#for some reason I can only write Chath first person

[seadeepywrites]

Arrow

Characters: Basil Noctis Words: 2121 tw: violence, blood, Chath’s fucked-up headspace

I don’t even recognize the sound at first, a sort of sharp thrum. Basil isn’t kneeling in prayer like the rest of us – he never does. He makes a noise, but the impact of his hundred-odd pounds against my back is hardly enough to knock me over. I rise to my feet, twisting to tell him off for disturbing our prayer. It isn’t until he does something he almost never does – falls to the ground – that I know something is very wrong.

“Basil, what—” Then I see the blood.

The arrow is sunk into his chest nearly to the fletching – his front, which means he had time to turn and read the threat. That much time, and he didn’t dodge like I know he can? From the way he collided with my back, I have a guess why. He’d moved fast enough to put himself into the path of an arrow.

Around us, the circle is breaking up into shouts. Some of us pull weapons – others start weaving magic – and all I’m doing is staring at the dark stain spreading over my friend’s white shirt, fabric almost as pale as his skin.

I drop to my knees again, this time for much more secular reasons. I grab Basil’s shoulders. The stupid blue bastard is trying to get up, everything in him pulled irresistibly towards the fight, but for once I can keep a hold on him.

“Don’t move,” I say urgently. “You’re hurt.”

Basil opens his mouth, but his half-formed syllable becomes a gasp as the ground shakes under the force of somebody’s spell. His skinny frame convulses, and he grabs for me with one hand. He tries to talk again, and his thin lips are outlined scarlet with blood. I feel a kick of fear, deep in my stomach. I stand, hands swirling to shape Mage Armor around me. Even as I cast, I am searching for Auwenn. Her shiny high ponytail bobs like a skipped stone on the other side of the clearing as she spins her knives, slashing out at the attacker harrying her.

There are half a dozen people between us, most of them the ambushers in green and brown that have rushed on us from the woods, though there are one or two of my fellow cultists. I don’t hesitate, flinging out my hands and sending power rushing through them. Purple fire roars out, over Basil’s prone form, and consumes everything in its path. As soon as the magic releases, I bend and scoop my friend into my arms. He’s so light, so fragile, and far too still. Basil isn’t himself if he isn’t a blur of motion, a whirlwind of fists and kicks and quarterstaff.

The Burning Hands spell did what I wanted: cleared a path. I duck my head, clutch Basil close to my chest, and sprint. The Mage Armor flares bright around me but it can’t stop everything. Weapons take chunks out of my shoulders and magic stings my sides, but I’m strong and I keep going. I arrive at Auwenn’s side – her attacker turns to look at the enormous dark shape in his peripheral vision – and Auwenn darts in, leaping onto him and dragging her blade across his throat. He drops, and she lands on her feet. Almost as gracefully as Basil can.

I hold out the crumpled pile of light blue in my arms. “Fix him,” I rasp out, straining to raise my voice above the grunts and screams of battle. Basil’s eyes have rolled back in his head, and I don’t know if he’s shaking or my hands are. I set him as gently as I can on the ground at Auwenn’s feet.

 Auwenn glances down at him, and I see the sneer as she wipes down her knives, sharp metal flashing in her hands and in the twist of her lips. “Chath, now is hardly the—“

“Fix him,” I say, tone flattening to a hiss, and light my hands up purple. Trying not to sound desperate: “Or I’ll kill you right here.”

Auwenn’s mouth gapes open. She doesn’t like Basil, which isn’t surprising – not many do, especially after he crippled Saralure a few years back. I don’t care what she thinks. I don’t care about my threat to kill the highest level cleric within fifty miles. All I care about is Basil, and how far too much of his blood covers my hands and the front of my robes.

I go down to one knee, collect his head and shoulders in my hands. My palm is the size of his narrow face, which is turned up towards me as he struggles to breathe. His braid is half undone, silvery strands tumbling free to be smeared into the dirt and blood around him.

“Stay with me,” I growl, glad my already broken voice will hide my oncoming tears.

One of his eyes, half-open and glazed with pain, fixes on me. I can see him try to capture the air for a sarcastic comment. I bend closer.

“Shut up,” I beg him. “Please.”

 It seems like minutes I kneel there, watching the life pump out of him with each slow beat of his heart. Basil’s supposed to outlive me by centuries, not die by an arrow that was clearly meant for me.

Hands, almost as pale as Basil’s, appear above his chest. Fingers, spreading over the bloody hole punched through his ribs. The flesh around the injury begins to shift, glowing an eerie purple-blue. As the arrowhead moves toward the surface, Auwenn yanks it out with callous disregard for its serrated edges. I have to hold Basil down as he chokes on a scream, and I resist the urge to make good on my promise to melt Auwenn’s face off. She barely sees me as she hunches over him, eyes a luminous purple and fixated on the wound. I think she’s also forgotten who she’s treating, alive with the power surging from our goddess and through her. And under her hands, the wound knits shut, beginning to scab over. Her sneer is gone for the moment as she sponges away the excess blood with what’s left of Basil’s shirt, white fabric darkened with dust and now stained with scarlet. Some of the tension eases from Basil’s frame, and his eyelids flutter.

Auwenn rises to her feet. “There. That’s as much as I can spare for now.”

My jaw works for a second before I can say, “Thank you.”

Auwenn looks down and nudges Basil with her foot. “I hope the bitch is grateful when he wakes up.” Without waiting for a reply, she unsheathes her knives again, spinning them in her hands before darting back into the fray.

Basil is looking at me, green eyes glinting under half-shut lids. “Hey,” he breathes.

I lean closer, fighting off a giddy smile. “You dumb motherfucker.”

A single crease appears between his eyebrows. He says hoarsely, “I knew what I was doing.”

“Tell me,” I say, supporting his shoulders as he sits up. He feels so fragile in my hands still, all bony edges. “Did you get a look at who shot you?”

Basil reaches for his braid -- I don’t know what I expected. His hair spills down for a brief moment, still shimmering despite the muck. His movements are jerkier than usual, less fluid, but his expression is sharp as he scans the field, fingers weaving quickly through his hair.

“I don’t see him,” he says. “Brown hair, a little taller than me. Half-elf, maybe? Maybe someone else got him.”

“Stay here,” I say grimly. “I’m going to find out.”

Basil runs his fingers down the length of his braid, then flips it back over his shoulder. He actually doesn’t argue, just nods. His breathing is shallow, but regular.

I nod back, and I fix his description of his attacker in my mind. With my worry for Basil eased, I find instead a violent black rage. It has been simmering since I saw the arrow, and it is beginning to froth and roil. My muscles tense as adrenaline floods me again, but it is a misplaced instinct – that’s not the way I choose to fight. I can hear my pulse in my ears as I begin to channel power. My holy symbol burns on my chest, sending streaks of fiery energy throughout my body. I am boiling, burning. I am Chath. I am Fire.

I am only conscious of snapshots, single moments that pierce through the purple haze hanging in my vision. My fire burns me a path again, twisting and charring anyone who stands in my way. They die screaming, and I laugh, a shrill high-pitched sound.

I don’t remember finding Basil’s attacker or fighting my way toward him. A ranged fighter, a coward, standing with his bow at the edge of the clearing, sending green-feathered arrows humming into the chaos. I am in front of him now, reaching out, smiling a terrible smile. He turns to run, maybe reading his death in my face, but my grip closes on his upper arm. For this spell, I have to get up close and personal.

The next thing I know, the clearing has fallen quiet. There is some scrap of leather clinging to my hand, and I wipe it away on my robes. I am still breathing heavily, and there is something at my feet. Some pile of rotten meat, with bones cracked and gleaming among the decay. I look down at it and my lip curls.

“Well, that’s repulsive,” says a prim voice behind me.

I smile, not even looking over my shoulder. “That,” I say with satisfaction, “is what happens to people who hurt my friends.”

“It makes for a compelling example,” Basil remarks, appearing as a pale blur at the edge of my vision. “What the hell did you do to him?”

I rub my fingers and thumb together, feeling only skin against skin now that my rage and my magic are both spent. “That one is a gift from our Lady,” I say. “Didn’t know I had it in me until I arrived at the monastery, actually.”

Basil is quiet for a moment, the way he often gets around me when I get religious. I used to wonder why someone so agnostic, so obsessed with the physical, lived in a monastery, but by now I’ve watched him enough times in the training yard to understand. We all serve our goddess in different ways.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, turning to him.

He smiles, still looking a bit pale. But doesn’t he always? “I’d do it again,” he says. I know it’s true, because Basil doesn’t tell lies. Not lies like that.

Still, I frown. “I’m pretty big, you know. I could have taken it.”

Basil rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Please. You didn’t even know he was there.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave my hand. “You’re so clever and perceptive. Fucking elves.”

Basil squints. “Wasn’t your dad—“

“Shut up,” I say, scowling, and he smirks. A starburst of warmth fills my chest, very different this time, as I try to swat him and he dodges easily out of the way. Where would I be without the snarky bastard? Dead in this clearing with an arrow in my back, I suspect.

“You have Auwenn to thank for the blood you got to keep inside you,” I tell him reluctantly.

He sighs. “And she’ll be insufferable about it, too.”

“You could try being polite to people other than your direct superiors,” I suggest. “You would probably get further in life. Literally.”

I expect him to make a joke about my own manners, but instead a muscle in his jaw tightens. His tone is still light as he says, “I try not to find myself in the position of needing assistance in the first place.”

“Mm,” I say skeptically. “Might want to stop jumping in front of pointy things, then.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Basil deadpans. “Next time, you’re on your own.”

But he and I both know that’s not true. I resist the urge to hug him, because it would probably get me punched and his punches hurt. Or maybe I’d get electrocuted. I know my friend’s boundaries.

Instead, I say, “Got it. Shall we go see who wasn’t as lucky as us two?”

Basil quirks an eyebrow. “You’re all heart.”

“That’s me,” I agree as we make our way back to the group. We leave the withered corpse behind us, to rot further and eventually become part of the forest around us. Unlike him, it would seem the Starshadow has decided to let us live for a few more days to come.