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Wignall comes to with a start.
He only manages to register an overwhelming amount of red before nausea starts crawling up his throat, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut lest he lose his dinner.
Or breakfast? He can’t quite remember when he last ate. Nor what it was, now that he thinks about it–
“Well, look who finally decided to wake up,” a voice says to his right, sharp and condescending and vaguely familiar. “Hope you got enough beauty sleep, because I doubt we’ll get to rest anytime soon.”
The harsh words make the wheels in his mind turn at last. “Ulster?” Wignall’s tongue feels thick in his mouth, his thoughts sluggish. “Where–”
“Eleventh floor of the dungeon – or at least that’s what I’m guessing. Again.” Sion replies before Wignall could fully formulate his question, and his eyes snap open and towards the Fire Faction mage in response.
He squints immediately, biting back a whine as the unnatural dungeon light fills his vision. “How?” he manages with considerable difficulty, and hopes Sion will spare him any biting remarks just this once.
“Fuck, that Deformis got you worse than I thought,” Sion mutters, barely loud enough for Wignall to catch. He runs a hand through his hair, then lets out a weary sigh. “Basically, we stepped through the gate, and instead of the checkpoint, it spat us out here. The slimy thing’s tail came at me before I even realized what was happening, and” – he looks off to the side, cheeks and ears flushing red – “you pushed me out of the way. It knocked you out, so I killed it and have been waiting for you to come to.”
Wignall swallows, raising his hand to feel around the side of his head, only for it to come away wet with blood. The dull throbbing and nausea also tracks, and he can’t see a reason for Sion to lie. “How long was I out for?” he asks.
“Five minutes? Maybe less.”
Despite the reality of their situation settling in, Wignall can’t help but laugh. He regrets it instantly as the pounding in his head worsens for a moment, then gives Sion what he hopes is a reproachful look. “And you had the gall to imply I took too long to wake up?”
“Oh, shut up,” Sion says, any concern his voice may have held before gone in favor of something far more brittle. “We need to move. The corpse is bound to attract more monsters soon.” He pushes himself to his feet, dusting off his uniform, and the motion draws Wignall’s eyes to the faint tremble of his hands – with him (more than likely) concussed, they can’t afford for Sion to run out of magic so soon.
“Can you stand?” Sion asks, glaring down at him in a way that suggests his patience is about to run out soon.
Wignall brings his legs under himself and braces his hand against the dungeon’s uneven wall, then slowly stands up with less difficulty than he had feared. Once he’s upright, he takes a moment to let his stomach settle before giving Sion a nod.
“Fantastic. Now let’s move,” the fire mage orders, and Wignall doesn’t even try to resist rolling his eyes.
The discomfort it brings him is well worth the irritated huff the action pulls from Sion.
They walk along the maze-like chambers for some time, and the sight of them has Wignall tensing with even the faintest sound, the memory of the panic he felt during the All-Student Praxis crawling just under his skin.
He trails behind Sion as one minute bleeds into the next, his sense of time skewed. The Ulster heir’s hair and cloak are a horrid blood red in the dim lighting, he notes absently. Yet despite the way it makes his eyes strain, Wignall can’t help but find the sight strangely comforting.
After what feels like hours but could very well be a mere couple of minutes, they enter a wide area with the ceiling stretching at least four times as high as before. There’s scarcely anything that could serve as cover around them, and Wignall feels his heartbeat quicken. Were they to be attacked here…
Not even a moment after the thought enters his mind, there’s a sudden noise – something scraping against the floors, a roar in the distance – and his eyes meet Sion’s in silent understanding.
Wignall finds his voice first. “Gergesas?”
“Most likely,” Sion mutters, his frown deepening. “What’s the plan?” he asks, wand at the ready as the noise grows deafening and the first batch of the repulsive creatures rushes into the cavern.
Wignall pushes any remnants of panic down, focuses on the still all-consuming sensation of casting a genuine Alfs Ringhul. As the roots tear through the ground and twist around bulging limbs to keep the monsters in place, he finds Sion’s eyes. “Survive?” he throws over his shoulder, is just barely able to catch Sion’s responding grin – almost feral in its intensity – and it leaves his insides clenching with something wholly unfamiliar.
Three overgrown boars later, Wignall is heaving for breath while the heat from Sion’s flames licks at his skin and makes his hair stick to his face and neck with sweat, the air filled with the acrid smell of burning flesh as he immobilizes the last Gergesa. He glances over at Sion, and barely has the time to shield his face before the other's Dragos Nowl comes down all around them in a near-blinding flash.
“Is that all of them?” Sion calls out, and he sounds as out-of-breath as Wignall feels.
He opens his mouth to answer, when a low noise from behind makes him freeze.
Wignall swivels around and feels all the blood drain from his face, heart pounding wildy against his ribcage. His wand is raised, an incantation on the tip of his tongue, but he won’t be fast enough, and the beast’s claws turn into a blur as they near his shoulder–
His vision fills with flames, and he staggers back to avoid being set on fire alongside the hulking monster.
“Are you insane or just an idiot?! You almost lost an arm!”
“Wouldn’t be the first time…” it slips out without him even registering what he’s saying, heart still stuck somewhere in his throat as he steps away from the charred corpse. His hands refuse to stop shaking, and it takes a couple of seconds for Wignall to notice that the silence has stretched for too long.
He glances up at Sion, only to see the other’s face caught somewhere between shock and doubt, and it would be funny if it didn’t also make Wignall realize what he had just unwittingly divulged.
He can feel his ears flick back, his face flushing. “I mean– that is, uh” – he clears his throat, adjusts his singed cloak – “thank you. For the help,” he tries to deflect – can only hope Sion can’t see the way he clutches at his left forearm.
Sion’s eyes widen in surprise for a brief moment, then narrow with his scoff. “We’re even now, oh wonder elf. Don’t get distracted anymore.”
The pounding in Wignall’s head has lessened somewhat, but there’s a worrying exhaustion weighing his limbs down as he falls into step beside the fire mage. “As you command, your royal boorishness,” Wignall retorts with an easy smile.
“Why you–”
Whatever Sion had been about to say gets cut off by a not-distant-enough rumble.
Wignall manages to cast search first, wanting to conserve as much of Sion’s magic as possible – they’ll need his raw firepower if they are to make it to the tenth floor in one piece. “You can insult me once we make it out of here alive,” he says, eyes flicking over the map to find the source of the sound. He can feel dread pooling low in his belly with every passing heartbeat, the spell not picking up anything even though–
He sucks in a sharp breath and looks up at Sion with renewed worry. “Balkars,” his apprehension bleeds into the word, but Wignall can’t find it in himself to care. “Search can’t pick them up – the same thing happened to Will and me during the Praxis.”
“Fuck, this just keeps getting better,” Sion groans. His frown deepens, shoulders taut with frustration as his grip turns white-knuckled on his wand. “Do you have enough magic left to deal with them?”
Wignall forces his lips to stretch into a smile that feels like sandpaper against his skin, the thought of letting someone get hurt due to his own incompetence again making every breath an endeavor. He hopes it’s not as obvious as it feels. “It isn’t like I have much of a choice, do I?” he manages – even succeeds in making it sound somewhat nonchalant.
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Before Wignall could bask in relief as his spell rips through the last of the flaming monsters, the overuse of his magic slams into him full-force, and he falls forward onto his hands and knees with a pained gasp. The uneven ground bites into his palms as his lungs try to pull in enough air, his entire chest feeling like it’s on fire with the effort.
His eyes flicker up, desperately searching for the shade of red that would mean he managed to do something right for once–
“Hey– Lindor! Look at me, damn it–” a voice says next to him. It’s rough and stilted in a way that makes a distant sense of déjà vu wash over Wignall, and he manages to lift his gaze enough to meet Sion’s eyes. “You with me?” The Ulster heir asks, and though it takes him longer than it should, Wignall gives him a nod.
Gradually, his breathing steadies, and Wignall swallows around the tang of blood and ash filling his mouth before sitting back on his haunches. He lets out a slow exhale, his voice an ugly rasp when he asks, “Are you alright?”
Sion lets out a snort that seemingly leaves even him surprised, his sharp features softening in reluctant amusement. “I should be asking you that,” he says, and it almost sounds warm.
Still, “I’m fine.” Wignall pushes himself onto his feet with only a slight wobble, his entire body feeling like one giant bruise, and he’s not even sure whether he’s trying to convince Sion or himself.
“Yeah, you look fantastic,” Sion retorts, the words dripping with sarcasm as he arches a dark eyebrow at Wignall. “Sit back down – you’re exhausted.”
“Weren’t you the one who insisted we keep moving? We have to find a path that leads upwards and get close enough to the tenth floor for search to pick us up in case they sent someone after us. Besides, like I told you, I’m fine, so let us get out of this open space, at last,” Wignall says, and the way the brief tirade leaves him out of breath certainly doesn’t help his case.
Sion takes a step closer – all narrowed eyes and looking ready to argue – then that crimson gaze flickers down, taking in Wignall’s state, and whatever he sees makes him deflate with a sigh. “Let’s go, then. But don’t you dare slow us down,” he says sharply, and heads towards the nearest exit.
Wignall catches up to him in a few long, careful strides, and even with how out of it he feels, he can tell Sion’s pace is considerably slower compared to before. The thought has him biting back a smile, oddly charmed by the care.
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In hindsight, he should have noticed that things were going too smoothly – neither one of them was dead or dying yet, so of course a swarm of Deformis Serpents bursts through the wall just as they make it to an intersection that finally has a tunnel leading upwards; possibly even straight to the tenth floor, if the cool blue light coming from it is any indicator.
The monsters’ dark scales glimmer in a way that in other circumstances Wignall might even consider beautiful, but their enormous fangs – easily the length of his arm – keep him from pondering the thought.
A tail slams into the stone a few paces from him, leaving a dent the size of an Ice Golem and Wignall snaps back into focus.
“We should–” ‘retreat’, he doesn’t get to say.
A burst of flames cuts him off as Sion fends off the first wave of ridiculously overgrown snakes. “You’re in no condition to run,” he snaps, sweat beading on his forehead from exertion. “I’ll take care of these.”
“And exhaust yourself, too?” Wignall fires back while releasing a strained Zephyros Claw that gains him a mere few seconds of respite before the next beast starts closing in on them. “Don’t be stupid – at least one of us needs to conserve his energy!”
Sion’s guardian incinerates another two serpents, and he turns to face Wignall with a harsh snarl. “Just shut up, and let me–”
“Sion!” Wignall cries, the sight of gaping, unhinged jaws emerging from the smoke behind the other making his blood run cold, and there’s no time to think–
He releases a concentrated Verdes Lana to push Sion out of the way. The blast of wind sends him flying into the nearest wall, but Wignall doesn’t have time to feel bad before the serpent’s attention turns to him.
He tenses, ready to make a run for it, but his legs refuse to cooperate as black encroaches on the edges of his vision, his hands shaking too badly to even lift his wand–
The beast lunges at him. Absently, Wignall thinks he hears a panicked shout, but it’s drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears.
His mind whites out as razor-sharp fangs tear into his shoulder, sheer agony igniting his nerves as he hits the ground with the monster half on top of him. Wignall is sure he’s screaming, but the tear of his vocal chords is nothing compared to the way his entire left side feels like it’s been set on fire.
Tears burn trails down his cheeks as he thrashes under the crushing weight, and he can't even think through the pain–
Just when he’s sure he’s going to pass out, he feels an overwhelming heat all around him, and doesn’t realize what’s happening until the serpent releases him with a shrill cry.
Through a blur of green and black, he watches from his side as white-hot flames eat away at the monster’s hide. The shrieking stops, and Wignall feels some distant satisfaction even as the pain refuses to let up, trying and failing to force down the nausea clawing at his insides as the smell of the charred corpse reaches him.
There’s a strange warmth pooling under him. He tries to look, but as soon as he attempts to move, he’s left gasping and biting back another cry, and it suddenly doesn’t seem like such a bad idea to just lay where he is. Yes, he thinks, his eyelids feeling heavier by the second, just for a little while…
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He must have blacked out at some point, because the next thing Wignall is aware of is a pair of hands carefully turning him onto his back before helping him into a sitting position against what he’s guessing is a wall.
“–ndor! Fucking… Hey, can you hear me? Are you–”
“’m fine,” Wignall mumbles, desperate to stop the loud voice. His shoulder hurts.
A hand brushes his bangs back from his face, and it allows Wignall to at least try to focus on the red blur in front of him.
“You absolute idiot,” Sion says, quieter now, but it sounds oddly wet. Upset, almost. “You better believe I’ll write a report detailed enough that they never send you anywhere outside of the Tower ever again, you utterly insane–”
"‘m not ‘nsane.” Wignall fights to keep his eyes open, the fingers wiping the wetness from his cheeks surprisingly gentle. It’s almost enough to take his mind off the blood drenching his uniform. “An’ you’re… ‘ery tal–talkative. When you're frus’rated… ‘s very you."
Then the touch – warm and so achingly careful – leaves his face, and Wignall barely bites back a sound of protest at the loss. "Keep talking, and I'll show you something else that's very me," Sion mutters, eyes flashing like twin embers. His face is tight as he sears off a wide strip of his cloak to wrap Wignall’s shoulder and arm in.
The pain of being jostled is making it hard to focus, his tongue thick in his mouth. “Don’ set m‘ on f‘re, please,” Wignall tries to joke, though it ends up more of a pathetic wheeze that only serves to deepen the furrow between Sion's brows.
He makes this half-incredulous face, the corners of his lips downturned. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he says, quiet and uncharacteristically subdued, the ‘do you really think I would?’ audible even without being voiced, and Wignall immediately feels bad.
“’m sor’y. I kno’ you won’t.” It comes out as barely a whisper, his eyelids feeling heavier by the second.
Sion nudges his good arm carefully. “Just– stop talking. And don’t pass out, you hear me?” He lifts his wand to Wignall’s still-bleeding shoulder with a tight look. “I can try a Mineris to numb the pain at least, but I’m warning you – I haven’t cast this since the Common Magic final, so don’t expect much,” he says, the sharp lines of his face stiffening with concentration.
The tip of Sion’s wand glows a soft blue, and Wignall can feel himself slump back against the wall with relief as the pain starts fading into a low pressure. “You’re not too shabby,” he says once the numbness settles in fully, a weak attempt at lightening the mood.
Sion doesn’t deign his comment with a response – only gives him an eye roll as he sits down facing him.
Wignall's eyes catch on the cuts and dirt marring Sion’s face, and he can't help but wonder just how the other managed to take out the rest of that swarm on his own. “It’s two-to-one, you know,” he says, biting back a smile at Sion’s confused head tilt. “I’ve saved you twice now, so you owe me a drink at least when we make it back to the Tower.”
“It's not like I asked you to!” Sion snaps. “And besides, I could've let it eat you but I didn't,” he continues in a near-petulant tone, and crosses his arms over his chest. “So I'd say we're even.”
Wignall doesn’t expect the chuckle that tumbles out of him in response, but he finds that he can’t quite bring himself to mind it as he takes in the other’s sullen expression. Maybe he’s lost more blood than he’d assumed.
“You should’ve let it get me,” Sion says suddenly, grave and vitreous with what sounds an awful lot like guilt. “Or did you somehow forget you’re an elf? You could’ve just healed me, you fool, instead of…”
Wignall rests his head against the wall, the dried blood from his first injury uncomfortable on his skin. “Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. Despite being an elf, as you’ve so graciously reminded me, I have yet to master healing magic properly. So you see, if it had bitten you, we would have been even worse off than we currently are,” he says, trying to keep the frustration from his voice.
“You would’ve figured it out,” Sion retorts immediately – the conviction in the words seemingly effortless, and yet it is enough to make Wignall’s chest fill with an unfamiliar warmth. “Besides, I don’t think there’s many ways in which we could be worse off than now.”
Wignall can feel himself wince. “Please, refrain from jinxing it. We should be glad no monsters have managed to find us yet.”
“Now that you mention it… it’s been strangely quiet for a while,” Sion says, already reaching for his wand.
A magical circle glows at the tip, and Wignall feels his eyes widen at the sight of a familiar pattern. “Don’t– why would you waste what little magic you have left on search of all things–”
“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Sion says, sparing an unimpressed look for him before turning his attention back to the map. “Oh, fuck.”
Wignall wishes he had the energy to rub at his temples. “So we did jinx it, fantastic,” he says, hopes he manages to keep his tone light despite the dread pushing at his insides. He glances over at the map, and the moment he sees the sheer amount of monsters drawing near, he feels his stomach drop. “Ulster, leave me and go.” He doesn’t bother trying to hide the urgency in his voice and gives Sion a pleading look. “You still have a chance of making it, but not if you stay here.”
“Yeah, no way,” Sion retorts immediately, standing up with a wince. “I'm done running away.”
Wignall feels his eyes widen, and the first wave rushes out of the nearest cavern with a deafening rumble. “You–”
Sion doesn’t wait for him to finish before turning towards the horde, his cloak billowing behind him as he leaves Wignall to watch on helplessly as he engages the monsters. “You idiot! Leave while you can, otherwise–” we’ll both die here!, he doesn’t manage to voice, the shout tearing at his throat in his attempt to be heard over the roar of battle.
The flames around Sion surge, smoke heavy in the stale dungeon air as it slithers down Wignall’s throat and tugs at his lungs.
He coughs, the motion making his wound flare numbly, and he fights to keep his eyes on Sion through the pain, even as the haze in his vision grows worse with every passing second. When Wignall blinks next, the number of charred monster corpses tells him he must have passed out for a few minutes at least.
The rather large number of corpses, he notes once his surroundings come into focus, the last beast falling to Sion’s feet with a loud thud.
Wignall watches Sion stumble, watches him brace himself against his thighs as he heaves for breath, looking like he’s about to fall over, and it has his heart lodging itself in his throat and chest tightening with concern. Moving still doesn’t seem to be an option, so he forces his voice to work. “Ul– Sion!” he calls out, silently begging for the other to please be okay–
Sion looks back over his shoulder and meets Wignall's eyes with a crooked grin. “We're even now, yeah?” he pants out, and with the flames painting his silhouette in heat and dancing over the curve of his cheek, he looks like something straight out of a fairytale – fire and fervour come alive.
With his breath caught low in his throat, Wignall can only muster a tired little smile as he feels relief take over. Before he could mumble out some reprimand, the sound of a familiar voice reaches his ears – clear like a bell and too high-pitched to be anything but–
“They’re here,” Lefiya calls out to what Wignall presumes is Filvis somewhere behind her, and the last of the remaining tension bleeds out of him, his mind finally convinced that they are safe.
Then Wignall notices the shaky footsteps approaching him, and he manages to force his eyes open to look up at their owner. “Sion?”
“Don’t tell me you have brain damage, after all,” Sion drawls, coming to a stop next to him as Lefiya starts removing the makeshift bandage and the torn remains of his uniform to get to his wound.
Wignall huffs out a laugh, weak but sincere enough to make him warm all over. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and hopes it’s loud enough for Sion to hear.
“Don’t mention it,” Sion says, brittle as ever even as his cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink. He sits down on Wignall’s free side and leans back against the wall before turning his head to give Wignall a look. “Seriously, don’t. The others will never let me live it down.”
“Fine, but you owe me that drink,” Wignall replies with considerable effort, another smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Sion’s responding snort is more amused than anything, the half-grin he gives Wignall a sharp little thing that has him wishing the other would smile more often. “If you keep quiet, I’ll treat you to a whole dinner.”
“It’s a date, then,” Wignall manages, barely hanging onto consciousness, but forcing his eyes open enough to catch the surprise that flashes in Sion’s eyes before the words seem to register in his brain and he rounds on Wignall with a face that's almost as red as his hair.
“You– what are you blabbering about, you overgrown twig? Hey, don’t– Wignall! Don’t you dare pass out now, you–”
Wignall doesn’t hear the rest as he gives into the lulling heat of Lefiya’s healing spell, Sion’s flustered voice echoing in his mind as he drifts off.