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rune-writes · 2 months ago

Text

Snowdrops

Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI

Word Count: 8053

Rating: T

Pairing: Clive Rosfield/Jill Warrick

Summary: Jill was a slave of the Iron Kingdom. A girl barely of age who had just awoken to a power larger than herself, she was subjected to cruel treatment as befit a Dominant in Haearann. She'd lost everything: from her home, to her family, and the people she loved. And when she thought she would lose herself too, light called out to her.

Notes: written for Moongazers: A Clive/Jill Fanzine! tw: canon-typical violence, slavery.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Her carriage jostled from side to side—although, to be more precise, it wasn’t a carriage per se. An iron cage held her, hoisted over a wheeled, wooden platform and pulled by two beasts of burden. The first thing Jill sensed was the heat. It emanated from everywhere around her, as though she had been shoved inside a box of burning hot coal. Sweat beaded her forehead and she could feel the dampness of her clothes. She groaned, quiet, barely above a whisper. Her neck was stiff; cold metal bars bit into her back. As her consciousness slowly rose to the surface, the backs of her eyelids glowed in a dim orange light.

Heavy iron cuffs weighed her collar, wrists, and ankles…

Fetters—

A half-formed thought emerged in her mind, but it was enough to jolt her awake and inform her of where she was now. No— She scrambled, desperately grasping at the retreating darkness. Take me back! Take me back to—

Where?

She couldn’t recall where her mind had been, only that it had been warm, and light. Sunny. Her heart had soared as she rushed across a field of flowers, trying to catch up to…

The carriage jolted to a stop. A low guttural voice ordered her to wake up. She stayed still, pretending to be asleep. Her senses were returning and she could hear distant chatters and murmurs, the clanging of metal on forge; felt the heat of fire.

Feet shifted on both sides of her, and Jill fought against the tremble. She recognized those heavy steps. They approached her, stopped right next to her. Foul breath filled her nostrils.

“I said,” the Commander breathed into her face. His thick Haearanni tongue made her skin crawl, but Jill remained silent. “Wake. Up.”

He yanked open the door and shoved her off the cage, off the platform, until her shoulder banged against the hard, rocky ground and her body skidded several steps away. The force of the Commander’s shove should have pushed her further, but the chain around her neck stopped her short, gagging her. She gasped for breath. Jeers erupted from the soldiers as Jill coughed and reached for her collar.

“That is why you wake up when I tell you to, witch.” The Commander kicked her hand away, then kicked her chest for good measure. Tears welled in her eyes as Jill groaned and wheezed, feeling the fetters tightening around her neck like a noose.

“That is enough.”

When a bone-chilling, familiar voice boomed from across the hall, the chatter immediately died. The fires and forges went still. Jill froze, her coughing ceasing as her eyes whirled then fell on a black robe swishing around bony ankles. Primordial fear gripped her heart and she kicked her feet, pushed her back as far as she could away from this predator of a man; but she had no strength. Her kick was too feeble. Jill cursed herself for the weak whimper slipping out of her lips as Imreann stopped not far from where she lay. Jill averted her gaze, but even then she could feel his repulsive eyes rake through her body. She felt filthy.

“Congratulations, Commander, for your victory in battle,” the Patriarch said.

The army commander bowed at the waist. “You are too kind, Your Excellency. The battle would have been won far quicker if not for the witchling’s impudence.”

“Pray, explain.”

“She refused to prime. We had to make an…example of what it means to disobey us.”

“I see.” Another glance; this time with mild annoyance. She heard the click of a tongue. “I would have thought killing her handmaid,” —Jill outwardly flinched— “had taught her a lesson, but it seems that wasn’t enough. I should’ve kept her alive as a hostage.”

Jill shut her eyes. She didn’t want to imagine what he meant by that.

“Take the fetters off her neck. She can’t breathe like that. Remember, Commander: she is our weapon. I will not have her dying so soon.”

Feet shuffled then rough fingers slipped through her hair and reached around her neck. She felt them brush her raw, sensitive skin before she heard the clink and the metal ring fell off. Jill didn’t dare breathe a sigh of relief, not when the monster was still in front of her. Perhaps he knew what she was thinking, because then Imreann scoffed.

“Take her to her cell,” was all he said before he, along with his entourage, turned on their heels and headed back inside the mountain. The moment he disappeared, activity around the hall resumed. The Commander barked orders at two of the soldiers, who then grabbed Jill on both arms and lifted her to her feet.

“Walk,” one of them said.

As if she could, with her ankles still clasped and chained. Ice pierced her body, but she wasn’t sure whether it came from her magick or the dread of being cooped up far beneath the surface again. But perhaps, that was better than here, better than Imreann, better than outside where her weakness had cost her another child’s life.

***

Some people thought she was a lifeless doll—a puppet, made to move only under the beck and call of her master. They’re not wrong, Jill thought.

In a lonely dark cell, Jill lay, bone-weary, on the cold stone floor. No light dared disturb the darkness here—the farthest glow came from a dim torch nestled into the wall some handful yalms away. Not even sound could perturb the stillness.

Her gray eyes gazed unseeing at her small diamond-shaped pendant clasped in her hand. It had been a gift, or perhaps a memento. When the decision to send her to Rosaria had been made, her father had gone to her room to slip the necklace around her neck. A family heirloom, she was told. To remind her of home.

A faint hum of a melody drifted into her consciousness, along with a remnant of a familiar voice.

What’s that song? Someone had asked. That song you just sang.

On a quiet night, Jill had stood on the balcony of a castle. A boy had been with her, looking at her with stars in his eyes.

This? she’d asked, humming the melody again. The boy had nodded. It’s a song from my hometown. My parents taught it to me.

A memory of bygone days penetrated her mind, drifting aimlessly before it was pulled back into the blanket of obscurity.

It told of Shiva the Ice Queen. They say she would come to her people in their time of need and deliver salvation.

But Shiva had come and no salvation had been delivered. Part of Jill wondered if the legend had been nothing but a bedtime story meant to lull children to sleep. She had certainly fallen asleep to one of Shiva’s tales, dreaming up the Ice Queen and her legion of crystalline armies.

Perhaps even her necklace was a fraud—

Jill stopped herself.

She closed her eyes. Even the utterance of an apology to her father, her mother, her ancestors, took too much energy that she failed to muster. The pulsing warmth she had always sought in her necklace was nowhere to be found. It lay cold in her palm, offering neither solace nor reassurance that everything would be alright.

How could it be when everything had gone up in a blazing inferno three summers past—all her dreams, all her hopes?

She had no one else…

Chill seeped into her skin. Jill barely registered the cold—barely registered the fever that was settling in her bones. Her thin, ragged robe hung in tatters, barely covering her ankles that were covered in blisters and now chained to the wall. Yet still, her chest rumbled as the tune so familiar to her heart fought through her parched throat and dried lips.

I like that song, Clive had said. Will you sing it again?

Her thumb brushed over the dim onyx jewel nestled at the center of her pendant. In the stillness, Jill hummed, though she sounded weak and broken.

***

“There you are!”

Jill looked up. Clive stood at the door, half-turning, the tips of his raven hair painted silver under the moonlight.

For a split second, Jill couldn’t remember where she was or what she had been doing. A faint recollection of heat and pain shot up her arms, but the sensation quickly faded. A headache persisted, but it, too, disappeared after a brief shake of her head.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Clive crouched in front of her. “What’s wrong? You disappeared soon after dinner.”

Jill blinked then gazed around. She was at the Rosalith castle garden, concealed in the shadows of a shrub just outside the castle wall. It wasn’t quite hidden per se. The entire garden was swathed in moonlight that night. The otherwise dark corners were lit by magick-infused torches. If Jill had sought to hide, she could’ve looked for a better place.

“It’s nothing,” she eventually said. She shook her head, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Clive’s concern turned into a frown.

“If it’s nothing, then what are you doing here drawing circles on the ground?”

Jill dropped her eyes.

“Tell me.”

The softness in his voice prompted her to speak but when Jill opened her mouth, the words wouldn’t come. So Jill shrugged, then continued drawing circles. He sighed.

Jill didn’t stir when his shadow moved and settled next to her. While distance remained between their shoulders, she could still feel the heat radiating off his body. It calmed her, grounded her.

“Joshua was worried,” Clive began. “You seemed down and then excused yourself early from dinner. Did something happen?”

Jill didn’t say anything, and neither did he. The silence stretched for a while, until Clive spoke:

“The moon’s beautiful tonight.”

Unwittingly, Jill looked up—

—then realized halfway that, again, Clive had managed to coax her out of her shell. She cut a glance at him when she heard his chuckle, finding one corner of his lips tugged into a small smirk. Jill’s own features fought between a frown and a sigh before settling on a little wry smile of her own.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

“Do what?”

Jill remained quiet for a moment. Her gaze flicked from his face back to the circles she’d drawn on the ground. The stick she’d used lay loosely in her grip. She dropped it, then folded her arms around her knees.

“You always know,” she said. “When I’m feeling down. I never say anything, but you always know how to cheer me up…how to make me talk.” She giggled softly. “Like that time you took me to Mann’s Hill.”

“I would take you there again if it would brighten your mood.” She glanced at him, and he smiled, shifting his eyes upward. “Except it’s already night, and Mann’s Hill is nowhere near the castle. It wouldn’t just be Murdoch who would flay us this time.”

That prompted a quiet laugh from her. Clive brightened at the sound. In the periphery of her senses, she sensed him reach for her, stopped, then changed course to her head. His gentle pats felt like a salve that soothed her wounds. Jill’s breath shuddered in contentment.

“Will you tell me what troubles you?”

She pursed her lips and closed her eyes.

An image of a cold, dark cell flashed across her mind. She lay alone, shivering, with chains on her neck and around her blistering ankles. For a fleeting moment, her heart seized. Her throat closed and she struggled to breathe.

“Jill?”

The image dissipated as quickly as it had come. When Jill blinked, she found herself back at the garden with the full moon and a worried Clive sitting next to her. Warmth radiated from her hand, where Clive was holding it, anchoring her to the present.

A dream, she told herself. Or a nightmare. Would he laugh if she told him she was afraid of boogeymen?

“Can I ask you something, Clive?” she asked instead. “Why did you want to become First Shield?”

She knew part of the reason was because of Lady Anabella. The Duchess’s scorn for her firstborn was not a well-kept secret—not that the Duchess had done anything to keep it secret. Everyone knew—from the handmaids to the kitchen hands, the stableboys and even the soldiers. Jill had also been on the receiving end of such contempt on more occasions than one. Perhaps, that was why they were drawn to each other: two children seeking their place in the world.

Yet despite all the derision he received, Clive still aspired to become First Shield—the Phoenix’s protector—and had been training for it throughout all the years Jill had lived there.

She lay her head on her knee, gaze locked at their connected hands. “How did you find the strength to stand when all others expected you to fall?”

Clive stared at her. “Did Mother say something to you again?” he asked, and Jill almost flinched. His hard gaze bored into her. It was one thing, it seemed, for his mother to disregard him, and another when the same thing occurred to Jill. While Jill couldn’t deny that the Duchess Anabella had made more scathing remarks, that wasn’t the reason behind her question, so she shook her head. It took a while before Clive could be convinced.

He let out a frustrating sigh and slumped back against the wall, withdrawing his hand in the process. The absence of his warmth made her skin tingle uncannily in the cool evening air. She curled her fingers and tucked them closer.

“While it is true that I had hoped to earn Mother’s approval,” he said, “the reason why I wanted to become First Shield is simply because I wanted to protect my brother. The Phoenix is our symbol of hope. While Joshua safeguards our people, I shall take my place beside him and shield him from harm. That, at least, is what I hope to achieve. Come what may, I train so that one day I may have the strength to do just that.”

“You’re already strong, Clive,” she said.

Clive scoffed under his breath. “If I seem that way to you,” he said, then paused. A furtive glance at her followed by a sheepish smile and a clearing of his throat before he looked away again. “I think that’s because I have you with me.” He scratched the back of his head. “You’re always there to pull me up and hold my back.”

Jill blinked, stunned.

Before she could comprehend the meaning of his words, Clive had already pushed himself off the ground. He gazed at the star-speckled sky, where the moon hung low and bright.

“When things start to go dark around me, I look to my light to show me the way.” The moon lined his profile in silver, and for a moment, Jill thought he looked ethereal. Then he turned and held out his hand. “So when you find yourself in a similar predicament, Jill, look for your light.”

***

Sharp, piercing whispers penetrated the barriers of Jill’s consciousness, along with a pounding headache that almost jolted her awake. She groaned.

The owners of the voices didn’t seem to hear her. They kept arguing, their frustratingly loud yet hushed voices grating on her ears.

Jill cracked open an eye and found the rim of a crude bowl next to her face. Odd, she thought. Odder still when she spotted a glass and a tray behind it. Her eyes traced the edges of the tray to the gray stone floor, farther still until they rested on what looked like metal bars standing on their side. The word “cell” came to her mind, but her sluggish brain failed to follow it with a meaning. Her thin drenched garment barely kept the chill away. Jill shivered.

Ah…I want to go back.

The thought came unbidden. It made her pause. Back, she asked herself. Back where?

Back there. To him.

Him…who?

The boy. With the blue eyes.

But he’s…

Gone.

A sob tore out of her, except—her body was too weak to let out anything louder than a whimper. So Jill lay on the floor, a crushing weight pressing down on her ribs as she took one deep shuddering breath after another.

Look for your light—

But there was no light. The cell stood dark and dank. Freezing. The only heat came from the guard’s torch, because yes, that was a guard. She was in prison, deep in the bowels of Mount Drustanus, where they housed the cruelest, most wicked of their felons: a Dominant.

Jill’s senses were slowly coming back to her. Fetters bit into her skin and cold stone pressed hard against her bony cheek. She tasted salt. Another odd thing. But her jaws moved; she lapped her lips. They…weren’t as parched as she’d thought. She eyed the bowl. Gruel? Was that…dinner? But who…? No one should’ve entered her cell and placed her dinner inside, let alone feed her.

She lifted her head just in time as the voices finally made sense to her:

“I am telling you that your precious weapon is ill. If you do not treat her and she dies, whose head do you think will roll?”

The torch lit the speakers’ faces just enough that Jill recognized the messy bun, brown smock, and plump features.

“Lady Marleigh…” Jill croaked.

She hadn’t meant to call—she didn’t even realize she had strength to speak—but her voice was heard, and Lady Marleigh gasped. Marleigh turned, eyes brimming, then pushed past the guard and entered the cell. “Oy—” The guard attempted to grab Marleigh’s arm, but Marleigh was too quick on her feet. Her already feeble energy spent, Jill fell to the ground just as Marleigh arrived at her side.

“My lady.” The older woman reached over and pressed a hand to her cheek. Even in the dark, Jill could tell how the lady frowned.

Marleigh reached to her pocket then withdrew a small, thin packet.

“My lady, please drink this. ‘Tis medicine for your fever.”

“Hey—” The guard pushed his way inside the cell then grabbed Marleigh’s arm before she could administer the drug. Big as he was—like all other Haearanni—he easily pulled Marleigh up in one swift motion. Jill watched the medicine spill out of the packet as it fell. Marleigh wailed in agony. “How did you get that medicine?” the guard demanded.

“Let me go, you big brute! That was for my mistress and you made me waste it!”

“Answer! Where did you get the medicine?!”

“If you won’t treat her, then I will—”

He shoved her down. Lady Marleigh’s shoulder connected with the floor with a sickening crack, enough for Jill to fight through her pain and languor and scream—cracked though she sounded—“Lady Marleigh!”

“Thieving rat! Did you steal from the Patriarch’s storage?” The guard spat. He made to reach for Marleigh again, but a command from Jill made him pause. The guard looked over his shoulder.

Jill had propped herself on her arms. Ice surged through her veins—ice that fought and wrestled against the crystal cuffs that kept it at bay. For one split moment, fear washed over the guard’s face as he took a trembling step back. Then the magick abated, and Jill gasped, slumping onto the ground.

The guard barked a hideous laugh. “You have no power here, witchling! Not as long as you wear those fetters.” He might have thought to give her a kick, but whatever power Jill had about to unleash remained in the air, and it was enough to make him reconsider his next move. The guard ended up grunting under his breath, hoisted Marleigh by the arm, and dragged her out kicking and screaming as the lady attempted to return to Jill.

“Shut it, you!” The guard hissed. He closed the cell, clicking the lock into place. “You’d be lucky if I didn’t report to the Patriarch.”

With as much bravado as Lady Marleigh could muster, she looked the guard square in the eye and said, “Try me.”

The guard pushed Marleigh forward. Jill watched them leave along with the light and the heat. Once, Lady Marleigh dared to look behind her shoulder before the guard shoved her forward again. Jill closed her eyes, listening to the patter of their footsteps, growing weaker and weaker, echoing in the empty chamber. Faraway, a door creaked open. A distant bustling cacophony slipped out before the door closed once again, shutting Jill away from the world.

***

Sometimes, when Jill closed her eyes, she would find herself back in Rosaria: the hustle and bustle of early morning preparations, the chatters and laughter in the servants’ quarters, the shouts and warm camaraderie of the barracks. She might not have been born there—she had only been a simple ward—but the Archduke had treated her like a daughter, and everyone—or, most of everyone—had welcomed her in kind.

See, that was what most people probably didn’t know. She remembered light. She remembered kindness.

She remembered the first day she arrived there.

The sun had risen high and the trumpets had blared. The grandest of welcomes if Jill had ever seen one. While the Archduke and his knights had been the most hospitable, being in a strange land all by herself had given Jill nothing short of apprehension, least of all with the Duchess’s disdain following her every step. Savage, she’d called her. Jill had shrunk into herself. She probably would have locked herself in the room designated to be hers if Clive hadn’t come and asked her to play.

‘Play’ might not be the exact word, though for a six year old, being taken on a tour of the castle then playing hide-and-seek with the servants had counted as playing. The handmaid assigned to her had looked so disgruntled as she asked Jill not to disappear like that.

A distant memory surfaced: of a body, broken and spent, tossed in front of her like a limp ragged doll. It left as soon as it came before Jill could make sense of what it was, and then she was back at the castle hall with her handmaid staring down at her. Jill cast her eyes down and shifted on her feet.

“She’s not harmed.” Clive, his hand holding hers, stepped in front of her. “See? She’s alright. I was just taking her out to see the garden and—”

“My lord—” Her handmaid plastered a strained smile, but before she could say anything else, a hand flashed and smacked Clive on the head—lightly. Clive yelped, then whirled around, ready to fight. Only, a glaring Murdoch stood behind them, looking stern, and Clive paled.

“I heard your lordship skipped his lesson,” the general said.

“Murdoch, I—”

General Murdoch dropped his eyes to their linked hands and let a quiet sigh slip through his nose. “I appreciate your lordship’s efforts in welcoming our new guest, but you do have your studies to attend. Or do you not wish to be First Shield any longer?”

It wouldn’t be until a couple years later for Jill to learn the reason Murdoch’s question had provoked Clive so, but back then, she remembered the guilt she had felt for taking much of Clive’s time when he should have been somewhere else. Clive seemed to notice it because then he promised to see her again after his lesson. Perhaps during dinner, or—

“Or you could come to the barracks—”

“Clive,” Murdoch warned. “Barracks are no place for a young lady.”

Clive shut his mouth, then promised again that he would come see her later. Later on, when Jill was safely back in her room and her handmaid was brushing her hair, she apologized for making her worry, and her handmaid told her she had nothing to apologize for.

“I should have expected he would come visit your ladyship. The young master is quite… sociable, if a little unpredictable. Truthfully, I’d feared he might have taken you out to see the town unguarded.” Her handmaid offered a wry smile. She set down the brush and patted Jill’s now-sleek hair. Then she took a step back, hand neatly folded over her lap. Not a speck of dust on her dress or strand of hair out of place, even when it seemed she had turned the castle upside down in search of Jill. “Would you like some refreshments, my lady? I brought you bread, and some fruits.”

But Jill couldn’t think about snacks at the time. Instead, a growing curiosity gnawed at her, so she asked, “What kind of person is the young master?”

Her handmaid blinked, before a smile bloomed across her face. “Aside from the small unpredictability of his actions, he is a sincere and hardworking boy. Kind, and caring, above all else.”

Kind and caring. Surely that was it. Surely that was why, time and again, Jill had felt her heart stir every time he directed his smile at her—the steadfastness of his gaze, his unwavering conviction…

In the first few months since her arrival, he would spend every spare moment he had with her. He kept her company, brought her to all the places within and without the castle grounds—of course, with a healthy entourage keeping watch. He did all that and more until Jill could say with all her heart that Rosalith was home.

If Jill thought about it now, she could remember everything fondly. Like through a rose-tinted glass: the light warmer and the smiles brighter. Walking down the pavement of the castle town with Torgal in her arms, she’d watch merchants holler their wares and a boy her age running down the street, trying to catch his chicken that’d just fled its coop. Men swept the stairs in front of their shops and women tended to their gardens. Once, she heard someone call her name and saw that it was the flower lady from whom she��d bought a bouquet of blooms just the other day.

“Out by yourself, milady?” the flower lady asked. “I see Ada’s not with you today.”

“No, Clive is here—” Jill turned, but her supposed escort was nowhere to be seen. They were older now, so Murdoch had given them leave if they’d wanted to explore the town themselves. Her handmaid, Ada, hadn’t been so relenting, until Clive assured her that Rosalith was probably the safest place in all of Rosaria. No harm should come to them.

“Besides,” he’d added, “I’m pretty good with the sword now.”

Or so he had said. Now the boy had disappeared and part of her wondered if she had gotten lost and not him. She exchanged a glance with Torgal, who only whined quietly and cocked his head to the side in confusion.

The florist giggled. “You two make such a lovely pair. Why, I remember just a few summers ago when the two of you would come to my stall escorted by a guard each. And Lady Ada too, of course. You wouldn’t let go of his hand even when I handed you a flower.”

Jill flushed red, then cleared her throat. “We’re not children anymore. It is not proper for a young lady to hold a young lord’s hand.” She attempted to change the subject—to the snowdrops she had bought the day before. But the florist was still grinning and Jill had to abandon the idea of moving the topic along. As much as it made her giddy to hear that she and Clive looked lovely together, a part of her knew they could never be. Talks had been made to marry her off to another House. Jill had always been just a pawn here. The place she had finally come to call home was never truly where she belonged. Her time here had always been fleeting. She should spend it the best she could with the people she loved.

“Ah, speak of the devil.” The florist’s quiet exclamation broke through Jill’s reveries. Her teasing smile sent a thrill fluttering in Jill’s stomach. “His lordship is here.”

Jill turned in time to see Clive break free from the crowd, looking extremely unsettled as he scanned the street. When his sapphire eyes found her by the flower shop, the lines of his face crumbled in palpable relief. But he kept his posture and strode to her side.

“There you are!” A soft reprimand, though he looked more pleased than angry. “I was looking everywhere for you.”

“You’re the one who disappeared.”

“You should have stuck close to me. Imagine what Murdoch will say if he finds out I actually lost you.”

Torgal, for whatever reason, growled at him. Clive looked surprised; the pup had never shown his fangs at him before. But Torgal quickly lost his irritation when Jill petted his head.

“See?” she said. “Even Torgal said you’re at fault here.” Clive pursed his lips. Jill laughed. “Clive, you said so yourself. We’re still only in the castle town. What could possibly go wrong?”

Except, everything did go wrong.

On the night after Clive, Joshua, and the Archduke had gone to Phoenix Gate, the castle burned.

For the most part, Jill had purged the memories of that night from her mind. In fact, if she were to recall, she would fail to recount every detail that had happened between then and now. All she remembered were the screams and the fire—the flashes of steel—the blood.

And Lady Ada—

The image of a body sprawled on the ground flitted across her eyes. Jill lurched forward and gasped.

Hot, glaring light pierced her eyes almost immediately. Jill had to blink several times before she could see where she was. She looked around, but the sight she beheld made her pause.

She wasn’t in her room, nor was she anywhere near a town. A swath of white flowers blanketing the entire land as far as her eye could see, undulating under a brilliant gilded sky. She shook her head, then shook it again, but the thick impenetrable fog that shrouded her mind refused to lift.

Where was this, she asked herself.

Jill rose to her feet, rather unsteady at first, but soon found her footing on the firm ground. She wore no shoes. Her toes curled on the damp earth. How long had it been since she last felt the touch of soft grass? Jill felt her skin prickle, her body seeming to whisper, Hello, old friend.

Like a response to her greeting, a gentle breeze came to kiss her face. Hello, it said.

A shiver ran up her spine. Jill crouched and held her palm to the little blooms sprouting on the ground. White teardrop-shaped petals hung like pendulums from thin green stalks. She recognized them. She’d seen them before—

Home.

A vanguard of spring, her mother used to say. One that braved the bleakness of winter as it heralded the coming of change. They’d called them snowdrops for the petals that looked like drops of snow. Jill remembered picking them and weaving them into a crown. They rarely grew in Rosaria, so when she’d spotted them in a stall at the market, she had instinctively bought them for herself as another memento of her homeland.

Jill expected the flowers to fade or for her finger to pass through them, except she found them solid and somewhat fragile—soft to the touch, yet real nonetheless. As real as the ground she was standing on or the dress she was wearing.

Yes, it was a dress she wore, not the ragged robe they’d haphazardly thrown on her. A simple white sleeveless gown that fell to her ankles. She had no blisters, no fetters, no lithification. Nothing that bound her.

She was…free.

For the first time in years, Jill felt an all-encompassing giddiness that made her bounce on the balls of her feet. Along with it was a familiar freezing heat that surged from within her, burning every tether, every vein until her chest swelled and magick brimmed just beneath the surface of her skin. And then it burst, showering her in a million tiny crystalline snowflakes that glinted silver in the light.

Jill’s quiet gasp sounded more like an exhalation of the breath she had been holding. The icy crystals landed on her palm and didn’t melt at her touch.

How—

This couldn’t be real. She’d cast magick and yet no stiffness crept up her flesh. She looked at the snowflakes still floating around her. Then she looked at her hands. From the deep well of her power, Jill drew another trail of magick, letting it manifest in a stream of icy fountain from her open palm.

She felt no pain. No petrification.

This place wasn’t real.

A place as beautiful as this, where one could evoke magick without prompting its excruciating rebound effects.

A place very much like a dream.

The thought had just settled in her mind when Jill caught a voice drifting in the wind. Familiar, but not quite so. It sounded deeper, rougher, as though the owner had grown out of his boyish tenor.

Jill turned, and her world stopped.

Clive stood a few yalms away in a loose white shirt and dark pants. For a moment, she couldn’t recognize who he was. His hair was longer, somewhat more unruly than the last time she had seen him; a stubble had grown around his jawline, and he was taller—much taller—with a broader chest and sharper features. Yet those eyes: the same stark blue she had always loved looked at her so kindly.

“Jill,” he called, soft. The edges of his mouth quirked into a familiar easy smile that pulled at her heartstrings.

Before she knew it, the dam she had been holding back for nigh on four years burst. A sob tore out of her in a sky-shattering wail. Jill kicked her feet against the ground, skipped over rocks and undergrowth, and leapt into Clive’s open arms.

And she wept.

Jill wept and wept, one shuddering sob after another. The solid thrum of his heartbeat drummed against her cheek; his breath fanned her ear as he whispered her name again and again.

“You’re alive,” she murmured. He was real. “They told me you died.”

The moment she heard that the two princes were lost in the fire, Jill’s world had turned upside down. She couldn’t believe it—didn’t want to believe it. For a time, she had refused to give in. Clive wouldn’t have wanted her to. He was alive somewhere in the world, biding his time to reclaim his rightful place and set everything right again. But being a prisoner of the Ironbloods put a toll on both her body and mind. The light she had religiously relied on slowly dimmed. When a broken body was tossed in front of her, the light sputtered out.

Jill’s arms tightened around him. Warm leather and sweet cinnamon—his familiar scents washed over her. He was here. He was alive.

If she could only stay—

But then Clive called her name, and his tone carried a sense of foreboding that made a tiny crack form on the surface of her dream. Memories flowed fresh into her mind. She clung onto him, digging her fingers deep into his back and refusing to let go.

He tried again. “Jill.”

Jill shook her head, pressed herself deeper into him. She wanted to disappear; wanted to leave that awful world.

Let me stay, her heart begged. Let me be with you.

But Clive held her shoulders. With one gentle push, he dislodged her from him. He peered into her face, but Jill looked away.

“Jill.” The tenderness in his voice threatened another sob to break free from her. “Jill, your place isn't here.”

“No.”

“Jill—”

“No! Don’t make me go back.” She whirled her eyes at him, found him pained, saw him grimace. “Don’t make me return. Not there. Not to him.”

A muscle twitched along Clive’s jaws.

“They killed her, Clive; right in front of me—Lady Ada…” Her breath hitched. She remembered: the sight of her handmaid’s broken body in the bowels of Mount Drustanus.

Heat coalesced in the large circular hall of the inner chamber. They’d brought Jill in, cuffed and chained. Jill couldn’t have guessed why they’d taken her there, but when she noticed the figure on the altar, her blood had run cold.

Lady Ada had lain motionless on top of the slab of stone beneath the crystal mound. Her clothes had been bloodied and torn; her empty eyes gazed almost unseeing. As Jill approached, she’d sworn she saw a flicker of recognition cross her handmaid’s features. Through her parched, cut lip, Lady Ada had whimpered.

Jill had realized then what they’d been about to do. She screamed; kicked her guard and attempted to run—toward Lady Ada—but the guard yanked her chain and Jill fell back. In one fell swoop, the Patriarch’s blade pierced Lady Ada’s chest. A deafening cry erupted from Jill’s throat.

Should you fail to follow my command, the Patriarch had drawled, such is the fate that awaits every woman and children from Rosaria.

Her breath now shook. She could still see their faces: the children who'd been taken as hostages to make her comply. Their fear was etched in the lines of their faces—their utter horror before the blades slit their throats.

“It would’ve been better had I died with you.” A fervent wish she had never dared to speak aloud, yet it now slipped from between her lips in a whisper so weak, so strained…

Jill’s knees buckled from under her. Clive held her upright; his strong arms the haven she had always remembered them to be. He patted the back of her head—a familiar gentle touch, stroking her hair.

“I have no one else, Clive,” she whimpered. “I have nothing else to live for.”

Silence fell between them, a comfortable sort that enveloped her like how she imagined a parent’s embrace would feel like. The wind picked up. The petals rose and danced around her—idly, intoxicatingly—carrying a sweet scent that brought her back to a time of peace and tranquility.

“Then what about Lady Marleigh?” Clive spoke. “Or the other women and children still trapped under that mountain. Do you not have them?”

“They would be better off if I died.”

“You know that’s not true.” Clive’s voice was stern. Jill dropped her gaze. “Had you died, the torment they go through would have been far greater than whatever they have to endure now. But you’re alive, and you are blessed with the power of Shiva. Do you remember, Jill? When you asked me for my reasons to become the First Shield, do you remember what I said about the Phoenix?”

Jill wished she had forgotten, but the memory was seared into her mind, it was impossible to forget. But she refused to speak it. She didn’t want to make it real—to make her hope in a world where hope had perished in flames. Yet Clive was looking at her so imploringly. He cupped her face and stroked his thumbs across her cheeks.

So she said, “You said it was a symbol of hope, that it gave us the power to safeguard our people.”

“And is that not why Shiva has chosen you? To protect yourself and the women and children in captivity?”

No, she wanted to say, but part of her knew that Clive spoke true. Of all the people in the world, why had the Ice Queen chosen her—in the precise moment when her future and the death of her soul would have been secured? Had she been more pious, she would have thought it was a message from the Gods; and perhaps, that had been her thinking, for a while. But there was only so much a person could endure. The strongest man in the world would break under an endless onslaught of despair.

She looked into his eyes, so bright and alive. Jill reached out and touched his temple, trailing a line down to where his stubble had subtly grown. Real, but not real.

“But you’re not there anymore,” she murmured, even as she felt her heart hardening into resolve. “How am I supposed to look to my light when I can’t find you?”

He chuckled then. He took her fingers and held it between his hands. “Light…doesn’t always have to come from one source.”

A quiet sob escaped her lips. Clive drew her into his arms again.

“You are strong, Jill. You have strength in your heart—unfettered and unseen. If you cannot find that light in yourself, then look for it in the people who believe in you, the way I found mine in you.”

For the briefest of moments, Jill felt the featherlight brush of a kiss on her forehead. She closed her eyes, held onto him, and willed him to stay, but like every dream, she felt him slip and fade. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

I’m always with you, Jill.

A gust of wind tugged at her dress, flapping it around her ankle and pushing Jill off balance. As her feet fell a step forward, she opened her eyes, and found snowdrop petals fluttering on the space where Clive had been.

***

Jill wasn’t quite sure what roused her. It could be the quiet footfalls dragging against the floor that her ears picked. It could be the unfamiliar warmth flickering beside her. As her consciousness returned, Jill found that her hair was damp with sweat, as well as the thin robe that covered her body, and she realized it might as well have been that too.

She groaned, then the shuffling feet fell into silence. An unfamiliar ceiling greeted her eyes when she peeled them open. Stone ceiling, still, but it wasn’t the dark and dank cell that she remembered. A warm brown color, lit by torches set in intervals. A lantern lit the cell on a table beside her. Jill stirred and realized she wasn’t on the floor but on a cot—hard, but covered in bedding still—with a blanket over her and a towel on her forehead.

“She’s awake.”

“Lady Marleigh—”

“Should we inform the Patriarch?”

“Shh!” A voice rose above the whispers. Footsteps approached her and Jill looked to see a familiar figure crouching beside her bed. Lady Marleigh’s features broke into relief, pulled tight by a cut in her lip and a nasty bruise above one eye. “My lady Jill,” she whispered. “How are you feeling?”

“Lady Marleigh…” Jill croaked.

Her throat hurt just to speak. Marleigh reached for a glass and helped Jill to a half-sitting position, bringing the rim of the cup to her parched mouth. Jill downed the water in large gulps. In the periphery of her senses, she heard sighs and a quiet sob which the others shushed.

“Thank you,” she said, settling back onto the bed. “But where are we, Lady Marleigh? What happened? Why are you hurt?”

Marleigh didn’t respond. She only smiled as she took the towel off Jill’s forehead and pressed her hand to Jill’s face. “Your fever’s gone down a bit, but you’re still not fit to be up.” She waved her hand and one of the other women stepped forward. “This is your physicker, my lady. The four of us have been taking turns keeping watch.”

“Keeping watch?”

The physicker—a woman who seemed to be a handful of years younger than Marleigh—grimaced. “The Patriarch did give us leave to tend to you, milady, but we cannot trust those brutes to guard, not when you’ve been out for several days—a week, at the most.”

A week…

Seeing her confusion, the physicker smiled. “Truth be told, I was afraid we couldn’t save you, milady. Thank Great Greagor that you decided to return to us.”

“Hush,” Lady Marleigh hissed, “don’t speak of such nonsense.”

The physicker bowed. “I shall get your meal.” She excused herself and, along with the other two women, stepped out of the cell quietly. They looked right, then left, before heading away.

Jill looked at Marleigh, who was already dipping the towel in a bowl of water and wringing it dry. The older woman dabbed Jill’s face and neck, wiping the grime and the sweat away. “Do you suppose you could take some dinner, my lady?” she asked. She pulled the blanket away and began washing Jill’s arms, one after the other. “If not, we could start from something light. Soup, perhaps?”

“Am I still dreaming?” Jill couldn’t help asking the question. Marleigh’s brown eyes flicked to hers, perplexed. Jill sighed then looked at the ceiling. “I was never allowed such an extravagant meal, Lady Marleigh. Tell me true: did you plead with the Patriarch? Is that why you have a bruise on your face? Did he hit you?”

Lady Marleigh didn’t respond. After finishing with Jill’s arms, she went on to offer Jill a change of clothes—drenched as they were now in her sweat. “A new set of robes has arrived. And don’t worry, I did not swipe them from the laundry.”

Lady Marleigh attempted to laugh, but her joke fell on deaf ears. Jill looked at her, worried and fearful for the kind lady’s action. Marleigh pressed her lips together, and then sighed. She went on to dip the towel in water again, wringing it before dabbing at Jill’s face.

“‘Tis nothing for you to be concerned of, my lady,” she said. “My actions are my own, and if they would see you hale and whole, then there is nothing more I would ask for.”

“Lady Marleigh—”

“I have nothing to lose. My family is dead. I was brought here under the cover of night along with dozens of my people. I thought I would die within the first week if not the first day. But then I saw you, my lady. Terror etched on your face but you refused to back down. You may not know it but a lot of the girls here look up to you.” She smiled at Jill’s apparent astonishment. “Take Ella, for example—the physicker you just met. She was heavily pregnant during the capture and soon lost her child. You soothed her and offered a flower made of paper for the non-existent grave. Beatrice, one of the other girls, once tripped while bringing a meal to the Patriarch’s chambers. She would’ve been beaten to death had you not stepped in and quickly handed her a new tray. She was inconsolable when she heard you’ve fallen ill.”

“There are more stories to share and I would regale you each and every one of them had we the time, but you see, my lady,” Lady Marleigh went on, “you are not alone.”

Jill blinked, felt tears already welling in her eyes, felt her throat already closing. Her breath hitched, and she looked away, burrowed herself deeper into her cot, but there was nowhere she could hide. The blanket was paper thin; it could not cover the quake overtaking her body as a sob slowly broke out of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, brought her hands to her face. “I’m sorry, Lady Marleigh.”

She’d wanted to die—had wished to disappear. She’d prayed for it so fervently in the depths of her dream, for death to come quick and silent in the dead of night. And perhaps then, she would be free.

Free…like how she had been in the field of white snowdrops—flowers that now gave her strength the moment she thought of what had transpired there.

Clive was right. Shiva came to her and blessed her with the power to protect these people from harm. Even should she be bait to keep the Patriarch’s attention on her, if that allowed her countrywomen another day to live, then she would do it.

She held out her hand and grasped Lady Marleigh’s fingers. “Help me get up, Lady Marleigh.”

“But, my lady, you’re not yet fit—”

“I shall have the change of clothes, and I shall have what dinner my stomach can tolerate.” Despite the quiver in her voice and the tears streaming down her face, she sounded firm—firmer than she had ever felt before.

She had strength in her, burning and unbridled. If she should sacrifice herself so her people could live, then so be it.

I will find my light.

~ END ~

#clive rosfield #jill warrick #cliji #warfield #ffxvi #final fantasy xvi #final fantasy 16 #ff16 #final fantasy #fanfiction #ff fanfic #ff16 fanfic #zine piece #ff fanzine #ff16 fanzine #cliji zine

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rune-writes · 27 days ago

Text

A Healer's Duty

Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI

Word Count: 4023

Rating: T

Characters/Pairing: Tarja-centric, Clive Rosfield/Jill Warrick; Joshua Rosfield/Jote

Summary: As a physicker, Tarja thought her job was to heal, but when faced with the deadly affliction called Lithification—a fatal bodily petrification that will claim a Bearer's life—Tarja learns that to be a healer does not equal to saving everyone. There is a limit to what she can do, and sometimes, just alleviating someone's pain may be the greatest kindness she can offer.

Notes: written for Fulminate: A FFXVI Fanzine. Leftovers are open til Feb 28th! Check out the store HERE.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Do you know what makes a good physicker, Tarja?” her mentor asked.

He sat on a stool next to his desk, bent over a mortar and vials as he ground herbs and flowers into powders. Tarja looked up from changing the bandage of a wounded soldier’s arm just as her mentor poured the powder he was working on into a beaker.

Outside, the dins of war had subsided into barely a murmur. A respite or some such, which meant the infirmary was flooded with patients. Where the anguish and agony had rendered her frozen in place before, now her body moved in the automatic way of a seasoned physicker who’d dealt with broken bones and stabbed wounds by the day. Tarja had had her hands full administering whatever potions she could give, bandages she could fix, cuts she could stitch.

Still, they were not enough. Tormented cries pierced the tent’s walls from every side as soldiers fought against the pain of their advancing curse. And those she could not save lay on a heap outside, waiting for the carrion birds to arrive, because none of the soldiers could be bothered enough to give any of them a proper burial. Who were they but Bearer soldiers, meant to be used until the last drop of their lives and then discarded at the first sign of impairment? Her instructions were clear: to heal just enough for them to function. Not a day went by where it didn’t grate on her conscience.

Her mentor waved her over as he placed the beaker over a small fire and began stirring the contents with a long, thin spoon. Tarja finished her task then patted the moaning soldier’s shoulder, promising him she’d bring a pain reliever before rising to her feet and coming to her mentor’s side.

“This is Elysia. Or Tears of Mercy as I like to call it,” he said, grabbing a jar from his makeshift cabinet. Tarja viscerally cringed at the large eyeball staring at her. Her mentor chuckled. “Weeping widows. I had one of the men catch one for me. One drop of the tear can easily paralyze your entire nervous system.”

Tarja watched him pick the eye with a pair of tongs. He brought it to the beaker, then carefully let one… two… three tears drop before placing it back inside the jar. He stirred the beaker’s content again.

“I saw how you look today.” A pause. Tarja clenched her fists; she knew where this was going. “You can’t save everyone, Tarja.”

“I know that.” Tarja grounded her teeth.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “A healer’s job is to heal, yes, but we are no gods. We have our own limits. Sometimes, the only thing we can do is alleviate someone’s pain, and that’s alright.”

He finished stirring, then took out the spoon. He lifted his beaker to the meager light above his desk which swayed ever so slightly in a non-existent wind. Under the light, the potion shone silver like sparkling diamonds.

“We do not save people, Tarja. We can close their wounds, mend their broken bones, help their bodies recover with proper food, drugs, and rest. But what if they have reached their limit? What if their bodies scream enough?”

A particularly agonizing wail pierced the tent then. Tarja looked over her shoulder to see her fellow physickers restraining a soldier to his bed as the petrification creeped toward his heart. Her mentor poured Elysia into an empty vial then stood from his chair.

“Remember, Tarja: do not let them suffer anymore than they already have. Sometimes, that is the greatest kindness we can offer.”

***

ii.

Tarja rapped on the door thrice before the response to “come in” came from inside. Cid was leaning against his desk as usual, nursing his left arm in a way that informed Tarja he might have overdone himself. Again. As she entered, Cid made a feeble attempt to hide it, though the stiffness of his movement and subtle flinch of his eye were enough to give it away.

“Let me see your arm,” she said as a way of greeting.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, straightening his arm only to wince at the pain.

Tarja set her herbal tea down on the low-lying table. She whirled on him with hands on her hip. “I’m your resident physicker, Cid. It is my job to see you in top shape.”

“It is your job to make sure the hideaway is taken care of.” He deflected with a wry grin, fishing one-handedly for a cigarette in his pocket then the match on his desk. He puffed out a smoke, then sighed. When he noticed Tarja’s glare, he barked a laugh. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know as well as I do there’s no going around the curse.”

She knew, but she would not break her stare. “The least you could do is sparingly use your powers.”

“I have done that. How did you think I managed to live this long?”

Another insufferable wry grin. Tarja had to swallow a sigh before crossing her arms. “So? Why did you call for me if not to heal your wounds?”

“The tea, for one,” he said with a grateful dip of his head. He pushed himself off the desk then stumbled to the worn couch across the room. He reached for the cup, breathed in the warm turmeric scent, then took a sip. “Thank you. It dulls the pain somewhat.”

Tarja ignored the pang in her chest. “One of my teacher’s recipes.”

“That explains it then.”

Willow bark and turmeric, with a dash of lavender. A tea recipe her mentor had created for the sole purpose of relieving pain from the crystal’s curse. Just as there was no going around it — the pain ever present and even more so after successive use of magick — her mentor had sought ways to ease a Bearer’s burden, even if he couldn’t completely erase it.

Tarja watched Cid take another sip of his tea. It wasn’t so potent, but she could see the tension slowly leave his face.

“You know I’m here to help, right, Cid?” she said.

Cid exhaled another sigh then finally leaned back on his seat. His left arm lay unmoving on his lap.

“You’re already plenty of help, Tarja, with the Bearers and everyone else.”

“Not to you.”

He lifted his tea as if for emphasis. “The tea helps, and whatever medicine you like to slip in my pocket.” Despite her aggravation at his nonchalance, that drew a quick, tiny smile from her lips. Cid set his cup down. “I am keenly aware of my own mortality. One of these days, the curse will catch up and naught will remain of me but dust. But I’ll not let that happen ‘til my dream is fulfilled and every Bearer can die a man.”

As painful as it looked, Cid attempted to raise his petrified arm, and like a defiance to fate and propelled by sheer determination, it lifted.

***

vi.

Lithification, or commonly known as the crystals’ curse, was the nightmare of every Bearer. Her own nightmare once — still was — but Tarja had learned how not to rely on magick, and it’d helped her wonders. She couldn’t say the same for the slaves or soldiers, who were under the beck and call of their masters.

Tarja saw how far the curse had progressed the moment she examined the new girl. Shiva, she heard Cid say. Poor girl. The imperial soldier pacing outside her infirmary had begun to grate on her nerves, but thankfully, he was gone now, away with Cid on one of his many missions. And he’d only just returned. From the way Cid was hiding his arm from her, she knew his curse had to have spread again. After she’d told him to be more careful, too.

That evening, as Tarja was returning from Harpocrates with an old medical journal she hoped would contain information about the curse, Otto spotted her about to ascend to her infirmary and called her over to Charon’s stall.

“How are they?” he asked.

“They’ve only arrived this morning, Otto. There’s nothing much to report except that they’re sound asleep.”

“That they could sleep is enough cause for joy, I’d say,” Charon said with a huff.

True, Tarja had to concede, even if that sleep was induced by the sedative drug she had administered. The girl Otto had brought wouldn’t stop squirming while Shiva — Jill — had looked like she was at death’s door. It was all Tarja could do to steady her pulse and breathing. And once her condition had stabilized enough, she’d begun to mutter, tossing and turning and reopening the wounds Tarja had only finished stitching. At least now they could sleep peacefully to let their bodies heal.

“Your girl is coming along well,” Tarja decided to say. “Her wounds aren’t too deep. A few days’ rest, and she’ll be as chipper as a morning bird, though her limp may remain. Jill, however…”

“Are her wounds grave?” Charon asked.

“I don’t know what those Ironbloods subjected her to, but judging from how far her curse had progressed, I can imagine how many times she had to prime. Possibly under duress too. Not to mention the wounds she retained from her fight with Titan.”

She’d need time to properly heal. They had brought her in, covered in blood and grime. After Tarja had finished washing her face, it had surprised her how young Jill had looked. She could be younger than her.

“Cid tells me Clive — the new guy — seems promising.” Otto huffed a long, suffering breath. “I hope he’s right. I’m all for his creed, but this crusade comes with a high price, and I’d rather see it done before any of them crumbles to dust.”

Tarja said nothing to that. She’d done her fair share of scolding. It seemed Otto and Charon had done the same.

She bid them farewell then went up to her infirmary just in time to see Jill break into sweats. She squirmed in her sleep. Tarja quickly administered another dose of calming medicine before dabbing a wet cloth across Jill’s face. She waited until the girl’s breathing evened out and the crease between her brows disappeared.

***

iv.

“For gods’ sake, Gav, if you force your way out of this cave in your bloodied state, I swear to Greagor I will strap you to a bed and you’ll not leave until I say otherwise!”

Her voice rose above the cacophony. Kupka had raided the hideaway not half a bell ago and now they were displaced at a cave system Cid had designated as their meeting point should things go awry. It was hidden enough, the entrance shrouded in shadows even in daylight. But if the cover of darkness didn’t hide them, she hoped the storm would, which, now that she thought about it, only intensified the chaos raging inside. Anguished cries and moans all around. It reminded her of the southern isles, being in her tent with her mentor. But her mentor wasn’t here; the entire hideaway only had her and Rodrigue to depend on.

Gav blinked his good eye at her. Good; she’d have preferred fear, but surprise was a fair alternative. She pushed him down to the makeshift bed and told him to lay down his head. How he wasn’t wailing in agony was beyond her. The blade had cut right through his eye.

“I need to stop the bleeding so you won’t bleed to death,” she said as she sat on the ground and dabbed his left eye with a gauze.

“An eye wound won’t kill me,” he countered with a laugh. Tarja pressed the gauze harder and made him yelp.

All at once, the din hushed into background noise. Quietly, she cleaned Gav’s wound and inspected the deep cut within. She stifled a sigh.

“You think Cid is alright?” Gav asked then.

“He has Clive and Jill with him. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Yeah, but what if…”

Tarja pressed the gauze harder again, cutting his doubt short. She knew his concerns well — she’d lived with it all her life. Her role was to heal — to see the people who came to her infirmary leave in a better, healthier state. But what if that meant those same people would go running back to battle with swords and magick in hand? Living most of her life among soldiers and fighters, she’d grown to accept that the best thing she could hope for was that they would return with more wounds for her stitch.

“I can’t salvage your eye, Gav,” she said quietly.

She noted his stillness, his clenched jaws. His good eye stared straight ahead at the stone ceiling lit by dim torches. “Close it then.” He sounded unusually even, but his voice trembled right at the tail end. He cleared his throat. “Even without an eye, I’m still Cid’s best scout. Just you wait, once I’m out of bed, I’ll find the three of them and drag them back here.”

Tarja chuckled at that. She set the gauze down then picked up her surgery kit. “This’ll sting.”

“As if it could hurt more than it already does.”

Gav cracking jokes meant he still had vigor left in him. If only she could have his kind of positivity.

With a silent prayer to Great Greagor, Tarja applied anesthetics to him, then pushed her needle into his eye after the drugs kicked in.

***

The young lord of Rosaria lay prone on his bed, as well as the imperial prince if one could believe it. Tarja certainly hadn’t, but the moment Clive landed on the hideaway with two heavily wounded, barely conscious men, logic had gone out the window and she’d instructed every available man to help carry them to her chambers. The only reason she’d known it was the long-lost lord at all was because she’d spotted Phoenix in the distance carrying two distinct people on its claws. Now both of them lay still, quiet, the only signs of life being the steady rise and fall of their chests. “Bad state” was oversimplifying it, as she’d pointed to Clive the last time he came for a visit. His Imperial Highness was on the brink of losing his life; it’d be a miracle if he woke up at all. Joshua, however…

A pulsing purplish wound lay within a deep gash on his chest. Jote hadn’t been forthcoming when Tarja asked. Now the girl tended to her lord with as much dedication as was expected of an aide, but the tenderness with which she dabbed his face and cleaned his wounds seemed to speak of a hidden sentiment.

“How long have you been with his lordship?” she asked the girl.

Jote looked up, then stood from the bed. “Eighteen years, milady.”

“Since Phoenix Gate then?”

Jote nodded. The girl was not much of a talker ever since she arrived a few days ago. Tarja never pressed her, thought she’d return to her duty when neither of them said anything, but the flickering light from Joshua’s bedside table illuminated her contorted expression: a pursed lip and clenched jaw, her hands fisting on her robe.

“If I may, Lady Tarja,” she spoke, hesitant. “I have been by his lordship’s side for all my life, helped him achieve what others deemed impossible. I know what his lordship wants, what he dreams of. And yet this road he treads… its destination…”

Her voice drifted into silence. She cast her gaze to Joshua, and for the briefest of moments, Tarja caught a flicker of emotion crossed her features. It disappeared before she could fully grasp it but Tarja knew what she had seen: compassion.

She rose from her chair and strode to the bed. Joshua was sound asleep.

“He is always in pain,” Jote went on. “Wouldn’t take his medicine even under threat of his life.” Her voice was soft, strained. “Is it wrong of me to wish he would live?”

Tarja touched her shoulder gently. “Get some rest, Jote. I’ll watch them.”

“No, I—”

Tarja fixed her a stare; Jote couldn’t do anything but relent. After she left, Tarja moved her attention back to the young lord and drawled out a sigh. “You’re just as stubborn as your brother, you know that?”

Of course he knew; and of course Clive knew. If only they would listen to their physickers, take their medicines, and get the rest they needed. Her fingers twitched at the familiar words. Oh, how many times had they crossed her lips only to fall on deaf ears? Cid was one; and now Clive.

Could she save them from dying this time?

From the shadows of memory, her mentor’s words jabbed her mind like thorns: you can’t save everyone, Tarja.

She knew that, but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth.

***

vi.

A knock rapped on her door and Jill entered her premises.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Tarja said with a smile, warm, as warm as the pale sun outside she hoped, because that’s what Jill needed these days. Clive and the others had just departed. If there was anything more broken than the look she had the moment they turned their backs… Tarja couldn’t think what it was.

Now, at the very least, Jill looked chipper enough to offer a joke. “Can I not visit you without a cause?”

“The only time anyone visits the infirmary is when they have a stomach ache or a broken bone. Or when they need someone to give Torgal a bath.” That prompted a quick chuckle from her. Good, Tarja thought, but still it didn’t shake the shadow lingering within Jill’s eyes.

She closed her book and waved Jill over. Jill did so, shutting the door and moving to the cabinet beside Tarja’s desk. She looked at each and every jar, from herbs to flowers to scorpion stings and miteling eyes. She examined them, fiddled with them. Then she moved to the vials containing Tarja’s potions: cures for fever, allergies, stomach cramps, headaches. She found the tears of mercy Rodrigue had concocted a while ago and the vial Tarja had helped Jote make for Joshua’s escalating pain. When Tarja told her about it, Jill’s lips pulled taut.

“Have you ever thought about it, Tarja—” she began, “—whether there was anything more you could’ve done?”

Tarja stared at her. If there was one thing she’d learned in the past five years, it was noticing when Jill’s graceful, steadfast mask was one step away from shattering. She set her book down, fingers lingering on the fraying rim.

“I think about it a lot — about what I can do, how I can help. What with you lot going out and getting hurt every damn time.” She glanced at Jill; the girl was smiling. “But the thing about my occupation, Jill, is that there is nothing I can do if my patient decides they want to run off and save the world. So I do what I can, hoping it is enough for them to return to me so I can patch them up again.”

Jill was quiet for a moment. She placed the jar she’d been holding back on the cabinet. She hovered, then stepped back. “I—”

That was when Tarja noticed the tremble, first in her voice then in her hands. Jill’s breath shuddered and her knees gave out. She stumbled onto the bed. Tarja caught her the moment she hit the mattress.

“Tell me what to do, Tarja.” Her harsh whisper seared Tarja’s ear. She clung to her, shoulders quaking, fingers digging deep and refusing to let go. “I wish I’d gone with him. I wanted to go with him. But—”

Her hand reflexively covered her belly. Tarja hadn’t quite noticed it until then, but Jill’s stomach had subtly grown. She whipped her head up, seeking Jill’s eyes; but Jill was too far gone. Tears streamed her face. Her features twisted in anguish.

“I told myself everything would be fine as long as I had him. But now he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.”

***

vii.

Jill was with child. She made Tarja promise not to tell anyone. And Tarja didn’t. Not even when a commotion broke outside. Or when Gav barged into her infirmary, hauling a body between two men, badly beaten and cut with the entire left arm almost completely lithified and crumbling.

They’d found Clive somewhere on the shores of Ash. Everyone had thought him dead, but a moon of tireless search finally bore them fruit, even if it wasn’t what they had hoped for.

“He’s still alive! He’s breathing,” Gav said.

Indeed, but his skin was too cold, too pale, his pulse too shallow. Had it been any other time, Tarja would have pronounced him lost. There was nothing she could do. Clive was already at death’s door.

“Can you save him?” Mid asked.

She was no god. She had limits to her abilities.

But it didn’t stop her from ordering everyone to clear the room, make a fire, and bring all the blankets and water they could spare.

Another moon of dogged perseverance — that’s what it boiled down to: stubborn tenacity. Tarja spent a lot of her time with Harpocrates, scouring tomes and medical journals for anything that could hint on what ailed Clive and how to heal him. She spent her time in the backyard where Nigel grew more and more medicinal herbs. With the mothercrystals gone and aetherfloods receding, new life had begun to crop up in places where the Blight had taken over the land.

And yet, even through all that, Tarja couldn’t shake the words her mentor once uttered to her: We are no gods, Tarja. We do not save people.

Tarja stood in her infirmary alone. She had just managed to pry Jill away from Clive’s bed, telling her to rest. It wouldn’t do well for the baby if the mother was worn out. Her belly had begun to show. Soon, everyone would know.

The sun was setting, casting a strange orange glow on her chambers. Before Clive left for Origin, he had come to her and promised her that it would be the last time he’d leave on an impossible mission. She knew he had pretty much meant it; except, she and everyone else had also known that he might not come back at all, the buffoon.

Tomes lay scattered over her desk along with mortars and vials and grounded herbs. The medicines she’d administered had managed to stabilize him, which, in another case, would’ve been enough to ease her mind. But in the days that followed where she would only need to wait for the patient to regain consciousness, Clive remained asleep.

“Have you had enough, Clive? Is that it?” she quietly asked. Jill had said that she was ready — that if there was nothing more that Tarja could do, perhaps it was time to call it enough.

Tarja returned to her workstation to gather his afternoon medicines. Sitting beside his bed, she touched his wrist. Warm. His pulse drummed — shallow but steady. Countless times had her eyes wandered to the glimmering substance of Elysia sitting on the shelf above her desk. While she had the authority to announce when a case was lost, how could she do it when the man was still breathing, his body receptive to food and drugs? Was that not sign enough that Clive was still holding on?

Setting the vials, spoons, and bowls on the bedside table, Tarja slowly trickled a dose of each medicine down his mouth then washed them away with spoonfuls of water. Sometimes, the only thing she could do was alleviate someone’s pain, and perhaps that was all she was doing now. But if there were still gods who could answer her prayers, she would wish that they’d be merciful. That they’d let this man — this poor man who’d done so much, who’d lost and regained and sacrificed everything in order for them to live — live, and, perhaps, see the birth of his own child.

That, she prayed with her heart.

~ END ~

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