Chapter Text
Alphinaud Leveilleur was not often sick.
He had experienced his share of passing colds and other minor maladies, of course. According to others—his family, the household, the other Scions—he was a bit of a prima donna when ill. The last time he had come down with something (a fairly nasty cold caught after the sojourn through Skalla) he had apparently been such a needy little lordling that just about every one of the Scions—even Urianger!—had been short-tempered with him by the end of it. Still, he had never caught something that did not pass within a few days, and it was something of a point of pride for him that he had never missed a day of instruction, for illness or any other setback, in his entire scholastic career.
So when he woke up to an alarm blaring in his ear—a Garlean invention that was more useful that he wanted to admit to keeping himself to scheduled waking times—and felt nauseous, he paid it no mind. He and Alisaie were very recently returned to Garlemald, after all, and had spent the past month or so in fairly constant motion as they travelled to inform the various world leaders of the circumstances surrounding Alexandria’s sudden emergence. Surely this bit of mild (well, moderate) discomfort was a byproduct of spending too much time in an airship. In addition, there was a dearth of medical practitioners and supplies in the area, and aetheric healers with Alphinaud’s skill were in short supply. For the past few days since his arrival he had been assisting with a backlog of medical issues nearly all day, then checking manifests and spreadsheets late into the night. To top everything off, there were several matters he had promised to the Grand Company of Eorzea that he had picked up on their tour, a proposal for independent Garlean governance he was writing up, and an account based on what they had learned in Tural that he was hoping to present—
Well, Alphinaud was honestly not very good at sleeping in the best of times.
So when he went to eat breakfast and threw up almost immediately, he paid it surprisingly little mind. He felt fatigued, but that was common enough. He pared down his workload for the day as much as he could, keeping it mostly to urgent matters, and figured that a rest day would suffice. By the time the day was done, however, each simple Diagnosis left sweat pouring off of him, and when he finally sat to eat he immediately had to rush so as not to ruin Alisaie and Jullus’s meals as well. Unfortunately, vomiting in front of them was an expeditious way to alert them to the issue. He was ordered, strictly and with no opportunity for argument, to spend the next day resting. As much as he wanted to argue, he was afraid he had little choice. He needed their help to get back to his and Alisaie’s quarters, and when they lowered him to the bed he was asleep almost instantly.
So he rested. He stayed in bed nearly half the day, emerging only when he felt he could trust his feet under him, only to try and eat and immediately fail. Water was thankfully a kinder mistress, but at this point he had to admit he was properly ill. With great effort he managed to keep down some simple crackers Alisaie brought back for him, and the exertion of it left him back in bed for the rest of the day, unable to sleep for the roiling of his stomach.
Once it was obvious that this illness was no passing matter, he had of course elected to travel rather than take up one of Garlemald’s valuable sickbeds. Teleportation was almost certainly beyond his present condition, but airships flew in and out of Garlemald fairly frequently, and although their primary purpose was supplies and aid there was an ongoing project to make them more suitable for civilian use. Alisaie had offered her company, but he was emphatic that she need not worry herself, and that she should stay where she felt she was doing the most good. At this point he was still certain it was nothing more than a particularly bad case of influenza. He would have even tried to stay, but visions of the last time he was ill haunted him. He wished to spare the people of Garlemald his apparently intolerable whining; and if he could spare his own reputation there, as fragile as it often seemed, from an almost certainly shattering blow—well, that would be all the better.
The initial plan had been to stop briefly in Thavnair, perhaps see a chirurgeon if there seemed to be a need, then make his way back to Eorzea. Tataru, who had already seen him at his worst plenty of times, had offered him the use of his old quarters in the Rising Stones. He expected that once the worst was over he would be put to work on her account books during his hopefully brief recovery period, after which he would be in good position to return to Garlemald. By the time he had actually touched down in Thavnair, however, his condition had worsened dramatically. He had been having trouble keeping food down, but during the day-long airship ride he found himself unable to even drink water without rather violent upheaval, and his head and heart pounded in terrible tandem. He spent the last six hours with his eyes squeezed shut, trying in vain to muffle his pained moans and wishing for once that they had not added windows to the old military airships. As soon as they landed, the pilot had lifted his trembling form as easily as a babe and, much to Alphinaud’s complete mortification, rushed him through Radz-at-Han, calling wildly for aid. Alphinaud’s last sight before complete darkness was the worried stares of what felt like most of the city, following him through the hazy streets.
Alphinaud did not remember much after that, but when he woke next he was in a Hannish infirmary, several alchemists huddled over him with a particular look he unfortunately recognized from his time in healing seminars at the Studium as one part academic curiosity, three parts “how are you still alive”. He felt violently awful—the headache had, somehow, worsened, and his eyes were unable to focus without blinding pain. He would almost certainly still be trembling if he had the energy to move at all. As it was he just felt a muscle spasm every so often, sending pain shooting through him and leaving him gently gasping for air. Still, it took just one look at the delicate equipment he was attached to, recognizable as advanced medical instruments despite the differences in function and aesthetics to what was used in Sharlayan, to tell him that his missing time had been quite bad indeed. He tried to speak—what he would say he was not quite sure even as it gathered in his throat—and even though his voice found no purchase the attempt sent a ripple through the alchemists. Within a moment the room was full of activity, vitals checked and medication administered, and after some time he felt strong enough to both speak and listen, although literally everything else lay beyond his grasp.
“Aetheric Injury” was the official diagnosis—well, the official diagnosis was quite a bit longer and in a mixture of Sharlayan and Thavnairian words, but the alchemist who spoke to him immediately clarified. It was a sibling to Aether Sickness, in that both affected how the body interacted with aether and that both were really overarching terms used to group together a hundred smaller diagnoses. Aether Sickness was usually caused by being immersed in more aether than the body can handle, resulting in either short or long term periods of intense illness and, in more severe cases, a lifelong sensitivity. Aetheric Injury was…well, to be honest it was something Alphinaud had been warned about many times. It came about from overuse and over-extension of one's own aetheric capabilities, and was the primary reason that most chirurgeons resorted to aetheric means sparingly, and most battlefield healers were conjurers, whose art, when practiced correctly, held the least risk of such injury. Still, it was not so common that the practice of other arts was discouraged, and Alphinaud had never really taken to heart the frequent warnings. After all, he had never expected to be a frontline medic, or to be practicing healing over diplomacy at all.
He winced at his prior naivete. Even as the alchemist recited to him the risk factors, Alphinaud strained to recall them himself, from his own studies. Physical stress greatly increased the chances of aetheric injury, as did lack of sleep. Emotional stress was also a major contributing factor—but Alphinaud dismissed that as a possibility outright. Medics were advised to take several days off in between bouts of intense healing, which he supposed he had neglected to do, but he hadn’t considered what he was doing intense healing. It was certainly less intense than healing for the Warrior of Light. He told the alchemist that when she asked, and she did not look impressed at the answer, nor any of the others he provided.
“So what you are telling me,” she finally said, looking down at her notes, “Is that you have had sparse rest from healing over the past…four years or so?”
“There have been significant gaps!” he protested- as much as he could. As it was, his attempt at an impassioned rebuttal came out as more of a sad wheeze.
“...Right, yes. And you refrained from teleportation during these rest periods?”
Over extension of Anima was another major factor- and while he did not teleport as much as the Warrior of Light, he was forced to admit that in the hopes of keeping up he had perhaps taken to teleporting more than was strictly recommended.
“And your sleep schedule?”
His wince told her all she needed to know.
Finally, she sighed deeply, setting her notes down and rubbing at the space between her eyes. “Right. It is my medical opinion that the injury began some time ago, probably within the last two years. Most aetheric injuries that start small are able to recover on their own, with time and rest. But rest was irregular and poorly kept, and in addition you took up a new magical discipline during a time of high physical and emotional stress. Arcanima has a fairly low impact on the body—somanautics, as a primarily institutional discipline which is far more rarely adapted to the battlefield, is quite the opposite. Did you have a hard time making the switch?”
Alphinaud shook his head. “Not at—well, not much. I had the aid of a job stone, and while it took some time to adapt to using nouliths instead of carbuncles—”
The look on her face made him go silent. “Absolutely not. Carbuncles are aetheric constructs capable of independent movement. The cost to their upkeep is almost entirely front loaded, and reliant upon formula! Nouliths are a continuous aetheric connection, reliant upon steady but metered connection. In addition, compatibility with a job stone does not necessarily mean the shift will be easy, just possible on a shorter timeframe. Still…from what I have gleaned from your aetheromedical history, I would assume the aetheric injury occurred while your body was absent your soul. Such a strained connection almost certainly will cause problems, compounded by your youth. I am certain the injury was nearly healed—but to my knowledge, you received a strong emotional shock fairly shortly after your convalescence?”
He sighed. “While I understand how it looks from the outside, rest assured my disownment was more of an annoyance than a significant cause for concern.”
“And your friend’s injury?” she asked, eyes back on her paper.
“Ah- well- yes, that was distressing, but as a healer myself I am used to such causes for concern. While the situation left me…shaken, I do not believe it was bad enough to cause such an injury.”
“We’re not discussing cause. We’re discussing lack of improvement. No, such instances will not spontaneously tear open your aether, but emotional stress and strain has been proven to dramatically slow healing. And the issue of the Final Days?”
“Pardon?”
“Did that not cause stress?”
“Not…particularly out of the ordinary stresses, I suppose?”
The look she gave him was painfully dubious.
“Right. You undergo a severe coma, before, after, and during which you continue healing. When you are mostly recovered, with the injury almost certainly invisible to all but the most delicate of tests, you resume healing and are immediately set upon by stressors of both an interpersonal and international nature. You return home under less than ideal circumstances, push yourself to pick up a new magical discipline of a vastly different nature to all your training before, and then go to space.”
“I fail to see how the setting would change all that mu—”
“Apologies. You go to space and—correct me if I’m wrong—die.”
“...Technically it was closer to discoporeation.”
She did not look amused. “Then you decide to go to one of the most inhospitable climes on the star, a land which has recently suffered its own immense aetheric injury, and do a good deal more healing there. You take a brief vacation, during which you render aid during a natural disaster and at least two significant battles. Your downtime, as it were, is spent doing research and community outreach. Once you feel your work”—the word came with a steely glare—“there was done, you took the first ship out of the harbor, travelled the three continents on a diplomatic mission, and returned to said inhospitable clime. Do I have the shape of things?”
He drew himself up with what meager strength his body afforded him. “And might I ask how you came into possession of such a detailed account?”
“I asked the Satrap,” she said, “Who has come to check on you several times over the past three days. We considered asking your sister or parents for a medical history, but you begged us not to. Do you have any memory of this?”
He did not. His mind was still attempting to wrap itself around the sum of three days which he had no memory of, three days where he had apparently been so completely out of control of himself that he had resorted to begging a medical professional not to call his family!
She took his lack of response for what it was, and continued. “Most of your order were rendered unreachable by sheer distance, but we were able to make contact with one Lyse Hext—”
Well, it could certainly be worse than Lyse…
“—who, worried she wouldn’t ‘quite get it all right’, contacted Y’shtola Rhul for a thorough accounting.”
…Of course.
“Hext then brought the information to us personally, and has been staying here since last night. Which brings us to the next steps.”
The alchemist stood, moving to her equipment. “Thankfully, we are probably the best suited facilities in the world for treating the immediate symptoms you experienced. We have ways to bypass the bodies’ natural processes to intake aether, which in your case have broken down. You are stabilized, but still in an extremely fragile condition. And—for reasons I’m sure we can both divine—Sharlayan’s medical team has the most experience in treating the underlying condition. Hext and Rhul both promised to abide by your wishes and not inform your family themselves, but moving you to Sharlayan is simply non-negotiable, and I’m certain it will be difficult to hide from your parents when you’re there.”
She was right, and a part of him wished she wasn’t. If Mother blamed herself for giving him the jobstone…
After that, she explained the basics of his treatment. His nutrition came in the form of a powdery drink that left his mouth feeling dry. “We are sending you with a supply to last a year, and a formula that I should hope the Studium can recreate,” she said, and he was left with the distinct impression that she did not think highly of his alma mater. “This is easy for your body to digest, and should not trigger a flare up of your aetheric injury. After three weeks, you may attempt to drink water once more. If it works, you may continue, although be careful not to overconsume. If it does not work, wait a month before attempting again. It will be, in my opinion, at least six months before anything resembling solid food should be attempted.” She looked down at him. “....I will not hide the truth from you. This recovery will take quite some time. You will almost certainly be left with some long lasting effects. You are very lucky you arrived here when you did, and phenomenally unwise to have let it get so far in the first place. Did you really feel no symptoms before your body started to reject food?”
He didn’t know what was more embarrassing: the lie that he did not, or the truth. He had noticed issues—he had just always explained them away. Healing drained him more because of the change in job. He felt tired more easily because he had been remiss in reestablishing a regular sleep schedule. His body ached because—well, to be quite honest, he had hoped it was an omen of an oncoming growth spurt. Other symptoms—shortness of breath and pain when breathing, frequent headaches and light sensitivity, occasional chest pains—had been rationalized as the effects of frequent activity on an ill-suited body. And as for the big symptom—the one he most remembered from classes—
“I certainly never exploded,” he muttered, trying his best not to sound petulant.
She sighed. “Contrary to common belief, spontaneous aetheric phenomena do not occur in every case of aetheric injury, and it's usually quite a bit less flashy than exploding. Furthermore, different types of aetheric injury result in different patterns of phenomena. Some only manifest when the patient is in recovery; in fact, it is far more common as a long term effect than as a diagnostic symptom.”
Alphinaud felt suitably foolish. Stories of healers who suddenly burst into flame were- well, sensational, in a way he really should have recognized as embellishment. It made for an effective deterrent for some, he supposed, but he had always assumed aetheric injury would feel more. Well. Combustible. Not the slow, creeping fatigue that had plagued him on some level since the First, that he had pushed aside in order to keep up—keep up with the Warrior of Light, the rest of the Scions, his sister, his own image of himself. Well, he would not make that mistake again. When he went back to active duty, he would be sure to schedule strict breaks for himself, not to mention Alisaie and the others. He wouldn’t let this happen again.
It was another two days before he was deemed able to be moved at all. Once the doctors let her in, Lyse rushed to his side and was reluctant to move away. Raubahn (who was worried about him, as was everyone, she assured him) had informed her to take all the time she needed to get Alphinaud back home. She’d ride in the airship with him, monitor his condition, and deliver him safely to the elder Leveilleurs—
“You really have to tell them, Alphi,” she says, gently. He is propped against the bedframe in a mostly sitting position, which is more than he had managed previously, and as much as he knows it is a victory a large part of him wants to just sink back into bed. “I know your relationship with your dad is kind of—uh, you know, woah—it’s really going to be better for you to be back home and recovering, you know? And I mean, you should tell everyone else too! Ali realized I’m in linkpearl range and she’s kind of been calling me at least once an hour and it’s harder for Y’shtola to get in contact but she’s sent a couple messages and, well, she really thinks you should tell everyone and especially your sister—”
Alphinaud sighs. “I…know,” he says, reluctantly. “I’ve just been trying to…to find the words. I understand the condition is more serious than I initially thought, but I don’t wish to scare Alisaie into abandoning her work to come sit at my sickbed.”
Lyse sighs, shaking her head a little—then levels her gaze at Alphinaud, eyes wide and lip trembling slightly. “Alphi…of course she’ll want to make sure you’re alright. You’re her brother. I mean”—Alphinaud anticipates her rhetorical trap an instant before she deploys it, but by then it is too late—“There’s a lot of people—a lot of family—I wish were still around for me to sit by the bedside of, you know? When someone you love is in trouble…”
“I- I know,” he mutters, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. “I…you’re right. I’ll draft a statement—”
Somehow, the pressure of her gaze increases.
“—I’ll- I’ll call Alisaie before we leave,” he amends. “I’ll implore upon her that she need not rush over, but if I’m unable to convince her, then we’ll wait until she arrives to make our way. We’ll need to stop for refueling in Eorzea regardless, so once we’re there I’ll contact my parents and let them know—and arriving in Sharlayan should give us sufficient proximity to send word to those still in Tural. Is that sufficient?”
“...Sure,” Lyse says, still looking down on him with some emotion he does not care to name. “But you can also rely on us, you know? Ali will want to hear your voice, definitely, but I can handle the brunt of the talking, and we can handle telling your parents and everyone else. I mean…just that little speech seemed to take it out of you.”
Alphinaud wants to protest, but he cannot. Speaking so much leaves his breathing labored beyond belief—even he can appreciate the irony. Darkness gathers at the edges of his vision, but he summons back all the strength he has. If he doesn’t call Alisaie now, he’ll have to regain his nerve all over again.
She picks up nearly immediately, and speaks so fast he has trouble processing any of it. Lyse leans down next to him, her hair gently brushing his cheek, so that they can both hear and be heard.
“Slow down, Ali!” she says. Her voice has regained that chipper tone that she’s been having trouble reaching since she arrived in Thavnair. “You’re gonna need to be a bit gentler on him!”
He winces so hard it makes his head throb, and she shrugs in a quick apology. But it works. Alisaie takes a deep breath, and restarts her barrage of words at a more manageable pace.
“Hello, Lyse,” she starts, then—“Alphinaud, I haven’t heard anything. I only knew that you never even arrived in Eorzea when I got in contact with Tataru, and now she’s worried, and I tried calling everyone we know in Thavnair and they all just said you’d contact me ‘when you were ready!’ It has been nearly a week, I’ve barely been able to concentrate, Kan-E-Senna has called me four time-”
“Ali!” Lyse says, more firmly this time, and his sister falls silent. Both wait for him to speak, but he is still struggling to collect his thoughts through a thick layer of fog.
“I’m sorry for worrying you,” he manages, finally.
“I wasn’t worried!” she snaps. A pause. He can practically imagine her sticking her nose up in the air in a pout, and the thought makes him smile. “But Tataru was.”
“Then may you pass my apology onto her?” he asks.
“...I might. But I’m on my way to Thavnair right now.”
Alphinaud gasps, which leaves him a bit light headed. “Alisaie! I- I told—”
“Told me not to come with you, yes. So I took the next airship headed to Thavnair, obviously.”
In retrospect, it was obvious. More fool him for thinking Alisaie would, for once in her life, listen to him.
“Whatever you’re thinking is mean,” Lyse whispers. He shrinks down a bit, suitably chastised.
“Are you sure you’re not needed in—” he begins, and Alisaie sighs so loudly he can hear her eyeroll.
“No, Alphinaud, Garlemald is not going to fall to bits without us.” She sighs again, less in annoyance and more in contemplation. “It’s not that I don’t think what we’re doing is important, or helpful. But, well…Jullus was the one who convinced me to go. He said it’s important to spend what time you can with your family.”
It seems everyone was willing to play dirty to get the two of them out of the way. “Fine, fine,” he says. “I understand that many are worried about me, and I will not begrudge them their concern.” He pauses, working up the strength to say what he knows he should. “Thank you for coming,” he says, utterly sincere. “It will be easier to forge ahead, with you by my side.”
“Then don’t shoo me away next time,” she says, playing at cross. He can hear the smile on her voice. “I’ll be in Thavnair in four hours. Get some rest. You sound awful.”
“Thank you for your concern, sister dearest,” he says, trying for a sardonic air and ending up sounding, well, tired. His eyes slip closed, his arms lacking the strength to disconnect the linkpearl, and as he drifts off he feels Lyse pluck it from his ear, brush the sweat off his forehead, and walk away, talking to Alisaie in a low tone he cannot hope to make out. He stops trying.
When he wakes his hand is in Alisaie’s, and he feels safer than he has in many days.