Rhys Elena (Red Spinel) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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zenderael_mmo2013-01-14 12:27 am
brokencrescendo) wrote in zenderael_mmo2013-01-14 12:27 am
Entry tags:
[Spezra/Ahurhys/Ash - Reunion]
Who: Ezra and Rhys with costar Ashtaroth
When: Friday 6/17 late, during retreat
Where: Everea escape route
Before/After: After all that rescue business
Warnings: Corpse handling. Brofeels. Sadfeels.
In which there is a brief respite before reality catches up.
At the first sight of the escaping unit, a group of scouts split up, some to join the rescued prisoners, the others to report back, to call off the attack and retreat. They were running, stumbling, running some more. Being above ground was clearing his head. It was still dark out, but the air was clean, and the sense of space around him was enough to make him giddy. He kept looking back, kept trying to keep an eye out for Ravindra and Rayu, kept seeing nothing, and felt heavier and heavier with each step they took.
He felt weak. He felt like he was going to be sick. Whitehall had his arm again. Four of them. There had been six. Seven. Alexander. He couldn't forget about that. He had to ask- he would have to ask-
It was a blur. Except for those feelings, he couldn't remember what had happened, how they'd gotten out. People were missing. It was still dark out. The metal cuffs around his wrists were heavy and he knew what little healing he'd received hadn't improved his appearance. He knew he smelt awful, but he could wait for a bath. Just for a clean set of clothes...
"We got 'em!" yelled Whitehall. Ezra felt himself stumble again, touched the ground, got up again and kept going, hearing himself apologize to Whitehall for nearly taking him out. Whitehall. He had a nephew somewhere didn't he? Back in Bastan. His nephew had been in Bastan.
People were coming towards them. Clerics. They came in and a handful of them scooped up the Vahishta with healing and restrained questions. There were some that came to him, and after another heal he shook his head, waved them off, panting alongside Whitehall and Gertrude, trying to catch his breath. It wasn't just healing, it was a week of near-immobility and bloodloss, little light and little food, and
And
Where were Ravindra and Rayu...?
Rhys caught the signal and ordered the retreat of the front forces. They waves not in use were the first to pull out, and bits at a time the rest of them were pulling back. Rhys stayed. The Ahura would never be the first to flee, and Rhys Elena needed to confirm Ezra's safety for himself.
He smashed his fist into the ground, shredding the earth with shock waves and making stomping leaps that caused craters. Anything he could think of to frighten off would be pursuers. His body was reaching his limits, splattered with blood and some of it his. So close. A little more. A warhorn called to him and told him what he needed to know: the Spenta and Vahishta were secure. And that meant Rayu was, too. He responded with his own horn, and receded to the forests with the last remaining soldiers.
His helmet came off so he could see easier, heart beating into his throat from exhaustion and from a lingering fear. They had them. A part of him couldn't believe it. Another was afraid to. Please, let them be in one piece. Let Ezra be all right.
A healer came to tend to him, but Rhys' eyes were too busy searching the crowd. His gaze stopped, frozen on their target. Ezra. Ezra, exhausted and beaten and drained but alive. Rhys' relief escaped in a broken huff. Was he supposed to laugh? Cry? He gently pushed the healer away and past another berserker, absently handing off his helmet to free his arms. He greeted Ezra with a touch on the arm, shifting to help support his weight, and couldn't stop himself from breaking into a smile.
A touch on his arm. Light at first, careful, switching to supportive, and he pulled his head up to see who this new person was. Rhys. Oh god. Maybe he said it out loud. He looked down again, breathing out heavily and trying to breathe in. It was suddenly hard, suddenly hurt to breathe, and he swallowed hard again. That dumb smile. He'd never been happier to see it. To see someone still alive.
"They're back there. They'll be here." Someone had to come back, not just him. It wasn't his fault. Even if he hadn't been here, they'd be in there for the Vahishta. Something like this would have happened anyway. But would it have been Ravindra and Rayu? Would it have been Alexander?
He shook his head. He'd stopped. He shouldn't have. He couldn't move, not without some help. There were too many people- suddenly, too many people. He took his glasses off and pressed his hand to the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Where was he even going to go? What was there even left to do? His free hand came up to grasp Rhys' arm tightly, but that was all, unable to move forward, knowing he couldn't go back. This was all they could do now.
Rhys nodded in reassurance, believing it. They would be. Of course they would be. All of the weight-- the heaviness, the feeling of being swept away and drowning-- left him with a dizzying pull. He had forgotten how tired he was, and didn't care, arms around Ezra to keep him up. Rhys leaned in, forehead bumped against Ezra's, and his hand gripped tighter. It's fine. Don't worry. I've got you.
They would have to move eventually. They needed to be across the Pakerion boarder before Aerveas could regroup. But a few moment to breathe-- Rhys could steal that for them.
Suddenly close, suddenly warm. He was already braced for the light headbutt, wincing slightly at the contact, but he was glad for it, so inexpressibly happy. He was still trying to shake off the magebane, still couldn't feel that well of energy inside of him, but it was enough like this, for now. For a few moments.
"'M sorry. 'Bout Rachel. I couldn't- she was right there. Right in front of me. I couldn't- I couldn't-"
He hadn't opened his eyes yet. He still didn't. He breathed in unsteadily and out, then choked, sobbing, quickly breathing in to stop it before it could start. Not now. Not here. But the fear wasn't gone yet, the anger and the hate weren't gone yet. Ravindra and Rayu weren't back yet. Rachel was dead. And it wasn't his fault, but he'd never forgive himself.
Can we go? Can we leave yet? He wanted to ask it but he couldn't, couldn't make the words form, stuck in his throat. He whimpered instead, pressing his forehead to Rhys'.
Rhys closes his eyes, shaking his head against Ezra's. No, Ezra, no. None of it was Ezra's fault. But he knew the feeling. Why couldn't they stop this? Why couldn't they do more? But for every struggle Rhys had, he imagined Ezra had it worse. Ezra was there, and locked away, and Rhys did not want to imagine how Aerveas or rogues treated their prisoners.
His support became a full embrace, but that was short lived in spite of Rhys' reluctant to pull back. He moved an arm to Ezra's waist while the other took Ezra's arm over his shoulder so they could walk. His smile was weaker, eyes glassy with the threat of tears, but he kept it together. Not now. Not here. With a nod to Ezra, he started moving to follow the rest of the retreat.
It was selfish of him, to take that hug and not return it. He couldn't. Lifting his arms, the idea of it alone, was a trial. His hand on Rhys' arm was the most he could manage. It was different, so different from everything during the past week, and he needed to be reminded that there was more than the past week. He'd never move forward otherwise.
He let Rhys shift him around, calm for now, but there was a tightness to him, the way he clutched at his arm, that suggested it was just a matter of keeping it in, keeping it for later. Healed but weak, tired, terrified, he seemed to black out again, not noticing anything until they stopped again, until they were at whatever destination they were coming to, and he looked at Rhys in blank question for some context, like one coming out of sleep or a trance.
It didn't matter if Ezra went entirely slack. Rhys supported the weight, focusing on one step at a time. Rhys was battle worn, but none of it, nothing, compared to Ezra right now. Hearing Ezra breathe, having Ezra right there, was more than enough to keep going to the checkpoint. The scenery was no longer plains and forest of Everea, but the thick, tangled growth of Pakerion where the light of the moon could barely break past the canopy mist.
They couldn't bring beasts of burden into the assault with risking being found, but Pakerion wolves and rhinos were there to greet the refugees for transport, and brought extra supplies. Rhys recognized Bonecrush's scarred visage amongst the animals, and he knew Virelai must have been one of the first ones out-- and the first to return.
Any potions they hadn't been able to carry were here now, though it wasn't what Ezra needed. He set Ezra down against a tree to let him catch his breath, one hand still on his shoulder and the other reaching for Ezra's to grip them together in their usual gesture.
Sitting was something he felt like he'd taken for granted. His legs practically collapsed under him and he sat, for a moment afraid Rhys would disappear and grabbing his hand a lot tighter than he would have if the panic hadn't sudden leaped into his throat. He glanced about nervously, his breathing choppy before he could settle it again. Pakerion. Yeah, this was Pakerion. That was okay. Pakerion was okay.
The Vahishta- still there. What would have happened to him if he hadn't come? Would he still have been captured? He couldn't think about it. It made him sick to think about it. When would he have stopped? Would Sam have died next? Could he find any solace in it?
He couldn't. He kept thinking about Rachel. He was curling up, his free arm around his middle, hugging himself tightly like it might force out all of that dark stuff. He shook his head with another muffled noise, his forehead to his knees. He couldn't- he couldn't break up here. God, not here, not in front of other people. Give him that, just that small thing, just some small space and fifteen minutes and it would be fine, it'd be enough, he promised, he promised...
Ezra's grip surprised him. Rhys wouldn't leave. He was determined for that, watching Ezra. Part of him thought to get a healer, but another part recognized what was happening. He had felt it too. Maybe not in the same way, not the same things, but he knew what it was.
The spot he had chosen was a secluded one, but there were still people passing near to check them. Rhys turned to one such berserker and signed a few orders. Get me a wolf, tend to the others. We're fine on our own. He wasn't questioned, and aside from the massive canine waiting several meters away for orders, the area cleared out as the other refugees made their way.
Rhys knelt down in front of Ezra, never letting go of his hand.
"It's okay." It's okay. It wasn't, it really, really wasn't. He was shaking and couldn't stop it. He put his free hand into his hair- it had grown fairly long since he'd come to Zenderael- and pulled at it, breathing in and out, forcing the air past the tightness in his chest. The other held Rhys' hand tightly. Weak. He was so weak. It shouldn't be like this. He should be able to deal with this. It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't. It wasn't.
"Are they back yet?" he asked, strangled. His voice didn't sound right. It wasn't right. He didn't want to talk. But he had to know.
Back? Rhys' memory searched when he first got to Ezra. He had mentioned that they would be here. It didn't occur to Rhys that what Ezra had meant was that they may have been left behind. His eyes went a little wide and he looked over his shoulder, as if it would help him see someone that wasn't there.
Rayu would have checked in with him. Or-- no. Ashtaroth. He might have gone to see Ashtaroth first. Thinking it didn't quell the rising fear inside Rhys, and he shook his head, ending it in a questioning tilt at Ezra.
"Acher. We ran into him." Did Rhys know him? "Paladin. Ex. Ex-Paladin. Alt. Betrayed Bastan. Some rogues- they stayed behind for us." Time. How much time had passed? They'd been down there a long time. Had it been enough? They had to, they had to survive, they had to be okay-
According to who? This wasn't a game. God he wished it were but it wasn't.
Rhys' eyes flickered with recognition. He knew Acher. He fought Acher. Brutal, violent, and determined to have what he wanted. Lera had mentioned the betrayal. It was his turn to grip Ezra a little tighter, searching his expression. Who stayed behind?
It was pointless to ask. He knew. He wrote it. He knew exactly who would have stayed behind, not searching for a response, but for Ezra to correct what Rhys was already thinking. When Ezra didn't, he started to stand up, offering his other hand to Ezra. They could go find their answer.
No. No, he didn't want to get up. He didn't want to find anything else out. But he wouldn't let go of Rhys. He couldn't. He was tired, he was so tired. He could feel the tears stinging his eyes from the pure want to not get up. But he had a bad feeling, a painful, slow feeling that the night was not over yet.
Both hands, a tug, he was up on his feet again. Everything tilted, but he followed Rhys, everything creaking, everything cracking. He found himself forgetting to breathe, in too deep, out too long, the pauses in between wanting him to sleep, to stop.
There was a small crowd, some shouts for some kind of transport. The cleric in black that had been hanging around Rhys at the tournament, Whitehall, other paladins. Besides the shout, there was nothing but whispers.
In his panic, Rhys didn't forget to take time to steady Ezra. His look was apologetic, but they needed to this. This wolf followed them toward the crowd, and Rhys, silent as he was, had the presence to cause some of them to part as he pulled himself toward Ashtaroth. She was here, Rayu was just--
Rhys' legs lost their strength. He buckled, barely keeping himself and Ezra up. Whatever anyone else was saying was lost.
He couldn't be seeing this again.
It had been surreal seeing Rayu for the first time. Every detail, every tiny headcanon, put together in a face. Even the parts Rhys hadn't consciously imagined were just as he had imagined. Every movement, every mannerism. A real, living person who came out of a foolish game they all played. He'd known him in and out, and then met him. Rhys had reached to him, and he swore Rayu might have been reaching back.
Now Rayu was on the ground, head lulled to a side as if he were sleeping. But his chest didn't rise with breath. His skin was so pale. The blood stains...
So real. Real enough to die.
She didn't notice anyone approaching. She'd stopped registering things the moment she saw Rayu's face. She couldn't feel anything from him. All around her was life, some waning, some full and bright. From Rayu- from Victor- all she got was cold, cold, cold.
A hand on her shoulder, but it didn't last long. It pulled her shoulder down as the owned collapsed beside her, but she remained standing.
The paladins spoke of how lucky it was Savarna survived. No chance for Rayu. Victor. They knew who he was. They had other words, but kept them back in the presence of the Ahura. They weren't sure if they should say them at all. He'd helped save the Spenta. He'd saved Savarna. And then he'd died. That was fair, wasn't it? That was just.
Ashtaroth didn't care about Fairness. Or Justice.
She moved forward and crouched down, her hands slow to reach out, to take Rayu's hands, cold and stiff and damp, and went to lay them on his chest. Instead she froze holding on to them, staring at his face. The white burn of holy magic gathered in her hands, but went no further. There was no life to rekindle.
Coming up behind Rhys, he almost stumbled when he dropped suddenly, bumping into him. His hand reached out on reflex and he rested it heavily on Rhys' shoulder.
His grip convulsed there, holding on to it tightly. "Oh God," he muttered, dropping his head. That wasn't- this wasn't-
He couldn't be worth it. Nothing could have possibly been worth this.
Rhys brought his hand to Ezra's absently, gripping it. But everything else faded and disappeared. He pulled forward and fell at Rayu-- Victor's side. He brushed Victor's hair aside, tracing over his eyebrows and his features. He'd been particular during character creation. Started over a few times... Had to get everything perfect, and had all the values saved. All he had to do was click Confirm.
His fault. He had made Victor what he was. Victor, wanting so badly to do right, willing to do whatever it took, even if it meant his own life, and he had sent him in danger. Not as a storyteller, as an... equal. Rhys swallowed. This couldn't happen. This wasn't supposed to happen. Heimdall. Heimdall-- they could retcon it. He was always open to that. They could rewrite it.
They couldn't.
Victor's cheek was cold. Rhys brought both hands to Victor's face. So cold. If there was only a little warmth...
Rhys was there but it wasn't helping. She felt an even greater need to get Rayu up again, but the heal was dying in her hands, having nowhere to go. Her breath hitched but she didn't notice, letting go of Rayu's hands to go up his wrists, to touch his chest. Nothing. There was nothing there. Rhys was there, but he couldn't do anything either.
He was just alive. She'd seen him before it all started. Before he'd gone. He'd been alive then.
"You stupid idiot," she said, leaning back with a blank look on her face. But there were tears then, leaking out without a sound. "All that work I do for you and this is how you repay me. You stupid- you stupid-!"
She covered her face. Another of the Order clerics, one of a small handful to survive, approached her carefully, hands on her shoulders, slowly lifting her up as she covered her face. She should know. She should know better than any of them.
Ashtaroth turned into the arms of the other black clad cleric, hiding her face, muffling the wail that escaped her.
Tired. He was so tired. Seeing Rhys with Rayu, seeing the cleric get pulled away, and he could only feel numb. He stared, eyes half-lidded, watching the scene in a detached way. One of the paladins came up to him, whispering something. Savarna. Unconscious, alive. Mana burn, probably. He looked to where Ravindra was being tended to and nodded, raising a hand to his face.
He stepped forward and dropped beside Rhys, arm around his shoulders, side-hugging him tightly against him. It was easier to think of something else. It was easier to see this and respond to it somehow.
But this- this was his fault. This was definitely on him.
"...we need to bring him with us. We have to go."
He didn't cry. Numbness engulfed him. Another dead because of him. Another he couldn't save. Another he should have saved... Responsibility...
The outburst shocked Rhys out of his daze. He remembered where he was, watching Ashtaroth and feeling as though every word was directed at him. They had done so much for him. They agreed to help Rhys when he was at his lowest, and this is what it cost them. He watched her, unmoving, unblinking, until he felt Ezra against him.
Rhys fell against Ezra, burying his face there with a long, shuddered breath. Feeling returned like a crushing weight, but he couldn't let it go here. He nodded into Ezra, forcing himself to pull back, but one glance at Ezra's face and he was back again, a heavy hand gripping on Ezra's arm.
It was another moment more before he willed himself to move. He brought his arms under Victor, scooping up his body and surprised by the lightness. His gaze landed on the paladins, wondering if they would stop him, but none of them did. Whether it was because he was the Ahura, or because of Victor, he didn't know. It didn't much matter.
There was a final, guilty look toward Ashtaroth before Rhys nodded to Ezra and rejoined the wolf that was still obediently waiting.
As Rhys stood, he forced himself to as well. He watched Rhys pick the body up and shuddered inside. He wanted to help. He couldn't help. He had to accept that.
More things to haunt him later.
He looked back at the crying cleric, to the paladins watching him. And he turned and wordlessly followed Rhys, starting when Whitehall came up again and took his arm. He'd take it. He had no more energy and very little pride left. A hand to help steady him wasn't the worst of it.
He was looking at it in front of him.
Rhys secured Victor's body on the wolf's unique saddle. She was massive beast with ruddy fur, strong enough to carry their weight as far as the Undertow at a slow enough pace. He mounted behind Rayu, holding him secure with a detached glance, then offered his hand to Ezra.
He wasn't sure it would be taken. They may have wanted their Spenta back in Omghan, but the Undertow could provide just as well.
He stood to watch Rhys mount the wolf, Rayu in tow. He reached up to help him settle Rayu's body in front of him, touch lingering before he stepped back again, the regret clear on his face.
He was surprised to be reached out to. He hesitated, unsure if he should. He shook his head a little, but looked to Whitehall, pleading.
The older man stared at him a moment before dropping his eyes. "...the journey would be shorter, Sir. And you'd do best to rest sooner rather than later, with less fanfare. I can return to accompany you to Omghan at a later time. Sir."
Ezra breathed out heavily, looking aside, before he nodded. "A day or two. Focus on the rest of them. I- I'll be fine here."
"Yes, Sir."
Ezra took Rhys' hand. Whitehall helped him up. "...let's go," he said to Rhys once he was settled.
If only those words could signal the end of the nightmare.
Rhys had given Whitehall his own set of pleading eyes. He couldn't do this alone. Didn't want to. Didn't want to be alone with Victor's corpse, wishing for all the things he failed to do.
Whitehall's words may have been a justification for mercy, but Rhys was willing to latch to them. He gripped Ezra's hand firmly, nodding, and once everyone was secure, he urged the dire wolf onward. Her pace was slow, but study, and her navigation of the jungles expedited the venture. No one had to drag their broken bodies through the mud. Rhys wasn't used to guiding them yet, something to be thankful for. The more he had to focus on the journey back, the less he would think on the body in his lap.
When they arrived, he dismounted, offering to help Ezra first and cradling Victor's body back in his arms second. The Undertow was bright compared to the darker jungles with the firefly lights and strays hovering around them like stars. He watched them a moment, then looked again to Victor with a dull awareness. The body... he hadn't though what to do with it. Victor had family, still. This wasn't Rhys' decision to make. A berserker approached them, Rhys belatedly recognizing her as Ia. "Come," she said, and he followed blindly.
She led them to the large, greying tree toward the outskirts of the village. Rhys had always wondered what it was for: dry, bereft of its leaves, and so seldom used. "Our other dead. We'll embalm him," she explained, then reached forward to take Victor. "... You are tired. Let me." Rhys glanced to her, silent, eyes vacant, and stepped past the curtain himself.
The other corpses there were another punch in the stomach. She'd meant to spare him, but he didn't deserve that. He laid Victor down where she motioned. Rhys took Victor by the hand and squeezed it as he knelt, closing his eyes. He stood with a sharp breath and willed himself to walk away.
Rhys reached for Ezra's arm, eyes apologetic and tired all at once. He gestured with his head into the village. Rest, finally, for the both of them, for whatever peace that could grant them now.
When: Friday 6/17 late, during retreat
Where: Everea escape route
Before/After: After all that rescue business
Warnings: Corpse handling. Brofeels. Sadfeels.
In which there is a brief respite before reality catches up.
At the first sight of the escaping unit, a group of scouts split up, some to join the rescued prisoners, the others to report back, to call off the attack and retreat. They were running, stumbling, running some more. Being above ground was clearing his head. It was still dark out, but the air was clean, and the sense of space around him was enough to make him giddy. He kept looking back, kept trying to keep an eye out for Ravindra and Rayu, kept seeing nothing, and felt heavier and heavier with each step they took.
He felt weak. He felt like he was going to be sick. Whitehall had his arm again. Four of them. There had been six. Seven. Alexander. He couldn't forget about that. He had to ask- he would have to ask-
It was a blur. Except for those feelings, he couldn't remember what had happened, how they'd gotten out. People were missing. It was still dark out. The metal cuffs around his wrists were heavy and he knew what little healing he'd received hadn't improved his appearance. He knew he smelt awful, but he could wait for a bath. Just for a clean set of clothes...
"We got 'em!" yelled Whitehall. Ezra felt himself stumble again, touched the ground, got up again and kept going, hearing himself apologize to Whitehall for nearly taking him out. Whitehall. He had a nephew somewhere didn't he? Back in Bastan. His nephew had been in Bastan.
People were coming towards them. Clerics. They came in and a handful of them scooped up the Vahishta with healing and restrained questions. There were some that came to him, and after another heal he shook his head, waved them off, panting alongside Whitehall and Gertrude, trying to catch his breath. It wasn't just healing, it was a week of near-immobility and bloodloss, little light and little food, and
And
Where were Ravindra and Rayu...?
Rhys caught the signal and ordered the retreat of the front forces. They waves not in use were the first to pull out, and bits at a time the rest of them were pulling back. Rhys stayed. The Ahura would never be the first to flee, and Rhys Elena needed to confirm Ezra's safety for himself.
He smashed his fist into the ground, shredding the earth with shock waves and making stomping leaps that caused craters. Anything he could think of to frighten off would be pursuers. His body was reaching his limits, splattered with blood and some of it his. So close. A little more. A warhorn called to him and told him what he needed to know: the Spenta and Vahishta were secure. And that meant Rayu was, too. He responded with his own horn, and receded to the forests with the last remaining soldiers.
His helmet came off so he could see easier, heart beating into his throat from exhaustion and from a lingering fear. They had them. A part of him couldn't believe it. Another was afraid to. Please, let them be in one piece. Let Ezra be all right.
A healer came to tend to him, but Rhys' eyes were too busy searching the crowd. His gaze stopped, frozen on their target. Ezra. Ezra, exhausted and beaten and drained but alive. Rhys' relief escaped in a broken huff. Was he supposed to laugh? Cry? He gently pushed the healer away and past another berserker, absently handing off his helmet to free his arms. He greeted Ezra with a touch on the arm, shifting to help support his weight, and couldn't stop himself from breaking into a smile.
A touch on his arm. Light at first, careful, switching to supportive, and he pulled his head up to see who this new person was. Rhys. Oh god. Maybe he said it out loud. He looked down again, breathing out heavily and trying to breathe in. It was suddenly hard, suddenly hurt to breathe, and he swallowed hard again. That dumb smile. He'd never been happier to see it. To see someone still alive.
"They're back there. They'll be here." Someone had to come back, not just him. It wasn't his fault. Even if he hadn't been here, they'd be in there for the Vahishta. Something like this would have happened anyway. But would it have been Ravindra and Rayu? Would it have been Alexander?
He shook his head. He'd stopped. He shouldn't have. He couldn't move, not without some help. There were too many people- suddenly, too many people. He took his glasses off and pressed his hand to the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Where was he even going to go? What was there even left to do? His free hand came up to grasp Rhys' arm tightly, but that was all, unable to move forward, knowing he couldn't go back. This was all they could do now.
Rhys nodded in reassurance, believing it. They would be. Of course they would be. All of the weight-- the heaviness, the feeling of being swept away and drowning-- left him with a dizzying pull. He had forgotten how tired he was, and didn't care, arms around Ezra to keep him up. Rhys leaned in, forehead bumped against Ezra's, and his hand gripped tighter. It's fine. Don't worry. I've got you.
They would have to move eventually. They needed to be across the Pakerion boarder before Aerveas could regroup. But a few moment to breathe-- Rhys could steal that for them.
Suddenly close, suddenly warm. He was already braced for the light headbutt, wincing slightly at the contact, but he was glad for it, so inexpressibly happy. He was still trying to shake off the magebane, still couldn't feel that well of energy inside of him, but it was enough like this, for now. For a few moments.
"'M sorry. 'Bout Rachel. I couldn't- she was right there. Right in front of me. I couldn't- I couldn't-"
He hadn't opened his eyes yet. He still didn't. He breathed in unsteadily and out, then choked, sobbing, quickly breathing in to stop it before it could start. Not now. Not here. But the fear wasn't gone yet, the anger and the hate weren't gone yet. Ravindra and Rayu weren't back yet. Rachel was dead. And it wasn't his fault, but he'd never forgive himself.
Can we go? Can we leave yet? He wanted to ask it but he couldn't, couldn't make the words form, stuck in his throat. He whimpered instead, pressing his forehead to Rhys'.
Rhys closes his eyes, shaking his head against Ezra's. No, Ezra, no. None of it was Ezra's fault. But he knew the feeling. Why couldn't they stop this? Why couldn't they do more? But for every struggle Rhys had, he imagined Ezra had it worse. Ezra was there, and locked away, and Rhys did not want to imagine how Aerveas or rogues treated their prisoners.
His support became a full embrace, but that was short lived in spite of Rhys' reluctant to pull back. He moved an arm to Ezra's waist while the other took Ezra's arm over his shoulder so they could walk. His smile was weaker, eyes glassy with the threat of tears, but he kept it together. Not now. Not here. With a nod to Ezra, he started moving to follow the rest of the retreat.
It was selfish of him, to take that hug and not return it. He couldn't. Lifting his arms, the idea of it alone, was a trial. His hand on Rhys' arm was the most he could manage. It was different, so different from everything during the past week, and he needed to be reminded that there was more than the past week. He'd never move forward otherwise.
He let Rhys shift him around, calm for now, but there was a tightness to him, the way he clutched at his arm, that suggested it was just a matter of keeping it in, keeping it for later. Healed but weak, tired, terrified, he seemed to black out again, not noticing anything until they stopped again, until they were at whatever destination they were coming to, and he looked at Rhys in blank question for some context, like one coming out of sleep or a trance.
It didn't matter if Ezra went entirely slack. Rhys supported the weight, focusing on one step at a time. Rhys was battle worn, but none of it, nothing, compared to Ezra right now. Hearing Ezra breathe, having Ezra right there, was more than enough to keep going to the checkpoint. The scenery was no longer plains and forest of Everea, but the thick, tangled growth of Pakerion where the light of the moon could barely break past the canopy mist.
They couldn't bring beasts of burden into the assault with risking being found, but Pakerion wolves and rhinos were there to greet the refugees for transport, and brought extra supplies. Rhys recognized Bonecrush's scarred visage amongst the animals, and he knew Virelai must have been one of the first ones out-- and the first to return.
Any potions they hadn't been able to carry were here now, though it wasn't what Ezra needed. He set Ezra down against a tree to let him catch his breath, one hand still on his shoulder and the other reaching for Ezra's to grip them together in their usual gesture.
Sitting was something he felt like he'd taken for granted. His legs practically collapsed under him and he sat, for a moment afraid Rhys would disappear and grabbing his hand a lot tighter than he would have if the panic hadn't sudden leaped into his throat. He glanced about nervously, his breathing choppy before he could settle it again. Pakerion. Yeah, this was Pakerion. That was okay. Pakerion was okay.
The Vahishta- still there. What would have happened to him if he hadn't come? Would he still have been captured? He couldn't think about it. It made him sick to think about it. When would he have stopped? Would Sam have died next? Could he find any solace in it?
He couldn't. He kept thinking about Rachel. He was curling up, his free arm around his middle, hugging himself tightly like it might force out all of that dark stuff. He shook his head with another muffled noise, his forehead to his knees. He couldn't- he couldn't break up here. God, not here, not in front of other people. Give him that, just that small thing, just some small space and fifteen minutes and it would be fine, it'd be enough, he promised, he promised...
Ezra's grip surprised him. Rhys wouldn't leave. He was determined for that, watching Ezra. Part of him thought to get a healer, but another part recognized what was happening. He had felt it too. Maybe not in the same way, not the same things, but he knew what it was.
The spot he had chosen was a secluded one, but there were still people passing near to check them. Rhys turned to one such berserker and signed a few orders. Get me a wolf, tend to the others. We're fine on our own. He wasn't questioned, and aside from the massive canine waiting several meters away for orders, the area cleared out as the other refugees made their way.
Rhys knelt down in front of Ezra, never letting go of his hand.
"It's okay." It's okay. It wasn't, it really, really wasn't. He was shaking and couldn't stop it. He put his free hand into his hair- it had grown fairly long since he'd come to Zenderael- and pulled at it, breathing in and out, forcing the air past the tightness in his chest. The other held Rhys' hand tightly. Weak. He was so weak. It shouldn't be like this. He should be able to deal with this. It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't. It wasn't.
"Are they back yet?" he asked, strangled. His voice didn't sound right. It wasn't right. He didn't want to talk. But he had to know.
Back? Rhys' memory searched when he first got to Ezra. He had mentioned that they would be here. It didn't occur to Rhys that what Ezra had meant was that they may have been left behind. His eyes went a little wide and he looked over his shoulder, as if it would help him see someone that wasn't there.
Rayu would have checked in with him. Or-- no. Ashtaroth. He might have gone to see Ashtaroth first. Thinking it didn't quell the rising fear inside Rhys, and he shook his head, ending it in a questioning tilt at Ezra.
"Acher. We ran into him." Did Rhys know him? "Paladin. Ex. Ex-Paladin. Alt. Betrayed Bastan. Some rogues- they stayed behind for us." Time. How much time had passed? They'd been down there a long time. Had it been enough? They had to, they had to survive, they had to be okay-
According to who? This wasn't a game. God he wished it were but it wasn't.
Rhys' eyes flickered with recognition. He knew Acher. He fought Acher. Brutal, violent, and determined to have what he wanted. Lera had mentioned the betrayal. It was his turn to grip Ezra a little tighter, searching his expression. Who stayed behind?
It was pointless to ask. He knew. He wrote it. He knew exactly who would have stayed behind, not searching for a response, but for Ezra to correct what Rhys was already thinking. When Ezra didn't, he started to stand up, offering his other hand to Ezra. They could go find their answer.
No. No, he didn't want to get up. He didn't want to find anything else out. But he wouldn't let go of Rhys. He couldn't. He was tired, he was so tired. He could feel the tears stinging his eyes from the pure want to not get up. But he had a bad feeling, a painful, slow feeling that the night was not over yet.
Both hands, a tug, he was up on his feet again. Everything tilted, but he followed Rhys, everything creaking, everything cracking. He found himself forgetting to breathe, in too deep, out too long, the pauses in between wanting him to sleep, to stop.
There was a small crowd, some shouts for some kind of transport. The cleric in black that had been hanging around Rhys at the tournament, Whitehall, other paladins. Besides the shout, there was nothing but whispers.
In his panic, Rhys didn't forget to take time to steady Ezra. His look was apologetic, but they needed to this. This wolf followed them toward the crowd, and Rhys, silent as he was, had the presence to cause some of them to part as he pulled himself toward Ashtaroth. She was here, Rayu was just--
Rhys' legs lost their strength. He buckled, barely keeping himself and Ezra up. Whatever anyone else was saying was lost.
He couldn't be seeing this again.
It had been surreal seeing Rayu for the first time. Every detail, every tiny headcanon, put together in a face. Even the parts Rhys hadn't consciously imagined were just as he had imagined. Every movement, every mannerism. A real, living person who came out of a foolish game they all played. He'd known him in and out, and then met him. Rhys had reached to him, and he swore Rayu might have been reaching back.
Now Rayu was on the ground, head lulled to a side as if he were sleeping. But his chest didn't rise with breath. His skin was so pale. The blood stains...
So real. Real enough to die.
She didn't notice anyone approaching. She'd stopped registering things the moment she saw Rayu's face. She couldn't feel anything from him. All around her was life, some waning, some full and bright. From Rayu- from Victor- all she got was cold, cold, cold.
A hand on her shoulder, but it didn't last long. It pulled her shoulder down as the owned collapsed beside her, but she remained standing.
The paladins spoke of how lucky it was Savarna survived. No chance for Rayu. Victor. They knew who he was. They had other words, but kept them back in the presence of the Ahura. They weren't sure if they should say them at all. He'd helped save the Spenta. He'd saved Savarna. And then he'd died. That was fair, wasn't it? That was just.
Ashtaroth didn't care about Fairness. Or Justice.
She moved forward and crouched down, her hands slow to reach out, to take Rayu's hands, cold and stiff and damp, and went to lay them on his chest. Instead she froze holding on to them, staring at his face. The white burn of holy magic gathered in her hands, but went no further. There was no life to rekindle.
Coming up behind Rhys, he almost stumbled when he dropped suddenly, bumping into him. His hand reached out on reflex and he rested it heavily on Rhys' shoulder.
His grip convulsed there, holding on to it tightly. "Oh God," he muttered, dropping his head. That wasn't- this wasn't-
He couldn't be worth it. Nothing could have possibly been worth this.
Rhys brought his hand to Ezra's absently, gripping it. But everything else faded and disappeared. He pulled forward and fell at Rayu-- Victor's side. He brushed Victor's hair aside, tracing over his eyebrows and his features. He'd been particular during character creation. Started over a few times... Had to get everything perfect, and had all the values saved. All he had to do was click Confirm.
His fault. He had made Victor what he was. Victor, wanting so badly to do right, willing to do whatever it took, even if it meant his own life, and he had sent him in danger. Not as a storyteller, as an... equal. Rhys swallowed. This couldn't happen. This wasn't supposed to happen. Heimdall. Heimdall-- they could retcon it. He was always open to that. They could rewrite it.
They couldn't.
Victor's cheek was cold. Rhys brought both hands to Victor's face. So cold. If there was only a little warmth...
Rhys was there but it wasn't helping. She felt an even greater need to get Rayu up again, but the heal was dying in her hands, having nowhere to go. Her breath hitched but she didn't notice, letting go of Rayu's hands to go up his wrists, to touch his chest. Nothing. There was nothing there. Rhys was there, but he couldn't do anything either.
He was just alive. She'd seen him before it all started. Before he'd gone. He'd been alive then.
"You stupid idiot," she said, leaning back with a blank look on her face. But there were tears then, leaking out without a sound. "All that work I do for you and this is how you repay me. You stupid- you stupid-!"
She covered her face. Another of the Order clerics, one of a small handful to survive, approached her carefully, hands on her shoulders, slowly lifting her up as she covered her face. She should know. She should know better than any of them.
Ashtaroth turned into the arms of the other black clad cleric, hiding her face, muffling the wail that escaped her.
Tired. He was so tired. Seeing Rhys with Rayu, seeing the cleric get pulled away, and he could only feel numb. He stared, eyes half-lidded, watching the scene in a detached way. One of the paladins came up to him, whispering something. Savarna. Unconscious, alive. Mana burn, probably. He looked to where Ravindra was being tended to and nodded, raising a hand to his face.
He stepped forward and dropped beside Rhys, arm around his shoulders, side-hugging him tightly against him. It was easier to think of something else. It was easier to see this and respond to it somehow.
But this- this was his fault. This was definitely on him.
"...we need to bring him with us. We have to go."
He didn't cry. Numbness engulfed him. Another dead because of him. Another he couldn't save. Another he should have saved... Responsibility...
The outburst shocked Rhys out of his daze. He remembered where he was, watching Ashtaroth and feeling as though every word was directed at him. They had done so much for him. They agreed to help Rhys when he was at his lowest, and this is what it cost them. He watched her, unmoving, unblinking, until he felt Ezra against him.
Rhys fell against Ezra, burying his face there with a long, shuddered breath. Feeling returned like a crushing weight, but he couldn't let it go here. He nodded into Ezra, forcing himself to pull back, but one glance at Ezra's face and he was back again, a heavy hand gripping on Ezra's arm.
It was another moment more before he willed himself to move. He brought his arms under Victor, scooping up his body and surprised by the lightness. His gaze landed on the paladins, wondering if they would stop him, but none of them did. Whether it was because he was the Ahura, or because of Victor, he didn't know. It didn't much matter.
There was a final, guilty look toward Ashtaroth before Rhys nodded to Ezra and rejoined the wolf that was still obediently waiting.
As Rhys stood, he forced himself to as well. He watched Rhys pick the body up and shuddered inside. He wanted to help. He couldn't help. He had to accept that.
More things to haunt him later.
He looked back at the crying cleric, to the paladins watching him. And he turned and wordlessly followed Rhys, starting when Whitehall came up again and took his arm. He'd take it. He had no more energy and very little pride left. A hand to help steady him wasn't the worst of it.
He was looking at it in front of him.
Rhys secured Victor's body on the wolf's unique saddle. She was massive beast with ruddy fur, strong enough to carry their weight as far as the Undertow at a slow enough pace. He mounted behind Rayu, holding him secure with a detached glance, then offered his hand to Ezra.
He wasn't sure it would be taken. They may have wanted their Spenta back in Omghan, but the Undertow could provide just as well.
He stood to watch Rhys mount the wolf, Rayu in tow. He reached up to help him settle Rayu's body in front of him, touch lingering before he stepped back again, the regret clear on his face.
He was surprised to be reached out to. He hesitated, unsure if he should. He shook his head a little, but looked to Whitehall, pleading.
The older man stared at him a moment before dropping his eyes. "...the journey would be shorter, Sir. And you'd do best to rest sooner rather than later, with less fanfare. I can return to accompany you to Omghan at a later time. Sir."
Ezra breathed out heavily, looking aside, before he nodded. "A day or two. Focus on the rest of them. I- I'll be fine here."
"Yes, Sir."
Ezra took Rhys' hand. Whitehall helped him up. "...let's go," he said to Rhys once he was settled.
If only those words could signal the end of the nightmare.
Rhys had given Whitehall his own set of pleading eyes. He couldn't do this alone. Didn't want to. Didn't want to be alone with Victor's corpse, wishing for all the things he failed to do.
Whitehall's words may have been a justification for mercy, but Rhys was willing to latch to them. He gripped Ezra's hand firmly, nodding, and once everyone was secure, he urged the dire wolf onward. Her pace was slow, but study, and her navigation of the jungles expedited the venture. No one had to drag their broken bodies through the mud. Rhys wasn't used to guiding them yet, something to be thankful for. The more he had to focus on the journey back, the less he would think on the body in his lap.
When they arrived, he dismounted, offering to help Ezra first and cradling Victor's body back in his arms second. The Undertow was bright compared to the darker jungles with the firefly lights and strays hovering around them like stars. He watched them a moment, then looked again to Victor with a dull awareness. The body... he hadn't though what to do with it. Victor had family, still. This wasn't Rhys' decision to make. A berserker approached them, Rhys belatedly recognizing her as Ia. "Come," she said, and he followed blindly.
She led them to the large, greying tree toward the outskirts of the village. Rhys had always wondered what it was for: dry, bereft of its leaves, and so seldom used. "Our other dead. We'll embalm him," she explained, then reached forward to take Victor. "... You are tired. Let me." Rhys glanced to her, silent, eyes vacant, and stepped past the curtain himself.
The other corpses there were another punch in the stomach. She'd meant to spare him, but he didn't deserve that. He laid Victor down where she motioned. Rhys took Victor by the hand and squeezed it as he knelt, closing his eyes. He stood with a sharp breath and willed himself to walk away.
Rhys reached for Ezra's arm, eyes apologetic and tired all at once. He gestured with his head into the village. Rest, finally, for the both of them, for whatever peace that could grant them now.