Work Text:
Flame swings his sword, sending fire sparks that reflect on the icy walls of the cave.
Some of his hits find their target, others land on shields and ice that melts on impact. He feels drops of sweat forming on his forehead despite the freezing cold. Normally, fighting against two opponents wouldn't be a problem, but being surrounded by darkness and fog doesn't benefit him like it does Flow and Mistrul, who have lived in the Mist long enough to completely familiarize themselves with the hostile environment.
Flame doesn't let that stop him though; what he lacks in environmental adaptiveness he makes up for in skill. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and swings his sword again and again because it's what he knows best. Sometimes he thinks it's all he knows. He can't farm or ride a horse or express his true feelings or swim or grieve as well as he can fight, and he has to be okay with that.
Despite the ice under his feet, Flame's rage runs hot in his veins. He wants to fight with all his might, to give these men hell for what they did, but he's consumed by revenge so great that it slowly transforms into grief of the worst kind, the kind that makes him weak, overwhelmed by emotions he never quite learned how to manage.
Flow is facing him head on now, placing blocks and landing hits with impressive yet expected accuracy. Flame, distracted by this sudden aggression, doesn't notice that Mistrul has left his line of sight on time, so it feels completely unexpected when he rips Flame's back open with one quick slash of his sword, Flame's already beat-up armor doing nothing to soften the damage.
What comes next is pain, immediate and agonizing, but he refuses to let it stop him. Everything happens too fast; weapons clashing and fire erupting with every swing and the slashing of webs that can't trap him in place for too long. An explosion of green and gold obstructs his vision as his heart stops and starts up again, the process of revival so instantaneous he's unsure he ever died in the first place.
Throughout all of this, his enemies' attacks don't falter. Axes clash against his armor and shield, weakening his defenses with every hit. Worst of all, the pain on his back doesn't subside with his resurrection like he expected it to. Sometimes a wound is so deep and cruel that healing requires a bit more effort, and Flame had come to learn this very early on in his training. This is usually not an issue, but a quick look at his inventory confirms his fear; he's out of regeneration potions. With both men persistent on their offense, he doesn't have the luxury to restock.
As it turns out, all it takes is a few pieces falling incorrectly—difficult terrain, obstructed vision, an unexpected attack, lack of equipment—for his opponents to dominate the fight. What kind of combat master lets such trivialities strip him of his victory?
It's then that the grip on his sword weakens, fingers so unsteady he can no longer wrap them around the hilt with the same might he could moments ago. His eyes close involuntarily, body heavier than he's ever felt it, and he feels himself falling. The muffled mocking and snickers of Flow and Mistrul are the last things he hears before he hits the ground.
When he opens his eyes, the sun is bright and blinding and makes him squint immediately. How is there suddenly so much light in the Mist, he wonders. He touches his face, not feeling the smooth fabric of his blindfold against his fingertips, yet the expected panic that would normally follow this absence doesn't come. Instead, a feeling of serenity has come to take its place, which Flame welcomes without question or complaint.
With the soil soft below his body, the light breeze, the humidity clinging to his skin, it doesn't take long to realize he's not in the battlefield—not even in the Mist—but in a wheat field he doesn't recognize.
He slowly stands up, every movement careful as to not put any more strain on his wounds, but the pain doesn't come. His hand flies up to his back, feeling along his lats and spine, and returns completely dry of blood. Flame's eyes stay on his palm, as if he can stop his tremor by willpower alone.
He shouldn't be trembling, not here, not when there's nothing to be afraid of. How tragic it is, he thinks, to be calmer on battleground and not in a place so peaceful. The field around him is so vast that he's not sure where it begins and where it ends. Another breeze travels through the field, swaying the wheat around him. Their leaves graze his arms, soft and forgiving on his skin, and he can't recall the last time he felt touch so tender.
That's when Flame spots a figure in the distance. They're far away, out of reach, but still close enough for him to recognize tan skin gleaming from sweat after a hard day's work, white shirt folded at the sleeves and yellow sweatshirt wrapped around their waist, soft brown hair covered by that ridiculously large hat they wear to protect them from the sun.
"Lomedy," he gasps, struggling to believe what he's seeing. His Lomedy. Alive.
And Lomedy turns around, eyes wide yet expectant. Upon recognition, his face brightens and he waves his hand wildly in greeting. "Oh, Flame!"
Flame's legs tremble with the effort of walking. His steps get faster, more frantic, and by the time he reaches Lomedy he's completely out of breath.
"There you are," says Lomedy, his smile warmer than the very sun above their heads. "I didn't expect you to get here so early."
"So early?" Flame asks, brain still fuzzy. He didn't know he was supposed to arrive at a certain time, but if Lomedy says so then he must be right. Arriving early doesn't sound too bad if it means spending more time with Lomedy anyway.
"It's okay. I could use the company."
A warm feeling spreads across Flame's chest at Lomedy's words. He doesn't know if it's relief mixing with the persistent disorientation that makes him feel so dizzy, but he could very well pass out right now.
His body moves without warning, sinking down until his back is pressed against the soil for the second time today. Lomedy doesn't lay down with him, and Flame looks up in a silent invitation for him to join. The sun is directly behind, leaving Lomedy's figure darkened by the light, but the fondness on his face is unmistakable—his eyes warm, a lazy smile on his lips. He looks peaceful. As peaceful as death.
His best friend is dead. Killed at the hands of the Mist. Lomedy is dead and Flame could do nothing to prevent it, has done nothing to avenge him. All his hard work towards becoming the strongest proved useless when it mattered the most; he couldn't protect his best friend, he couldn't kill the men who took Lomedy away from him. And Flame knows it's his own fault that he's dead in the first place. It was bound to happen when all Flame did was drag him from one war to another in his endless pursuit for greatness, and it's only natural that he would one day face the consequences of his selfishness.
"Lomedy, I-" The words get stuck in his throat, unable to take a coherent form. What can he even say in this moment? What kind of pathetic apology can he conjure up? I'm sorry? I failed you? I miss you? He doesn't know what to tell him first, but Lomedy doesn't give him a chance to decide.
"You know you can't stay here long, right?"
Flame makes a questioning noise that's closer to a whine. "But- but I just got here." He sits up, eyes never leaving Lomedy out of fear that he'll vanish if Flame dares to look away. There's still so much to say, so much to do. He wants to reach out, but once again he's too afraid, afraid that Lomedy will turn to dust if he gets any closer, destroyed along with everything else Flame touches.
But Lomedy doesn't disappear. Instead, he crouches down until they're face to face. His expression suddenly hardens, turns into something serious, yet the kindness remains—it somehow always remains, that perfect innocence on his best friend's face reminding Flame that good will always exist in the world.
Lomedy's gaze drops to his own clasped hands, and Flame's eyes hesitantly follow. Lomedy slowly opens them to reveal a black ball of fabric; Flame's lost blindfold. He wraps it around Flame's head with a gentleness he doesn't deserve.
"You need to go back," says Lomedy, more assertive than Flame's ever heard him.
Flame looks around the wheat field with eyes no longer exposed and sensitive, feels the soil under his palms, and wonders why he would ever want to leave this place.
Before he can offer any retort, Lomedy puts both hands on his shoulders and pushes.
"Wake up, Flame."
Flame gasps, feeling the ice cold on his back and fog damp on his skin. His fingers find the hilt of his sword like it's an extension of his body. It might as well be.