synthneon | au au || ❝ our fate so darkly romantic, i will never leave your side. ❞

au au || ❝ our fate so darkly romantic, i will never leave your side. ❞

tba

AU PLOTLINE

when i thought that i fought this war alone,
we were one with our destinies entwined
when i thought that i fought without a cause,
you gave me the reason why... CODE BY TESSISAMESS

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[ Phya Tayuun always felt alone.

Some part of her, despite having many around her, felt as if someone was missing. A part of her that always ached. The feeling continued to grow the older she became and even to the point where it was consuming. Even from a young age she would watch the knights march into Idyllshire, hoping that she could pick him out amongst the others. Her eyes would intently watch each face to the point where she could tell who was a veteran and who was a new recruit.

None of them were him.

Maybe he couldn't find her.

The thought alone was crushing enough to make her ailments worse. She had always been a sickly child. Conjurers from the South had believed it was the trade for the healing capabilities she was able to tap into. To give was to take, and perhaps what the elements took from her was a stable health. The reason hardly mattered to her in the end. She had spent that winter curled up in her bed at the orphanage, face hidden in the stuffed animal of a fox that she had been gifted one Starlight Eve.

What is the point of it if I can't find you?

Winter gave to spring and an unexpected person arrived in Idyllshire. He hailed from the south, axe on his back, claiming to be an adventurer that had come to help. He was also looking at adventurers to join him in his travels. Several places along the Corethas region needed help and perhaps traveling together might aid all involved. The adventurer had asked her sister (well, adopted sister) to aid him. Something inside her broke at the idea of being left behind, and she rushed to enlist her services as well. It was clear the adventurer--named Ardbert--worried for her health. That wouldn't stop her. She couldn't be left behind by her sister.

Maybe, just maybe, she could find him as well.

The three of them traveled to several towns, all in various shapes of disrepair. Many had decided to leave their homes and move to Idyllshire as perhaps it was the last bastion of safety from the Dravanian Hoard. The proud city-state of Ishgard had fallen decades ago to the hands of the Calamity and those who survived scattered and fought to survive in the lands that had once been filled with green and life, now turned to a frozen wasteland. Phya did what she could to aid those who were sick, sharing her knowledge of potions and healing techniques that did not rely on merely aether. Her own knowledge expanded in each town they visited as well. Perhaps in the future she might find a way to connect all the healers in the towns so they could better heal all.

Their latest destination has turned out quite different from the others.

The town is in relatively decent condition with a thriving sense of community and food, despite all of the conditions. The various people had said their home predated the Calamity, and thus it had not been as difficult to adjust. Especially as they were aided by a knight whose family seemed to be as old as the founding of Ishgard. Tiberius, however, insisted he was no more a knight than Ishgard was a place anymore. He had a family lineage he cared for and protected. The townsfolk and town merely fell under it as the lands were in his heritage.

Their lord, however, seemed to be quite the different story.

The townsfolk never spoke much of their lord. Not out of fear of him, but out of wariness of outsiders. What she, her sister, and Ardbert could gather was that the lord had been gravely injured in the last Dravanian attack and had retired to his manor atop the onlooking cliff to heal. It had been months since, and some had wondered if he had died, or if he ever intended to rejoin them below. Tiberius insisted all was well and that their lord was healing as one was to be expected with the wounds he sustained. Even more, it was not the place of strangers to interfere in things they didn't know.

Phya had other plans.

If she could show they meant no harm, and only wished to help, then perhaps they would see. If she could heal the lord to any degree, then perhaps it would prove to Ardbert that she could hold her own and earned a place alongside him. Maybe, then, something of her would be useful and she would not be left behind...

She takes a basket with her filled with balms, potions, bandages and food to share. If no one had taken the trip to the manor, then surely he was in need of fresh food. The snow is deep, but she presses on regardless. The near summer air is warmer despite the snow that seems to refuse to leave and melt no matter the time of year. She is used to traversing through such conditions to some degree at least. It still takes her a fair amount of the day to reach the top of the cliff and see the manor. Her heart skips a beat but she pays it no mind. Exploring can happen after her self-given mission is accomplished. Though, something of how the floor plan and the decorations of the manor seem not only familiar, but something she might call home.

Phya carefully climbs the stairs and turns the corner. There is a faint sense of aether that runs through the floor almost in a line. At the end of the invisible line is what should be a door. Instead, it is a shimmering barrier, and the door is either broken open or unable to close due to the barrier. Her head tilts at the idea of a barrier instead of a door. Is it to keep others out, or someone in...?

Her hand raises gently to the barrier as she peers inside. There sits a man on a bed with his back to the doorway. Everything in her seizes at once but not from fear. She might have even called it excitement when she was younger, but it is far more subtle of a feeling than that. She knows this supposed lord. Even if his back is to her she knows who it is. His hair may be longer, and his frame smaller, or perhaps faint memories are incorrect after so much time.

It's him.

Without much thought, Phya takes her raised hand and hits the barrier palm open to alert him of her presence. Words seem trapped inside her as a rising panic begins to fill her that perhaps he does not know she is there. Perhaps he has no idea it is her. Once more she strikes the barrier loudly, her lip sucking between her teeth as her ears press to the sides of her head. Again, she strikes, but this time the hits are smaller and more erratic as a sense of desperation takes hold.

Why won't he look to her? It's her, can't he tell? ]

[ Being alone is something Aymeric de Borel knows quite well. He knows it almost as well as he knows loss, as he like so many others have lost so much in a very short period of time. Ishgard, a once proud city-state, is in ruins and her people are scattered to wherever they might find shelter and relative safety. Families have been separated, permanently in some cases and hopefully temporary in others. Aymeric's own situation is one of permanence, as far as he knows. Oh, there is the possibility of a reunion in another lifetime, but that has been of little consolation to him.

Not even the knowledge that he remains the lord of this small town is enough to stir the resolve that he once had. He is all too aware that the people that call this town home still look to him as their lord, but he cannot bring himself to join them, not even to fulfill his duties and his responsibilities.

Instead, he has withdrawn, sealing himself off from the town and the world, hoping and wishing that he could simply disappear. What is the purpose of it all, when he has lost nearly everything? He himself would say he has lost everything, as he has no family, and what people who might have been called his friends have long since departed, he is certain of it. And beyond servants and acquaintances, there is one in particular who is very far beyond his reach, because of a failure on his part to protect her.

None has ventured to ask him to speak about her, nor even ventured to speak to him at all, and he would not speak of it even if they did. He spoke many words to the empty walls around him, but no answers ever came, and so as time passed (weeks? months? it hardly mattered to him), he stopped speaking at all.

That is, until one day, someone finally made the long climb to the nearly empty manor. Not that Aymeric realized it or paid any attention to anything occurring outside his lonely room. There was no point, he knew. If anyone had bothered to approach, they would be turned away by the barrier at the door. If he stirred from his room, he might find their footprints in the snow, or they would be blown away by the wind or another snowfall, leaving him none the wiser. It hardly mattered to him.

But this time, something is different. Nothing about Aymeric's routine, if it can be called that, has altered. He is sitting upright, quite a feat considering his present condition, but he is unmoving and just as silent as ever, when the knock at the barrier sounds.

Whoever has come will surely leave, and so he does not move or speak. Even when the pacing of the knocks changes and increases in apparent desperation, he still does not move. There is the slightest bit of recognition tingling in the back of his mind, but he refuses to pay it any mind. Why get his hopes up, when he has become resigned to simply waiting here as the years continue to roll on by?

Instead, he remains where he sits, but this time, there is a little more rigidity to his posture than there was previously, although still he does not look nor turn. If, as before, whoever has come has done so to stare, they will leave in no time at all. ]

[ Phya watches as his posture changes to be that of being rigid. Is his pain consuming? How deep are his wounds? How much of him has been taken away by years and by the unending war? Does any part of him remain to see that it is her? Or, has far too much time passed, and she is only here to make certain he passes onto the aetheric sea after so long...?

She continues to strike the barrier in hopes that he might turn and look at her. Her eyes widen the moment he begins to lean one way. Her hand slips through the barrier and she pauses for only a brief moment. Why should she be surprised? The barrier is constructed of her magic after all. That is why is feels so familiar. It was her own. Her gaze moves back to the man leaning away from her. Another surge of panic hits her and before she even knows it, she has pushed herself through the barrier. The basket in her hand is dropped.

Aymeric. My Aymeric.

Phya rushes up behind him on the bed. Her arms wrap around his shoulders and she feels quite dwarfed compared to him now. She buries her face in his back, tears already rolling down her face. It truly is her knight. He seems frail and weak compared to what she is able to recall. Her large, almost too large, tail curls around them as she presses her face in further. ]

I'm sorry. [ Her voice is gentle and soft, perhaps he is even unable to hear her. ] I'm sorry... b-but I'm here... c-can I help now? Y-you're hurt badly, aren't you? T-tell me where, and I... I can heal it...

[ Phya gently nudges her nose into his back. It feels as if she has done it before. ] I-I have so much I need to make up to you. I can start there at least.

[ He knew he was in no condition to sit up for any great period of time, and the act of moving into that position took more of a toll than he cares to admit. But the very last thing he wanted was for anyone to observe his weakened state, brought on by his hurts and by his overall neglect of his own well-being. But there seems to be nothing he can do, as against his will, he finds himself beginning to lean over, threatening to fall back down onto the bed.

He tries to prevent such a thing by placing his weight upon his hand, that he might lean against that instead of falling to the bed, but his progress is halted by that very thing, but also by someone's arms wrapping around his frame. He very nearly freezes in place, because it has been so long since he felt another's touch and what it truly felt like.

It takes a moment or two for her words to sink in, as he has focused not on what she says but the sound of her voice and the feel of her arms around him. Why- Who is she? How do I know her...? His eyebrows furrow together as he tries to grasp hold of memories that seem to have been filed far away from his recollections. I know her... We've met before. He recognizes her, not with his eyes, but with how he feels, and with how she feels.

But no sooner does it occur to him that she is the one he lost then another thought, stronger than the others, bursts in, and if not for his weakness, he would pull away from her. I failed her. I was not able to save her.

Suddenly, a great weight settles upon him as the feelings of loss and failure sweep over him, and he lowers his head wordlessly. If he did not need his hands to prop himself up, he would lower his head into his hands, but he settles for what he has already done.

I- I'm sorry I'm not stronger. He feels that he needs to be stronger now to make up for failing her before, and that she has nothing to make up for, when the failure rests with him. The emotions threatening to overflow in spite of the resolve he has had all this time to keep everyone and everything pushed away have become so strong and so suddenly that the effort to contain them causes his hands to begin to shake. ]

Edited 2023-06-12 07:49 (UTC)

[ When no answer comes, she lifts her head with her eyes peering over the arch of his back. Her ears are pressed down to her head as she worries that perhaps he would not wish her to be with him at all. Is he angry at their parting? Does he hold such a resentment to her for leaving him behind? Had she not always been the one to worry of him leaving...? And, then, she was the one to leave. Her gaze lowers for the briefest of moments as a thought comes from deep inside her. One that ripples through her entire being; that causes her to fear and causes her to flinch all at once.

Would you prefer if we were no longer bound at all?

Phya stays still for a moment before a low mewl finds its way from her. It hardly matters if he wishes to be free of her. At least, not at this moment. He is in need of aid. Such other matters can be discussed when he is of strength and sound mind once more. It is a logical answer, a healer answer, yet some ancient part of her deep inside shakes at the mere idea of it.

If you would rather be unbound... I would, because it would be what you wish.

Another soft sound comes from her before she shakes her head to free herself of the overwhelming fear and sadness that threatens to consume her. She pulls her head back to find that his shirt is lightly damp. Most likely sweat from a fever or another side effect of his body attempting to heal itself. One hand raises as she adjusts how she sits to attempt to support his body weight. Fingers lightly trace along the struggling chaotic flow of aether to where it pools.

Puncture wounds. Many of them, in fact. The sensible part of her mind finds it impossible he could survive such an attack. One remains deeper than the others, but, this many should have had to led to fatal end. Her eyebrows furrow as she desperately attempts to find an answer. Something tells her that she knows why he has survived, but, it seems lost in a fog of answers from so very long ago. She felt that once she had such a strong connection to these answers.

Perhaps she is not only a sickly young woman but a forgetful one as well.

Phya shifts once more to gently guide him to lay on his uninjured side. One hand guides his head to the pillows where the other hovers over the various amounts of wounds on his side. His aether is so chaotic but not because of the injuries. It seems to naturally flow faster, wilder, but in a regular directional flow. Unbalanced in a way. She frowns further before hesitantly lifting her gaze to his face. Her hand at his head lifts to brush the long strands of hair from his face. ]

Aymeric. [ His name sounds so different when she says it, versus how she hears it in her thoughts. A disconnect almost between a voice she feels she ought to have and the one she does have. ] M-may I start?

[ Oh, he wishes that he could force his voice to work. There is so much that he wants to say but can hardly find the words and the strength to say it. He knows he has been lying here in this house alone waiting for something to happen, either his own recovery or passing, but he never could have anticipated her returning in the way that she has.

And perhaps it is only his fogged mind telling him that this is the woman he loves, even if she does not look the way he remembers. But perhaps he does not need to see her, not when he remembers her soul.

I waited, hoping you would return. With the way they are positioned, she may not be able to see the look in his eyes, but there is a look of desperation there: a look suggesting a need to believe that she has finally come back. If she has returned to him, then he can finally begin fixing the mistakes that he knows he made, starting with failing to protect her.

His mouth moves as though he wants to try and speak, but his wounds have drained his strength, and when she moves him, he presents no resistance, allowing her to position him however she wishes. Had she been anyone else, he would have forced himself to turn away, or to push away her hands. If he returned to the aetherial sea, then perhaps he would have found the one he lost. But now that she is here, somewhere in his muddled thoughts, he knows he wants to live.

But can he, when he has taken so many wounds and left all of them uncared for? The wounds are barely healed at all, so a part of him would not be surprised if it was too late.

She asks if she might start, and by way of answer, he slowly raises his hand as if searching for someone that is lost. ]

Lantaa... Where- Where are you? [ The name slips from him as his awareness seems to slip between moments of being lucid and being confused. But just as soon as he asks the question, a bit of the fog seems to lift, and he manages the slowest of nods, recognizing that she is still Lantaa, and that she wants to help him. If there is even the smallest of chances that he might recover with her assistance, he wants to take that chance. ]

[ Her attention snaps to him as he speaks for the first time in these brief moments. Her eyes widen and ears lift ever so slightly. Lantaa. That had been her name before--the version of her name only he could use. It feels as if the name itself was a key to something locked away inside her. Faint memories come rushing at her, as well as things she shouldn't know. Places, people, things about them.

Her hand moves to take the one he has lifted. Fingers slide between his and she simply holds it in a way that is familiar, yet feels new all at the same time. After a moment of hesitation she leans forward and rests her cheek against their hands so he might feel that she truly is with him. He seems so drained that he can hardly focus on one thing or another without drifting to the next.

His wounds must be far worse than they appear.

Phya gently nudges his hand before placing it down beside him. Her focus shifts to his side where the injuries must surely be. The hand at his hair begins to gently brush the strands as if she has always done so. The other that held his moves to hover over the wounded area and her eyes drift shut in an attempt to listen to his chaotic spring of aether.

There are several wounds, but one in particular is deep and the source of much of the pain. He was pierced by.. claws, teeth? Both? It is so very hard to tell with how his aether seems incapable to be calm. Her eyebrows furrow in attempt to understand how and why it is in such a state. Then, as if she had asked out loud, the memory comes to her.

Vampire.

Phya tilts her head before lowering to be closer to him. She imagines he cannot speak loudly and thus it may be difficult to answer her question. ]

When was the last time you ate, Aymeric?

[ She believes she already knows. If his wounds have struggled to heal thus, then, it has been some time. He will need not only healing magicks, but to eat, and perhaps even alchemy to help recover with such damage. He is quite lucky he has not died.

Phya gently rests her cheek against his arm as she looks down at him. It feels almost as if she's in a fever dream. She knows he is the knight she had been waiting for all this time... but... part of her can hardly believe it. ]

It may hurt quite a bit once I start. Are you ready, my... [ Her voice catches before she can finish her sentence. "My knight."

Has she truly earned the right to call him such now? After all this pain he has been in because she had died? Surely, this is her fault, as it may not have happened if she had simply lived. He may resent her, hate her, or perhaps not even see her as she is now. Maybe that is for the best. Maybe if he continues to see her how she was he may still love her... ]

[ His fingers curl against hers, and he curses inwardly that his grip is so weak. If he had the strength, he would hold onto her hand as tightly as he could, and if only his voice would allow it, he would tell her how happy he is that she has found him after all this time. It matters little to him that she has changed in appearance; she is still herself, and he loves her.

But as he can do neither of those things, he tries to work harder to force his fingers to curl further against hers. The discomfort he feels from his lingering wounds does not matter. The only thing that matters now is her. He does not wish to succumb to his injuries, not now, but he would tolerate the discomfort from his untreated wounds if it meant having her with him once more.

He dimly registers her surveying his wounds, knowing that she must be wondering at his condition and at the state of his aether. A dim memory surfaces, reminding him that she could "see" the aether of another, and she must be doing that once more. What will she see? He can only begin to imagine, but it must be a rather confusing picture.

Then she asks him when he last ate, and he manages to shake his head from side to side just once. The motion enough is not enough, however, and he forces out the briefest of answer, said with a hoarse voice and all. ] I- I have not... [ His words trail off, although he intended to say more, but that will have to be answer enough. It has been a considerable period of time since he last consumed anything, even though doing so would have sped up his recovery. He felt no desire to do so, as there seemed to be little point in prolonging his life. Until now, that is.

She tells him that it may hurt, but he knows that nothing could possibly hurt as much as losing her did. And aside from that, there is a part of him that believes he deserves to be in this state, and deserves to be hurt as payment for failing in his chief responsibility: protecting her.

With those thoughts in mind, he manages to incline his head just once to indicate that he is ready, whenever she chooses to begin. If it is uncomfortable or even if it hurts, he will simply have to take it without complaint. It sinks in a moment later that she started to call him something, something indicating a sort of possession. What was it that she used to call me...? He knows that they had names for each other, but he cannot seem to remember them now. But if she is looking closely enough, she may notice his eyes lighting up just briefly with recognition. ]

Edited 2023-06-13 04:14 (UTC)

[ Her fingers curl around his in an attempt to show that she is aware he is attempting to communicate. Aymeric is lucky enough that he had been able to push himself to sit. His injuries run deep and it will take some time for them to heal entirely. Time she hopes she will have, as, perhaps she has come to late.

She watches him intently for an answer to her query, gently rubbing her cheek against his arm to comfort him. Her ears lift once more as he manages to speak once more. It seems he is limited to what he can say and how much he can say. Then, perhaps she ought to ask him simple questions if needed. That way he can focus less on the words and more on recovery.

A nod is given. ] You will need to eat after you've rested.

[ She nudges her nose to his arm affectionately before sitting up. Then, her hand moves from his hair to gently rub his arm. A hope is there that it will be comforting as she begins to work. Although, she must admit, she is hesitant to even begin. He is so weak and it may hurt so very much... hasn't she hurt him enough?

Her eyes close and she inhales deeply. The hand at his wounds lowers closer to the fabric that covers them as she begins to weave his aether. It is hard to grasp, and even harder to nudge where she must have it go, but she focuses intently on it. It feels as if her fingers are threading between strands and gently tying them together. It takes time. Moments pass before the tugging and weaving seems to come to a stop. ]

They should stop bleeding for now. [ Tending to the wounds, the possible infection, however... ] One of your wounds is very deep... so deep. It's twisted on the inside now, hasn't it? I-I would need to undo the attempts at healing that your body has done to properly heal it... [ her head tilts towards him and she squeezes his arm. ] Would that be alright?

[ If words fail, looks and gestures will have to be enough for now, although he wishes that were not the case. But that does give him a goal to strive for: to recover and become strong again so that he might speak with her properly. But his barely healed wounds prevent him from moving very much at all, his earlier attempt to sit up aside. If he could, he would lean further into her touch, but all he manages to achieve is a light brush of his arm against her cheek.

At her statement of his needing to eat, the look in his eyes shifts again, and while he is not wholly opposed to feeding from her (he has missed it, in fact), something causes him to hesitate. ] There are rats, in the woods. [ The statement on its own might seem odd, but if she remembers who and what he is, she should understand.

But she begins rubbing his arm once more, and the slight tension that was forming in his shoulders fades, replaced by a feeling of contentment. He maintained that he needed no one's care, but she is not no one.

Even if the process of healing causes him to hurt, he intends to take it without complaint. Considering that he has had moments of wishing to simply pass quietly, letting another take his place as this town's lord, it might seem strange that he is not protesting her efforts to heal. But now there is a reason for him to remain.

His eyes slide closed as she begins weaving his aether to stop the bleeding. It is a strange sensation, feeling the tugging and weaving as she works with his aether. But he still remains silent, letting her do her work. Only when she stops and begins to speak again does he open his eyes once more.

Now they have arrived at the point of needing to actually heal his wounds, and this is when he imagines the discomfort will increase. The dragons he fought with and lost against were fierce with their fangs and talons, and he knows she can see the proof of it in the wounds he has taken.

But if it must be done, then he will simply do his best to bear it. Again his head inclines slightly, and he manages a single word: ]

Yes. [ He trusts that she knows what to do and will do it well, so he has no reason to state otherwise. ]

[ Rats.

Her nose scrubches in a familiar way. They would hardly sustain a vampire, if memory serves, and hardly one as injured as he. The only option is to feed from a larger creature, and she rather doubts he would wish to eat from another in his town. Eating directly from her would be too dangerous in his current state. While she trusts him without question? His instincts may need far more than she could offer in one sitting. Feedings will need to be measured and calculated...

A good thing she brought glasses with her potions.

Phya nods slowly to his permission given. She gently chews on the inside of her lip as she hesitates one more. The idea of causing him more pain after leaving him to suffer for so many years causes a spike of discomfort and even anxiety. While he might approve now, what of when his senses fully return? Will he be even angrier with her after everything else she had made him live through on his own?

Her shaking hand gently moves to over properly over his front. Fingers brisk along until she finds the deepest wound. The one that causes his chaotic aether to twist, knot, settle, and pull more into it in a veign attempt to heal. Perhaps if he had enough blood, then, it would of healed properly. She glances once more to meet his clouded blue eyes. Her heart sinks, for surely, he would not be in such a position if she had not died.

Phya closes her eyes and attempts turn her focus to aiding him. It would do little good if he felt what she did through what little connection there could be due to interacting with his aether. Her fingers press against the wound site in an attempt to take hold of the knotted aether. Her ears twitch in slight frustration as it seems his aether slips from her fingers.

This was so much easier before... has she truly become so inept? Why are things so much harder than she can recall them being in her previous life?

Finally, she manages to grab ahold of the knot by further curling her fingers into the wound. Ears stand atop her head in surprise, but she does not let it stop her. Her fingers gently begin to massage the site, easing the aether into releasing and unwinding itself. It takes time--far longer than she anticipated. A few times she must push again to take hold as the aether as it attempts to slip away from her again.

She attempts to focus on what the aether holds within it, but the emotions and memories attached seem scattered and moving from one to the other. The trauma was deep and sudden. Sharp and digging. The intent was to kill, but he survived. It would of been a mortal wound should he have been anything but what he is. Talons and teeth all at once. Pain, so much pain, but even then something hurt so much more... ]

A dragon? [ She asks gently, tilting her head once more as she attempts to learn what she can of it. ] It attacked... and... bit, or did it claw first...? The intent was to kill ... but it didn't...

[ The truth is, he detests rats almost as much as he detests himself for needing to consume blood to survive. He has, of course, become accustomed to it, and the very thought of it no longer makes him recoil with disgust. But he has seen those who are whole and unspoiled, who do not need to drink the very life blood of others to continue living, and he envies them in a way. But still, he carries on, consuming rats by choice and by necessity, when there are no other sources available. Certainly, he will not reduce the people of the town to the status of being his prey or his food. Even as a vampire, he has drawn the line at certain points.

If he could find the strength and the words to address her worries, he would tell her that whatever pain might come from her healing, he intends to take it in stride. After all, even the worst injury at the claws of dragons pales in comparison to what he felt the day he learned that she was gone: gone because he was not there to save her. A part of him wonders if he will ever forget making that discovery or the dark days that came after it... days that never seemed to end.

He may have forgotten what her process of healing is like and how it feels, so as she begins, he finds himself steeling him for something more or less unknown. But as she works, steeling his resolve turns to stiffening as his body loudly protests against the sudden discomfort. If he is to be honest, it is more than discomfort, as she undoes what little healing has naturally occurred in spite of his failure to care for himself and his needs. The wound is deep, as she surmised, and he clenches his teeth to hold back any unwanted outbursts. He bites his lip unintentionally, which would have gone unnoticed if not for the taste of blood from the bitten area.

As she continues to work, his memories begin to swirl in a confusing blur as flashes of himself locked in battle with a dragon mesh with the present and her efforts to heal him. But a third memory weaves itself into the strange flood of memories: a small figure running, and a flash of blood. His fists clench, and for just a fraction of a second, his eyes gleam red. It is gone as soon as it appears, and he is just Aymeric once more.

She asked if he was ready, and he said he was, but he could not have anticipated how it would feel to have his tangled, coiled aether worked on until it released itself once more. Still, there is nothing to do but wait and try to drown out the unwanted memories from the past. ]

[ While she does not see the memories he does, she can certainly sense the emotions charged within the aether. A surge of rage, and deep sadness. Her ears twitch as she has an inkling at what those emotions may be tied to. The subject is one for them to address another time, for she has her own complicated emotions tied to it. Ones that she is not certain she will ever truly be ale to articulate to him. How can one apologize for leaving the other behind and returning as someone anew?

Especially one that is weaker and far more useless than she was before.

Finally, after what seems like hours, she manages to undo the knots his aether has tied into. Her hand immediately covers the area of the deepest wound, palm pressing onto it, channeling the ambient aether to heal. She fears it will leave a permanent mark on the inside of him. An injury that will flare and ache, all because she had not been there at the start to heal him. Her tail curls around her, and draping over him, as she tries to push her own emotions of it to the side so they do not funnel into him as well.

Her brilliant blue eyes finally open and her shoulders sink in apparent exhaustion. The hand at the wound begins to shake as she can feel the physical drain on her person from channeling so much aether. The blue eyes turn to him, searching for his reaction as she goes from funneling aether to gently guiding it with her finger tips. The wound will most certainly hurt, as even if the deepest internal damage is repaired, they will need to clean and dress the wound. Fever and side effects will need to be addressed. The road to recovery has begun but it truly is far from over. At the very least he no longer is in danger of passing to the aetheric sea.

Phya's reaches over him to gently take the hands that had balled into fists. Her smaller hand rests atop his. She can see the blood on his lip, and an instinct rises to lean over and kiss the self inflicted wound. The instinct is never followed upon, for what if he would not wish the affection when he truly can see her? When his eyes register she is no longer only Lantaa, but a new life with new struggles and a new face?

Instead, she continues to massage the area of his wound to direct his aether to flow better, and brisks the tips of her fingers over his hand. ]

I know it hurts so very much. I... I know there are wounds that may possibly never heal because of me. [ The tip of her tail curls ever so slightly. ] B-but, I promise that I will mend all that I can that was done to you--by myself included. My poor Aymeric, look at what I caused...

[ Why would you ever wish to keep being bound to me after all of this?

She imagines exhaustion must be sweeping over him. Perhaps he has slipped back into the daze and can no longer truly see her, but merely a woman, trying to aid him. Perhaps that is for the best in the end. ]

You need to rest, my--[ she stops herself from saying love, as she has surely lost the right to such a phrase, ]--rest and then I will wake you to eat.

[ When the memories finally fade, they are replaced by a certain kind of darkness: the darkness that settled in and around him and refused to lift when he finally faced the hard truth that he was alone. Oh, there were those who checked in on him from time to time, and those who were stubborn enough to try and rouse him from his near-stupor, but those efforts were more or less futile in his mind. Nothing would change what had been done, after all.

She is correct that when the time is right, they will have to address the rather complicated subjects that still linger between them.

As for his wounds, he is certain that at least one of them will continue to plague him even after having been healed. While his lucid moments come and go, he retained enough awareness to recognize the seriousness of the deepest of them. And since he did not properly care for it, he is certain that it will continue to be a thorn in his side. Perhaps it is punishment for failing to save the one he loves the most. Even though she has returned, it does not change the fact that he failed her.

If she worries about her emotions funneling into him, she shouldn't, as he has more than enough emotions to make up for it. He simply does not let any of them show, choosing instead to rely on the best expressionless mask that he can manage to hold in place.

It seems that in the aftermath of her healing efforts, he can at least string a few more words together than before, and he takes advantage of this to make a statement. ]

I have been resting. [ In a way... it was hardly the best sort of rest, nor did it do very much to aid his condition, but it does not matter. ] You need to rest as well. [ It is not lost on him that she expended some of her own aether in the process of healing him, and therefore, his focus is not upon himself or what he needs, but on her. ]

If there are hurts that go on being a trial, I intend to carry them. [ He could never practice enough penance to make up for his failure, but he is resolved to do whatever he must.

He hears her words and her promises, and her taking on the blame for what she thinks she caused, but he does not need them. ]

This was not your doing. [ She may not believe it, but he needs to make that plain. As for the notion of resting, he finds himself wanting to do anything but. To rest and sleep means letting the harrowing images and nightmares that come when he sleeps back in, and he knows he does not wish to do that. He feels the exhaustion threatening to pull him under, but he fights against it, not wishing to let it take hold again. ]

No more rest. [ Not for him, at least. ]

[ She blinks once as he seems to be capable of speaking more now than he was before. For how long, of course, remains to be seen. She imagines he might slip further into his confusion as the weariness and fatigue pulls him down. Fingers continue to gently brush along his hand to encourage him to rest regardless of what he says. She can tell how his body demands the rest. The aether speaks of a need for true sleep, not whatever fog he has been in for months. ]

I will rest when you do. [ A familiar statement she is sure. How many times in her previously life had she said it? ] O-of course it was a consequence of my doings...

[ Still, now is not the time to argue. She shifts to sitting on the side of her legs, her knees gently pressing into his back to offer support. Her hand finally returns to his hair in other to brush through the knotted strands. This too will need attention, but only after his wounds have healed and she has made sure no infection has grown to call itself home. ]

Then, I will simply need to keep you company. [ If he continues to insist that he does not need sleep then she will simply have to ease him into it herself. ] Sitting here, by your side.

[ Once, she would have sat by his side and held conversation with him. He is so weak that she is certain what might have been the norm would be impossible. As well as the simple fact that her memories hold from decades ago. She is of a new life now, and he a changed man from the passage of time. What could they possibly speak of to one another now?

Her finger tips gently brush along the side of his ear as she weaves gently through his hair. Speaking should be minimal for him at this moment, and truthfully, even a time after he has eaten. ]

Edited 2023-06-16 09:29 (UTC)

[ He barely understands where this sudden burst of energy has come from, but it does not last for long. Of course he is still quite weak, so even as she continues to brush her fingers along his hand before moving to do the same with his hair, he finds he has to fight to keep his eyes open.

He is no physician nor healer, and so he does not have the knowledge either might possess, but he would not be surprised if some infection had settled into the worst of his wounds. He had not gone out of his way to further expose them, but he had not cared for them either. But regardless of infection or not, the fact remains that he is still quite lacking in strength.

The movement might seem strange, but that does not stop him from shifting as best as he can, given his lingering weakness; he nestles himself further against her, an action that feels familiar somehow. In his mind's eye, he sees himself doing that very thing with her before, but so very long ago now. The thought occurs to him that now that she has returned as someone else, she will not like to have him as close as he is, or having his head resting in her lap. But if she did not like it, why would she permit it? His brow furrows in mild confusion as he tries to reconcile the past with the present.

And he can hardly put the question into words at the moment, but there is a part of him that wonders if she still wishes to remain with him, given her new life and the path that lies ahead of her. He is, after all, a changed man, and older now, while she is still quite young.

Perhaps once he has regained his strength and no longer needs a healer, that is when she will take her leave. Perhaps the care she is showing is only that of a healer and nothing more. Perhaps he should steel himself for her inevitable departure. As if his body is responding to the thoughts swirling in his mind, tension forms once more in his shoulders and frame, as something inside him protests the idea of being alone again.

He never wanted to seal himself away from the world, but losing the one he loved most changed him, and he could hardly stand being among people. Perhaps that is still true to some degree, but he could manage it if he had her with him. If she leaves him once he is recovered...

Again he seems to protest that very thought, and channeling what strength he can into moving, he moves his hand once more as if searching for hers... as if searching for the physical proof that she is here and not leaving him. ]

[ Not a moment is wasted when he moves his hand for her. She takes hold of the one that was above his wound, gently curling her much smaller hand around his. Fingers brush along his as the thought comes to mind that she is smaller than she was when he knew her before. The doctors had always said she was small for her age, light in weight, and not as strong as she ought to be. Such things make her hope that when he sees her, he does not see Phya. She hopes that his eyes show him as the woman he knew her as and the one he loved her as. Lantaa.

Phya shifts so that his head might rest against her lap. Her fingers continue to comb his hair, noting the continual list of things that will need to take place once he finally sleeps.She hopes to coax him into sleep instead of needing to cast it upon him. It would be far better for him in the end as it would mean his body is able to rest on its own. ]

Your people need you to be recovered. [ Now is not the time to explain the temperament of the people below, but perhaps once he awakens. ] You need to recover for your own health. As you sleep, I will tend to the wounds and whatever else you will need. I will be right here.

[ Not a thing will remove me is what she would wish to say, but, she feels as if she cannot say such a thing. Something had separated them before and pulled her away from him. Why make such a promise and get both of their hopes up? She will do all in her power to remain at his side, but, she would not promise him when he is in such a condition. ]

[ The moment she takes hold of his hand is the same moment that he clings to it as best as he can, as if she is his lifeline and the only thing keeping him from drifting too far away. His moments of clarity might be coming and going, but he has had enough lucid moments to form an image of her in his mind: she is both Lantaa and Phya, but more importantly, he can feel that she cares for him... perhaps she even loves him, even though there are years between them that have changed them both.

If he could speak, he would tell her how he feels, but that will have to wait until his strength has returned in full. He wishes to sleep, as he truly does need it, but he fears what visions his mind might conjure up as he does, just as he fears waking up to find her gone. He fears her leaving on her own, or being taken from him, and that is why he fears letting sleep take him, no matter how much he needs it.

It registers that she is urging him to sleep, offering reassurance that she intends to be there when he wakes up, but still, something continues to prevent him from finally taking his rest. ]

[ No motion or glance is given to the fact he clings to her hand. Something about it is familiar, as if he had done it numerous times in similar situations. Perhaps not in the context of losing his beloved, but more so, in the intent of her healing him. How many times over their countless lives have they been in this very setting...?

He refuses to sleep and Phya shakes her head lightly. A small sigh is given before she leans down and gently brushes her lips to his damp forehead. He is warm to the touch. A fever has either returned or formed, and she is certain now there is an infection that must be dealt with. With a gentle nudge to the side of his head, Phya hums a gentle tune to lure him into sleep. The notion is one that is kinder and far easier to coax him into the deep sleep that he surely needs.

Moments slip by while she waits to be certain that he has fallen asleep. She rests his hand back at his side and merely sits beside him as reality settles in. A part of her questions if this is even real. Has she truly found the knight she has waited her whole life for? Had she jumped to conclusions or even to action? The whole string of events seems so very impossible, having taken place in a daze or even a fever dream. Yet, no matter how many times she shakes her head and stares down at the pale Elezen in her lap, the feeling in her heart never changes.

He is her knight, her one and only. Aymeric...

She handles him with great care and gentleness as she eases him to the pillow in order to stand from the bed. The discarded basket is retrieved and she moves to the opposite side of the bed. The potions, glasses, and medical supplies all come out before she lifts the side of his shirt to inspect his wounds. Her heart sinks at the sight of them. They are indeed nearly horrifying to behold, even going so far to bring tears to her eyes. Wounds such of this must have hurt for a long time indeed and he merely tolerated them. She sets about getting the cloths wet and prepared, then spreading the cloths over the sites. He will need proper bandages and balms, but, that will require her either leaving the room or the manor all together. She had not anticipated his wounds to be so grave...

Perhaps one of those she travels with will come to find her and she can implore them to come back with medical supplies for him.

While he rests and the potion is soaked by his wounds, Phya gets to work in keeping herself busy. The room is a mess--surprising as it seems he has been nearly bed ridden for some time. She tidies what she believes she has the right to touch, attempting to ignore the thing sin the room that practically shout they ought to belong to her. Nothing in this house is hers by right or even owed. It is his home, and that does not necessarily mean she has a place in it. Perhaps if she were still Lantaa, then she would have a place. She, incarnated into this life, can hardly hold a light to her former life. It may even be the case that when he properly awakens, he will wish to move on, and find another to share his longer life with...

The thought itself is paralyzing. Faint memories of previous lives tell her that it had happened at least once before. He had to marry another for status, power, stability. A life may have existed where she was expected to do the same. What would stop him from finding a better suited partner in this life? Yes, she may be the soul he is bound to, but how very useless and unlike her previous life she must be.

A few hours pass before she believes it is time to wake him. She removes the damp cloth and replaces it with a fresh one, noting how seeped it is in puss and other liquids of infection. Her nose scrunches at the sight, but, at least she is here to care for it now. Once recovered, Phya turns to a table farther away. She rolls up the sleeve on her arm before looking at her small appendage. There is no medical sign of dwarfism or any such condition to be malformed. She simply ... well, perhaps it best to say that she hardly had what she needed when she was younger. Her adopted sister is the same, no doubt, as were many others in Idyllshire in the time she was young. Or, perhaps, it truly is because the elements took much from her so that she could heal to the extent she can. Regardless of the reason, Phya puts the cup underneath her arm and grabs the knife from her pocket she carries in defense. She winces at the wound she makes to allow the blood to drip into the cup below. The wound will be healed by her own abilities, but she cannot shake the feeling she has done this for him before.

With it half filled, she tilts her arm and pulls the blade from it. White and green wisps of magick quickly seal the wound and she wipes the remaining blood from her arm. It stains to some degree, but she can tend to it later. Aymeric needs something in his system in order to begin healing from the inside. Properly.

Phya returns to the side of the bed and places the cup at the table beside it. Then, she leans forward and brushes the hair from his forehead. The motion is done several times to coax him awake. A gentle smile awaits him when he finally manages to open his eyes. ]

Aymeric. [ She attempts to sound alluring for him. She can remember doing it to pull the attention from his darker instincts. However, she was far more alluring and seductive in her previous life. It might be a miracle that her soft tone could even come off the same way in this voice. ] I need you to sit up once again. I'll help you, of course, but I need you to come here.

[ True to her word, she aids him in sitting up to the best of his ability. Phya angles herself so he might lean to the side against her if needed, but also guides his head to tilt back by a fraction. Her other hand takes the cup and holds it to his lips. ]

Drink.

[ Phya does not have the ability nor power to suggest as she did in her past life. She is not a witch, nor trained of arcane abilities. Instead, it is a direction given in the most alluring voice she might muster from herself.

Then, she tilts the glass forward for him to drink. ]

[ His fingers move to curl even tighter around her hand as she begins attempting to lure him to the sleep he is fighting against. If he sleeps, he might wake only to find an empty house once more. Or perhaps he would wake up and realize all of this was a dream, that she had never returned to him at all. That would be a blow as devastating as the wounds he received from the dragons. But it seems that his body as reached its limits once more, and as she nudges his head and hums gently, he feels his eyelids growing heavy, and this time, they finally slide closed.

He lets out a quiet but shaky exhale, and finally relaxes against her. For reasons that would not make sense to anyone but the two of them, he holds an instrinsic trust in her to look after him while he sleeps, and even though he resisted for as long as he could, he instinctively knows he is safe with her watching over him. And fortunately for him, the sleep he has fallen into is deep, and so he does not rouse or move when she begins examining and caring for the deep wounds he has sustained.

He did neglect to care for them, as he saw little reason to, but even if he had, he was in no condition to clean and bind them on his own. The only sign he gives to indicate his discomfort is a slight furrowing of his brow; otherwise, his expression remains calm, far calmer than he normally appears in his waking hours. As for the belongings in the house, if she were to ask him, he would be quick to say that they are as much hers as they are his. He would withhold nothing from Lantaa, and so he sees no reason to do so with Phya, as they are one and the same.

His sleeping mind is still turning, albeit at a slower rate, but he already knows that should he wake and recover from his injuries, he intends to formally pronounce everything in the house as hers by rights. He may have done so to her former life, but it feels important to do so with her new one.

But beyond a few scattered, half-formed thoughts, Aymeric remains more or less in a deeper sleep than he has had in months, perhaps years. Phya's gifts may well have aided in it, but regardless of how it originated, the rest is sure to do him good. Still, even as he begins to stir, he is not yet fully recovered, although the first steps have been taken.

The lines on his forehead deepen as awareness slowly returns to him; but with awareness and the beginnings of regained strength comes slightly sharper senses, and the lingering pain from his still healing wounds comes along as well. Unaware of the steps she has taken to obtain blood for him to drink, he continues to slowly rouse from his slumber. His head turns slowly to the side she is on, eyelids flickering as he tries to awaken. After a moment or two, he manages it, and his eyes instantly lock on hers.

He still does not speak, but he can hear her instructions, bidding (or compelling) him to sit up for her. His strength has not fully returned, but he complies with her order, pushing himself as best as he can to sit upright. The effort causes his arms to shake and a quiet moan of protest escapes him unbidden. Surely his wounds will protest the action as well, but the discomfort is nothing he has not already been dealing with.

Where he might have hesitated once, so many years ago now, he does the exact opposite, leaning forward slightly in anticipation of the offered drink. How long has it been since he tasted blood not from rats? Years, surely, even if he cannot identify a precise date or time. He drinks almost greedily, perhaps too quickly, and although he desperately needs the sustenance, his still recovering body protests. He coughs once, and then again, as if his body is warning him to proceed slowly, and although he does not wish to waste a drop of the offered blood, a small trickle slides out from the corner of his mouth.

Perhaps he was too quick to let her alluring voice tempt him into drinking as deeply as he could manage. But how could he resist those tones of voice, when he has not heard anything like them in far too long. Even if she does not have the power of suggestion that a witch or other sorceress might have, there is still a power in her tone of voice and choice of words that he responds to without question. ]

[ Her head tilts as she watches him eat. It reminds her of a man starved of water, or a greedy child. Something tells her it had been difficult to get him to eat before. She thought he might put up an argument, or a fight, but here he is willingly accepting it. Could it simply be because he is so starved of food that his instinct are taking over?

At the sight of the blood coming from the corner of his mouth, Phya tilts the cup away. Not enough so that he cannot eat, but so that he slows down to some degree. A smile is offered to him to show that she is hardly angry or upset. Merely, she does not wish for him to make himself ill. Her other hand moves from around his shoulders to brush down his hair. ]

You need to slow down, otherwise you may make yourself ill. Rather, more ill. [ She finally pulls the empty cup away before reaching for a rag and cleaning off the corner of his mouth. ] Once it settles I'll be able to give you more.

[ As he eats, he tries to keep his eyes locked upon hers as the memories swirl once more in his mind. The taste of her blood reminds him of another- of herself, but with a different name and a different appearance. He was not always so willing to drink her blood, as he felt that doing so was harmful to her, even if she insisted otherwise. How strange that he should be so willing now, when as far as he can tell, she is smaller and not as strong as she was when she had a different name. What if drinking her blood further weakens her?

His brows furrow together once more as he tries to reconcile that worry with his desire to be bonded to her through the act of feeding. As before, he reaches for her free hand, fingers brushing against it even as she tilts the cup away from him in order to slow down the rate at which he feeds. Even with that, soon enough the cup is empty, and he finds himself feeling drowsy now that he has been fed.

Not knowing what name she wishes to be called, he uses the one he knows, although he wishes to learn her new name so that he might use it instead. ]

Lantaa... [ What will she do now? Depart now that she has fed him and tended to his wounds at least once? Surely she does not wish to remain here in this old house with an old man. She could have a chance at a new life and a new start, and as much as he hopes she will remain, he also does not wish to stand in the way of that.

But, as long as she is here, he simply wants to hold her hand and have what moments together with her that he can. ]

[ The small smile remains on her face as he raises his eyes to her. She can see the familiar red lingering there, but it seems faint. The familiar feeling tugs at her mind as if she ought to feel something in response to it. However, that physical connection is unkindled. While he has drank her blood? It was not from her directly. The reaction she felt so strongly in her past life now feels more like a soft bell that rings, but has yet to draw forth the full reaction.

Her free hand settles between them so he might brisk his fingers along hers. The other still tends to his hair. She guides him to rest against her bossom, fingers moving along his and resting her cheek atop his head. He will need to rest soon so that his body can begin to properly heal now with medicine and sustenance inside him. She nearly presses her lips to his head, but stops herself, as she feels she's hardly earned the place to do such a thing.

Her tail--seemingly larger than it should be for her frame--gently lays itself beside him.

Lantaa.

She wishes she was still Lantaa. She was stronger, more physical, and not as unsure of herself then. She could look at herself in a mirror and not feel ashamed for her weakness in health. The same weakness that seems to ebb into every aspect of her life. Her sleep, her ability to heal, her connection to others. She can almost barely keep up with her sister and Ardbert. ]

...Yes?

[ It is difficult for him to explain, much less put it into words, but all he wants is to ask that she not leave him. Perhaps it is a selfish request, one that he has no right to make, and yet he wants her here. But what can he offer her? His possessions are few, and what he does have is considerably old. He would give all of it to her, of course, but she deserves so much more than an old vampire and his even older belongings.

Still, there is no ignoring his wish to no longer be alone, just as there is no preventing his hand from straying from her own hand to the very tip of her tail that she has placed beside him. He does not pull on it nor do anything that would cause her discomfort; instead, he lightly runs his fingers over it, perhaps with a hint of shyness and hesitation. Perhaps he should have asked permission, although he remembers touching her tail before, but perhaps she no longer welcomes those touches, deeming them too forward and uncomfortable.

She asks a question, a simple response to his stating of her name, and the answer immediately forms. He draws a breath as if the act of speaking still requires effort on his part, but he manages to respond: ]

Stay. [ It could be mistaken for a command, but it is more of a request, a plea that she remain with him. ] Please.

[ If he could make the request more eloquent, he would, but it seems that those two words will have to be enough. ]

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au au || ❝ our fate so darkly romantic, i will never leave your side. ❞

AU PLOTLINE

🕯️ — calamity scars.

reunion. }

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