I don't know what I'm doing

The world is a blur of blue–stray thoughts and the halo of aftermath. Somewhere distant, deep down, Altai knows this is the tide of Karash’s will. He’s berserking, the others call it. But his awareness of the situation drifts on the very edge, buried beneath the weight of the thing that controls him. (Small price to pay, really–the confusion and the loss of self.)

Karash breaks things down into impulses: left, right, swing harder, step faster, stab up and feel the spray of blood. She thinks so loud that there’s no space for him beneath–no room to process. Just the words that echo and the burning flame of anger eating at his chest. Sometimes he manages to catch glimpses–snarling enemy faces, his friends in danger or hurt, the splatter of red. Never enough to understand the scene, only brief gasps of air before he’s drowning again.(He doesn’t mind, he doesn’t mind. Panic is such a small price for the help of a god.)

Blue aether blinds him to himself and courses through his veins. It numbs him to anything Karash might do with his body. His arm isn’t meant to move like that, not that high or fast, but if she’s in the driver’s seat he can do anything. Up, in, dive, out–Karash commands, her thoughts defeating his own as they respond. He has no idea why they move where they do–nor why his palm meets resistance when his knife moves. In the fleeting seconds between swings he thinks he might have heard someone cry out, but he doesn’t know who or why. He only knows the song of dusk and the dance of violence–stepping to the pattern of Karash’s whims. (It’s fine, it’s fine. He isn’t here.)

Sometimes she knows to leave him when the fight ends. Sometimes she forgets. This time, she must be satisfied with whatever violence she wrought. He blinks back to himself, stumbling but on his feet in the wreckage. Creatures in the shapes of men, twisted and unfamiliar lay at his feet. He doesn’t remember… why did they fight? What were they doing here? His head pounds with the onset of a migraine. (Small prices to pay, the pain and the fog– she saved you again, didn’t she? Didn’t she?)

“You fought valiantly, Brave Champion,” the companion he’s just met tonight insists, smiling as they soothe the bloody rent in his collar with another spell. Altaichin has no words to answer with. He’s too busy trying to recognize himself, let alone the pain threading through his chest or the ache of misuse that threads most of his muscles. (It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing. He’s nothing.)

“Wasn’t really me,” Altai admits. His friend quiets with a nod, as if that’s all he needs to say.

Unfamiliar blood paints his hands where his fingers curl around the hilt of both knives. He hopes whatever they fought deserved it. Surely the others would have stopped him if he went too far otherwise. He scans the team of adventurers briefly–making sure they’re all still here. They seem preoccupied with the enemy corpses, but no one seems hurt.

The knives slide easy back into their sheathes, even as Altai berates himself for putting them away unclean. His hands shake too hard to manage the chore of caring for them now, something like panic caught like a bubble in his chest. Every time he gives Karash control he puts them all in danger, and yet… The value outweighs the risk. If it brings them all home safe because she can use him more ruthlessly and better than he can manage on his own, it has to be worth it. But sometimes he can’t help thinking…

Maybe playing at giving his form to a god of violence will only end in tragedy.

Altai feels guilty for entertaining doubts like these, when Nhaama has only ever come to his rescue. His thoughts spin too far in every direction, scattered thin, and he can barely manage to stay standing. The headache throbs, an early warning for the fever bound to follow. (Small prices to pay, small prices to pay.)

“<Still fussing with that, moon boy?>” Mide asks, her smile a mile wide as she moves toward the stove to start her breakfast. Her long, pale hair is still piled in a long braid atop her head, warrior’s body already moving with grace even though she’s only just awoken. 

“<I just want it to look nice.>” he shrugs, looking at the second row of detailed patterning he’s started. Charms for good luck and happiness are sewn in into its designs–careful not to invoke any specific to Nhaama. “<Unless you don’t plan on ever wearing my wedding gift?>” he teases back, angling his work in the light of the lanturn and reaching for a little more wax to ease the thread with. 

Mide pretends to throw the rag on her counter at him, but her smile is warm when she sets it back down. She shakes her head, putting together a breakfast porridge. The giant pot she heaves effortlessly over the hearth will make more than enough for her, her five siblings, and probably half the village. “<Suppose you put enough red in it for a Dalamiq–I might give it a try.>”

“<You might!>” Altai laughs. He shakes his head and leaves her to her cooking as he finishes out the next few stitches. Maybe with a little care he could add a little more red… little rounded arcs like dalamud rising…?

“<You know, ‘Taichin,>” her voice is quiet over the sound of porridge bubbling, but it rings in his head like a gunshot. His eyes snap to her, hands stilling. It’s not often she tries to sound so serious. “<You could… see if that friend of yours wants to come by for the wedding–the traveler we met in Reunion?>” 

Quick limbs and a faster tongue—A hand in his as they run. Shorn hair sliding into Anert’s face, barely barred from their eyes by pointed ears—not his, not his, not his.

“<I don’t… think that’s a good idea.>” Something tugs at the back of his thoughts. Foreboding begins to beat through his blood and he doesn’t know why. What has he forgotten?

“<Why not?>” Mide slams the lid of the porridge back down–pays no heed as it starts to rattle or to the way Altai jumps. “<I saw the way you looked at them, ‘Taichin. You nearly dropped my little sister when your eyes met–I know well enough what it looks like when one half finds another.>”

“<That’s not…>” The discord clamoring through his head rises to a crescendo. Fated halves they might be, but Altai’s not good enough to make them stay. Besides, last time they were here they nearly—

Last time you brought them here, you both nearly died. The village turned against you because it’s your fault that Mide and her fiance are– Mide is–

She doesn’t look like a ghost. But he remembers her dying. His hands shake on the embroidery frame, and he sets it down. Slow. “<Maybe I’m just too embarrassed to bring them back here,>” he offers, mouth dry.

He doesn’t hear the answer. 

Blink

Find the world again–search out the meaning in the angles of the light and the sensations drifting at a snail’s pace through his comprehension. The sky is a terrible, terrible orange through an ornate window. Its changed light streams in through tattered curtains and makes patterns on the unfamiliar floor. 

He can’t remember what he did to wind up in the make-shift medbay, white sheets pulled high above his waist and back propped up on a bevy of pillows. But he feels the pain of it easy enough. His left shoulder hasn’t quite been the same since the last time he dislocated it, but the agony it emits now makes its usual complaints pale in comparison. Altai bends at the waist to sit and raises his other hand to the wound without thinking, leaning hard against the wall that abuts his cot—

“Not sure you should mess with that Altaichin.” a quiet voice sounds from his right. Altai pauses–turns his head slowly to meet it. His mouth feels like dry cotton when he tries to swallow.

Koh’sae Lyehga stares back at him–the older keeper’s mismatched eyes both strange and sickly in the orange light. Altai can’t remember a time when the Company’s contracted psychologist didn’t look put together, but the deep bags beneath his eyes and the bruise at his jaw give Koh a weary and frazzled appearance. 

Koh flips a page in his ever-present notebook and slides the thing closed. “Seems you’re back with me. Do you remember where we are?”

Altai starts to shake his head, but something about the design of the room and the smell from outside gives him pause. It’s… faint. Hidden by the scent of the world burning outside but… he thinks he smells the sea. 

“Thavnair,” he murmurs. “Near Yedlihmad.” Hiding in the outlying buildings far enough from the village he might not be a threat if he turns like so many others. 

Black smoke rises like a heatwave from his skin as he wakes to reality and Altai closes his eyes. He can feel Koh’s gaze against his skin, caught between pity and caution. But there are so many people dying outside, and Altai’s still here, useless as always. He’s fucked up his shoulder again and he’s so inept at controlling his emotions they had to call the psych to come sit with him. He’s not only failing to help, he’s hindering. The last thing anyone needs is another blasphemy. Why did they even call Koh here? They should have done everyone a favor and just—

A careful hand searches for his good one, spot of warmth and Koh’s textured glove against his palm that makes the thoughts still. 

“Altaichin, you only need to hold out for a little longer. We don’t know yet–how this thing spreads. We can’t take you back to Limsa like this, but if you can just keep it at bay for a day, or as soon as we learn more, I am going to help you get back. This isn’t the ending.”

Not the ending? Why not? Gold meets green and brown as Altai’s eyes flicker open, but the color is a shade too dim. Shadows cloak his vision like a filter. 

“Talk to me,” Koh pleads. “I promise you it will get better. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but I need you to have faith in that.” The words feel so meaningless in his head. Altai barely registers them. He watches Koh instead–lets his vision trail down the length of the other man’s arm–to the syringe held in his grip. 

Good. They’re not stupid enough to believe in him completely.  Probably a sedative. Must be why his head’s so foggy–how many times have they had to use it already to keep him teetering on the edge like this?

“Altaichin, please. I don’t want to push, but circumstances as they are… I need to know what’s hurting you.”

It doesn’t matter what Koh says. There’s nothing to go back to. No one who cares–not really. 

Not true, not true, not true—just on the other side someone waits for you to wake up. Someone who’s always there–who doesn’t mind the confusion or the bouts of sadness. If you could just—

“Just kill me,” he hears himself ask, vision so blinded by pouring black smoke he can’t see. Consciousness fades before he knows whether Koh takes his chance. Altai hopes the man does–no one else should end like this.

BLINK

The sound of water intensifies, sea breaks on the shore nearby and he is d̴͕͇͐y̴̦̓i̴̪͂̈́n̵͙͒ͅg̸͉̅͝,̶͔̻͐ ̴̺̀̓s̸̢̖̾̚e̶̝͊̀ẘ̸̩̫́i̶̧̺͑͐n̷̼͕͂g̵̍ͅ,̷̢̐ ̶̪͉̔f̴̘͋ḯ̴̯̣g̶͖̲̑͆h̸̝̃ẗ̸͕̂͜i̷̧̛̟n̶̤̈́͝g̸̗̹̿̆ awake. The salt spray hits the bottoms of his bare feet every once in a while as the water swirls under the pier. Sun-warmed wood makes a solid seat to dangle his legs from. The sky is a dusky purple that only bleeds orange where the sun sets–a far healthier hue than he last saw. His shoulder only aches in the dull, background way it usually does and Dalamiq and Thavnair are far, far away. 

“Oh! Hello Silly-tai. Do I have you back?”

No ghosts. No black smoke. The weight of Altai’s relief could break him. His hands tremble where they rest against his lap and he sags, listing into—

“Whoop! Still a little dizzy, hunh? She’s just not giving you a break tonight.” A broad, warm hand at his shoulder. The feather-light brush of wild hair against his face as Tsetseg leans in to kiss his forehead. Altai rests against Tsetseg’s side and tries to piece together the fragments of his own mind.

D̶i̷d̵ ̶M̷i̶d̸e̷ ̵g̵e̸t̵ ̵t̸o̵ ̵m̶e̴e̴t̶ ̵T̶s̶e̶t̸s̵e̴g̵ ̴y̵e̶t̶?̵ ̷Y̴o̵u̸ ̴s̵h̶o̷u̴l̷d̶ ̷i̶n̸v̶i̴t̵e̵ ̴h̴i̵m̴ ̶t̴o̴ ̵t̷h̴e̴ ̸w̶e̸d̴d̸i̷n̷g̸.̵ ̸M̷a̸y̸b̴e̵ ̴s̸h̸e̴’̶d̵ ̴s̶t̷o̷p̵ ̴b̷o̵t̷h̴e̶r̸i̸n̵g̵ ̷y̷o̵u̸ ̶a̴b̷o̶u̸t̴ ̸s̸o̴u̵l̷m̶a̷t̸e̴s̸.̸ ̷

G̶e̵t̷ ̵a̸w̵a̶y̸!̶ ̵Y̷o̴u̴’̶l̵l̶ ̷o̴n̸l̶y̵ ̶h̵u̸r̴t̵ ̸h̴i̴m̸ ̴i̴f̵ ̷y̸o̴u̴ ̸t̸u̴r̵n̷–̷H̸e̷ ̷s̸h̸o̶u̴l̵d̴n̵’̵t̶ ̷b̴e̸ ̶a̴n̵y̶w̷h̴e̴r̷e̶ ̶n̵e̸a̷r̴ ̷y̶o̴u̷!̸

“<She doesn’t owe me breaks.>” He murmurs as he leans closer, side lighting with warmth everywhere Tsetseg touches. He remembers this–Tsetseg’s orange gaze the same color as the setting sun. Tall and muscled and gorgeous and completely out of Altai’s league but for some reason he bothers to care about Altai anyway. 

“<Owe Shmoe. You deserve nice things. Even when moon mom’s in a bad mood.>” Tsetseg’s hand rubs at his bad shoulder and the phantom soreness of a bad injury only his mind remembers begins to fade. 

“<Beloved….>” the endearment escapes him before he can examine it. Beloved. Truly? He’s allowed to say that in this world? Allowed to hold onto it? “<I’m just sorry to be in the way. I didn’t mean to steal your evening…>”

“<I would tell you as many times as you need to hear it—I could never mind time spent with you. I will be here to support you any time you need me. Every time.>” Tsetseg notices the way Altai’s fingers tremble and his free hand skates over their laps to still them. 

This can’t be real. Altai doesn’t deserve beautiful things or beautiful worlds. He never has... But the way Tsetseg looks at him so sincerely makes him want so badly to believe. He keeps Tsetseg’s hand in his and settles into the comfort of it, content to go along with the lovely dream and await the dreadful moment he wakes up.

Searing heat. The push and pull of aether that sends his stomach roiling. White light divides the air with a booming blast and all he can do is crouch behind his chosen boulder and pray. Opposite his curled back, blocked only by the thin veneer of rock, feline eyes and snarling teeth await his next mistake.  

The young veena tries to make himself smaller, curling into a tighter ball as the mountain coeurl roars. Its whip-like tentacles flicker through the air in mirror to its angered tail, a towering master of the mountain—all muscle, thick fur, and teeth. Certainly more than a match for an apprentice viera on one of his first unassisted hunts. 

Damnit, damnit, damnit! Snowmelt starts to seep into the spaces between oiled furs, terrible cold against his skin. He knows he wouldn’t be able to stay here, even without the giant cat attempting to rain the mountain down on his head. He has to get away. If he stays it will kill him. It will pad around this rock and tear him to shreds. The lance in his hand might give him reach, but with those whiskers the coeurl far outpaces him, and anyway, all it needs to do is overwhelm his weak constitution for aether with a few too many of those blasts. 

He curses himself for ending up in this position at all, and his supposed teacher for sending him on this stupid test, but the curses are useless. He wandered here haplessly on his own two feet, forgetting the signs of a cat’s hunting grounds. Now he has to think of a way to wander back out. (He used to think teachers were supposed to keep an eye on their students. Why isn’t anyone coming to help him now? Surely he’s gone beyond the parameters of the test…? Even if he’s failed, he’d rather fail than die.)

No more time for thinking. The coeurl leaps without warning and rounds his cover, a whipcord whisker lashing at his curled limbs. If it touches him, paralysis will set in just before it tears out his throat. The veena throws himself sideways and ignores the immediate protests of his muscles from hip to shoulder. Snow sprays beneath him and the cold hits him deep as it sinks into the fabric of his tunic. Solid rock meets his back, a sizeable drop down into the pine forests on his left. He could wait it out from the treetops there if he could just… get away. 

The diamond dust clears and the predator forms out of the mist before him, bent low and ready to leap. He turns his spear in his gloved hand, heart in his throat and knows he’s out of time. None of the gods he prayed to want to answer. Or maybe they answered the coeurl instead. 

Trigger unseen, the cat lunges forward, and the veena sees his only chance. He throws himself to the open air and drops. 

He can barely comprehend what happens next. Above, he hears the echoed thud of the coeurl’s body against stone, but the sensation of freefall distracts him too much to allow him any satisfaction. He can scarcely hear over the blood pounding in his ears. Air rushes past, slow at first, then faster as his body gains speed. He only gets one chance at this–Elysium holds his shoulders tense and jabs the side of the mountain with the lance at an angle. If he can just catch a fissure. If he can just–

The lance blade scrabbles over rough rock and ice, blade quickly blunting. He doesn’t have the arm strength to keep it angled below himself—it yanks upward,dings off a poorly angled ledge and sends him flying away and into the treetops. The fear of death barely has time to dawn on him before he’s crashing shoulder first into a fir trunk. Pain flashes bright and hot enough through his mind to blind him. Branches bruise him as his body falls–until his mindless grip on the spear haft finally saves him. The spear lodges in the gap between branches, leaving him dangling the final 40 feet before the ground, body screaming with the abuse. 

Well. He got away from the coeurl. For now. 

He laughs but the sound has no joy. It echoes bitter in the quiet. Somewhere below him, a stag bolts. Maybe the same one he’d chased right up into the coeurl’s territory. He hopes it finds the damn cat too. His overtired-arms shake, sweat sliding down his brow. Every inch of him feels bruised and the way the world shifts suggests he might be aether drunk. Or maybe concussed. He has to… he has to keep moving. Has to pull himself up onto the lance—shimmy into the branches. The ground won’t remain safe. The coeurl could track him here. If he can just ignore the protests of his body long enough to pull, he can wait for help.

Centimeter by painful centimeter he forces overtired muscles to function. He hoists his chin above the bar, slings one arm over, then the other. The lance wobbles ominously in its temporary stand, but he can’t afford to worry over it. Finally his whole center of mass is on the narrow beam, legs straddling the pole–and he starts shimmying to the other side. Shaking, he makes the final move from beam to branch. And—

And…?

He loses track. He blinks and suddenly the angle of the light is far steeper than he remembers. The lance lingers, somehow kept in place despite the cold wind that must be slowly killing him. He doesn’t feel the cold when it blows hardest… he knows that for a bad sign. Bark is rough against his face, some kind of sap sticks to the furs that keep his ears from freezing when he dares to push away. 

How long has he sat here, slowly freezing to death, alone in the trees? If the Coeurl ever followed it must be long gone by now. Did his teacher come to find him? Is he even looking? 

He winds down to a final realization—one he should have faced all along. No one will save him. Not gods, not people. Certainly not the damn cat. He is going to die here clinging to a tree unless he starts moving. Might still die even then. 

Every motion is a chore and his limbs are too stiff when he tries to ease his death grip on the fir tree. A part of him, and not a small one, wonders whether he shouldn’t just lay down and stop. He does consider it. But there is something stronger than belief or community or trust broken roaring in his veins now—the fuel of spite. 

Any person in his situation might be expected to die. Like a young hunter is expected to pass his first test. Like a young veena is expected to want to leave with his mentor. Like he’s expected to live for the mountain and through it—like he’s supposed to see some sort of oneness with the mountain cats and the cold snow. Well screw all of them then. 

Anger and vindication power his climb down from the treetops—a heady combination. He lets it take him over. Down the climb begins, barely a slip between the high branches and the ground, but he doesn’t stop to celebrate. Out he walks, ignoring his useless trail of past footprints and focusing hard on the shadows and light and the mountaintop in his peripheral. He knows the way when he stops to think. He only has to walk it.