold of Coerthas cutting against his skin as he settles into a familiar dance of death. Carving their path forward as he has always done for the youth that believed him capable of miracles. For the ally that had remained at his side and steadied him in his darkest moments…
The blade-point of the Halonic bow is sunk as far as it can reach behind the dragon’s skull. Severing nerves and tendons as Estinien had shown him while the white scaled beast shudders its last under his feet.
And the world is blue and bright and dazzling as he gasps for air in lungfuls that sting like sandpaper though the storm has since abated. And this white sandy hellscape is not Coerthas. There is no Estinien, no Alphinaud, no Ysayle trailing in his wake on their joint quest for peace...
There’s instead a firm hand at his wrist, someone that looks like his precious friend but who definitely is not. And it’s the part concern, part nervous look on Alisaie’s face that breaks through his fatigue and sends sound back through his ears. He can hear Y’shtola and Hien speaking in the background while Alisaie studies him worriedly, though he can’t yet comprehend what they’re saying through the fog of fatigue.
Her white magic doesn’t feel the same as her twins. It’s not calm and warm, but passionate and hot as it races through him sealing his wounds. It feels like a burn by comparison and the realities crash in around him in the wake of his last full rage since they’d rescued Rauhban as he puffs for air and notes he’s covered in splatters of blood. This is not a hundred previous battles with worried hands and voice at his side patching his wounds. The winding fluff of a carbuncle leaned against his shin while it’s master frets in that quiet but obvious way of his.
He’d thought he’d be done with feeling helpless. That after this bloody campaign and storm of steel, with a true turning point in the steady march of their enemy, maybe things could be different now. But no, he was seldom ever that lucky.
This world only ever saw fit to take what desperate things he struggled to hold on to…
Hands grip on his forearm carefully, a brief pause to pat firmly at his leather jacket and shake off some of the sand in a shower of white grit. He feels fingers threading with his own over the supple leather of his gloves, squeezing tight as his name sounds between them. Soft and gentle with concern.
His fingers hurt as he releases the white-knuckle grip on his bow to leave it standing blade down and unwavering where it’s still imbedded in flesh. The joints in his hand creaking as they’re finally allowed to move and flex a moment before he’s settling his hand over hers slowly.
He hurts. Inside and out. Muscles aching faintly from a berserker fury and pushing himself just a bit too hard. Heart clenched in a mute fear as the lack of news or evidence of Alphinaud’s presence cuts him up inside. Heavy with guilt that he’d let him go when all his instincts had screamed not to. That it was too dangerous no matter how right Alphinaud’s reasoning had been or how much Alvaar had seen the Arcanist had needed to stretch his wings and fly solo for his own dreams of peace.
He’d failed to protect him and the knowledge it might cost Alisaie her sibling hurt even more than the silent fear that the one person who probably knew him best was now well and truly missing and possibly even dead...
“Alvaar,” she tries again, shaking him just a bit and tone a little more forceful. Pulling his focus steadily from everything dark and haunted within him. Making his fingers twitch over hers as he starts to rouse back to the present.
“Alvaar.” Still quiet, but there’s a command in that tone and it breaks him free and has him meeting those too blue eyes again. Deep and vibrant as the midday sea.
“M’here,” he murmurs softly, voice dry and weak. “Still here... sorry. Sorry I didn’t... I couldn’t...” He looks about, unable to find better words before meeting her gaze again sadly.
The tight look of worry on her face holds for a moment before she dips her head and leans into his arm. Takes a moment to steady herself before lifting her gaze to his again, azure eyes burning with firm conviction. “We’ll find him. My brother may be foolish, but he knows better than to die on me. He’ll send word once he can. Come on, let’s go back and sort out a plan. ... You need a bath too; you look a wreck.”
It’s enough to make him blink, an ear flipping faintly in disbelief as she manages the faintest grin before pulling away and freeing the canteen from his belts. Taking off the cap she hands it to him with a no-nonsense air, pushing it at him again when he takes a second too long to claim it. “Come on. We’ll all be in trouble if you wear out your voice and can’t be your usual chatterbox self.”
It’s not the same as what he’s known. It’s not the dear friend he’s grown to rely on more than he wanted to admit, who’s seen him at his best and at his absolute worst.
But Alisaie doesn’t have to be. They’re different in many ways, but alike in more ways that matter. He’s no less committed to protecting her either, even as it seems she feels the same. So he rinses his teeth and takes a drink. Coughs and clears his throat before offering it back, staying put so she can cap it and hook it back to his belt while he yanks his bow free and shakes the dark blood off the spearhead. Clipping it onto his back, he settles a hand at the Red Mage’s shoulder and pulls her into his side for a brief one-armed hug.
“Whatever it takes. I’m with you,” he murmurs, lifting his head to meet Y’shtola’s thoughtful look while Hien politely studied the landscape instead. Neither miss the way Alisaie grips onto the hand still at her shoulder, but the Miqo’te doesn’t comment on it as she tilts her head.
“There’s naught left here for us. Let us away.”