Private Born to Bloom or Meant to Wither [M]

[Lucero]

[Content Warning - Intense violence and gore, mention/description of taboo sexual content.]​

Far away in North Illica, a small village made up of pygmy goblins was often never visited. They were a hostile sort, preferring to keep to themselves, quick to stab any newcomer that dared come onto their land. It wasn't their fault in being so aggressive, the small bit of land they had the only viable soil for the rare and endangered turtleshell tree. The famous tortoiseshell bark was notoriously hard to pierce and before the invention of steel the warring petty barons uprooted the small trees to use for war until they were nearly extinct. Only the pygmy goblins had teeth sharp enough to pierce through the bark, and only their teeth were long enough to peel it back to reach the sweet sap. The sap was so sweet that neither honey, maple syrup or sugarcane could compare.

Protecting their land and trees had become a necessity. Only the Knights of Athenaeum were welcomed, but the pygmy goblins could offer them little when it came to things like money or goods. Lucero didn't mind going out to their aid. She felt rather blessed that the pygmy goblins always gave her such high praise, that when the village elder sent the fastest pygmy to the Monastery the first word out of their mouth was her name.

Syr Silas Grimnod accompanied her out to their village with houses that barely reached Lucero's hip. They had to leave their horses far away from the village, in case the beautiful fools thought about nibbling on one of the turtleshell leaves. Many years ago, a knight and a squire had been careless and the goblins had indeed stabbed the horses, the issue with that being less that the horses had gotten seriously injured but instead had bucked and kicked, knocking over and crushing the goblin's homes.

So both knights were quite surprised upon seeing the goblins had called for Lucero because a human woman had given birth and still had not recovered well. Her baby was the size of the pygmy goblins and all of them had worked hard together to ensure the safety and survival of the human mother and son. Lucero had felt guilt stirring in her for thinking such kindness couldn't extend beyond their close knit community. The poor woman was only holding on because as everyone knew mothers would give their very last breath and then some to protecting their child.

It was a strange week, nursing a woman and her child back to health. It was the first newborn that Lucero had ever had to heal, his body inverted and compressed in ways that Lucero could feel was wrong. She remembered following after Sijtli as a young child, helping to fight the fever that tried to drag as many children to the ground as it could. She could see the fever loom above their chests like a fat cat, bending their little ribs into their struggling lungs. She felt that same determination now, the sort of determination that came from the fear of failure, the fear of losing against death.

She could feel death's heaviness now, fighting her every step of the way to keep Mother and Child alive. It was the first time that Syr Silas hadn't scolded her, hadn't tried to correct her about anything. If she said fetch water then he fetched it, if she asked him to break the babe's bones then he did. Both patients cried and writhed and choked on their own breath for every fix Lucero made, Death would announce checkmate somewhere else. For many days and nights, Lucero hardly slept, refusing to take more than an hour or two, demanding for Syr Silas to give her more and more bitter coffee beans to chew on. Lucero was selfish, taking all of them for herself.

Even the pygmy goblins that hoarded their precious sap offered it to help the mother, mother goblins doing their best to feed the newborn. But it was worth it for all of them, finally, names could be given and shared. Yinka and Kaif could see the world around them, could feel every nerve in their body and not cry out in pain. Hearing Yinka sing to Kaif and feeling her rock him to sleep was the rhythm that could put Lucero at ease to sleep. She slept, and slept, and slept, hours and hours, day turning into days.

When she awoke, the air had changed again, from Death to something else. Whispers between Yinka and Syr Silas, the most pessimistic, glass half empty knight Lucero had ever met now had a spring in his step, his soul brighter, softer, lighter. So when it was time to return back to the Monastery and Lucero realized that Syr Silas didn't want to return to mope about in his room (his favorite past time, he had told her once just to shut her up about hobbies) it was up to her to speak to him about it.

"I can make the journey back on my own, Cococunt knows her way back to home. It's only a day's ride away." Syr Silas had helped her get on the horse, a sweet thing that didn't deserve her name. Perhaps she was a little stubborn, but she had never given Lucero any trouble despite Syr Sabinian's warnings each time he saw Lucero get on her back.

"You'll be fine," Syr Silas said it as if he were assuring her, but Lucero could see he was trying to soothe his own soul and mind. His hand lingered on the stirrup, she could feel the reluctant weight of it on her boot. She gave him her brightest smile, the sort that hurt her cheeks.

"You're right, I will be fine. You'll catch up, Syr," She loosened the grip on the reins. Little good they would do, she trusted Coconut to follow the road better than her. There was a small pause before she quietly added, "You have to catch up, you know I can't be the one to write the report."

"Of course, I'll catch up to you by nightfall or else Sweet Lightning will have to get a new name." Lucero brows raised in surprise. "What?"

"I've never heard you make a joke before." She could feel Syr Silas prickle by her words, but the undercurrent of a sheepish boyhood was enough to tell Lucero that she hadn't overstepped with him, a rare occurrence. Few more words were shared between them, Syr Silas' guilt eased just long enough that Lucero and Cococunt could go on their way to the Monastery, the goblins cheering for her good work quickly fading in the distance. Humming to herself, the heat of the sun growing hotter with every passing hour, Lucero's shoulders slumped forward.

Everything was going splendidly to their plan, Cococunt's slow yet steady clop, clop, clop along the road a comfort that had her entire body go lax and lazy. It was bad riding posture, sure, but Lucero had nothing to worry about. Just go slow, follow the road, easy peasy lemon squeezy, right? Eyes drooped, just enough that Lucero jolted in the saddle. It was enough to get Coconut shaking her head, step uneasy. Instinctively, Lucero pulled on the reins, straightening her back, thighs pressing into Cococunt's thighs.

THUNK!

Lucero's entire torso fell back before her body slid off to the side of the horse, one foot getting loose from the stirrup, the other stuck. She didn't wake up when her head hit the ground, nose breaking and bleeding crimson all over the dirt, and how could she if she didn't even feel the tree branch crashing right across her forehead? Cococunt chuffed with pleasure. Oh, she deserved her name alright, continuing to walk on as she dragged Lucero over pebbles and dust. She deserved her name even more when she went off the main road, deciding she wanted to snack on sweet weeds on the side of the road, going further away from it to further indulge her sweet tooth. Why would a horse care about a Knight that only gave her a treat after the mission?

Syr Silas was her favorite, he always made sure to give her snacks, but Syr Lucero? Cococunt chuffed, nostrils flaring, ears pricked just in case the Knight woke back up. Yeah, the only good thing about Lucero was that she wasn't heavy so the horse could be even lazier than usual. The horse lifted her head, looking about the forest before swishing her tail to knock off some flies that had settled on her hind legs. Was that a crabapple tree?

Cococunt didn't blink either eye as she dragging the fallen knight over a thorny shrub to crunch on the fallen crabapples. Lucky horse, far less lucky knight.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

Rois hated the mountains.

If it wasn’t the ever upward slanting of roads comprised of nought but dirt and stone then it was the monoliths themselves conjuring up terrible weather to be cast down upon their feet; and although the sweet summer day is balmy and the sun’s glare is soft upon the earth, far above he could see the stirring of clouds tumbling about uncaring peaks. There was nothing much up here. The craggy fingers made of tumbling stone oft held camps for criminals, the yawning mouths of caves bore the glint of terrible eyes as bears hunched beneath the dark arches, the soil quality was sparse and meant farmland and villages were few and far between… and if he didn’t have to be there, he wouldn’t have been, but nobles were funny things. Houses lay claim to entire measures of forests and greedily proclaimed, all the game in this area belongs to me, so you may not hunt, for you’d be stealing what is mine! Arrogant and mouthy and eager to mete out justice upon those hungry thieves looking for meals in the way of flesh, yes, the further away one wandered from the woodlands birthed from loamy soil and curated by beak and paw and flittering insects alike the easier it was to ‘steal’. And steal he would.

The man had abandoned his camp two hours southwards-- beneath the shade of an ancient oak in the verdant roughage-- unwilling to compromise the mules safety and health by dragging them skywards. This of course meant he was the one breaking his strong back against the careening wildes in search of something non-human to slaughter and drag all the way back, and in all honesty Rois hadn’t been out for long but already his fragile mood was turning swiftly sour by the lack of anything about; where were the deer? The hares? The trees held not even the wood-doves often spied below, instead bearing fruit in the image of corvids scattered amongst evergreen bristles. The quick thumbing of the hunting knife's hilt was a motion of annoyance. Rolled up sleeves of a red shirt were pressed harshly upwards in an effort to spare himself from heat, partially born from the light, but mostly from the beginnings of anger rolling about between his ribs. But it was often spoken in whispers amongst the believers of Celestial’s above that when one of those holy beings turned eyes down upon their children and saw desperation, sometimes, rarely, in their infinite power, a turning of ones luck could occur in an effort to salve the struggle.

And he’d never believe they’d do such a thing… until, indeed, his luck in the moment changed.

The crisp sound of the breaking of bracken and the stirring of thistle. Scarlet eyes turned westwards in alert to the noise and down the large man dropped into a slow stalk with the shadow of a smile upon his lips, finally, the nearing rhythm of four legs diligently scraping every hedge branch that came to slowly kiss fur. Rois was not down for long, not when clarity was delivered by proximity to the scene; through the hard-wood trunks of old pines resting between beech and walnut trees came a curve of motion and the flickering of tall ears, the length of face from a distance alone absolutely dampened whatever hunting spirit he had briefly possessed in the moment… that was a horse. Not just a horse loose, but one saddled with the crisscross of tack adorning its face, eagerly nosing around the hanging branches in search of sweetness… and there was no rider. Wait. Suddenly the red-heads killing urges came rushing back to him like a heated flood, a rider-less horse, oh, it had been many moons and then some since they had all eaten horse! The flesh was always like leather if overdone, but its yield was so plentiful and robust that the effort of nabbing one outdid the troubles that could come to grace them if they were ever caught feasting upon the lengths of roasted meat! Now the movement of thumbing the hilt was eager, his pace towards the unsuspecting Coconut slow and deliberately absent of any upper-body movement, cautious, half-lidded eyes fixated upon the beasts throat, soft words rolled from his tongue,

“Easy… easy--”

And his luck hadn’t turned at all, because laying there with a leg askew and half hung from the stirrups was a damned woman.

God-fucking-forbid it ever be easy, eh? Lucero’s face was marred by the splashings of bright red blood-- recently shed-- and her chest stirred with breath, an action that caused the childish, frustrated, electrified form of the large male to almost stomp pettily upon the ground in feverish annoyance, rationale came swiftly in tow, maybe it isn’t over. Maybe the lightly armored damsel in distress had hit her head so critically against the path that there would be no more waking days for her, and what use did a body tangled in fern and twig alike need with a horse…? Calm, maybe it was still a good situation, calm, wide hands reached carefully towards the large beasts saddle (the equine was mean, it’s ears were plastered back and the flashing of its teeth came forth in a nipping movement) and unhooked the dazed healers leg from the stirrups with learned precision, but she was not given the grace of a soft touch whatsoever. In fact, Rois watched with dark eyes as her body slumped against the ground with lips peppered in dirt and a crooked nose and absolutely saw fit to simply leave her there, sparing little interest in the humanoid form now crumpled at his feet. A pretty sleeping beauty. This would be the moment where lesser men would heave up those tangled legs for momentary pleasure, but the half-man had no interest in sullying the ladies honor when there was a far better prize to be had. Keen eyes swept towards the snorting Coconut,

“Hey… come with me.” Hilariously his efforts at having a ‘soft’ voice still bore the gruffness of the usual words he spoke, “I’ll take you home.”

The gentleness did not work. Coconut was lifting legs and threatening with the whip-crack of her tail to buck, irritated hoof-fall barely missing Lucero’s fallen form as the creature chuffed like a dragon possessed by a sudden stroke of violence, oh well. If there was no easy way then it would have to be the hard way, the mare was a few steps away and Rois stepped over the battered womans body to unsheath the thick, curved blade of the hunting knife from its hilt, eyes entirely unsympathetic,

“I tried to be nice.”

 

[Lucero]

Oh, yes, thank you, kind sir, that lady was awfully annoying, getting caught and stuck on fallen branch and thicket. Feel free to take her, I must be on my way, there's some more crabapples I haven't got to taste yet.... No, I won't be leaving with you, I have no desire to carry someone of your size. Did you just pull a fucking knife out?

Cococunt couldn't actually cuss the large, strange man out, but boy, could she look like it. Horses had a very special way of showing their disgust, whereas people expressed it by showing their teeth and wrinkling their noses, they would instead stamp their hooves and shake their heads, body weight shifting, lips smacking like boots on mud. Even with a stomach loaded with sweet weeds and apples, she wouldn't hesitate to give out one of her famous kicks.

Front legs lifting high enough so when her hooves hit the floor her entire body rippled, pelt gleaming where sunlight managed to filter through the leaves above. A warning whinny, snorting towards the man with the knife. She stamped with a back hoof, side stepping back away from him as he stepped over with ease the fallen Knight. Now Cococunt wished Lucero wasn't lying on the floor, dead leaves caught in her hair, white cloak smeared with dirt. Get up, stupid, lazy girl and do your job!

A loud, shrill squeal echoed in the forest, perhaps for Syr Silas - he'd be on his way back by now, wouldn't he? He'd save her, since he was a real knight that could actually use the sword strapped around his hips.

The glint of steel was enough to have the horse take another step back, ready to bolt back to the Monastery at any moment.

A soft, weak moan, the especially pathetic soft, wafted through the tension like an unknowing butterfly on the breeze of a battlefield. Leaves and twigs cracked beneath the slow shuffling of leather boots pushing against foliage and rocks. Her legs moved like a cricket rubbing their legs, head turning away from the earth.

Lucero felt all the pain at once. An unbearable throbbing of her nose that radiated all over her face, the burning of her lungs as she tried to breath, a needling all over and around her skull, vertigo sickening her stomach.

"Holy smokes," Her voice was hoarse, words making her wince, eyes still closed, fingers shaking and trembling, unable to curl all the way. She could smell monk's beard and dead leaves, moist dirt and wood. Somewhere wild garlic grew, the pungent, spicy smell tickling her nose, almost enough to block out the dusty, woody scent of fallen pine cones. All the small scratches from thistles and thorns on her cheeks itched and stung.

That was when she realized she shouldn't be on the ground but on a horse. Lucero made to get on her hands and knees, to raise her head.

"Ay!" Her eyes were hot with tears, neck stiff and swollen on one side, refusing to let her head turn as she pleased. Lucero sucked in a hot, hard painful breath, lungs flaring against her ribs and back and yet feeling so empty, so breathless. Another hiss of breath through her teeth from the pain in her ankle, pins and needles on numbing her foot, but everything was tender until it was sharp then tender again. Lucero needed to ignore the pain/

Where was Cococunt? Where was her horse? She couldn't see, couldn't see anything, and it had nothing to do with her eyes being closed. Veins poked out from around her eyes, the large vein on the side of her forehead the most prominent. Panic started to course through her veins, and although it was appreciated for dulling her sense of pain, Lucero could feel the erratic beating of her heart in her burning chest. Thumpthumpthump... thumpthump... thumpthumpthump....

All sound was muted, distorted, like someone had shoved cotton plugs into her ears or as if she were underwater, her head definitely felt like it was swimming, even if she could feel dirt getting underneath her fingernails. Yet, even through the dissonance, she heard Cococunt's whinny.

Sweet, cold relief washed over the broken, scorched blind knight. All of the fire came back the moment she had to reposition herself, neck like stone, palms and knees slow and unsteady in their placement, ears not her eyes directly facing towards the horse. She just needed to turn her head just a little bit more that way....

"Oh sweet basil," Lucero whispered when her head turned and she could see... that. The shape of it was like a person, there were broad shoulders, a neck and a head. It stood up on two legs, had the posture of something that was ready. A orc? A human? Definitely not tall and skinny like herself. But that wasn't the issue, the shape she saw. The issue was that she saw a shape, a swirling mass of darkness. Like death, like fever, like all the dead bodies that had climbed up on her and sat on her chest late in the night. "I really hit my head. That's not real."

So she ignored the swirling, shifting black mass that ebbed and flowed like in unique shapes, reminding her much of the times she had closed her eyes as a child and pressed her fingers against her eyelids after a bad nightmare in the middle of the night. "Come here, girl," Lucero reached out upwards with a long arm and froze with fear when her hand felt that the black shape was solid, it had mass, and it did not feel horse-like.

 

[Rois Sinclair]

It was to be expected. The braveness of the horse had fled as fast as its legs could metaphorically carry it, turning into a sweeping panic the moment rectangular pupils gazed upon the mans horrid form, like a nightmare stubbornly defying the beams of delicate sunlight that streaked past them. It troubled Rois little, the expectation was for game to always bolt, but not before the razor thin edge of the hunting knife could swiftly claim the animals vital arteries flanking the neck-- Coconut's skittish, dancing form was captured calmly in his gaze. Steel rose, turned ever so slightly so that the light would not cause a flash upon its edge, steady, an arm tipped back in a raise… and then that same arm un-triumphantly falling back to his side. The not-brain-dead woman spoke. The pathetic voice rising from behind caused the equine to shuffle backwards further still to completely avoid the planned path of the throw, and all the butcher could do was grumble beneath his breath in frustrated annoyance as, unwillingly, Rois’s attention was forced back onto Lucero’s tattered form.

A miserable creature writhing in the dirt. Red-ringed eyes were marred by the fogginess of blindness, and if it wasn’t for that fact, he would have presumed the woman to be a knight of some sort given the fineness of her wear… but why would any company allow a blind woman into their order? Why would they allow the female to ride alone in territories known for bandits? This was not an asset, this was a liability huddled against the earth like a mewling babe, just waiting to be taken for granted by thieves or bandits or the terrors of a man lustful; maybe, if they were not so tired of human meat, Lucero could have been the game instead. The woman was comprised of the elements of what one would call 'classical beauty', this was the kind of body that when splayed about against ice customers eagerly roamed pale flesh with eyes filled to the brink with fetishistic wonder, their tongues craved the space between her legs, fingers twitching outwards to cup the curve of soft cheeks that would never again flush pink anywhere but within their minds. Wild thoughts about clumsily tugging lengths of shimmering hair till it broke or lending nails against a slender throat to leave phantom bruises, their own personal little doll that festered with every day its limp form was dragged against wood and stone and abandoned when flesh split from the ferocity of use; and maybe they’d eat her at the end of it all, hot breathed and bleary eyed and grabbing at a flat chest, stay, a mumbled groan, I want you to stay with me forever.

Maybe.

No such thing interested he, he who was without the stringing of colours formed from the echoing of emotion about any normal beast. A black mass indeed. There was cruelty in Rois’s eyes that did not come from a sexual place, it was wholly composed of amusement watching the panicked woman stumble to her feet and blabber unceremoniously to herself, and no step back was taken when the dirtied touch of thin, delicate fingers came to brush tentatively against the breadth of his strong chest… warm. Real. The motion only caused a chuckle to roll about in his throat,

“I was very much hoping you weren’t going to wake up…” That deep tone holds no pity, no kindness, it is fringed by mirth and softly said with an air of aloofness towards her plight, “I’m a terrible person, but I do not think even I am awful enough to kill a blind womans horse. I am sure all the prayer in the world wouldn’t save a soul like that.”

The words fell from a fanged mouth nonchalantly,

“Though… there is still time. You might have a bleed on the brain or worse; I eagerly await your falling-over-and-dying.”

 

[Lucero]

Lucero turned her ears towards him immediately. She was quick to bring her hand back, a bone-deep chill of fear as if she had just been submerged beneath a frozen lake. Then, there was calm. He did not attack her although his words were unnerving. Lucero took a shaky step back with her bad ankle, no longer caring for getting her horse. This man was large. She could feel the muscle beneath his chest. There was a solidness that few professions could give, and any of the professions that came to Lucero's mind were hardly pleasant. The best she could think of was a butcher, that was surely a suitable profession to go into. The worst being some sellsword or Cazadore that would do anything for money. She didn't have much valuables on her.

But he couldn't have been that, this close to him, she could smell him, still. He didn't stink like many who spent days and days on the road, when it was almost expected to smell like a horrid miasma so they had to get used to it. Sweat and dirt never made a lovely perfume, and yet, this man hadn't quite gotten to that point. Had he come from a town nearby, perhaps he was some local village man?

Her intuition, whether a woman's intuition or the kiss of the Loch, chided at her hopeful naivety. Lucero needed to heal her body and fast. Dirty hands went to her face first, covering her broken nose, wiping the dried blood away with the back of her hand. Fingers pressed into the bridge of her nose, and with a deep breath, small pops and cracks could be heard, faint blue smoke billowed out from her nostrils.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to touch you," She said. Syr Silas hated if she touched him, even by accident. Usually with her fingertips, she could clearly see the emotion of a person, all the intricacies there were in human feelings, layers upon layers of doubt, anger protecting sadness, it all became clear with a touch. But all Lucero had felt was the lack of concern, as if she were a bug and this man was on a walk and didn't ever think about what he could be stepping on. Strangers usually never found her so insignificant, even the men from the Empire had seen her as more than just her father's research, those men had at least felt pity towards her.

He wasn't lying when he said he was a terrible person, and his words - implying that she should die because it would be preferred that way, less of a hassle sort of way - were true. They matched with how he felt. The pain in her head was next, fingertips pressing into her temples. This time, for this, she had to whisper a spell she had memorized from the Pursuit of Life. She had recited such spells over and over, unable to read and write and remember, so every night she practiced the language that sounded like a seed meeting a raindrop, the moment right before life could begin.

Once the fog surrounding her head had lifted, the needling and pounding subsiding, Lucero looked back at the man. Still black, still swirling, still large and imposing and impossible to be real. One hand rested at the hilt of her dagger, the other pressing against her ribs, where it hurt the most. Lucero would need to kneel to heal her ankle. She was still too afraid to do that.

"You will be disappointed," Lucero said this with a sheepish smile, one she hoped wouldn't be perceived as arrogance. "I am a healer." A healer that couldn't fix her affliction of being blind, but everything came at a cost. "Mending wounds is one of the few things I do well. As you can see," She gestured towards where she had last heard Cococunt who had now gone oddly quiet, "Riding a horse is not." With a tilt of her head, her ears were back towards the man with the deep voice. Hesitantly, Lucero spoke again, softer, gentler. "So... please don't try killing her, she must have been quite spooked that I had fallen off of her. She means no harm."

 

[Rois Sinclair]

“I don’t care.”

This is not repeated, so it is easy for one to assume that the statement was regarding, well, everything. Everything from Lucero’s fingers dancing about her battered head to the rise and fall of strange smoke summoned from nothingness to way the bleary-eyed woman let words run rampant from her mouth, sing-song tone underpinned by strokes of friendliness. Rois could never understand how people regarded complete strangers with any lick of sweetness. Pleasantness was the default but it shouldn’t be, considering the fanged, violent nature of mankind and their tendency to take more than one would give, so it was quite easy for the man to meet her softness with an unseen sneer,

“You aren’t as good as you think, I’d wager.”

This was spoken despite the woman’s declaration of skill towards mending. Naturally, his eyes are settled squarely upon hers… but as the lady knelt, they would stay transfixed upon the top of her skull, making sure to look down upon her. A bug was correct. Yes, the magic was impressive. No part of him had believed true healing magicks still existed within the realm, it was oft the subject of fantasy and the whispered rumors of prophets scattered at the edge of the world. Fantastical tales of men in pointed hats delivering comfort upon the screaming masses ailed by sickness, they lived in lonely spires and kept heavy doors open for the blighted, heh, healers, they did not wave their hands like Lucero to vanish abrasions as easily as caressing the wind. They did not murmur in strange languages. They came with baskets of green somethings touched by the colours of wild-flowers, they made you drink bitter remedies and lit torches of strange smoke that smelt like pepper jammed against the nostrils, he knew healers-- and none had ever cured him.

But they had tried… in his youth, they had desperately tried.

The black shadow suddenly isn’t all black. It is faint, distant, almost swallowed by the inkiness of the ebony smoke that blotted out Rois’s being… but it is there, red. Flecks like blood, the tiny circles dance about his head and heart as if smeared by invisible fingers, the memory pisses him off. Healers pissed him off, women pissed him off, he breathes in sharply and turns away from the now standing knight with an air of absolute indifference and the cascading of a storm within-- sage, elderflower, valerian-- the names of those somethings-- his heart picks up a beat, oh, he hates them. But of course, the butcher is not aware whatsoever that she could glimpse any of that. Outwardly he would continue to act unperturbed,

“... Whatever. If you die, make sure to do it out in the open. I want to get to your body first.”

Bye felicia! Eyes swept to the path heavily trodden through, brush carved by the trottings of a once-eager horse, and without much fanfare Rois began to simply wander away whilst attempting to shove the smell of burning herbs from fifteen years prior out of his nose by filling it with the intent to find any other living thing within the area. Even a nest would do, perhaps the darting reds of a fox would be better, but above all it had to be non-speaking and aligned not with equine and human. The non-speaking aspect was perhaps far more important.

 

[Lucero]

"Oh, okay." Lucero still had a hand on her dagger, watching whatever he was move out of her line of sight, heading elsewhere, seeing the invisible blackness remain within his silhouette. Being dismissed so easily did hurt her pride. Of course he didn't know that she had taken a baby that would have been deemed a monster and righted it's body so society wouldn't hate it. Of course he didn't know that she had been out on the road, supplying aid to displaced women and children after war burnt down their villages and countryside, mending wounds and nightmares, soothing babes to sleep and bringing the mothers back from the brink of death.

Lucero still failed, though. Her life was riddled with her failures, with the fact that she had dreams of faceless people with voices she could recognize, voices full of hate. 'You killed me. You let me die. You didn't do enough. You didn't try hard enough. Your fault, your fault, all your fault I'm dead, dead, dead."

"You're wrong," The fear was gone as she stood up. "I am no Syr Margot," to be a Pursuant took time, experience, and many failures turned right. "But I have helped many." Back in her village with a church that tried to stamp out their language, a plantation that tried burying their culture, both pointing fingers at them because they were sinners, Lucero had been Sijtli's apprentice, following after her mother's footsteps. She had always had the knack for hearing other's prayers, could even hear the regrets of the dead. She had liked to think of it as her granting wishes when she was young, now, as an adult, she saw it as her duty.

"I've undone magic that were made of nothing but the deepest, darkest grudges." She took a step towards him, leaves crunching. "I've undone the harm of a severed hand, have closed up a gaping wound as big as my head." Another step, another crunch. "I've breathed life back into a body that was going cold. People who once only dreamt of death, I helped them to yearn for the sun, for life. People who once wanted to harm others, cinched by their revenge, I've undone those terrible, awful chains. As long as there is still a soul, I can help anyone.

"I can help you, too." Lucero said after him, her voice strong and sure. She no longer had her hand on her dagger, her posture had changed, a hand reached out towards the man for him to take. An equal, on the same footing. Yes, what she saw was frightening, but she had always dealt with more than just physical wounds. Despite the fear, Lucero would be brave and help. He hadn't hurt her, despite his words being cruel and strange. He hadn't taken advantage of her, despite her being in a state that would prevent her from struggling. Obviously that meant there was good in him, but there was just something... wrong. "It wasn't coincidence that we met - your soul, I can help whatever is wrong, I can see something is wrong. I can help heal your heart and mind if you'd let me."

 

[Rois Sinclair]

… The non-speaking aspect was perhaps far more important.​

And she is speaking again.

In real time Lucero could see the ebbing of shadow as scarlet spread across his form just a few paces away, Rois has stopped, but he has not turned to look at her. Blood spilling against the churning sea and somehow beating the shades of the abyss, the complex, intricate spirals that came like the tails of water-spouts rising towards the Heavens in indignation, she is still speaking and every word gets more and more terrible. And so, without a sound, the butcher turns to stare at the healers righteous form like a saint come to swaddle all of his woes away; and the woman would not know those eyes were suddenly without a gleam. Dead. Entirely flat. Constricted pupils lost amongst their ruby backing, trained upon an outstretched hand comprised of promises that would never be. An arm raises, but its slowness is feined, the soft interminglings of rough, worn fingers against her partially gloved ones…

… Lucero is suddenly yanked forward, almost entirely off her feet, brought in close-- Rois begins to unceremoniously bend her hand steadily back upon itself.

Clicking. Nails against her flushing knuckles the fragile bones begin to whine and quiver, and heated words against her skull fall from above but their tone comes from somewhere far, far below.

“No… you can’t.”

No-one could.

How so many people had tried…! The threats of the cells and the rattlings of chains after the repetitive failure of herbalists striding forth in confidence, insanity, how cruel, how horrible of them to look upon a fifteen year old and with a judgemental finger pointed in his direction proclaim him to be out of his mind. It was natural to fear what one could not understand, but why did nobody understand? Why had they bound his wrists together at eighteen and talked full-throated before his very being that someone like he was better off gone, didn’t they know he had tried!? Tried to vanish, tried to flee the waking realm, tried to wade deep into the churning waters to be delivered onto Eden afar, cowardice, it was so scary, why was living so awful but dying so terrifying?? It was all so pathetic, Rois swallowed thickly, emotion was coming back to that hollow stare, the gatherings of fireflies against the rogue of a setting sun, a man wielding the uncanny strength of a demon crawled forth from the darkness of the beyond being still so weak… the harsh feeling of the biting of rope about his throat, the memory of breathlessly caterwauling whilst an unco-odinated hand came to sloppily cut the rope from his neck. It hurt. It still hurt. His heart was galloping against his ribs and every beat felt like it threatened to break them--

The pain had to be turned outwards.

“... You should really check your ego,” The butcher utters quietly, crack, the lady knights index finger falters to the pressure and slants backwards to first fracture at its base and then break, curling all the way backwards to touch the back of her hand. Its neighbour is following. The pop of a joint, the stretching and collapsing of tendons reaching their limits as it relentlessly pursues the other and snaps in a manner akin to a twig trampled upon. “You are making yourself sound like a messiah… but Gods do not bleed. I saw you bleed.”

The looming form of the large man comes closer still, his breath stamps breezily mumbled words against her exposed throat.

“I will make you bleed.”

All of a sudden, pressure, explosive and unrelenting pressure. His free hand has come palm splayed against the crown of Lucero’s skull to push her down so savagely that only a learned warrior that matched his strength would be able to resist the buckling of knees, forcing her all the way down to rest upon them with the weight of the action; but that wasn’t the terrible part. Horror came when fingers curled to grasp her head, thumb pressed harshly against her temple, and black, pointed nails began to slip beneath the threshold of tender skin. The back of her head, above her ear, beneath her bangs, four points, nails are slowly sliding against the soft flesh of the skull in widening punctures that begin to immediately send hot blood winding down the saints face, matting her hair, kissing the cup of her ears. It is at first a dribble but soon streams bulge into lakes, the liquid clings to her chin and drips, it begins to sully long lengths of gentle locks, crawls down exposed ear canals and clings to the nostrils. Peering down at Lucero’s kneeling form an uncaring voice comes from the now entirely scarlet shadow,

“So repeat after me. Once broken, always broken.” The tense tremble of his voice; he’s heard these words before. “Say it, then repeat it again. If I don’t feel like you mean it… well.”

One could look upon a porcelain bowl and glue it together, but the cracks would still remain. One could use gold leaf to pretty the remnants of the past, but the cracks would still remain. Rois threatened to go further, the grip upon the womans head was somehow becoming stronger, she could feel it… no longer was the pain simply beside her skull but claws had driven themselves fully against it, large, round holes of weeping skin about bronze fingers as the man began to pull his touch back and scrape. Skin plucked up, new blood joined the drying, strands of hair caught in the wind and flew away as the friction of bone against nails stuttered and burned and the internal sound was awful. Even with watery ears she could hear it like a thought in her head, scchtthhch, scalp losing the hold it had had since her birth. All of her fingers bar the thumb were broken. They had all collapsed to lay against the cotton of gloves in defeat, the sharp ends of the shattered bone threatening to viciously break through the taught skin there as the beginnings of bruising like ink blotted upon paper blooms. The scrawl of purple against pink.

Rois wondered mutely if his own teeth would break against themselves with the clenching of his jaw.

 

[Lucero]

For that half second, Lucero’s smile is ever wider, her eyes radiant like dawn after a long, cold night. For that half second, she trusted her words had worked, trusted the man to want her help and to accept it. If only for that half second she realized it was too late, she could have pulled her dagger or whispered a spell to protect herself. As he pulled her towards him she could hear her horse abandoning her, galloping away.

Wide eyed with fear, trembling like a dead leaf about to break away from a branch, Lucero screamed as the first finger broke. There was nothing wrong with screaming, much like how there was nothing wrong with feeling sorry for one’s self. But just like feeling sorry for one’s self, screaming meant nothing. It didn’t do anything, it didn’t change anything. Tears streamed down her face in sparkling prismatic rivulets, tears made of magic.

But Lucero was too scared to try and heal herself, even if the pain was so sharp she might have thought he had chopped the finger off with a knife. Her stomach somersaulted over and over, mouth beginning to water. She didn’t want to throw up, not now, not when she felt him bending back finger number two as if her hand was a monkey’s paw that could grant wishes.

What did I do wrong?! She wanted to cry out. She wanted to beg him to stop, to promise him whatever as long as he stopped. Her entire body shuddered as she sobbed, making a sound like Kaif had when she had to break his breastbone back into place so she could undo his curved back. And the worst part of the pain was how she knew if she healed herself, made all their pain go away, he’d hurt her even more. Her stomach flipped, and this time, no amount of self control could stop the burning bile and sickness dripping out of her lips as she hung her head pathetically, not wanting any of it to get on him in case it angered him more.

It must have.

Realization of her mistake did little to help her. And when he shoved her down to her knees, Lucero was too weak to try and resist. She felt the claws pierce through her scalp. The Dawn Knight heaved, vomit dripping down her chin, splattering on her leather vest. The smell was sharp and sour, not sickly sweet like rotting flesh. She prayed for anyone to find them, for Syr Silas to appear and save her, anyone, anything, please.

Fear pulsated all over her body, even between her toes. If he had told her that he would stop hurting her if she chose someone else to take her place, she might have given him a name.

Once broken, always broken.

That was not the first time she had heard that sentiment. Women and children who had been so violently abused repeated it like a soothing mantra, put all their self worth onto it. I’m broken so no one will want me. I’m broken so I will be forever unlovable. She had fought against that when a young maid, engaged to a stable boy, was taken by the Master of the house, her belly swelling. Lucero hadn’t been able to fix that. The young maid had died, the lady of the house pushing her down the stairs, no bastard, no maid, no problems.

Oh, gods, what was going on with her head? Was it raining? Had he poured water on her. Warm and thick and all over and so much of it, even with the extraordinary amount of adrenaline coursing through her, she could feel something being pulled, a rip in fabric, straight down the middle. Lucero was lightheaded. She always saw darkness, but her eyelids drooped, mouth going slack, what was giving up first, her body or her mind?

“O-once b-b-brok-k-ken,” her tongue felt like a fat slug, slimy and useless in her mouth, words slurred. Lucero hadn’t saved her mother or grandmother either. No, they had sacrificed themselves for her because Lucero was so weak all three of them would be taken by the plague. Two lives for one. The plague took away her entire village, only two had escaped. She couldn’t bring back those lives, those families. That village was forever a ghost town. “Always… br… broken.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Don’t heal. Don’t heal. Broken fingers, broken skull, body light and floating as if she were on a boat in the middle of a calm lake. The pain almost felt dreamlike, so obscure and incomprehensible that Lucero couldn’t be sure it was real. Was any of this real or just a really bad dream?

Lucero closed her eyes, still tears still falling, head lolling to whatever direction the man wanted it to go. What a selfish heart she had. All she wanted was to keep living. She didn’t want to die.

“Once broken, always broken.” it was a whimper, not a bang. After all, she still couldn’t undo what her father had done to her, no matter how desperately she wanted to see again.