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“When were you going to tell me that you have a hole in your body?”
Vethna’s eyes don't leave the open wound as Emery peels the saturated fabric of their shirt from their shoulder. Their skin is tacky under their own fingertips, a mix of slick and crumbling flakes like a red wreath around the tender open wound. Emery meets their gaze with all the casualness of a friendly brunch chat.
“What, this?” A snort leaves them. “Soon as it became relevant.”
“Belrai.”
“What? It’s not like I'm dying.”
And it wasn't. At most they were a little woozy from riding a horse in the sun for an hour without water or taking a rest to dress the thing, but that was nothing they couldn't work through. You couldn't make it through drills as a recruit without that ability. You didn't become commander without that skill. And The Gilded Gorgon certainly wouldn't have sent recruits off to battle without desensitizing and hammering it into them first.
Vethna stares coolly at their companion. “Bleeding through your clothes, by definition, says otherwise.”
The former commander hums and swipes their forehead with the back of their hand. They're not sure when they’d broken out in a sweat. Hands busy themselves undoing the buttons of their shirt before shedding the garment altogether. Those stains would… hopefully come out in a quick wash.
“Vethna,” and Emery is donning that condescending ‘old soldier’ voice that already has the mage rolling their eyes, “I've been doing this a long time. If this was going to incapacitate me, I'd know it.” They drape the shirt over the saddle of their horse, ignoring the creature’s huff of protest.
“And also, I'm not stupid,” they continue. “Look, even disinfected it before we hauled ass out of the last town! There's a perfectly good roll of bandages in my pack I intend on using and a needle and fishing line if I need it.”
Vethna hasn't known war like Emery has— not intimately. They may not know much about Vethna’s past, but they can tell that much from the offended look they're met with when they turn their head in the mage’s direction.
Or maybe it's not that, they realize, but the fact that Vethna’s safety hinges on their ability to protect them. Emery can soldier on well enough, but what of the chance a Vrithkan magic hunter catches up to them? Could they hold their own against three in their state, with weakness creeping down their dominant arm? And if one pissed off bar patron could leave a dagger shaped impression behind…
Or maybe it's something else entirely, they discern from the way that Vethna drops their horse’s lead with a fractionally pinched brow, and somehow that racks Emery with the strongest wave of shame. Like any other practiced noble, Vethna’s face betrays very little; though after the miles they've traveled, Emery is conscious of the softness at the outer corners of their eyes. It's the same look they’d given a stray with too many gaunt, countable ribs.
Concern. Pity. Emery swallows with difficulty, throat dry.
“Not stupid,” Vethna agrees without confidence or mirth. “But I could find bulls less stubborn than you.” They finish tying off their horse’s lead, giving its grey neck an affectionate stroke before joining Emery in the opposite stall of the stables.
“Not nearly as good looking though, I'm sure,” they reply without missing a beat.
Vethna crosses their arms. “All the looks in the world are not going to prevent an innkeeper from turning us away because the mythosi with a stab wound looks like just the type of trouble they'd rather avoid.”
“But you agree I'm good looking?” Emery’s shit eating grin is pointedly ignored. “Well, you can open your coin purse and give them that sweet nobility smile that convinces them I'm innocent as a basket of kittens— or you can find a soft pile of hay to tuck yourself into. I'm fine keeping Old Grey company tonight.”
Vethna gapes, which pulls a laugh out of Emery.
“You can't be serious.”
“Oh Veth, when am I ever not serious?”
“Alright. I take it back, then—”
Emery quirks a brow, raising their head to look up from the loosened buckles of their horse’s saddle. The sudden motion sends a wave of vertigo through them, floor shifting under their feet. Their brows furrow, grip on the leather straps tightening to steady themself.
“—you're definitely stupid,” the mage states, then narrows their eyes at how pale Emery's face has gotten. “... Emery, sit down.”
“What?” The former commander raises a hand to their face again, wiping the clammy skin with their palm. “No, I'm fine. Let's just figure out what we’re—”
“I'm not asking.”
They open their mouth to make a glib remark, but think better of it when they see the stern look Vethna gives them. Another dizzy spell threatens their balance and they finally relent, hoisting their steed’s saddle up and to the floor (while Vethna looks on cringing) before settling down with their back against the stable wall, laying their legs out in front of them with one knee bent. Waves of dizziness settle into a general off-balance feeling as Vethna bends down at their side. They find themself grateful for the solidity of the floor underneath them. Deft, ring-laden fingers meet cooled skin.
“... did you reopen it? Or did you just never staunch the bleeding to begin with?”
Emery offers a sheepish grin and rests their head against the wall behind them. “The way I remember it, I was a little busy grabbing our things before the villagers found their pitchforks and torches?” A pause. “And whose fault was that?”
A wry snort from Vethna. “Yours, if we want to talk about why they felt the need to chase us out. Or the fact The Gilded Gorgon can't deflect a knife at close range.”
They don't miss the way Emery’s expression hardens at that.
“... Y’know, if you toned down those lavish accessories of yours— maybe invested in a ratty old cloak— people might feel less inclined to start fights with the traveling noble in the first place.”
“The way I dress is hardly the problem.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
The mage huffs out a breath. “Well, regardless. I'm not letting you sleep out here with mice and roaches, waiting for that to get infected. And I'm not walking into an inn with you looking ready to bleed out on their sheets.” A pause while they smooth out their dress. “So are you handling that? Or are you going to let me do it?”
Emery studies their face, the steadiness of their blue-green stare. “You can do that?”
“I already healed you once, haven't I? Or have you already forgotten how we met?”
Emery grimaces at the memory, recalling the sheer agony Jamie had left them in as his dying act. The humiliation of being found like that and rescued by a stranger. “This isn't a curse,” they point out.
“No. But breaking curses wasn't the extent of my education.”
“So you can fix this? With your magic.”
“I should at least be able to close it.”
Emery tosses that thought around for a moment. They're vaguely aware of warmth dripping down their bicep— they had reopened the gouge, just as Vethna said. “Yeah, sure,” they decide. “Go ahead.”
Vethna tugs up the hem of their dress, saving it from the filth of the stable’s floor. Emery isn't sure how they manage it in heels, but the mage keeps their balance and their modesty as they crouch beside them. The sounds that leave Vethna’s tongue cause Emery to tense up reflexively. “Relax,” they hiss, to which Emery simply mutters ‘fine’s and ‘okay’s, shifting and fixing their gaze on the horseshoe shaped prints stamped in the dirt. The syllables they can't make sense of are mavikras, they realize; and then they see the purple of Vethna’s magic, feel the peculiar warmth of it radiating in their shoulder.
There's a moment of discomfort, like being aware of your breathing or the contractions in your throat when you swallow, as the flesh of the injury begins to knit itself back together. The magic creates a seam— messy, certain to scar, but sealed. Better off than they were before.
Emery gives a cursory roll of their shoulder, stretches their arm out in front of them. “Huh.”
“Let me know if anything feels off,” Vethna says vaguely, a little pride tugging at the corner of their lips as they rise back to their feet.
“Where were you when I broke my leg and several ribs as a recruit,” the half-gorgon comments with a snort, but Vethna has stopped listening, fingers left hovering over Emery’s shoulder. A chill washes over the mage. In the month they've been traveling together, they've only gotten glimpses of the tapestry of scars Plaithus’s exiled commander has been adorned with. And no doubt they expected the former commander of Plaithus to have scars, but these… they seem wrong.
Pale lines set into either of Emery’s toned arms… symmetrical lines, too clean and uniform to be anything but intentional. Clusters of them gather around the half mythosi’s joints. Thick, raised scars curve around their elbows and form half moons around the ulna; as though someone had been trying to dig something out . There's more along the tawny skin of their shoulders and neck, another pale line hiding in the pale white hair by the commander’s ear… in that spot where their jaw hinges together. It jumps with sudden tension—
And they've been staring for too long, they realize in the moment that Emery stands, retrieving their coat and shrugging it on over their shoulders. Vethna clears their throat, and shamefully they can't help but feel it was a pointed gesture.
“Well, at least now they'll only throw us out for my forked tongue and quick wit. I think I saw an inn up the road—”
“Can you take it easy for a moment?” Vethna remains planted where they stood, watching Emery whip around from the saddle they'd begun to lift off Vethna’s grey horse.
“What? Veth, my arm is fine. See?” They pump their fist in the air twice for emphasis. “Good as new.”
“It’s not that, it's— you lost a good amount of blood. Just… give yourself a minute.”
Emery’s nose crinkles in confusion. “Why would I do that?”
“Or go ahead and walk into town until you collapse! Great idea, I'm sure that won't attract any attention at all.”
Emery huffs out their nose and pulls the saddle off, leaning it against the wall for minimal contact with the dirt (and hopefully minimal complaining from Vethna later on). They decide to walk down the aisle of the stalls, finding the much more comfortable hay bales to sit back on.
Vethna busies themself with gathering their things— pack slung over their shoulders, water vessel pulled out and given an assessing shake— before joining Emery at the far end of the stables. They offer the water to Emery, and the former commander pauses their impatient leg bounce to accept and throw back the contents of the bottle. All of it. Vethna can't find it in themself to be mad, not even as Emery wipes an errant trickle of it from their chin.
“Is there a particular reason you're so gods awful at taking care of yourself?”
Emery raises their head. “What do you mean by that?”
“Why didn't you take care of that sooner? You can't seriously think it wouldn't be better to take a minute to patch yourself up than to march around with open wounds, trying to do your job.”
Emery’s eyes narrow; not in aggression but confusion. Like their mind is slow to process the words.
Despite what Vethna might be thinking, looking out for their own well-being simply wasn't a learned instinct for Emery. The very notion that it’s a priority went against the training and conditioning that made them what they are— all the lessons pulled from the rite of passage that was being broken down in the military. The ones that numbed them to their own pain so long as they got the job done. And that was paramount. It was what made them successful, made them The Gilded Gorgon. As a soldier, duty always came first. So long as they were capable of finishing their duties as a service to Plaithus, the rest didn't matter.
Soldiers have to be strong. Marcelle had told Emery that when they came to her the first time, teary-faced and ready to give up; they had left the coliseum once again with throbbing bruises and lacerations and no progress to show for it. It's what they held onto, repeating it to themself until the ache and the fear faded away and left only their goal in sight. They began excelling as one of the army’s own, then. It was one of two lessons they’d passed on to Trystan— sweet young Trystan with their soft, kind heart. “Putting yourself above your duty and showing mercy on the enemy— those are the two sure ways to let your kingdom down. You are a soldier. You have to be strong. Even if that means putting aside your morals. Even if that means hurting, and being hurt.”
Duty came first. Even more so as Plaithus’s proud and esteemed commander. And even now, well… they were no longer conscious of their aches the way they should be. At some point their mind had learned to tune the pain out.
But they don't tell Vethna this. Their thousand yard stare gradually focuses back onto the mage and a smirk catches on their fangs, crawling its way up their lips. “... Vethna, were you worried about me?”
“What? I— yes I was worried about you. What am I supposed to do if you collapse on me?” Emery cracks up, holding their side while Vethna’s cheeks flush with warmth at the way they’d chosen to say it.
“Hey, if it's any consolation, I was going to take care of it once we were somewhere clean.”
“Like the stables you were planning to sleep in?” But they don't get nearly the satisfaction out of the remark that they should've with Emery continuing to cackle at their expense.
“Alright,” Emery breathes out, hands smacking their knees as they stand. “My head is on right—”
“Doubtful.”
“— let's stop to pick up some apples or carrots or something for that damn beloved horse of yours. Then we can find a room.”
The pair account for their belongings and leave the stables behind ('We can worry about whose stables they are later,’ Emery assures their companion). A chill cuts through the air along the dirt road running through the small town. The seasons will be changing soon, and the clouds in the distance suggest the weather will, too.
“Try not to win any arguments with the people here, would you? So I don't have to take a blade for you again?”
“I won't make a promise I can't keep.”
————
It's cold. It's cold but their arm is hot and rancid and they know by instinct that it's infected. The irony isn't lost on Emery, cheek pressed against the dungeon floor of the place that was their home, drifting in and out of consciousness. They were condemned to this by the people they'd loved and consumed like entertainment by the people they’d dedicated their life to protecting. A kingdom they'd broken bones and spilled blood for, both others and their own. Their head throbs, pulsing through the swollen, broken nose that The Brazen Griffin had left them.
A lot of good that dedication had done them.
Emery grins despite themself, lips pressed to the dusty floor, blood outlining their teeth. A breath sucks through their teeth and their abdomen spasms around their broken ribs and they're laughing at the thought before it registers to them. The Gilded Gorgon used to walk over bodies broken like this.
The laughter does nothing to drown out the all encompassing ache that’s swaddled them and settled down into their bones, but they can't stop. Look at me now! Disappointing the crown and locked up like a rabid animal. The kingdom just can't get enough of my suffering. The people needed a sequel! It's all just too ridiculous and typical. The beat down. The public humiliation. The shame welling from some deep, hidden place inside of them. They want to shed their entire skin and walk out of it and be someone else and it's ridiculous because they were The fucking Gilded Gorgon. What are they now, other than helpless? The way they have been since their exile, no longer a swallower of kingdoms but a vagrant. Not brilliant gold, not wisened bronze, but something corroded and brittle and covered in rust and grime. A relic. A useless tool.
They're laughing but they don't recognize the sound— not warm like a week ago, but cold and detached and bitter. There's no one there to be in on the joke, and they find that there's a dull self-deprecating humor in that, too.
They're not The Gilded Gorgon anymore. There is no pride in what they are now— not in the eyes of their kingdom, not in the eyes of their loved ones, not in the eyes of themself. And it aches like a bruise. They are not a soldier anymore. They couldn't be. They can't. They are not.
They cannot be strong. They can't put duty before all their repressed hurt. They can't even escape the feelings, pushing them down so deep they don't have to see them for three years. They've been over stuffed with this hurt; and now it's clawing its way back up their throat like bile. They aren't fit to protect anyone, they think. Not themself, not Veth. And bitterly— maybe Vethna had been right to look at them like they were broken.
All the giggling at themself hurts somewhere in their sides and they can't help the gasp that leaves them, choked and all too much like a sob. But they don't want to cry. They won't cry. They have to be strong. They can't break? They're not allowed— they’ll laugh it off, they'll think about something else, they just won’t feel. Anything to keep face, to raise their chin, to remain the proud child their Mother raised them to be.
And like all other things, despite their best efforts and good intentions, they fail— and the tears cutting streaks through the dirt on their face taunt them for it.