#throw me across the velodyna!

[matcha-bnuuy]

Every day I am praying for big mommy hrothgar. No cat girl waifs, give me lion woman wives. Make the Queens live up to their name...

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #24 - Beam

“Before pointing out the mote in thy neighbor’s eye, attend the beam in thine own.”

=================

“I’m fine,” Aurelia said, shortly.

Krile was staring at her with worried eyes.

“What?”

“You’re not fine at all.”

“Krile-

“You’ve not fully recovered,” she went on. “Not even close. You should be in the transport with the rest of the injured, not attempting to help haul them back!”

“Someone has to follow behind and watch for imperial patrols. With Shtola out of commission, we’ve little choice.”

Krile glanced at the men and women being loaded on their litters into the wagons, then let her concerned gaze linger upon the Warrior of Light. She still looked remarkably unwell, but while Krile didn’t know Aurelia as well as some of the others she had been around the woman long enough to realize that any attempts to force her to rest would end in failure. 

“All right,” she said finally, “but the minute you start hurting I’m putting you on a transport.”

“That won’t be necessary. It’s not that terribly far to the Wall from here. I can easily walk.”

Despite her assurances, Aurelia was quickly given cause to regret them. The heat was punishing and while her arm was easy enough to deal with (holding a cane in her non-dominant hand took some mental adjustment but otherwise was of little note), the pains from her still-healing chest wound rose quickly from a dull ache to a burning throb.

By the time they reached the far side of the Velodyna her coughing was almost constant. The moment the convoy stopped to rest and water the draught chocobos pulling the wagons, Aurelia all but collapsed onto the riverbank, curled into a ball, audibly gasping. Pain radiated down her arms from her chest as the muscles constricted, and her head spun from the heat and lingering weakness. 

As she wheezed and spat blood she heard the sound of footsteps crunching against the packed gravel and mud.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Krile said flatly, her jaw set with determination. “Up with you. Onto the transport.”

“But-”

“No buts.”

“There’s not space enough to carry me,” Aurelia coughed, “and I’m not in such bad shape I can't walk. I'm not- not going to throw anyone else off-”

“Hells take you, you’re as stubborn as Minfilia ever was."

"So I've been told. Frequently."

"Someone needs to. You'll drop stone dead rather than admit you need help." Krile motioned over a conjurer. “You there!"

"Ma'am?"

"Have one of the carriages make room for Mistress Laskaris. She’s unwell.”

“Damn it, I said I'm-”

“I heard what you said, Aurelia, but since it’s naught save foolishness I’ve elected to ignore it,” the Sharlayan retorted briskly. “Do you need water?”

Shamed by her own weakness, she could only offer a brief nod and accepted the offered waterskin. Its contents were lukewarm and full of grit but any cooler and the constricting effects on her throat would irritate it and make the coughing - and the pain - worse. She sat slumped over her knees on a rock overlooking the water, head hanging limp and sweaty hair listing in the wind in clumped strings like a wilting flower.

At a glance she saw the Lalafell speaking in animated tones with two burly men in Resistance uniforms. She splashed some of the water against her cheeks and sealed the waterskin, coughing into her sleeve- and let out a pained gasp when one of them, a Roegadyn, scooped her into his arms as though she weighed nothing.

“Really, this isn’t necessary,” she rasped. “I can make it a few fulms to get in a bleeding wagon.”

The obstinate expression on the smaller woman’s face was all the answer she needed. She sighed and held out the waterskin, which was plucked from her fingers and passed back to its owner.

“That’s more like it.” Those keen eyes shifted their gaze to the other man, this one a Highlander with his dark hair bound in long braids. “I presume you were able to make room for the Warrior of Light?”

“Aye. Not much, mind, an’ we had to pull a couple o’ beams from the auld benches, like- but they’ll be braced against the frame. Should be more’n enough to hold fast under her weight-- seven hells, miss, she’s bleedin’!”

Dully Aurelia lifted her hand from her shirt. Two small spots of crimson were spreading across the linen.

An irritated sigh drifted from her fellow Scion's lips. “I told you not to be so stubborn-”

“Naught of importance. Just a loose stitch,” she mumbled. “The barbers must have missed it. I’ll see to it on the wagon.”

“No,” the conjurer said firmly, “I will see to it. You will lie down and do nothing else for the duration until we cross the Wall and reach Oriens, and from there you are to go home and take to your bed and rest for the next sennight-"

"A sennight?"

"-or until Lyse or I send for you. That means no physical exertion, Relia. No chores. No quests. No primals.”

The Garlean let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a yowl.

“This is so godsdamned embarrassing-"

“You’ll get over it.” Krile waved at the two Ala Mhigans. “To the transport. I’ll ride with you.”

[thinkofduty]

[prompt #14 - scour ]

"Orella, come here and help me."

"Yes, mother."

Such is it every Heavensturn. At nineteen, Orella has worked her way steadily through the ranks, besting those who think little of her and steadfastly ignoring those who attempt to undermine her efforts. As a woman she has found an unfortunate amount amongst the rank and file who attempt to do so, and gleefully, at that. Not once has it stopped her from pressing ever onward - to their chagrin, she hopes viciously.

But here at home she is no soldier but a weary maid at her mother's beck and call to aid in running the home and sitting for her infant brother, who can at least string together sentences now, even if all he knows to do is demand sweets. It is not the company she would prefer - she longs for the boisterousness of a tavern, for the loud mouths of her brothers-in-arms - but there is naught she can do about it.

Thusly does she chase her mother to and fro around a home no longer familiar to her, which she privately thinks has outgrown its occupants. She hoists aging wicker baskets full of laundry, scrubs the squeaking floorboards with lye and vinegar, dusts endless webs from every dark corner.

It is, Orella decides four days into her week long leave, a life that she is glad to have left behind, for it was never made for her. And it is as glad to be rid of her as she is it, she knows: the wary eyes of boys-turned-men that used to mock her for wanting to join their rough and tumble games satisfies her; the wailing of babes in the arms of girls who refused to braid her hair once upon a time bores her. When she follows her mother with her brother upon her hip and a sack of vegetables upon her back she sweats and tries not to sigh.

At least her father offers some modicum of escape from this life, and bless his aging bones for it. He rescues her from chores with a request to carry his bags to the mountain stream that trickles down the red clay to the Velodyna proper, and though she expects to be sent away, he pats the ground beside her.

"Open the bag," he says, eyes twinkling, and her eyes grow wide at the bottles nestled within the leathern depths. "Take one. Stay and keep an old man company as he fishes."

She's glad to. Together they bait the line and throw it to the water, set the line upon its stand, and settle down to watch the sun trudge its way across the heavens and behind the Peaks' peaks. As Ala Mera is blanketed in evening the air grows chill, but with beer in her belly and a chance to relax, Orella finds she minds the gooseflesh on her arms not at all.

***

Opening the door and stepping into their home is like stepping into a different world altogether.

Together, Orella and her father have filled a crate almost to the brim with fish - enough to dry and salt as well as eat fresh, and plenty enough to sell and trade. Her mother is on them in an instant, berating them gently for daring to stay out past dark, for there are dangers lurking and here's her only daughter without the protection of a nice young man--

She pretends not to notice when Orella gestures at the dagger on her hip, and presses instead the crate into her arms along with a request to clean them. Tedious work, to be sure, but not difficult, at least: she shares a rueful glance with her father as they're parted once again. It's almost as if her mother thinks that by keeping them apart Orella won't run off back to the capital as she had done four years previously.

At least she gets to work in the kitchen by herself. It isn't enjoyable scouring fish scales from their cold, clammy bodies, but moreso than listening to her mother prattle on about what a life she could be leading - the one she doesn't want. She doesn't want a husband, not least one who could not keep up with her own physical prowess; doesn't want a babe crying for food at every turn; doesn't want a house that protests her every step.

As if fuelled by her own irritated thoughts, the knife slips right through the fish and into her finger; as she curses and drops the blade, drops the fish, she hears a small voice.

"'Rella?"

Of course it's Merden, here to play witness to her mediocrity at even the most basic of tasks. Unkindly - and she knows it's unkind, can no more help it than she can her height - she wishes he would toddle right back over to their mother and give her some Twelve-damned peace of mind --

"Present," he says in his small voice, and holds out for her a boiled sweet in his grubby hands. It has dirt on it, and he's presumably dropped it once or twice along the way, but 'tis clear enough the boy's been holding onto it for most of the day to give to her rather than devour for himself.

All unkindness melts away like butter, and Orella smiles.

[friendly-fire-engaged]

A Memory of War - #3

((posting this chronologically out of order because something came up that made me want to post this one before the previous ones RIP)) ((Trigger Warning: Mentions of Death, Blood, Violence and Drowning))

In the early hours of the morning, long before the sun crested the walls of Castrum Oriens, they came and packed the prisoners into two caravan wagons and shipped them off. Marinus could only guess their destination, and he immediately assumed worst. The war was over, which meant only one possibility as the wagons moved east: over the Velodyna, past camps of soldiers and survivors celebrating their victory over the empire: they’d be taken to the capitol to face judgment and death.

He didn’t really remember the length of the trip. He remembered the humiliating sting of the rocks, the rotten rations, the piss buckets, and whatever else the jeering soldiers thought to toss at the carts, but he didn’t remember how long it went on or how many times it happened, how many camps they passed through. His mind was elsewhere in all of that.

He remembered, however, what happened on the great loch’s shores. Upon approaching the great bridge, the caravan veered away, heading northwards across the precarious saltscape that stretched over the mouth of the lake. Suddenly, Marinus was alert. Why weren’t they going to Ala Mhigo? A darker thought crossed his mind: were they going to kill them and dump the bodies in the wilderness, with no trial or jury involved? A murmur of discontent rumbles through the carts passengers as the salt creaks and shudders beneath them.

At once, with an earth-shaking explosion, the world overturns around Marinus. Time slows to a halt. One moment he’s sitting in the back of a wagon, next he’s sailing overhead and the wagon is floating above him.

And then the world comes rushing back up to meet him. There’s no time to cry out in pain; the impact hits him so hard all the air rushes from his lungs in a WOOSH. Wood splinters and cracks as the cart comes crashing down nearby. Something pierces the half-hyur’s side. Warm blood sticks to his hip.

The shouts of maelstrom soldiers and screams of wounded chocobos drag Mars’ bleary attention to the battle in front of him. Disturbed by the tremors of the caravan, a phoebad erupted through the salt crust to attack. Now it rampaged, swiping wildly at soldiers and wagons, throwing debris and people alike into the saltwater.

He had to run. He had to get away from this. Staying here meant death, either from the Maelstrom or the Phoebad. Mars struggled to his knees, then to his feet, only to feel the world ripped out from under him again as the shackles on his ankles yank him back. He hits the dirt with a yelp and twists, watching in terror as the salt shelf behind him begins to crack, and the wagon that he, two chocobos, and a half a dozen wounded men are tethered to, starts to slide into the brine.

People, chocobos, and wood are buoyant, Marinus reassures himself.

Steel shackles, chains, spokes, armored harnesses and frames are not, he quickly discovers.

He screams for help. It’s drowned out by the din of battle.

Despite all his desperate scrambling and clawing for a hold on the salted earth, Marinus is dragged beneath the surface alongside his wounded and thrashing compatriots. 

He takes one final gasping breath before the earth slides out from under his fingers and the blackness of the Loch consumes him.

He had always known the Lochs were deep. Off shift, he would make bets with others in his unit on how deep they could swim. But this time, the weight of the chains pulled him down faster than his arms ever could. He needed to break free. The half-hyur clawed at the chains, desperately yanking them through the shackled they threaded through. The panicked thrashing of his dying companions didn’t help; each twist and thrash and kick ones still alive jerked the line, threatening to rip the chains from his grip.

He didn’t want to die. He couldn’t die yet. Not like this… not like this.

By the time Marinus worked his legs free of the binding chains, his lungs burned, his mind was a blur, and the light from the surface above felt so, so far away. He kicked off, away from the carriage that plummeting into the inky depths below, away from the glazed over eyes of his allies, away from their pleading gazes. He couldn’t help them. He’d die.

Instead, Marinus swam for his life.