Fic: Beneath These Skies - 2/7 (BBC Sherlock + Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance)
Title: Beneath These Skies
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5.2k this part, 37k overall
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars, HiddenLacuna
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: An ex-soldier-turned-healer, a priest, and an unhorsed knight flee for their lives after the invasion of their homeland. John didn't expect the road to safety to be easy, but the addition of a petite mage and a scowling former prisoner to their small band opens his eyes to horrors beyond imagining.
Warnings: blood, violence, references to torture, references to mutilation, references to past rape and threats of rape (no rape occurring during the course of the story), fantasy racism (racism toward magical creatures), war, suicide contemplation.
Prologue: Flight to the Border
Chapter One: A Fight in the Dark
The Sea of Trees looms like a tidal wave, younger trees building higher into towering crests of foliage. When the wind blows, the green ripples as if about to come rushing forward and drown them all.
“Aptly named,” Mike murmurs.
“A bit,” John agrees.
“We need to gather up firewood before we go in,” Bill announces. “How about we don’t play Make the Man in the Armour Bend Over, eh?”
Molly giggles, which is the best noise they’ve heard out of her since the village. Possibly since ever, come to think of it.
“But it sounds so fun,” Sherlock insists, and Molly giggles all the harder. It’s more than a bit blatant, the way Bill and Sherlock have begun to compete for Molly’s adoration, but morale has never been higher.
John risks a grin and slings off his pack to pull out his blanket. “We can carry it in this. Easier.”
“Why do we need wood if we’re going into a forest?” Mike asks.
“Humidity,” Bill answers. “It’s going to be terrible on the armour. I don’t like it.”
“But finding water will be simple,” Sherlock says, explaining this to Molly. “It collects on leaves and the crooks of branches.”
Bill scoffs. “Oh, right, a hundred feet in the air. When the wind blows hard, a false rain falls. Not a cloud in the sky, but the trees themselves rain down on you.”
“A hundred feet under the canopy, how would you know what the sky looks like?” Sherlock counters.
“Boys,” John warns. “A little more help with the wood, a little less everything else.”
In the end, it’s a task for Mike, Molly, and John, but Bill and Sherlock direct.
Walking into the forest is like being swallowed by a misty shadow. Though nearly noon, the light is that of late evening. There isn’t a tree that isn’t thicker than Bill is tall, and the sunlight cannot overcome their canopies. John can only hope they have enough torches to make it through.
“Is this how it always feels for you?” John asks Molly, voice soft.
She looks at him askance, then nods. “It doesn’t usually feel so... foreign. Shadows are home. I’m safe with shade.”
“That’s a magic skill, isn’t it? Innate or...?”
“It’s from a scroll,” Molly confirms. “It, um.” She watches her feet as she walks. “It was my mother’s.”
“Oh,” John says. “I’m sorry.”
Molly shakes her head, face still downturned. “She gave it to me before she died.”
They walk a bit longer in silence, the only sounds those of their feet, the wind, and the birds above. And then, of course, Sherlock stumbling.
John gives a little sigh, then slows his pace. Molly picks up hers, effortlessly taking the cue to join Mike. There’s something oddly fitting about the way they acknowledge each other, the light-wielder and the dark mage.
After about a minute of hearing Sherlock falling further and further behind, John stops walking entirely. Sherlock halts immediately.
John turns around to stare at him. Eyes scanning the forest, Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. He stands with arms slightly outstretched, probably an attempt for balance, and the fear on his face is plain.
“Lose something?” John asks.
Sherlock’s gaze fixes on John, in direction if not in focus. The man walks forward, hitting his shoulder against a tree on the way. Immediately, Sherlock’s hand slaps down on the trunk. He begins to shift his feet forward, inching steps, checking for roots with tapping touches before moving. He doesn’t look down.
“You can’t see,” John realises. He unsheathes his sword, coming to Sherlock’s side and staring into the shadows beyond him. Sherlock flinches away and John remembers at the last moment not to touch. “When did this happen?” John asks quietly, as to not raise alarm and give away their position. “If there’s someone out there casting blindness, that’s important information, Sherlock.”
“It’s no spell,” Sherlock hisses. “It’s dark. Leave it.”
“What, leave you to walk into trees?”
Sherlock clenches his jaw.
John sheathes his sword, then pulls his staff from the top of his pack. He grips it just below the red orb and taps the butt against Sherlock’s hand. “Hold onto this. Grab my pack, too. If you start to fall, let go of the staff and hold onto me, all right?”
Sherlock aims a quizzical look at John’s forehead.
“What?” John asks. “I know how to care for the wounded.”
“I am not wounded.”
“No, but I’ve seen men cut across the face and bleeding into their eyes. Same principle. Hold on and follow me.” He turns rather than invite further argument, the staff in his left hand. “Grab my pack with your right.”
A pause, then the slight tug.
The first steps are slow, Sherlock hesitating. With a spot of trial and error, they match their strides. The deeper into the forest they go, the darker it becomes, and the underbrush vanishes entirely. Beneath their feet, the forest floor turns to a damp cushion of dead, rotting leaves. Sherlock mutters to himself, disgust clear in his voice, and John remembers the idiot is wearing sandals.
Mike and Molly have stopped to wait for them, Bill standing restlessly beyond them.
“Oh, goddess, are you all right?” Molly asks, coming to them.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock snaps. “You may not have noticed, but some of us can’t see in the dark.”
“Is it really that dark?” Molly asks.
“Not for me,” John says.
“Your vision must have atrophied in the cell,” Mike supposes. “Little light leads to eye strain. I’ve known more than one librarian to lose their sight that way.”
“But that would take years,” Molly says, then freezes. “You weren’t in there for years, were you?”
“Not that specific cage, no.” Sherlock pushes against John’s pack and John walks a bit faster.
“What’s important is that we’re still mobile,” John says.
“Might even be quicker this way,” Bill says. “No offence, mate, but your balance is shit.”
“How long until we’re out?” Molly asks him.
“About a week,” Bill says. “That’s if we don’t get lost.”
“We won’t,” Sherlock says.
“Says the blind man.”
“North is that way.” John feels Sherlock let go of his pack to point. He’s too confident to doubt. “We need to go south and west.”
There’s a small moment of silence.
“Right then,” says Bill.
They keep walking.
That night, they hunt with magic. A flash of Mike’s spells have birds confused, startling away before Molly strikes them down with darkness. Sherlock waits with John and Bill behind a tree, keeping quiet and covering his eyes with one hand. He never does let go of John’s pack, not even when they’re crowded around a small fire. It puts Sherlock on the outside of their huddle, far from an unusual event. He still refuses any form of direct touch.
“Can you see?” John asks quietly. Everything they do now is quiet, hushed.
“I can see the fire,” Sherlock answers, which is no answer at all.
“Right,” John says. “Everybody budge.”
Everybody does budge and John gives them all very pointed looks until they budge yet more. In the end, Sherlock settles down with Molly’s pack on one side and John’s on the other. Once in their circle, Sherlock pulls in on himself. He still wears his own pack, which isn’t surprising. For all the weight and friction obviously causes him pain, John thinks the barrier might be a comfort.
Their dinner has been plucked as much as possible, but on more than one fowl, some feathers have charred on the crackling skin. Bill takes care of those with his knife before he begins to cut up the portions. Stomach empty, John reminds himself of a dog waiting for scraps, but he can’t be arsed not to stare. They’re all hungry. Mike and Molly get the first drumsticks, and John is anticipating the wings when Sherlock scrambles away without warning.
John’s on his feet in an instant but is still too slow to prevent Sherlock from knocking against a tree. Sherlock catches himself, both hands on the trunk, and then he leans over and gags.
Swearing softly, John goes to stand at his shaking shoulders. “It’s all right,” John whispers, unable to do anything more. He does not touch. “It’s going to be all right.”
Sherlock’s dry heaves continue, coughing and retching.
John stays with him until they stop.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” John says.
“I want to,” Sherlock rasps.
“All right,” John says, standing. When Sherlock makes no move to follow, John asks, “Do you want to stay here?”
Sherlock hesitates, then nods.
“All right.” John returns to the fire for what has been saved for them.
“Is he all right?” Molly asks.
“He’s fine.”
“The man’s falling apart,” Bill mutters.
“Not his fault,” John says. “And he’s a human compass, so don’t act like he’s useless.”
Bill raises his hands, and John backs down.
“We’re all on edge,” Mike says. “I expect we’ll be until we’re safe.”
John nods to him in thanks and retreats to Sherlock at the tree. His hands burn a bit, grease dripping down his fingers. They’ve a leg and a bit of breast meat between the two of them. Sherlock takes his portion without a word of thanks, but John hardly expects anything else. The man tears into the bird with sharp, vindictive bites.
“Chew your food,” John says out of Harry-born habit.
“No.”
“Fine. Enjoy choking.”
Sherlock finishes long before John does. Regardless of his compromised eyesight, he picks the bones absolutely clean. He licks his fingers, then wipes his hands on John’s trousers, over the shin.
“Lovely.”
Sherlock watches him eat.
John refuses to be rushed.
Sherlock keeps watching.
John rolls his eyes. “Vulture.”
“What?” Sherlock’s voice turns sharp.
“You’re hovering like a vulture. It’s my dinner, not yours.”
“Only if--”
A cacophony of avian screeches shatters the stillness.
“Sub-humans!” Molly cries.
“Quiet!” Bill snaps, stamping out the fire.
Sherlock sighs in the renewed darkness and grips John by the back of the shirt. “Don’t be an idiot: that was from the northeast. Humans, obviously.”
“Daein,” Bill confirms in hushed tones. “Bird laguz are much farther south, and beast laguz would never startle birds so badly, let alone sleeping ones.”
“What do we do?” Molly asks.
“We stay calm,” Mike says, “and we stay together.”
“Molly, can you still see?” Sherlock asks.
There’s a brief moment of silence.
“Are you nodding?” Mike asks.
“Oh, right, sorry. Yes, I can see.”
“Molly, we need you in front,” Sherlock stays. “Bill behind you, then Mike, then John and me. Find a good spot to hide. You know how to do that. We’ll walk in a chain. And we need Bill’s armour covered or he’ll shine in torchlight.”
They do as he says. Theirs is a slow, agonizing walk. All sounds are thunderous, including their own breaths. Molly brings them to what John thinks must be a fallen tree. The trunk is nearly horizontal, and they duck under it one after another.
“The bark’s fallen off in sheets,” Molly whispers. “Hold still.”
She leaves them huddled. John hears a soft dragging sound.
“Leave it,” Bill whispers. “No signs of deliberate shelter.”
Molly returns. Everyone shifts a bit, all save one. Against John’s side, Sherlock is shock-still. John doesn’t reach out to him. No sense in making matters worse.
The night passes with time and shivering, its end heralded by birdsong.
Neck aching, John peels his face off Mike’s shoulder. “We should move.” The birds will mask the sounds of their movements, at least while the sun rises.
Everyone shifts, everyone with the same exception. Sherlock is sound asleep, no matter how John shakes him. With a silent apology, John covers the man’s mouth with one hand and pinches the skin between Sherlock’s thumb and forefinger. Sherlock startles awake, John shushes him, and they move out.
“Which way is south?” Molly whispers.
Eyes failing to focus despite the growing morning light, Sherlock points.
They creep south.
They don’t hunt the next night, not when the light could betray their position. Irritable with hunger and lack of sleep, damp from humidity, they mutter through an ever-shifting debate on whether they are being followed and, if so, by whom.
“Why would Daein chase us?” Molly asks.
“Why would Daein chase us this far?” Bill corrects. “Even if they’d want to kill us back in Crimea, this is ridiculous. They have to be after someone else.”
Sherlock says nothing, his head slowly drooping.
“Should we try to scout them?” Mike asks.
“If they’re moving in the same direction as we are, they’ll overtake us,” John says. Quiet progress is slow progress. “No sense slowing down for them more than we have already.”
“We’ll find a good hiding place when it comes to it, and I’ll go look,” Molly says. “They won’t see me. As long as it’s not sub-humans.”
Sherlock’s head snaps up. “It’s humans.”
“We can’t be sure of that,” Molly argues.
Sherlock rolls his eyes in the dark, John’s sure of it. “If they wear armour, they’re human.”
“Here’s an idea,” John says. “If it is Daein, we’re in trouble. If it isn’t, we might be in trouble. So, let’s plan for trouble. We’ve two mages, a spearman, a swordsman, and a non-combatant who can’t see. If we’re attacked during the day, it’ll be dim, but they won’t carry torches. Molly casts a cloud of darkness, then Mike steps in to blind everyone. While they’re blinded, we run. Molly and Mike in the front. Sherlock, you’d be with Molly. Bill and I stay in the back and hold off hand-to-hand for you three for as long as we can.”
“If they have horses, they can run us down,” Molly says.
“Mike’s good with horses,” Bill says. “Flash of light to the nose and the riders won’t be chasing us.”
“And if attacked at night?” Sherlock asks.
“Mike stays in the back with me and Bill. We’ll run by the light of his attacks. Whatever happens, you stay with Molly. She can see, and you can keep her running south. We’ll try to follow you.
“Now,” John says, “are we all clear on that?”
There’s a small chorus of quiet confirmation. Sherlock doesn’t agree, but neither does he protest.
“Good,” John says. “Let’s try and sleep.”
Sherlock’s sense of direction meshes poorly with the natural paths of the forest. Trails which start south bend west and eastward paths turn north. For trees of such thickness, they’re closely spaced, and climbing vines rope them off from the forest beyond. They hesitate over cutting anything by blade, much too obvious a sign for tracking, but Molly points out their footsteps remain in the forest floor as if they were walking in wet sand. They go through.
It’s all an incredible loss of time, which is why no one is terribly surprised when they hear voices from the east. Everyone freezes, but no one stumbles, not even Sherlock. Too aware of the looming threat, John’s kept his staff across the top of his pack. He’ll need his hands for fighting. Sherlock keeps a hold of the end of John’s sheath instead.
A silent conversation ensues, gesturing toward trees and bends in the ground. They agree on a direction, and John gives Sherlock a warning tug before he begins to walk. Absolutely silent, Sherlock follows with the enemy at his back. When the options are hide or be heard, they hide. They stand in the shadows, hearts pounding, palms sweating.
“...with the reward money?”
“Dunno. It’s one hell of a purse.” The accents are Daein, no mistake.
“I’d open a shop,” says a third voice.
“A shop?”
“Yeah, a shop. My brother’s in leather working. Wyvern saddles and all that. Durable ones, not the shit kind that can’t take the spines.”
“There’s good money in wyvern saddles.” Fourth voice.
“Better money in princess-catching!” Fifth.
The soldiers laugh.
“She must have a lot of gold on her, hiring mercenaries.”
“They never said you needed to hand her over with her valuables. Give Her Royal Highness a nice, thorough search beforehand.”
Another group laugh.
Molly makes a tiny sound, only a tiny one, and Mike holds her hand.
The soldiers go by on the other side of the trees. Once they’ve passed, John tries to edge around to check for numbers and weapons, but Sherlock seizes the back of John’s pack and refuses to let go. John signals to Molly by hand and Molly checks instead. Heavy and potentially noisy in his armour, Bill simply stands very, very still.
They wait a good ten minutes before they begin to breathe easily.
“Scouting party,” Bill whispers. “How many of what, Moll?”
“One mage, two swords, one axe, and a spear,” Molly reports. “No healer.”
“Fire mage,” John assumes. This close to beastman territory, it must be.
“We’ll need you, Moll,” Bill warns.
Molly nods.
“If you can knock him, I can finish him,” John whispers.
“Let’s keep it from coming to that,” Mike urges. “We need to move on before they come back. The main force might be on its way.”
The first steps are the hardest. They take a different path, Molly in front with Bill, and Sherlock nearly chokes John with his hold. They freeze at any sudden noise.
This is how they spend the next three days. They don’t dare light a fire, but neither do they dare drop their firewood. The humidity sticks to their skin and curls their hair. Bill begins to rust about the edges, and then he begins to squeak. They do what they can for the armour during the night or breaks during the day.
“How long has it been?” Sherlock whispers in John’s ear one night.
“This is the fifth night,” John whispers back, turning onto his side. He can feel Sherlock’s breath on his forehead.
“The fire was the first night,” Sherlock half-asks.
“Yeah.” John realises Sherlock hasn’t been able to see for four entire days. “We’re almost out.”
“Gallia.”
“Yeah. Beorc and laguz.”
“Hm?”
“We have to remember to call ourselves that. And them,” John adds.
They lie in silence. Mike’s soft snores start up, and either Bill or Molly prods him immediately. Mike turns over and the snores die down.
“What will you do?” John asks. “In Gallia.”
“I need to see a man about a bird.”
“A beastman?”
“Laguz, John.”
“Right, laguz, sorry. What kind of bird?”
“Also laguz.”
John opens his eyes to the dark. He can’t even see Sherlock’s face. “There are bird laguz in Gallia?”
“Not generally, no. There’s limited movement.”
“The dragons stay in Goldoa, I do know that,” John says. That’s even farther to the south, west of Begnion. “They’re neutral, or we’d all be dead.”
“You’re not far off,” Sherlock allows.
“Do the birds have a country?” John asks.
“Islands,” Sherlock whispers. “Impenetrable by sea. In the morning fog, the tops of the cliffs look as if they’re floating in the sky rather than the water.”
“Pretty. You’ve sailed by, then?”
“Mm.”
John’s willing to let it go, but Sherlock makes a quiet sound of smug amusement.
“It’s dangerous to sail by Kilvas,” he says. “The Shipless Pirates come to call.”
John frowns. “How can you have pirates without ships?”
“By flying.”
“Wyvern riders?”
“Raven laguz, John. Not everyone is human.”
“Beorc,” John corrects.
A shifting sound. Perhaps Sherlock has nodded in the dark.
When he says nothing else, John closes his eyes and sleeps.
He wakes to birds shrieking and Sherlock shaking him.
“They’re here,” Sherlock hisses.
John scrambles to his feet, then pulls Bill up. Sherlock waits for him on the ground until John grabs his hands and brings him to Molly. John can barely see in the early morning light, and a sudden surge of sympathy for Sherlock rises amid pre-battle jitters. He bats all of it down, swallowing thickly.
A tug on his pack: Sherlock.
John tugs back.
“There’s a light,” Mike whispers. “It’s coming this way.”
“They’re coming this way,” Bill corrects. “Move out.”
The fright of the birds masks the slight squeaking of Bill’s armour. Mike tries to oil him as they go, and John keeps behind Bill in the attempt to prevent him from shining.
Behind them: a shout, and then the pounding of hooves.
“Fuck, run,” Bill orders, harsh and low.
“Molly, run for vines!” Sherlock instructs. “They’ll tangle the horses.”
“There are no vines!”
Too late: the riders cut through them, three circling, one slicing through their group, sword clanging on Bill’s armour. Mike shouts a spell, and the horses rear, screaming from blinding light and controlling spurs. John slices a haunch, stabs a leg, and Bill shoves him forward before the downward stroke of an axe can split John’s skull.
Darkness rises from the forest floor to swallow horse and rider whole, and Bill stabs at where the rider ought to be. A shout and the rider falls, Bill’s lance in his side. John stabs the fallen man for good measure, then immediately turns to stand back-to-back with Bill as Bill pulls his lance from the corpse. They’re surrounded, the two of them, only the two of them.
Another flash of light, another surge of darkness. A horse comes screaming out of the dark, and someone shouts, “It’s a girl! It’s the princess!”
John hears Molly scream and nearly dies for the distraction. The javelin takes him in the shoulder, the bad one, and John staggers back. He flings a hand up, seizes the end of his staff, and the red flare of light can only stave off so much pain while he’s still impaled.
Bill yanks the javelin out of him mid-spell and promptly throws it into the neck of a horseman, his aim true in the healing light. The horseman gurgles and falls, and Bill scrambles onto the riderless horse, the picture of a Crimean knight once more.
“Come on!” Bill shouts, reaching for him. A surge of heat flashes between them and Bill’s horse bolts away from the fire spell.
Chanting the spell like a curse, John continues healing himself, the hand on his staff slippery with blood and blistering faster than his skin can be repaired. The red light of the staff turns him into a target. Arrows fly, stick in the forest floor, and the mage sets the firewood tied onto John’s pack ablaze.
Cursing in full, John lets the pack fall, sword in one hand, staff in the other. It takes juggling he can ill afford.
“John!” Bill shouts, charging toward him at a foolhardy canter, lance levelled over the horse’s shoulder. He stabs and pulls and slashes, and as he charges by, John makes no attempt to jump on, simply heals him as he passes before finishing off the mage Bill skewered on his way by.
Bill comes round for another pass, but the Daein cavalry rushes back. They’re sorely battered by spells of light and darkness, and more than one man has a look of visible confusion to see the only healer present is foe, not friend. Bill strikes down one injured man, shouting “Grab the horse!” but John’s hands refuse to relinquish either staff or sword.
He keeps close to the horse all the same, standing to the right of its rear haunch: out of kicking range, safe from bites or rearing, close enough to use the animal as a wall. Blocking the thrust of a lance sends the spear tip into the horse’s haunch, and the horse rears as if on John’s behalf, iron-shod hooves warning away Daein soldiers.
Another surge of darkness fills the air, fills all the air, and John bolts, running for where he last saw a gap in the soldiers. A blinding flash of light splits the darkness with a harsh clap. Thoroughly unable to see, John keeps running until he knocks into a tree. He scrambles around the other side, plants his staff in the ground until he can be sure he won’t fall over, and furiously blinks back the blotches floating before his eyes.
On the other side of the tree: shouted orders, the groaning wounded, the sound of a horse fleeing into the forest.
Bill, John hopes. Let Bill have escaped. Let them all have escaped.
John stays very still and tries not to breathe. He’s still bleeding, can feel dampness soaking through his collar. He’s not sure when that happened. He grits his teeth and doesn’t heal himself. No light. No light. The power tries to push up through his arm, the natural function of the staff in the hands of a trained magic-user, and John presses it back down. The mental strain of it is worse than the waiting, than the dread, but not worse than when a cheer goes up among the Daein soldiers.
“We got one!”
“Is it the princess?”
“Have we got her?”
“We’ll be rich!”
John swallows down bile. Molly’s no impersonator, and John has no doubts as to what the Daein soldiers will do to her when no reward for her capture is forthcoming.
Someone swears loudly. “Of course that wasn’t the princess, you idiot! That girl had brown hair!”
“Well, boys, at least we’ve got ourselves a new healer,” someone else announces.
Mike. No.
Shaking from the effort of it, John stays where he is. He can’t do anything to help, not without being cut down himself.
“How about it, priest? Welcome to the Daein army. Heal my men, and you’ll live a decent life. Refuse, and you won’t live any life at all. Am I clear?”
Braced for Mike’s refusal, John closes his eyes. He mouths a prayer.
He hears, “I-I-I c-ca-c-can’t ch-chant wuh-when f-fuh-fri-frightened,” and that is not Mike’s voice. That is a voice almost unrecognizable with its feigned stammer, and John’s stomach doesn’t simply drop: it vanishes entirely, leaving his insides twisting around a fresh void.
“Oh, brilliant,” someone gripes. “A blind priest with a stutter.”
John looks. He has to. He peers around the shielding trunk, and there’s Sherlock, sightless and surrounded, clutching a staff before him with both hands.
“If you can’t work under pressure, we’ve no need for you,” says the man clearly in charge, one of the two remaining riders. He walks his horse toward Sherlock, sword unsheathed. He brings the flat of it to Sherlock’s neck, letting him feel the chill of steel. Sherlock’s chin rises, but he doesn’t turn his face toward the cavalier.
John’s hands move without permission. They sheath his bloody sword. They unbuckle his belt. They hold fast to his staff. His feet scuff dead leaves over the sheath and belt. His feet take this work further and step out from behind the tree.
“I’m his assistant,” his mouth announces. “He doesn’t need to see to know his spells. That’s what I’m for. Take us both.”
“That’s the swordsman!” one of the men accuses, pointing to him with his axe. “That’s him!”
John pulls back his straining mind and lets the staff heal him. The red shine bathes their faces and brings armour to glisten beneath blood and soil.
“I’m his assistant,” John repeats firmly. “We’ll serve, but he needs me. Keep us together. You’ll have no complaints. We work as a team, but we work hard.” Belatedly, he thinks to kneel. “Please.”
The cavalier looks down at him impassively. “Heal my men.”
“Sir,” John replies, a word which here means yes.
One man at a time, his chanting loud and clear, John heals each of the men he and his friends have wounded. His voice remains level, remains steady, and he slows each chant just enough to drag it out without being told to hurry. Each spell is another minute for Bill to ride away with Mike and Molly. Each minute is another dark stretch of forest, and each dark stretch is a bid for safety.
When the last man comes to stand before John, the rider says, “Stop.”
John falls silent.
“Him.” The rider points to Sherlock.
“He needs me to guide him, sir.” It’s a risky move, speaking out of turn, but it’s hardly the stupidest thing he’s done in the past half hour.
“Fine,” the rider says, a tacit approval of John’s acceptance of his authority. Clearly, a commander of some kind.
With even strides, John walks to Sherlock’s side. He turns around, and Sherlock sets his hand on John’s shoulder as naturally as breathing. He doesn’t flinch at the warm wet that is John’s cooling blood, or perhaps someone else’s. They walk to the injured soldier with matching steps. Sherlock reaches out with Mike’s staff, with the staff Mike must have passed to him before joining the battle with his tome open in both hands. John’s arm rises, corrects the angle, perfects the proximity of orb to wound.
Haltingly, Sherlock begins to recite the same chant John has been repeating and repeating in the hopes Sherlock would memorize it. Sherlock has it now, has the words, but the man is so without magic that all the chanting in the world would do him no good.
“Wait, here, sorry,” John says, interrupting Sherlock before the spell would be complete. “Your armour, sorry. Need to adjust.” He keeps his hand on the staff, at the butt of it. Just fingertips. Not enough to look as if he could cast this way.
He looks up and the commander is watching John’s face. John looks back at him as Sherlock begins to chant once more. John doesn’t dare join in, doesn’t dare move his lips, but he does dare to think:
Sherlock’s words are John’s words. They were learned from John, they belong to John, they remain in John’s rhythm, they remain John’s. They are his in Sherlock’s voice, just as the healing power is John’s magic in a staff.
John can channel through a staff.
John can channel through a man.
Eyes locked with the Daein commander’s, John sees the red glow as it shines upon the commander’s face and armour. The orb on Mike’s staff shines, not John’s.
“Th-there,” Sherlock says.
John nearly looks at him, wondering how Sherlock knows it worked when he can’t see, when he can’t feel the magic, but remembers Sherlock can see light.
“How’re you feeling?” the commander asks his soldier.
“Fine, sir,” the soldier reports.
“Hm.” The commander eyes John and Sherlock both. He gives his men a nod and turns his horse around. “Bring them to the camp.”
Sherlock sets his hand back on John’s shoulder, his grip hard. The orb of Mike’s staff taps against John’s hand, and John holds it just below the fastening. It’s the same double-lead they’ve always used, an always of less than a week. Their coordination is flawless, the sort of lock-step Lord Renning could have been proud of, were he still alive, were Crimea still intact.
“John,” Sherlock whispers.
John gives the staff a light tug. No talking, not when surrounded by the enemy.
Sherlock squeezes his shoulder.
Silent in dread and understanding, they walk on into the dark.
back | next
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5.2k this part, 37k overall
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars, HiddenLacuna
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: An ex-soldier-turned-healer, a priest, and an unhorsed knight flee for their lives after the invasion of their homeland. John didn't expect the road to safety to be easy, but the addition of a petite mage and a scowling former prisoner to their small band opens his eyes to horrors beyond imagining.
Warnings: blood, violence, references to torture, references to mutilation, references to past rape and threats of rape (no rape occurring during the course of the story), fantasy racism (racism toward magical creatures), war, suicide contemplation.
Prologue: Flight to the Border
Chapter One: A Fight in the Dark
The Sea of Trees looms like a tidal wave, younger trees building higher into towering crests of foliage. When the wind blows, the green ripples as if about to come rushing forward and drown them all.
“Aptly named,” Mike murmurs.
“A bit,” John agrees.
“We need to gather up firewood before we go in,” Bill announces. “How about we don’t play Make the Man in the Armour Bend Over, eh?”
Molly giggles, which is the best noise they’ve heard out of her since the village. Possibly since ever, come to think of it.
“But it sounds so fun,” Sherlock insists, and Molly giggles all the harder. It’s more than a bit blatant, the way Bill and Sherlock have begun to compete for Molly’s adoration, but morale has never been higher.
John risks a grin and slings off his pack to pull out his blanket. “We can carry it in this. Easier.”
“Why do we need wood if we’re going into a forest?” Mike asks.
“Humidity,” Bill answers. “It’s going to be terrible on the armour. I don’t like it.”
“But finding water will be simple,” Sherlock says, explaining this to Molly. “It collects on leaves and the crooks of branches.”
Bill scoffs. “Oh, right, a hundred feet in the air. When the wind blows hard, a false rain falls. Not a cloud in the sky, but the trees themselves rain down on you.”
“A hundred feet under the canopy, how would you know what the sky looks like?” Sherlock counters.
“Boys,” John warns. “A little more help with the wood, a little less everything else.”
In the end, it’s a task for Mike, Molly, and John, but Bill and Sherlock direct.
Walking into the forest is like being swallowed by a misty shadow. Though nearly noon, the light is that of late evening. There isn’t a tree that isn’t thicker than Bill is tall, and the sunlight cannot overcome their canopies. John can only hope they have enough torches to make it through.
“Is this how it always feels for you?” John asks Molly, voice soft.
She looks at him askance, then nods. “It doesn’t usually feel so... foreign. Shadows are home. I’m safe with shade.”
“That’s a magic skill, isn’t it? Innate or...?”
“It’s from a scroll,” Molly confirms. “It, um.” She watches her feet as she walks. “It was my mother’s.”
“Oh,” John says. “I’m sorry.”
Molly shakes her head, face still downturned. “She gave it to me before she died.”
They walk a bit longer in silence, the only sounds those of their feet, the wind, and the birds above. And then, of course, Sherlock stumbling.
John gives a little sigh, then slows his pace. Molly picks up hers, effortlessly taking the cue to join Mike. There’s something oddly fitting about the way they acknowledge each other, the light-wielder and the dark mage.
After about a minute of hearing Sherlock falling further and further behind, John stops walking entirely. Sherlock halts immediately.
John turns around to stare at him. Eyes scanning the forest, Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. He stands with arms slightly outstretched, probably an attempt for balance, and the fear on his face is plain.
“Lose something?” John asks.
Sherlock’s gaze fixes on John, in direction if not in focus. The man walks forward, hitting his shoulder against a tree on the way. Immediately, Sherlock’s hand slaps down on the trunk. He begins to shift his feet forward, inching steps, checking for roots with tapping touches before moving. He doesn’t look down.
“You can’t see,” John realises. He unsheathes his sword, coming to Sherlock’s side and staring into the shadows beyond him. Sherlock flinches away and John remembers at the last moment not to touch. “When did this happen?” John asks quietly, as to not raise alarm and give away their position. “If there’s someone out there casting blindness, that’s important information, Sherlock.”
“It’s no spell,” Sherlock hisses. “It’s dark. Leave it.”
“What, leave you to walk into trees?”
Sherlock clenches his jaw.
John sheathes his sword, then pulls his staff from the top of his pack. He grips it just below the red orb and taps the butt against Sherlock’s hand. “Hold onto this. Grab my pack, too. If you start to fall, let go of the staff and hold onto me, all right?”
Sherlock aims a quizzical look at John’s forehead.
“What?” John asks. “I know how to care for the wounded.”
“I am not wounded.”
“No, but I’ve seen men cut across the face and bleeding into their eyes. Same principle. Hold on and follow me.” He turns rather than invite further argument, the staff in his left hand. “Grab my pack with your right.”
A pause, then the slight tug.
The first steps are slow, Sherlock hesitating. With a spot of trial and error, they match their strides. The deeper into the forest they go, the darker it becomes, and the underbrush vanishes entirely. Beneath their feet, the forest floor turns to a damp cushion of dead, rotting leaves. Sherlock mutters to himself, disgust clear in his voice, and John remembers the idiot is wearing sandals.
Mike and Molly have stopped to wait for them, Bill standing restlessly beyond them.
“Oh, goddess, are you all right?” Molly asks, coming to them.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock snaps. “You may not have noticed, but some of us can’t see in the dark.”
“Is it really that dark?” Molly asks.
“Not for me,” John says.
“Your vision must have atrophied in the cell,” Mike supposes. “Little light leads to eye strain. I’ve known more than one librarian to lose their sight that way.”
“But that would take years,” Molly says, then freezes. “You weren’t in there for years, were you?”
“Not that specific cage, no.” Sherlock pushes against John’s pack and John walks a bit faster.
“What’s important is that we’re still mobile,” John says.
“Might even be quicker this way,” Bill says. “No offence, mate, but your balance is shit.”
“How long until we’re out?” Molly asks him.
“About a week,” Bill says. “That’s if we don’t get lost.”
“We won’t,” Sherlock says.
“Says the blind man.”
“North is that way.” John feels Sherlock let go of his pack to point. He’s too confident to doubt. “We need to go south and west.”
There’s a small moment of silence.
“Right then,” says Bill.
They keep walking.
That night, they hunt with magic. A flash of Mike’s spells have birds confused, startling away before Molly strikes them down with darkness. Sherlock waits with John and Bill behind a tree, keeping quiet and covering his eyes with one hand. He never does let go of John’s pack, not even when they’re crowded around a small fire. It puts Sherlock on the outside of their huddle, far from an unusual event. He still refuses any form of direct touch.
“Can you see?” John asks quietly. Everything they do now is quiet, hushed.
“I can see the fire,” Sherlock answers, which is no answer at all.
“Right,” John says. “Everybody budge.”
Everybody does budge and John gives them all very pointed looks until they budge yet more. In the end, Sherlock settles down with Molly’s pack on one side and John’s on the other. Once in their circle, Sherlock pulls in on himself. He still wears his own pack, which isn’t surprising. For all the weight and friction obviously causes him pain, John thinks the barrier might be a comfort.
Their dinner has been plucked as much as possible, but on more than one fowl, some feathers have charred on the crackling skin. Bill takes care of those with his knife before he begins to cut up the portions. Stomach empty, John reminds himself of a dog waiting for scraps, but he can’t be arsed not to stare. They’re all hungry. Mike and Molly get the first drumsticks, and John is anticipating the wings when Sherlock scrambles away without warning.
John’s on his feet in an instant but is still too slow to prevent Sherlock from knocking against a tree. Sherlock catches himself, both hands on the trunk, and then he leans over and gags.
Swearing softly, John goes to stand at his shaking shoulders. “It’s all right,” John whispers, unable to do anything more. He does not touch. “It’s going to be all right.”
Sherlock’s dry heaves continue, coughing and retching.
John stays with him until they stop.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” John says.
“I want to,” Sherlock rasps.
“All right,” John says, standing. When Sherlock makes no move to follow, John asks, “Do you want to stay here?”
Sherlock hesitates, then nods.
“All right.” John returns to the fire for what has been saved for them.
“Is he all right?” Molly asks.
“He’s fine.”
“The man’s falling apart,” Bill mutters.
“Not his fault,” John says. “And he’s a human compass, so don’t act like he’s useless.”
Bill raises his hands, and John backs down.
“We’re all on edge,” Mike says. “I expect we’ll be until we’re safe.”
John nods to him in thanks and retreats to Sherlock at the tree. His hands burn a bit, grease dripping down his fingers. They’ve a leg and a bit of breast meat between the two of them. Sherlock takes his portion without a word of thanks, but John hardly expects anything else. The man tears into the bird with sharp, vindictive bites.
“Chew your food,” John says out of Harry-born habit.
“No.”
“Fine. Enjoy choking.”
Sherlock finishes long before John does. Regardless of his compromised eyesight, he picks the bones absolutely clean. He licks his fingers, then wipes his hands on John’s trousers, over the shin.
“Lovely.”
Sherlock watches him eat.
John refuses to be rushed.
Sherlock keeps watching.
John rolls his eyes. “Vulture.”
“What?” Sherlock’s voice turns sharp.
“You’re hovering like a vulture. It’s my dinner, not yours.”
“Only if--”
A cacophony of avian screeches shatters the stillness.
“Sub-humans!” Molly cries.
“Quiet!” Bill snaps, stamping out the fire.
Sherlock sighs in the renewed darkness and grips John by the back of the shirt. “Don’t be an idiot: that was from the northeast. Humans, obviously.”
“Daein,” Bill confirms in hushed tones. “Bird laguz are much farther south, and beast laguz would never startle birds so badly, let alone sleeping ones.”
“What do we do?” Molly asks.
“We stay calm,” Mike says, “and we stay together.”
“Molly, can you still see?” Sherlock asks.
There’s a brief moment of silence.
“Are you nodding?” Mike asks.
“Oh, right, sorry. Yes, I can see.”
“Molly, we need you in front,” Sherlock stays. “Bill behind you, then Mike, then John and me. Find a good spot to hide. You know how to do that. We’ll walk in a chain. And we need Bill’s armour covered or he’ll shine in torchlight.”
They do as he says. Theirs is a slow, agonizing walk. All sounds are thunderous, including their own breaths. Molly brings them to what John thinks must be a fallen tree. The trunk is nearly horizontal, and they duck under it one after another.
“The bark’s fallen off in sheets,” Molly whispers. “Hold still.”
She leaves them huddled. John hears a soft dragging sound.
“Leave it,” Bill whispers. “No signs of deliberate shelter.”
Molly returns. Everyone shifts a bit, all save one. Against John’s side, Sherlock is shock-still. John doesn’t reach out to him. No sense in making matters worse.
The night passes with time and shivering, its end heralded by birdsong.
Neck aching, John peels his face off Mike’s shoulder. “We should move.” The birds will mask the sounds of their movements, at least while the sun rises.
Everyone shifts, everyone with the same exception. Sherlock is sound asleep, no matter how John shakes him. With a silent apology, John covers the man’s mouth with one hand and pinches the skin between Sherlock’s thumb and forefinger. Sherlock startles awake, John shushes him, and they move out.
“Which way is south?” Molly whispers.
Eyes failing to focus despite the growing morning light, Sherlock points.
They creep south.
They don’t hunt the next night, not when the light could betray their position. Irritable with hunger and lack of sleep, damp from humidity, they mutter through an ever-shifting debate on whether they are being followed and, if so, by whom.
“Why would Daein chase us?” Molly asks.
“Why would Daein chase us this far?” Bill corrects. “Even if they’d want to kill us back in Crimea, this is ridiculous. They have to be after someone else.”
Sherlock says nothing, his head slowly drooping.
“Should we try to scout them?” Mike asks.
“If they’re moving in the same direction as we are, they’ll overtake us,” John says. Quiet progress is slow progress. “No sense slowing down for them more than we have already.”
“We’ll find a good hiding place when it comes to it, and I’ll go look,” Molly says. “They won’t see me. As long as it’s not sub-humans.”
Sherlock’s head snaps up. “It’s humans.”
“We can’t be sure of that,” Molly argues.
Sherlock rolls his eyes in the dark, John’s sure of it. “If they wear armour, they’re human.”
“Here’s an idea,” John says. “If it is Daein, we’re in trouble. If it isn’t, we might be in trouble. So, let’s plan for trouble. We’ve two mages, a spearman, a swordsman, and a non-combatant who can’t see. If we’re attacked during the day, it’ll be dim, but they won’t carry torches. Molly casts a cloud of darkness, then Mike steps in to blind everyone. While they’re blinded, we run. Molly and Mike in the front. Sherlock, you’d be with Molly. Bill and I stay in the back and hold off hand-to-hand for you three for as long as we can.”
“If they have horses, they can run us down,” Molly says.
“Mike’s good with horses,” Bill says. “Flash of light to the nose and the riders won’t be chasing us.”
“And if attacked at night?” Sherlock asks.
“Mike stays in the back with me and Bill. We’ll run by the light of his attacks. Whatever happens, you stay with Molly. She can see, and you can keep her running south. We’ll try to follow you.
“Now,” John says, “are we all clear on that?”
There’s a small chorus of quiet confirmation. Sherlock doesn’t agree, but neither does he protest.
“Good,” John says. “Let’s try and sleep.”
Sherlock’s sense of direction meshes poorly with the natural paths of the forest. Trails which start south bend west and eastward paths turn north. For trees of such thickness, they’re closely spaced, and climbing vines rope them off from the forest beyond. They hesitate over cutting anything by blade, much too obvious a sign for tracking, but Molly points out their footsteps remain in the forest floor as if they were walking in wet sand. They go through.
It’s all an incredible loss of time, which is why no one is terribly surprised when they hear voices from the east. Everyone freezes, but no one stumbles, not even Sherlock. Too aware of the looming threat, John’s kept his staff across the top of his pack. He’ll need his hands for fighting. Sherlock keeps a hold of the end of John’s sheath instead.
A silent conversation ensues, gesturing toward trees and bends in the ground. They agree on a direction, and John gives Sherlock a warning tug before he begins to walk. Absolutely silent, Sherlock follows with the enemy at his back. When the options are hide or be heard, they hide. They stand in the shadows, hearts pounding, palms sweating.
“...with the reward money?”
“Dunno. It’s one hell of a purse.” The accents are Daein, no mistake.
“I’d open a shop,” says a third voice.
“A shop?”
“Yeah, a shop. My brother’s in leather working. Wyvern saddles and all that. Durable ones, not the shit kind that can’t take the spines.”
“There’s good money in wyvern saddles.” Fourth voice.
“Better money in princess-catching!” Fifth.
The soldiers laugh.
“She must have a lot of gold on her, hiring mercenaries.”
“They never said you needed to hand her over with her valuables. Give Her Royal Highness a nice, thorough search beforehand.”
Another group laugh.
Molly makes a tiny sound, only a tiny one, and Mike holds her hand.
The soldiers go by on the other side of the trees. Once they’ve passed, John tries to edge around to check for numbers and weapons, but Sherlock seizes the back of John’s pack and refuses to let go. John signals to Molly by hand and Molly checks instead. Heavy and potentially noisy in his armour, Bill simply stands very, very still.
They wait a good ten minutes before they begin to breathe easily.
“Scouting party,” Bill whispers. “How many of what, Moll?”
“One mage, two swords, one axe, and a spear,” Molly reports. “No healer.”
“Fire mage,” John assumes. This close to beastman territory, it must be.
“We’ll need you, Moll,” Bill warns.
Molly nods.
“If you can knock him, I can finish him,” John whispers.
“Let’s keep it from coming to that,” Mike urges. “We need to move on before they come back. The main force might be on its way.”
The first steps are the hardest. They take a different path, Molly in front with Bill, and Sherlock nearly chokes John with his hold. They freeze at any sudden noise.
This is how they spend the next three days. They don’t dare light a fire, but neither do they dare drop their firewood. The humidity sticks to their skin and curls their hair. Bill begins to rust about the edges, and then he begins to squeak. They do what they can for the armour during the night or breaks during the day.
“How long has it been?” Sherlock whispers in John’s ear one night.
“This is the fifth night,” John whispers back, turning onto his side. He can feel Sherlock’s breath on his forehead.
“The fire was the first night,” Sherlock half-asks.
“Yeah.” John realises Sherlock hasn’t been able to see for four entire days. “We’re almost out.”
“Gallia.”
“Yeah. Beorc and laguz.”
“Hm?”
“We have to remember to call ourselves that. And them,” John adds.
They lie in silence. Mike’s soft snores start up, and either Bill or Molly prods him immediately. Mike turns over and the snores die down.
“What will you do?” John asks. “In Gallia.”
“I need to see a man about a bird.”
“A beastman?”
“Laguz, John.”
“Right, laguz, sorry. What kind of bird?”
“Also laguz.”
John opens his eyes to the dark. He can’t even see Sherlock’s face. “There are bird laguz in Gallia?”
“Not generally, no. There’s limited movement.”
“The dragons stay in Goldoa, I do know that,” John says. That’s even farther to the south, west of Begnion. “They’re neutral, or we’d all be dead.”
“You’re not far off,” Sherlock allows.
“Do the birds have a country?” John asks.
“Islands,” Sherlock whispers. “Impenetrable by sea. In the morning fog, the tops of the cliffs look as if they’re floating in the sky rather than the water.”
“Pretty. You’ve sailed by, then?”
“Mm.”
John’s willing to let it go, but Sherlock makes a quiet sound of smug amusement.
“It’s dangerous to sail by Kilvas,” he says. “The Shipless Pirates come to call.”
John frowns. “How can you have pirates without ships?”
“By flying.”
“Wyvern riders?”
“Raven laguz, John. Not everyone is human.”
“Beorc,” John corrects.
A shifting sound. Perhaps Sherlock has nodded in the dark.
When he says nothing else, John closes his eyes and sleeps.
He wakes to birds shrieking and Sherlock shaking him.
“They’re here,” Sherlock hisses.
John scrambles to his feet, then pulls Bill up. Sherlock waits for him on the ground until John grabs his hands and brings him to Molly. John can barely see in the early morning light, and a sudden surge of sympathy for Sherlock rises amid pre-battle jitters. He bats all of it down, swallowing thickly.
A tug on his pack: Sherlock.
John tugs back.
“There’s a light,” Mike whispers. “It’s coming this way.”
“They’re coming this way,” Bill corrects. “Move out.”
The fright of the birds masks the slight squeaking of Bill’s armour. Mike tries to oil him as they go, and John keeps behind Bill in the attempt to prevent him from shining.
Behind them: a shout, and then the pounding of hooves.
“Fuck, run,” Bill orders, harsh and low.
“Molly, run for vines!” Sherlock instructs. “They’ll tangle the horses.”
“There are no vines!”
Too late: the riders cut through them, three circling, one slicing through their group, sword clanging on Bill’s armour. Mike shouts a spell, and the horses rear, screaming from blinding light and controlling spurs. John slices a haunch, stabs a leg, and Bill shoves him forward before the downward stroke of an axe can split John’s skull.
Darkness rises from the forest floor to swallow horse and rider whole, and Bill stabs at where the rider ought to be. A shout and the rider falls, Bill’s lance in his side. John stabs the fallen man for good measure, then immediately turns to stand back-to-back with Bill as Bill pulls his lance from the corpse. They’re surrounded, the two of them, only the two of them.
Another flash of light, another surge of darkness. A horse comes screaming out of the dark, and someone shouts, “It’s a girl! It’s the princess!”
John hears Molly scream and nearly dies for the distraction. The javelin takes him in the shoulder, the bad one, and John staggers back. He flings a hand up, seizes the end of his staff, and the red flare of light can only stave off so much pain while he’s still impaled.
Bill yanks the javelin out of him mid-spell and promptly throws it into the neck of a horseman, his aim true in the healing light. The horseman gurgles and falls, and Bill scrambles onto the riderless horse, the picture of a Crimean knight once more.
“Come on!” Bill shouts, reaching for him. A surge of heat flashes between them and Bill’s horse bolts away from the fire spell.
Chanting the spell like a curse, John continues healing himself, the hand on his staff slippery with blood and blistering faster than his skin can be repaired. The red light of the staff turns him into a target. Arrows fly, stick in the forest floor, and the mage sets the firewood tied onto John’s pack ablaze.
Cursing in full, John lets the pack fall, sword in one hand, staff in the other. It takes juggling he can ill afford.
“John!” Bill shouts, charging toward him at a foolhardy canter, lance levelled over the horse’s shoulder. He stabs and pulls and slashes, and as he charges by, John makes no attempt to jump on, simply heals him as he passes before finishing off the mage Bill skewered on his way by.
Bill comes round for another pass, but the Daein cavalry rushes back. They’re sorely battered by spells of light and darkness, and more than one man has a look of visible confusion to see the only healer present is foe, not friend. Bill strikes down one injured man, shouting “Grab the horse!” but John’s hands refuse to relinquish either staff or sword.
He keeps close to the horse all the same, standing to the right of its rear haunch: out of kicking range, safe from bites or rearing, close enough to use the animal as a wall. Blocking the thrust of a lance sends the spear tip into the horse’s haunch, and the horse rears as if on John’s behalf, iron-shod hooves warning away Daein soldiers.
Another surge of darkness fills the air, fills all the air, and John bolts, running for where he last saw a gap in the soldiers. A blinding flash of light splits the darkness with a harsh clap. Thoroughly unable to see, John keeps running until he knocks into a tree. He scrambles around the other side, plants his staff in the ground until he can be sure he won’t fall over, and furiously blinks back the blotches floating before his eyes.
On the other side of the tree: shouted orders, the groaning wounded, the sound of a horse fleeing into the forest.
Bill, John hopes. Let Bill have escaped. Let them all have escaped.
John stays very still and tries not to breathe. He’s still bleeding, can feel dampness soaking through his collar. He’s not sure when that happened. He grits his teeth and doesn’t heal himself. No light. No light. The power tries to push up through his arm, the natural function of the staff in the hands of a trained magic-user, and John presses it back down. The mental strain of it is worse than the waiting, than the dread, but not worse than when a cheer goes up among the Daein soldiers.
“We got one!”
“Is it the princess?”
“Have we got her?”
“We’ll be rich!”
John swallows down bile. Molly’s no impersonator, and John has no doubts as to what the Daein soldiers will do to her when no reward for her capture is forthcoming.
Someone swears loudly. “Of course that wasn’t the princess, you idiot! That girl had brown hair!”
“Well, boys, at least we’ve got ourselves a new healer,” someone else announces.
Mike. No.
Shaking from the effort of it, John stays where he is. He can’t do anything to help, not without being cut down himself.
“How about it, priest? Welcome to the Daein army. Heal my men, and you’ll live a decent life. Refuse, and you won’t live any life at all. Am I clear?”
Braced for Mike’s refusal, John closes his eyes. He mouths a prayer.
He hears, “I-I-I c-ca-c-can’t ch-chant wuh-when f-fuh-fri-frightened,” and that is not Mike’s voice. That is a voice almost unrecognizable with its feigned stammer, and John’s stomach doesn’t simply drop: it vanishes entirely, leaving his insides twisting around a fresh void.
“Oh, brilliant,” someone gripes. “A blind priest with a stutter.”
John looks. He has to. He peers around the shielding trunk, and there’s Sherlock, sightless and surrounded, clutching a staff before him with both hands.
“If you can’t work under pressure, we’ve no need for you,” says the man clearly in charge, one of the two remaining riders. He walks his horse toward Sherlock, sword unsheathed. He brings the flat of it to Sherlock’s neck, letting him feel the chill of steel. Sherlock’s chin rises, but he doesn’t turn his face toward the cavalier.
John’s hands move without permission. They sheath his bloody sword. They unbuckle his belt. They hold fast to his staff. His feet scuff dead leaves over the sheath and belt. His feet take this work further and step out from behind the tree.
“I’m his assistant,” his mouth announces. “He doesn’t need to see to know his spells. That’s what I’m for. Take us both.”
“That’s the swordsman!” one of the men accuses, pointing to him with his axe. “That’s him!”
John pulls back his straining mind and lets the staff heal him. The red shine bathes their faces and brings armour to glisten beneath blood and soil.
“I’m his assistant,” John repeats firmly. “We’ll serve, but he needs me. Keep us together. You’ll have no complaints. We work as a team, but we work hard.” Belatedly, he thinks to kneel. “Please.”
The cavalier looks down at him impassively. “Heal my men.”
“Sir,” John replies, a word which here means yes.
One man at a time, his chanting loud and clear, John heals each of the men he and his friends have wounded. His voice remains level, remains steady, and he slows each chant just enough to drag it out without being told to hurry. Each spell is another minute for Bill to ride away with Mike and Molly. Each minute is another dark stretch of forest, and each dark stretch is a bid for safety.
When the last man comes to stand before John, the rider says, “Stop.”
John falls silent.
“Him.” The rider points to Sherlock.
“He needs me to guide him, sir.” It’s a risky move, speaking out of turn, but it’s hardly the stupidest thing he’s done in the past half hour.
“Fine,” the rider says, a tacit approval of John’s acceptance of his authority. Clearly, a commander of some kind.
With even strides, John walks to Sherlock’s side. He turns around, and Sherlock sets his hand on John’s shoulder as naturally as breathing. He doesn’t flinch at the warm wet that is John’s cooling blood, or perhaps someone else’s. They walk to the injured soldier with matching steps. Sherlock reaches out with Mike’s staff, with the staff Mike must have passed to him before joining the battle with his tome open in both hands. John’s arm rises, corrects the angle, perfects the proximity of orb to wound.
Haltingly, Sherlock begins to recite the same chant John has been repeating and repeating in the hopes Sherlock would memorize it. Sherlock has it now, has the words, but the man is so without magic that all the chanting in the world would do him no good.
“Wait, here, sorry,” John says, interrupting Sherlock before the spell would be complete. “Your armour, sorry. Need to adjust.” He keeps his hand on the staff, at the butt of it. Just fingertips. Not enough to look as if he could cast this way.
He looks up and the commander is watching John’s face. John looks back at him as Sherlock begins to chant once more. John doesn’t dare join in, doesn’t dare move his lips, but he does dare to think:
Sherlock’s words are John’s words. They were learned from John, they belong to John, they remain in John’s rhythm, they remain John’s. They are his in Sherlock’s voice, just as the healing power is John’s magic in a staff.
John can channel through a staff.
John can channel through a man.
Eyes locked with the Daein commander’s, John sees the red glow as it shines upon the commander’s face and armour. The orb on Mike’s staff shines, not John’s.
“Th-there,” Sherlock says.
John nearly looks at him, wondering how Sherlock knows it worked when he can’t see, when he can’t feel the magic, but remembers Sherlock can see light.
“How’re you feeling?” the commander asks his soldier.
“Fine, sir,” the soldier reports.
“Hm.” The commander eyes John and Sherlock both. He gives his men a nod and turns his horse around. “Bring them to the camp.”
Sherlock sets his hand back on John’s shoulder, his grip hard. The orb of Mike’s staff taps against John’s hand, and John holds it just below the fastening. It’s the same double-lead they’ve always used, an always of less than a week. Their coordination is flawless, the sort of lock-step Lord Renning could have been proud of, were he still alive, were Crimea still intact.
“John,” Sherlock whispers.
John gives the staff a light tug. No talking, not when surrounded by the enemy.
Sherlock squeezes his shoulder.
Silent in dread and understanding, they walk on into the dark.
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