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housedeaubemarle · 2 months

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The Grand Hunt - Part 3: The Hunt

Part 1: The Call

Part 2: The Tracking

Part 4: The Trophy

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who's gamely joined this adventure that's gone so far beyond my expectations, and I wouldn't have it any other way)

~*~

Rewelle looks out to the highlands beyond Falcon's Nest. Black Iron Bridge stands out in the frozen wasteland, the path littered with slimes and beasts. She takes a deep breath, then pulls her hood over her head as she walks down the steps leading out.

“You're leaving at first light.”

The adrenaline and fear running through her body make her colder than before. The soft light of dawn, just beginning to bloom above the horizon, is a small comfort.

“Don't sprint – you’ll draw the beasts’ attention.”

She’s lived in this place her entire life. Ishgardian born and bred, and proud of it.

But right now as Rewelle clutches the straps of the satchel she’s carrying, as if she had taken minimal belongings from the house, she has never wanted anything less than to be here.

“But don't go too slow either; they may smell a rat. Hurry like you want to meet your cousin.”

Her grip tightens as she makes herself walk, one foot in front of the other. Soon the cobblestones of Ishgard proper are left behind, making way for frozen soil and thick snow.

Fury send me where I must, with courage and discipline, in the light of the divine. Let me not quail in the wake of this calamity; here is your spear, here is your helm, here is your righteous justice, O Fury of the Gods…

Hymn after hymn, prayer upon prayer, and step by step, Rewelle pushes forward, trying to keep on the worn, iced-over path without slipping. The wind’s howling accompanies her, along with the muffled sounds of snuffling beasts, scratching claws and the strange squelches of other things she would rather not meet face to face.

“You will be followed. They'll probably try something before the sentries can spot you. Be on your guard as soon as you see the huge chains of the Bridge.”

Rewelle pushes a lock of hair out of her face, gulping in icy air as her boots crunch the snow beneath. When prayers to the Fury come to their end, she tries to imagine her friends back at Aubemarle, tries to hear their voices and see their faces. There’s Aeda’s cheerful optimism, there’s Yisa’s light-filled eyes, there’s Denisot’s reassuring tones, there’s Bremmant’s easy grin, there’s Lamb’s overbearing, overprotective, underappreciated face.

“Last thing, Miss Rewelle: when the time comes, shield your head and run.”

Rewelle takes in one more deep breath, and plunges forward.

Some way behind her, buoyed by the expectation of success, three shadows follow. Behind snow-covered outcrops and taller snowdrifts, they maintain a safe distance, watching the lone figure trudge through the brilliant white terrain of Ishgard’s outskirts.

They watch her walk determinedly, and think: Not long now. Not long. Before the bridge, we’ll jump and finally get our damned wages.

~*~

Joshua picks up the gadget and observes the numbers click upwards. "Half a malm to Black Iron Bridge."

"Good, now take the aether counter and point it to the base of the tower and tell me how much is the highest aspected aether." Escher leans against the buttress of the top of the tower tapping a pencil on a notepad.

"Don't let him know what we're doing."

Joshua squints at the counter. "Ice aether, 9900."

"Of course ice aether is over 9000," Escher grumbles, "Fire? Lightning?"

"Fire…2000…"

Escher gets up. "Good enough for a control." A wave of his hand raises the nouliths to his height, aiming at least 6 fulms from the bridge. Fire aspected aether streams into his nouliths, glowing hotter with each mote.

"He needs plausible deniability. We need plausible deniability."

The nouliths converge into a single point, firing a stream of fire akin to a serpent rushing to the bridge. Joshua's breath catches in his throat, immediately bringing up the first gadget to see where Rewelle - and his brother - is. His heart thumps rapidly, hoping it doesn't hit Rewelle - or Isillud.

"Bit weird for your brother to suddenly have plans when he told me to come here ASAP."

~*~

Isillud pulls his snow-white hood lower as he crouches against a rock, trying to blend against the background as he trails Rewelle.

His ears perk: the soft crunch of snow a constant rhythm. He turns behind and sees three heads bobbing behind a snow drift.

Good, they came.

~*~

None of the three men notice anything extraordinary as they go past a camouflaged Isillud. Their full concentration is on Rewelle, controlling their movement in case she takes fright prematurely. Overpowering her would be only too easy, but the day has decided to begin especially cold, and the wind turns biting.

“Let's get on with it,” growls Andreau.

Hourlinet looks to Padiloux who's peering forward, calculating how long more before they can pounce - far enough from the city so there are no witnesses, not near enough to the bridge for help. When he nods, only then do they pick up speed, making a beeline for the girl.

Ahead of them by several crucial fulms, Rewelle has just seen the gigantic, jutting points of the Bridge, piercing upwards like the Spear itself. Then, right before the wind picks up again, she hears them: pounding footsteps that belong to no creature of the land. She throws a glance over her shoulder, sees the speeding figures and with an involuntary cry, picks up speed to flee. The wind makes hee veer more towards the left even though she's doing her best to reach the Bridge straight on.

She runs, and runs, and runs, but the crunching behind her gets ever closer.

And then, right before a gloved hand can make contact with her person, the ground about four fulms away inexplicably explodes in a violent blast of… flame.

The impact throws her off her feet, flinging her like a ragdoll into the snow. There is a deep ringing in her head as she crashlands into the frozen ground. She can only gasp through the pain stabbing into every muscle of her body. Stinging heat radiates far across the area, even managing to steal over towards her.

The Warden? Here?

Her spinning, confused thoughts almost blur together, but when she picks up her head, she can see her pursuers too haven't been spared. All three are struggling to rise.

Run while they can't. Now.

Rewelle gathers every ounce of strength she can muster and forces herself upwards, rapidly following the force of the icy wind. Her satchel, stained with blood she hasn't noticed yet, lies crushed in the snow.

Padiloux is the first to heave himself to his feet, despite the aches shrieking their way through his burly body, specially in his ribs. When he can finally see straight, Rewelle has regained the lead she'd had before the explosion. He roars in rage, taking after her.

Behind him, staggering upwards, Hourlinet is swearing up a storm. “Gods fucking dammit,” he spits as a rivulet of blood flows down his face. There had been a rock at exactly the right place when he’d hit the ground.

Andreau, bruised and shaken, is not helpful as he stares at the impossibly scorched earth. “Fire? Fire, here?! What the fuck-”

The explosion, the blood, the pain - it is all too much. Hourlinet grabs Andreau by the collar.

“Get the girl, NOW,” he growls, shoving Andreau in the direction Rewelle and Padiloux have already flown in. The order shakes the man out of his bewildered horror; he starts running.

Hourlinet takes another minute to swear again before he wipes the blood from one eye, and sprints in the same direction.

~*~

"Eh, could be better." Escher scribbles in his notepad. "Can you check how much aether is concentrated in the spot? Want to check if there's any dispersion."

Joshua picks up the aether counter when he sees a cluster of shapes around the explosion area. They are still, but one moves. One looks confused, standing still but looks around. Another runs away towards the bridge. Joshua doesn't need a spyglass to confirm who it is. He points at the bridge to Escher, "Professor! Someone's in trouble at the bridge! We have to help!"

"Huh, wha?" The pink hyur squints through the cold and frost. "How? We can't fly fast enough from here."

"The nouliths!" Joshua points, "Do the same thing you did earlier!"

"What, with fire? There's not enough ambient fire aether here for a shot that big." Escher explains without any urgency.

He thinks of dragonfire. "Yes, yes it has to be fire! Just make it big enough to stop them!"

"Hang on, I think I have an idea." Escher flips the nouliths upright, whirring to life. Below them the bonfire at the base of the watchtower flickers and dies out to the faint cries of the guards below. He directs the nouliths to the bridge, arcing through the currents, gradually lighting up a bright orange until it hits an invisible barrier. He looks at Joshua, "What's the reading on my nouliths?"

"Uh….four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine."

"...fuck's sake. It'll do." The nouliths have no convergence point unlike earlier: they aim at the ground six fulms from the cliff between Black Iron Bridge. Joshua can hear the sound of aether charging up to a shrill peak. It fires just as another thought crosses Joshua's mind. "Wait, I don't mean ALL of them-!" He immediately slaps Escher's hand but it only breaks his concentration just enough to veer the nouliths' aim deep into the cliffside. "Hey-!"

The explosion is massive.

White snow and black soil spray to the heavens like a geyser laying dormant for millennia. Rocks arc to the ground and down the ravine. The shrieks of various beastkin are faint but audible. When the sounds fade and the smoke thins there is a loud CRACK, and part of the cliff tumbles down to crash into the frozen river below, creating another explosion.

The pair can only watch, as does everyone in every watchtower all the way to Falcon's Nest (and perhaps even the Convictory).

Escher speaks first: "You did this," he says, weakly pointing at the carnage.

Joshua looks like he's been slapped with another heresy charge. "What?!"

~*~

Isillud raises his bow to aim for Padiloux when the first explosion hits, throwing him face-first into the snow. He shakes his head counting to 10, keeping low to steady himself. Frantic shouts pick him back up in time to see Rewelle sprinting towards the bridge.

Unlike them, he sees the aether aimed at the ground.

There is no time to shoot; he sprints away and in a wide arc around what he thinks to be the centre of the oncoming attack to get to Rewelle. It hits the edge of the cliff instead; he frowns at the discrepancy but there is no time for calculations as the ground gives way, pulling everything down with it like crockery on a falling tablecloth.

He pulls his hood back - to hells with identity, she needs to know she can trust him - and stretches his arm out, calling her at the top of his lungs. "REWELLE!"

~*~

“Lamb…?”

Whatever expression is on her face makes him frown hard. More gently than he’s ever done in the years they’ve known each other, he raises his hand to brush his knuckles against her cheek.

“You can do this. You're as stubborn as they come and as brave as they make.” Lamb's dark eyes bore right into hers. “Give them hell. Then come home.”

Her lungs are on fire. So is her heart, and her stomach. Everything within burns and singes, and her feet are beginning to become leaden. The last vestiges of her strength are fading, but the bridge with its potential of safety is still so, so far away. Breathing becomes so hard.

Rewelle wheezes and gasps, as the shooting pains that had been dulled by the shock are coming back at the most inconvenient times. She has no idea that there is blood seeping and soaking through her black uniform, ragged and singed by the blast she endured. All she cares about now is how much slower she has become, how unable her body is to keep up with her will.

Please. Please, she begs, tears streaming down her face as she feels herself slow down. She can’t hear the ensuing boots coming closer, can’t feel the growing pressure in the atmosphere as something larger and fiercer than anything she’s ever known or imagined approaches with growing speed. Please help me, Fury please-

Time slows. Exactly three seconds before the echoes of the splitting cliff face boom across the tundra, a voice – the whisper of a young girl – speaks right into her ear.

Duck.

That one sound apparently shoots straight into her central nervous system, as Rewelle instinctively flings herself down. She lands with a muffled thump, and the pain of it nearly knocks her unconscious.

CRACK!

Around her, the world shakes, as if Hydaelyn itself is ending. The deafening groans and crashes of falling rocks and stones drown out the screaming of those caught in its wake. Unlike her, two of her pursuers, fuelled by adrenaline and inertia, hadn’t managed to stop before the very edges of the crumbling rocks.

“REWELLE!”

Somehow, the sound of her name cuts past all the chaotic noise of the world smashing apart, through all the conflicting temperatures of ice and fire. She knows that voice. She heard it thank her in her ladyship’s drawing room, albeit softer and smoother. She's always had a knack with voices.

She chokes on a reply. She can’t speak, suffocating as blood enters her lungs.

Breathe, goes the same soft, child’s voice in her ear.

How?

Like this.

From nowhere, fresh, cooling air suddenly floods her lungs, rushes up through her throat, and expels from her mouth in a loud, sharp gasp. Blood sprays onto the ice. But that one breath gives her just enough time, just enough will, to find Isillud's glowing green eyes, and grab hold of his forearm. He yanks her further backwards, safely away from the unsteady ground.

“Be… careful-” is all Rewelle can manage, before everything - finally - goes black.

~*~

Hourlinet's groans alert Isillud to the thug's presence. Placing Rewelle's head gently on the snow, he steps cautiously to Hourlinet, removing the katana from the belt behind him and slamming the scabbard vertically in front of the man's face.

"And how much will it take you to leave Ishgard on your own volition - without a trace?"

~*~

Hourlinet's thoughts have been whirling like the snow around him as he tries to catch up to his companions. The gash in his head doesn't do him any favours, though he persists in keeping his knees up as far as he can. There have been worse injuries in his past but this was supposed to be an easy job.

The sudden boom - another thrice-damned hellsent explosion - and what sounds like a shattering of godly proportions, answers his thoughts with thundering irony, shaking him off balance. He staggers, but still stays upright. One hand goes up to swipe more blood from his face while, groaning and swearing, he tries to see ahead.

By the gods–

Hourlinet has never seen the like. There in the distance, the sun has risen high enough to show all the world what has happened: a huge portion of the cliff near the bridge has fallen dangerously away. Echoes of great amounts of earth and rocks crashing into ice and water are still resounding through the air. The last few sprays of soil and debris keep falling as if there were no end. Crucially, he can feel the edges of a great and powerful heat, emanating in all directions.

Then here, right before his nose, the end of a scabbard being held by the idiot noble from last night. He's standing in front of Rewelle, lying unconscious on the ground.

Hourlinet's eyes widen in shock, staring back at the glare of unnatural emerald. His thoughts slam into place - they’d been bloody well tricked. Isillud's question goes unheard as a more important idea takes hold: what else could explain such disastrous firepower in this place?

“You called them here! You damn well called the bloody Horde down on us, you heretic!” Hourlinet's outrage at being outmanoeuvred drives him to snatch the blade strapped to his thigh. “Just for the sake of that wench!”

Normally the word would have Isillud seize up, the fear of fates worse than death pinning his bones to the ground till he struggles for breath.

Now fury burns his lungs.

One swing of the scabbard swats Hourlinet's hand away, knocking the blade into the snow. "The wench has family and friends and likes and dislikes! She has brains and sense and courage unlike you and your shitestain of a so-called lord!"

The second swing clocks him in the jaw, slamming into his stomach and making sure the man stays down. "And you dare to put her beneath you, damned cretin! Did nothing I say yesterday register in your thick skull?!"

The blade sings when Isillud unsheathes it, hovering dangerously close to Hourlinet's jugular, "I'll not repeat myself, Hourlinet: will you quietly leave Ishgard of your own accord, or shall I help you with it?"

Winded, pained and now horrified that this twig of an Elezen does in fact have the ability to wield the long foreign sword in his hand, Hourlinet’s mind supplies the following equations: resist any further, and having his throat slit may even be the soft option. The hard option is getting sawed into pieces by inescapable draconic fangs (apparently some of the rumours, and a small amount of Ajax’s blabbering had been true). Do as the madman says, escape, get on that ship to Thavnair which had been originally meant for the girl, and he might survive long enough to bring back the claim of heresy against the Losstarots. Ajax would probably still pay good money for this little tidbit, at least, once the blithering idiot got done with the inevitable temper tantrum over losing Rewelle.

How exactly all that might be accomplished will have to be left to the future. Right now, Hourlinet’s concern is survival. Either Padiloux brother would have ripped out a second or third or even fourth knife if they were here, but Hourlinet had been in charge of talking for a reason.

Besides, they aren’t here right now, and in his gut, Hourlinet knows they’re never going to provide their protection or backup ever again. All the more reason to leave as quickly as he can, while he still can. The Gaussain brat would just have to find someone else to shove around.

These mental calculations are completed in a matter of seconds. “I yield,” he wheezes. “Swear it: you’ll not see my face here again.”

The grey Elezen extends a gloved hand to Hourlinet; if he thinks Isillud is going to help him up he's sorely mistaken. "Your earring. You'll have no use for it once Ajax de Gaussain is informed of your incompetence." Even when he's threatening to lop an ear off his fingers look they're beckoning him over.

In spite of everything, including that blasted finger that utterly mocks him in its temptations, Hourlinet is sorely tempted to spit a choice swear at the nobleman. However, for once, he keeps his thoughts to himself. There’ll be other ways for him to get aboard the ship - word won’t reach his soon-to-be-previous-employer in time for him to be barred.

Hand shaking, he grabs the clasp from his ear and spitefully flings it at Isillud’s feet instead.

Isillud steps on the clasp, throwing a pouch at Hourlinet’s stomach. Inside is a one-way airship ticket to Radz-at-han with 500 gil - enough for a snack during the trip.

"Never let it be said House Losstarot isn't gracious." The blade inches away from his neck yet remains close enough to strike should he get any funny ideas. "Now go before I change my mind," Isillud snarls.

~*~

"So we both agree dragonfire caused the thing?"

"Yes."

"Nidhogg's brood seeking revenge, blah blah blah, and all that."

"Yes."

"And we absolutely weren't doing distance versus potency testing, just gauging ambient aether for science."

"Yes, that's right."

"And you'll help me convince Aymeric it's safe to let me enter Ishgard?"

Joshua pinches the bridge of his nose, "I'll try, no guarantees but it should be doable."

"Cool, cool, cool. Glad we could come to an agreement. Better pack these up so nobody suspects anything." He packs his nouliths and apparatuses back into the padded case he brought along. "Thank you for your help."

"Gods, I can't imagine how Izzy could bring himself to sleep with you."

Escher nearly slams the suitcase on his fingers. "What?! No, no! We never slept together. Who the hells told you that?!"

Joshua is doubtful. He crosses his arms, "How did you meet then?"

"I paid him to pay someone for me."

"He said he met you at a pleasure house."

Escher is doubtful. "I think I would remember if I banged someone like him."

"Hard to say. You're quite the madman."

Escher gives the younger elezen two finger-guns. "You got that right."

A cold wind blows between the thick silence around them.

"...That wasn't a compliment, was it."

"No."

~*~

Back in Ishgard, within Aubemarle manor, the door to the Dowager Viscountess’ drawing room opens. The mid-morning sun streams in through a window, falling on the Dowager and Nisette sitting nearby.

“Milady,” says Marceaux, with an actual tremor in his words. “There are reports of major dragonfire at Black Iron Bridge. I was just told the Temple Knights are on their way to investigate.”

The Dowager, who had instantly looked up at the sound of her butler’s voice, frowns. “Dragons? There hasn’t been any sort of attack for months–” Then she sees how the colour has drained from Nisette’s face and the worry in Marceaux’s eyes.

She has been very careful not to see all that goes on in her house ever since her request of the Losstarots. It isn't lying if she has no idea of what's going on. Besides, it's already enough to fib about getting their distant relatives involved - something the Viscount would never have agreed with. Considering how she’s due home this very evening, it's vital the Dowager keep up any kind of purposeful ignorance she can.

In this instant though, she can't help knowing just who the butler and lady’s maid would be concerned about.

Her eyes narrow. “They're there then. All three of them.”

Marceaux and Nisette both nod, silently pleading with their mistress for… something. Anything.

She thinks a moment, then speaks. “Send Cillien to the Nest; give him supplies and our crest for good measure. Make haste, but be cautious. Tell him to send word on the situation as soon as possible.”

Marceaux bows and almost runs out of the room. His training is the only thing that makes him shut the door quietly before he sprints for the stables.

~*~

The thundering of Escher's handiwork is beginning to fade, replaced by the unmistakable sound of fast marching across the snow. It's coming from the direction of Ishgard, which means the Holy See is going to get involved in just a few minutes. There are shouts coming from the Bridge as well; people are coming from Falcon's Nest to see what's going on, since the explosions seem to have stopped.

Isillud, carrying Rewelle's body gingerly, has been watching a figure get progressively smaller in the distance. Hourlinet's knife and earring are already safely pocketed in his coat.

He draws in a deep, tired, icy breath. The day has only just begun.

~*~

Joshua slips out of the highlands with Escher (in a hood) in the midst of the chaos of both garrison and Temple Knights both rushing to the location. The Convictory will soon join the fray eager to earn their title, for surely only a large dragon or a horde enough for everyone can only inflict damage of such magnitude. He dares not inform anyone of his brother's impending arrival - not even the innkeep for if anyone knew they’d seen it, they would be questioned.

When Isillud carries Rewelle in, there are no soldiers to question them - they have all gone to Black Iron Bridge. He keeps the story short: She paid him to escort her to her cousin's house when they are beset by an explosion, and another. The staff nod sympathetically; who hasn't lost kin to the horde? They take her away to be cleaned and treated, leaving him in another room.

It is only when the body knows there is respite that Isillud crumples. His ears ring from the explosion. His eyes water from the debris. He coughs like an old man from the dust choking his lungs as his vision darkens, curling into a fetal position, a spiral of limbs and torso, until sleep claims him.

To be continued

#ffxiv rp #ffxiv oc #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #escher strange #rewelle laubaut #hourlinet #padiloux brothers #philomene de aubemarle #every time escher shows up I cheer #then he does something and I remember why he's on the run #this part is also known as 'hourlinet's terrible horrible no good very bad day'

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redwayfarers · 1 year

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It’s not good for the grieving to be alone

Fandom: Wayfarer IF Pairing: None Rating: Gen Words: 1399 Aisanne is an OC from my MMO of choice, Guild Wars 2; here, she appears as a healer, a bard, a huntress and as half-aeda because she’s the bird lady at heart and of course I’d make her a borb race! For more info on Sanne, check out her tag on @i-mybrunettelady <3

Aisanne hadn’t expected she’d be bringing someone home that night. It was a regular night at the tavern, nothing out of the ordinary. If anything, the only annoying inconvenience was that she hadn't had the time to finish her new song she wanted to sing, so the patrons were one chant poorer. But here she was, helping an absolutely wasted elf stand and struggling because the man was unfairly tall; at some point, she held his hair while he threw up on the side of the road and admired how thick it was. He wasn’t the first drunk she encountered, nor the first one she helped home.

What was strange about this one, however, was the fact that he had none. When she asked, he just broke down in tears. She caught him before his face met the road, but worry scratched at the edges of pride at her quick reflexes. In the span of a second, she decided she’d bring him home.

And now, in the morning, she’s sitting beside him on the bed, curious. He’s easy on the eyes, now that distress isn’t twisting his features, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. A long, freckled ear stands out against his hair, a surprisingly deep and rich red. Rest of his face is squished against the pillow, however, and she has to laugh to herself a little at how silly the position makes it look. She tried catching his name, but he was too exhausted to answer.

Who lets a stranger into their house, she hears her mother’s voice already, let alone one you don’t know the name of?

Sanne knows he didn’t have it in him to do jack shit; he could barely stand, let alone harm her. She feels the radiant effects of benevolence soak into her soul. Suddenly, her smile drops. She almost hears Kiaran’s laughter at the private joke she would’ve shared with him. Her husband would’ve brought the stranger home, offered him a place to sleep and a hearty meal when he woke up.

Her husband isn’t here, though. She has to do it and hope he sees it from up above.

It’s always the little things that do it. It’s always the jokes, things she knows he would’ve liked, the thoughts she wants to share with him but suddenly remembers she can’t. There’s a man-shaped hole in her life and in the years since, she hasn’t been able to fill it.

The elf groans. His eyes squeeze shut as he noisily rouses from sleep with what she knows must be the mother of all hangovers. “Why the fuck did I wake up..” he whines, burying his face harsher into the pillow. He has an accent, she notices, though she can’t place it. “Can you put some curtains on or something.. Please..”

“I have,” she tells him, partially amused. “You’re just hungover.”

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite sure whether it wants to be sob or a whine. “Fuck this. Fuck this so bad.”

She wants to point out it was his choice to drink, but knows far too well the state he’s in. “I’ll get you something to eat,” she says instead, not unkindly. “It’ll help you feel better. There’s also water on the table nearby.” She should know. Oh how she doesn’t envy him right now.

“I’ll try,” he mumbles, opening an eye. It’s red, just like his hair. It seems gods ran out of creativity when figuring out how to dye his physical body. “I’ll just stop wishing I never woke up first.”

Sanne offers him a small smile and goes to make breakfast.

***

“So you’re blanking?”

“Yeah. I don’t remember anything from last night except how cold it gets here.” The elf - whose name, she learned, is Cassander - curls further into himself by the fire. Now that he’s eaten and bathed, he looks worlds better than he did last night or even this morning, but he still looks like a fannarl spat him out. Now that Sanne’s ever seen a fannarl and she’d like to.

“It’s spring,” Sanne replies, braiding her hair. She feels him watch her wearily. “This is nothing compared to winter.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I grew up in Artanis. But Vestra’s much warmer than Artanis is.”

Vestra, she thinks. Interesting. She knows lots of Vestrans. His accent even sounds like theirs, all tangled and sharp. It fits him, in a weird way.

“Why haven’t you stayed there when it’s warmer? Until summer, that is,” she adds, seeing his brows furrow. She can’t be sure whether it’s the headache or annoyance, though.

“There’s a little thing called a civil war going on in there. And… Certain people I had no desire to meet but met anyway.” He huffs. “Trivial things, really. And.. I had urgent business in Artanis, but–” He stops, closing his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. “It would seem I don’t anymore,” he finally says. His voice sounds wobbly and he hugs his knees.

Sanne stops what she’s doing and sits beside him on the floor. Tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes. “Can you go home then? Go to the people you grew up with, now that you’re here?”

He’s silent for a long time. Sanne thinks she knows what he’ll say and it makes her insides clench uncomfortably. “I don’t have a home anymore,” he whispers, barely audible over the crack of fire. Then, strangely distant and stiff, he adds, “The place where those who fare the way come to rest is no more.”

Those who fare the way.. It dawns on her so sharply she gasps. Cassander’s a Wayfarer. She’s heard news of the Spire’s fall; a fucking tragedy, such a storied Order brought to its knees, but she’s never had a chance to see a Wayfarer before and now here is one, somehow a bigger ruin than what she imagines the Spire to be right now.

He’s watching her, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. His eyes are two bleeding wounds that hurt like a bitch. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough,” he says. “Thank you for not letting me sleep on the street last night.”

“Cassander, no,” she shouts, “it’s not like that! If I was you, I’d kill every last one of them who did it. Hunt them down and bring their heads to the Spire walls as revenge.” His gaze softens and his teeth release the abused lip. There are indents. She reaches out, cautiously, watching his face. When he doesn’t move, but tightens his grip on his knees, she places a hand on his. “It’s a travesty, what happened to your Order,” she tells him gently.

He just nods. His eyes go a bit wider. He looks like a scared, injured animal; he reminds her an awful lot of herself when they brought Kiaran’s dead body from the hunt. Her hand doesn’t move from his, but that’s all it does.

“It’s not good for the grieving to be alone,” she suddenly says. “I can’t offer you permanent residence, but you can stay until your feet are more solid on the ground again, if you’d like. It’s not good for the grieving to be alone.”

“Really?” Cassander’s voice is more breath than actual sound. “You’d do it for… A magianis? For a stranger? For a Wayfarer?”

“Magiani aren’t some other species of creature,” she shrugs.”You’re people. A little rarer than most of us, but…”

“But– Your job– I–” He just stares, mouth agape, blinking at the onslaught of tears. “I don’t–”

“Just help around the house and you’re good for a few months at least, if you don’t spread the word around,” she says. “But you’re smarter than that, I think.” She lifts her hand and reaches up to move hair from his eyes. “Would you like that?”

He throws himself on her and she’s quick to wrap her arms around him. When she hears the first of many loud, messy sobs, she rubs his back and rests her cheek against the crown of his head. She senses Kiaran smile down on her, and she feels her own eyes start to prickle, but she’ll be damned if she cries in front of Cassander, gone as he may be in his pain.

It’s not good for the grieving to be alone.

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #wayfarer mc #inspo birb has come to town #cassander inteus #aisanne bjornsdottir #(idk her wayfarer surname so im tagging the gw2 one)#i made myself really sad with this and i hope it makes you a little sad too #but there's comfort #i just think my two long-haired and freckled kids should be friends that's all #grief #hurt/comfort #my writing #writing

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