Chapter Text
i. mihren
The first time she meets the Warrior of Light, he doesn’t hold the title.
He doesn’t appear to hold much of anything for the matter and resembles a drowned dog more than a man. From the brown mop of wet hair plastered to his forehead to the nondescript pack slung over his shoulder—and the dull, but well used sword on his back—he looks like every other freelancing adventurer she’s come across.
But there’s a certainty to his steps that belies what she usually sees. No hesitation. No urgency, either, so whatever cards life dealt that led to him trudging into The Drowning Wench looking as though he just fell off a ship—he seems to be content with.
She’s not sure why he snags her attention out of everyone currently packed into the pub. Perhaps it’s boredom. Perhaps it’s an instinct nagging that he doesn’t quite fit. Either way, she gingerly sips at her cider and watches him stride towards the leve counter over the rim of her cup, zeroing in on his presence despite the din of the room.
He leaves puddles all over the wooden floor, shoes squelching with every step. Baderon doesn’t seem to care. Several of the miqo’te waitresses, however, give him the stink eye. They’d be the ones cleaning up later.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
There’s only a handful of leves left on the roster. She knows this because she looked over them fifteen minutes ago and decided they weren’t worth the headache. She suspects this adventurer isn’t familiar with who the requester is, else he’d have hesitated for longer than fifteen seconds before accepting them.
She sets her cup down as he passes her table. “Going to Costa del Sol?”
He takes a few more steps before stopping abruptly, as though he’d just realized she was speaking to him. The glance he gives over his shoulder is flat. Guarded. “Yes.” His eyes flick back forward. “I’m not looking for company. Sorry.”
Her lips twitch. She’s not sure whether to be insulted or amused. “I wasn’t offering. But,” she continues lightly when he takes another step, “I’m feeling magnanimous today and figured I’d save another adventurer a headache. You can thank the cider.”
His returned stare is just as blank.
Undeterred, she points and wiggles her finger at him. “Those two leves you picked up. They’re for Master Gegeruju. Are you familiar with him?” When he shakes his head, she rests her chin in her hand. “No? Then I’d suggest reconsidering how much you actually want the coin. He pays well, yes—but he’s a pain in the arse to deal with. Just know that if you succeed at doing whatever it is he wants now, you can expect to be called on for increasingly ridiculous requests in the future.”
That earns her a raised brow. “Speaking from experience?”
“Maybe. How do you feel about donning swimwear and fanning a lalafell with a giant palm leaf?” She pauses and takes in his form, eyes lingering on the way his trousers hug his thighs. “Not that you wouldn’t look good doing it.”
The eyebrow arches higher. She just shrugs and gives a sly smile. “What? Just saying what’s true.” He did have nice legs.
He stares at her a moment longer before shaking his head. She catches the faint flicker of amusement cross his eyes before he turns on his heel.
Ah, well.
She goes back to sipping at her cider. Can’t say she didn’t warn him.
. . . .
The next time she meets him, it’s in a ditch. And, to be fair, she doesn’t know it’s him at first.
She hesitates at the edge of the steep drop-off, mindful of the loose rocks, and crouches. “Hey, you. Still alive down there?”
No response. No movement, either.
She straightens out, plants her hands on her hips, and solemnly considers if she wants to risk breaking her neck today. On one hand, she was the one who let the hunt billmaster know about the overgrown mite wreaking havoc around Fallgourd Float. (Which lays very still and very dead by the maybe-dead adventurer. Good on him.)
On the other hand, she doesn’t want to meet her own untimely demise in an attempt to reach the poor sod. She doesn’t even know how he got there to begin with. A cursory glance at the surroundings doesn’t suggest much of a struggle. Certainly no footprints or skid marks to suggest the creature dragged the unfortunate idiot down there.
Her eyes slide back to the unmoving body. Did he fight it in the pit to begin with? There was absolutely no room to maneuver. “Geez,” she mumbles, mildly impressed. “Talk about bold. I guess you really wanted to ensure you got it, huh?”
He doesn’t respond.
She smacks her lips together and dusts off her legs. “Right. I took an oath, so consider this your lucky day. Though if I break anything on the way down, I’m going to kill you.”
Had he been awake, she suspects he would’ve rolled his eyes. Had he been awake, she suspects he would’ve had a good laugh at watching her try to shimmy down the edge. Probably snickered at the nonsensical string of curses flying from her lips as she missteps and slides on her arse all the way down. But by the time she manages to make it to him—in one piece, at that—he still hasn’t moved an inch.
She grumbles, dusts off her butt, and vaults over the dead mark. “Thal’s balls. Do you know how long it took me to clean these before? Probably more than—oh.”
It’s the shaggy adventurer she’d seen at the Drowning Wench. A frown pulls on her lips as she glances him over again. There’s no blood soaking the dirt beneath him, which is good. His chest still rises with shallow breaths—also good.
The fact he didn’t regain consciousness at all the noise she made on the way down? Not good.
She shuffles over to kneel by him, hands already glowing with warm, healing aether. It’s easy enough to coax it into his chest, to have the soothing magic slip underneath the metal cuirass—which is dented enough that it strikes a series of unpleasant thoughts in her head. The feedback she receives solidifies her assumptions: his body is a mess. Bruised and battered it’s a miracle nothing’s broken.
“Guess Gegeruju didn’t pay you quite enough, did he?” She mutters, brows knitted in focus. “Why else would you face this thing alone?”
“I didn’t want to fan anyone with palm leaves.”
She nearly flies out of her skin. “By the f— you’re awake?!”
“Hard not to be,” he mumbles, unmoving. “You’re loud.”
“I thought you were dead!”
“…You’re healing me.”
“Almost dead,” she corrects and glares when he cracks open both eyes—the mere action coming across as more of a chore than anything—and then promptly nudges him back when he tries to prop himself up on one elbow. “Which you will be if you don’t stop moving! What did you even do? Weather its attacks without a thought for defense?”
His gaze slides to the hunt mark behind her. “Something like that.”
“I can’t tell if you’re brave or stupid. And—what did I just say? Hold still.”
“I’m fine.”
“Like hells you are. Hey—” She stubbornly keeps her hands glued to his chest as he pulls himself up, palms pressed flat against the cold cuirass, determined to pump enough aether that he won’t crumble like a house of cards the moment he takes a step. Which, if his grimace is anything to go by, nearly happens once he’s upright. She huffs when he purses his lips and straightens out, armor clacking together, clearly determined to make his own way. Her exasperation climbs when he purposefully strides past her to retrieve his sword—still buried in one of the mite’s legs.
Her eyes bore into his back. “Do you often turn away free healing? Or are you late for something urgent?”
He ignores her, intent on finding a way out of the pit. With not even a limp, she curiously notes, despite the state she knows his body is in.
“If you’re seeking to report back about the hunt mark then you needn’t push yourself so hard.”
He strides over to the edge of the pit and reaches for a protruding rock. She rubs her forehead in consternation when he grunts and hauls himself up, one knee already braced against the earth, his course up and out fully charted.
She breathes out noisily through her nose. “Oh, for the love of—I posted the mark. And if you don’t get back down here right now and let me heal you, so help me I’m going to revive this thing out of spite.”
He freezes. Then, ever so slowly, turns to glare at her over his shoulder.
She holds his accusing gaze and threateningly hovers one hand over the dead corpse to her left. Her palm glows white.
He puts his foot down.
. . . .
The third time, she finally learns his name. On the outskirts of upper La Noscea, perched on the log of a fallen tree.
“Meteor, hm? I suppose that’s easy enough to remember.”
His expression is unremarkably passive as he watches her work. But his eyes remain sharp, tracking her movements even as his posture remains loose and compliant.
“Mine’s Mihren,” she tells him cheerily, hands carefully gliding over his offered arm. Healing, again. Thankfully without the fuss he put up before. “Nice to finally put a name to a face, right? Since we keep running into each other like this.”
“Guess so.”
She’s quickly learning that he’s a man of few words. Quiet and reserved enough to reflect the stillness of Silvertear Lake. It’d be poetic if it didn’t raise the hair on the back of her neck for a reason she still can’t put her finger on. The air around him always felt just a step to the left. Whatever it is, it’s the same sense of 'other' that snagged her attention from the start.
“And… done!” She taps his hand with finality. “Your arm might be sore tomorrow but the worst of the damage is gone. Take it easy for a few days, all right?”
He curls his arm and flexes his fingers. She spies more than one faded, thin scar spanning his skin.
“Do you visit city-state infirmaries when you return to town?”
“No.”
“You should,” she says, sitting back with a disapproving scowl. “Especially so if you go out adventuring alone like this. Momoji at the Quicksand recently invested more funds in the inn’s healing supplies. Lots more folks coming back with injuries nowadays."
When he goes about slipping his bracers back on without comment, she thinks she’s hit another wall with him. But he would’ve up and left if he was truly done—as he had before—instead of stalling like this. The meticulous fastening of leather straps is enough to tell her he’s biding his time. So she leans back on her palms to wait out his decision and lets her eyes roam over the ruins of Nym in the meantime.
“The infirmaries aren’t helpful,” he finally murmurs when it becomes clear she isn’t going to move. “I’ve gone before. They don’t….”
“They don’t…?” She prompts when he purses his lips.
He idly raises the hand she’d just healed and shrugs. “They would’ve given bandages and sent me on my way.”
“They would’ve healed you.”
“No.” His brows knit as he gazes out at the calm lake. “Not as thoroughly, at least.”
She frowns at the implications and shifts so she’s facing him once more, knees nearly touching. “Do you at least have a friend versed in healing magic? Or a chirurgeon? Anyone who can patch you up?”
“No.”
She stares at his profile, at how the faint breeze ruffles his messy hair. At how his armor is most definitely not up to par for solo adventuring—not with how close she is to truly inspect it. At how the scars she’d spied on his skin and the feedback she’d gotten from her aether reflected deeper, older injuries.
And, finally, at how he seems entirely unaffected by his answer.
Maybe she should’ve expected the response given everything she’s learned about him thus far. But to hear about an adventurer who not only travels solo, who not only faces down hunt marks alone, but also has no companions versed in healing magics? At all?
“How are you still alive?” she blurts out, blinking incredulously. “After the encounter with the hunt mark I figured it was a one-off occurrence. But now? I truly have no idea. If it wasn’t for your aether—which is absolutely ridiculous, mind you, I’ve never come across someone with so much—” She clamps her mouth shut. He doesn’t need to know that she'd prodded. “All of which is to say: you’re absurd. And make no sense.”
“Is that your official diagnosis?”
“Unofficial. I’m not your healer, though heavens know you need one. Sooner rather than later, too. Preferably before you end up in another godsforsaken ditch.”
He thumbs at a buckle on one of his bracers. "Is this you offering?”
“No,” she drawls out, this time squinting at him. “But there doesn’t seem to be anyone else lining up for the honor, so… I suppose it’ll just have to be me. Especially since we keep running into each other. After all, it’d be remiss of me to let you keep on like this, right?”
“…Right.”
She slowly grins at the amusement and curiosity playing in his gaze when he finally spares a sideward glance. It widens when he ducks his head, having been caught looking, with a wry smile threatening to pull on the corner of his mouth.
“Right,” she echoes. Her eyes gleam with mischief as he straightens out, already charting his next path. “So, then. No time like the present. For my first official task as your healer, I say you're overdue for that check-up.”
His steps falter as if she’d struck him with a spell.
She can’t help but laugh.