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Water spilled from the fallen bucket, mingling with the blood that soaked the kitchen floor. Rafa stared, uncomprehending, and the dead stared back at her, equally so. Malak grabbed her hand, dragging her behind him as he fled.
There was an acrid dark cloud drifting from the houses clustered further down the path, and the tang of blood filled the air. There were no screams as they ran, only anguished moans, a rare shout, and only once a chocobo screeched a war-cry. Malak led them up the path, towards the forest, and the village disappeared into the smoke and mist.
***
A rider appeared out of the evening haze on the path beside them – a knight in blackened armor and a bright white cloak, his face obscured by an ornate helm. He pulled his bird aside as he watched them, and then in front of them, blocking their path.
Malak pushed his sister back a step. Casting about he found a fallen branch – no more than a broken stick – and held it before him as a sword, barely if half the size of the knight’s own scabbard.
The rider chuckled, a darkened laugh and warped all the more by his helmet.
Rafa held on to him, fingers digging into his arm, but Malak didn’t budge.
With a nudge, the chocobo took a sauntering few steps towards them.
A cloud of pure white grew out of the darkness surrounding them, and a bolt of thunderous lightning struck the man from his steed.
The chocobo warbled and ran. Malak stood, blankly regarding the man writhing in his armor on the ground, and Rafa pulled his arm until he stumbled after her.
They fled, off the path and into the forest itself.
***
Her stomach growled, but Rafa didn’t complain.
Malak wasn’t certain why – he wanted to.
But she didn’t, so he didn’t either.
They walked until she couldn’t, and huddled together unable to sleep, and when morning light broke they got up and walked again. There was little water to be had, no food, and no chance of finding the road again.
A moonless night fell, dark and cold, and their only shelter was a hollow in an ancient tree’s roots. A wisp of magelight flickered in the dark, and Malak was on his feet, stick in hand.
It drew nearer, as did a man who walked stooped over the ground, collecting moss; the worn markers of his priesthood stitched into his robe were older than the order of Glabados itself. He saw them and stopped, and regarded Malak and his stick in particular.
Without a word, he knelt before them, smoothing the lines of his robe over his knee, and held out his empty hands.
Rafa reached for one of the man’s hands.
Malak wasn’t so sure.
***
The clinic was small and all the more busy for it.
Their savior set them to work – both to cooking and cleaning, and Malak to tending the dead, Rafa to herbs and stitching wounds. The latter he seemed most appreciative of, for her hands were small and steady, good for precise work, and young as she was she already knew how to sew.
The hours spent on their tasks were long, but they were fed well and their beds were warm at night, and they soon made up for the days they had spent lost in the forest.
A respite that would not last.
One evening fell, and as he swept the storeroom clean, Malak heard voices hissed in sharp argument. When he crept to the door, broom clutched in his hand, his eyes narrowed.
Standing at his cluttered desk, the priest leaned forward in challenge to the an armored man whose face Malak couldn’t see, ornate helm tucked under his arm as they argued vehemently. He stood, watching the exchange until the knight stormed out, and the priest fell back into his chair to hold his face in his hands.
Only then did Malak retreat, forgetting his task entirely to seek out his sister. He hadn’t the heart to wake her, sleeping soundly as she was; instead, he stood guard at her bed, wielding his stick.
That was where the priest found them, before the sun had yet risen. He roused Rafa gently, gifted them food and supplies, a letter to a caravan master, and another to a guildmaster in the city.
“It is no longer safe for you to stay here,” was all he would explain, drawing both children into his arms. “God help us all.”
***
But the city was laid to ruin. The caravan master would not go back, nor would he take them with him without money they didn’t have.
But it was easier to survive in a shattered city than in the darkened forest, and survive they did. Days bled into one another – feuds and tepid, temporary alliances with others fighting for the same, and plenty enough who would help all they could but it was never enough for all.
One morning, a rider cantered out of the smoky haze.
Malak felt her jolt as Rafa saw him first, and before he could react she grabbed his hand. And they ran, through the city rubble, along the crisscrossed paths that had been cut anew through the destruction and chaos.
Only a wall had collapsed, blocking their escape. Malak clambered up it, and slipped back down when Rafa couldn’t follow.
Cornering them at the mouth of the alley, the knight dismounted. He held up a hand in peaceable silence, and reached to remove his helm.
“We appear to have gotten off on the wrong footing, you and I,” he explained, with a good-natured smile. “An incident I would like not to repeat, if at all possible.”
Malak held up his stick, causing the man to pause although he didn’t lose his smile. Respecting the distance, he crouched before them, and regarded them both with a cock of his head, scratching a stubbly beard.
“Now then...” he wondered aloud. “What would you say if I told you that I know a place where you can be safe? Where there are many others, like you, who are protected from...” he gave their surroundings a thoughtful glance, and nodded in emphasis, “all this.”
Malak lowered his stick, eyeing the stranger warily.
The knight’s gaze flicked between them, and settled on Malak. With a sigh, he held out his hand.
“What do you say, young man?”
Rafa’s fingers dug into his arm. Malak swapped the branch between his hands. He took a step forward, and reached for the outstretched hand.