Work Text:
Forty-three.
Rocks and debris littered the area, land ripped apart by the onslaught of a furious Primal. The threads had come together too late— the increasing kobold ire, the missing caches of crystals, and before they knew it, Titan was upon them.
The Company of Heroes…a title immediately sardonic if one knew their methods— had managed to fell it. The leaders had collected their coin and reveled in their victory, leaving a roster of casualties in their wake.
The recovery effort of Camp Overlook was uncoordinated, mostly because the term casualty in this case didn’t necessarily mean fatality.
Rows of men and women, some in adventuring garb, some in the distinct honey of the Yellowjackets, some in Maelstrom black and red, but all had now been bound at their hands and feet, tents propped and the cohort fed.
One week, they said. One week to see if it faded.
Squall licked at his bottom lip, staring at the bowl of soup he had been handed. He had been among the bound, the day following. Either side of him had been two male adventurers, around his age, mumbling fervently about the Lord of Crags and how the overdwellers must be made to bow.
Not for a single moment had anything of the sort appeared in his mind. He had not been part of the main fighting, but there was no doubt he had been caught in the crossfire. Hit just as squarely with Titan’s influence as the others, and yet...
“Not hungry, boy?”
Squall looked up, a burly Roegadyn standing close by, his arms folded. He was wearing the red and black of Maelstrom command.
“Not really.”
“…Try not t’ think about it,” he said, looking out toward the tents where the afflicted were sitting, and Squall felt his stomach knot painfully.
One week was up as of this morning.
Some of them— the ones who had been on the very fringes, only just barely touched by the wave of dust and dirt Titan had sent forth— they had shaken it off. But the number was in single digits, and even then, they had murmured and mumbled.
The remaining forty-three, they continued.
“They’re calling it ‘Temperin’ over in Thanalan,” the Roegadyn said, and Squall looked back to him. “When the lizards summoned their god, he bathed ‘em in his flames. So they’re callin’ it temperin’. Dunno if you’d call it somethin’ else with Titan.”
“The Buried, maybe. It’s what we’ll be havin’ to do.”
Silence followed.
“So y’know about that.”
Squall exhaled, setting his soup down before weaving his fingers together.
“Was stationed down in Aleport for a short while, helping with the rebuilding. There’s a bunch Leviathan got to down there. The Drowned, they call them, and they’re deaf to reason just like this lot. Nothing left aside from the bleedin’ bastard serpent in their minds.”
“Why’re you up here?”
“Sheer dumb bad luck,” Squall said with a shrug. “Reyner knows I’m willin’ to travel and I’m decent with the Teleport spell. I was here to help with a supply escort. Didn’t exactly go to plan.”
“Thought you Yellowjacket types tended to be assigned to a hamlet and that was that.”
“’M worth more for my flexibility. I tend to do a few months rotation. You’re all Maelstrom up here?”
“Aye. Red Swallows — name’s Bloeidin. Not catchin’ the kobolds in the act while I’m on their doorstep ain’t my greatest accomplishment.”
“And what could you or any of us done? Not exactly a time for heroics, is it? Warriors of Light aren’t here. Takes everything we have to even see the next dawn some days.”
Squall exhaled, turned his head over the overlook. Beyond, the enormous shards of corrupt crystal that had pierced Pharos Sirius glowed in the grey-dawn light.
It wasn’t enough to survive. It felt, for every step forward in rebuilding and reclaiming what La Noscea had been before the Calamity, they took another step back.
“Same goes for you, boy.”
Bloeidin was giving him a look, one that had a sheen of pity in it.
A sneer came over Squall’s face, and he stood, pulling his jacket tighter. A light mist had formed over the camp, rain starting to drizzle. A Lalafell tending the cookpot quickly moved to place the lid over top, though the leaves above them would spare the fire provided it stayed light.
“It’s all hands on deck, isn’t it?” Squall asked, looking to Bloeidin, and the Roegadyn frowned, the same piteous look coming to his eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Why does it matter?”
“’Cause ‘m pretty sure I know who you are. Not a lot of Yellowjackets wanderin’ from camp to camp, makin’ a name then scamperin.”
An exhale followed. He hadn’t intended on gaining any kind of reputation. It kept his mind busy, a solid and focused purpose to everything he had toward. But people, especially in times like these, needed something to talk about. He stood out in his cohort as it was, being a Keeper male, and he was among the youngest of them besides.
“It’s Squall,” he said, his tone reluctant, and Bloeidin nodded.
“Aye, so I was right. People like to mutter all sorts, ‘specially with that name of yers.”
Squall shrugged his shoulders. Hard to put any stake in it. For sailors, squalls were a problem — an unforeseen turn of events that could put enough wind in the sails to make it home, or drown the ship and all with it. But much like the name of their Grand Company, those of Vylbrand took that in their stride. Til Sea Swallows All.
Twas just Lominsan nature to look death in the face and see hope.
“It’s just a name,” he said, taking in a breath, “and you haven’t answered my question.”
“…Aye.”
Squall reached for his axe, ignoring any kind of shake or hesitance in his fingers, checking the edge. Bloeidin caught his shoulder, and Squall grunted and shook him off.
“Don’t you dare—“
“No, I’m not tryin’ to talk you down. You’re gonna do your duty, ‘nd if stories are true its a mercy anyroad. But I want you to remember it is a mercy, boy. ‘Cause when its an enemy, when y’know they’re as much going for your throat as you are theirs, you can kinda step back. In your head, I mean.”
Squall blinked, mouth parting and lips going dry.
“But these…they’re friends. Comrades. Make it quick, make it clean, and give ‘em the burial they deserve. Aye?”
The tremble returned to his fingers. Gods…the fact they were here at all was awful enough, but to be told to stay present…?
Why was he here and not in their number? The question ate at him. It was another mystery that had come about since the Calamity, a mounting number of unknowns he just could not solve. In the end, it all came back to a single question—
Why did I survive?
“A mercy,” he repeated, fingers tightening on the shaft of the axe. “I know. Its all we can offer.”
Bloeidin patted his shoulder, moving toward his lodgings to also collect his weapon.
It fell to the remaining Yellowjacket and Maelstrom cohort to spare the rest enslavement under Titan, but it didn’t make it easier.
“Ah, hey,” Bloeidin said, turning back to Squall, who looked up at the call.
“Who recruited y’ into the Barracudas? Might’ve known him.”
Squall went to search in his memories for the name, and found…
Nothing.
Nothing?
His heart hammered against his ribcage, eyes flicking to the dirt beneath him as he desperately tried to shore up a name and found…nothing.
“I…I can’t say it properly,” Squall said, and Bloeidin chuckled.
“Guess that serves me right for askin’.”
Everything came at a price it seemed. Squall looked at the edge of the axe in his hands, glinting in the dull light of the fire, and let out a breath.
Not the ultimate one, but a price, all the same.