Chapter Text
As soon as the killing blow had been dealt, Thomas moved. Releasing the railing from his white knuckled grip, he turned tail and sprinted for the stairwell. As he ran, there was only one goal in his mind. He had to get to Flux.
He pushed his way down from the stands, desperate to make it to the arena floor. More and more people were flocking to Westhelm’s Colosseum as word spread and the vultures descended. It was absolute chaos, with shouts and victorious cheers filling the air.
He had to make it to Flux, to his body, at any cost. Leaving him here was unacceptable. Thomas had known this from the moment the duel had started, the moment that this story could end with Fluixon’s death.
Westhelm was a nation of bloodthirsty bastards who reveled in their violent public displays of justice. What barbaric fate would they have for the corpse of their greatest villain? No, Thomas had protected Fluixon in life, and he’d continue to do so in death. He refused to let their enemies get one last victory and desecrate Flux’s corpse.
The crowd had grown ever thicker with onlookers hungry for spectacle. But finally, Thomas had forced his way to the center. And before him, lay the body.
The blood had pooled around him, painting the sand an awful crimson. Flux still laid exactly where he’d fallen. No one had even gotten close, or moved him in the slightest. His sword was still next to him, where it had fallen from his hand. In the immediate aftermath of their victory, the body had been momentarily abandoned. Thomas felt sick. Part of him wanted to break down right then and there, another wanted to find that bastard who’d done this, and pay him back tenfold. But Thomas knew he couldn’t afford to think twice, to hesitate in the slightest. The mission was to get Flux, and get out. And Thomas had always been very, very good at following the mission.
So in one quick motion, he knelt down, gathered the body into his arms, and bolted. Thomas tore his way out of the Colosseum, and into Westhelm’s capital.
As he ran, he refused to think about the weight in his arms, horribly heavy in its stillness, the way Flux’s head hung lifelessly against his shoulder.
Part of him knew this was always going to be how things ended. Flux had never been a fighter, he was always the brains of their operation. Heavily bruised, beaten and burned by the conflict at the Bastion, there was only so much Thomas could do to hastily patch the other man up after they’d been reunited. When Flux had broken the news, explaining his plans to meet Saparata for one final duel, Thomas had wanted to beg him to refuse, to run and lick their wounds. But he could never, would never dissuade Fluixon, once the other had set his mind to something.
So despite his trepidation, in the end Thomas could only pass Flux’s sword into his bandaged hand.
Now, he ran through the streets of Westhelm, body of the man he’d followed to hell and back clutched in his arms, hoping against all odds that he wasn’t being followed.
Eventually, the adrenaline in his veins began to wane, and Thomas felt himself faltering. Stumbling out of a sprint, he veered off the street his blind escape had twisted him too, into an alleyway. Narrow and dead-ended, it was little more than a secluded dumping ground between backdoors. In the fading light of the setting sun, the shadows from the surrounding buildings had almost completely engulfed the dingy alley.
With the last bit of grace his body possessed, he gently laid his burden down, before slumping unceremoniously beside it, completely and utterly exhausted.
Collapsed on his knees, arms and legs aching down to the fiber, Thomas heaved pants that turned to near-sobs as reality set in. Tears began welling in his eyes, obscuring his vision. In the distance there was a ringing noise taking over his head, high and buzzing in the background. Thomas’s mind spun out of his control.
I have to make it out. I have to make it– I have to make it back to–
His arms tightened involuntarily, wrapping around himself. There wasn’t anything, anyone left to make it back to. He was all alone, in some dirty hole in the middle of Westhelm’s capital.
Then, Thomas heard it.
He almost missed it completely, amidst the blood pounding in his ears and his own muffled sobs. But there it was; in between one inhale and the next, the faintest whine.
He froze. It felt as if someone had their hand around his heart and lungs, strangling him from the inside out.
For a second, Thomas thought he’d imagined it in his hysteria. But to his deepening dread that same noise came again, a whisper of a whine, stuttering and shaking on the exhale.
Terror froze out the last dregs of hot adrenaline as he slowly lowered his arms and turned his head to what the only source of that noise could be.
The body hadn’t moved from where Thomas had placed it. Eyes closed, head tilted lifelessly forwards.
Hands against the rough ground, Thomas pushed himself closer to it, slow and hesitant, like he was in fear of startling a prey animal. He could feel his heart in his chest, thumping a frantic, fearful pace.
When he was within arm’s length, he raised one hand, palm scraped and dirty. Reaching out, he moved his hand under its jaw, shaky fingers pressing down too hard.
For a second, he found nothing but cold, clammy skin. Would it be worse, or better if he’d just imagined the noise? he wondered.
But then, the tiniest twitch under his fingers, under the skin. With an uneven rhythm, it was languid and weak, like a creature at the end of its death throe.
But it was there.
Flux had a pulse.
Thomas reeled back, like his hand had been burnt. His fingertips came away crimson, stained by the congealed blood trailing down and caught in the junction of Flux’s throat.
Flux had a pulse.
He was still alive.
He was still bleeding out.
Thomas needed to move. Now.
Leaded fingers moved clumsily, fumbling with the buckles strapping the chestplate to the chest.
Underneath the chestplate, his greatcoat and purple shirt were turning darker by the second. Thomas tore them to the side. The undershirt, once white, was reduced to wet ribbons soaked in gore. Strings of shredded fabric oozed under Thomas’s fingers as he pulled them away to finally reveal the wound.
Despite his previous position among the upper echelons of Pandorian society, Thomas hadn’t been a stranger to bloodshed– and the injuries that came alongside it. He’d seen, and caused his fair share of carnage in the past. But none of that seemed to matter now, as he violently bit back the urge to be sick upon the full display of the gash splitting open Fluixon’s side.
It must have been a lucky blow, Saparata’s blade slashing perfectly home between where the bottom of the chestplate had covered his torso. Starting right above the hip, it dragged in through the stomach, reaching over halfway to the other side. Skin and flesh ripped and pulled away from the wound, gaping the slash open further.
Thomas could see deep, past muscle and fat, deeper than anything that should have ever been exposed to the air. The dark of the alley only served to elevate the horror, the shadows partially obscuring it only allowed his mind to fill in the nightmare further.
But what he did see for certain was everything painted in that awful, awful red.
Red that stained everything, even the air, with its iron tang. Red that even now, continued to pour sluggishly from the mess of gore.
Thomas knew he had minutes, no, less than that, to do something drastic. Scrambling, he made for his bag, for the treasure he’d carried all the way from the heart of the crucible.
Upon their arrival to Infernus, Queen Cynikka had crowned their arrival tour with gifts from the royal coffers, to symbolize and cement their alliance.
Perhaps the rarest treasure, she’d said, One of only the few we have ever recovered, found deep in the ancient ruins beneath our land.
It gives strength and regeneration incomparable to anything anyone has ever seen. Even our most skilled gilders have been unable to recreate such effects, despite countless hours spent studying them. Whatever method used to create these has surely been long lost to time.
Fluixon had, of course, accepted the priceless gift with the graceful courtesy that always came so effortlessly to him. Thomas hadn’t seen another glimpse of its unworldly glow until the night before the siege, when Flux pulled him aside.
There’s something I want you to have, he’d told Thomas, before placing the fist-sized object in his hand. Catching sight of his shocked expression, Flux had cracked that wry, half-grin of his, placing his hand on the other’s shoulder. Thomas, I wouldn’t entrust this to anyone else. I know you'll put it to good use.
It was this very golden apple Thomas now retrieved, holding it up in the dark of the alley. The faultless gold glowed in iridescence, a shifting rainbow of blues and purples dancing across the surface.
He hesitated for a moment, captivated by the otherworldly shine. Then, without ceremony, drew his dagger and carved it into the perfect flesh.
The sliver he cut was barely a bite, forever marring the flawless skin. Quickly, he set the fruit and knife down, and took Fluixon’s jaw in his free hand. Coaxing his mouth open, Thomas placed the slice as far back as he dared. Then his jaw was closed, tilted back. He carefully massaged the other man’s throat, pulse weakly jackrabbiting under his fingertips.
“C’mon Flux, swallow it. Please.” Thomas begged.
A tense moment hung in the air, but when Fluixon showed no signs of actively choking, Thomas got to work. Another sliver, another piece, one after another, offered desperately and revenantly.
Luminara and her people had never been one for religion, for placing faith in deities real or fake. But now Thomas found himself praying, silently pleading with an all-seeing eye to allow this one grace, to let one soul slip the narrative’s noose of fate.
Thomas had fed him a third of the apple when he noticed a change. A thin cut was across Flux’s forehead, traveling up into his hairline and previously bleeding lazily. It had almost entirely disappeared; a faint line was the only trace of its existence.
He immediately paused his task, and checked Flux’s abdomen. The huge, horrible wound, which had once verged on the edge of a disemboweling, now was half its former size. Still a grave injury, but one that was survivable.
He turned back to his bag, pulling out more of his supplies. Thomas sent off a quiet apology to Flux before ripping off an unsoiled portion of his coat. This fabric and a bottle of boiled water were used to wipe away the majority of the blood still painting his skin. Once the area was as clean as it was going to get, he used one of his last rolls of bandages to tightly pack and wrap the remaining gash.
For the time being, he’d pulled Fluixon out of death’s doorframe by the skin of his teeth. Now, Thomas needed to get the both of them to safer territory. A plan was forming in Thomas’s mind, one he could methodically follow step after step. He was about to start gathering his scattered supplies again when an unexpected noise came from behind them.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
With a sudden lurch, Thomas’s head snapped around, to the source of the voice.
At the mouth of the alley, was a figure clad in Westhelm guard armor. He had no weapon drawn yet, but instead a torch held aloft in one hand.
Thomas remained silent, eyes darting between the guardsman and Flux’s pale face, still propped against the wall before him.
With no answer to his question, the guard began coming closer. Now mere blocks away, the guard must have caught sight of the second figure on the ground. Worry crept into his voice as he called out, “Is– is everything okay?”
Thomas found himself frozen still with shock, as the guard drew nearer.
He held his torch higher, illuminating the flashy, distinctive trims of their armor. For one single beat, they both locked eyes, as the other man went rigid. Thomas saw the exact moment realization crept into the soldier’s eyes, and knew there was only one option to take, if Flux would have a chance to live.
The guardsman hesitated in his revelation seconds too long, and that was all Thomas needed. Scooping his dagger up, he was on the guard in a flash. With a leap he’d flattened the other man to the ground, knocking the torch from his grasp. It rolled away, firelight just catching the gleam of the blade as Thomas raised it for the kill.
Below him came a hysteric plea, “Please–” but the dagger had already come slicing down.
A slit throat, clean and neat, befitting an assassination of someone much more prestigious than a mere footsoldier.
As soon as the deed was done, Thomas dragged the guard’s corpse further into the dark and began divesting it of its gear. In a way, he thought, this guard had unknowingly aided them. Their trimmed armor that had once been a source of pride, a show of unity and power for them, had now become far too identifiable.
He’d already removed Flux’s chestplate, and he hurried to unfasten the rest. Flux barely responded, beside a small breathy whine that had his heart clenching all over again, as Thomas gently manhandled him.
Checking Flux’s wound again, Thomas found the bandages he’d hastily packed it with hadn’t yet soaked through. The enchanted golden apple was working, but Thomas knew they were far from out of the woods.
After pulling back from Flux, he stood up and began removing his own armor. He let each piece drop carelessly to the ground, then replaced it with the new armor looted from the Westhelm guard.
When the final piece had been buckled in place, he set about hiding the evidence. Stashing the body amidst the alleyway’s rubble would go undiscovered for a while, and by the time it was, he and Flux would be long gone.
There was a half-filled barrel among the trash. Quickly, Thomas began cramming their armor in. Chestplate, leggings, boots. Finally, his helmet was retrieved from where he’d thrown it off earlier. As he picked it up, he paused.
They’d fought, once upon a time, over the colors for their armor. It’d been all in good nature, friends squabbling over who got dibs on what after Flux’s first pick. Thomas remembered laughing so hard his ribs ached at Snowbird’s look of absolute distress as Rotation tried repeatedly to goad the more bookish man into an arm wrestle to decide. Later, after they’d all finished engraving the decorative materials into their gear, Flux had sat next to Thomas, watching him hold his newly finished helmet. The gold suits you, he’d said. It matches the color of your eyes in the sun.
In the alley, Thomas now cradled that same piece in his hands, worn and damaged, gold accents weakly catching in the dim light. He spared one last look for this remnant of what once was before dropping his helmet on the rest of the pile.
Before he could turn to finish leaving, something else caught his eye. A large piece of fabric was sticking out of the pile of rubbish. Thomas retrieved it with a tug, and found himself with a woolen tarp, torn along one edge yet surprisingly clean. It was perfect.
He returned to the site of his impromptu medical session, and hastily picked up the remaining items, shoving them back into his bag.
In addition to the armor set, Thomas had also divested the corpse of anything else useful before discarding it. There wasn’t much: a money pouch, an untouched-looking field kit, a spare dagger. But he took it all anyways, knowing full well he couldn’t afford to even turn down scraps.
He did, however, leave the guardsman’s sword behind, buckling his own scabbard belt over the new set of armor. It would do Thomas no good at a time like this to purposely cripple himself with the use of an unfamiliar weapon.
Finally, after everything else was gathered, Thomas moved to Flux’s side, and unfurled the tarp he’d found. It was probably unwise to risk jostling his still magically-healing injuries, but there was no choice otherwise.
They needed to leave this dead-end alley before they were discovered again, and Thomas faced a fight he couldn’t win.
With Flux situated and once again in Thomas’s arms, their flight from the city resumed. Only this time, Thomas walked the streets without fear of being accosted.
In the aftermath of a war, no one would stop a grieving Westhelm soldier carrying a body wrapped in a shroud.
The rest of the trip was laughably easy, in comparison.
It was only after he’d made it far out of Westhelm, did Thomas finally stop once more. He pulled the tarp, wrapped cautiously as to not be suffocating, away from Fluixon’s face. His eyes remained closed, and his skin was still far too ashen for Thomas’s liking. They had to keep moving.
Among their group, Thomas had been far from their fighter, never one to find himself in physical prowess, in wielding blades and weapons as easily as breathing. He specialized in other things, words and machines and legalities, things he could put together and take apart until they suited the purpose he gave them.
But now, he was the last one standing, the last line of defense. If he faltered now, Flux would fall, he would fall, everything they’d stood for and sacrificed for would fall.
He continued on into the dark of the night, until the lights of Westhelm’s capital were but a smear on the horizon at his back.
They’d made it to no man’s land, stretching between the furthest outskirts of Westhelm and the foothills of the Volcano.
Finding shelter would be crucial. The land appeared empty, a war-torn battlefield left abandoned, but Thomas knew there still would be pockets of fighting, combatants who hadn’t realized the war was over. And he lacked the strength to survive another encounter.
At last, Thomas came across what he’d been searching for; the ravaged remains of a farming community. The dark shapes of half-demolished buildings stood like unstable skeletons against the night. This was likely the work of the Peacekeepers. In their mission to take out the invaders’ weak rear guard, they’d been ordered to destroy and raze everything in their path. Despicable as it had been, the brutal pincher attack had been some of the war council’s finest work.
Thomas carried Flux towards one ruin that appeared less at risk of collapsing within the week.
The roof had caved, taking one exterior wall with it, yet the remaining stone foundation looked to hold strong. Carefully, he picked his way through the wreckage, one footstep at a time. There, he found the specific feature he’d been hoping for. Hidden underneath the remains of a destroyed wall was a staircase leading down into the ground.
He set Flux down long enough to move the biggest obstacles out of their way, until he had a clear path to the stairwell. As he lifted one collapsed beam, a lantern was revealed lying on the ground. One glass face was completely shattered where it had fallen, and the metal casing was sorely dented, but otherwise it was still usable.
Thomas lit it with a match from the guardsman’s supplies, before descending the stairs to scope out the basement.
Anything of real use was predictably absent, presumably taken with the fleeing owners of the farmhouse. However, they were unable to carry everything with them. On the mostly barren shelves were a few jars and packages of preserved food, and a crate of root vegetables was tilted over on the floor. There were other odds and ends too, a pile of firewood in the corner, nearly broken tools left on a low table, some rope and spare materials.
A spare cot was pushed against one wall, a thin, bare mattress on a rough wooden frame. Seeing this, Thomas swiftly set the lantern down on the table, slinging his bag off to join it. He then hurried back upstairs to retrieve Flux, and bring him back down to be laid down on the bed.
Once he was situated, Thomas brought the lantern closer. Absolutely every inch of illumination provided by its weak light would be needed for the work he was about to do.
He first unwrapped the tarp he’d swaddled Flux in, leaving it under him. Thomas hoped it would serve as enough of a barrier for the worst of the blood and gore, and keep the tattered mattress from being completely ruined.
He then went about stripping Flux of the rest of his remaining outer layers. His ruined coat, the shirt that was little more than rags at this point, his pants and shoes.
Thomas sucked in a sharp breath. Unlike in the alleyway, he was now fully able to take account of all Flux’s injuries.
The wound that had nearly done Flux in mercifully hadn’t worsened since Thomas had checked it last. The bandages still hadn’t soaked completely through with gore, but he’d need to change them again soon. At this point, infection would be the foremost danger, as the remainder of Cynikka’s gift should slowly finish closing the gash by itself, leaving stitches unnecessary. Thomas sent her memory his thanks, granting them clemency even from beyond the grave. Leaving it alone for the moment, he turned his attention to the rest of Fluixon.
The wrappings around his burnt hand, the ones Flux had begrudgingly allowed him to apply after their escape from the Volcano, were all but useless now. They’d come undone, likely during the duel, and were stained by blood and the weeping of the burns.
However, the scorched skin he’d so carefully tended to then, on his arm and up to his neck, was no longer the worst of the burns Flux’s skin now bore. Thomas had first realized it earlier, as he’d stripped Flux.
In the dark of the alley, and faced with much more horrifying issues, he’d entirely missed it. But removing his pants, peeling burnt fabric away from bloody flesh, had revealed huge swathes of burned skin covering almost the entire length of his legs.
That moment, from the fight at the Colosseum, was immediately brought back to the forefront of Thomas’s mind. At the tail end of their duel, Saps had pulled out a bucket of lava, and caught Flux off guard with it.
Flux had been quick to react, but not quick enough to entirely dodge the attack. It had poured down the front of his legs, pooling into the tops of his boots.
It had been enough to cripple him past any point of possibly turning the fight around, and was almost certainly what gave Saparata the lucky opening to carve him open.
Thomas cursed the white-haired man out. Let’s make this a fair fight, he’d said. Only to use such an underhanded weapon. It would have served him right if Thomas had gone with his first instinct and trapped the arena floor before his arrival.
Fortunately, Thomas’s ace up his sleeve had once again saved them. The enchanted apple had done most of the heavy lifting, taking the damage done twice over by lava from subdermal burns to something lesser.
Still, Flux’s body had still clearly prioritised his most grievous injury. The worst of the burns were no longer sickeningly charred flesh, but his legs and arm were still a battlefield of inflamed red and weeping blisters.
With this gauntlet laid out before him, Thomas got to work.
In the medical kit he’d received before the battle was a tiny jar of burn cream, a staple to the people who lived above the Volcano’s basin. He used it up, spreading it thinly over the worst of Flux’s burned skin. He then covered everything in the clean bandages from his pack, trying to ration them where he could.
Aside from the worst of his injuries, Flux also bore several smaller cuts on his limbs, either more damage he’d sustained at Saparata’s hands, or ones he’d been hiding from the siege. Thomas had also noticed while treating his burns, Flux’s right ankle was worryingly swollen, in a way that spoke beyond just external injury. Without any better supplies, he’d had no choice but to stabilize it as best as he could, and pray it was only a sprain.
By the time he had finished, Thomas had completely drained his own supply of first aid, and most of the meagre materials he’d pilfered from the guard’s corpse in the alley.
He wiped his hands off on the corner of the tarp, before straightening up and taking a step away from where Fluixon laid. He ran one hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
Tired fingers moved to unbuckle the straps of the ill-fitting Westhelm chestplate. The piece of armor was then discarded carelessly on the ground. His own collection of cuts and scrapes had gone completely unattended, but Thomas couldn’t even find it within himself to care.
He was only able to pull over the basement’s lone chair to the bedside, before he dropped bonelessly into it, curled over at the side of the bed. He’d pushed his body past the point of exhaustion and then some.
The last thing Thomas remembered before sleep claimed him was gazing at Flux’s profile, illuminated in the waning light of the lantern.
= – = – =
A few days passed, and when Thomas wasn’t at Flux’s bedside, waiting for him to awaken, he was busy scavenging.
He’d slowly ransacked the rest of the ruined houses in the small settlement, venturing out under the cover of the night and searching for a few hours at a time. Everything he found that could be useful was brought back to their underground hideout and stored away. A small variety of foodstuffs, a couple of blankets, and clothes he demeaned clean enough to replace theirs.
They’d both fled the battle and the Volcano with nothing more than what was on their backs, only carrying the supplies that would see them through the fight. Thomas’s own clothing was growing filthier by the day, but at least he’d had something to wear. He’d had to trash almost everything Flux had worn, if the item hadn’t been turned into a mop for blood, it was burned or torn to rags.
Even Fluixon’s greatcoat, with its epaulets and custom purple lining had to go. The night he’d disassembled the garment, Thomas gave another apology to Flux’s sleeping form before he began. It’d been Flux’s favorite, a celebratory present to himself after becoming Vice President, and quickly became part of his staple look. But after being worn through their escape from Pandora, an international war, and a duel to the death it had sustained too much damage to ever be repaired. And to crown it off, the giant Luminaran crest made for a literal target on its back.
So its fate was to be stripped for its gold buttons and braiding, Thomas meticulously cutting the pieces away and saving them for later.
As time continued to toil on, the most pressing issue quickly became the lack of medical supplies at Thomas’s disposal. With the threat of Flux’s injuries becoming infected, Thomas had burned through all the real bandages, and then resorted to shredding any clean fabric he could find. And even that supply was running low.
Thomas knew there was a Blue Cross outpost nearby, outside of Westhelm proper. He’d seen it in the distance, on the furthest scouting pass he’d taken of the surrounding area.
The ruins they’d been holed up in were far enough from the main road between Infernus and Westhelm territory that Thomas had so far managed to avoid any encounter with the returning armies. Though if he were to travel to the outpost, he’d have no such luxury. He’d have to play his cards right.
On the day he made the trip, Thomas bided his time, arranging it so he would arrive just before the sky started to darken. He was dressed in his stolen set of Westhelm armor, and wore his scarf tied over the lower half of his face. Normally, obscuring his face would have been an incriminating move, but as windblown ash and smoke had migrated out from the Volcano’s crucible, it would only be seen as a sensible precaution.
It had been long enough after the battle that the area was no longer crawling with combatants. Instead, the main populace of the camp were only medics bearing the symbol of the Blue Cross, and their remaining patients.
Upon arrival, he was directed by a tired-looking attendant to a relief aid tent. Thankfully, it seemed like everyone here was too exhausted to even inquire about more than the barebones.
There were only a few people queued ahead of him at the tent, and he soon made it to the front of the line.
The nurse on duty took down the false name he offered, and passed Thomas a small kit of medical supplies.
After leaving the tent, he popped it open, looking inside. Gauze and bandages, some topical antibiotics and some more of that burn cream. There were even a couple packets of painkillers tucked alongside the rest.
It was less than what Thomas would have liked, but it would have to do.
He made to leave, not wanting to stay any longer than was necessary. But on his way out from the camp, Thomas saw something that made him break step.
One of the other tents had been opened up, and from where Thomas was he had perfect line of sight into it. On the ground were a line of figures, carefully laid out.
A white shroud covered each one.
The voice of a dead man rang out in his ears.
Do you guys think anyone’s gonna mourn us after we die?
When he’d heard the question, Thomas had paused, looking up from the redstone wiring he was rigging, to where Snowbird watched, waiting for his answer. The other man had been helping, moreso spectating, while they’d crawled through the underbelly of the Ashen Bastion. Flux had been absent, off to another private audience with the Queen.
I was just thinking, he’d continued. After our ousting, there’s no chance they’ll put me in my family’s plot.
Gotoga, working further ahead, had turned over his shoulder. Yeah, sorry man, can’t relate. Out of the three of us, you’re the only one with family who likes you. Well. Liked.
That had gotten a frown in return, Snowbird toying with one of the rolls of gunpowder they’d brought. What about your–
With a harsh laugh Gotoga had cut him off. Not a chance, he’d barked. I bet they’re glad for a reason to strike me out of the ledgers permanently.
What about Rotation? Thomas had added, perhaps a bit unwisely. He was always sending letters home. His family might take him back.
There was a stilted pause after he’d said that.
If they even retrieve his body. Had come the muttered reply from Snowbird. He’d still looked despondent at any mention of their younger friend’s fate.
Not wanting to let him linger, Gotoga then switched in, I guess answering your question, Snowbird, I don’t really know. He’d set down the repeater he was adjusting. We're really the last ones left, huh? No one else after the four of us are gone.
At that point they had been skirting around the way their numbers had slowly been chipped away, and what that undoubtedly meant for them. But no matter if it was said or not, they’d all felt how the blade of fate was hanging above their heads by an ever thinning thread.
Thomas had scoffed, causing the other two to turn to him.
What?
He’d shaken his head. You both sound so sure we’re dying. We’re going to win. We’re going to get through this, all of us, with Flux. We’ve come too far not to. And when Thomas said it, the words had almost sounded convincing in his own ears.
Now, as Thomas watched, tongue weighed down and throat tight, a pair of medics walked past, another shrouded figure on a stretcher between them.
As the tent flap closed behind them, Thomas left quickly. He needed to get back to Flux.
= – = – =
In addition to using the new field kit he’d received, Thomas had continued to feed Fluixon the remaining two-thirds of Infernus’s golden apple, slowly parceling it out over the course of a week.
He knew it was well-known and documented that the unnatural regeneration of gilded fruits was fueled by the body’s own energy. Overconsumption would result in a form of autocannibalism, the body locked in a deadly feedback loop of feeding too much off oneself to heal, then trying in vain to heal the damage it’d caused. Thomas feared what might happen with the relic’s tenfold effects, and Fluixon’s already weakened state.
He received his answer in the form of days spent at Flux’s bedside, useless as Fluixon was racked with pain from the unnatural rate his injuries were healing at. Even ancient relics, it seemed, weren’t exempt from the other well-known drawback of golden apples. While the fruit could stop horrific injuries and bestow unworldly effects, stopping the consumer from feeling pain was evidently outside its capabilities.
After the first few harrowing days, Flux had finally awoken from the long, near-death state he’d been in. His return to consciousness was both a blessing and a curse.
The first time Thomas had seen those violet eyes fully open again, he’d nearly cried from relief. But Flux’s growing awareness now included being trapped in a body magically forced to stitch itself together back from the brink of death.
The brief hours he was awake were always in a half delirious state, face twisting in agony. Flux was never truly lucid, any words he spoke quickly turned incoherent, slipping into feverish cries that left Thomas with the urge to break something fragile.
During the worst of those moments, all Thomas could do was alternate between offering sips of water and dabbing a wet cloth over his brow, in an attempt to give some modicum of relief. His inability to truly help the other man tormented Thomas. Eventually, Flux would fall to exhaustion, his body giving out.
The few painkillers he’d received in the relief kit went quickly, and did little to help.
Thomas knew he’d have to make another move, and soon. So the night after the last sliver of apple had been eaten, he started putting together a new plan.
Returning to the Blue Cross outpost was out of the equation. The only places he could even hope to procure strong enough medication would be an actual medical center or hospital, not just the small war relief camp he’d visited. He would need to go to the Westhelm capital, the nearest place with the right facilities.
Thomas had known he’d eventually have no other choice but to go back into the city for supplies– it would be a necessary evil if they planned to stay hidden out here for long. Once again playing the role of one faceless guard amongst many would get him where he needed to go.
However, it wouldn’t be as easy as just infiltrating the city. Asking for the type of painkillers Flux needed would raise far too many questions. An average guardsman would never carry such medicine with them, and if he’d found someone in such critical condition, why wouldn’t he just bring them directly to the medical center?
Additionally, the supplies he had managed to scavenge from their set of ruins had started to run low. Their food stores were dwindling, and what was left Thomas worried about Flux being able to stomach. While he was in the city, he’d need to acquire more basic goods, and not just medicine.
As much as he didn’t want to leave Flux alone in his current state for an extended period of time, Thomas didn’t have another option.
He left in the morning. Mercifully, Flux had slept through the night, and remained sleeping soundly enough that Thomas felt assured in leaving.
Right as he was about to leave up the stairs, Thomas lit the lantern at Flux’s bedside, so if he awoke alone he wouldn't be in the dark. Ripping a page from one of the books left in the farmhouse, he wrote on the unprinted back, Out for supplies, will be back by dawn.
It was uncertain that even if Flux woke up, he would be lucid enough to read the note, but it still eased a fraction of the worry coiling in Thomas’s gut.
By the time he’d made it to Westhelm from their camp in the wastelands, the sun was reaching its peak in the sky. He joined the throng of people passing through the gates, just another soldier returning from his shift.
Thomas could only hope he didn’t look too out of place. He was in enemy territory, in a city he was entirely unfamiliar with. He’d seen some of the intel maps Flux had received, but rough directions on paper were entirely different than standing on a busy street. If he acted like he belonged, Thomas figured he could get away with wandering the less populated parts of the city, as long as no one asked too many questions.
He stayed away from the main streets and marketplace, instead searching for a smaller shop where he could buy basic goods. It didn’t take long before he stumbled upon the sort of place he was looking for.
As he approached the building, he saw the storefront had been plastered with an array of bulletins, new papered right over the old. The top layer was several copies of the exact same flyer, which Thomas realized he’d already seen on many other streetcorners.
TRIHELM ALLIANCE PEACE PARADE, it boldly declared, followed by a smaller set of details underneath. The entirety of Westhelm and their allies, all congregating to revel in their victory.
Thomas sneered in disgust. It wasn’t enough to have won the war, no, they had to literally parade it around. Then, he remembered where he was. He glanced from side to side, checking to make sure no one had seen his reaction. Luckily, there was nobody around. Schooling his face, Thomas entered the store.
A bright jingle of a bell sounded as he opened the door. The interior was nothing special, just a few shelves running the length of the shop floor, leading back to a counter in the rear.
Thomas browsed the shelves, keeping in mind he’d have to be frugal. He only had a handful of nuggets stamped with the Imperial crest, loot from the dead guard’s coin purse and a few more found out in the ruins. After that, the only payment he had would be too unusual for a simple soldier to be in possession of.
He brought his selection back to the counter, setting it out before the shopkeeper sitting there. Bread, dried mutton, an assortment of root vegetables and a jar of stock cubes imported from Pandora. Thomas handed over his coins, while she wrapped his items.
As she counted out his change, the shopkeep struck up idle conversation.
“I assume you’ll be going to the parade tonight?” she said.
“Tonight? Oh– uh, yeah, of course.” Thomas said, trying to keep from stumbling at the sudden human interaction. “I’m just… running some errands before then.”
“Ah, I’m not surprised! All you soldiers are being required to attend, right? The Emperor said it’d be an unforgettable night, and we all know he won’t settle for anything less,” she smiled, like she was sharing an inside joke with a fellow citizen.
“That’s right ma’am,” he replied. Then, he decided to take advantage of her friendliness and press for help in the next step of his trip. “Hey– uh… odd question, but do you know somewhere I could sell this?”
From his pocket Thomas removed the watch he’d had on him when they’d fled Luminara. There was a small crack across one corner, but the gold casing was perfectly intact. He showed it to the woman.
“I’m saving up for something special,” he lied, flashing his best smile and a coy wink at the shopkeep.
Her hands flew up to her cheeks, “Oh! Isn’t that sweet?” she cooed, taking his bait. “Well, there’s a pawn shop down the street, you’ll take a left and then another right. But you’d better get there quick– the owner will probably be closing up soon to get to the parade early!”
She hurried to finish wrapping Thomas’s purchases, which he eagerly accepted, ready to end this interaction now he’d gained everything he could from it.
Right as he was turning to leave, the shopkeeper called out to him, “Have a good time at the parade tonight, and good luck with your ‘something special.’ You’re a nice young man, I’m sure they’ll say yes.”
Thomas gave her that same fake smile, deigning to give only a wave and a nod in place of a real response.
As soon as he walked out the shop door, bell ringing above him, the smile slid off his face.
He followed the directions he’d been given, and found himself at the aforementioned pawn shop. Perhaps it helped that the man behind the counter seemed to be on a time crunch, as Thomas was quickly able to sell the items he had, with minimal haggling.
Thomas had brought the bits of gold he’d salvaged from Flux’s coat, the watch, and a couple other personal effects that had been in the guard’s belongings. The solid gold caught the man’s attention the most, as expected, and Thomas slyly felt he’d gotten away with asking for more than they were worth.
By the time he left the second shop, the sun was setting, the last dregs of light staining the clouded sky in long stripes of orange and purple. His purse was newly heavy with gold and iron coins, all stamped with Westhelm’s Imperial crest. But more importantly, by once again fishing for information through casual conversation, he’d been thrown a bone for the most crucial destination he was searching for.
Following the lead, Thomas walked deeper into the capital, leaving the quaint suburb behind. Still straying far from the main road, his route took him down into the city’s underbelly.
In the distance, a faint roar echoed. The sound of hundreds of voices, all cheering in unison. It came from the city’s center, where just visible over the tops of buildings beams of glistening light illuminated the darkening sky. The cause of the commotion was undoubtedly that “Peace Parade” the whole city had been in a frenzy of excitement over. Thomas clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth and continued further into the growing night.
Out here, the roads grew narrow. The buildings loomed dark overhead, the grandeur and open, sweeping streets of the parade route through the city center nowhere to be seen.
With another two turns, Thomas found the place he was seeking. The entrance to a black market, deep in the unsavory corners of Westhelm’s capital.
With a dark cloak draped over the stolen armor and his scarf pulled up over his face, Thomas perfectly fit the image of an Imperial soldier inexperienced and clumsy in hiding his identity. The type of common man venturing to the black market for a taste of danger and the type of illicit wares he couldn’t find in the brightly lit central shopping district. Anyone he encountered here would assume his secrecy was in fear of a demerit from his captain for shirking his duties, rather than being a foreign domestic terrorist on the world’s most wanted list.
Ramshackle stalls lined the dingy plaza, filled with every type of ware imaginable. Rows of knives and daggers gleaming in the lantern light, armor sets claiming to be made of “genuine netherite.” All manner of Pandorian goods, no doubt brought here by one of countless smuggling rings.
He passed one stall that made him pause. Brazenly displayed over the entire booth were countless banners and drapery, all bearing the Infernal Phoenix. Many pieces were war-torn and damaged; their fiery red and gold now charred and torn.
Westhelm’s obsession with trophies of war was well known– the evidence was sitting before Thomas. Even amidst the height of the battle, entrepreneurial looters had already started ransacking the fortress and enemy corpses without remorse. And here, even the most cowardly slime could buy a false claim to glory. Thomas steeled himself, unwilling to let the disgust he felt at such a practice show on his face.
The stall owner, sitting among his horde, met Thomas’ gaze with flinty eyes. Thomas quickly moved on, this wasn’t what he was looking for.
At the back of the market, near one of the exit alleys was a caravan. Completely unassuming, except for the flag unfurled off the side. Red and white, with a pointed leaf shape depicted in the center. While Thomas had never personally encountered this group, word of their notoriety had reached Luminaran council meetings by way of concerned upstanding citizens.
He knocked on the caravan’s door, then took a step back. For a minute, Thomas wondered if the vehicle was even occupied, despite the light visible through the window. He had almost considered knocking again, when the door swung inwards, revealing a solemn, pale-faced man.
The man silently eyed Thomas up and down, it was clear he was sizing up his armor half-hidden under the full cloak. Thomas decided whatever this man thought of him and his garb was hypocritical, coming from someone dressed head to toe in a searing bright yellow.
“Another customer,” The man grimaced, his unenthusiasm apparent. “What do you want?”
Thomas bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating how one went about broaching the subject of purchasing illegal materials without sounding like a narc. “I heard you sold, uh– products. I couldn’t find anywhere else.”
The man frowned deeper. “Look man, I’m really not in the mood to do this whole spiel tonight. Just tell me what you’re after so we can make the sale, and you can leave me alone.”
“Painkillers,” Thomas jumped in, desperate not to lose the seller’s attention. “I’m looking for painkillers.”
The other raised his shoulders, a look of hostility crossing his face. “Why aren't you going to the Blue Cross? Aren’t they providing free medicine and care to anyone who needs it?” he said, crossing his arms and leaning slightly into the caravan’s doorframe.
Thomas grit his teeth, “I need something stronger, not the watered down shit they’re giving out.”
While he spoke he reached for the pouch at his belt, hastily pulling out a pair of diamonds, some of the very few he’d had mind to keep on him before the siege. He displayed them, adding in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner, “Here– whatever price you’re asking, I can pay.”
The man paused, looking at the blue stones glittering in Thomas’s palm. With the appearance of potential genuine payment, his demeanor changed back from outwardly hostile like the flip of a coin.
“Hm– okay, all right, just give me a minute. And– put those away, otherwise someone’s going to jump you,” he added, before turning away. Closing the door behind him, he retreated back into the depths of his caravan.
Thomas gave a partial nod of understanding, folding his fist closed over the jewels he had clenched within. He tightened his hand, rocking from one foot to the other, and waiting cagily.
Glancing from side to side, nothing else seemed to have changed in the back alley market. The other vendors in the distance paid him no attention, instead focusing on the other sparse clientele, who all appeared as equally cagey.
His attention was suddenly brought back to the immediate present by movement at the caravan’s window. The man had reappeared at the window, now looking down at Thomas.
He must have been waiting for confirmation of Thomas’s attention, because as soon as Thomas met the pale-faced dealer’s dark gaze he began speaking, “Here, for the diamonds you offered–”
As he spoke, he set five vials on the counter, the quiet clink of one glass against another chiming in the dark quiet of the alley.
“Strongest tap of syrup I have. Guaranteed to leave you on cloud nine and then some.”
He let Thomas inspect the product before him, how the dim lantern light caught the honey-glow of the amber liquid within the thin bottles before him. Thomas looked them over, but with no way to validate the seller’s claims about his product, and every reason to place his desperate faith in him, he nodded. He placed the diamonds he’d held in his hand on the window’s counter, and slid them over to the other side.
The pale faced man picked up his payment, checking them over in his hand and against the light, seeming satisfied. With another nod, he allowed Thomas to take the series of vials.
As Thomas carefully stashed them away within the bag at his side, the man spoke, “It… might be bad business practice, telling you this… But be careful taking this shit. I’ve seen it ruin lives.”
Thomas tightened his thumb along where it was holding the last vial, rubbing between the glass and the cork tightly sealing it. “...I appreciate the warning, but I’ll be careful. Don’t worry– if this actually does what you claim, I’ll be happy.”
The man pulled a face, not mollified by Thomas’s words. “I’m serious, once you’re on the high, even more than just a mouthful– you won’t want to come down– and you’re not going to ration the doses.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for my friend.” The instant the words slipped from his lips, Thomas was mentally berating himself. Keeping his cards close to his chest was his number one priority, and the slightest mention of Flux absolutely went directly against that.
The man’s brow furrowed.
Thomas knew he’d already said too much, but for some reason found himself unable to stop.
“He was injured, during the battle. Really– really badly. There’s not– I can’t find anything else to help him,” he rambled on.
“This was my last shot– I don’t really have another choice.”
With Thomas’s words, the other man deflated, the hostile tilt of his features all but disappearing into something more akin to pity.
“You know what– wait here for a second.” he said, before vanishing from the window into the caravan again.
With the man’s abrupt disappearance, Thomas hesitated. The five vials he’d bought were safe in his possession, was it really worth hearing the vendor out? Or was it wiser to make a break for it now, with the goods he’d ventured here for secured, and no further reason to trust the other man.
While he thought, Thomas readjusted his cloak, pulling the hood so it was sure to cover most of his face again. Satisfied that his disguise wouldn’t fall off if a quick exit was in his near future, he curled one hand around the strap of his bag, stabilizing it. With the man still somewhere back in the caravan, Thomas looked around. In his head, he began to calculate which offshoot from the main market alley would make for the best escape.
His exit planning was stopped in its tracks by the man once more approaching the window. This time, he didn’t wait for Thomas before setting another six bottles of that same thick, amber liquid in the place he’d set the first ones.
Thomas’s eyebrows jumped up. “What is th-”
The man interrupted him, “I’m cutting you a deal. Tomorrow, I’m going back to Pandora. This is the last of my stock.
“I’ll be honest, When I get back, I’m… probably closing shop.” He paused, looking down as a solemn expression clouded his eyes. “Permanently. I wasn’t as lucky as you. My friends… they never made it off that damn volcano. But yours did.”
Thomas’s eyes widened further, his mouth tilting slightly open. But the man wasn’t finished.
He pushed the bottles towards Thomas, cracking a small, sad smile.
“So consider these a gift. I’m not going to have any need for this stuff anymore, I’d rather it go to someone who’s still around. Someone who still needs it.”
“I don’t– for the payment–” Thomas stammered, lifting his hands up in confused defense, utterly shocked.
The man shook his head. He smiled again, genuine. “Nah, it’s all good. It’s fair payment if I know I could do some good. Help someone take care of someone they cared about, y’know?”
Thomas looked warily between the other and the items being offered to him, before slowly reaching out and accepting the unfounded act of kindness.
After the vials had been secured in his bag, next to their previously purchased siblings, Thomas felt unsure how to act further. The pale-faced man was still standing at the window, watching him pensively. Thomas cleared his throat. “I don’t– I don’t know how to thank you for this.”
“It’s a gift, I already said you didn’t need to,” the man said.
“Still.”
The man let out a goodnatured huff, shaking his head once more, “Okay, I’ll accept your thanks then.” He paused for a second, before continuing, “I’m guessing you didn’t need anything else? I’ve still got to close up everything here.”
“Yeah I’m gonna– get going back.” Thomas readied himself, and pulled his cloak back over his bag. He’d already been away from Flux’s side for too long.
As he turned and was about to begin walking away, the man called out to him one last time.
“Safe travels, and I hope your companion gets better.”
Thomas looked back over his shoulder, nodding once. “Thank you, and… I’m sorry about your friends.”
The pale-faced man laughed wistfully, the light in the caravan illuminating his silhouette from behind. “Don’t apologize, after all, it’s not your fault. The only ones to blame are the people who caused this war.”
His fist tightened in the fabric of his cloak. “Of course,” Thomas answered, swallowing around the catch in his throat.
= – = – =
The rest of his trip passed without any difficulty. The streets were empty and the buildings darkened, his only companion as he retreated from the city the distant echoes of celebration, which had persisted even hours later.
When Thomas finally made it back to their hideout in no man’s land, it was well into the dead of night. The sky above had become clear and cloudless, a blanket of stars wrapped over the land.
Arriving at the shell of the farmhouse, he descended the wooden stairs into the basement. The lantern Thomas had lit before leaving still burned low, eating down to the last dredges of its fuel. It cast the underground room in a soft flickering light. From the bed, a pair of violet eyes met his, surprisingly alert and illuminated in the lantern light. Flux was awake.
“Hey Flux, I’m back,” he greeted. “...It’s good to see you’re awake. Have you been up for long?”
Thomas was met with only silence. He bit the inside of his cheek, before moving towards the shelves to unpack his bag. As he sorted out the supplies he’d bought, Thomas continued, filling the empty air. “You were asleep when I left, so I didn’t get the chance to tell you the reason I went out today. I know the stuff, the medicine– I scavenged wasn’t– wasn’t really working, so when I was in the city, I found something stronger. It’s… different, but I’m hoping it’ll help with the pain–”
“Thomas,” rasped the voice from behind him. “Be– Be honest with me. Why are you trying so hard to keep me alive?”
He stilled, hand frozen midair over a package of dried meat. “What?” Thomas said, slowly turning to face the bed.
Flux narrowed his eyes, “You heard me.”
He shifted with a sharp hiss, a failed attempt to reposition himself. At his sound Thomas jumped back to motion, plucking up one of the amber-filled vials from where they’d been waiting to be unpacked. Pulling his chair over with him, he quickly hurried to Flux's side.
“Hold on. Don’t try to move too much.” He set the vial down on the small bedside table, before moving to help Flux sit up. Sliding his arms under Flux’s shoulders and back, he moved the other man as cautiously as he could. Thomas pretended to not hear the whine of pain Flux tried and failed to muffle as his injuries were inevitably jostled.
Once Flux had been partially propped up, and the pillow rearranged to better support him, Thomas turned back to the vial he’d left on the table. With a smooth motion, he uncorked the bottle and proffered it to Flux.
He looked between the bottle with its honey-thick contents and Thomas, brows furrowed with apprehension. Before he could protest, Thomas pressed, “Please, it should help.”
Flux frowned, before relenting and allowing Thomas to bring the bottle to his lips. Only a mouthful, like the pale-faced man had warned him. Pulling back, Thomas fought to keep a laugh down at the face Flux had pulled, scrunched in disgust.
“It tastes that bad?” He asked, swapping the bottle for another one filled with water.
“Too sweet. Horribly so.” Flux responded, accepting the drink of water. Then he grimaced, looking down. “This is what I meant. You go out, risk your life to get these supplies, just so you can come back and play nursemaid to me.”
Thomas’s grip tightened on the bottle, sitting up straighter in his chair. He opened his mouth, “Don’t–”
But Fluixon barreled on. “Thomas. The second I fell, in the Colosseum– you should have left me.” He shut his eyes, blanket fisted in his hands. “I’m just dead weight to you.”
Unable to fully move away without agonizing his own wounds, Flux settled for turning his head to the side, looking away from Thomas. Quietly, he spoke.
“You know just as well as I do. After everything, I should be rotting in an unmarked grave right now.”
Thomas took a measured exhale, curling his lips inwards and biting down. His free hand gripped the edge of the wooden seat. There was nothing he could find to say, it felt like something was blocking his throat. Flux said nothing further, giving Thomas the cold shoulder.
Slowly, Thomas stood from the chair, taking both bottles with him. He swallowed uselessly, placing the two bottles on the shelf where they belonged.
He returned to his interrupted task, unpacking the rest of the vials, both bought and gifted. After the last of their meager supplies had been sorted and put away, he switched over to the fireplace and knelt down, beginning to light it. Despite their proximity to the Volcano, the nights in the wasteland turned horribly cold. Under the cover of darkness was the only time Thomas was willing to risk the potential flag of smoke from the chimney.
Broken pieces of wood from the ruins above them were stacked carefully on top of thin, brushy kindling. Once the sparks had bit, and began to chew away at the wood, Thomas sat back on his heels. Over his shoulder, he tentatively glanced back.
Those violet eyes had returned to watch him, but now with less fire than before. They’d begun to haze over, as the drug quickly worked their way through his system. Thankfully, Flux’s pained expression had also gone, his features relaxed for once.
With nothing else to do, Thomas took a measured breath and returned to his seat at the bedside. He reached out and set his hand over the knuckles of Flux’s unbandaged one. Flux’s purple gaze flickered, fighting the heavy weight of his eyelids.
They sat like that, in the quiet, for several minutes.
Thomas sighed, “You never told me how long you’d been awake, but I’d guess it was a while. It’s fine. I’ll keep watch. You can try to get some peaceful sleep.”
Wordlessly, Flux rocked his head ever so slightly towards Thomas, meeting his gaze for a moment, before finally losing the battle to keep his glassy eyes open.
Thomas waited for a moment, until he was certain Fluixon had fallen asleep. Once he had, he leaned forwards out of the chair to return Flux to his previous position lying down. Unlike earlier, this time the movement didn’t seem to cause him or his injuries any distress. His breathing remained even, lips parted ever so slightly.
What Thomas couldn’t find it within himself to say to Flux was this. If Flux had died during his duel, Thomas knew he wouldn’t have been long for the world. Without Fluixon’s guiding beacon light in front of him, Thomas couldn’t see any other future for himself that wasn’t cut short. And it didn’t matter whose blade it was by, be it an executioner’s or Thomas’s own.
But the world he lived in was one where Flux still breathed, was still warm under his touch. And so, Thomas would keep his vigil, like a dog at the door, until the very end.