#like okay do not get me wrong. curly is to blame. he made terrible mistakes he did horrible things his inaction is inexcusable

[storywestistrash]

watched mouthwashing finally. the fact that i saw people be more aggressive towards curly than jimmy is kinda strange. kinda real weird

[violaswimmer]

Apologies - A Witcher Fanfic

Jaskier, having been told to never appear in front of Geralt of Rivia again, tries to distract himself from losing a decade long friendship. But as Jaskier vows to avoid Geralt as he requested, destiny has other plans.

"You can't keep doing this, Jaskier." Calpurnia said for the third time that week. Or was it the fourth? It was hard to keep track after so many ales. 

Jaskier nursed his fifth ale as he stared past Calpurnia's left ear. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't look into her eyes, she had far too many of them. Her green eyes danced away from his vision as her duplicates swirled around her. Her curly brown hair blended in with her pale complexion which was covered in freckles. Her white shirt left little to the imagination, not that Jaskier complained, she liked to look that way and he liked to look.

"I can do whatever I please, Callie." Jaskier stated and he hoped it sounded more convincing but was surely slurred. The look on Calpurnia's face suggested the latter. Especially realizing that he had said that to her chest. Calpurnia snorted at him as she tried to hide a laugh behind her hand. 

Jaskier went to roll his eyes but it caused the world to spin too much and he promptly laid his head on to his arm to make it stop. Normally Jaskier could hold his liquor better than men twice his size, despite his small stature. Years of drinking can give you that kind of ability (whether impressive or sad, that's up to you) but drinking pretty much nothing but ale for a week was causing some ill desired consequences. He groaned into his arm, the ale left the most terrible sour taste in his mouth. 

Calpurnia, bless her, placed a comforting hand on his back, rubbing it up and down. It made the world a bit more solid and a bit more gentle. 

"Come now, my dear and very drunk bard. Let me help you to your room." She said gently, already placing her arms around him to help him stand. 

Jaskier did his best to stand but noticed he wasn't doing a great job as Calpurnia kept a very steady grip around his shoulders. She had always been the strong one between the two of them so it wasn’t really a problem. The world could be very cruel to women, but Calpurnia refused to let it be cruel to her, her strength went far beyond the physical and Jaskier knew that well. 

The two of them made their way through the bar to a small set of stairs. The tavern was noticeably less full now, as it was quite early in the morning. The stairs were considerably more difficult as Jaskier’s spinning head did no favors to navigate them. Calpurnia made up for the lack of mobile ability but accidentally jammed one of Jaskier’s toes which he couldn’t feel anyway.

“Oops.” Calpurnia hissed, “Up you go.” She continued, guiding Jaskier up the final step as they entered the small, cramped hallway of the inn. 

Calpurnia fished through Jaskier’s jack pocket as he did his best not to fall over, retrieving the key to his room and unlocking it. She hefted his weight across the small chamber, the back of his knees hitting that bed as his body suddenly became horizontal which caused his stomach to protest quite violently. He had not laid down for more than a couple of seconds before he surged into a sitting position. Calpurnia shiftly produced the chamber pot which he promptly vomited into. Well there goes his dinner. 

After Jaskier’s stomach finally stopped it’s dry heaving, he sat back against the headboard with a moan. Calpurnia placed some pillows behind him and brushed some hair from his forehead, her touch was soothing and he leaned into it.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. She continued to gently pet his hair. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, we all have our moments.” She assured.

“Not a weeks worth, not a months worth. I’m a mess.” Jaskier sighed, opening his eyes to look at her. 

She still spun, but her green eyes were in focus. He loved her eyes, like grass in the height of summer with little flecks of gold in the center. He loved her little freckles too, like little stars across her skin. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman Jaskier had met. She had too many muscles, too many scars, her hair was never brushed, her lips a bit too small and her nose a bit too big. But she was beautiful, sincere, kind and strong in ways that Jaskier rarely saw in others. 

“You’ve been hurt, you’re in pain, it’s a normal reaction considering the circumstances.” She reasoned.

“Right, having a man tell me to fuck off is enough reason for this behavior. I’m acting like a spoiled child…” He complained, pushing himself into a better sitting position. Calpurnia’s hand hovered a moment before dropping back into her lap. She eyebrows furrowed together.

“It wasn’t nothing Jaskier! You and Geralt have been friends for over a decade, you two were very close…” She reasoned.

“He didn’t think that, apparently.” Jaskier grumbled.

“You were! You always said that Geralt wasn’t good with his words. It would stand to reason that he would be bad at navigating relationships too.” Calpurnia continued, her hand reached out and grabbed Jaskier’s hand and held it lightly. 

“I don’t think he meant what he said. But either way what he said to you was wrong. You didn’t just cause him grief Jaskier, you aren’t to blame for the things that cause him plight.” She reasoned. 

Jaskier looked at their hands. Calpurnia was good at this bit, comforting people, reasoning with them when they were being unreasonable. She hadn’t always been, and he had done his fair share of comforting her in the past. Part of him wanted to give into the fantasy that Geralt would come to him one day and say he was sorry, that it was all a mistake. But she didn’t know the White Wolf, or the way he had looked at Jaskier that day. 

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!

Even though it had been so long, a month almost, the words still stung every bit as when they were first said. Jaskier really had thought all this time that Geralt viewed him as a friend, but perhaps he only saw him as a nuisance. Perhaps Jaskier was the one who was mistaken. 

Jaskier smiled sadly as his vision got a bit too hazy, don’t cry! Calpurnia squeezed his hand.

“I wish that were true, Callie. I really do. But I think maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I thought we were friends, or companions or whatever you want to call it. I thought we were and apparently we weren’t.” He confessed softly, his voice a little shaky. 

“Oh Dandelion, I’m sorry.” Calpurnia whispered.

There was a pause as Jaskier registered what she said. He snorted, wiping his nose and looked at Calpurnia’s face who grinned. 

“Here I am, vulnerable, broken, depressed and you pull out that horrendous nickname! Ugh can we stop? It was one time!” Jaskier begged.

“One time is enough, my flower. I can’t believe you thought that eating a whole bucket would make your skin better.” She said with a laugh.

“Hey! There are benefits to dandelions in skin care! I was a teenager and desperate!” Jaskier protested.

“Yes when you put them in an oil. But when you eat them they are a laxative.” Calpurnia clarified, “You were chained to the privy for days it was all the temple talked about for weeks!” She giggled.

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, or say a joke about how he probably lost five pounds due to the incident but Calpurnia continued to giggle and he ended up just watching her with a smile. When she gained control of herself she smiled at him too.

“It’s okay, whether or not it was a funny incident, I think dandelions suit you. They’re a bright yellow like the sun, and when their time is done their seeds are spread through the wind. Much like your stories, they live on and never truly die.” Calpurnia said, giving his hand a squeeze. 

And that of course caused his tears to return. 

“Seeds? I thought instead of stories you were going to talk about all my illegitimate children.” Jaskier laughed, though it was undermined by the tears going down his face.

Calpurnia snorted and smiled sadly as she wiped one of them away. 

“Alright, enough of that. Time to sleep, I’ll send up some water for you.” She said, pushing him onto the bed and promptly taking off his booths to tuck him in. She placed a kiss on his forehead, it reminded him of what a mother would do. His never did, but this was better.

“I love you, you know. I don’t know how you put up with me.” Jaskier said as she still leaned over him. She kneeled next to him for a moment to look him in the eyes and smiled. 

“I don’t put up with you, Jaskier. I love you, and I always will. Now, sleep, my flower.” She whispered. She brought the blanket up to his chin, blew out the candle on the nightstand and left the room. 

Jaskier closed his eyes, and for once his mind was not filled with Geralt’s voice but rather Calpurnia’s laughter. Even if he couldn’t see Geralt of Rivia again, at least he had Calpurnia and that was enough for him.

________________________________________________________________

When Geralt entered the tavern, it was approaching noon. He and Ciri were in desperate need of supplies, the journey to Kaer Morhen was long and the two of them needed to stock up before the rest of the journey there. Geralt came into the tavern with Ciri in tow, it was a dank place of wood and stone. A few patrons here and there, some of them stared, some of them didn’t. 

Geralt sat the two of them at a table, finishing out some coin. It had been awhile since he took a job, the coin would be enough for supplies but he wasn’t sure if he had enough to get a room for the night. He looked at Ciri with her new brown cloak, replacing the tattered blue one she had been traveling in before. She looked cold and exhausted, like she could really use a bed before they only camped for weeks. Geralt considered the options as two plates of food were placed in front of himself and Ciri. 

A woman with curly brown hair, light green eyes and freckled pale skin stood before them with a smile. She wore no armor, or so it appeared. But her corset was reinforced with hardened, studded leather, her pants had similar qualities. She carried two daggers and a long sword at her side. Notably, one of the daggers she carried was made of silver. Interesting, Geralt thought.

“We didn’t order this.” Geralt said. 

“I know.” The woman replied, pushing the plates to the two of them. Geralt halted Ciri’s eager hand as she went for the spoon.

“Ah, suspicious I see. Here, allow me then.” The woman said, reaching for the spoon in Ciri’s bowl, taking a taste of the beef stew in it. She swallowed, and seemed to be fine. She did the same with Geralt’s. She then gestured to the two of them, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. Ciri looked at Geralt and once he nodded, dug into her food. 

Geralt on the other hand, didn’t proceed as eagerly, though he had a bite or two. The woman remained seated, watching them.

“And who am I to thank for a free meal?” Geralt asked.

“Calpurnia.” She answered simply, “Though it is hardly free.” Calpurnia clarified. Geralt smiled ruefully.

“It rarely is.” He replied. 

Calpurnia smiled as well, on closer inspection of her, Geralt noticed that she had an air of confidence. It wasn’t undeserved, even her long sleeves couldn’t hide the fact that she was well built. Her outfit and weapons were subtle enough that people would overlook her; yet they looked well used which suggested that she was not an opponent you would want in a fight.

“I’m here to ask for your help. You are Geralt of Rivia, yes?” She said.

“I’m not currently taking jobs.” Geralt clarified. She continued like he hadn’t spoken.

“It’s about a bard you were once traveling with…” She continued.

“I am not traveling with Jaskier anymore.” Geralt said. 

“For a witcher you’re quite chatty. Do you intend to continue to interrupt me? Or am I allowed to speak?” Calpurnia said sharply, like a mother scolding her son. There was a pause. Even Ciri stopped eating for a moment. Geralt pressed his lips into a hard line before grinding out.

“Please. Continue.” He growled. 

“Thank you.” She said with a smile before continuing, “Like I said, I’m here to speak to you about Jaskier. I’m a friend of his, and he’s in a bad way at the moment.” She said.

Geralt looked at her sharply.

“Is he hurt?” He asked, his voice not as calm as he would have hoped. Calpurnia shook her head.

“No, he’s fine. Well not exactly fine, he’s probably very hung-over.” Calpurnia said.

Geralt relaxed, and Calpurnia seemed to study his reaction. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to look nonchalant. 

“Well then he seems fine.” Geralt said, looking at the table instead of the woman across from him.

“Fine is a relative term. He’s been drinking himself to death since a certain someone said some choice words to him a month ago.” Calpurnia said sharply. 

Geralt’s eye twitched at her tone, it was angry with a hint of venom. This Calpurnia seemed to care for Jaskier very much, enough to confront a witcher she doesn’t know. 

“And what is it exactly that you want me to do about it? I’m a bit busy at the moment.” Geralt said, gesturing to Ciri next to him who was now cleaning her plate with a hard piece of bread.

Calpurnia bristled and leaned across the table, her green eyes grabbing his attention as they were lit on fire. 

“Listen here, Geralt of Rivia, you clearly care about Jaskier. That much was obvious when you thought he was injured and everytime I say his name you get a pained expression on your face. Now you aren’t the first witcher I’ve met, and you won’t be the last. I know perfectly well that witchers aren't stone cold monsters that people think they are. You feel just as much as everyone else, what you lack is a way to control it. So you hide behind a stone face and a cold exterior until all those feelings build up and explode at the first person you see when you’re hurt. This time it was Jaskier.” Calpurnia spat, her voice was low.

Ciri’s eyes were large orbs as she watched this woman, considerably smaller than Geralt give him a talking to. Geralt bit the inside of his mouth as he felt his own anger rise. But none of what she said was wrong, so he remained silent. 

“Now,” Calpurnia said, leaning back from the table, “What I want you to do is sit here and wait for poor hung over Jaskier to make his appearance.” She said, taking a swig of her ale. 

“He’s here?” Geralt asked quietly. 

“Yes, sleeping it off upstairs. Stay here, I’ll pay for as much food and drink as you and your companion would like. Just stay here, and talk to him when he comes down.” Calpurnia commanded.

“What… what if he doesn’t want to talk to me?” Geralt muttered. 

Calpurnia looked at him for a moment and smiled sadly. 

“Oh Geralt, Jaskier isn’t the type to be angry at you.” She said softly, “When a relationship falls apart, Jaskier always assumes he’s the one at fault. Even if he isn’t. Just wait for him, please.” She begged softly. 

Geralt looked at her and nodded. She smiled and stood going to the bar and placing down some coin. He heard her say that she’ll pay for whatever the two of them wanted before she left the establishment. Geralt watched her go, feeling strange, nervous and shocked at the conversation he had just had with a complete stranger. He was only pulled back into reality when Ciri tapped his arm. 

“Are you going to eat that?” She asked sincerely as she pointed to his food. 

He thought it over for a moment. 

“No.” He said, pushing the now lukewarm plate over to her. She ate it eagerly, though Geralt didn’t notice her, keeping a close eye on his pensive face, wondering who this Jaskier was.

________________________________________________________________

It was nearly an hour later when Jaskier finally made his appearance. When Calpurnia said he was in a bad way, she had not been exaggerating. His brown hair, which he normally kept clean and styled was a mess, sticking to his forehead in places and standing straight up in others. He was normally pale but seemed almost translucent in the early afternoon light which emphasized his unshaved face. He had dark circles under his eyes as they squinted in the general direction of the bar. His clothes were rumpled, and to Geralt’s surprise he was still wearing the red outfit he had seen him in last. Jaskier had more clothing changes than Geralt had horses, which was saying something. So to see him in the same outfit a month later was as concerning as the rest of his appearance. 

Jaskier walked to the bar, taking no notice of Geralt, sitting down as he requested a drink and some food. He laid his head against his arms as he waited. Geralt swallowed, turning to Ciri who held a cup of water between her hands.

“I’ll be right back.” He said. Ciri nodded and watched him go to Jaskier at the bar.

He stepped up behind him, Jaskier was quiet and unmoving. Geralt cleared his throat. Jaskier sighed, raising his head.

“Look, I’m hungover, I’ll sing for you in the ev-” Jaskier’s voice cut off in the middle of his sentence as he focused on Geralt’s face. There was a moment of complete silence between the two of them as they just stared at each other.

“Geralt.” Jaskier whispered. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt said, unsure of how to continue this conversation.

“I-I’m sorry, I should go and leave you to whatever business you have here.” Jaskier said quickly, standing quite abruptly.

“What?” Geralt said, “Wait, Jaskier.” Geralt begged as Jaskier continued towards the stairs, although he paused a moment.

“You made it quite clear that I was never to show myself to you again.” Jaskier clarified, continuing up a step, “I’ll just gather my things and leave you to- Shit!” He cried as he stubbed the same toe on the same step as last night. He really felt it this time. He placed a hand on the railing as he bent over his foot in a bit too much pain to move. 

Geralt hastily crossed the room so he was at the bottom of the stairs. 

“I- are you alright?” He asked.

“Yeah I’m fine, just give me a moment.” Jaskier sighed. There was a pause as Jaskier straightened but before he could continue up the steps Geralt spoke.

“I came to talk to you.” Geralt admitted, “I came to apologize.” He said softly. 

For several seconds there was silence, just Geralt staring at Jaskier’s back as he said nothing. Suddenly he turned around, looking at Geralt with a strange expression on his face. 

“Really?” Jaskier asked. 

“Really.” Geralt said, scratching his neck, “Would you like to join us? We can talk over there.” Geralt said, pointing to the table were Ciri sat. She waved. 

“Us?” Jaskier asked, looking at Ciri and whispered, “Is that the child of surprise?!” He hissed. 

“Yes!” Geralt hissed back, “Just, will you come please?” Geralt asked. 

“I- Um, yes. Please, lets.” Jaskier said, trying to regain his composure. The two of them went to the table and sat, Jaskier smiling at Ciri as he took the place that Calpurnia had sat not long ago. 

“Hello.” Jaskier greeted. 

“Hello, I’m um, Fiona.” Ciri said with a small smile of her own. 

Jaskier raised a brow at Geralt who gave a shrug as if to say, just go with it.

“Hello, Fiona. I’m Jaskier, it’s good to meet you.” He said sincerely, glad that she was with Geralt and not dead in Cintra as he had feared when he had heard of the fall. 

“Same to you.” She answered, taking a drink from her water glass. 

There was a pause until Geralt cleared his throat. 

“So um- I wanted to say that I was sorry for the things I said to you on the mountain. I didn’t mean it, I was frustrated and upset that Yennefer left and you were the first person I saw. So I just, let all my frustration out on you.” Geralt said, “But either way, it wasn’t right. I should have found you sooner to properly apologize, but I had to see to Fiona’s safety.” He clarified. Jaskier nodded.

“I understand, I mean it wasn’t like what you said wasn’t entirely valid. I had dragged you to that banquet and interrupted your djinn quest…” Jaskier said with a sigh.

“It doesn’t make what I said right. You didn’t cause what happened after, to happen. That was all my own decision, I was the one who invoked the Law of Surprise. It was I who made the wish, you did none of those things. It was wrong of me to blame you for it. I’m sorry.” Geralt said sincerely if sounding a bit unsure. It had been a long time since Geralt of Rivia apologized for anything.

Jaskier was silent for a moment before he smiled.

“I accept your apology.” He said. Geralt’s shoulders visibly sagged as the tension rushed out of him, he too smiled at his old friend. 

“How did you end up finding me anyway?” Jaskier asked, as the food he was ordered was placed in front of him as well as his drink. He thanked the barmaid as she left.

“I didn’t, we stopped for supplies and came into the inn for a meal when your friend Calpurnia approached us.” Geralt said, raising his hand at the barmaid and pointing to Jaskier’s plate. She nodded and returned to the kitchen to fetch Geralt some food as well.

“Calpurnia was here?” Jaskier asked between bites, “I thought she had already left for the day…” He wondered. 

“Yes, she said she’d pay for our food and drink if I agreed to wait for you and talk to you. I thought you’d be angry with me as well, so I hesitated to speak with you. Calpurnia convinced me otherwise. She left not an hour before you came down.” Geralt said, taking a swig from his drink.

Jaskier laughed.

“That does sound like her, I hope she didn’t leave town today. I should thank her before she leaves again.” He mused, continuing to eat. 

Geralt watched him a moment before he spoke, curiosity getting the better of him.

“You know her well, right? She mentioned I wasn’t the first witcher she’s met, she also carried a silver dagger.” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier smirked at him between bites.

“I thought Yennefer was your one true love?” Jaskier teased. Geralt glared at him, “Alright! I’m just kidding.” He laughed as he took another bite before continuing. 

“Calpurnia and I went to temple school together, she and I became fast friends. We parted when we graduated, I went on to University and she traveled for awhile. As I understand it, she met a witcher in her travels. The two of them were quite close and he gave her the dagger. Eventually they had to go their separate ways, but he promised to meet her again after a job in Temeria. He never returned.” Jaskier said sadly, “I was there with her, we met up in a tavern like this one. She waited and waited, for weeks. He never showed up. She was heartbroken. I think his name was Remus.” Jaskier finished. 

Remus, Temeria, Geralt thought before he remembered. The witcher who took the coin for the striga, Princess Adda and never came back. The one that Triss spread the rumor that he had ran off with the coin. Geralt closed his eyes briefly, feeling for Calpurnia in a way he wouldn’t have understood unless he was experiencing it himself. Yennefer was still missing, and it tore him to pieces. He couldn’t imagine going years without knowing what had happened to someone you cared about. When he opened them again Jaskier continued. 

“After that we traveled together, I tried to keep her mind off of it. We separated when I found you again. Honestly when I don’t travel with you, I’m traveling with her. She’s good company.” Jaskier said with a smile. 

As if destiny was playing a funny game, the door opened and Calpurnia stepped in. The tavern had a few more patrons present so it took a moment before she spotted the two of them, Jaskier waving her over. She grinned upon seeing them at the same table and made her way over quickly to meet them. 

“I hope everything is well?” Calpurnia said, eyeing Geralt. 

“Why yes it is!” Jaskier exclaimed, “I hear you have something to do with that?” He asked. 

“Nonsense, I just simply pointed Geralt in the right direction.” Calpurnia said with a smile. 

Geralt snorted, taking a swig of his drink. 

“I’ll need to repay you for the food.” Geralt said.

“No need, it’s a gift from a friend.” Calpurnia said. Geralt paused at the sentiment, but saw a genuine look in Calpurnia’s eyes. Jaskier watched the two of them as Geralt rummaged through his sack. 

“Then maybe this will do.” He said, producing the wolf medallion of Remus. He was going to return it to Kaer Morhen but perhaps it was meant to go to someone else. 

Calpurnia stared at the medallion, taking a rather rough seat on a stool by the table. Jaskier watched as a single tear came down her face.

“Callie?” He asked with concern.

She didn’t answer but reached out for the medallion as Geralt placed it into her open palms. 

“Where did you get this?” She whispered turning it over in her hands. Each medallion was nearly identical except for the back, which had carved into it the chosen name of the witcher. Calpurnia traced Remus’s name with her finger. 

“Temeria. I’m sorry to say that he died trying to save some workers from a striga. Though he didn’t know it was a striga at the time.” He paused, “Jaskier told me about Remus when I asked why you carried a silver dagger. When he mentioned it, I remembered that I still had the medallion. It’s yours. I’m sure he would want you to have it.” Geralt said softly. 

She pressed it between her palms, and held it over her heart. 

“Thank you. I never thought I would see it again. I never thought I would hear what had happened to him. So, thank you.” She said, green eyes glassy. She scrubbed her eyes and face with the back of her sleeve and smiled sincerely. She took the medallion and wore it, placing it underneath her shirt just over her heart. 

Geralt smiled at her as well, and Jaskier watched with a smile. There was a moment of silence before it was Ciri who spoke.

“I’m sorry Miss Calpurnia, but if you feel up to it… I’d love to hear how you and Remus met. Geralt never tells me about his work as a witcher.” She said. 

Jaskier looked like he was about to say something when Calpurnia interrupted. 

“I would love to tell you, Miss?” Calpurnia asked.

“Fiona.” Ciri answered

“Fiona, Remus and I met in a small village. He was a dark haired, handsome witcher with a gruff personality and a smoking pipe. And I was young and completely smittened. Earlier that week, a terrible monster had attacked the village. It liked to hunt things and seemed to be hunting a specific person. That person was me. You see I had been in the woods…” Calpurnia began, her tale spun of just enough imagination to make it exciting but enough truth to be believed, a skill she no doubt picked up from Jaskier. 

Food was brought for Geralt, and drinks were had. Jaskier watched Calpurnia as she told the tale to young Ciri, a tale he had never heard before. When Remus had disappeared so had his story, Calpurnia refused to speak of him, his disappearance too painful. But with the mystery solved, it seemed like Calpurnia couldn’t tell his story fast enough. Jaskier’s eyes were drawn to Geralt as he watched Ciri, who was enthralled by the story. He had a soft smile on his face, which he gave to Jaskier when he noticed him staring at him. Jaskier smiled back. 

He could make a ballad out of this. 

    - FIN -

[lightsaberss]

The Meaning of Death

So I had an idea for an AU where Riza goes missing after the Promised Day and is presumed dead, and then two years later she turns up with no memories. I started writing it, and this is what I ended up with. I might continue this as there’s so much more I’d like to do with this idea, but for now, here’s a one shot.

The rain was cold and relentless, and she was running.

Her mind was blank, and she was running as if she knew the streets. Running as fast as she could, running so fast that her chest hurt and her legs ached. She didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not until there was silence behind her, and she could still hear footsteps and shouts, so she had to keep going. Had to keep running. She'd run until she bled, until the floor was smeared with vomit, if she had to. She wasn't going back. She'd die first.

No. She wouldn't. Something nagged her, she wasn't allowed to die. She'd clung to that thought through beatings, bright lights, injections, through pain and distress. She didn't know what it meant anymore, but she knew it was something she wasn't allowed to do. So she kept running.

***

Captain Jean Havoc could think of a million things he'd rather be doing than going to pick up Brigadier General Roy 'I've fallen into a whiskey bottle and I can't get out. Again' Mustang, but somebody had to. Breda had drawn the short straw last time, and Fuery was on a date with a nerdy chick from accounts, so while he had better things to do, it was him or no one. Well, maybe Becca, but that normally lead to bitter screaming matches in the middle of the street, and Havoc wanted that even less.

He couldn't blame the man, not really. They'd gotten their bodies back in working order, they'd saved the country, and Ishval was being rebuilt back to it's former glory, but the cost had been high, and they all felt it like a bitter ache in their chests. The General though, he'd been a broken man ever since they'd been given the news. Sure, he worked hard, but Havoc couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the man crack a smile when he wasn't Acting The Part, or whatever it was she'd called it.

The she in question; Riza Hawkeye, had died two years ago, and nothing had been the same since.

Havoc was lost in thoughts, about Riza, the General, Rebecca, and their grief, when a terrified and bloodied woman run into traffic, causing him to slam on the breaks. Hard.

She stared at him. He stared back.

Long blonde hair was plastered to her face, and her clothes (they looked like surgical scrubs, Havoc thought) were soaked through to the point where they were clinging to her body. There were bruises on her face and arms, and she was splattered in blood, but there was no mistaking those impossibly wide brown eyes.

Riza Hawkeye. The woman who had died on the Promised Day, was alive, and staring at him.

"What the fuck?" He muttered, before opening the car door, and stepping out into the cold rain. How long had she been out in this? She must be freezing.

"Riza?!" He asked.

"Who?" She asked. "Please, I need help. There's… I can't explain, but please?"

There were so many things wrong with this scenario, and if it got him killed then he hoped Rebecca wouldn't hold it against him. He couldn't leave her here though, not when every sense was screaming at him that this was his friend - his sister in arms. Even if it was something else, they'd need to get to the bottom of it.

"Get in." Havoc said, and got back in behind the wheel as she jumped into the passenger seat.

"Drive." She ordered, and okay, the evidence that this was Riza just kept adding up. She used the same tone when giving orders, that's for sure. Still, he did what she asked, and he drove.

***

The tall man was silent, and for some reason it bothered her. Like he should be chatting, or at least asking her questions. It wasn't normal for women to run out into traffic like that, was it? But something kept him silent, kept his thoughts from becoming questions that she didn't even want to answer, and it was annoying. Still, she was grateful that he was driving her away, and he'd even put the heating on when she'd started to shiver.

"Thank you." She said, eventually. After the silence became too much, and looked far too relieved that she'd started to speak. This was his car, he could've started the damn conversation if he wanted to.

"No problem." He said. "So. What happened?"

Blood. Screaming. Fire. She didn't know what she'd done, not well enough to explain it to a stranger that didn't sound crazy.

"I escaped." She said, as if that was an explanation, which she knew it wasn't.

"Well. No offence, but I can see that." He said. "Fuck, Hawkeye, we thought you were dead, and then you just run out into traffic like that. What the fuck is going on?"

Hawkeye? And what had he called her before, was it Riza? It felt alien, but she mouthed the names to try to get a taste for them, to see if saying them felt familiar, but it didn't. It felt hollow and strange, like the name of a person she'd never met before.

"I don't know…" She said. She didn't know him, she didn't know who this Riza Hawkeye person was. All she knew was the bright lights, and the pain that had been her constant companion for what felt like her life. "I don't know anything."

"Right. Okay. Right." He said. "We're going to get this sorted."

"We?" She asked. "And why? And who is this Riza person? And who are you?"

"That's a lot of questions," He said. "Right. Fine, it's fair, this whole situation is fucking weird anyway-"

Well. She couldn't argue with that.

"Okay, I'm Jean Havoc. Riza Hawkeye - who looked exactly like you - was my colleague." He - Jean - said.

"Colleague?"

"Yeah." He said. "We were in the military - well, I still am - but she died a couple of years ago. Which is why you looking like her is pretty fucking weird -"

"I'm not dead." She said, quietly.

She wasn't dead. She'd clung to life, sometimes with the tips of her fingernails digging into it, holding onto it out of desperation, and she couldn't remember why she'd been so desperate to keep living, other than she didn't want to die.

"I'm not allowed to die." She said, her voice still quiet.

Jean slammed on the breaks, and stared at her in surprise. "What did you say?"

"I - why did you stop?"

"What did you just say?" He repeated.

"I'm not allowed to die." She said, her voice stronger this time and she stared at him defiantly, as if he was one of the people from the lab. One of the people that wouldn't break her - but had they broken her? Had she just forgotten?

"This is so fucked." Was all he had to say, and he started driving again.

He didn't answer anymore of her questions.

***

Rebecca Catalina was actually used to being dragged out of bed in the early hours of the morning by Jean Havoc, but those phone calls were normally a lot more What Are You Wearing? And a lot less Come To This Safe House And Bring Extra Clothes And A First Aid Kit And Don't Tell Mustang But Oh Shit Someone Needs To Pick Him Up. If this turned out to be some sort of weird sex thing, she was so going to punch him.

Grabbing the duffle bag from the back seat, she made her way to the front door and knocked. The rain still hadn't let up, and she pouted as her curly hair started to get wet. She was holding the bag over her head when Jean opened it, and whatever snarky comment was about to come out of her mouth without thinking died right there on her tongue.

"What is it?" She asked, softly. He never looked this worried, that was normally more Breda's thing. At least it had been since… but she didn't want to think about it. "Is it the General, has he done something stupid?"

"It's not Mustang." He pulled her into one of the rooms off the hallway and closed the door. Okay. Weird.

"So what is it? Did Breda get the idiot home safe?" Rebecca asked.

"Yeah." He said. "Look. This is going to sound crazy, and believe me, I know, but I was driving to pick him up from Madame Christmas's and this woman ran out in front of me and I swear it's Riza."

Rebecca felt like her mind had stopped. The duffle bag fell from her hand onto the floor with a thud and she stared at it. Was that why he needed the clothes? The first aid kit? Was that why they were here? Was Riza here?

"That's… where is she?" Rebecca asked. "I want to see her, Jean."

"Upstairs. She wanted a shower, and she was pretty bloodied up. She didn't tell me what happened but…" Jean shrugged. "Look, Becca, she doesn't remember anything. Not her name, not me, and I mentioned you and… nothing."

The amount of terrible things that could've happened to cause that would've been overwhelming if Rebecca let herself think of them, but she blocked them out and blinked back the tears that were stinging her eyes. She couldn't fall apart. She wouldn't fall apart. If it was her, Riza would keep it together.

"Is that why you called me instead of him?" She accused.

"No. Well. Partly." Jean admitted. "I just think right now she needs someone to patch her up and… be a friend. The General drunk off his ass isn't who we need right now."

Rebecca nodded in agreement, a drunk Mustang was the last thing any of them needed. She picked up the duffle bag and walked up the stairs and knocked on the bathroom door.

"You decent?"

"Um, sure."

It was Riza, sitting on the edge of the tub and wrapped in a towel. A little skinnier, a little more bruised, and some of those scars hadn't been there before, but it was Riza. Rebecca had to physically restrain herself from launching herself at her best friend. Instead she just tried to smile as warmly as possible, and hoped it wasn't coming across like a crazy maniac smile.

"Do you remember me?" Rebecca closed the door behind her with a click and got out the first aid kit.

"No. Sorry. I don't remember Jean either." Okay, Riza calling him anything other than Havoc, that was going to take some getting used to.

"I'm Rebecca, we went to the Academy together." She explained. As if that scratched the surface of their friendship together, the late nights complaining about men, the shopping trips, the bottles of wine and Xingese food they'd consumed by the bucket. "We were friends."

"Oh." Riza said.

"Hey, don't feel bad about it." Rebecca said, and she took Riza's hands in hers. Her fingers her calloused and her knuckles were bruised. Had she fought her way out of somewhere? "Do you remember anything?"

Rebecca rubbed antiseptic lotion over the grazes, and gently inspected her friend's arms, legs and feet for any other cuts. Where she found them, she cleaned them gently, and she listened as Riza started to speak.

"An old house. A man locked behind a door. A boy with black hair. A library. Needles. Sand. Fire. Guns. A dog. A storm. A metal man. And I'm not allowed to die." She listed quietly. Rebecca stared at the floor for a moment, trying to piece it together and also trying not to burst into tears.

"That's something." Rebecca said. "Or at least it's a start. We can help you put it together and get your memories back."

Riza nodded, and pulled the towel around herself tighter. "I was held in a lab." She offered. "I could probably find it again."

Rebecca stared at her, she hadn't even thought about going after the bastards that did this. She'd been thinking about getting her friend back, not sending the fuckers to hell for turning her best friend into a person that looked at her like a stranger. "Good." Rebecca said. "We'll find them, and make them pay for this. But first, let's check your back for injuries."

The fact that Riza had a tattoo on her back wasn't a surprise, Rebecca had seen hints of it over the years, and she'd stopped buying the whole 'scars from Ishval' excuse for avoiding backless dresses about six months after she came back. This, however, was not what Rebecca was expecting. The blood red ink, and burn scars, there was a story here that Riza couldn't tell her, a part of her life permanently etched onto her skin that she had forgotten.

Mustang probably knew about it. She'd seen that symbol on his gloves enough times to know what it meant.

"Do you know what it means?" Riza asked. "The tattoo. I saw it in the mirror but I don't remember. Obviously."

"You never told me about it. It was something private," Rebecca answered honestly. "But Mustang might know."

"Mustang?"

"General Whatever. He was your superior and you guys had a weird history." Rebecca said.

"Right." Riza frowned. "Can I get dressed now?"

"Oh, uh, sure." Rebecca said, and dragged her eyes away from the flame alchemy array on Riza's back. "There are clothes in the duffle bag. Come downstairs when you're ready and we'll have food."

Rebecca left the room feeling more confused than she had when she went in. It looked like Riza, sounded like her, but she never thought she'd live in a world where Riza Hawkeye didn't know who General Mustang was. She'd never been his biggest fan, but that - more than anything else - proved to her how serious this was.

Riza might be back, but without her memories who was she? And where had she been?

[talisnormandy]

Chapter 2 (Yes the chapter lengths do vary, and it’s all subject to change)

Chapter 2?

“Dammit woman, you expect me to sit here doing nothing and be sober doing it?” Welsher scowled, crinkling his already very wrinkled face.

“It’s important for you to be drinking  a lot of water right now, not beer or cider,” Shyla chided the older man. “You wouldn’t be having these problems now if you hadn’t drank so much your whole life.” Her eyelids drooped with fatigue as she tried to maintain her stern expression. “You’re lucky your seizures weren’t worse, it might’ve permanently damaged your brain. Now I think your wife and I would appreciate it if you’d take care of yourself a little better. At least so I don’t have to spend another whole night keeping you from hurting yourself. Alright?” Welsher grumbled something that might have been agreement.

“Good. Get some rest Welsher.” Shyla grabbed her doctor’s bag and left the room. Welsher‘s wife Mari was sat on a stool just outside the door, snoring lightly. A tap on the shoulder woke her, and after a brief moment she looked up at Shyla, worry flitting across her face. “He’ll be okay,” Shyla said wearily. “Just, try to keep him away from the booze in the future.” Mari nodded, reassured. “I’ve told him before that he drinks like giant at a banquet, maybe now he’ll actually slow down a bit. Thank you Shyla.” Shyla pat her on the shoulder, and made her way out of the house.

Shyla winced as the sunlight met her eyes. It was already the middle of the afternoon, and she hadn’t slept a wink. It would seem that her future held a nice, comfy armchair next to a warm, crackling fire. And with any luck, none of the villagers would need any boils lanced or flu’s tended to for a while.

It really was a beautiful day today, but Shyla hardly spared it a glance as she crunched her way through the snow to her home. A few villagers paused in the middle of hauling lumber to say hello, and she gave each of them a nod without stopping. Shyla had grown up in Grace’s Shade, and her healing capabilities earned her everyone’s respect, but sometimes she wished they’d be a little more independent when it came to healthcare. She grinned ruefully to herself. No, in truth, she loved helping these people. Even if they did run her ragged at times.

Shyla eventually made her way home, a small cottage near to the edge of the village. She wasted no time throwing open the door, tossing her bag next to the doorway, and getting to work lighting her fireplace. Only until it grew into a nice, cheery blaze did she allow herself to fall back into her chair and shut her eyes. Shyla yawned. This was dangerous, she might sleep through her supper. She found that she didn’t care as she slowly drifted off...

Shyla was awakened by an abrupt knock on the door. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she peered over at her window to see twilight creeping in. Only a few hours sleep before someone else came knocking with a problem. Figures.

“Who is it?”, Shyla said, stifling a yawn.

“Hey Shy, you busy?”, replied a familiar voice. “I need your help with something.”

Shyla nearly tumbled out of her chair. Hotch!? Here, at this hour? “J-just a minute!”, she called out, scrambling to her feet. She looked about in a panic. Oh Wendretheron, her house was a mess, her hair was unkempt, she probably had bags under her eyes: Oh, of all the days he had to randomly drop by... Shyla desperately ran her fingers through her curly hair trying to straighten it somewhat, and smoothed the wrinkles in her frock. She figured that was as good as she was going to look considering the circumstances, and swiftly stepped up to the door. Gathering her composure, Shyla adopted what she hoped was a calm and collected expression, and opened the door.

The moment she saw Hotch, she knew something was amiss. His bearded face, normally decorated with a slight smile, was masked with an emotion Shyla had not seen before: nervousness. He was also breathing a little heavier and leaning on the doorframe, like he had ran the whole way here. He was also holding the burlap sack he used to carry supplies to and from the village. It seemed unusually full, with some sort of vine-covered stick poking out the top.

“Um, hey Hotch. What’s up,” Shyla asked tentatively.

Hotch glanced over his shoulder, then looked past her, into the house. Shyla tried her best to hide the mess behind her.

“Are you alone,” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “I, uh, I mean, I am but uh, don’t you thin-“ Shyla was cut off as Hotch grabbed her hand and pulled her into the house. He shut the door behind him, and moved to pull the curtains over the windows. Shyla, feeling somewhat indignant, exclaimed, “Excuse me, but I don’t remember inviting you inside.” Hotch turned to face her. “Sorry for barging in Shy, but I’ve had a pretty bizarre day and I might have made a mistake that I need your help with.”

“What do you mean ‘bizarre’,” the healer said, eyebrow raised. Hotch strode over to Shyla’s table and began clearing the dishes and tinctures from it, setting them aside. “I’ll show you, but you need to promise me not to freak out.” He unslung the burlap bag from his shoulder, untied the top, and reached inside. Shyla’s heart nearly stopped when she saw what he pulled from it. White and brown hair, a slender frame, and a pair of long pointed ears. “What. The. Fuck,” she breathed.

Hotch gently set the elf down on the table. “She’s got this nasty gash on her head, and she’s been passed out in the snow for who knows how long. I don’t know how to help her.” He looked expectantly at Shyla. She looked back at him, incredulous. “You can’t be serious,” Shyla said. “Why in the name of Wendretheron’s holy ass did you bring a feral elf into my house?”

Hotch crossed his arms. “I know, I know, it’s dangerous. I wouldn’t have messed with it, but that’s where the bizarre part comes in. So, there I was, hunting for glimmerdeer in my treestand...” As Hotch recounted his encounter, Shyla’s eyes grew narrower and narrower. “So, an oversized squirrel dragged a half dead elf out of the bushes, and,” she gestured toward the the viney stick, “...a talking spear told you to bring her to me for treatment.” Hotch nodded. “Yes, that about sums it up.”

Shyla looked more intently at his pupils. They didn’t seem dilated, but... “You’ve been overdoing the puffshroom again, haven’t you? What did I tell you about smoking too much puff?”

Hotch held his hands up defensively. “Hey now, I’ve been been smoking in moderation, just like you told me,” he protested. “I swear, this was no bad trip. It was one hundred percent real.”

Now it was Shyla’s turn to cross her arms. “Okay, then why doesn’t the mystical talking spear say something right now?” Glancing at the weapon, it was admittedly very pretty, but other than that, it seemed mundane in every way.

Hotch was also looking at the spear, like he was expecting it to strike up a conversation. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s been quiet the entire walk here. Maybe... maybe it’ll say something else if you help the elf first. It seemed pretty insistent that I save her.”

Shyla sighed, still tired from last night’s ordeal. “...Fine. I’ll help. But you need to bind her arms and legs first. The last thing I need is an angry elf waking up and biting my head off. There should be some twine over in the cupboard there. Better boil some bandages too.” Hotch stood up straight and saluted her with a grin, then set to work. Shyla shook her head, exasperated. At least he was feeling better about this.

After her enthusiastic assistant made sure the restraints were nice and secure, Shyla finally began looking over the elf. The gash on her cheek, after cleaning off the encrusted blood, wasn’t terribly deep, but it would probably leave a scar. Shyla frowned, concentrating. Feeling around the elf’s head, she couldn’t find any other wounds, or really any external explanation for the young elf’s lapse in consciousness. If an internal injury was to blame, there wasn’t much she could do through normal means...

Shyla noticed that Hotch had placed freshly boiled bandages on the table next to the elf, and was now standing next to her watching her work. Suddenly becoming very conscious of how close he was standing, Shyla cleared her throat. “Hotch, could you perhaps be willing to keep an eye on the front door, make sure nobody walks in uninvited,” Shyla asked, trying to hide her reddening face. Hotch chuckled. “You mean like how I walked in? Sure thing Shy, just give a shout if you need anything.” He pulled out a smoking pipe from his cloak pocket and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

Shyla exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She was thirty three, three years his senior, and he still managed to make her all nervous. “Damn that boy,” she muttered to herself. Blocking out the nerves, Shyla focused her attention back onto her patient. The elf girl’s chest rose jerkily with each breath, her hands clenched into fists in their bindings. She was in pain, that much was certain, and it was becoming clear that whatever was wrong with her was inside her.

Shyla had no choice, she had to use the Curse. Placing a hand on the elf’s forehead, and another over her heart, the healer began murmuring to herself, murmuring words she didn’t quite understand. They simply came to her, and as these words left her lips, her hands suddenly began pulsing with a multicolored, multifaceted light. The light traveled in waves through the elf’s body, and with that, Shyla began to heal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hotch sat down on the front step of Shyla’s house, pipe in hand. He refrained from smoking anything, remembering what Shyla had said about the puffshroom, and instead twirled it absentmindedly around his fingers. He’d not thought about it before, but Shyla could be a strange one at times. Sure, she was a good friend, and he was thankful for her help with this, but it seemed that every time he’d seek her out, she’d get red in the face like she was annoyed with him. Hotch make any sense of it, but then, there wasn’t a whole lot making sense today.

He rubbed his eyes. He definitely felt a little strange; the last few hours felt... blurred. Maybe the puffshroom had more of an effect on him than he first thought. But he was positive that spear spoke to him; he wasn’t imaginative enough to make that up, high or not.

Shaking his head, Hotch took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool, crisp air. The sun, already hidden behind the tree line, cast a red glow on the snowy grounds of the village. This time of day, most of the lumberers had already returned to their homes, and torchlight was beginning to filter out of most of the buildings he could see. A small gaggle of children ran past, waving sticks at one another and laughing. A few of them glanced curiously at Hotch, but quickly resumed their play fighting when he waved.

He closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall. Shade’s Grace was a peaceful enough place without him bringing trouble right into it’s heart.

The door swung open, knocking into Hotch and nearly pushing him off the step. “Whoa there, forget I was here or something?”, Hotch exclaimed as Shyla stepped outside, clutching the spear. She sat down next to him on the stairs, rubbing her temples. “She’s got a huge goose egg on her head, so I’m pretty sure she’s concussed. I’ve done what I could for her, but honestly, that’s not saying much. No guarantees she’ll wake up.” She laid the spear across her lap. “I’ve gotta say, this thing is rather pretty, but not very talkative,” she remarked.

Hotch sighed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right about that.” He looked over at Shyla. “Hey, uh, thanks for helping out with this Shy. Even though it was probably not the best idea I’ve had. I appreciate it.”

“Yes, well, don’t expect too much more ‘elfcare’ out of me for a while soldierboy.” Hotch groaned. “That was awful, you know that? And didn’t I tell you not to call you soldierboy?”

Shyla side eyed him. “Sorry, it’s just that some of the lumber traders passed through the other day, they said the demorrans were pushing further north. I guess they’ve already taken control of Marsholog.”

“That far?”, Hotch said, surprised. “That’s... a little close to Shade’s Grace, isn’t it?”

She nodded grimly. “Yeah. Too close.” They both fell silent, the atmosphere suddenly tense. Shyla cleared her throat. “Anyway, all the talk of fighting and soldiers just reminded me of you. You act a lot like the soldiers I’ve seen, even if you’ll never admit it.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he grunted.

Shyla shook her head. “Yeah yeah...”

Once again, the two of them quieted down, watching the last of the day’s dying light give way to a starry night sky. A snowy white moth flittered past them, catching the light of the crescent moon as it danced through the air. “It’s getting pretty late,” Shyla said, still watching the little moth. “You should probably be heading back home huh?”

“What, and leave you alone with your less than forgiving patient? No, I was thinking I’d stay for a day or two, keep an eye on her for you. If that’s okay with you, of course.” She turned her head away from him, vigorously clearing her throat. “I umm, I mean, sure, but where might you be sleeping, perchance?”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, confused. “Probably just use a chair, but I planned on keeping watch rather than sleeping. Is that alright?”

Shyla waved him off. “Yeah, yeah that’s fine. Thank you.” She handed the spear over to him, yawning into her hand. “Thanks Hotch, I appreciate it. I’m pretty tired anyway, so I think I’ll hit the sack now. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the pantry.” And with that, she turned practically on her heel and headed back inside.

Hotch shook his head with puzzlement. What a strange woman.