((Wonky tense changes at the end. We were flipping tired.))
A dark grey blanket, the clouds as coarse as wool, had been thrown over the restless Alterac mountains. It did nothing to soothe the fitful territory, but it did muffle much of the chaos. Grinding plaguewagon wheels were lost under the deafening sound of snow fall. In sheets the flakes assaulted the sparse pockets of timber wood trees.
The two agents were caught in this ‘snowstorm’ (how the locals would laugh at that) as much as anyone else. Sloping into their narrow valley passage was nothing but ice and black rock. It left little to visually distract them. In fact, the consistency of their depressing surroundings created a sense of doldrums.
Unchanging patterns of ash-grey flecks and dull white snow might have lulled Raoul Wheaton to sleep if the bitter cold was not keeping him so awake. A certain grouchiness came with it, but he hid this well as he wrapped an arm around his beloved and pulled her closer against him. The weight of snow on his back, though hardly a weight at all, felt crushing.
Even with back hunched as it was, he was still taller than her.
His form over her own was a feeble attempt at security, little more than symbolic. For all the promises that they were home and content as long as they had each other, reality promised to be tenfold discomforting. Snow melted in their boots, sinking into their socks with every step they took. Their boots left deep depressions in the snow, deep enough that no matter where they walked the snow came up to their knees.
Every step was a chore because of this, and he was tired. Outpost Khadgar’s Breath was just around the next iced-over cropping of rocks, but blocking the ‘path’ were fallen trees. They were broken at the spine and had either been snapped by the layers of snow and ice on their branches, or had been hacked down unevenly by someone who didn’t entirely know how to use an axe. If the former was the case, tenacity had outweighed ignorance.
“Fuck.” He muttered quietly, his breath a warm blessing against her.
There would be no simply climbing over them. Stacked in criss-cross and sloppy fashion as they were, the couple would likely break their legs trying to just get over the first one. In the tangle of branches and jutting wood, the distinction between ‘first’ and the others couldn’t even be made. But perhaps they could burn them down, or melt an icy path around.
Whatever they did, it would be extra effort and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Amavia wasn’t a girl used to harsh climes such as this. Westfall was on the opposite end of the spectrum and even Dalaran, with it’s chilly breezes that occasionally snuck in from Icecrown and Stormpeaks had never made her this cold. This was almost unbearable. The cold that froze her to the very bones.
She too was tired and more travel worn than she was willing to admit. Pride kept her walking and that smile on her lips when his arm wrapped around her waist. At least they had each other. At least in this frozen wasteland there was some measure of companionship in his presence.
But at the sight of the obstacle what little cheer remained in her was sapped. Light. Fate, luck, or the powers that be were not on their side. Her thin shoulders, so padded by the heavy protective clothing, slumped and she stared at the trees and then at her partner.
“Fuck indeed. Fire or ice, sunshine?” While she excelled in the arcane she also was talented in frost magics. Fire, however, was a weakness for her. Whether she lacked the temperament or the demeanor or just the skill, was unknown. The pure ability to harness that much energy from the leylines to burn the trees down wouldn’t be something she could readily do, if she could at all.
“I vote an ice bridge. What do you think?”
“I vote just climbing over the rocks on the side.” He kind of whined it. To do so leisurely at the pace he was thinking of would slow them down considerably. To do it at the pace they needed would take just as much, if not more, effort than using magic.
“Well. How about I make a bridge. And if you want, you can take it. I can try an arcane one - George did it once for us - but I think with the amount of snow and ice here already frost would have a better footing.” Her smile remained on her lips as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his quickly. Just barely a peck before she shucked off her gloves and tucked them in her pocket. Dexterity would be needed for this and the thick wool and fur crippled the finesse she’d require to pull it off.
Without a moment wasted, she took a deep breath and began. Magic was an old friend and it felt like a welcome visit to have the energies she borrowed from the leylines swell inside her. Magic was addictive, she knew that. It had been pounded into her brain by Percy and her Teacher. But it was a sweet drug now in the bleak journey and one she was willing to chance in taking.
Her hands moved in an intricate pattern and in her mind she formed the bridge, whispered incantations fell from her lips till it rose from the very ice and snow itself. Delicate whorls of pure ice made the railings and the pathway looked thick and sturdy. Safe while beautiful, it hovered in the air and she directed it to steady itself over the obstruction.
As soon as her hands dropped however the bridge did too. Ice cracked and rained down on the fallen trees with the same sound as shattered glass. The railings broke into sharp shards and skittered along with an almost dangerous pace.
Total failure.
Her head hung and she bitched quietly under her breath as the gloves were pulled back on. “Rocks then?”
Raoul sighed beside her, his disappointment obvious.
“I’m sorry, love.” A gloved hand tried to rub her back before his own came off. Fire and Frost were schools of magic he had basic knowledge in, but he didn’t really care for either of them. The Arcane was what Sherry and the Archmage had both encouraged him to pursue... well, encouragement was the nice way of phrasing it.
At the end of the day, Arcane was real magic to him.
Unfortunately he didn’t know how to create arcane bridges or hover discs. At the very least, he didn’t remember how at this moment. His mind felt sluggish and it was hard to think of anything through the cold. An idea did come to mind as he stared forlornly at the rocks though.
A lightbulb may as well have lit up above his head.
“We could climb up the rocks and then slow fall down? It could carry us across the rest of the way... or we could get stuck on the trees.” Huh.
Four eyes watched them from the bluffs above. A dog and his master.
Their silhouettes were distorted by the whipping snow and shadows that bled into one another.
They saw.
They turned to leave.
Amber eyes narrowed a moment as she peered up at the bluffs. With the snow and the wind and her own fatigue it was easy to see things. Perhaps her shattered soul was playing tricks on her mind again but for a moment she was certain she saw a man and a creature. But it was nothing more than a fantasy. She had been missing Jeffrey and Dog so much that now the shadows themselves were taking on their forms.
Amavia snapped out of her thoughts with a sharp shake of her head and nodded. It could work. It was risky but it could work. And what other options did they have?
“That sounds like a good idea. We’ll just have to jump to carry us a bit. And, if we get stuck on the trees maybe we can try and walk along them some.” Her voice held more enthusiasm than she felt for the idea. She had to be encouraging. She had to have as much faith in him as she did Jeffrey. That faith was something that had strengthened their partnership and would surely do the same for this one.
“Alright. Let’s head up then.” He squeezed her shoulder and tried to guide her to their right. It wasn’t a particularly difficult climb up the rocks, large and relatively flat as they were. It was just annoying.
There wasn’t anywhere good to stop either. At the highest point, which would take them the furthest on a jump, the rocks were too sharp and jagged. They split out unevenly in V shapes as if a shaman had deliberately grown them upward. So they had to traverse that delicately (painstakingly even for some of them with vulnerable parts) before they could even catch their breath.
On the other side, Raoul held firm to her arm and to one of the spiking slabs, just in case she lost her footing.
“We’ll have to jump from here unless you want to hike halfway down and then what’s the point in even jumping? Do you want me to go first? If I get stuck you’ll know to just hike down and then we can worry about getting me out of there next.”
This had not been in the job description. When she imagined being a Kirin Tor Investigator she had though glamor, pizazz, and the arcane. Not frigid cold conditions and wanting to lay down and sleep rather than trudge one foot in front of another. Light, she’d kill for a coffee right about now.
But they had to carry on and she did so carefully. Her hand held to him and when they reached the top a sigh of relief escaped her before she could quiet it. When they were done with this case they were going to spend hours in the cozy warm tub and then in bed with the kittens.
“How about we do it together? Hold hands and jump?” It was how she and Jeffrey had done things and it had served to create such a deep bond. A bond she sometimes worried Raoul didn’t want as much as she did.
“That doesn’t sound safe. Just wait for me to see where I land, alright?” He kissed her forehead and regretted it a little bit, as it stung his lips and peeled at the skin. Wetting them afterward only hurt more.
“It would be foolish to get both of us stuck somewhere.” Just to hold hands. Foolish indeed.
Assuming she didn’t grab him and hold him back, he jumped off then and began to boringly float down, just barely passing by the trees. His shirt snagged on some of the branches.
Left atop the rocks a moment she sighed. So much for that idea. Sometimes it felt like he was trying to do the exact opposite of what Jeffrey would have. But that couldn’t be. He didn’t know Jeffrey well enough to know what he might do much less the opposite of it. This was just another display of how very different they were.
But her heart belonged to both of them regardless. Maybe because of their differences she loved them both a little more. It was a puzzle she didn’t care to think about normally much less now when she was light-headed and tired and working.
Once he was past the trees she followed suit. A quick leap had her falling and a quicker spell floating gracefully. This was a spell she had a lot of familiarity with and it came second nature now. The cloak snagged on one of the branches but it was easily tugged free. When her boots hit snow again she even had the energy to laugh softly.
“I used to do that almost nightly. I snuck out a lot in Stormwind. That spell was a life saver.”
“No kidding. We use it to play Dalaran Chicken back home.” He tried to wrap his arm around her again. Just past the rocks he could see the cloaking shield of this much larger outpost. Not for the structures or any people, no the magic did its job well, but just for the snow that had gathered around the shield.
It made a piled up ring that showed its size in full.
“Sweet baby Arthas. Finally.” Raoul’s next steps were little more than trudges, but they had more energy in them now. That final stretch home.
“Get out the file? So we can unlock this and finally get out of the snow. Also... no, wait, just hand me the file- no, no, I’ll put up the shield and you hold on to the file. Yeah. Get out the code and I’ll hold a shield in case something’s horribly wrong inside.”
“You mean you played Dalaran Chicken. I can’t marry a pancake, sunshine.” Her tone is playful as she rifles through her bag for the file. Though she can hope he’ll take her concerns to heart she’s learned that Raoul Wheaton really does whatever he wants. Even if it worries her he’ll do it because he damn well pleases.
It’s a rather unsettling thought.
The file is retrieved and she flips it open to hide the serious frown on her face. She’s just weary. And in being tired she’s more irritable, right? He would stop if she asked nicely. Wouldn’t he?
By the time the code is found she’s scowling and she nods to it. “Here we are. Shield up, please.”
“No one’s ever died from Dalaran Chicken, pffbt.” He rolls his eyes at her but obediently listens to the command/request. Even if she had changed her mind entirely about who was doing what, he would have listened. She was the one in charge on these missions.
Even if he bowed to no one about his off-time habits.
“The Quarantine noticed said for people who had come in contact with this outpost, right? This is the one that must had had like twelve or fifteen people on the roster. So... well, no, I guess if everyone’s missing then there wouldn’t be a lot of dead bodies, would there? Just be careful, love.” He looks at her with concern, arms raised like a priest and holding a blue shield of the arcane around them both with room to spare.
The control panel shimmers and expands from a small white button to a board of keys as they get closer. On the very edges of the panel, one can even see through the shield a bit to the encampment within. It looks abandoned.
A toy rocking horse is by the small well that she can see, its features cute in a folksy way but altogether disturbing given the circumstances. Its cloth material is a dull beige, though the saddle is a colorful (if peeling) purple plastic. Rough straw mane is bent and the black button eyes stare at her soullessly.
Children’s toys have a way of being eerie things when absent the light-hearted laughter and joy of a child. This one is no different and she shudders as she stares at those eyes a moment. It’s disturbing but she still manages to punch in the code and speak softly to her partner.
“I don’t have the energy to argue with you and work right now. But I want you to think about me before you recklessly play that game. Think about if you were to die. Do I deserve to lose you because of your childish pride?” With a pissy snort she finished and steps back to wait for them to be able to enter.
Men. So stupid sometimes. Her posture is as stiff as her words but were he to bother to look at her eyes she just looks sad. Sad and tired. His apparent lack of concern for himself or her worries wears her down and it shows now as she stands there.
“I-” He had started to snap back with something immature and likely un-thought out that surely would have just worsened this disagreement into a full blown fight, but as soon as the final key to the code was punched in, the shield flashed from clear to red.
All except for that thin border around the panel, through which the rocking horse still stared at her. It seemed a little mocking then, as if someone had been turned to face the panel on purpose. But no one could possibly know she (or anyone else) would look through there, could they?
Maybe she was over thinking it.
“Fuck! Amy get-”
The white was rather blinding. The last syllable of Raoul’s words behind her stretched out and slowed down until it became a high-pitched ringing in her ears. Her eyes would have begun to water from the brightness.
Like staring at the Westfall sun.
At least then she could shift her eyes to the left or to the right. Then she’d see the white spots in the sky but the pain might stop. There were no little white spots here. It was all white. Enveloped to such degree that she couldn’t see her own limbs or even the faint outline of her nose and cheeks around her eyes.
It felt like she’d been compressed down to just her eyes.
Her burning eyes.
Maybe they were black and empty just like the rocking horse now.
The initial shock had hidden the pain from her. A coping mechanism many possess and one that helped her for but a heartbeat. As soon as the pain floods her eyes she gasps and presses a gloved hand over them. The wool of the outside is scratchy and only feels like nettles on her face. Coupled with the burning it makes her pull in a gasping breath that almost blossoms into a scream.
“I can’t see, Raoul. Fuck it hurts so bad.” Teeth grit and she cupped her hand over her eyes now rather than pressed firmly to them. It felt like all her nerves were there in those two orbs and she was breathing heavily for it. Great gasps of air were building till she was on the edge of hyperventilating.
“Amy, can you hear me? Amy? We’ve got to sit down, okay? I’m going to sit you down. Amy?”
The sound of her lover’s voice bled into the ringing in little drips. Wide but thin drips, stretched until they were like unfolded paper gyrocopters. Someone had taken his familiar, playful voice and smoothed out every fold and dimension until it could be anyone’s voice, if it was really even a voice at all.
He pulled her back away from the shield and tried to bring her down into a sitting position there in the snow with him. He knelt beside her, holding her close and trying to peel back her glove so he could see her eyes. It let all the brightness in again.
That glaring light that had slipped in past her glove in sharp needles, now flooding in as if she was seeing it for the first time. But he had to see. He had to see what had happened to her eyes.
She looked as if she’d had a seizure for how her legs jerked without her command.
“Someone must have changed the codes. The mages must have come back. I guess- I guess they knew the messenger had been there. The mages must have changed the code, Amy. I don’t know. Someone changed it. The bastards changed it.”
More flickering words. More nonsense in this stranger’s voice. At times it sounded like Raoul, but the familiarity was so scant. Most of the time it sounded like no voice she could possibly imagine. Something alien and in her head.
The white became grainy like static on an engineering device. Vague shapes passed, but it eased the pain to focus on them. Then the little white spots came against their silhouettes. Just like looking away from the sun.
She could feel her Jeffrey there, but he wasn’t one of those shapes. Just his presence. Just somewhere through the grain and the fog, lapsing into this world when they were so far apart in the real one. They felt far apart here as well, but closer than they’d been before.
One of the shapes took greater focus, legs long and elegant.
A doe.
That stranger’s voice unnerves her and she tried to keep her hand to her eyes. Weakness due to pain and fatigue lose to the worry of her partner and that hand balled into a fist as the first jabs of pain returned. Breath came in between her teeth that grit again. Those words, what little sense they made to her.
Someone changed the codes. Someone came back. If it were the mages they’d surely have sent word.
These invented reasons and logic in the voice she can only recognize in a few words do not hold much ground and she tried to block him out. To focus on the doe. It soothes her in an odd way and she let her fist relax against her thigh.
If only Jeffrey were here. There is something soothing about the feel of his fur and the gravel tone of his voice. In a moment of continued weakness she mewled softly and repeated his name several times in her mind.
Jeffrey, Jeffrey, baby. I’m so scared.
Fear she cannot confess to Raoul. She cannot be a broken bird with him ever again.
The doe claims her attention now and she tries to focus on it and slowing her breath as she sits in the snow.
Raoul smooths her hair a bit and stares at her eyes. She looks dazzled and the pupils are dilated in a very strange way. Almost a strange shape. He reels back from it the slightest bit, unnerved at the very unappealing sight.
“Okay... okay... just close your eyes and here’s what we’re gonna do... HEY! HEY, YOU BASTARDS! K.T.I.! OPEN THE FUCKING SHIELD! YOU’VE HURT AN AGENT!” He picks up a chunk of ice in the snow and chucks it at the flickering red and clear shield.
No one replies.
No help comes out to them.
No apologies.
Not even a villainous laugh.
And that worries him. He knows they have portal stones but in that moment he has a panicking worry that they don’t. What if the bag had a hole? What if the got broken or crushed somehow? What if the flash of light ruined all of their reagents?
It would make sense, for it to do something like that.
His abjuration shield fades out unceremoniously when the wind picks up, stealing the warmth of his enchanted cloak away from it as it all flutters behind him. He tries to pin hers down around her, but he can’t do everything at once. Snow catches on his bangs and is already piling up on them.
They can’t stay out here like this.
What would he do if they had no stones to get back?
What could he?
About as many answers and ideas come to him as helpful individuals come out of that outpost. His qualities as an agent, tenacity and relentless pursuit of the accused, do not help Amavia now. Even if the person responsible for her current state was out with them, they would likely be the only one who could help her- and Raoul would likely pummel them into such a state where they could not help at all.
He is so unlike the doe that timidly approaches through the static. Her grey shape is faint wisps of smoke. It trails away from her mass, particularly at her hooves and her neck. Graceful ears turn and appraise the danger, but there is nothing lurking in the ringing scream that she can hear.
She dips her neck down to nibble at something.
It eases the pain even more, and the water that runs away from her eyes like tears eventually stop coming. Yes, it still burns but the pain seems more manageable like this. The ringing subsides just enough so she could hear the howling of the wind and the shifting cloth that sails like a flag behind them.
It does little more than give away their position, just like the twitching of the doe’s spotted tail.
But she has seen how this particular play ends. It is not an ominous hint of things to come where she might be proved wrong. She knows how it ends. But she needs to hear that gentle lie of hope.
She cannot sleep until she does.
In the distance someone adjusts the sights on a sniper rifle. She can hear the clicking of the dial despite the impossible circumstances stacked against it. But she feels paralyzed and cold like frozen meat. Even if she wanted to warn lover or doe, as she surely does, there would be nothing she could say.
Just a witness.
Never a heroine.
She has medals. She has awards. She has faith, doesn’t she? But was does any of that matter? What does any of it matter? Has she honestly ever succeeded in anything? Anything that matters or holds importance?
No.
The doe doesn’t soothe her anymore. There is only anger and self-loathing in that stilled heart in her chest. Something is wheezing a rasping laugh at her in the back of her head. Something just as angry and bitter as she is fast becoming.
What does any of this matter when the bad guy is already winning.
“There were two sick guards last night, Jameson. Make sure you fucking cook it all the way through next time.”
“He was our best hunter.”
“Recruit from the locals, establish trade. There are other outposts, you know. Do whatever you have to do. We’ll send someone to Dalaran and get word. The city’s just a portal away if things get bad.”
“Things are always bad out here.”
“Do you know how fast we’d all get in trouble if we let anyone find out?”
“Don’t you talk to her like that!”
“It’s good to finally meet you, Sara.”
“We’ve heard a lot of good things about your progress in the mountains.”
“The outposts are too far apart. Do you know how much more defensible things would be if we pooled our resources?”
“WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU?”
“I must go and bring back others. I am sorry.”
Click.
Click.
Click.
Bang.
The doe collapsed even though she couldn’t see where it had been hit. It didn’t try to run. For just a second it looked startled. When it was on the ground, its tongue lolled out.
So peaceful and unusual.
Dumb.
The wind picked up in her ears and after fifteen minutes or so the ringing was gone. It took her vision longer to return, leaving her to the steady and lonesome sounds of the snowfall. There was something in that, but without her eyesight it might have been nothing. The noise wasn’t anchored down.
Fifteen minutes is such a long time.
Raoul’s voice wasn’t there anymore, not even in the alien sense.
About five minutes after the ringing stopped, the static turned to flurries of snow. Sometimes they twisted in swirls. They were rather pretty, just to watch them like that. It almost had a surreal, meditative quality to it. Maybe everything was alright.
Maybe.
The dead doe, its tongue darkened as if bruised, was the last thing to lose focus and disappear. It broke apart all at once and the smoke turned to ash that she could literally feel against her face when the wind carried it her way. She could taste it in her slightly open mouth. A stronger vision than normal? Or maybe the ash was real for once.
Like Winter’s Veil lights, the shield continued to flash at a steady repetition of red and champagne clear. Almost gold but too thin to have any real color. No sounds but for the wind.
Even the constant wind was something her ears eventually adjusted to.
Was this what it was like to be dead?
Was Svafa at so much peace?
Light willing, her mama was. It was quiet here and brought a stillness to her troubled heart that had been absent for months. But was this a stillness bought at the price of Raoul’s life?
Her eyes squeezed open and shut a few times before she looked around for him. Would his blood stain the snow in another wash of red? Would it glisten there while it slowly froze in a puddle? How could she even cope with that loss?
Why didn’t they shoot twice?
The strange voices replay again as she grows more urgent in her efforts to find out the fate of her beloved. They make a twisted sort of medley in her mind as she regained control and breaks the quiet interlude with her own gasped inquiry.
“Raoul?”
Why didn’t they shoot twice?
Why didn’t they shoot her too?
“Did you?”
“I did.”
“And the other outpost?”
“It has all been taken care of.”
“And the agents?”
“They’re dead.”
The words turn into whispers, no longer in her mind but rather at her ears. So quickly are they stolen away that she doesn’t even have time to try and identify them, or connect them to the words she’d just heard before. Maybe she wouldn’t have even bothered.
Raoul Wheaton was a troubled man. Despite the show he had put on, both for her and others, there were a lot of things that weighed on his conscience. The Light, his heritage, his fiancee, her affair, and his own personal failings as a ‘hero’. He was a hot-blooded man with a lot of passion in everything he did.
In fact, it had been the very cooling of that passion that had concerned her so much just days ago (or so it felt). When he had just laid beneath her with that betrayed look. Not so much as an angry word. That sad acceptance that had made her doubt if he could ever be happy again- what a strange thing to see on his face.
He had twisted away from her when it happened- how long ago did it happen?- and tried to drag the both of them. So much snow had fallen and for so long that it covered much of the blood that had been spilled. It was already filling in the depressions from where he had pulled her and himself.
Powdered reagents were sprinkled across her own clothes, nothing but dark bits of chalk. It stained the fingers and palm of his right hand. All the evidence of whatever he had tried to do was buried in the snow now. Even his stained digits were somewhat buried in the snow, chilled to the point of looking frozen mid-cast. They were darker than usual, without the blush of blood.
Nothing about him was exactly iced over though. Particularly around his chest and backside the enchanted cloak continued to do its job. Half rolled over as he was, there was too much dark blood soaked into the fabric to see where he’d been hit. Not in the throat. Not in the legs. Not in the head- but Light weren’t there so many vital places that could kill a man?
A broken heart could kill a man.
What about a shot one?
He didn’t answer her question, faced away and left hand slumping from her own cloak when she moved. He’d kept hold of her and likely done something foolish with his spell for her benefit, as if she’d needed whatever pointless aid he’d wasted his energy on. The sniper hadn’t shot twice. She wasn’t the one that needed protection.
His bag was torn open, the drawstrings loose and fluttering upward with the wind like a child’s kite string. Journal, strange bauble, and a box of something peeked out, the rest of the weight little more than reagents that had indeed been ruined by something.
Stupid.
It was all so stupid.
Thinking back, she could even hear him saying that with a laugh. In the wind.
“Light, it’s all so stupid.”
Her White Knight wasn’t saying anything now, as pale as his pet name except for where the cold had turned flesh blue and the warm cloak kept that illusory pink.
It’s just so much at once her mind couldn’t process it. Eyes that still ached traveled over him and dumbly she lifted his hand from the snow to the safety of his cloak. She always thought he’d hurt himself with the cold. The cold from an ice covered fist that landed a blow words would have solved just as readily.
He never was a very even-tempered man.
Her lower lip quivered and she didn’t realize the tears had fallen till their warm wetness kissed her wind-chapped lips. Once they’re made clear to her she doesn’t feel as much guilt for the sob that escaped next. Hands that shook pat him lightly and after a few tries she managed another shield to protect them both.
If he’s dead, what’s the point?
Why didn’t they shoot me too?
She can’t get past that thought and it echoes in her head over and over as she tries to find the source of his wound. There is a small first aide kit in her bag - small blessings in a small package - but if she can’t locate the wound she can’t treat it.
Those hands came to his neck and as she felt for his pulse her own almost seemed to stop.
If he’s dead there isn’t any point in locating it.
Light, please don’t be dead. I love you so much and I don’t think you know it. I don’t think you realize what you mean to me.
“Raoul, sunshine, sweetheart, please wake up. Please? Please?”
If he died what would she be without him? They may as well dig two graves for half of her heart would go in his.
There’s a painful amount of time of searching for his pulse, as the wind keeps flapping his collar in the way. But it’s there. Faint and unsteady- but it’s there.
His blood isn’t just warm on her hands when feels for the gunshot. It’s thick and sticky. It clings to her cold hands like tar and seems to dry out so fast once it’s there. It’s not even the artistic scarlet that they describe in stories, where blood looks like rose petals against the snow. It’s a myriad of shades.
Orange.
Rust.
Burgundy.
Black where it’s heaviest.
When her fingers finally find the wound, she might wish she hadn’t. The shell had broken apart on impact and tore raggedy, disturbingly textured chunks of flesh away. The small explosion had burned and warped pieces, while others were smooth and slick like innards. Her fingertips pushed in a little too far right when she made contact.
For a loathsome second she was actually inside of him.
Surely Valerie had enjoyed the sensation more.
Her hand jerked away quickly to avoid a repeat of that. She and Valerie may have both explored his body in similar ways but she never wanted to delve into that territory. There is something sacred to her about that and it is a part of the reason she feels that horrible, dead bitch violated him so.
Rot in pieces, Valerie. My baby blew your snotty ass up.
But hopefully Raoul won’t be joining the list of the recently deceased in her life. She has to get it together. She has to pull it together to see them through.
Heroine Needed Badly. Too bad you’ll never be it.
The pack slid off her shoulder and hands moved with a purpose. Raoul may have packed like he was taking a trip down the street but Amavia was nothing if not prepared. The white case with the little red cross stands out amongst her own things. Evidence collection kit, journal, a box for pens and quills, spare socks, a flask full of a strong alcohol she only brought at the insistence of the shopkeeper who helped her pull together things for cold weather traveling.
It was tempting to take a drink now but she needed to focus.
The box was opened with hands steadied by the severity of it all. Gauze peeked out and she removes a few pads. Their texture is reassuring and she lifts the roll of bandages next. But when the gauze is pressed to the wound she remembers the shards of the shell.
“Shit shit shit.” There are tweezers in her evidence kit and she hasn’t used them in awhile. Will they infect his wound? Is it better to remove the metal casing now or later?
Now. She will try now.
As fast as she retrieved the first aide kit she flipped open the evidence kit. Shiny metal tweezers are next to several glass containers. Not for long. Amavia removes them quickly and stares at the wound.
Fuck.
It’s so bloody.
She’d read a story once where the hero, a gunslinger who had practically walked out of the pages of Westfall history, had been shot. All he had to treat it was his penknife, a bandana, and his flask of booze. It had been effective in preventing infections and cleaning the area so he could use his knife to fish the bullet out.
But this isn’t a story and she doesn’t know what to do. She isn’t a street tough maverick with nothing to lose. She has a lot. She has him. To improperly treat him, to risk his life, is unacceptable.
Hands flared with a burst of flames as she seared the tweezers to disinfect them the best she can. After the flicker died she cupped a hand over his wound and conjures water to wash away the blood. It mostly hit the gauze and with her freehand she wiped the area relatively clean. Clean enough to pick away pieces of the shell with the sanitized tweezers.
With her mind focused on the task it’s easier. There is less panic as she pressed the gauze to his side and secured the bandage. One small hand held it firmly in place as the other retrieved one of her healing potions and laid it in the snow. The pack is wedged beneath his head to help her help him sit up so the droplets of the potion she drips in a slow stream - with many pauses to make sure he isn’t choking - don’t overwhelm him. Lots of pressure is applied to the wound and she tries hard not to imagine the slick feeling of his innards on that accidental slip.
“Hey, sunshine. It’s all going to be okay. We’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna do great. And Light help me if you fucking die I’m going to follow you and kick your ass. Don’t make me kick your spectral ass. All the other ghosts will laugh at you.”
It’s an attempt at humor, more for herself than the unconscious young man.
It doesn’t work.
“Fuck, please don’t die, Raoul. I need you so much. Please don’t die.”
Behind her the shield quietly stops flickering, though she would not have noticed if not for the reflection of light on the snow stopping. Her world no longer glows red every few seconds.
There’s a drumming sound in her head and a bird croaks on the branches of a nearby pine tree.
Da-da-da-dum.
Da-da-da-dum.
Da-dada-da-dum.
A presence joins her and it doesn’t feel like Jeffrey or Raoul. No, sadly Raoul doesn’t seem with her at all. He doesn’t react to anything she does, not even an instinctive twinge of pain at her attempts to save his life. All of that was supposed to hurt a great deal, wasn’t it-
Da-dada-dada-dum.
The wind changed direction.
What else can she do but sit here and pray and curse and hold her hands to his side? She isn’t a medic. She isn’t a priestess of the Light to save him with a sweet hymn and prayer.
He’d probably love her more if she were. A guy like him needs to be with a girl like that.
The enchanted cloak is tucked around him and she rubbed his hand that hand received such poor care with one of her own. Sweet endearments are whispered and only after a heartbeat of it lingering does she feel the presence.
Amavia’s head snapped up and she glanced around with a look that spelled violence for any that dared intrude. A wounded animal that will fight twice as hard for her mate.
Mates. That’s a Jeffrey term, Amy.
Her nose wrinkled and she shifted at the drumming sound.
Where is it coming from?
When she looked behind her, she could see that the shield had gone clear at last, but its cloaking features had been broken by whatever rewired the code. A mistake that would not have been made by the mages themselves.
The structures, tents and shoddy buildings, were much like the valley she and Raoul had come through. They all seemed to slope down towards the center where they met. In the center of the path between them, a spectral figure levitated. Its hair was wild and those its eyes were open, they were solid white light.
It floated just above where she’d been able to see through the panel’s border.
Ribbons of arcane energy made vorpal paths from the structures to the figure’s fingertips, literally vacuuming it out of the area. The traces that lingered on the objects, the enchantments and the weaponry- perhaps the mages themselves.
It didn’t seem aware of Amavia or her seemingly dead lover.
Looking at it harder now though, she could tell it was not actually spectral in nature, but rather coalesced arcane energy itself. A construct itself? An ascendant like the Twilight Cultists could achieve with their precious water and shadow?
Or something perhaps more disturbing, like the rumored being of quicksilver that adventurers had slain in Deepholm?
Maybe it was just a figment of her imagination.
Maybe it was. Maybe she was really Therazane too.
Nope.
Just some stupid, naive girl who knelt in the snow next to her almost dead lover gawking like the hick she really was.
The hands on Raoul froze a moment, stopped in their duties by her shock. What was that?
“WHAT ARE YOU?”
It played in her head again and she almost screamed it herself. Teeth dug into her traitorous tongue and they pressed as hard as her hand did against Raoul’s wound now. Amber eyes were wide and she stared at the being. Could this be what happened to the mages? She’d heard of parasitic creatures who leeched arcane energies - manawyrms, warlocks, felhounds, warlocks, sin’dorei, oh, and warlocks - but she’d never seen one.
Outside of Raoul’s plush toy from childhood but that did not count. That was just a sweet token and one she wished she had now to tuck up next him and encourage him.
But wishes were as worthless as the spent reagents that still dusted his chest.
One hand still held to his wound while the other tried to sweep up his spilled goods and put them in her own bag or his if it is salvageable. The bauble and the box get a glimpse from her but she’s fearful of the apparition. So frightened she draws the shield she created tighter down around them till it’s barely but a little dome that she bumped her head against before almost crouching at his side.
The box is smorc ingredients. Graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows that are no doubt dried out and hard from the cold. They look to have been from last midsummer festival (not so long ago, really) and haven’t been opened yet. A seasonal treat saved for such an occasion as this, when they would need to rekindle their love.
It’s dented now, one corner crushed in and blood smeared across the happy picture of a cartoon smorc smiling at her. Its eyes are too big. Too happy. Smorcs shouldn’t have eyes anyway.
His bauble was a clay symbol of the Light, bits of broken glass ornamentation stuck to it. The rest of the glass was probably in the bag somewhere but really it wasn’t that important to go looking for it now. A symbol to keep away the undead.
How naive (or superstitious rather) her White Knight was sometimes.
His journal is the hardest thing to change over, mostly because it doesn’t easily come out of the bag. Its pages have crusted on the edge and have dried to the bag itself not unlike that vomited on note from the shirt. Tearing it away doesn’t seem to ruin any of the pages though.
Just as well if it had though, seeing as he might not be writing in it ever again.
The thought is a sour one.
Flecks of ash still stuck to her face begin to tickle her skin now, especially the edges of her nostrils and the space between her eyebrows and hair. Her chin is perhaps the worst hit by this sensation, but when touched it would feel like there was something swollen and tender just beneath the flesh. A pocket of liquid.
If the apparition was draining from the mages, if the mages were here at this outpost, why hadn’t they been noticed before? Why had this outpost been reported empty? Had it been empty? Had the messengers come and the figure returned once they were gone? What about the voice in her head that said the agents had been killed?
“WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU?”
A dog, or perhaps a worgen, snuffled hungrily.
The figure still did not notice the girl though, or if it did it was so sure in its power that it did not feel she was a threat. The arcane crackled about it like raw energy between tesla coils. It surged in waves across the ribbon towards the figure.
Calmly leeching more and more. It would suck the area clean.
What would it do to her and Raoul if they were noticed?
That’s a disquieting thought and one that replayed over and over in her mind as she managed to tear her eyes from the figure again. Where is that snuffling coming from? They can’t manage a single attacker right now. What would they do with two?
Die likely. If Raoul isn’t dead already.
An even worse thought and it readily joins the train of fearful ones that echo in her head. What can she do though? She is a slight girl and she cannot possibly hope to move him. Amavia leaned down and whispered at his ear, fingers looking for his pulse again.
“Raoul, we need to move. We’re in danger, please wake up. Quietly. Please wake up quietly.”
And like the storybook hero she very much is not, she pressed a kiss to his lips. There were no such thing as fairytales - a bitter thought for such a sweet girl - but she’s been spread thin and feeling a bit helpless.
Light please let him get up. Please?
Though she remains hunched over him her eyes return to the being now. What is going on here? If she must stay she may as well try and glean some reason to the madness at hand.
His pulse is still there, somewhat steadier than before even now that the gushing flow of blood has been somewhat stemmed. Somewhat. It’s not a very hopeful word but it means a lot in this instance. It means he’s not dead yet.
Looking away from him and the figure does not yield anymore information as to the snuffling, but it does let her see that the ribbons are getting fainter. Its source of ‘food’ is running dry. It’s probably not done feeding either.
If it doesn’t see her right now, it will probably notice her soon.
In a solid, angry gesture she shoves his pack into her own - were it not for the glass she probably would have abandoned it - and then shoulders it again. The movements are reflections of her helpless rage. She cannot move him. She is not physically capable of it and ignorant of the spell George used to lift Jeffrey.
If only Jeffrey and Dog were here now.
Lightly she tapped the side of Raoul’s face with her palm. Wake up, wake up, wake up. Even if he’s just stumbling, as long as he’s moving, she could take care of them. The shield is still held and she stared at it’s pale, flickering light a moment.
Maybe she could wrap him in it if he doesn’t awaken? Improvising makes her nervous but it’s better than being sitting ducks.
Raoul makes a strange sound that’s not all there but it’s loud. A groan of pain perhaps, made by someone who doesn’t even know that groaning is an appropriate response to pain. His fingers lift and send stray bolts of the arcane out in lightning like zaps at nothing, thankfully not at her among all the other things they miss. In frustration and overwhelming pain that comes with consciousness, he does the one thing he always falls back to- he fights.
Flaming arrows line the snow once his streaks are seen. The sniper has a new weapon now and perhaps that’s their saving grace because it doesn’t shoot as well from such a massive distance. The accuracy wanes and instead a path of uneven arrows vaguely trace from them to the direction of her sniper, towards the east somewhere.
The snuffling is louder now too.
All this noise.
All this Light-damn noise.
Well, it wasn’t the noise that attracts the figure’s unwanted attentions. No, she can thank her beloved for that. Unlike a passive shield that contains its concentrated magics in a protective barrier, he launched aggressive, if weak, magic right into the air. He may as well have dangled bacon in a pen of sleeping feral worgen.
Already open, the figure’s eyes do not snap dramatic, but rather turn slowly and calmly upon the pair. Straight from its chest, a ribbon of suctioning magic sprouts and slowly begins weaving through the air towards them. Perhaps the shield that protects it will save them? Perhaps it will prevent its magic from crossing out to them?
Very unlikely.
“Fucking hell.” It’s murmured quietly as she turned towards the being. She should have anticipated that. Will arcane energies really defeat such a creature? Likely they will only empower it further.
Too bad she isn’t a sword wielding kind of girl.
Steady hands wove in the proper motions for a spell she rarely has used. Three mirror images sprung into being and readily launch blasts of arcane energy at the being she waved at like a lunatic.
“Sit up. Sit up now, Raoul. We’re in a lot of danger. Slowly. Please, sunshine?”
There is a coughing, choking sound from her beloved. He sounds like he’s gagging on something. Rather than getting up as she requested from him, he grabs hold of her cloak and tries to jerk her down towards him in some mindless gesture. Whatever he was trying to do, he fails utterly.
The sniper has seen the error of his ways though, adapting much faster than the agents. Explosive rounds strike the shield and one of the mirror images. Following this is the sound of snarling and a mangy mastiff jumps down from the rocks. It’s a pale beast, one that blends into the grey snow of the storm almost.
But getting ready to lunge at them now, it is a very noticeable thing.
The arcane blasts strike the shield around the encampment and fizzle out, but as the ribbon stretches past the shield, it absorbs them before the disappear completely. The figure doesn’t seem very threatened.
Another colorful stream of language left her but she fell to her knees in the snow as he wanted. Fine. He can have this. She can still cast on her knees and does so now.
A blast of arcane energy rockets from her palms towards the mastiff. It’s the easiest target for her as it stands there growling and preparing to lunge. Three on one is piss poor odds and she’s going to try and slim them down the best she can before the threat she fears the most tries to devour them.
Her mirror images continue to try and be a distraction. If they bemoan their unlucky lot in life there’s no way to tell. One of them even lets out a woop of delight as her next arcane blast is more explosive than the last.
At least someone is cheerful.
Raoul curses right back at her and pulls again. He tries to bring her lower and lower. Though he babbles some kind of explanation, it isn’t audible at all under the sound of more exploding rounds ricocheting off her shield.
The apparition’s ribbon branches off into three paths, one for each image, absorbing the blasts along the way. Each blast makes the ribbon expand faster, hungrily even. They are like long tongues that have tasted something sweet and now flick and stretch further in desperate attempts to taste even more.
It weakens the integrity of the shield though. Small favors.
Thankfully Raoul’s madness doesn’t stop her spell from successfully casting. The lunging mastiff is blown backward into the snow and smacks the shield with its frame. Shield proves stronger than mastiff and bones can be heard breaking.
In the flurry of snow, flakes seem to be shifting around the space for a doe. She calmly walks through the chaos of the fight and stops between the agents and the figure. Her long neck turns and she stares at Amavia.
Her jaw rolls slightly as she chews something.
Peaceful.
Her own madness often overtakes her and Raoul has been so kind - most of the time - as to humor her. That favor is repaid now. Amavia lowers herself so she could practically kiss him were the circumstances different. One arm supports her weight and she glances at the doe while speaking to him.
“What, sunshine? We can’t kissy face right now unless you want to die in each others arms.”
Deer, what is going on?
Her back aches for a moment as the vision of being strung up and butchered haunts her briefly. Butchered like an animal.
Like a stupid doe that stands there wide-eyed.
The hand that doesn’t hold her weight gestures at what she assumes is another apparition, trying to coax it over as she peers at it. What the hell is it eating in this snowy waste and why does it keep coming back?
It wouldn’t come back if it wasn’t important, would it?
“My wand. My wand is frost magic. Hold the shield and use my wand.” He lets his hand fall from her cloak but apparently has enough strength to grab her chest inappropriately. There’s a smile on his face even if it’s weak.
Perhaps his message came just in time because the next explosive rounds from the sniper take down her shield. The heat from the combustive shells actually burns her cheek as if someone touched her with a hot pan. Thankfully the shrapnel doesn’t cut anywhere on her body that she can feel.
There’s another growling sound as the mastiff wobbles to its feet.
Thankfully, the worst of their opponents seems satisfied to keep feeding on the mirror images, though it does devour one in a most terrifying way. The humanoid features of the mirror image melt in hellish fashion, while the skeletal structure becomes exaggerated and it withers to mummified proportions. Only then does the drained thing turn to arcane dust and the ribbon recedes, leaving it with two forked off branches instead of three.
“I’ll use your wand plenty later, honey.” She winks at him, encouraged by his smile and groping. Both are good signs in her book. Another shield is invoked and she feels a little woozy for a moment; it was a bit of a challenge to maintain that and another this soon? It’s draining. But she needs these moments to find his wand and sneak her own inappropriate grope before staring down the mastiff.
Dogs have gotten a lot less appealing since Dog the fox came into her life. And this one is even less cute for the harm it means them.
Just before her next shield finishes solidifying, more rounds pass through. Were it not for Raoul’s quick (and excruciating) action, she would have been hit by four explosive rounds in succession. But her lover is quick and his excellence in Abjuration save her life. Rather than taxing on her body, it exhausts only his magical energies.
The pain it causes him is not something he was expecting though. His back arches inward and he sucks in a deep breath.
Both of the remaining mirror images fall in unison, meeting the same horrific fate as the first. The mastiff is likewise unfortunate. Its mythical connection to its master is just as easily fed upon. Much faster than the mirrors, the dog is left a shrunken mummy of itself before it disintegrates.
The ribbon is one whole again, but now it moves like a snake through the grass. It weaves with such speed that it can dodge even individual snowflakes, looking more like pen strokes of light through the air.
It’s coming straight for them and without question her shield will not hold for very long. It’s not very likely that Raoul will be able to save her again, or even himself, writhing as he is from that brief exertion. But perhaps he has bought her enough time to do something, anything.
Closer and closer the ribbon winds.
The doe continues to chew, then dips her neck to nibble at the snow again. This time, something glints where it ‘eats’ from. Intuition tells her it’s extremely important. But if she moves to get it, she’ll have to leave Raoul without a shield, because she won’t make it to this mysterious object without one of her own, and she can’t drag Raoul with her fast enough to get it before the ribbon might devour them both.
But perhaps if she blinks there or back, she could out race the ribbon. Perhaps.
Or perhaps the sniper will finish him off in the attempt.
Choices, choices.
“If we die, I loved you so very much.”
And with that less than reassuring statement she blinks towards the doe and the object. The shield bobs with her but she pays it no mind. Hands fumble for the object and if she has it in hand she desperately tries to return to her beloved.
But luck is never really on her side and she doesn’t count on it this time.
Her fingers wrap around the object and get a tight hold on it, more desperation than anything. She needs this. Everything inside of her is screaming that she SHE NEEDS THIS. It feels like a block of wood with gilded numbers. Though the wood is rough, the numbers can clearly be felt against her skin. The metal gilding them is ice cold from its time in the snow.
She has it.
She has it and it’s so important.
Though the sniper did indeed take another shot (and does indeed find his mark), the second shot does little more than illicit a half-wheezed scream from Raoul. More pain on top of everything else. It won’t stop him.
He’s too far away from her to tell where he’s been hit now, but he gathers himself to a sitting position. Raoul Wheaton’s running on adrenaline now, and little more than that. He doesn’t pause to stop and consider what he’s doing, he just does it. A torrent of whirling arcane blasts away from his outstretched hand in a sideways tornado.
It tears through the snow and burns away several timber trees that hide the sniper’s exact position in the rocky bluffs above them. Purple and silver-blue flames ignite on the blackened trunks and branches, as well as devouring the sniper himself. Well, perhaps not devouring.
He doesn’t scream in pain after all, or flail around. But he has clearly caught fire.
It’s all so strange and surreal.
Amavia is fortunate that this veritable firework of energy distracts the ribbon’s bulk. It snakes towards Raoul (or more specifically the area that his spell tore through) and only a small area branches off after Amavia herself.
The doe raises its neck and looks quite skittish. As if it knows something terrible is about to happen, it races off. The not-really-there creature tramples over Raoul but fortunately he doesn’t seem to feel or even notice that. Or if he does, he’s too fitful with all the other pain to realize it. Without even glancing Amavia’s way, he collapses back into the snow.
Fuck, even Death’s gotta be better than this, right?
Nope.
He just doesn’t have the energy to do anything else. Just before his eyes slip closed again, he wonders why Sangrey didn’t magically know to be here since he’s so fucking great and all. Maybe he’s not that great after all.
The thought pleases him in a very spiteful way.
Crackling sounds from the ‘tesla coils’ of the structures in the encampment intensify and as the ribbon’s off-let finally reaches Amavia, the shield around her is devoured almost instantly.
Fingertips dig into the metal of the letters and she gasps when the shield fails her. A lot of things have failed her today and for a moment she wonders why she’s even surprised. A real heroine would walk away from this bearing the wounds, not come out unscathed with her beloved torn to pieces.
It agitates her to no end and she swears softly as she blinks over to the panel. A quick glance to the wood has the numbers and she’s swiftly entering them. Light, watch it be completely unrelated and that blinding light stun her again.
Wouldn’t that be peachy?
In a foul mood to rival the one she’s been in for weeks now, she grips his wand and glares at the strange figure.
The flaming sniper disappears into the darkness of the storm. She probably wouldn’t have noticed with her eyes so fixed on the apparition, but it was one less light in her peripheral vision. So either he was gone or he’d found a way to douse the magical flames eating him.
Was it even a him?
Her visions and the voices in her thoughts told her yes, but there was no way to be sure. Her visions told her so many things. Even now they spoke up all at once.
Tell her she is wrong!
She needs the lie, she cannot sleep until she hears it.
WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU?
Sara Triblaine, you are hereby dismissed from the Kirin Tor.
Weak. What a woman.
Have you done it?
I have.
I’ll show them.
You can’t dismiss me! I built these outposts!
Jameson, have you been messing with that whore again?
He was our best hunter.
Don’t you talk to her like that!
They wouldn’t even recognize you...
No, no one can know!
We’ll have to recruit from the locals...
Then I will become eternal, like you!
Together.
Forever.
And they will pay.
This is wrong.
No, they’re wrong! And now they’re all dead.
I don’t think the food was cooked through.
Just a drop of plague is enough to do this.
You should have known better than to eat the wildlife here!
Light have mercy on us.
WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU?
I am what every mage envies... I am the arcane itself.
And we will outlive those that thought we were unjustified.
We will remain until the world admits what it has done to us.
I love you.
And I love you.
Always?
Always.
The being of arcane energy seemed to glow this close up, thundering with noise so loud Raoul feared an avalanche would be upon them.
Though she curses the voices and the visions she is thankful for it now. One of them is familiar and it unsettles her. From the dream. She heard him then too. They have spent more time together than he will ever realize. There is some sense behind the words now and she narrows her eyes even further at the being. This must be the one she heard in her mind. The one they removed.
And, as an upstanding member of the Kirin Tor, it was her duty beyond this case to bring down former, rogue members. They became a threat. Light, look at what happened to Kel’Thuzad. This was hardly any different. Today Kirin Tor outposts, tomorrow the world?
Unacceptable.
She leveled the wand at the former magi and aimed a bolt of frost magic at her chest.
The being, Sara Triblaine once, jerks hers- no, its- shoulder back as the bolt of frost magic strikes its right side. This is no woman, weak or otherwise. Its shape is barely feminine at all and certainly it could never love as a woman might. It cannot have children. It doesn’t seem to express emotion at all beyond the hunger it feels.
Perhaps hatred for the Kirin Tor it has betrayed.
Perhaps irritation that it cannot feed upon the magic assaulting it now.
Why didn’t the Kirin Tor use frost or flame?
They were all too sick.
What of the priestess?
Does it matter?
The bolt of frost leaves a gaping dent in the figure’s shape, one that slowly pools back into form like liquid arcane pouring into a mold. No longer seeking just to feed, the ribbon of arcane magic now lashes at her like a whip. The other ones draining from the structure finally wither completely.
At least she will not get much more powerful than she already is, provided Raoul is not sucked dry behind her.
He doesn’t really stand a chance if the ribbon finishes off that area before Amavia finishes off this arcane monstrosity.
But you know this is wrong. Even a dead man knows this is wrong.
I’m sorry. It is just a job.
I’m going to die here. We’re all going to die here.
I don’t want to die like this.
A-are you awake?
Only his dog came back, sir.
Well quickly, you idiots, go find him! Make sure he hasn’t caught the plague!
Damn those Forsaken! Light damn them all to hell!
Let me see him! Please!
Everyone’s sick... everyone’s sick...
We’re going to get sick next. Don’t eat the food, it’s in the food!
We’re going to starve here.
Close the shield!
Back, demon!
Ahahaha, I am no demon.
I truly am sorry.
Another blast leaves the wand. She needs a few moments, just a breath or two, before she can cast her own bolt of it. This time she aims at the head though. Cut off the head of the beast and they can no longer function, right?
She isnt’t very confident in any of her thoughts right now but she is trying so hard to be that heroine she dreams of. Already she can feel the chill coalescing in her hand. Not even enough to be an ice lance but promise of more to come if she can just have a moment to catch her breath.
If they die here one of her biggest regrets is the state of her and Raoul’s relationship. It should be as it was. They should be happy. Her White Knight loves her so. His apple blossom should be making him feel the same.
If they live she’ll make sure he knows it.
The voices distract her from more personal thoughts as they carry on and she wets her lips. It was a very grim scene indeed here in the mountains.
Tell me why. Just tell me why.
Please.
Please.
Why? Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!
Death could not separate us, love.
It was not Death that did that.
She needs that lie. We all could rest if you would just tell it to her.
What are you talking about? Light, what’s happening.
The Light preserves us!
Take your precious Light to the grave with you!
Sara Triblaine...
Sara...
It is better this way. You will see, my love.
I’ll show them.
The bolt dents its shape again but doesn’t seem to do too much more damage than the first one. It just grows back, putting to use the latent energies it had been storing. She needs a concentrated attack.
Something strong.
Something that it can’t come back from.
The anger that’s brewing in her chest helps clear her head. She’s running on fumes now and taking a page out of Raoul’s book. Never back down. Never give up. Even when you’re outmatched.
Frost magic is still easy for her - being the first type of spell she ever cast - and the blizzard of crystalline ice shards that rain down in droves on the being, on Sara, come quick and come hard. Unrelenting, she’s giving her no time to flow back together from the ripples like the surface of a disturbed pond.
And then Sara Triblaine disappeared.
Or did she?
At any rate, under the assault of frost magic, the arcane figure is surely destroyed piece by piece. It doesn’t scream or cry, it simply dissipates altogether. Its ribbons go with it.
And for the first time today, she feels safe. They’re alone. A feeling of utter loneliness that can only mean no one is watching from the shadows. If her feelings are right, anyway.
Raoul groans from his bloody burrow in the snow.
As soon as the being is gone she blinks back to his side. There’s enough left in her for that and - should the situation call for it - she can push herself. Tricks can be played to weasel just a tiny bit more and build up her own exhaustion till she collapses.
Not a pleasant thought considering the state he’s in.
“Sunshine, here, here. Let me patch you up again. Where’d he get you this time?” He. It has to be a he. It has to be a man in her thoughts and that tried to kill them. A man that she would kill herself for the violence he’s visited upon her beloved.
The first aid kit is removed from her bag and she stares at her hands on the lid. They tremble. It’s a nervous gesture and she’s getting so damn sick of them. She has to be brave. There is no room for anything else in their lives and she’s tired of being sad. Tired of being glum.
Gauze and bandages at the ready, she looks at him.
“I love you so fucking much, Raoul.”
He mouths something but no audible answer comes. Perhaps she’s demanding too much to get him talking again. Regardless, he does find his voice.
“Can we go in the camp? They must have somewhere warm.”
Yes, the camp no doubt infested with plague or wild arcane residual- aw, fuck it. They don’t have much choice unless they’re going to freeze out here, do they?
“Sure thing, sunshine, sure thing.” The supplies are put back in the case and she tries to help him rise. Though a petite girl she can manage to help him stumble along. “You just toddle in there with me and I’ll see about finding you some place cozy. And then I’ll play nurse. A shame I didn’t bring that sexy little gown.”
It’s another attempt to distract from the situation. They need to get in before he collapses because of the chill and the blood loss. Then she’d be in the same poor situation they were just minutes ago.
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