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Emmanellain was dying: an event he couldn’t help but think of as an awful shame, because he rather enjoyed being alive. The scant few times he’d allowed himself to ponder the idea he’d always imagined it would happen at home, comfortable and warm and 118 years old, just like his grandfather. He was no born fighter, nor a leader of men, and his brother’s insistence he become one was frankly preposterous. Garlemald was a terrible place to die and he was going to suffer, cold and lonely, too young and too noble, just like—
Well, just like Haurchefant. Even if he lived, he had the distinct impression his father may kill him just for the fright.
Emmanellain might have been able to make it back to Camp Broken Glass on any other day, but the snow had been falling in fat flurries since dawn, growing steadily worse by the moment. He’d wandered a considerable distance from the thick of the fighting by pure happenstance before a tempered soldier found and struck him from behind and now all he could see was hints of a ceruleum pipeline in a tempest of white and the dribbling trail of his own blood. As ever, he’d made a proper mess of things and this time there was no one to swoop in and save him in the nick of time.
“Oi!”
Or perhaps there was. He stopped his hazy stumbling and turned just in time to spy a bright red overcoat through the snowfall. Closer still and a shock of green hair dusted white became clear as well. It was Sicard, he realized: that pirate captain fighting for the Maelstrom. They’d been giving each other a hard time for days, so it was rather ironic that his would be the last face Emmanellain ever saw. He’d been banking on his lovely Laniaitte or perhaps one of the myriad children they’d certainly have.
His wound throbbed like a searing sword in the back all over again and blood splashed onto the ground. Standing suddenly seemed a terrible burden. He slumped bonelessly and was narrowly caught by a pair of deceptively strong arms.
“What’s all this?” Sicard demanded, sounding just this side of worried. “What in the hells are you doing dyin’ all the way out here?”
“It wasn’t my intention, old boy, I assure you,” Emmanellain swore. Swearing hurt. Everything hurt.
“Shite,” Sicard cursed. “Can you walk?”
“With help, perhaps,” he confessed, embarrassed but unable to pretend otherwise. “Do you know the way back?”
“Not in this weather,” Sicard shook his head. “But there’s a cave nearby what’ll serve ‘til it changes.”
Dying in a cave seemed worse than freezing to death, but he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. He let Sicard drag him what felt like an enormous distance into the mouth of a miserable little hollow. Sicard helped him slump down against the wall, the lack of frigid wind a relief if naught else, then set about building a fire with the abandoned stack of wood collected against the wall. A fire pit was already crafted in the center of the space. It seemed this place was used to taking in the lost and weary. Strange.
He realized he must’ve said as much aloud when Sicard responded.
“I ain’t complainin’,” he shrugged and struck flint several times to try and start a fire. Once he’d succeeded, he stripped off his gloves and opened the pouch at his waist. “I don’t have much on hand to be tendin’ wounds, but let me take a look.”
The tempered who’d injured him had been swinging around a jagged length of steel barely resembling a sword, but somehow twice as sharp. He’d cut straight through Emmanellain’s chainmail with it and scraped what felt like a fatal injury out of the small of his back. With a hiss of pain, Emmanellain stripped out of his own gloves, but removing his heavy mail proved to be unbearably painful.
He had no desire to ask for help but his vision kept going spotty with every attempt. Finally he conceded, “I’m having trouble lifting my arms.”
Sicard rolled his eyes but stepped forward and helped wrangle him out of his chainmail. As soon as his bloodied undershirt was exposed to the cold, it stuck to his wound painfully. He gestured and Sicard worked around behind him to investigate. Eventually the pirate lifted his shirt up and pinned it just below his left shoulder, tracing the fingers of his left hand across the tender flesh above and below it. Emmanellain shuddered.
“Well, it ain’t gonna kill you,” Sicard said and relief flooded his body. “But it ain’t very pretty either. It needs to be disinfected; it’s real fuckin’ red.”
Emmanellain wished he could properly twist around to see it, but contorting himself in either direction felt like tearing the wound apart at the seams. “Do you have—”
Sicard blew out a long breath, the cloud of mist fanning around the back of Emmanellain’s head. “In a manner of speakin’. You won’t like it, though.”
“Certainly any treatment is better than none,” he ventured through gritted teeth. Now that Sicard had confirmed his suspicions, he felt as though the infection was spreading by the second.
“Well, since ya asked,” Sicard said vaguely. Emmanellain listened as something was uncorked, the cork was spat on the ground, and then something akin to liquid fire was poured generously over the cut before he had an opportunity to ask what it was.
“Fury’s frigid bosom!” Emmanellain barked reflexively. He could only steel himself against the pain as it radiated in bright and blinding waves. Sicard wiped the wound clean with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “What is that?”
“Whiskey,” Sicard deadpanned.
“You’re pouring ale in my wound?!” Emmanellain shrieked.
“It ain’t ale, it’s whiskey,” Sicard sighed. “We do it all the time at sea, quit piddling yer pants.”
He was now certain he was going to die. If not from the injury or the cold, then by way of medical malpractice.
“I see now why most pirates lead brief lives,” Emmanellain whimpered. Sicard only gave him a withering look. “It hardly seems sterile.”
He shut up while he pressed something flat and dry into his back, firmly positioned over the cut. “Hold it there and keep your shirt out of the way.”
Emmanellain did as he asked, then only made a small noise as he watched Sicard remove the inner layer from his chainmail and reduce it to shreds. After making a long improvised bandage, he tied it around Emmanellain’s middle over the dressing to hold it in place. When he was done, he pulled Emmanellain’s tattered undershirt back down over it.
“Best I can do for now,” Sicard said. “Should work well enough ‘til we can get you back to Mina.”
It was makeshift, but secure. Emmanellain was surprised to find he felt much better for his effort. Surely the camp chirurgeon would tut and chastise at the sight of it, but he had to confess it was far better than he himself could do.
“Where did you learn to tend to wounds like this?” he asked.
Sicard shrugged and helped him to move nearer to the fire. The cave was still incredibly cold, protected though they were from the elements. “Learn a lot at sea. Even more bein’ an orphan.”
It was the first Emmanellain had ever heard Sicard speak of a family life—or lack thereof. He felt a little guilty. “I’m sorry.”
Sicard unbuttoned his big red overcoat and offered it to him. “Don’t bother me none. Can’t miss somethin’ you never had.” When Emmanellain hesitated to take the proffered garment, he shook it a little. “Take it. You need it more’n me.”
He was bristling somewhat at being so thoroughly tended to by someone who would almost certainly tease him for it later, but there was no denying how much colder he felt without his armor.
Sicard’s coat was still slightly warm. The sleeves were a bit too short, but the shoulders fit fine, and so he wore it like a cloak and scooted nearer to the fire while the wind outside howled. It almost reminded him of Coerthas. Almost.
They sat in silence for a long while, until eventually Emmanellain realized he never showed any gratitude for his rescue.
“Thank you,” he said. “If you hadn’t stepped in I’m not certain I would have found shelter in time.”
“You wouldn’t’ve,” Sicard agreed. Emmanellain puffed with annoyance at his seeming absolute certainty before realizing that was likely what he’d wanted. “How’d you wind up out in the arse end of nowhere?”
“Garlemald? Or this cave?”
“Both, I guess,” he shrugged. “We ain’t leavin’ this spot any time soon.”
The flames danced between them, smoke billowing and pouring out of the mouth of the cave. The air had a woodsy smell that reminded Emmanellain of Ishgard before the Calamity. Sicard’s golden eyes watched him like a cat’s. He found he wanted to be honest. Or perhaps the pain was driving him to madness.
“Laugh if you must, but I’ve never been particularly skilled at fighting,” he confessed. “Nor have I ever had any taste for it.”
Sicard rubbed his re-gloved hands together and then held them up to the heat of the fire. “Then how’s a dandy with no taste for fightin’ become commander of a garrison?”
“By force,” he said simply, though it was anything but that simple. “The position was,” he hesitated, not particularly wanting to delve into the particulars, “open and my brother, newly appointed Count, felt it was the perfect opportunity for me to become something.”
Except he was never meant to fill such a spot. The role was all but hand-crafted for Haurchefant, shining example of knighthood that he was. Emmanellain could never hope to accomplish the same.
Sicard’s eyes narrowed. “But you don’t want it.”
“It isn’t that,” he hurried to insist. Looking useless and ungrateful was far worse than simply useless. “It’s as fine an occupation as any, I suppose.”
“Then why not do somethin’ else?” Sicard asked.
It was a question Emmanellain had been asking himself for the better part of two years now, to little avail. He remained Garrison Commander of Camp Dragonhead because, at the end of the day, it was easy. There were dozens of knights around to pick up his slack. The paperwork was minimal and the worst of his headaches could easily be foisted onto others with more experience. So long as he occupied the seat in the war room and feigned knowing what he was doing, few bothered to question his motivations. It gave him time to ponder where he intended to go, without his father and brother insisting he accomplish more.
He considered saying as much—laying his intent bare in this tiny pocket where the world stood still—then wondered at the impulse. He wondered at Sicard. He barely knew the man.
“Not to question your motives, old boy, but you seem rather keen on solving my problems,” his brow crinkled with uncertainty.
He smiled, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. Uneasiness had replaced the comfort he felt only moments ago. It wasn’t mistrust. It was something deeper. Something he wasn’t sure he understood.
“Guess I’ve been watchin’ you since we came up here,” Sicard shrugged and Emmanellain was horrified to feel a flush rise to his cheeks. Even worse was when the pirate noticed and rolled his eyes. “Not like that.” Right. Of course it wasn’t like that. It was foolish to even think so. “Yer cute but you probably don’t know the bilge from the quarterdeck.” He paused, contemplative. His tone returned to seriousness. “I can’t explain it, I just knew you’d wind up in trouble somewhere down the line and I guess I felt like I needed to keep an eye on you.”
Emmanellain couldn’t decide whether or not to feel offended by the admission. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Aye, which is why you were stumblin’ around in a blizzard, bleedin’ and whingin’.”
The fire popped. The wind outside whistled. Emmanellain pulled the Maelstrom coat tighter around himself and winced as his bandage sank into his wound.
He sighed. “A fair point.” He supposed it was nice that someone cared. He was under no illusions that the better half of his contingent probably wouldn’t mind much at all if he vanished in the blizzard. It would certainly spare them a few headaches. Even so, he couldn’t help wondering. “But why?”
“Didn’t I just say I can’t explain it?” Sicard bristled, his brows knitting together above his nose. “I know what it’s like to have no one to look out for you. I was the same way, afore I joined the Executioners.”
He felt like he needed to thank him again, despite the embarrassment warming his face. Sicard had tracked him down, tended to his wounds, built him a fire, and given him his coat. Someday, somehow, Emmanellain resolved to repay the favor.
“Is your crew here as well?” he asked.
Sicard shook his head. “Just me this time round.”
“Why?”
“I had somethin’ to prove.”
For all that they’d teased and taunted, he couldn’t help but feel a similar kinship. A common thread that ran between them, in the unlikeliest place. If given the opportunity, he decided he wouldn’t mind getting to know Sicard better. Provided they survived this blizzard.
“Perhaps that’s my answer, too, then,” Emmanellain said, certain now. “For why I don’t simply do something else. Perhaps I’m also trying to prove something.”
“To yer brother or to yerself?” Sicard asked.
Emmanellain only smiled. By the time the storm cleared, perhaps he’d know the answer.