#tossES OUt.... a tiny open for Wasp Boy doe....

[komcrebi-moved]

                                                    {[   OPEN  //  JIGABACHI  ]}

        “   All  this  talk  of  crushes...                     What   a   headache . . . ” 

[pagingevilspawn]

Can u write a one shot where jolex's toddler gets bitten by a poisonous spider and they react quickly to help her and has alex calming jo down as she starts freaking out

WARNING: THIS IS SO BAD! Okay, you asked for spiders. That meant doing research. So I looked up poisonous spiders and I saw pictures of spiders. So dear anon, you get a sting instead, because spiders are terrifying to look at and I couldn't glance at it without feeling like they were crawling all over me ;) enjoy! this is the shortest thing i’ve ever written, yikes. 

(another installment of the “payton loves evan peters too much series”)

float like a butterfly, sting like a bee

Jo Karev rested in the chair that sat on the back porch of her house, overlooking the backyard where she watched her three year old son run around with the family dog Muffin. The now full grown Golden Retriever chased after the slobbery green tennis ball the little boy had thrown into the bushes with a great deal of clumsiness, nearly tripping over his own four paws on the way. Jo lets a small laugh escape her lips, picking her glass of lemonade up from the table beside her and taking a leisurely sip, savoring the cool taste it still held since the ice cubes had yet to melt completely.

It was an unusually warm day in Seattle, temperatures reaching eighty-eight degrees despite the fact that it was only spring break, not even summer yet. The sky was clear of any clouds and the light blue proved to be comforting while she sat outside. School had been out for a few days now, so she had heard the neighborhood kids playing around in their yards, a large difference from the usually close to silent street. Only her and one other family on the block had a child that wasn’t in school yet, so the outside noise levels had steadily increased since the rest of the kids joined in on the early morning activities. More than once she had heard a couple of pre-teens race down the streets on their skateboards. Not that she minded, she loved seeing all the kids enjoy themselves, and she loved it even more for her son. Growing up she never had a life like this. It was refreshing to know that her baby boy wouldn’t grow up the same ways she and Alex had.  

A large grin paints her lips as she watches her son try to hug Muffin, since he had quickly gotten bored with playing fetch. Not to mention, the little boy always hated how wet the ball got after it had been in the dog’s mouth. Jo couldn’t blame him, she felt the same way. Alex teased them both relentlessly for it, frequently making sure to toss the slobbery ball in their direction, just so that they would need to be the ones to tear it out of the golden’s mouth.

A small kiss on the top of her head tears her gaze away from the scene in front of her, looking up to meet her husband’s eyes. He, like her, was still dressed in pajamas, despite it already almost being eleven am. They both had gotten the day off and were relishing in the free time they got to spend by themselves and with their son. 

“Kyle, careful.” Jo chastises the boy as the little Karev almost falls face first into a patch of flowers. She sees Alex sit beside her on another chair out of the corner of her eye, his brown hair messy and out of place falling into his eyes, a cup of coffee clutched in his right hand. He had gotten up the same time she did that day, eight thirty on the dot, also known as the time their son came bouncing into their room, jumping up and down on them until they finally gave in and didn't try to go back to sleep. Alex had a long night, not getting home until close to three am, only to wake up a few hours later with a bunch of paperwork he needed to do. She had a feeling he had fallen asleep halfway through, since he looked like he had just gotten out of bed. 

“Morning” he greets her, taking a sip of his drink, watching her from the side as he does so. His wife was beautiful every single time he looked at her, but something about seeing her make-up free, hair pulled up into a messy bun, and oversized clothes was when he always thought she looked her best. Then, he could see the light freckles she had sprinkled on her nose, something he had found annoyingly cute the first time he first saw them (he teased her about them way too often for her own liking). 

Jo hums in response, reaching for his hand and quickly entangling their fingers. A quiet peace settled around them, the only sounds in the air were Kyle’s laughter and faint voices of kids down the street. She closes her eyes and leans back into her seat, feeling the warm sun hit her face, causing a small smile to appear from the heat. Moments like these were rare, no matter how much they both tried to make them happen. They were both constantly getting called into cases, Jo even more so since she had switched to OB and now not only delivered babies, but preformed fetal surgery on them as well. Spending time with their son together was tough, since they worked late nights and had complete opposite schedules some days, so they grasped onto days like these and held them close. 

Ask either one of them, the scene in front of them was almost comical. If someone were to tell Alex Karev ten years ago that he would be married to the love of his life and have a three year old son he would’ve thought they were crazy. The same goes for Jo. When she was just an intern she was fearful for her life, her identity, knowing that at any second Paul could find her. The wide-eyed twenty-six year old would’ve never expected she would’ve gotten to such a happy place in her life. 

It was essentially a perfect day. The sun was out and Kyle was enjoying himself with Muffin, both Jo and Alex had time to relax and not stress about upcoming surgeries or patients back at the hospital. But of course, their perfect bubble popped when they heard a wail come from the corner of the yard, where their son was clutching his upper arm, face red and puffy as tears streamed down it. 

The two sprang into action immediately not only their parent side, but the doctor side coming out in a split second, jumping out of their chairs and dashing across the lawn, a hundred of different scenarios running through their heads by the second. 

Did he break his arm?

Trip and fall?

Get a deep scratch from a bush?

Hit his head?

Twist his ankle?

Run into something?

Jo gets to him first, pulling the little shaggy brown haired boy into her arms and wiping away his tears, his pink lips trembling as he tries to put on a brave face. He was always a show off around his mom, ever since he was born, constantly trying to earn her praise and make her laugh until she had tears coming out of her eyes. (It surprisingly wasn’t that hard of a task, Kyle was quite the comedian, as it turns out.) 

“What happened baby?” Jo coos, sad hazel eyes looking to Alex, who was trying to peel the boy’s tiny hand away from his arm. 

“A w-wasp.” Kyle buries his head into the crook of Jo’s neck, a few stray tears making its way down his face and onto the collar of her ratty old t-shirt that was actually her husband’s. She sees Alex let out an audible sigh of relief alongside a small chuckle, but Jo just sends him a glare. Harsh? Yes. But her baby boy was hurting, which was no laughing matter in her book. She didn’t care if Kyle had a papercut or had broken his leg, she would react the same way. 

Alex uses the end of his shirt to remove the stinger from Kyle’s arm, making sure to pick it up and toss it to where the three year old wouldn’t be able to step in it. “I’ll go get some ice.” he murmurs, ruffling the little brunette’s hair before jogging back to the house, returning a few minutes later with a bag of ice wrapped in a layer of a thin paper towel.

“Here you go buddy,” he places the ice pack on the slightly swollen red area, seeing his son wince slightly at the cold. 

Jo rocks him back and forth in her lap, placing tiny kisses on the top of his head, listening to his quiet sniffles. Her strong boy, never wanting anybody to know that he was hurting. Granted, it was just a wasp sting, but Kyle had gotten barely any injuries except for a scrape on the knee here and there from running around. For only three years old, he was surprisingly agile, differing greatly from his parents, since Alex practically tripped on anything in his path and Jo was prone to stubbing her toe at least once a day. (Her record was five just at the hospital; one gurney, a nurse’s counter, a doorway, a couch, and a table in the attendings lounge. She had lost count once she got home.)

Jo feels uneasy, protective mommy instincts kicking in and flow through her like a rapid river. “Should we take him to the hospital?” she runs a hand through the boy’s hair, untying any little knots that had formed from his mini adventures. 

Alex snorts, chuckling to himself. Real funny Jo. 

He feels a pair of eyes on him, looking up tentatively to meet his wife’s narrowed slits, glaring at him harshly. He raises his eyebrows, “You’re joking right?”

That only seems to set Jo off, as she opens her mouth in offense. He knows he’s about to get a lecture.  

“Are you joking?” She questions, her tone borderline terrifying as she sends daggers to her husband. 

Alex sighs, running a hand down his face. “Jo, it’s a bee sting.” he puts his hands behind him, leaning back onto his palms, ignoring the grass was still partially wet, despite the fact that the sprinklers hadn’t been on for over an hour and a half now. (Their grass seemed to not have the ability to absorb water, which might actually be because of the soil and not the actual grass itself, but who knows.)  

“And how do we know he’s not allergic!” the brunette argues back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, gaze never wavering from his. 

“Jo, he’s not allergic.” he says exasperatedly. He knew for a fact that he and Jo could go at this for hours. More than once they’d been able to turn a thirty second argument into a two hour back and forth, switching the subjects more times than they could count, but somehow it always still came back to their original topic of discussion. He loved those fights, and he knew she did too. They thoroughly enjoyed getting to pick apart the other’s brain in something other than a new surgical procedure, suture technique, or way to get Kyle’s clothes to not look like they had been thrown in a pile of mud by the end of the day. All couple’s had their thing, and theirs was bickering like they had been married for sixty years. 

But as much as he loved those fights, he didn’t want another one of those right now. All he wanted to do that day was spend his free day off with the two most important people in his life without a care in the world. Of course, part of that had already gone down the drain, since his son had a swelling red spot on his arm and his wife was pissed at him. 

The woman glares at him, “You don’t know that”.

Alex sighs, “Jo.” he deadpans. “Is he wheezing or having trouble swallowing?”

Jo looks away, avoiding eye contact as she purses her lips. “No.” 

“Is there swelling on his face, throat, or tongue?” He hears Jo’s voice get quieter, still making sure not to look at him. 

“No.” 

“Is he experiencing dizziness, hives, a rapid p-” 

She cuts him off, throwing her hands up and sighing in defeat, “Fine! He’s not allergic.” she mumbles, causing Kyle to look up at his mom, nerves etched onto his face. 

“Mommy why are you yelling?” he questions, placing his small palm on her cheek. Jo takes his hand and pretends to eat it, making the little boy shriek with glee as he squirms in her lap like a wiggly worm. 

“Daddy was just being a big butthead because Mommy was worried about you. Weren’t you being a big butthead Daddy?” Jo smirks at him, more than glad to have her son on her side. Kyle was a momma’s boy since birth, and it didn’t seem like he had plans on changing anytime soon. Thank god, because she didn’t know what she would do when Kyle stopped coming to her for nightly cuddles. She supposed she had a few more years until that happened though, much to her relief.

Alex playfully narrows his eyes at her, taking Kyle from her hold and standing up with him latched onto his hip. “Yep, I was a big butthead. Don’t say that word though bud, it’s not nice.” 

The boy grins, his smile toothy and crooked. “Then don’t be a butthead.” he says matter-of-factly, wrapping his arms around his dad’s neck as the three make their way inside the house, Muffin trailing not far behind, wet paws making small spots on the wood. 

Alex laughs, giving Kyle a pat on the back. “I won’t be a butthead buddy. I won’t be a butthead.” He gives Jo a smile, taking in the way her eyes light up at the sight of her two favorite boys joking and playing around with each other. 

Alex leans closer to Jo, whispering so Kyle couldn’t hear them. “I’m the peds surgeon Jo, which means I'm always right.” he smirks triumphantly. 

The brunette’s mouth opens wide, partially scandalized. She slaps him on the arm, the grin never leaving her face as they enter the kitchen through the backdoor. “Asshole!”

[chrysalispen]

xxxii. and larger shone that smile against the sun. (FINALE II)

there’s an epilogue coming, but otherwise this is it, friends! the final countdown chapter!

thank you all so much for sticking this 15 months out with me, it really does mean a lot. i’ll be spending the month working on some one-shot projects, outlining the next longfic in this set, and making some drafts, but otherwise i’m taking it easy. (no nano for me, i’m wiped)

anyway, this chapter is just under 13K words and it’s still not where i’d like it, but at some point it’s either release things or sit in editing purgatory for another month. so here you are. brief CW: in one scene a child is injured so i advise you take precautions if you find that upsetting.

AO3 Link HERE

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Once again someone was knocking on the Millers’ privy door.

Vahne’s fingers tightened about the larger hand that she held, but the returned squeeze from the woman in the bed didn’t bring her much in the way of comfort. Her sense of unease increased with each sound Goody Miller made, pained or not. It was so hard to sit still and wait. She kept hearing the sounds of her aunt’s screams in her ears.

And those sounds outside. Screaming. Running footsteps--

Her stomach twisted with alarm and guilt in equal measure. The sour and unpleasant taste rising in the back of her mouth was so sharp and overwhelming that for a moment she feared she might retch across the coverlet. They only came here because I did, she thought. The whole village is in danger because of me.

The lady of the house, her brow glowing with sweat, pushed herself upright and reached for her bedrobe. “By the Twelve,” she groaned, “what is happening out there? What’s all the bleeding racket-”

“I’ll go see who it is,” Vahne said quickly, standing up and reaching for the water pitcher. “Maybe they have news.”

“Chance’d be a fine thing.” Flushed and sweaty, discomfort carving lines of pain into her face, the weaver nonetheless gave her a kind smile and patted her hand. “Thank you, dear. You’re a good girl.”

The front room of the Millers’ cabin felt ominously quiet, made more so for the chaos that reigned without its walls. The wood stove made a low and steady ticking as it cooled just like her aunt’s, its final batch of pies delivered to the feasting tables a good half-bell past. She slipped past the tables of drying grass and the still-warm hearthstones towards the side entrance that opened between the stables and the privy.

What if it’s those soldiers? Her thoughts spun on an unstable axis. What if they’re just waiting for someone to let them in?

An old floorboard, loose and warped with age, creaked beneath her weight. Vahne froze in place, a tiny gasp escaping her lips, her tail lashing violently and her ears flattened against her head.

“Missus Miller? Is that you, ma’am?”

It was a boy’s voice, she realized, exhaling. There hadn’t been any boys with those soldiers. She crept closer to the wall that braced the privy entrance.

“Hello?” Another rap. “Anyone there?”

“She’s abed,” Vahne said as loud as she dared. “Who are you?”

“I’m Enguerrand Aubaints. Who are you?”

“I’m Miss Aurelia’s assistant,” she retorted, the lift of her chin defiant (although she knew the newcomer could not see it). “State your business.”

“Oh, for... listen, I’ve been trying to open the privy door to get in but it’s locked and I have children with me. Now will you please let us in?”

She half-fancied that it had all been a ruse and the moment she threw the bolt, the door would fly open as it had at her aunt’s cabin, and hard-faced soldiers would swarm the entrance like termites- but the voice on the other side of the door was only a boy after all: an Elezen somewhat close to her own age. Two young Hyuran boys hugged his legs, and Vahne recognized them as the children who had stared so curiously at her the first time she had come to Willowsbend.

Took you long enough,” the boy - Enguerrand - grumbled. One sweaty lock of brown hair tumbled into his eyes as he shut the door at their backs (and reset the latch, much to Vahne’s unspoken relief). “Is Mistress Laskaris here?”

“Miss Aurelia and the Sergeant both went outside right after all that noise started. What’s happening out there?”

“Garleans,” Enguerrand shook his head, a solemn cast to his dark eyes. “They came in the middle of the feast. I didn’t catch all of it but it sounds like they’re looking for someone.”

“Goody Miller needs a healer. I hope Miss Aurelia comes back soon.”

“From the sound of things I don’t think she’ll be back for some time,” he said. “You should fetch the Hearer. Or Master Trevantioux.”

“I would," Vahne retorted, "if I knew what either of them looked like. Why don’t you go?”

“Because someone’s got to watch these two, and besides, babies are girls’ wo-… um. I mean.” He faltered at the sight of her icy glare, and she could see clearly the wheels turning behind his eyes as he struggled to walk back his words. “...That is, I mean… I’m not… I’m not a conjurer b-but they could help, easy.”

She glanced first at the curtained window, then down the short hallway and the closed door at its end before she released a resigned sigh. “What do they look like?"

"Huh?"

"What do they look like," she repeated, her voice loud and slow. "Your conjurers."

"Oh. Um... the Hearer is old and Master Trevantioux isn't. They're both in long robes and big gray pointed hats. And they have walking sticks."

Vahne was no less worried or frightened than she had been before, but now she had come to a decision, and she felt all the better for sensing it to be the right one. She sat down on a nearby stool and began to wriggle her sore feet back into her weathered pattens.

“If Goody Miller asks after me, tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can. And make sure to lock the door behind me.”

“You're going out there now?”

“Well, when am I supposed to go?” she huffed, exasperated. “Do you think they’re going to put down their weapons and say ‘oh pardon us, we didn’t know your friend’s mum was having a baby, we’ll come back and burn down your village at a better time’?”

“What? I’m not saying don’t go, I’m just saying that it’s not-”

She reached for the latch, threw the bolt, and stepped across the threshold with a decisive crack of her soles against the floor.

“-safe,” Enguerrand finished, somewhat lamely.

“I’ve seen worse. Just keep an eye on them,” she ordered with a toss of her hair. “I’ll be back to help with the ‘girls’ work’ soon enough.”

She didn’t miss the rosy cast to the Elezen boy’s cheeks as the door shut behind her.

~*~

The fletching of yet another nocked arrow zipped through Keveh’to’s knuckles as it plunged into the fray below.

Although individually most of these soldiers were no more or less a threat than any other on the star, the danger of the imperial army lay in its discipline. Its personnel were extraordinarily well-drilled. The attackers had quickly regrouped in the confusion as the riot began in earnest, and in their efforts to suppress the furious villagers they had drifted towards the ceremonial dais in a singular large formation. It put the Keeper in mind of a malevolent cloud of summer wasps that had emerged from their jostled nest.

And it was working. The villagers were brave and morale was good, but farm tools and fists were no match for gunblades or even sword and shield forged in mass-production, and they were losing momentum quickly.

“We can’t keep this up, Lieutenant,” he shouted at the Wood Wailer a few fulms to his left. “Another half-bell and we’re done. We need reinforcements.”

“We’ve not the manpower to spare. Otherwise, I’d send for help from Quarrymill. Or even the Druthers.” Mariustel Aubaints raised his voice, shouting in the direction of two volunteers who had holed themselves up in a break in the wall: “Stay on them! Throw whatever you have!”

Keveh’to gathered his aether for a quick shot, and another spray of missiles peppered the enemy. Three of them stumbled back in haste and one folded in half like a puppet with cut strings- but it wasn’t enough to rout them. The ranks held firm and there was a cry from below as two more men from the village fell back.

It was only a matter of time, but if they could just hold out until-

“Sergeant!”

The young voice took his focus from the dais. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hugh Miller waving him down. “What is it, lad?”

“Cecilie’s out of spells!” Hugh shouted. “We have more back at our barracks, but I don’t know if we can get to them from here!”

The boy’s excited grin had long since faded, replaced with the over-bright shine of genuine fear. Keveh’to suspected that the novelty of taking part in a real skirmish with imperials - an actual fight with real and very deadly stakes, and not a product of a childish imagination - had worn off once Hugh had realized that he couldn’t simply call the game off when things started going badly for him.

“They’re about to fire at us again,” he shouted back. “Stay put with the others and for the Twelve’s sake, keep your heads do-”

The crack of a gunblade shot rang through the air.

Keveh’to could only watch with horrified eyes as Cecilie Aubaints stumbled backward with a cry of pain and collapsed to the ground. The slingshot in the girl’s hand went flying across the wooden planks, skittering somewhere out of sight in the darkness. She curled in on herself like a hurt animal, and the strangled sound she made was like a punch to the gut - along with Hugh’s cry of her name.

At his side, he watched all of the color drain from the Wood Wailer’s face. The Elezen made to stand but Keveh’to caught the man’s arm and forced him to remain in place.

“Let me go, Epocan.” Mariustel’s snarl was muffled beneath the confines of his mask, his hand shaking with rage as it tightened about its grip upon his longbow. “I’ll have the heart of every last one of them. Miserable whoresons-”

“You need to stay here with the others.” Keveh’to slung his bow over one shoulder. “The longer we keep the enemy occupied, the longer we can hold this position.”

“I should be the one to go.”

“No. You’re the leader. If that lot down there manages to get themselves out of that kettle, that’s all of us done for.”

“That’s my daughter they shot, damn it all! I can’t just sit here-”

“Aye, and if you get yourself killed and they overrun us, what do you think will become of her? The Garlean Empire isn’t known for its mercy.”

He wanted to argue, Keveh’to thought, and who could blame him? If it were his daughter who’d been injured, he knew he would have been no less insistent. But he also knew he was right, and he knew Mariustel knew it too.

The man gave a heavy sigh. “If I need to run for a healer-”

“Never you mind that. I’ll do the running.”

The short stretch he had to traverse to reach Hugh and his friends was treacherous. The Garleans couldn’t move but they were still able to concentrate their long-range efforts upon that section of the wall. Another gunblade shot narrowly missed Keveh’to’s face; its trajectory was so close that the current in its wake snagged at the collar of his overcoat like briar thorns. A third chipped at stone and mortar, ricocheting wide with a high-pitched whine.

Cursing under his breath, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the distance to the children. Hugh was in frantic tears, half-crouched over his friend’s body to protect her from any more incoming projectiles, and Keveh’to could hear dry whimpers echoing from the small form. The curtain of her hair spilled across the ground like discarded ribbons.

“The Garleans shot her,” the boy sobbed. “They shot her!”

“I see that, lad. Move aside.”

He was frozen in place with fear; Keveh’to had to shove him out of the way in order to take a closer look at her hurts. Cecilie was clutching at the meat of her left thigh. He found himself staring into eyes that were wide and terrified.

“Sergeant,” she gasped. He tucked a stray bit of her fringe behind one pointed ear. The small hands on her injured leg shook visibly.

“Cecilie, what happened?”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. I’m sorry.” Her voice held steady. All told, she was doing a sight better than her Hyur friend at maintaining her composure. “I only stood up for a moment-”

“All right. Lie still, lass.” Crimson spilled through her fingers and stained her leggings; it was quickly soaking through the fabric to patter onto the wood and seep into the grain. She looked clear-eyed enough, but even he could see she was losing an alarming amount of blood.

“I just wanted to check if we had any spells left. Just for a moment. I didn’t think-” Cecilie stammered, her chin wobbling, “I thought it would be all right but it wasn’t-”

Anger and self-recrimination left a dull ache in the depths of his chest. Hugh and Cecilie and the others were bright and brave, but for all their courage and wit, they were still children and had no place in a fight like this. He should have sent them straight home when he had the chance instead of encouraging them, he thought.

It was his fault the girl was hurt. But he kept his peace; it was far too late for regrets now.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, crying openly now. “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault-”

Keveh’to shunted his guilt aside to offer her a smile he hoped was reassuring. “It’s all right, Cecilie,” he said gently. “We’ll take care of this. You’re going to be just fine.”

“It hurts so much--”

“Aye, lass. I know.” He reached into his belt for a length of leather cord, casting about their immediate surrounds for something he could use as a fulcrum. “I’m going to do something that won’t feel very good, but it’ll slow the bleeding. It’s only until we can find the Hearer or Master Trevantioux and get them to make you good as new.”

She nodded blindly. “Or Miss Aurelia?”

“Or Miss Aurelia,” he agreed.

He reached for a nearby piece of debris and began to wrap the cord around Cecilie’s leg. One stray glance below, peeking between the newly made cracks in the mortar, showed a half dozen more soldiers in the main street shouting to the group near the dais and gesturing to the walls.

“All of you, listen up,” he said briskly. “Once I finish up here, we’re all going to have to move down the wall and find shelter on the ground. I’m going to need your help.”

Hugh struggled to his knees, pulling Amicia and Larkin up alongside as he went. The two younger children stared at him with eyes the size of dinner plates but by the expression the Miller boy wore, he seemed to have regained a certain degree of calm- or he had passed into a state of shock sufficiently profound that there was little difference to be had between the two.

“What do we need to do?” was all he said.

Keveh’to knotted the leather cord and began to twist it around the piece of elm plank he had found, watching the blood begin to slow in its course down her thigh and onto the walkway. Cecilie whimpered in discomfort and her fingers bunched in handfuls of his greatcoat, but otherwise, she let him work without complaint.

“We need to find a quick way down. A ladder, rope, anything. What I’m doing here is just a temporary measure. We have to get Cecilie to the conjurers as soon as we can manage it.”

The boy nodded, his face pale but still almost eerily composed. As he opened his mouth to reply, the sounds of shouting arose from the main gates.

~*~

Vahne had expected to see disarray of some sort once she moved beyond the relative safety of the Millers’ house, but what she saw was pandemonium. The villagers were crowding a group of soldiers, shouting angrily, the feast tables were overturned, and the food and festive decorations were mostly trampled into the dirt. Some few still crouched behind whatever shelter they could find, but most who had not chosen to fight the invaders appeared to be hiding in their homes.

Right. I have to find one of the conjurers. She cast her eyes to and fro, looking for the figures Enguerrand had described (Miss Aurelia was nowhere to be seen, as much as Vahne would have preferred to find her).

Her eyes scanned the small cabins and their darkened windows and she thought of her aunt’s house, of the expensive glass windows and the wraparound porch. It was a mistake; she felt the worry she’d managed to suppress begin to claw its way up her spine all over again.

Not now, she told herself. Not now. Concentrate on this problem first.  

The sound of a door slamming open from a nearby cabin interrupted her train of thought.

Vahne hastily took cover behind the closest large object she could find: a large barrel that had been overturned in the villagers’ flight. She was not a moment too soon, for only a few yalms away she saw a tall, pretty young Elezen woman in a soft blue dress fall into the dirt with a cry. At her heels was a big man in that scarlet-trimmed black. He dragged forward an old Elezen - scruffed like a kitten by the collar of his kurta in one hand - and carelessly tossed him across the threshold to tumble down the steps and into the road. In his other hand, their captor bore a long blade with a strange-looking hilt.

“Father!” the woman cried.

Seemingly heedless of her predicament, she crawled through the mud to reach the old man. Blood glistened upon his temple and cheek, dark enough that it appeared black in the dim light. She grasped his shoulders and pulled him away from the soldier, her smooth brow knitted in a defiant glare.

The soldier lifted the sword in his hand until it was pointed at Noline’s father.

“Those who aid and abet fugitive criminals are accessories to their crimes,” he purred. “Without exception. There is but one punishment for treason by imperial law.”

Noline raised her chin to look him in the eye.

The flower wreath she wore on her head was in a pitiful state, half-wilted, its petals torn and its leaves shredded and the hair it sat upon a wild and filthy cloud matted with dirt and debris. Even in such a disheveled state, she looked like a proud young queen as she faced down the invader without flinching.

“If you know what’s good for you,” she said with a toss of her long hair over one shoulder, “you’ll take your friends and be gone from this place.”

The soldier’s laugh was harsh and brittle, cutting through the background noise like the steel in his hand.

”Make as many idle threats as you wish, savage,” he sneered. “You chose the wrong allies.”

“And you’ve trifled with the wrong village,” Noline shot back. The grin that split her bloodied lips was one of barely controlled rage, a triumphant and half-wild rictus. “You’ll be sorry soon enough that you dared lay a hand to me or my father or any of the others. I swear it.”

From her hiding place, Vahne stared at Noline and her ailing father and the Garlean soldier with his blade pointed at them both, hardly daring to breathe.

A massive burst of earth aether cracked the space between them. The soldier staggered back with a startled curse and his weapon spun out of his hand to fly into the darkness and parts unknown. Pressing the advantage, a tall thin figure lunged toward the soldier as if the forest had sensed danger and somehow summoned a rescue.

She caught a glimpse of pointed ears and angular cheekbones and that was all: the Elezen barely paused to take a breath as he sprinted past, flower crown flying from his head and one hand still outstretched from the spell he had cast. Brandishing a heavy-ended staff, the Elezen man gave it a mighty swing, bellowing like a Limsan marauder. The blow struck true, with enough force behind it to dent the man’s pot helm.

The soldier collapsed into the mud with a strangled groan and lay still.

“Trevantioux,” Noline said weakly.

The man dropped to his knees and threw his arms around her shoulders. “Noline,” he wheezed. “Thank the Twelve. I thought he was going to shoot.”

With a trembling laugh, she replied, “So did I.”

“You’re bleeding, are you-”

“ ‘Tis only a split lip. I’m fine. Better than Father, he’s hit his head.”

“I’m fine,” the old man grouched. “He didn’t do half the damage he thought he did.”

Shaking with reaction herself, Vahne stood on wobbling legs from her hiding place to make her approach. Noline’s father caught sight of her and nudged the younger man with one elbow, a jabbing gesture of his index finger, and a slightly louder-than-necessary clearing of his throat. Frowning, the conjurer followed the pointing finger to see the Miqo’te girl fidgeting in the middle of the muddy road.

Vahne bit her lip.

“Are you Conjurer Trevantioux?”

“Yes, that’s me.” The man squinted at her. “...Do I know you?”

She shifted from foot to foot and forced herself not to stare at the ground.

“Well, no. My name’s Vahne Wolndara. I’m- I’m a friend of the Millers’.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough. “Miss Aurelia left to look for my aunt and told me to wait for her until she came back, but Goody Miller is having pains and they’re getting worse and I don’t-”

A great shout swelled at their backs.

“What in the hells,” the old man began, but trailed off mid-sentence as they watched the undefended gate swing open. Half a dozen archers in dark green leathers, their faces concealed by red cloth, spilled into the street with bows at the ready.

“Wasps!” a man’s voice roared out of the din, “Attack! No quarter to the imperials!”

Vahne, Trevantioux, and the old man stared at each other in collective confusion as the bandits rushed the dais, but Noline--

Noline was smiling. The hem of her skirt fluttered in the evening breeze, whipping around her legs, and her slim hands braced upon her hips as her narrowed eyes left father and fiance entirely in favor of the archers and their prey. Unlike her companions, the Elezen woman didn’t appear a whit surprised by the presence of the masked men.  

Trevantioux stared at the woman he was to marry as if he had never seen her before.

“...You knew,” he said slowly. “How did you know?”

It wasn’t a question. But if he had expected denials or self-defense, he would be disappointed. She turned back to look at him, chin tilted in a birdlike way, and patted his cheek with a fond smile as if he were a child. A smile that never reached those hard eyes.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Oh, darling,” she said, voice as placid and serene as a pond in summer, “don't ask so many questions. It's tedious. All you need to know is that everything is going to be fine. Now run along and go tend to Goody Miller.”

Exasperated by the delay, too young still to understand what had passed between the two adults, Vahne grabbed his wrist and pulled.

“Come on,” she said impatiently. “You can talk to her about it later. We need your help now.”

Trevantioux let himself be dragged along the thoroughfare towards the Millers’ yard and their privy entrance, but he looked over his shoulder as they went. His eyes lingered upon Noline’s slim, proud form until it was no longer visible.

==

“Who in the seven hells invited them,” Mariustel Aubaints growled.

Keveh’to wasn’t normally one to criticize a sudden influx of good fortune in such a dire situation, but the timing of it was serendipitous enough to make one wonder.

“I don’t know, but you can be sure I’ll find out once I’ve got Cecilie to the conjurers.”

“If you come across aught of significance, let me know.” The Wailer sighed and dragged one hand down his cheek. “I’d best gather the others. The Wasps will only shoot at the Garleans until there’s none left to shoot, and after that-” After that, Mariustel didn’t say, who knows?

“Papa,” Cecilie whimpered. “Papa, I’m scared.”

Distracted from the bandits and their suspiciously timely arrival by his daughter’s distress- at least for the moment, Mariustel smoothed back some of the sweat-damp hair stuck to her brow.

“I know, love,” he said, “but Sergeant Epocan’s going to take you to the healers and they’ll see to your hurts. Be brave for me, all right?”

She nodded slowly, as if the act required a heroic effort, and slumped back down in Keveh’to’s arms once her father was out of sight. Her face was pale and cold sweat beaded her brow - whether from pain or shock, he wasn’t skilled enough in field medicine to tell. Aurelia would know, of course, but gods knew where she was right now.

At his back, Hugh piped up, “Sergeant, I have an idea!”

Keveh’to turned around to regard the boy. He had apparently taken a second wind, and by the conspiratorial looks on his friends’ faces, the trio had been mired in some sort of discussion.

“And what idea is that?”

“You can use the stairs to get Cecilie down,” he said, and Larkin and Amicia nodded in affirmation alongside. “It’ll be much faster than the ladder.”

“Easier said than done, lad. They’re not done building them yet.”

“No, not those stairs. The ones that lead down to that little side door-- the one that comes in the watchtower from the forest. Da and the others were using it to haul up rocks when they were fixing the wall--”

“Wait. Do you mean that scaffold?”

“Yes! That!”

“Hugh, it’s dangerous.”

“Usually there’s guards but they’re probably gone now. We can unlock the door from our side and let you and Cecilie in,” Hugh continued as if Keveh’to hadn’t spoken. “Why didn’t I think of it sooner? Lark, Amy, come on!”

“Wait-”

His warning had gone entirely unheeded; the trio was already halfway down the ladder. Keveh’to sighed.

The watchtower was as empty as he had expected. He nudged the back door open with one foot to the rickety wooden cage that sat along the wall and quickly saw the reason why the watch hadn’t bothered to remove the stair: it was clearly fallen into disuse. Large holes were visible where the planking had rotted out from the bad weather earlier in the year. It should have been removed and dismantled months ago as much for the hazard it posed as the security risk, Keveh’to thought.

Here’s hoping this godsdamned thing doesn’t collapse under us.

Fortune was with them both, however; the steps, while noisy and dangerously flexible under his feet, held their weight long enough for him to descend the wall without incident. He jumped over the last two steps, which were rotted and splintered, and landed on his feet in a soft crunch of leaves to begin his slow walk of the perimeter.

For all his careful investigation Keveh’to nearly missed the door, set as it was into a less visible section of the wall. He kicked at it with one foot - and was met with the sound of a loud crash, a pained groan, then silence.

“Hugh?” he called. “Hugh, is aught-”

The grunt he heard from the other side of the door was not the sound a boy of twelve summers would make, but he heard the series of clicks as the door unlocked. It swung open on rusted hinges to reveal Hugh and Larkin and Amicia, huddled behind a hunched figure in conjurer’s greys. At the old man’s feet lay two unconscious Garleans.

“Not much of a plan, Sergeant,” Hearer Ewain observed, tucking the staff back into the strap on his shoulder. “You’re fortunate they didn’t have troops waiting outside.”

Keveh’to was far too relieved at the sight of the man to be irritated at his criticism. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“Happenstance,” he grunted, shoving one of the limp figures away from the door with one kick of his pattened foot.

“Happenstance?”

“I’d no intention of cowering behind a barricade, so I went in search of wounded. Their commander had sent part of his squad to start dragging people out of their homes door to door. I heard the children shouting, saw two over here, and-- Twelve preserve, is that Lieutenant Aubaints’ girl?”

“Yes. I did what I could to stop the bleeding, but-”

Ewain clucked his tongue and held out his arms. The Miqo’te handed her over and fought back the sigh of relief he felt, even as the old conjurer stared into the pale, sweat-slick face of his injured patient. “Stupid girl,” he chided, although his tone was gentle. “You and your friends should have gone home.”

Hugh gave the old man the fiercest scowl in his arsenal. “Cecilie isn’t stupid!”

“We’ll agree to disagree.”

“She’s brave and strong. Anyway, aren’t Wood Wailers supposed to defend the Twelveswood from Garleans?”

“She isn’t a Wailer, boy,��� was the Hearer’s blunt retort, “and neither are you.”

The scowl wobbled for a moment.

“Will Cecilie… I mean, she isn’t going to...”

“Your friend will recover and be none the worse for her foolishness, or yours for that matter,” Ewain said. “Sergeant Epocan acted quickly enough, though I’ll need to remove this contraption as soon as I can manage it. Now. Your cousins are going to come back to my cottage with me and help out with some of the others who’ve been hurt, and you’re going to go on home and mind your mother, Hugh Miller.”

“But-”

"No buts, boy. I’m not in the mood to explain to any of your parents why they’ll need me to say rites over your coffins.”

“How are you going to get back with the fighting like this?”

“I’ve lived in this village longer than any of you have been alive. Do you think I don’t have more than one route back to my house?” Ewain harrumphed at them, but his stooped back had lost some of its slouch as he squinted at his newfound charges. “Come along, all of you.”

Keveh’to was silently grateful that the bossy old man had chosen to take the welfare of the children upon himself. All told, they were at least as safe with the old Hearer - who was, after all, a powerful conjurer - than they would be with him.

He turned to make his way back to Mariustel and the watch and paused mid-step.

A tall Duskwight man in Wasps’ leathers stood before him, blocking his path back into the village. The lower half of his face was hidden from sight, but the eyes that peeked over the hem of the scarf were as hard and unyielding as diamonds.

“Is it true?” the man asked.

“Is what true?”

“The rumors about that lady conjurer who’s been working in the village,” came the man’s cool response. “Some of the villagers are saying she’s a Garlean herself.”

Keveh’to scoffed.

“Don’t know who told you that, mate,” he said with as dismissive an air as he could muster. “But you should know better than to heed idle villagers’ gossip. The lady came with me from Gridania by order of the Conjurers’ Guild, if that answers your question.”

Something ugly and hostile moved behind those eyes for the briefest of moments before they were blank and placid once again.

“Two of my men saw their commander fleeing into the forest with some of his men. If he’s got a brain in his head, he’ll bring back enough friends to kill any who resist.”

“And if he doesn’t? If they stick it out until they get what they came for? Garleans are a treacherous lot. I’d wager their leader still has a nasty trick or two up his sleeve somewhere.”

“Having run afoul of the XIVth before? I’d wager you’re right.”

Beneath the scarf, the man’s lips shifted upwards. He was smiling, but there was something about it that Keveh’to didn’t like.

“Mind, the Wasps would be plenty willing to keep our eyes open on your behalf. A more permanent arrangement, like,” he continued. “If the town’s willing to pay for the privilege, of course - we don’t come cheap, and tangling with the Empire is risky. But this is a nice peaceful place. Be a real shame if they torched and salted it.”

“It’s not my place to make a decision on behalf of the village,” he said. “Mistress Laskaris and I represent the interests of the Grand Company and the Conjurers’ Guild, not the settlement’s nor the Wood Wailers’. I’ll do what needs must to protect my own, but I’m not interested in being your errand boy.”

“If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is. But it’s a formal offer from the Redbelly Wasps. One I’d give a bit of thought, were I you and yours.”

Though he kept his tone as cool and level as he could manage Keveh’to felt the fur on his tail bristle from base to tip.

“Is that a threat?”

"Just a friendly suggestion, Sergeant.”

“It didn’t sound very friendly.”

The Duskwight offered a laconic shrug. “The Black Wolf knows a chink in his enemy’s armor when he sees it,” he said. “And so do we.”

With that he brushed past, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he ran to join the fray, leaving Keveh’to alone to mull over his words.

Bandit or not, the man was right. But even if the Empire left them to their own devices, he also knew the opportunistic Wasps would be happy to move in on the settlement. Gifts like the boon they had provided tonight did not come without a price, he knew, and the village might be saved from imperial invasion, but it might also find itself saddled with a debt it could ill afford to accrue.

Worry nestled itself deep into the dark corners of his mind like worms tunneling through soft earth. And as he turned towards the opaque black border of the Shroud buttressing the far side of the creek like a fortress wall, just before the cries of alarm reached his ears, Keveh’to Epocan realized that he smelled smoke.

~*~

The first time Aurelia jen Laskaris had ever seen the Twelveswood, it had been through a tempered glass window.

The assortment of chirurgeons and engineers had been nestled in the belly of an Aurora-class transport vessel as it tracked its way towards the landing pad at Castrum Novum at day’s end. The sun was still visible only by the barest sliver of light and sinking fast behind the foothills of the western mountains, and all she could see was a vast and ominous sea of trees completely covering the ground for malms in any direction.

One of the decurions had offered a grim smile at the sight that lay below them through the portico. That there’s the Black Shroud, he had said. You’ll not be wanting to get any closer than this and if you’re lucky you never will. Got a right nasty reputation, that place.

Even the most obstinate antitheist knew better than to venture beneath the Shroud’s boughs (without well-armed company, in any case). Nearly every infantryman in the VIIth Legion had some sort of story to tell about former comrades who entered the forest on some mission or other only to be sent back to Garlemald in a coffin if they came back at all, from Frumentarium’s forward scouting squadrons to the conscripted legionnaires running castrum perimeter patrols. Worse things than angry Eorzeans lurked in its darkest depths, and it very much did not want the Empire’s presence anywhere near it.

Tonight, armed only with her aether and her wits, that healthy caution felt well-earned indeed. The settlement walls were ablaze with torchlight but they illuminated nothing past the embankment leading to the creek bed, and there was no moon by which to mark her path. It would be easy to trip over an exposed root or turn her ankle in a warren run, and so Aurelia moved as quickly as she dared. It worried her that Sewell was nowhere to be found, but she couldn’t let herself be distracted worrying about a former imperial army soldier who - even still recovering from his wounds - would be able to fend for himself at least for a time.

Should she find him she’d bid him run for the Druthers and fetch help if she could. Right now, Rhaya Wolndara was her first priority.

She stood with a soft grunt, bracing one hand against a nearby oak tree, and tried to get her bearings.

Now. If I were their commanding officer, where would I be holding her?

This cohort had ventured beyond the safety of its castrum for one purpose and one purpose only and that was capturing deserters by fair means or foul. That man - rem Canina - would not have been so foolish as to leave her behind to call for help but neither would he have brought her into the village if he planned to use her as a bargaining tool. It would have to be somewhere nearby, she thought. Close enough that Rhaya could be fetched at a moment’s notice to serve her purpose, but not so close that she could be easily rescued without attracting--

“Keep your filthy hands where I can see them.”

Sewell Blackthorne stood mere yalms away, brandishing a gladius in one hand; he must have pilfered it from the small armory in one of the wall watchtowers. He wore no armor and the ill-fitting linen undershirt he did wear stood in stark contrast to the darkness of the trees. Coupled with the wild sheen in his dark eyes, he looked like a malevolent forest spirit.

“I thought I might find their godsdamned leader out here,” he said. “Aye, in the forest, watching and waiting and biding your time while poor ‘savages’ like me do the dirty work for you.”

Cautiously Aurelia ventured closer to the three and now she could see two figures in cermet-plated armor kneeling before him, heads bowed and gauntleted hands raised in surrender. Neither of them wore their helms and disarmed and unmasked they seemed far less intimidating than they might be otherwise.

The Black Wolf’s hounds, she thought, brought to ground by their own quarry.

“Blackthorne-”

“They’ll have no choice but to withdraw. Isn’t that right?” His bared teeth flashed white in the darkness like levin arcs across a cloudbank, bright and brief. “You lot are naught but jackals: if I kill the leader, it scatters the pack.”

“Killing me will gain you nothing,” a man’s voice rasped, the heavy accent of the capitol one she recognised, and she put two and two together. It was Argas rem Canina, the Garlean officer whom she had injured at the Wolndara homestead. “Put down your weapon, Blackthorne.”

Sewell’s response was less a laugh than a bark. “I no longer have to take orders from your like.”

“If you would but let me speak-”

“I told you not to move. How many others are there?”

“It’s just us.”

“Like hells it is.”

A stray twig snapped beneath Aurelia’s foot and betrayed her position. She watched the muscles in his arms bunch and summoned a small sphere of wind aether to her fingertips- just enough light for Sewell to see her face and recognize it before he did anything he might regret.

“Master Blackthorne,” she said, in as low and soothing a voice as she could manage and still be heard. “Don’t.”

His expression remained unyielding and furious, but his lips pursed and she saw the tension flow out of his shoulders.

“I came out here to do this myself,” his eyes were as bleak as the night he had recounted his friend’s death to her, and she understood what was happening: the mere presence of the soldiers had put him back in the thick of his own tormented memory. "They’re your countrymen. I thought if-”

“I know what you thought,” Aurelia said. “You’re wrong.”

She took another step forward and he flinched. The small, controlled sphere ruffled her loose hair. Its erratic light flickered along the curve of her third eye, half-concealed as always beneath soft gold fringe. “I can only guess why he isn’t involved in the raid with the others. Injury alone wouldn’t preclude him from taking part unless he perhaps insisted on accompanying reinforcements.”

Sewell’s jaw twitched.

“Don’t tell me you believe him,” he said. “The Empire is all too happy to resort to deception whenever it suits them.”

“He’s telling the truth,” said a soft, fluted voice. It came from the Elezen woman kneeling at rem Canina’s side. Her angular features - thin mouth, high cheekbones, pointed ears - stood in stark relief under the glow of wind aether, and despite the clear disadvantage at which the pair of imperial defectors held her and her superior officer, she appeared quite calm. She was staring at Sewell with something like faint reproach rather than any sort of fear. “Now if you would, please sheathe your weapon. I am not armed and I have two patients under my care at the moment.”

Slowly, almost grudgingly, the Ala Mhigan lowered his sword.

Upon closer inspection, Aurelia realized that the pilus prior was clutching at one arm. There was a circular tear pockmarked into the carbonweave, and above and below she saw the neatly stripped winding of field bandages. Argas rem Canina’s expression was as composed as that of his medicus, though he looked pale and drawn.

Then the other must be...

A rattling groan and a stir of leaves drew her attention to the much smaller figure lying at the medicus’ other side. Aurelia caught a flash of auburn hair and the twitch of a set of familiar ears.

“Rhaya,” she gasped. There was crusted blood on the woman’s lips and chin, an ugly bruise along her cheekbone, and-  “What in the seven hells did you do to her?”

The medicus shook her head. “Lord Fabian--”

“Who?”

The hitch in the woman’s shoulders betrayed her hesitation. At her side, Argas rem Canina let out a weak, resigned sigh.

“Tell them, Salvitto,” he said. “It doesn’t make much difference if they plan to kill us.”

His note of command was unmistakable. The woman’s eyes shifted uneasily from the grim set of his mouth to Sewell Blackthorne’s unyielding and furious visage before she finally replied,

“The acting head of personnel retention. Lord Fabian rem Corbinus.”

Sewell’s derisive scoff made his opinion more than evident. “ ‘Personnel retention,’ “ he repeated. “You mean Frumentarium’s rat catchers. Deserter squads.”

“If you like.”

“Why are you hiding in the woods like a craven, anyroad? Shouldn’t you be down there with your men making sport of the village?”

“Phoebus pyr Cinna - my second, the man you likely encountered in that village - is their leader now.” The man struggled to sit up, pained breaths rasping from his lungs. “He was only supposed to act in my stead in the instance that I could not do so myself, but-”

The pain was upon her again, pain and a bright light to blind her vision---

*

The verdant fingers of the Black Shroud spread in all directions, deep and dark and alive with its own primeval sentience. He crashes blind through thick undergrowth with three subordinates at his heels. His mind roils with rage and a sense of urgency and something very akin to panic.

This was not his plan. Were it not for desperation he would never consider it, but extraordinary circumstance calls for extreme measures.

It's gone wrong. Somehow, it's gone wrong. He doesn't want to admit it to himself or to the cohort, and certainly not to Fabian rem Corbinus, patiently awaiting his success back in Castrum Oriens. Not after everything he promised. Not after he swore he would do what Argas rem Canina could not and bring them back flush with their victory.

Once again the mission stands in very real danger of failing. Not only has Sewell oen Blackthorne managed to somehow elude discovery once again, but his mysterious Garlean accomplice has prevailed once more, against all odds. The savages in this pathetic backwater should have been cowed beyond any hope of defiance, should have been too hostile and afraid of everything her true identity represented to do aught save leave her to her fate and let them take her captive.

Certainly, he had not expected her defiance to prove enough ammunition to spark a revolt.

But all hope isn't lost, he tells himself. Not yet. He saw the Garlean woman flee into the forest. Canina and the Miqo'te prisoner are still there where he left them, and he has no doubt that Blackthorne is skulking about somewhere nearby.

Phoebus pyr Cinna knows exactly what must be done.

"What are you doing?" he snaps at a nearby decurion. The man, an Ala Mhigan like their prey, is staring into the forest, his skin blanched pale. "Get over here before we're seen."

"My lord, I don't think this is a good idea. The forest- that is, it's not wise to-"

Seven hells below, must he do everything himself?  

He wraps his fist in a handful of the man's carbonweave doublet and hauls him forward, staring through the tempered glass of his helm's visor into terrified eyes. Satisfaction dulls the razor edge of his anger, if only for a moment.

"You aren't paid your coin to think," he snarls and shoves the hapless Hyur forward. "Take these others and gather as much kindling as you can."

Bewilderment knits the legionnaire's brow into a confused furrow, but after what happened in the village square he knows better than to question this man’s orders. He sketches out a hasty salute and scurries into the tree line with the others.

Phoebus reaches for one of the small ceruleum tanks on his belt and upends it over a stand of nearby underbrush, then picks up a fallen branch. There has been little rain as of late, and even the slightest spark will catch.

He remembers a dry autumn day from his own boyhood on his family's estate in Dalmasca, the cold beginning to creep back into the desert at night, his father ordering him to watch while the servants plugged meerkat burrows until there was only one run left open and setting each of the ceruleum-wrapped rags ablaze. Watching the colony burn alive, its survivors driven out to suffocate and die in the sand. Staring at his father's cold smile.

Phoebus snaps the small lighter open.

The sound of the flint wheel rasps in his ears as the small flame flickers to life. He only has to hold the tip of the branch against the lit wick for a moment before it catches and he can shut the lighter to tuck back into his belt. Light flickers from the fiery tip, curling it to black as the flame consumes more of the dry wood, limning steel in orange and red.

Fire will kill anything, Seleucus kir Cinna had said. Remember that, Phoebus. Fire will kill anything.

He remembers. Oh, he remembers. He is his father's boy, after all, and he has learned his lessons well.

He lowers the branch towards the fuel-soaked dry grass and deadfall without touching anything. Touch is not necessary, he knows; it is the fumes from ceruleum that ignite, not the substance itself.

Smoke billows into the night air as the leaves catch with a breathy thwump, and he laughs.

When she opened her eyes again the forest was once more shrouded in darkness and the unlovely chemical reek of ceruleum lingered still.

She grimaced, inhaled, and something acrid seared her throat and watered her eyes. The air surrounding them was no longer clear; a vague and ominous haze had settled over everything like a fine film. Twigs snapped and leaves rustling overhead as a flock of birds burst forth from their roosting place, wings buffeting the air and warning cries breaking the tranquil warmth of the summer evening.

So it was real, then.

Sewell Blackthorne had one arm wrapped about her waist to hold her upright - just as had happened in the camp infirmary all those months ago, Aurelia had all but collapsed when the light blinded her - and stared at her with blank and bewildered eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose and pushed him away with one hand. Her throat ached and her head throbbed, whether from the vision or the fire she wasn’t certain.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine. But we have to go.” Her voice sounded rough in her own ears. She glanced at the bewildered Sewell, then the Elezen woman, then at the grim-faced Garlean commandant. “Your underling is having his men set brushfires somewhere along the embankment. I think he’s trying to flush us out.”

A deep and curious frown knitted the man’s brow but before he could ask any questions Sewell exploded: “Is he mad? He’ll set the entire godsdamned forest on fire!”

“I doubt he cares. And the Shroud is large enough that without knowing exactly where he is, there’s no way of stopping him,” Aurelia said. “He’ll have this entire area ablaze before we have any idea where to even start looking.”

“Then what the hells are we going to do?”

Rather than answer him, she turned her attention to the Elezen woman sitting at the Garlean’s side. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“It’s Lavinia. Lavinia jen Salvitto.”

“Lavinia it is, then. You may call me Aurelia. Can you get your commander up and moving? I’ll take Mistress Wolndara.”

“Why are you helping us?” Argas rasped as he took Lavinia’s hand and struggled to his feet in his heavy armor. Sweat stood out in a cold band on his brow, misting about his third eye. “After all of this. After everything-”

“My lord,” Lavinia began, but he plowed on ahead.

“After everything we’ve done, after the orders I’ve given, you still choose to aid us. Why?”

Aurelia thought of her own desperation in the aftermath of Dalamud’s explosion, clawing through mud and dirty water with broken bones to escape a slow death beneath the press of cermet and reinforced steel. She thought of Sazha, most of his face a ruined mess, the rattle in his chest when he had passed, barely recognizable. Of wounded lying in vast lines within and without tents not equipped to hold them, of a close shoulder-to-shoulder press in a cold, wet gaol cell.

“I would be a poor example of my profession were I to leave any man to die, no matter his crimes against me or others.”

“Not a sentiment I would expect to hear from the likes of a deserter.”

“You needn’t pretend we’re friends, but I do ask you to try and trust me.” She coughed into the fabric of her sleeve. The silver locket beneath her robes now felt uncomfortably warm against her skin; sweat stuck the hemp to her shoulders and chest in damp patches. “With all due respect, pilus, we can discuss comparative morality when we aren’t in immediate danger.”

The Garlean inclined his chin; his expression was solemn and very focused, as though he was digesting her words. Aurelia slid her arms under Rhaya’s limp form, heedless of the woman’s cracked and semi-conscious moan, and slowly bore her weight aloft until she was on her feet with the Miqo’te in a bridal carry. There was one place she knew could provide them temporary shelter.

“I need someone up here to help clear a path,” she said.  

It was Argas rem Canina who stepped forward. The pilus prior held a mailed hand against one side but his gunblade was unsheathed, angled low in his grip.

One look into his eyes told her he knew as well as she did that this fire was meant to smoke them out. It was a common enough tactic, one often used in Ala Mhigo to flush out bandits and smaller Resistance cells in the mountains, and Aurelia had no doubt this cohort employed it now-- but better to take the risk and spring the trap on their own terms.

“My lord,” Lavinia protested, “you can barely stand.”

“A passing weakness and naught else. I have enough in me to swing a blade.”

Aurelia’s expression was as doubtful as her fellow chirurgeon’s; Argas didn’t look at all well, but there was no time to argue. The hiss and crackle of flames were audible now as they began to move, just at their backs and still in the periphery, but spreading with a disconcerting swiftness.

“Master Blackthorne can assist,” she said. “Let’s go.”

It was slow going; the underbrush was brittle from lack of rain and mostly overgrown brambles besides. The effects of aether imbalance from last summer’s disaster lingered in the forest still, and as Argas and Sewell chopped away at the offending plant life Aurelia fancied she could feel something heavy and ominous in the air. Cold invisible fingers trailed their way down the length of her back, like some eldritch lover beckoning her to its bed, and her stomach twisted in knots.

The forest, Aurelia realized, her heart pounding. That’s what this feeling is. The elementals.

She could sense an immense and ancient fury pulsing through her newfound connection to the land -- aether roiling just under the surface of the earth. And there was nothing she could do about it, save to forge on and hope the Shroud would not rise in indiscriminate fury against them before she had seen them all to some kind of safety. And the farther away they could lure the Empire’s hounds from the village, the better.

With a gentle touch, she shifted her grip upon the injured woman in her arms and followed the narrow clearance the two men had cut.

==

There was no angry treant to greet their arrival this time, and Aurelia couldn’t decide if it was an unexpected boon or an omen of the worst sort. The tumbled stones of Amdapor lay as she had left them a fortnight past: cold and still, ivy creepers and belladonna black against the white stone in the depths of the night’s shadow. Empty and broken remains of gracefully arched windows seemed to gaze down upon the eclectic party like malevolent eyes as they scurried down the sloped path and into the half-excavated city.

As she paused to get her bearings Argas rem Canina drew to a pause at her side and squinted into the darkness. The Garlean was breathing heavily, though whether from exertion or exacerbated injury was unclear. “I certainly hope you and Blackthorne were not expecting reinforcements to await you in a tomb such as this.”

“A tomb, mayhap, but hopefully not ours,” Aurelia replied curtly, eyes scanning the crumbling buildings. The oppressive weight of the Greenwrath hissed through her veins with each pulse as it sank into the aether around them, making it difficult to concentrate. “Do any of you have anything we can use for light? I need both my hands to carry her.”

Sewell was already moving to lift Rhaya from her arms. “I’ll take her. Do what you need to.”

“Your shoulder-”

“Is healed enough to carry weight for a little while. What are you looking for?”

“A partially excavated antechamber,” she said absently. “The Wailers had plans to convert part of the ruin for their use but the project was abandoned nigh on two summers ago. It should be sound enough to serve as a firebreak if it gets this far.”

“Seven hells. I’m almost afraid to ask, Mistress Laskaris,” his expression was decidedly pained now, “but why was the excavation only partial?”

She gave Sewell a wan smile over her shoulder. “The elementals wanted it undisturbed. So I’m told.”

“A haunted ruin,” he muttered. “Brilliant.”

“The theoretical existence of restless spirits is preferable to death by immolation, I think.” A few moments of perusal revealed the ingress she sought. She pointed to the door that stood ajar. “After you.”

Argas narrowed his eyes at the sight. “Are you certain this is wise?”

“Does it matter? We can’t outrun the fire. Certainly not with injured parties to tend, unless you’ve a better idea.”

“My lord,” Lavinia murmured, “we are not in a position to be choosy. The safehouses can’t be trusted now-”

“-and the nearest settlements are malms from here. If our luck holds, Phoebus will waste valuable time trying to find us.” Argas shook his head. “Unfortunately I suspect this is the first place he’ll look. We surveyed this ruin months ago and he has the maps and the intelligence-”

“We’ll worry about that when he arrives,” Sewell interrupted, grabbing his unhurt arm. “Do as the lady says.”

Glaring, Argas obeyed.

Other than a cool draft whispering from the crack in the door the space was blessedly unoccupied, save a few musty crates situated in front of a collapsed pillar. While Sewell struck flint to make torchlight, Aurelia dragged the remains of the heavy door shut as much as she could manage, even as her stomach roiled and her limbs trembled.

Full darkness fell upon them, so complete that nothing was visible. She could taste ceruleum and stagnant muddy water and damn it, no, she thought angrily. There wasn’t time for this. She would simply have to bear it.

She bit back her sigh of relief as the first torch flickered to life.

“Someone should stand watch at the door,” Argas grunted as he leaned against a pillar. “It’d be wise to make certain we won’t be ambushed.”

“Might as well be me.” Sewell removed the last unlit torch from its wall sconce and touched it to one of the others. The dry wood caught immediately. “Go on, Aurelia. Tend to Mistress Wolndara; I’ll let you know if I need you.”

With an effort she swallowed back rising bile and turned her focus upon Rhaya’s still form, lying next to a pile of rubble.

The woman’s pulse was a bit quick for her liking, but it was strong enough not to worry her overmuch. She stared at the bloodied, bruised hand in hers with its misshapen fingers and swollen forearm and let her anger flash through her for only a moment before she closed her extended palm and dismissed the sphere of wind she had held. Gently she placed her hand upon Rhaya’s forearm and taking pains to keep her actions slow and deliberate, poured aether into the fractured bones little by little just the way she’d been taught by Brother E-Sumi-Yan.

Aether trickled from her fingers in a slow and steady stream, like refilling an empty ewer. It wouldn’t be a panacea, but the curative spell would regenerate new bone more quickly. As long as the arm was properly set and Rhaya did nothing to aggravate her injury for at least a fortnight there would be no lasting ill effects.

A soft sigh escaped the Miqo’te’s lips, and the stark lines on her face began to smooth.

“Phoebus pyr Cinna questioned her personally. Looking for you and Blackthorne,” Lavinia said. She was wrapping Argas’ arm in field bandaging as she watched Aurelia work. “Lord Argas had nothing to do wi-”

“Let it be known I am supremely disinterested in any excuses on your superior’s behalf.” Aurelia didn’t bother to look at the other chirurgeon nor remove the contempt from her words. She carefully examined one of the ruined fingers on Rhaya’s hand; the woman’s whimper cracked into the darkness, wordless recrimination. “He could have put paid to his subordinate’s cruelty at any time and instead he chose to say and do nothing. And so did you.”

Lavinia bowed her head and did not answer. Aurelia was grateful for the brief silence while she set Rhaya’s fingers and reinforced the hasty field splints. She had nothing to say to either of the imperials that would be civil, let alone kind.

“What made you do it?”

Aurelia paused in the midst of securing the field tapes. “I assume you mean defect.”

“Yes. Surely you must have known-”

“I was not given a choice in the matter.” She let her aether spread over Rhaya, enfolding her like a warm blanket to ensure she would rest. “But I think even if I had the choice, I would have made it anyway. Garlemald does not-”

“Aurelia!” Sewell’s voice was fraught with tension. “I need you!”

Without pause, she pushed herself onto her feet. “I’ll be right back. Keep close watch over her,” she instructed Lavinia. “Let me know if her condition worsens for any reason.”

The Ala Mhigan peered through the cracked door, attention so wholly focused on the far side he didn’t even look up at her approach. In only a moment of listening, she caught the sound of voices: a number of them, shouting to and fro, growing closer. Beneath the shouts were footsteps crashing through the underbrush outside.

“They’re here,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t see as well as I’d like, but I’d know those pot helms anywhere.” His eyes were wide, flickering like frightened animals to and fro as he stared through the fissure. “A dozen at least.”

“Then we’d best do what we can to keep them away from here,” she said, grasping his arm in her hand. “Let’s go.”

~*~

The Twelveswood burned, a pyre to bear the remnants of Amdapori folly.

It looked like some ominous illustration from a book Aurelia had owned as a child, depicting one of the seven hells. All around was the hungry crackle of flames and the frantic cries of birds fleeing the destruction of their roosts, their wings stark against the night sky. Smoke billowed in great clouds into the air, which had taken on a hazy orange cast.

Upon this stage spilled scarlet and black carbonweave, a swarm of angry insects.

Aurelia covered her mouth with her sleeve as she took in narrow sips of air. Her temples pounded with her pulse and her breath rasped harshly against the back of her throat with each suppressed cough into her elbow; she grasped Ewain’s staff in her right hand, and in the left palm balanced a sphere of wind-aspected aether. At her side stood Sewell Blackthorne, crouched into a readied fighting stance with his weapon in position. His expression was bleak and cold and, she realized, resigned. He fully expected them to die here.

Watching the remains of the cohort press towards them in a wave, weapons held aloft, she could hardly begrudge him his fatalistic determination. Beneath her feet, the forest seemed to growl and strain against its fetters: a great and ancient beast stirring from its uneasy slumber.

The morass of red-trimmed black fanned outward in a semicircle before drawing to a halt mere fulms away from their position. The soldiers did not move to attack- there was no need to do so, not yet. Their maneuvering had cut off any avenue of escape for Aurelia and her allies that the fire did not cover.

“Aurelia, we can’t do this with just the two of us!” Sewell hissed. “The moment either of us drops, the other dies.”

“We have to defend this position.”

She had gone from a faceless member of the imperial army’s rank and file to raising her hand against them in a year’s time. Perhaps last summer, she could reasonably have argued that her defection was by circumstance rather than choice, as she had told Lavinia not a quarter-bell past. That was of a certainty no longer the case.

The crunch of sollerets against lichen-crusted stone echoed through the air, slow and steady, and the black and scarlet parted like a dark wave for its steel-and-magitek clad vanguard. The man wore the bronze-trimmed tabard of a low-ranking officer and his helm, protecting himself from the fires he had set. Although Aurelia could not see his face, she could sense the mocking leer that lay beneath his armor as he pointed his blade at the pair.

“Now I have you both,” he breathed. “You’ve nowhere left to run.”

Aurelia tensed, backing towards the antechamber door by ilms as the man drew short and unsheathed his gunblade.

“We will see to the rebels who aided you in due time, but first we must needs deal with you.” The sharpened edge pointed first at Sewell, then her. “All of Eorzea will see what comes of those who defy His Radiance’s supreme will. For your crimes-”

“That will be quite enough, Phoebus!” a voice at her back shouted. “Lower your weapons and stand down! All of you!”

Argas rem Canina staggered out from the door to stand between them, his gunblade at the ready. A shocked murmur rippled through the remaining soldiers.

“You stand with the very criminals you were tasked to hunt?” Phoebus pyr Cinna sputtered. “Lord Fabian will have your head for this, you old fool.”

“And the Black Wolf will have yours for mutiny once he hears what you’ve done.”

“Mutiny? This mission should have been mine from the start,” Phoebus raged. “Had I had been entrusted with the retrieval effort, we’d not have lost good men due to your blundering about. We had Blackthorne to rights in that miserable hovel a fortnight past but we lost him because you’re too bleeding soft!”

Argas lifted his blade with a pained grunt and thumbed back the hammer along the hilt.

“You were right about one thing,” he said. “I was a fool. A wise man would have had the sense to do something about you long ago.”

“As you’ve thrown in your lot with criminals, Canina, you can die like one. Velites! Forward!”

But the soldiers did not move. Uneasiness crossed several faces as their former pilus prior set his right foot forward in a battle stance, and it was clear that their erstwhile leader did not have as absolute a mandate as he had believed. Enraged now beyond any semblance of rational thought, Phoebus pyr Cinna screamed,

“Don’t just stand there, you godsdamned cowards! Kill him! Kill them all!”

*

||Hear||

A spark of intense pain flashed across her temples and into her third eye, but for the first time since it had awakened her from a dreamless unconsciousness in the Carteneau Flats, Aurelia did not collapse beneath the force of it.

Everything - her pain, her consciousness, even her very sense of self - dwindled to insignificance: replaced with the giddy sensation of feeling near overfull with aether. She didn’t know where the surge came from. Only that it seemed to well up from somewhere deep within: a bountiful, boundless fountain of power that blossomed from her very soul and into every last part of her, until even the very edges of her hair felt static and alive.

She had felt this only once before.

The day she had healed that boy.

She could

||Hear. Feel||

use the staff now. Easily. Her hands seemed to rise of their own accord into a fighting stance, in a space of time that must have been mere seconds but felt as eons.

Earth and air coalesced at her fingertips, winding and twining like vines about her arms. She knew where their strikes would land before they even had the chance to make them, and danced nimbly this way and that, stones and cyclones flying from her fingers to dispatch her opponents with absurd ease.

It felt far less like fighting people than making strikes against the inert training dummies nestled in the groves surrounding the Fane.

||Think||

Her chest seized. She coughed and floundered in a heartbeat’s space of panic before E-Sumi-Yan’s words came back to her, and along with it the training he had so patiently drilled into her during the cold months before her arrival in Willowsbend.

In that moment she bent her will to the land and drew from it. Aether rushed forth at her beck and call, and her strength began to replenish itself once more, and -- as Argas himself had once hoped to see -- she turned the land itself upon her enemies, confounding them with water and earth and air and the heaviness of sleep.

The imperials gave ground again and again before her magicks and her allies’ blades until at last only their commander remained standing and able to fight.

Panting audibly, it was now Phoebus’ turn to back away as Aurelia advanced. The wildness in his eyes had long since soured to hatred, but now held something of fear in them. He had expected defiance. He had not anticipated this, and she supposed she could not well blame him for that, as it was beyond anything a pureblooded Garlean should have been able to muster.

That supernatural fount of strength was like a brightly burning candle, however- it was not meant to last for long periods of time, and she sensed it was close to guttering.

He wouldn’t know that, though.

She took another step forward, staff at the ready, and the Garlean visibly flinched.

“Abomination,” he spat at her. “Anathema.”

The words stung, but she was careful to keep her expression neutral when she spoke. Her voice was rough from the smoke.

“You are outnumbered, centurion,” she said, “and the fire will soon summon the Wailers from the Quarrymill barracks if it has not done so already. Should you set foot outside this ruin, you must contend with them- and so long as you remain, you must contend with me.”

“This isn’t over.”

“It is, Cinna.” Argas’ voice was flat both with hostility and pain. The Garlean had fought his own men despite clinging to the edge of collapse; she could see the wavering tremor in his posture. “She’s right. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

“And what of it?” His chin snapped from one to the other- Aurelia, Argas, and Sewell. “What will you do? None of you have the strength to finish me.”

“It’s over,” Argas repeated. “Lord Fabian will not accept your failure any more than mine, and well you know it. Depending on what you promised him, mayhap even less.”

He lowered his gunblade.

For a moment, Phoebus pyr Cinna stood in stunned, tense silence. And then a deep, enraged cry welled up from the man’s chest, emerging through the helm as a mad shriek. His attention turned not upon Aurelia or Sewell but upon his former superior.

“You," he screamed, barreling towards Argas with terrifying speed.

Aurelia and Sewell moved at the same time to intercept him but she had less distance to close, and reached him first. She threw her arms around the pilus’ shoulders and pulled him out of their enemy’s path with all of her strength. Argas staggered and nearly fell from the lack of counterbalance, his gunblade clattering to the ground as he fell to the ground with her weight atop his. He uttered a muffled groan, but the crash she had heard was not from his fall. It had come from behind them, somewhere a few yalms away from the antechamber opening.

The choked gasps she heard at her back stopped her breath in her throat.

“Master Blackthorne?” she said, her voice low. There was no reply. Slowly she tilted her chin to her right, looking over her shoulder to the place where Sewell had stood.

The long, slender steel of a standard-issue imperial gunblade had impaled him through the chest, its edge stained crimson with his blood-- but the mortal blow had not been without cost to the blade's owner. The simple gladius Sewell had pilfered had found the chink between the base of the centurion’s helm and the seams of his carbonweave, and neatly punctured his throat.

Arterial blood crested over the hilt and spilled over his fingers like a waterfall. Sewell kept his grip and leaned forward, grimacing from the pain of his own wound but forcing himself to endure it. Phoebus lifted a hand to wrap around Sewell’s wrist, fingers plucking weakly in a feeble attempt to dislodge the sword that had struck the killing blow.

It was a futile effort; his once-formidable strength had left him.

“It means nothing,” Phoebus sputtered thickly. “In the end, Eorzea will fall.”

With open contempt, Sewell Blackthorne flung the offending hand aside with his own. “You lost," he spat in the man's face. “Have the grace to accept it.”

His only answer was a choked gurgle. Pinned to the ancient wall like a displayed insect, the dead man’s body sagged over the sword and his gunblade hand fell away from the weapon to dangle over the stones, dripping blood. Sewell released his grip and let gravity finish its work; his knees buckled as he fell. Phoebus pyr Cinna’s gunblade followed, its hilt striking the ground with a metallic rattle.

Aurelia clambered to her feet and closed the distance on trembling legs. She could hear Argas rem Canina follow suit, his footsteps dragging and faltering at her back, but barely paid it mind as she dropped to her knees at Sewell’s side.

The Ala Mhigan shoved her hands away before she could attempt to tend him. His blood, a deep, dark red, left a long crimson smear down the front of her robe.

“No sense in that, miss medicus. Wastin’ aether... on a dying man,” he croaked. His smile was a small and joyless thing. “...You were brilliant. Never... seen a healer fight before. Not like that.”

“Sewell,” she reached for him again, trying to pull his tunic aside to see to the damage. He caught her hands once more and his head lolled from side to side. "Please," Aurelia said. It was a plea. She knew the tears that burned her eyes were not sentiment for a man she barely knew. It was for the understanding between them: the frustration and futility that came of knowing she couldn't save him.

No sense wasting your aether, he'd said. Sewell knew as well as she that the wound was mortal, and as she'd done at so many other bedsides, all Aurelia could do was keep watch until he passed.

“Just… tell Rhaya I’m sorry. For all of it.” He grasped the hilt of the gunblade still buried in his chest as if savoring his victory. “Imanie an’ me… we’ll be watching you.”

The vigil was brief and quiet. Like a candle, the light in his eyes faded into emptiness. Slowly, more from ingrained training than aught else, Aurelia reached for his still face and closed them. She looked up at her unlikely ally and in silence the pair stared at each other with dulled eyes, both of them pale and exhausted and not quite able to believe the swift and brutal conclusion of the night’s affairs.

Shouts of a different and no less familiar sort echoed against the stone, followed by a sound that had become lately familiar: nocked arrows and multitudes of bowstrings, drawn in tandem.

“Wood Wailers!” a voice bellowed. “Put down your weapons!”

The last vestiges of the presence that had spoken to her during the battle withdrew itself entirely and all of the giddy energy that had kept her on her feet drained from her body like the running waters of the creek.

On its heels, the depletion of her aether hit body and mind like a dropping meteor. Aurelia crumpled forward as the world began to spin around her, feeling suddenly as if each of her limbs were tied to lodestones. She would have collapsed across Sewell’s body had Argas not caught her in his arms. The memento mori she wore seared her skin, metal heated by the surrounding aether. It burned, but her mind felt so many malms away that the pain seemed to be happening to someone else.

Footsteps shook the ground beneath her prone body. Heat on her cheeks, searing and intense. Beneath half-closed lids, she stared blankly at an orange sky.

The red moon, she thought. Dalamud keeps getting closer and closer. Any day now, it- or did that happen…?

She smelled ceruleum and blood and thought of cold water and the close tomb of a reaper, but she knew this wasn’t Carteneau. Still Eorzea, but it was somewhere different. A forest. Large and dark and watching-

“Sergeant!” another voice called. It felt malms away: oceans, entire continents. “It’s Mistress Laskaris! She’s alive!”

Her thoughts moved in a slow and confused jumble even as she caught a scent that she knew well. The familiar someone was lifting her out of Argas’ lap and into a carry, but she couldn’t open her eyes to see who it was.

“Two more, Sazha,” she muttered, unable to raise her voice. She was tired. She was so tired. “Look inside. The antechamber. Rhaya. Rhaya and-”

Her lips were too sluggish to form the words. Tell Rhaya I’m sorry. For all of it.

It was the last thing she remembered before the world faded-

-but the long night was ended at last.

[luckythecog]

Please don’t call me the Harvestman

My eyes automatically drift to the upper left-hand corner, as they always did when I entered my small but quaint bathroom, with its white painted brick and sage colored cabinets. I notice she’s gone, and I find myself feeling a bit of worry, or, in the least, a small sense of loss. How many times had I entered, gazing at the corner with wonder and admiration at the small miracle of her life?

Although I had noticed her absence in the past, she had always returned, but I knew the day would come when I would see her no more. I wasn’t quite ready for that emptiness just yet. She’d be back from the mission she was on. I had come to enjoy the observance with a child’s wonder.

My eyes were now scanning all four corners, low and high, checking behind and over obstacles, but there was no sign of her. Days previous had shown what were perhaps siblings, offspring or possible mates. My knowledge was inadequate, and I found myself following rabbit holes to learn as much as I could about this little creature.

I gave her an endearing name. Delilah. My imagination conjured up a mutual respect between us. She indulged me the space I asked for, and I reciprocated by keeping the broom away from her home so it wouldn’t be damaged.

Was this the beginning of what losing one’s sanity looked like? How many people, if told of this strange relationship, would think I had lost my mind? My compassion meter had always run in the red, and that was how I justified this little bond. It took me three weeks to muster the courage to talk about her to my husband. When I finally did, he gave me the “I love you, despite your being a little over the top sometimes” look. Better than an eye roll, I suppose.

Delilah was a Daddy Long Legs, or Cellar Spider, of the Pholcidae family. Not to be confused with the other Daddy Long Legs, or Harvestmen, of the Opilione family. The difference between the two? Pholcidae have three or four pairs of eyes, no antennae and two body segments, creating an elongating appearance. The Opiliones have only two eyes, one body segment, which is more of a pill shape, and they do not produce silk. The Opilione family are more closely related to scorpions than to spiders.

Delilah wasn’t just a spider but perhaps the largest Daddy Longlegs I had ever seen, and, as she aged, her color advanced from tan to dark brown to finally black, giving the joints in her perfectly formed eight legs, the appearance of beautiful onyx beads. The first time I spotted her in the upper corner of my bathroom, she was yet still relatively small, perhaps 2-3 millimeters and light tan. Shortly before she disappeared, her size had tripled. She had lived in my bathroom for nearly a year.

I have always allowed certain beneficial spiders in my home, as they help to eliminate other pests. It’s an “I scratch your back, you scratch mine” type of relationship, but the majority of insects are scooped up and placed outside. I would not consider myself a spider lover by any stretch but, my respect for all living things runs deep. My blog post titled “Warmth of the Autumn Sun” explains how this came to be.

                                                                                Every evening, as I showered, Delilah would stretch out her two front legs as far as they could go. Toward the end of her life, those legs proved to be nearly two inches long and were quite impressive. Although I didn’t understand what this behavior meant at the time, she conducted it like clockwork each time the bathroom filled with steam.

One afternoon as I was doing my own cleaning, A new insect from her web dropped to the floor. prior to this, I had watched her feast for days on a single host, and this new meal hadn’t been there a few hours before, so I assumed it fell prematurely.

As crazy as the thought was, I was entertaining the idea of getting it back up into her web somehow. Now, how does one do this without accidentally snagging some delicate piece of the construction, yanking the entire thing to shreds? Good question, but as the planning and execution of Spider-Aid 2019 rolled through my mind, the only solution seemed to just toss it back up into her web.

You may think this would be an easy task. It-is-not. I just thank God no one had been watching me attempt this feat, or it would have kept them laughing for weeks.

The first time I tossed the insect up, it completely missed the web. Although it was a good-sized bug, it didn’t quite have the heft I had hoped for. I stooped down, scooped it off the bathroom floor, and decided to stand on top of the toilet. Being closer should increase my chances of success.

Being ever so careful to avoid snagging part of her web, inviting an angry spider to jump into my hair, I stretched my neck and got on my tip-toes. I looked side to side and underneath for the borders of her web. I learned their webs are incredibly hard to see, and I understood now, how correct that was. I was going to have to take my chances.

I tossed the insect at a 90-degree angle and, POW! Bullseye. The bug appeared to hit the web but didn’t hold, only bouncing off, falling to the floor. Before I could hop off the toilet seat to grab it, the web looked as though a tornado was whipping through it. Delilah couldn’t be spotted any longer, and it looked as though the web was rebounding at high speed. I almost fell over backward trying to get down off the toilet.

As I gained my footing, I looked up at the web. My heart was like a mallet in my ears, my arms wet noodles and the ever-elusive creepy-crawly sensation had set in. Had I somehow bounced her out of the web and possibly into my hair or back? I turned my face toward the web. All was exactly as it had been a few short seconds earlier. She was cool as a cucumber.

I was not.

I ran from the bathroom, up the short flight of stairs, and into our living room where my unsuspecting husband was sitting in his laz-E-Boy watching TV. My out of breath voice, sounding feverish, I tried to convey to him the bizarre episode I’d just witnessed. His eyes slowly swiveled from the TV to me and he uttered “Oh really?”. His response was something I’d expect if I had told him that a room had four walls. He obviously wasn’t sharing in my excitement.

My mind seared with the fantastic impression of what this beautiful little arthropod had just pulled off. My curiosity was now in overdrive, and I absolutely had to know more about these wee creatures. My eyes went from my husband, which were again riveted on the television, to my laptop. I plopped down in my recliner, opened the lid and went straight to my best pal Google. Here is what I learned:

1.      The silk of the Daddy Longlegs does not contain any adhesive properties. The spider adapts by using an irregular patterned web to trap their prey. They use their long legs to toss stiff silk material over their quarry, immobilizing it and encasing the bug entirely. Then, they create a small hole in the newly spun sac, injecting their venom into a vulnerable area of their prey. Finally, the meal is attached to the webbing with tiny hooks they create. When their bellies are full, the delicious meal is then unhooked, dropping it to the floor.

2.      The DLL will vibrate wildly in its own web if disturbed or under threat. The movement is so rapid, they are almost indistinguishable during the process. They basically turn into a total blur. This is what I witnessed when trying to “help”.

3.      Instead of hanging right side up in their web, as many spiders do, DLL’s hang upside down.

4.      They prefer damp or humid areas to set up house.

5.      They are very messy housekeepers. In fact, their webs look like total disasters. They are constructed in a 3-D style creating a shapeless jumble of threads, rather than that of an orb, which looks like a wheel with spokes. In lieu of cleaning their webs like many other spiders, they may either ditch it, create a new web or, take ownership of other spiders’ digs. This latter choice not only gets them a new home, but a fine meal as well.

6.      They are the natural enemy of various sizes of house spiders as well as flies, bees, wolf spiders, beetles and wasps, but it doesn’t end there. They will consume almost any intruding insect and, due to their long legs, they are able to pull off this feat despite the size of the invader. They truly are an asset to have around the house.

7.      They may amputate one or more legs to slip away from capture. If you see a DLL with only six or seven legs, it’s possible it had been in battle. Unfortunately, the Pholcidae’s legs do not regenerate.

8.      The Pholcidae spider is not poisonous contrary to popular belief. They do produce venom, but their fangs are not long enough to pierce human skin.

9.      The life span of a male DLL is about a year, with a female living up to three years.

10.   The female will tote her egg sac in her jaws. They typically produce 20 to 30 eggs and, after the spider-lings are born, she will continue to carry them in her mouth until the youngsters have honed their hunting skills. Only then will they leave their mother.

11.   The male, prior to copulation, will caress her two front legs to get her in the mood.

 Learning about these little creatures was just the beginning of my strange human/spider love affair. The more knowledge I gained, the deeper my respect for this fellow earth mate became.

Although Delilah has been gone for over a month now, two new DLL’s arrived. They picked respective corners and have been busy keeping the room free of unwanted pests.  As soon as the shower is turned on, they go from spending the day motionless to busying themselves. As soon as the shower ends, the fun must be over and they head back to their corners, sitting still once again. I’m not sure if it’s the sound of the water (do spiders have ears?) or perhaps a subtle vibration the water emits. Their movement is immediate and comes long before there is a rise in humidity. I have sent an email to an entomologist to quench this curiosity.

As humans, we tend to fear, dislike, or keep a distance from what we aren’t familiar with. It’s a natural response that is funneled down from our ancestors, who had their share of defending themselves against a host of threatening things. There is a balance though, and that is through educating oneself.

The more we learn and allow ourselves to understand the things we don’t yet understand, the more tolerant and compassionate we will become. It’s up to each one of us to make things better on this planet we call home. Knowledge truly is power.

The next time you see a Daddy Longlegs in a corner of your home, welcome and thank them for keeping house right alongside you. Who knows, they just might thank you in return.