Chapter Text
“We need to get out now.”
“Not without freeing the others.”
Two heartbeats passed. What was the Wanderer had already closed half the gap between them, and more wickerfolk were quick to follow. An exasperated Winter knelt, procuring a small box and pressing on something obscured by his thumb. Flame spurted out. The box was nestled in the grass long enough for it to catch, faster than oil.
“They hate fire.”
Niko nodded, beginning to trap the wickerfolk and their captives in their shards, ducking beneath slashing limbs and splintery talons as they pressed towards their allies’ shards. The hungry flames and wickerfolk advanced, the one who had been the Wanderer eerily stationary, determining which of them was the better target. Her head turned to Niko, then towards the fire, her new limbs rattling menacingly, hollow; a cruel emulation of the shell of herself she had become.
Suddenly, she whirled and caught their eye. Well, where her eyes used to be. And the way she had frozen, they could almost believe she was still in there. The flames had caught to the trees now, forcing the other wickerfolk back to their frigid fire lest they be swallowed by the wildfire.
The moment was broken when she rushed at them. Jagged splinters of bamboo stuck out from her arms, each sliver promising a cruel end. The woodsmoke was quickly becoming denser, a gray haze cast over the room, and they fought the urge to cough. Niko took a step back, eyes darting everywhere, focusing intently on staying alive and finding the Wanderer amidst the many distractions. When green flickered at the edge of their vision, they threw the shard.
It pierced her shoulder, her head centimeters from their own, and she disappeared. They left her shard where it lay; it glittered in the firelight, almost calling them back with the way the light danced across it. But they didn’t turn back for it. They knew that if they did, they’d go pick it up, and Niko couldn’t—Niko wouldn’t lose anyone else.
The remaining wickerfolk—more than they’d thought—tried to swipe spiky appendages at them or use thorns to graze them as they rushed past, but wouldn’t leave their campfire. Some were running the opposite direction, deeper into the woods, possibly towards another door, or the hope of a door. Niko retrieved Nashi’s shard from the trunk it was wedged into, the snowy bonfire’s cold aura a welcome change from the quickly-warming room, tucked the three shards of their allies into their pocket, and began to run. The wickerfolk in their shards wouldn’t be trapped forever, and the Wanderer was fighting hardest to get out. Niko dodged the ones they hadn’t sealed away, staying close to the hot flames to keep any would-be attackers at a more comfortable distance.
The dry grasses and trees glowed, deadly beacons, and the smoke was so thick they felt almost smothered as they tried to keep their ears tuned for potential assailants, coughing harder and harder as the choking haze surrounded them, harsh even as they ducked low. Their eyes burned, the imprint of firelight seemingly seared into their eyelids—the brightness danced in their vision no matter if their eyes were open or closed. Sometimes they had to pause by fallen trees and other, slower-to-immolate objects so they could find another way forward when their current trail could no longer be traversed, thanks to the inferno. At these times the flames jumped for them, and if they didn’t move back quick enough they held up their arms to keep the fire from their face. Gods, they were dizzy.
Still Niko pressed on, covering their nose and mouth with the collar of their tunic and continuing in the opposite direction of the chill blaze.
Eventually, they heard Winter rasp over the popping of burning wood:
“Where are you? I can bring you through.”
“Here,”
They wheezed. Moments passed, the insistent crackling their only company.
Then a hand appeared, just barely visible between the smoke and their watering eyes. They took it; Winter tugged them through and further back, both stumbling for a moment as they tried to regain their balance. He kept his hand around theirs as the other was stretched warily in front of him, fingers trailing along the wall and searching for the door.
They heard a hiss as the doorknob clicked, and they reached for the outer jamb after the door swung open, their fingers finding purchase after a few seconds. Ahead of them lay a brightness unlike the glow of flames. The pair pulled each other through the door, heard it slam sharply behind them, and, just like that, they were out—no longer suffocating, but surrounded by humid and wonderfully clear air, in a cold parlor, while the wickerfolk revel was razed to the ground just a room away. Relief swept through Niko, the breathless relief of staring down death and rebuking it. Winter staggered onto a patch of carpet without moths and dropped to his knees after a moment’s pause; Niko quickly followed suit, tucking their legs to the side. The phlegm they hacked out was deep grey, like the smoke had followed them, burrowing deep into their lungs.
“Fuck,”
Winter whispered beside them, panting. Their tear-blurred vision had cleared enough to see him hunting for something attached to his belt. Seemingly finding it, he detached it from its fastenings—a small canteen. He uncapped it and tipped his head back, carefully pouring some of its contents over one eye. He grimaced, blinking rapidly. After doing the same for the other eye, he handed it to Niko.
The water was soothing and cool, and their eyes felt somewhat better after they finished. Somehow, the Ravnican recording device had remained intact and operational, if a little scorched. They handed the water back to him.
In examining their injuries, they found that their right leg had taken the worst of the burns, blisters already blooming. Their fingers brushed against the inflamed skin only briefly, when they were pulling fabric away, but as they did the pain was sun-bright.
Winter opened a pouch with what looked to be swathes of fabric shredded from curtains, winding a couple around one hand and taking two more before setting the pouch next to them, taking a slow drink from the canteen, and putting it beside the small bag of makeshift bandages when he’d finished. He looked about as awful as they felt, and his words were interspersed with short, jagged inhales that soon morphed into a ragged hacking.
“If these… if these get… infected, we’re… gone. We’re gone.”
They bound their leg slightly loosely, owing to the prickliness of the fabric against their wounds, and did the same for the burns on their arms, wrapping their wrists and most of their forearms to cover the painful spots beneath their singed sleeves. Then they imbibed from the flask, the warm water mollifying their abraded throat. They swallowed with a wince and twisted the cap back on, returning the flask to its previous spot as quietly as they could.
Niko glanced at the wall to ensure it was moth-free, then sat against it, heart still racing, occasionally coughing more. Their eyes drifted to the arched ceiling, the heights carved like wings.
The pair stayed there a few minutes longer. They’d have to get moving soon—their burns needed cool water, and it wasn’t safe to linger.
But first, they had to catch their breath.