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Soap remembers it all too well.
He had been tasked with a mission just like every other; find the vagabond group of traitors, put an end to their reign of terror. Should be easy given he was working alongside his familiars; Crazy, a phantom and the token medic, and Fox, an elytran and an angel of death. However, Soap was known well throughout the land; his feats were local legends, and so was the claim that he was fearless and without weakness. However, he wasn’t, for as much as he knew it would never happen, if anything were to harm anyone under his guard he would crash and burn like Icarus.
Flames painted the forest and flatland in every shade of crimson, sunset, and gold. Black smoke billowed into the sky, shielding the moon’s light in favor of the overwhelming glow of fire. To set the world ablaze was the traitor’s final resort; it would isolate Soap and force the other two to retreat, for he would be an easier threat to handle if there weren't eyes watching from the murky sky and the shadows.
Except Crazy and Fox refused to retreat. Crazy phantomized into the flames and moved unharmed with such methods; periodically ducking in and out of the fire as his energy and ability to stay hidden demanded. He’d draw his bow and fire at the opposition, his arrows igniting before burying themselves in the flesh of foe. Fox hovered above the sea of gold, seeing through the smoke and diving down to tackle the stranded traitors below. In and out they weaved, fanning the flames with their refined wings, singeing the target whether they intended to do so or not. You could hear the traitors yip and scowl, condemning the phantom and the angel as their clothes and skin turned from glowing, flickering gold to melted, smeared coal.
Yet, Fox strayed far too close to the ‘sun’ for comfort; Soap was naturally safe from fire for he was born and made of it, and at the very least Crazy could remain unscathed given he took proper precautions. However, Fox was born of delicate, mortal skin and wings–if they caught, they would go down with the trees, the flowers, and the limbs of the men the trio were reigning hellfire upon. This didn’t frighten the elytran in the slightest bit, for they longed to be the hero that defied all odds, but it frightened Soap as he thought. He looked into the flames, watching the fledgling’s movements–rhythmic ascent and descent, each movement of feather sending another sickening chill down the warrior blazeborne’s spine.
“ FOX! ”
A shrill scream rang out through the night, discordant with the melody of fire crackling. It was Crazy’s voice; as wrung with fear as much as the sky is filled with smoke. Soap spun around to try to locate the source of it, the attempt fruitless and only out of habit–as Crazy stands in the fire he’s entirely invisible. The blazeborne quickly looks back out into the endless golden sea in front of him. Hovering above the flames is Fox, wings outstretched. Their usually crystalline white and pristine feathers transition into that dismal coal color, and then into that bloodcurdling, spasmodic fire glow. Their feathers curled on themselves and fell apart, flying away with the wind. The flames crawled up their wings and spine, tearing through feathers, skin, and muscle. You could watch as their face went from the triumph of winning over the enemy to pure unbridled agony, their wings folding in as their muscles tensed from the heat.
And Soap watched as they fell, wings shimmering in vibrant reds and oranges. Within seconds, they were engulfed by the fire; like swines dragged to the Nether.
And he could only bring himself to stare in a desolate horror.
“Well, they’re alive, or at the very least, not dead.” Crazy hesitantly says, holding his hand to the groove in Fox’s neck. Their carotid pulse was slow, unsettlingly slow, but there regardless. Soap stood a few feet away from the bed they were resting on, watching the rise and fall of their breathing, feathers shifting and spreading apart as they moved.
They had hiked to the nearest village after the battle. That village was Svyatilishche, a plains village that was the least targeted and least damaged by the group of traitors they fought. After explaining who they were, where they came from, and what they were here for, the local librarian let them stay. Now, the three travelers stowed away in a small room with two yellow-bedspread beds, a small, squeaky wooden stool, and lots of books, left trying to figure out where to go next. Fox had been their main form of transportation to and fro–elytrans are built for long-distance travel, after all–but now with blackened wings, they were forced to stay or find a second plan.
“Should I head out to this place’s market? I don’t think any of us have eaten anything since…” Crazy goes quiet, trying to recall when, “a few hours before that battle, I think?” He winces.
Soap nods. “Grab yourself something, and a little bit for Fox.” He says, wearing a nonchalant face, “don’t bother with grabbing something for me, I’ll be fine.” He breaks eye contact with the phantom, looking away.
“Like hell you will be. I’m going to buy something for you.” He says, one foot out the door leading into the library the room was attached to. His voice grew concerned and frustrated. “What do you want me to grab?”
“Whatever you find. I’m not particular about it.” Soap changed his tune quickly–that bothered Crazy in a way he struggled to put into words.
“Keep an eye on them,” Crazy motioned to Fox, “don’t stray too far; they’ll probably be terrified if they wake up and neither of us are here.” Soap looks over to Fox in acknowledgment, them still laying near-motionless. “I’ll be back in an hour, give or take.” The phantom ended his words.
And just like that, he was gone; the door Crazy held open shut with a click. Soap listened as his footsteps grew quieter and quieter as he walked away. The only sound in the room was now the faint melody of Fox’s breathing, traffic from outside, and his own heart beating in his chest. He walked to the opposite side of the room, locked the door, and slumped down on the only free bed. It was pristine; the same way it was when the trio was invited into the library. Neither Crazy nor himself had slept for longer than 30 minutes at a time. He should've gotten some rest, but he couldn’t.
Every time he tried to lie down and focus on something else the experience of that battle haunted him. He, Crazy, and Fox may have won, but he couldn’t find it within himself to call what happened that night a victory. The traitors had surrendered; realizing they had lost too many men to keep fighting. The prize of having total control over the local villages simply wasn’t worth the blood. He told them he’ll let them go, but if they ever terrorized another community again he’ll have their heads. He felt like he should’ve killed them right then and there if the smoke they inhaled wasn’t going to already. He didn’t know if Fox would die that night. Yet, if they did, it would be an eye for an eye–but were their injuries the traitor’s fault to start with?
Soap stood up, so lost in thought his head started to ache. He had seen their injuries out of the corner of his eye and in brief before; there was no way he couldn’t have. However, he avoided looking at the damage with full face for longer than a few seconds, and he presumed he simply didn’t need to know. He knew basic medicine, yes, but the scope of their injuries was beyond him–besides, he wasn’t the medic of the trio. Yet, something in him compelled him to take a closer look; concern, guilt, fear? He couldn’t tell, but whatever it was he wished he didn’t listen to its cries.
Veins of black were patterned throughout Fox’s back, along their shoulder blades, spanning down the metacarpals of their corrupted wings and past their waist. The veins were shrouded in thick clouds of crimson and coal, thinning out into a rose color where their burns were less severe on their pale skin. The wounds were, at their deepest, more than an inch sinking into their muscle. At some points you could see the bones of their spine, sticking out like shards of glass buried in dirt. The contours of their flesh were worn away, smooth like wax in some areas where their body melted and decomposed with the heat, jagged like charred wood where the flames ate them away as if they were prey.
Their once opalescent feathers were curled away from their body and the bed they rested on. Each feather was matte and blacker than night, portions of the vane and bristles fused together and contorted as they were burned in their follicles. Towards the end of their secondary and tertiary feathers, the plume was at least slightly familiar, but even those parts of their wings narrowly escaped the fire–their iridescent glow just barely shining through ash. Some of the feathers had fallen into their burns when their wings closed up mid-flight on the battlefield, the feathers now fused into their muscle. Their wings were effectively clipped in the battle–Soap begged the question if they would ever fly again, and if they did, it would be long before they could.
The tainted feathers scattered the bedsheets. They stood in stains of dirt, ash, what once was blood, and what one could only guess was what else that had fallen and smeared off of Fox. Soap remembers how often elytrans shed feathers–in the End, they usually just fall into the void, but in the Overworld, they followed Fox like a trail. He’d find them stuffed into the letters they would send, scattered around his mailbox, and wedged into his armor after training. They could be found across the Stardust Islands, in Fox’s base, and across their bed. He always found it endearing–like a reminder that no matter what, they’d be by his side.
Gently, Soap pulled one of the charred feathers out of the fabric of the bedsheets, lifting it up to eye level.
It was so frail it fell apart in his hand.
He took a few steps back, stumbling. The ash the ‘feather’ disintegrated into tumbled down his forearm and onto the floor slowly and sluggishly. Soap could feel his breath hitch and quicken in his throat as his jaw shook. What was concern morphed into terror in his heart, a mortal fear and anger that no paladin like himself would ever think they would feel. Quietly, he wished that he'd see the traitors soon, just so he could have the satisfaction of bludgeoning their skulls apart. Weapons were too merciful for what they had caused–he wanted to feel shards of their bone between his fingers, to stand in seeping brain and blood. And if the perpetrator of Fox’s tragedy was his own hands, he would not hesitate to do the same to himself.
The more he thought about it, the more it felt like he deserved that fate. He watched as they fell, he watched them go up in flames. He could’ve saved them, he should’ve. They shouldn't have been on the battlefield to begin with–at least Crazy could avoid the flames given he didn’t push his luck, but Fox was completely helpless. No phantomization, no potions, no natural defense. Creatures from the End are never supposed to see fire. He shouldn’t have let them into the battle, regardless if they were a part of the trio or not. It was his duty to protect Tyria Arbora and everything that lived under its wing, and as far as he was concerned, Fox and the Stardust Islands were as much a part of the forest as anything else. He had failed his only purpose.
The sound of traffic seeping through the walls grew quiet, if only for a moment. The sound of small angelic breaths and a blazeborne’s tired mechanical heart grow louder–so loud in Soap’s ears it’s almost deafening. He reaches his hands to his mouth, so tight against his chin and upper lip that it’s painful as his fingers sink into fiery skin. Leaning forward, he tries to keep himself from making an awful, pitiful keening sound–the closest a blazeborne can get to crying. His mind raced to scold him for sobbing over who was merely a commoner, and then to lambaste him for daring to call Fox anything less than who they were–a warrior not unlike himself, struggling to fight both their own battles and stand alongside him in his.
The handle to the door leading to the room interrupted his thoughts as it rattled. “Let me in! Let me innnn !” A familiar voice spoke to him; it was Crazy, back from market. His voice was playful, standing out against the pain that wrung the chamber like water on skin. Suddenly, everything stopped.
Tired, Soap stood upright to unlock and open the door. Crazy furrowed his eyebrows upon seeing him. “Are you alright?” His cheerful tone dropped, walking into the room as Soap held the door open for him. His arms were full of goods–namely bread. “Something happen to Fox? Please tell me nothing happened to Fox.”
“ No –Fox’s fine. I just…” Soap’s sentences were difficult to finish. “I got nervous.” He shut the door, looking at Crazy as the phantom unpacked what he traded for. Loaves of bread, salt, a bit of meat, and some sweets.
“You? Nervous?” Crazy stopped his chore to look at him. “Soap, are you sure you're fine?” His shoulders drooped. “You can tell me whatever–I’m here to help take care of you, that’s my job.”
Soap hummed, disagreeing with Crazy without using words. He shouldn’t have to be tended for–especially when Fox’s wounds were weighing down on the whole trio, and even more so given he was a warrior made of basalt and a fiery core; not a beating heart and flesh wounds. He got to daily tasks without furthering the conversation. Crazy gave him a concerned look, staring and lingering on him before going back to helping out as well.
Silence filled the room, but the feeling of unfinished conversations clung to the conscious two like burn wounds against back and wings. It was uncomfortable and tense; Neither would let up, and both stayed quiet except for few and sparse superficial exchanges. Soap hated it. It was manageable when only he knew what he had gone through. It was manageable when only he knew the feeling of blackened feathers against his palm; when only he knew how he was shutting down like the machine he always was because that battle had grabbed Fox by their feathers and tore them away from him. But now Crazy knew, and Crazy was concerned.
Soap sighed. “I should’ve saved them.” His voice suddenly broke the silence, speaking without looking at Crazy.
Crazy turns to look at him. “What?”
Soap’s voice was monotone, sending shivers down Crazy’s spine. “I was right there. I could’ve saved Fox.”
“Soap, there’s nothing you could’ve done differently.” Crazy feigned a lighthearted tone, regardless of how serious his words were. Soap looked up at him, furrowing his eyebrows; he looked more insulted than comforted.
“Think about it.” Crazy ignored his expression. “There’s nothing you could’ve done back there.” Crazy leans against the nearest surface; the wooden stool, it creaking as his weight shifted onto it. “Fox was at least fifty feet in front of you, if not more. I saw it. Even if you ran to save them, you wouldn’t make it in time.”
“I did nothing instead. Like a coward.”
“Because that’s how people work, Soap!” Crazy’s voice raised, almost shouting at him. Soap jolted, leaning back with eyes wide. Crazy’s voice lowered again, back to a firm speaking volume. “You adore Fox–I know, I do too. You would be terrified if something were to happen to them, right?”
Soap eased up, and motioned to the unconscious Fox not far from him.
“People lock up when something is so terrifying it overwhelms the brain, assuming your mind isn’t much different from a human’s. Freeze response.” Crazy leans back. “If anything, it’s not that you were afraid to save them, it’s more that you were afraid they’d be hurt.”
“If I did something, they wouldn’t have gotten hurt, though.”
“ You —” Crazy pauses, cutting himself off. “You did. You did do something.”
“ What? ” Soap said, concerned and confused.
“I grabbed them once they hit the ground since I was the one who was closer to them. I ordered you to make a pathway for us to get out of the fire, right?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands–he remembers seeing them through golden flames, not being able to tell individual shapes apart, just approximately where he held them. The feeling of crunching, decrepit, burnt grass and dirt beneath metal alloy boots came flooding back, Soap stepping into endless fire to create a safe route to untouched land. He remembers turning back to make sure Fox wasn’t touched by the walls of fire on either side, their face just barely turned away from him. They looked at him with weary eyes, half open with their silvery iris and pupil glazed over. Their terror was fading as they were passing out. Soap didn’t know if they’d make it out alive.
“I was running out of energy to stay phantomized. If you didn’t do that, I and Fox would’ve both died.” Crazy recounts. “Instead, we both lived . ” He smiled.
Soap nodded and looked at Fox again. “Okay. Okay.” He sighed. “I just wish I did something. He walks over to the bed they rested on and leans on it, studying their wings and back again. “I’m just worried about them. They didn’t deserve this.”
“Bad things happen to good people.” Crazy lamented, walking to stand beside Fox and Soap, too. “Tragedy happens–you’re a warrior who’s fought dragons, you’d know that.” He looks at Soap. “Right?”
“Of course. It’s only that,” he pauses. Words hardly expressed how demoralizing it all was to him. “They don’t deserve this. They just wanted to help.”
“Yeah.” Crazy turns around and hands Soap a cloth covering something bready. “I picked up a blueberry puff pastry for you.” He took it in one hand and unwrapped it, taking a bite out of the hand-sized, sweet loaf.
“Thank you.” Soap murmured, somber and quiet. He held his free hand to his mouth as he spoke with his mouth full of pastry.
“Hey. Look at me.” Soap obliged as Crazy begged. “I don’t know what’s going to happen going forward.” Crazy placed one hand on the blazeborne’s shoulder. “But Fox has survived it all; both in the End and the Overworld. They’ll get through this, and we’ll help them through all of it.” Soap nods.
“But through it all, I want you to remember one thing;”
“It was never your fault.”