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Though she was not a woman given to praying, Y’shtola Rhul found herself praying for her friend.
“Is he breathing?” Alisaie demanded, leaning so far over her brother’s shoulder as to functionally be sitting on his back.
“Yes, but faintly.” The healing light from G’raha Tia’s hands paused for a moment as he checked the Warrior of Light’s pulse.
“Is he getting enough healing?” she said. “He’s not getting enough healing. Let me help. You need my help.” She pulled off her gloves and leaned even further into Alphinaud’s space.
“Past a certain measure of aether replenishment, there art diminishing returns in healing,” opined Urianger from the other side of the Ragnarok’s barracks. “Our friend is under exemplary care betwixt Alphinaud and G’raha Tia.”
Alisaie seemed unconvinced, for which Y’shtola could not fault her: despite his comforting words, Urianger paced back and forth with barely restrained concern. Next to him, Thancred offered what could charitably be called a confident smile. “He’ll make it. He always does.”
“We’d better hope, or Alisaie might just kill us all.”
Y’shtola rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Estinien. Your bedside manner is the example to which they will hold all future chirurgeons.”
Estinien shrugged, not audibly affected at all, and went back to staring at nothing.
Alisaie still thrummed with nervous energy. “He was supposed to be right behind her. Meteion said he was right behind her.”
“She may have lied,” G’raha murmured, clearly meant to be to himself. Naturally, Alisaie turned her putrefying glare on him, making him flare up with embarrassment. “Or perhaps not! We should take comfort, nevertheless, that he is returned to us.”
“Returned to us half-dead!” Alisaie snapped. “Half-dead, covered in blood, barely breathing, scythe covered in Hydaleyn only knows what—”
“Looks like blood also,” quipped Thancred. When Alisaie spun on him, he shirked her glare. “For Y’shtola’s sake, you know.”
“You will then be pleased to know blood still carries aether within it,” Y’shtola retorted, with a polite (but threatening) touch of acid, “and thus I can still see it”. She did not deign to continue her thought—that that was how she knew how injured M’ren really was.
“Come now,” whispered Alphinaud, hands nearly pressed to M’ren’s side, “come now. Give us a sign. Tell me you’re still with us.”
There were twenty-eight seconds of awful, sickening silence.
And then.
“Ow.”
Alisaie burst into tears.
“Crying,” M’ren murmured, moving to lean forward. “Crying—ow—crying, I should—”
“Lie back, my friend, lie back.” G’raha placed a hand on M’ren’s shoulders. “You’re alive. You’re alive…” Tears began to form in his eyes as well. “You kept your promise.”
“‘Course,” said M’ren, allowing himself to be gently laid back down. “Wasn’t gonna—ow—Zenos…”
“Zenos?!” screeched at least three people, one of whom was definitely not Y’shtola.
“Yelling,” M’ren muttered. “Always yelling.” He wriggled on the cot, then seemed to regret it, the way he winced. “Got ‘im.”
Alphinaud was the first of them to find their tongues. “What—but, how did—Zenos!? How did he—what do you mean, ‘got ‘im’?”
In response, M’ren held up a dagger that clearly nobody had noticed he was holding, the way they all recoiled. Covered in blood and viscera, jammed onto its point was what was unmistakably a Garlean eyeball.
“Got ‘im.”
From Y’shtola’s right, Urianger began to retch. Thancred, with quick steps, walked over and took the dagger from M’ren’s crusty grip. “I’ll just take this, then, won’t I?” He wrapped it in a piece of cloth and squirreled it away somewhere on his person.
Y’shtola had a brief moment of wondering if she could get away with asking him for it, purely for scientific purposes, before she got over herself.
That settled, G’raha motioned for Alisaie to bring him another washcloth, which she did with urgency. He slowly uncurled M’ren’s hand, which was still clenched against the dagger’s phantom, and began to wash.
“Perhaps I should speak clearer,” began Alphinaud. “What was Zenos doing there?”
M’ren winced at G’raha’s ministrations. “Helping.”
“Helping?!” Definitely not Y’shtola then either.
“Ow.”
“My apologies,” said Alphinaud, who had definitely been most of the yelling, “but did you say helping? Zenos?”
“Helped. Defeated the Endsinger. Ate the Mothercrystal. Turned into Shinryu. Killed him. Not in that order.”
“He ate the Mothercrystal?!” yelped Y’shtola, who couldn’t hide behind anyone that time.
“Why is everybody yelling?” M’ren complained, a little of his normal verve whispering back into his voice. “Can’t you see I’m horribly injured?” He paused, sat up a bit, and looked around. “Wait, why can’t I see I’m horribly injured?” He turned his head towards Alphinaud. “Darling Alphinaud, why can’t I see that I’m horribly injured?”
Alphinaud blushed so hard that Y’shtola could see it from behind, so G’raha spoke instead. “You have a bandage over one eye and a bruise the size of a man’s fist over the other. Which, with what you have now told us, begins to make some sense.”
“‘Make some sense’,” Alisaie mocked, voice still thick with emotion. “As though Zenos, there, at the end of all creation, makes any sense.”
“Oh good,” said M’ren, wincing and cringing his way to a seated position, “you waited to let Alisaie murder me.” He turned to her. “May as well get on with it now; feels like I’m naked and unarmed.”
“You are wearing pants,” said Y’shtola, who was so happy that he was still able to make fun that she was on the verge of sobbing herself.
“Great. Well?”
“As if I would murder you!” Alisaie snapped, fists tight at her sides. “I would wait until you were fully healed before beating you within an inch of your life for making us worry like this!!!”
“Hahah-ow, oh Halone it hurts to laugh.”
“Your ribs are broken in several places,” offered G’raha. “Perhaps you should lie back down.”
“But I don’t want to lie down. I want to open my eyes and be back on Eitherys.” He reached up and rubbed at the unbandaged eye. Unfortunately, it was with the still-gore-covered hand. G’raha made a strangled noise and started wiping at M’ren’s face.
For a wonder, M’ren didn’t bat him away. “Ugh, this is awful. How long will this take? Is this what it’s like for Y’shtola all the time? No wonder she’s pissier’n a wet hornet.”
Y’shtola barked out a laugh, thrilled that he was getting closer to normal. The only other laugh came from Thancred, who covered his mouth the second she looked his way; everyone else was too aghast to even consider it.
“Oh, that’s where you are. Y’shtola, I’m bored of lying here. Let’s go have some tea or whatever.”
“I do not think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ve never listened to your advice in my life and I’m not gonna start now,” M’ren announced proudly. Then, to everyone’s horror, he began to stand up.
Four pairs of hands found their way to M’ren’s side, and Y’shtola was only a little surprised that hers were one of them.
“Fie, away with ye, harpies! I was able to walk away from Emet-Selch, I am gonna walk away from this.”
“You barely walked away from Emet-Selch,” Alisaie muttered mutinously. In response, M’ren reached out blindly and roughly pawed Alphinaud in the face.
“Ow.”
“Which twin was that?”
“The wrong one,” said Y’shtola, nearly giddy with relief.
M’ren smacked G’raha across the cheek.
“Ow.”
“Well, that definitely wasn’t Alisaie.” M’ren swayed a little on his feet. “Y’shtola, where are you? I’m feeling a little… woozy…” He pitched forward and fell into Y’shtola’s waiting arms (by virtue of the fact that she was the only one that hadn’t moved out of smacking range, and could thus actually catch him).
They did not hug often, so Y’shtola did not have a panoply of data from which to draw, but… Underneath the armour and the magic and the bravado and the bravery, had he always felt so frail?
She found herself holding him close. “You’re alright, my friend. You’re okay.”
“Ew, you’re hugging me.”
She chuckled. “Do you not wish to be hugged? I can let the floor hold you, if you want.”
“What I want is a giant glass of lemonade and a man twice my size to fold me in half, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?”
It was then, in the stunned silence that swirled around them, that Y’shtola realized M’ren was perhaps not quite as lucid as they’d thought.
“Hmm, mayhap it would be best if you laid back down.”
“You’re such a nag, Y’shtola,” said M’ren, leaning his forehead down on her shoulder. “You sound like my sister.”
A meaningless statement, coming from a Mi’qote. Y’shtola rolled her eyes again. He really was such a brat sometimes. In his semi-conscious state, his filter was clearly malfunctioning worse than normal.
A wicked idea came to her.
“Urianger is tall.”
Urianger blanched so hard she could hear the blood leaving his face.
M’ren grumbled into her neck. “Urianger also has a jawline you could cut glass on with tits to match, but by the Fury, Y’shtola, at what cost? Could you hold it together after hearing ‘thine pussy be popping’? I think I’d rather die.”
Urianger looked like he’d rather die, while a sound wheezed out of Thancred that was not unlike the air escaping a lobster as it is boiled alive. Both twins had their faces in their hands, while G’raha, scarlet as can be, tried very hard to look like he wasn’t looking at them. Only Estinien seemed unaffected.
She could fix that.
“Estinien is also tall.”
“What?! You witch, don’t drag me into—”
“Estinien,” M’ren began in a tone that was fairly dripping with disdain, “still carries around a spear soaked in the blood of a guy he killed two years ago. I don’t know what would kill me first: him, or the scabies.”
The sound escaping Thancred now sounded more like a teapot when it is boiling over and also there’s a live elephant in there. Estinien, probably relieved he had gotten off relatively easy, shrugged. “That’s a fair criticism. We would definitely kill each other.”
“And the rest?!” asked Alisaie.
“Dragon’s blood doesn’t wash off. It’s why I had to replace my armour.”
“And the spear?” asked Thancred, who sounded to have gotten a hold of himself.
“None of your business.”
Y’shtola flashed them all her cattiest smile. “Thancred—”
“Y’shtola, I am begging you—”
“Ugh, Y’shtola, why do you care? We can talk about fucking our fucking coworkers later.”
“Oh, thank the Twelve.”
M’ren rolled around on her shoulder. “I am so bored and tired and are we there yet? My ass hurts, and not the fun kind.”
Alphinaud let out a sound like he’d been stepped on.
“It may well be bruised,” Y’shtola said, not quite willing to say the phrase ‘you got your ass beat’, no matter what personal revelations it might elicit from her friend.
“What, by Zenos?” M’ren scoffed. “He could only be so lucky. If he weren’t worm food.” He pretended to heave, then actually started heaving and nearly slipped from Y’shtola’s shoulder, so she helped him to a sitting position against the wall. He put his head in his hands and breathed in and out slowly, while G’raha and Alphinaud scuttled over to continue their ministrations.
“Stabbed ‘im,” M’ren said after a few minutes.
“I know.”
“Right in the eye.”
“We saw.”
“Had to make sure. Almost died. Had to make sure.”
Y’shtola smiled down at his bowed head. “I know.”
M’ren let out a soft little laugh and then, despite G’raha and Alphinaud’s best efforts to keep him upright, slid down the wall and laid his head in Y’shtola’s lap.
“I love you, Y’shtola,” he said, soft and quiet and utterly heart-wrenching. Y’shtola found she could not quite muster the words with which to respond. “It’s too bad.”
She stared down at him. “‘Too bad’?”
“We coulda been, like, the most obnoxious couple at parties, you know? Rude to everybody but also the hottest ones there? If only you weren’t such a nun and I hadn’t sworn off women.”
“Bad news for Alisaie,” grunted Estinien.
Y’shtola couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think we need assistance to be obnoxious at parties.”
"You don’t need help. I’m a delight.”
Y’shtola smiled. She did love that man, in much the same way as he loved her (although she could most assuredly come up with a better way to phrase it), and she was more than willing to put up with his ribbing if it meant he was going to be sticking around.
“Maybe,” began G’raha, now only mostly as red as his hair, “it would be a good idea to rest for now. Perhaps a little less talking as we ease you back from the brink of death?”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” said Alphinaud.
“As do I,” said Urianger.
“And I,” added Thancred.
Estinien said nothing, possibly because Alisaie had climbed onto his shoulders, wormed her tiny hands under his gorget, and was actively strangling him.
“Don’t wanna,” M’ren whined, nestling his face deeper into Y’shtola’s leg. “Wanna talk. Wanna listen. You’re here. You’re alive. You’re still alive.”
He began to cry.
Mother preserve, Y’shtola was a woman prepared for almost anything except M’ren crying. Would it stain her dress? Did she care? Why was she asking herself that?
“Ah!” came a voice. “Those were cries of celebration!”
“Fuck me, I forgot about the rabbits,” M’ren groaned, clenching his fists into Y’shtola’s dress.
“I see you’re all alive and in reasonably good health,” Livingway continued, having evidently not heard him, “and I intend to make sure you get back that way. As for your earlier request—” She turned to Thancred. “—I am quite certain we’re in range to make contact now.”
“Excellent,” said Thancred, clearly relieved with the change of topic. “Let us announce our return at once.”
“Does that mean we’re home?” M’ren whispered, barely audible above the sudden hubbub of motion and cross-talk.
“Yes, dear heart, we’re home.” She placed her hand over his fist and smoothed out his fingers. “Would you like to go see?”
“I think so. Will you help me?”
“As long as there is life left in my body.”
“Thank you, Y’shtola.”
“Of course, my friend. Of course.”