Chapter Text
In the heart of the secluded camp, surrounded by a dense wall of trees, a campfire blazed. Its tongues danced in the dark night, casting light and shadow on the healer’s face.
Marcelinne sits on her bedroll, gazing towards the flickering light as if it could melt away the cold that settled in her chest. She lazily scratches Ruri, who has comfortably placed her head on the girl’s lap. Slowly sliding her hand over the fur on the Miqo’te’s ears, the healer observes how her companion reacts to the caress, just like a real cat, succumbing to blissful purring and lifting her head as if asking for more.
(Miqo’te resemble a race closely resembling Hyur but with characteristic feline features such as ears, tail, and vertical slit pupils. These features are not just decorative elements; they enhance the Miqo’te’s sense of smell, vision, and hearing, which is useful for successful hunting and survival.)
A deep inhale fills her lungs with clean air, and the gentle scratching carries her thoughts far away, into a moment filled with fear and pain. Her memories are foggy, like a curtain of dark clouds.
***
She recklessly rushes towards Vearo, her heart pounding in unison with her fleeing legs. Branches lash her delicate cheek, seeking to scratch her eyes.
Wounded.
Mustn’t lose consciousness.
Movements honed by years of practice.
A purifying spell courses through her weakened body. Was the weapon poisoned? She prays that the poison didn’t reach vital organs.
With his last strength, Vearo lunges forward, trying to protect… From whom? Only worsening the situation!
- God, don’t move! — Her voice rings with concern.
The spread of the toxin must be stopped. The wound is not fully cleansed yet.
A bloodthirsty gaze licks her shoulders, making her falter.
Emptiness in her mind. She won’t have time to shield them, it takes seconds. A second—the smallest unit of time, often underestimated, but so crucial.
It seems they both might perish now? What an inglorious death.
The squelching sound of flesh being torn apart makes her start breathing again.
A battle unfolds nearby. The swish of Ruri’s axe, like a punishing cry, clearly put these tomb raiders in their place. This nauseating sound became music to her ears. Saved.
Why does she taste metal in her mouth? Oh, she clenched her jaws so tightly that she bit her tongue.
Gather the lost moments in fragments.
Stop the bleeding.
Stop the pain.
Stop…
***
Marcelinne snapped back to reality. As if emerging from darkness, she greedily gulped down the fresh air, which had become noticeably cooler than she remembered. A storm was approaching. In the distance, thunder rumbled. A light breeze carried the scent of rain, saturated with the aroma of earth and forest herbs.
The abrupt awakening made her head spin. She had managed to doze off. Her body remained in the same place as before. That was already a success. But where was Ruri?
Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, she had to rub her eyelids with her fists to finally focus. Her vision had failed her not for the first time. She sat up, feeling the cooled surface of the sleeping bag with her palms.
The perplexed expression on her face gave way to relief. She didn’t have to search for long to find the missing one.
Ruri was crouched near the camp’s exit. In the moonlight, her black ears, trimmed with raspberry fur, perked up, catching any rustle. Bright purple irises with vertical pupils darted from one bush to another.
She briskly stretched, straightening her flexible tail, which had been playfully swaying in the air before. Her movements betrayed the elegance and agility of a predator. What does she see there, in the The Black Shroud?
Miko’te arched her back, preparing to leap, and instantly vanished into the depths of the forest, like an arrow released from a taut bow.
The hunt began.
- Oh, these feline antics!
How irritating. First one runs away from the conversation. Now the second one can’t keep her guts to herself.
Marcelinne stands up, wrapping her arms around herself. The chill stings her skin, sending shivers down her body. Cobalt-colored locks sway under the pressure of the intensified wind.
Shrugging her shoulders, trying to shake off the invisible burden, she gropes for the blanket her companion left behind. It seems to still hold her warmth. Draping it over her head, the sorceress envelops herself, moving closer to the campfire.
Cold. It’s damn cold.
The fire promises solace, but not for her.
Alien to warmth. Abandoned by Mother of Dusk, whose blood flowed through her at birth.
(According to legends, the Au Ra were created by two divine beings: the Father of Dawn and the Mother of Dusk. The Raen clan of the Au Ra believe that their origin is linked to the Father of Dawn, reflected in their bright-white scales. The Xaela, representing the wild and intimidating branch of the Au Ra, believe that their blood is tied to the Mother of Dusk due to the black coloring of their scales.)
She was foretold to become a Saturnalia, staining the earth with the blood of enemies.
(Saturnalia was a pagan festival in Ancient Rome celebrated for its unconventional traditions and festivities held on the day of the winter solstice. It is said that this festival symbolized the suspension of social norms and inequality, and the acceptance of the inevitability of death.)
Her face — a reflection of the moon. Pale, with a rosy undertone. Horn-like growths encircling her body — the night sky. Sapphire eyes — sparkling stars. All of this — a beautiful yet cruel joke of the gods.
The initiation ritual, her kin hurried as best they could. She must bring honor home.
Home
The healer tasted the word. It slid down her throat bitterly, like a tonic. A rare nastiness.
***
She lost her home on that fateful day, but they bestowed upon her a name: Marcelinne — the little defender. It stood out starkly from the names given to the tribe’s children, emphasizing her uniqueness.
Pathetic
Born into a family of promising warlocks, they expected from her unbridled elemental power, chaos, or at least a fireball… Fate had other plans.
Blessed with the appearance of a child of the night and the strength of the feeble Elezen, she became an outsider among her own.
She returned home. Stained with shame. Fortunately, this misunderstanding could be easily corrected. How? Well, there were many children. No one would notice the absence of one among the many.
They left her as a trophy during another clash between two warring clans. A little girl amidst the debris of shattered homes and the cries of the dying. But even the Raen could not take her in.
Too small.
Too dangerous.
Taking pity on the child, they sent her on the first cargo ship to Gridania to learn the basics of healing the soul and body.
She studied everything they gave her, trying to find her place under the Sun. Marcelinne skillfully played on the strings of nature and patched up holes in chests, but how to seal her own — she never quite understood.
***
Raindrops began gradually seeping through the dense foliage.
Ensuring that the fire wouldn’t extinguish by morning, she surveyed the camp, her gaze catching the relaxed figure sitting by the mighty roots.
Vearo. Kin. They were of the same race, but deep differences in language and customs set them apart. He was from another clan.
From another world.
Curiosity takes over. Feet lead her to the sleeping man. Marcelinne kneels beside him and freezes, immersing herself in studying every detail of his face.
Impressive — the only word that comes to mind.
The rogue surpasses her in height, and the girl is afraid to guess how much taller he is than her. Light horn-like protrusions wrap around his muscular arms, and most likely his legs, adorning his tanned body. She lacks the courage to continue her flight of thoughts about clan markings, and where else they might be. The healer is already embarrassed just by the sight of his massive horns, speaking of fertility. Her gaze freezes on them, and she can’t look away, even when she feels it’s somewhat indecent. They create a beautiful contrast with his “French Marron” skin tone.
Excitement pulses in her temples. The feeling that someone is watching her makes her startle. She turns sharply. It seemed. Ruri hasn’t returned yet. The girl is still alone with her shameful thoughts and the sleeping Vearo.
The Conjurer feels a strange sense of guilt, as if she were committing a crime, staring intently at her partner. If staring at him is a sin, then she would sin again and again.
He beckons.
Her heart beats faster, and every sigh seems too loud in the silence of the surrounding camp. Leaning over her partner, she tries to hide her feelings, holding back the trembling of her hands and the smile that stubbornly tries to break through on her face. The tips of her fingers flutter over his serene face. The temptation to touch his warm skin eclipses the protests of her mind.
She traces with her index finger along the bridge of his straight nose, shifting to the cheekbones that transition into keratinous protrusions, outlining them with the back of her hand. She delicately tucks the burgundy hair behind his ear, the strands flowing smoothly from dark to light, as if sunlight dances in them. Returning to his cheek, she caresses it with her palm and slowly glides downward to his chin, grasping it.
- Your fingers are ice cold…
His voice is low. How long has he been awake?!
- I’m sorry, I… I shouldn’t have…
Marcelinne trails off mid-sentence. Caught in her own silence, she pulls her hand away from Vearo.
He’s quicker.
Grabbing her wrist, he pulls her closer to him. His movements are precise and confident. The Rogue grabs another, clasping both wrists in front of him. There’s strength aplenty in him. The girl tries to break free from his grip, but the man easily holds her.
His touches, despite their strength, seem frighteningly intimate, making her blush with embarrassment and shame.
- Decided to test the tales that Raen are easy prey in the night?
Panic washes over her, but she’s forced to admit that the assumption sounds more than plausible. Their clans are engaged in a timeless war, but she’s not one of them! Her mind works at full capacity, trying to find the right words, but all she can manage to say is:
- No!
Another futile attempt to break free. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes, but the enchantress tries to hold herself together, squinting to maintain control. This is clearly not the reaction she expected to elicit. Anything but this.
- Just…
- Look at me.
The white mage feared seeing disgust in his eyes, thinking of the faces of those who had tried to accept her but had been forced to turn away.
Meeting the brazen gaze of her partner, who, raising an eyebrow, challenges her, Marcelinne feels exposed before him. As if he sees not only her appearance but also the very thoughts she tried to conceal. It seems he finds this situation amusing.
- Frozen?
The next question softens her anxiety a little but leaves her even more bewildered. Instead of answering, she simply nods, breaking eye contact.
- Come here.
Vearo could make her do something against her will, manipulating her like a puppet, but instead, he offers her a choice. Sitting with legs on either side of her and releasing her wrists from his grasp, he waits, allowing her to decide what to do next.
Caring for the well-being of the group day and night is her duty as a healer, and she has always tried to be a reliable support for her comrades. He shouldn’t be this kind. It gives hope for the future… And she didn’t want to build castles in the air that could crumble after the mission ends. Too much attachment can cause pain.
But Marcelinne obeys. The response to his gesture may be simple, but it speaks louder than any declarations: she trusts him.
- Sit down, — says the Raen, indicating a spot next to him.
The White Mage slowly sinks onto the sleeping bag. Leaning against a tree, the man moves her closer to him, positioning her between his thighs and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. His other hand encircles her waist, as if she’s under his protection. How small she feels compared to him.
- Comfortable?
His broad chest presses against her back, as if the girl is becoming a part of him. The heat of his body seeps through the fabric of their clothes, offering the much-desired warmth. His moist breath tickles her neck.
Marcelinne doesn’t know how to act in this unusual situation, but she feels a strange excitement emanating unexpectedly from him. Her feelings are confused. She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what she feels towards this man, but she definitely needs to thank him.
Melting in his embrace, the girl imagined the southern wind caressing her, and the Sun kissing her forehead. She involuntarily smiled.
- Your skin is as hot as the sands of the native desert…
Movement behind her. His long hair tickles her collarbones as he tilts his head back.
Vearo opens his mouth, as if ready to swallow all the air around, and laughs. The laughter starts deep in his chest and bursts out like a rumble.
- Father of Dawn, has mercy… Do you even realize what you’re saying?!
Part of her wants to run away, while the other wishes to stay by his side. What did she say?
- Thank you?
That was naive. She grew up among Elezens and didn’t know the nuances of her own race’s etiquette, but it definitely couldn’t have been an insult. The healer was one hundred percent sure of it, scolding herself for her recklessness. Marcelinne clenches her fists, feeling the skin on her palms becoming damp.
The White Mage couldn’t see his face from this position, and she really wanted to. She starts fidgeting, trying to catch his gaze even briefly. Finally, she succeeds.
In his eyes are mixed feelings—confusion and something else, but the girl can’t exactly pinpoint what. Perhaps sympathy? Definitely not. He skillfully hides his true emotions.
Vearo is silent. Silent for a few minutes, frowning and ignoring her questioning gaze.
- Don’t you dare say this to anyone else now. Got it? — Leaning towards her, the Rogue hisses in her ear, sending a shiver running from head to toe and back again, focusing on the pit of her stomach. — Ignorance doesn’t absolve responsibility.
The healer slowly nods in response.
- I won’t tell, but please, explain to me.
He shakes his head, holding her tighter.
- Just sleep already.
Marcelinne obediently rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She gradually relaxes in his embrace, allowing herself to enjoy this moment of rest and tranquility in his presence. Later, they may be enemies or become allies again, but right now, in this moment, they simply exist together.