Ice - Part 17

"...not dead?"

The words, so few and so deceptively simple, left Soren feeling as though he'd somehow miscast a tornado spell, and been overcome by his own arcane windstorm. Even in the ebon gloom, he could tell that his vision was wavering, shadows within shadows dancing on the fringes of reality, while thunder roared in his ears...

...and then, he realized that Greil was right. That pounding in his ears, he knew, was the sound of his heart as it began once more to pump his mingled blood. The wavering in his vision was the effect of his mind, nearly starved of precious air, steadying itself as his lungs drew breath once more. He hadn’t needed to ask. Greil had told him. And now he knew.

“Do you wish that you were?”

The question was unexpected, and Soren felt bereft of the words he normally held in vast supply. But ever since Greil had told him, and the mage himself had affirmed, that he was still alive, some new emotion had taken hold of him.

One that he could only define as… fear.

“I… am not sure.”

Greil made no comment, but simply inclined his head and then fell into respectful silence. Apparently, just as he had in life, Greil still possessed a knack for taking the measure of all whom he encountered. And, seeing that Soren was obviously and deeply unsettled, he waited until the normally stoic mage had composed himself and collected his thoughts.

Though it seemed as though the two sat in that ebon gloom for years, Greil made no complaint, but simply waited with the patience of...

The patience of the dead, Soren mused, grinning slightly but with no hint of levity.

“I am an outcast. I always have been. Must I… really go back to that world?” With a tone of bitterness, he added, “Being a lord will not change anything. If you put a dog in a fancy outfit, he’s still a mongrel.”

Impossibly, like flowers blossoming in winter, color bursting out from under the ice… Greil laughed.

“There are people who would go into conniptions if they heard you talk about yourself that way.”

Soren, disgruntled, turned away, closing his eyes against his memories of life. “Ike will get along just fine.”

He could hear the smile in the Commander’s voice as he spoke again. “Who said I was talking about Ike?”

When the mage opened his eyes again, one final ghostly form appeared. Her silver gown fitted her slender frame perfectly, and the long blue hair that normally fell to outline her face had been twisted into a single, curling plait, held back with green ribbon that matched the emerald slippers and belt that she wore. Jade powder had been rubbed over her sapphire eyes, and the green gem set in silver that hung gracefully around her throat completed the picture that now stood before the mage and his dead Commander.

“…Lucia.”

She said nothing, only extended her hand.

“There is nothing here for you, Soren,” Greil intoned, his gaze sweeping from the mage to this latest apparition. "And, I believe you have far more to live for than you think."

Flustered though he was by the combined shock of discovering he still lived, and of seeing Lucia as he remembered her on that wondrous night so long ago, Soren yet retained more than enough of his wits to pick up on Greil's implication.

“…she could never love me.”

“She could not?”

Greil didn’t need to say anything more, for the apparition of Lucia was already in motion. The scene that formed around her was of a balcony, and a ghostly form of Soren, dressed for the ball, emerged from the stark nothingness. The pair took hands and danced, growing closer and closer until their lips met.

“She kissed you, remember?”

“She slapped me the week after.”

“…and after that?”

The mage had no time to reply, for the scene was already changing. Now, they were in the hallway, after the second attempt on the Queen’s life, which the mage himself had narrowly averted. Her hand rested on his shoulder and pulled him around to face her. The voices of his and Lucia’s past selves came to him faintly.

”I'm seeing more and more how good it is that you're around.”

And they kissed again.

Finally, the scene moved to a darker location, the kitchen where the assassin had attacked Soren. In she came, with Ike. Shaking hands pulled the mage’s face into her lap as he gasped out his final words.

As he turned to look at Commander Greil’s face, he saw that coy, yet wise, smile. “After all you’ve survived, you’re going to pass into death this way?” His expression turning more serious, he put his cold hand on the mage’s still-warm shoulder. “You don’t belong here. Not yet.”

The mage closed his eyes, the images that he had just seen still swimming in his mind’s eye behind his eyelids. As he opened them, he was shocked to see that the scene had faded, leaving only Lucia behind. Her hand extended for the mage’s.

"The afterlife is a long, long time, especially if you've spent your life alone," Greil intoned, gesturing toward the image of Lucia. "You don't have to let your life end so soon, or to live it alone. Go back, and take that leap of faith."

Soren stood, looking around the Abyss. Besides Greil and Lucia, there was nothing here. There was nothing here.

Greil stood alongside him, giving the mage a push in Lucia’s direction before letting go of his shoulder.

There was nothing more that needed to be said, and both men seemed to know this. Without a word of parting, as he had gone in life, Greil withdrew, vanishing into the realm of everlasting darkness where Soren no longer belonged.

The mage, taking a steadying breath, took Lucia’s hand.

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As the King-to-be’s retreating footsteps thundered from down the hallway, Lucia turned back to the mage’s limp form. Her hand reached for Soren’s pale one, lifting it and stroking the back gently. Unspeakable pain was etched on her face as she clung to the dead mage’s bloody hand. Trembling fingers brushed his cheek as she tried hard not to glance down at the dagger still in his side - the one that had likely killed him.

“I’m sorry, Soren,” she said quietly.

She wasn’t sure if sorry was what she was, or what exactly she was feeling. She felt guilt, but she didn’t know if she should – was this truly her fault? It had been her plan, somewhat, and things had gone so horribly wrong… she was supposed to be the one taking the risk, not Soren. Was this her fault? Was it anyone’s? She couldn’t think straight, it seemed, as she clutched the mage’s hand, willing him to come back, to explain somehow, as he was always able to, what had gone wrong. Yet, this time, there was only silence. Soren's pale features, as pale as the realm of the dead he had newly entered, offered no hint of forgiveness, or recrimination, or any of his customarily tart criticisms.

Now, the same voice that had guided the Crimean Liberation Army to victory had been choked away for all eternity.

She was not often given to such sentiments; but, by the goddess, she wanted whomever had killed Soren to suffer.

She bent over the mage’s chest, his hand held in both of hers, and felt unwanted tears stream down her face. She had no thought of appearances, of politics, of anything, only the terrible, terrible sight of this mage lying dead before her.

Suddenly, she stiffened as she felt light pressure on her hand. Hardly daring to believe her own eyes, she looked down to see that he had curled his fingers around hers, a tremor moving through him as he took a small, sudden breath.

“…Soren?” she called gently, her heart knotting in her throat as his eyelids fluttered. His eyes took a moment to look around and ascertain where he was, before moving to look up into Lucia’s tear-stained face.

“…not dead,” he whispered.

“You’re… you’re not dead,” she whispered back. She froze for a second, mind struggling to process the emotions running through her. As quickly as it did catch up, it did not seem fast enough. She gathered the mage into her arms, feeling like she could never hold him close enough. He let out a small, quiet wince, and almost as quickly as she had embraced him, she sat him back on the ground, looking over his brutally beaten, weak body.
“You’re not dead,” she reaffirmed, more to herself than to the mage. “…but you still need help.”

Her eyes were quick to find the source of his pain. The mage’s hands twitched in the direction of his side, and her eyes widened as she saw the wound that, inexplicably, had not been healed by Mist’s staff. She slid her fingers under his shirt, lightly brushing the warm, sticky metal of the dagger that still protruded from the wound. Stifling a gasp and forcing away thoughts of how much pain the small mage must be suffering, she carefully probed around his back until she saw a sliver of metal poking out through a still bleeding rent in his small frame.

“I have to get you to a healer,” she murmured. She withdrew the blade from his side, but this only seemed to increase the flow of blood that leaked from the wound. Knowing that she had to act quickly or Soren’s life would drain away while he was in her arms, she set about finding a way to close the wound. The supply room was only a few doors down, and she knew that there were medical supplies in there. If she could just move him...

She reached her arms around him and lifted him, pulling his torso from the blood on the ground with a sickening squelch. She pulled the cloth veil from her face and pressed it against his side, hoping to stem the flow of blood until she could get him proper bandages. It was then, as she wrapped the cloth around him to slow the bleeding, that she saw the purple streaks in the liquid that flowed from his body. The fluid had been tainted by the envenomed knife, and ran from the mage’s body in a purple-hued stream, adding to the dark pool beneath him.

“Poison,” she whispered, her eyes wide in shock. “Mist’s spell didn’t work.”

Realizing what little time she had to work, she gently lowered him to the ground again. She rested the mage’s head back on the floor, picked up his hand, and laid it over the wound. She could run to the supply room and back so much faster, if she did not have to carry him…

“Press hard,” she commanded, “I’ll be right back.”

She rose, running as best as she could in the large dress towards the supply room. It took her just a few minutes before she was hurrying back. In her arms she cradled various objects associated with healing – in her panic, she’d grabbed items at random, and wasn’t entirely sure what exactly she had brought back. She made sure that among the supplies was an Elixir, the most potent healing potion which beorc apothecaries and clergy could offer, and, as a precaution, a large needle and wire-thread. She rushed back to the room, kicking the door to open it. Rushing over to the mage, she quickly knelt beside him. Her hopes faltered as she brushed the few, jaggedly cut strands of his bangs back from his face. Soren’s eyes had closed, and she feared the worst. But in that same instant, she also saw his chest rising and falling with haggard breaths, and his knuckles white from the force he used to keep the wound closed.

“Open your eyes.”

He complied, looking up towards her voice. His hand slipped slightly as she grabbed his shoulders.

“I have to get to the wound,” she said, keeping her tone even and controlled despite the worry she felt, “Keep pressing.”

She slid the fabric of his robes off his shoulder, ripping it down the middle to his navel. His eyes had closed once again, but by willpower alone he was still conscious – she knew this because he responded when she spoke.

“I’m going to try using an Elixir,” she said, working her hand under his so that she now held the wound, “If that doesn’t work, I—” her voice faltered for a moment, but she quickly steadied it, “I’ll have to stitch it.”

He made a quiet, affirmative sound in response, letting his hand fall away and allowing her to push back the layer of fabric between his skin and hand, allowing her to view the wound unobscured.

For a moment, she could do nothing but gape. Blood seeped from the wound, dark and thin (though the flow had dramatically lessened from before). The veins around were a blackened spiderweb, letting her see the flow of poison up the left side of his body. She shook herself from her shock and set to work. Shaking hands uncapped the blue bottle and poured a stream of clear, healing panacea onto the gash. It mixed in as oil and water, and Lucia felt her resolve wane. Suddenly in the grip of despair, her shoulders heaved and a quick sob escaped her lips. She pressed her hand over her mouth and grit her teeth, taking a deep, steadying breath.

“It’s deep,” she heard herself say, “But it’s not wide. It’ll only be… fifteen, twenty stitches,” she estimated while trying not to look at the wound. She moved her hand around to check the smaller, thinner exit wound. “Yes… about twenty.” When she looked down, it was to light pressure on her hand, and his crimson gaze.

“Short, steady strokes,” he whispered, in a tone more even than she would have expected. He took a moment to gather himself, and spoke again, “It won’t hurt me.”

His words, comforting as they were meant to be, merely deepened the aching pain inside her. Here she was, in the process of saving his life, and yet he was the one comforting her? What sort of mess what she?

“Please,” he murmured, voice thin, “Hurry.”

She nodded and broke away from his gaze, rallying her strength and focusing on nothing but closing the gash. Trembling fingers steadied themselves as she picked up the large sewing needle and placed it against his skin.

“Relax,” she assured, ignoring the emotions welling inside her, “I’m not letting you go.”

He barely reacted as she broke his skin with the needle and set the first stitch, pulling the wound closed. She knew that he was weak, but she could not allow herself to think about that as she worked – for if she was weak, how could he be strong? She got in seven more stitches before she noted a change in Soren’s demeanor. His eyes were writhing behind his eyelids, and meek whimpers escaped his throat.

“I’m almost done,” she murmured, and the sound of her voice seemed to reassure him, “Stay with me. You can get through this.”

He forced his eyes open, and widely dilated pupils began to jump about the room. “I can’t see,” she heard him murmur.

“It’s okay,” she tried to soothe, then continued speaking aimlessly so that he could have something to distract him. “I think that it might snow once more before spring truly arrives,” she said, “The air’s turned cold. I’d wager that there will be frost on the ground in the morning…”