SYNERGY

even with the amount finn has changed through the years, one thing stays the same: finn loves fighting. maybe he can credit it to growing up in a country constantly at war, or maybe, no matter where he was born, he would have the overwhelming urge to show off his swordplay. he fought for his life in etlia when he was young, then fought for his life in the arenas in podakko after he fled. now, despite most of the continent being thrust into war, matters are not so dire for finn. not yet, anyway.

but there are still fighting contests at the lotus festival this year, and finn would not be himself if he didn't participate at least a little. just one fight, he told asher, and then, once he won, just one more, then i'm on a winning streak, i can't quit now. once he passed a certain threshold, he wanted to see who could best him; if anyone could.

it took a while, actually. several of his challengers failed, until finally, a warrior with muscles insinuating he could snap finn like a twig approached. finn didn't let that intimidate him. after all, the sword is about far more than raw strength. if anything, speed is more important, and finn likes to think he excels in that area.

it was a tough fight, but in the end, finn, already mildly beaten and bruised from a dozen fights prior, was defeated. he still collected a decent amount of gold from his winstreak, so he couldn't complain much.

there are tents not far from the festival's fighting ring, specifically set up for healers to tend to any wounds received in the friendly battles. finn doesn't feel too bad, but he figures it's probably best to get a heal spell, if only so he isn't too sore on the night of the campus's anniversary.

what he doesn't expect to see is a familiar face. he pauses outside the tent at the sight of her. park valora. it seems they keep running into each other, year after year, sweet childhood interactions turned sour thanks to their families ending up on opposite sides of the same war. her father is one of gleerium's most storied generals, after all. finn wonders if he ever thinks about having etlia to thank for that; if he feels sorry to the people that died to earn him that title.

finn's people that died. when he was younger, yet old enough to understand the realities of war, that's all he ever thought of when he saw valora. spoiled little girl, living all peaceful and pretty in her fancy home in the gleerian capital, oblivious to the corpses the lucinier priests failed to bring back to life every single day; the amount of grief caused by her father's hand. she didn't know. she didn't care enough to know. maybe that was the worst part. they fought and went from friends to enemies, and did she ever once pause to really think of the suffering of the etlian people? finn doesn't know.

he still doesn't know, but he doesn't feel the animosity in his heart for her that he once did. it's not a fondness, either, exactly; it's...nothing. not quite apathy, but...neutrality, maybe. it's almost like looking at a stranger, but he doesn't know how. is he really so different now, that after their years of history, he feels so little when he sees her?

he doesn't know that either. it's an odd sensation, but he nods his head to her in greeting. "valora," he says her name, too, then sits down beside her, already seasoned in priests healing him thanks to all of the fights he's been in the past two years, and even before, the trouble he got into as a child.

"nothing serious. just bruises, really, but i want to be able to dance on the final night of the festival without suffering, so," he smiles crookedly. he doesn't know what to say to her. he doesn't know if he should ask her how her father is faring in the war against ganggyn with sincerity or if he should tell her he hopes he dies at the ganggyn's general dani.

he kind of just wants it to be over. he wants to know what peace is like. when etlia fell, and the war of the states was finished, he felt more upheaval in himself than ever before. now, maybe, something in him has settled, but misu and andreas fight against one another, and his people, once again, are caught in the crossfire. he has no choice but to keep fighting.

but who would i be if i wasn't fighting? he looks at valora, still not saying a word to her. who would we be without war? he wonders if they would be better.

FINNIAN has received a 1 STAT level up and is now LEVEL 22.

you will gain levels by being active throughout the roleplay and meeting certain requirements. these requirements are a secret, but consider every ic post as something that gains you experience and puts you one step closer to your next level up.

remember, the stats you can add have been randomized, and even though you were on the unlucky end of the rng and only earned one stat point this time, you must add that point to one of the three strengths listed on your application. (HEALTH, STRENGTH, CHARM.)

this year's lotus festival feels different than the last.

maybe it's strange, that this year there is a war, but finn feels a little more at peace than he did before. he doesn't know where it comes from, exactly, but he feels less pitiful, and less hatred for himself. maybe it's an effect of being home, back in etlia, facing his failures and the people that were not nearly as angry with him as they should have been. he still doesn't know why the world has offered him so much forgiveness when he has done nothing to deserve it and everything to deserve hatred, but he's coming to terms with it slowly. it's just how it is, even if he doesn't understand. if the families of those that died for him can forgive him, maybe it's okay to forgive himself, little by little. there are still plenty he hasn't spoken to; that he never apologized to, even though he should have as soon as he had the chance to.

he's still afraid. he is not nearly as brave as etlia deserved for him to be, even now, but he is trying, and maybe that makes him better than he's ever been.

asher would probably tell him that he is brave, and honorable, and worthy of admiration finn also can't fathom. he would now, anyway; now that he's returned to himself, after weeks–– months ––of fading away without finn doing anything about it. that's another thing he's trying to forgive himself for: letting asher suffer without helping him sooner. they both should have done better there, but ultimately, it doesn't matter anymore.

asher is asher again, and the air in noyillai is fresh, even if this place, too, is stained with blood. he admires laurelia for insisting on finding ways to celebrate even in the current circumstances. he thinks he needs it. all of deyuis does, probably.

there is still an undercurrent of anxiety the night of the campus's anniversary, inside lotus hall, unable to shake the violence of last year, but people still dance, and smile, and finn feels a little hopeful. he knows tomorrow, the world will descend back into chaos, but just for tonight, there's respite; a glimpse of what the world could be like if they were all their best selves.

he watches everyone else while they dance, stood off to the side with asher beside him as well. it's comfortable: witnessing joy, however temporary it may be, and asher next to him. he's thankful that they can be here like this, and he supposes they have their own reasons to celebrate: asher still being alive. asher being asher again, even if he has new scars.

a soft smile rests comfortably on finn's face, and it stays there as he turns to asher. "we should dance," he suggests, and his smile widens a little more. "do you still remember how?"

ufasher​:

asher doesn’t know much about magic. sure, he’s read fairytales of all sorts and books upon books about battles and the soldiers and mages who fought in them. but those were tales or tactical analyses, not instruction or true understanding of an art utterly foreign to those who do not know how to wield it. he had hoped, maybe, that some personal signature might be attached to each spell a certain caster sends out to the world, something unique and easy to trace back to the source. alas, the priestess dashes any hope that his suffering might’ve been worth something. no, there’s no point in delaying this; finding the what won’t help him understand what happened or how to avoid it. all he knows is this is no natural illness; even a man who knows almost nothing of magic can tell that much.

the woman tries to assure him that he’s safe here, and while asher might trust his physical safety in the home of a priest, he’s not entirely sure that his unconscious mind is afforded the same protections. he shakes his head, silently denying the offer to rest. “i can’t.” is all he manages to say, his tongue suddenly tied in a knot as if some unseen force is preventing him from describing his own ailment, the nightmares that torture him as soon as he closes his eyes. frustration takes the place of fear for a moment and he can’t help the way his eyes suddenly go misty, too exhausted to keep himself from crying in front of finn and a stranger.

“there’s no point,” asher finally manages, choking down any impending sobs until there’s only just the slightest shake in his voice instead. he’s had a lifetime of hiding his tears, enough practice that the effort isn’t too much for his exhausted body and spirit. “what good would knowing for certain do then? it’s not like i can counter it. it’s not like i can stop it from happening again.” god, he’s tired. in a moment when finn isn’t as attentive to the cup he’d been helping asher with, it slips from the ill man’s hands and clatters to the floor with a wet thunk. tea spills everywhere, still mostly undrunk, though he supposes he should just be happy that he didn’t shatter the vessel with his weakness. “i’m sorry,” asher apologizes to the priestess for the trouble, leaning over to grab the cup off of the ground only to find himself dizzy and feeling ill when he sits up again a little too quickly.

it takes a moment of quiet, closed eyes before he’s able to speak again, before the ringing in his ears quiets enough that he can hear the world around him. “just… please, fix me,” does he sound like he’s begging, like he’s praying before a god who has long since abandoned him? asher doesn’t mean to, though he hasn’t the energy to shield his emotions; they lay out raw, sensitive, open for all to see.

honestly, finn is a little curious about what it is, and he’s not sure if what asher says is true: that they can’t counter it or stop it from happening again. if they know a name to put to asher’s ailment, then maybe they can do more research, and prepare against it in case it becomes a problem again. asher looks so exhausted, though, and finn knows it must feel even worse than it looks. he’s not going to put asher through anything else just to sate his own curiosity. besides, hopefully, if this happens again, asher will tell him early enough for them to cure it before it goes this far once more. 

“very well,” the priest says in response, but before she can continue, asher drops the cup, spilling the tea onto the floor. finn doesn’t have a chance to tell asher to stay; that he’ll pick it up. instead, asher bends over to grab it, and finn can tell he feels worse for it just by looking at his face. “it’s alright,” the priest reassures him, and finn figures she’s probably dealt with far worse than someone spilling their drink on her floor.

“i’ll clean it up,” finn offers. “you just work on...fixing him, please,” finn requests of the priestess, echoing his friends words, though with a bit less desperation. 

“give me one more moment. i’m going to retrieve my staff. it will make my magic stronger, and perhaps help the spell go into effect quicker. i’ll bring back a cloth to clean the tea with as well.” with that, she disappears, and finn stares at the liquid pooled on the floor, then takes asher’s hand into his own once again in a gesture that he hopes is comforting. finn wouldn’t claim to be the most emotionally intelligent, but he can tell asher’s emotions are fraying again. finn hopes this is it. he hopes that the priestess’s magic does the trick and eases everything troubling him; that it brings asher back to himself. finn knows better than to think everything will return to normal. asher will need more time to recover, if only due to...whatever trauma he’s experienced in his dreams; to sleep freely enough to overcome the fear that will likely haunt him well after they heal him here.

the priestess returns quickly enough, handing finn the cloth as she promised, and he drops to the floor quickly, releasing asher’s hand with the full intention of holding it again once he’s finished.

the priestess scoots a chair over to them and takes a seat. “now,” she begins her explanation. “i’m going to cast the recover spell. it’s more effective if i hold my staff in one hand, and touch you with the other, so that’s what i’m going to do. you don’t need to do anything. just try to relax as much as you can, and if you can’t, that’s all right as well. you may be able to feel the magic working. it will cure any illness or magical ailment, but not any physical symptoms of sleep deprivation, so you may still feel physically unwell even afterwards. i’d recommend staying here, at least until the morning, to see whether we think just one restore spell is enough. if needed, i can cast another. depending on how strong the magic that ails you is, if that is indeed what it is, that may be necessary, but we won’t know until we make it through one. my estimate would be it taking 15 minutes, but it may take less time or more time. do you have any questions before we begin?”

ufasher​:

“three days…” he echoes finn, his voice hardly more than the slightest murmur. will he actually be able to sleep that long, his mind peacefully empty without such painful and gruesome dreams that torment his resting hours? asher can’t imagine it right now; he can’t remember the last time he’s slept uninterrupted for three hours. but gods, if he could close his eyes right now and drift off into absolutely nothing, he would. if he never had a dream again, even the kind ones he used to have where he’d play with the sand and the waves of his homeland or dance along the galaxy, he’d be satisfied. peace, even if it’s nothing more than emptiness, would be worth it.

asher hears the gentle creak of someone hovering nearby before he opens his eyes to see the priestess standing there, watching the two men before approaching with the tea she promised. maybe he already feels a little better; maybe some sanctity of the home of a holy person has managed to put his mind at ease just a little bit. or maybe it’s just wishful thinking and the placebo effect; asher will take it either way. it’s with great effort that he manages to force his eyes open, to watch as the woman hands the tea to finn instead of the man it was brewed for, and he has the sense not to be offended by the action. he knows his hands would tremble under the weight of the cup even if it was empty, the last of his strength drained and then some from the mere journey here.

“i can drink,” he assures finn, forcing himself to sit up a little straighter, focusing closely on his own hands as they find finn’s and guide the cup to his lips. he wonders if he should be embarrassed, being fed a cup of tea like a toddler who hasn’t yet learned table manners, but asher has the sense not to hold too tightly to any shame. he’s unwell; he acknowledges it to himself. he’s sick, though there had been no physical symptom until the mental agony wore on too long. maybe he should have told finn about the dreams before. maybe they could have made it here before the situation had become so dire, like asher’s life force is an old candle stub nearing the end of the wick, the tiny flame sputtering with the effort of staying alight.

the tea tastes good on his lips, though. he can only manage tiny sips, the act of swallowing almost painful against a too-dry throat, but he manages it albeit slowly. it relaxes him further, as promised, though there’s the lingering fear that if he becomes too at ease, he’ll drift off to sleep. he doesn’t think that a few sips of tea will be much help in warding off the terrifyingly vivid dreams.

what next? finn asks, and even asher hadn’t been so eager to rush to save his own life. he find gratitude for the finn of the waking world in his heart; who would have thought that the surly and prickly man he had met so many months ago would care for his life so passionately now? asher knows that in another situation, perhaps a time when he didn’t feel death breathing down the back of his neck, the thought would make him feel rather pleased. there’s no warmth here, though; the cold stone in his gut still sucks any pleasure out of his system and instead replaces it with that lingering dread.

“how long does a diagnostic spell take?” as unwell as he is, asher’s mind is not fully dissolved into a miserable pudding. perhaps it’s a glimpse of his usual self; not the bubbly and cheerful exterior, but rather the inquisitive and sharp mind behind the smiles. “if it’s poison or a curse, could you find out… where it came from?” who it came from he almost asks; though who else would it be? as much as he just wants rest, just a moment of peace, asher knows he would be a fool to sacrifice some proof of his grandfather’s ugly, incessant hatred of him. maybe there’s not a judge in the world who would care to see it, but he’d have it for the someday, maybe. 

“that… that’s worth waiting for, to me. if not just… let me rest.” he sighs, muscles relaxing not out of relief but from pure exhaustion, unable to remain tensed for any longer.

asher speaks, and it’s coherent, and to finn, proof that his mind, at the very least, is salvageable. asher sounds more than coherent, really; intelligent, maybe, considering the root of what ails him and asking what answers they’ll really be able to find. even finn didn’t think that far ahead, but maybe he is just a little afraid, and maybe he doesn’t want history to repeat itself. he doesn’t want to lose someone else without knowing he did everything he could, but if asher thinks he can hang on long enough for a diagnostic spell, that isn’t for finn to decide.

“it depends on your condition,” the priestess explains. “if it’s a magical ailment, sometimes i can find what it is quite quickly. if it’s an illness, it’s more difficult. as for locating the source...likely not. with some time, i can determine what type of poison or curse it is, and some types are more common in certain areas than others, but that’s as close as i’m able to get to pinpointing who or what is responsible. maybe 30 minutes, for me to gather as many details on what ails you as possible.”

is it possible that asher is actually cursed? poisoned? it’s not like asher is that important–– politically, or anything of the like. why would someone want asher dead and not finn, especially when he literally met asher because someone wanted him dead? finn would expect to suffer the same ailment as asher, but he certainly hasn’t had more nightmares than usual, nor does he have asher’s level of paranoia. 

“are there really poisons or curses that give terrible nightmares?” he asks the priest, who nods.

“any encounters with dark magic can cause nightmares if not treated quickly enough, truthfully. it can be quite hard on the psyche.”

in that case, it sounds like it might be harder to pinpoint the issue than finn thought. he looks over at asher, thankful he’s at least able to sip his tea successfully to some degree. now that he’s not about to jump out of his skin, he really does look exhausted. finn can only imagine what he’s going through right now.

ufasher​:

it’s all asher can do to stay upright by the time they’re approaching their destination, apparently. or maybe finn has just given up on him and is finding a more comfortable place for asher to breathe his last. he doesn’t know if he’s actually dying but with the way every cell of his body screams in agony at their very existence, he’s pretty sure he’s not long for this world without some sort of medical or magical intervention. maybe both. even in his state, asher can’t help but theorize just what exactly is plaguing him. was it some slow-acting poison? something rotting away inside of him until the shell that’s left can’t survive any longer?

his thoughts are interrupted by a woman opening the door and he makes a conscious effort to focus in on her rather than let his head drift off towards space. his eyes feel funny, he realizes, but he’s aware of the fact that she recognizes finn—lord finnian. “my friend is very ill,” he says, and asher doesn’t have the strength left in him to agree aloud, simply letting the two lead him inside, sitting him down on a cot. there’s the urge to lay his head down and rest, though asher knows that won’t actually do him any good.

perhaps the physical exhaustion mixes with the mental load he’s carrying when she asks him a very simple question, asher’s tongue becomes too heavy in his mouth. finn’s there instead, explaining his symptoms, and asher finds himself grateful; he doesn’t think he even has anything to add. she says something about tea, about staying occupied, but his ears had started ringing loudly like they had before and he only caught about half of it. he just knows that she’s helping, somehow, and that’s good enough.

finn takes his hand. gently, carefully, like asher is a delicate thing that might crumble at the slightest touch. and maybe he is. but after traveling this far, after surviving several hours by his side, he finally trusts that this is the waking world. and if finn were to kill him now, asher is pretty sure he would thank him for it. “s’okay,” he mumbles. his weight shifts, leaning into finn. perhaps it’s for comfort, perhaps it’s just the effort of staying upright becoming a little too much to manage alone. maybe it’s both. he figures that he shouldn’t fall asleep right now, but he lets his heavy eyelids fall shut and leans his head against finn’s shoulder. “i’m so tired.” desperation colors his voice; one peaceful hour of sleep is all he asks for. he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get one again.

asher leans on him, and finn figures this is better than asher being too afraid to even touch him before. he must trust him a little again, then. that comes as a relief, even if there are far more important matters at hand than asher trusting him, like asher’s survival, for one. finn doesn’t think nightmares can kill someone, but he knows lack of sleep and dehydration can, and if the nightmares are just a symptom of something deeper, who knows how much trouble asher is truly in? hopefully they’ll find out soon.

in the meantime, he can’t help but wonder what he would do if asher really did die. he would survive it; he knows. would asher become just another name on the list of everyone finn has lost, or would finn mourn a little more for him than most? maybe in the past, finn would’ve felt little. he would’ve accepted asher’s death as some inevitability of anyone getting too close to him and worked to move on, pushing that grief to the back of his mind to join all of the rest he’s never truly addressed. now, though, with some power over the situation–– with them so close to finding a solution (finn hopes) ––he desperately wants him to be okay. asher, who has always believed in him and trusted him even though finn did nothing to deserve it; who told him he would follow him anywhere, when finn mentioned returning to etlia to defend the people he abandoned once already. asher has seen him cynical and cowardly and useless and still deemed him a worthy companion.

asher is a worthy companion too; more than that, really. asher is kind and energetic and optimistic, naive but smarter than he seems, friendly to everyone he meets even when they don’t deserve it–– or at least he used to be. finn would take him even like this, he realizes; even if asher is always fearful and fragile from now on, he owes it to him to stay by his side, because he knows asher would do the same for him.

finn’s chest feels a little tight. it’s okay. she’ll help us. he’ll be okay. he tries not to consider the possibility that this is all asher will ever be again, or that he will die. not before they do everything they can here.

i’m so tired, asher says, that fear in his voice again, and finn squeezes his hand. “we’re going to fix this, and you’ll be able to sleep well soon. i’ll let you sleep for three whole days if you want,” he tries to joke, even though he probably would.

soon, the priest returns with the tea she promised, and stands there hesitantly. finn reaches his free hand out for the cup, assuming asher will be little help when it comes to holding a drink steady on his own, and she hands it over to him. “do you think you can drink some of this? i’ll help you.” he holds the tea out to asher, still holding it enough that they won’t drop it, but leaving plenty of room for asher to guide it to his lips.

he looks back at the priest then. “what next?” he questions, because he doubts tea will fix all of asher’s problems, even if it might help temporarily.

“i think the safest bet would be for me to simply cast a restore spell. it should help cure any condition that may be troubling him; illness, poison, curse, whatever it may be. depending on the severity of the condition, one spell may be enough to cure it, or it may take a few casts. if you want to take a bit more time, i can use a diagnostic spell, and see if we can put a name to what ails him.”

leila leans her elbows onto the table, weight on her crossed arms. she listens intently to finn’s explanations, nodding as they line up with the news she’s picked up herself. her eyes aren’t on her companion - they’re on a few knife marks in the table she left there herself over a year ago, in the vague shape of etlia’s crest. unrecognizable at a glance, the shape is likely only distinctive to her.

(though if anyone would be able to recognize it, kim finnian von lucinier would.)

as she listens, she plots out the map in her head, imagining her father’s war maps spread out on the giant planning table in his study. it’s an image she hasn’t let herself think about in far too long, but she braces herself against the emotions and nostalgia that come with it: she has a job to do.

“that’s good,” she says quietly, thinking about her father’s little figurines that signified thousands of troops with their little wooden forms. “they’ve had a steady presence in etlia until now, so this is a good opportunity.”

she looks up as finn continues, responding to her question about ganggyn. “i haven’t either,” she says. “and i’ve been here for almost a week, now, gathering news and rumors.” she blinks, however, at finn’s reasoning behind assessing the situation.

i’m not sure if it’s ours yet.

“that’s why we make it ours,” she says bluntly, like she’s stating a fact, the way father always did in his speeches to the people. “ganggyn attacking gleerium for practically the first time in history is a golden opportunity for us. we can use the time gleerium is focused on defending vessalius and felice to take back etlia and build our army. then we’ll be in a position to negotiate with the empress and get ganggyn’s assurance that if we help them, they’ll help re-establish etlia as an independent nation.”

it seems so simple when she says it like that, succinct. an easy three-step plan, when really it’s a plan that would have been laughably unattainable even months ago.

but times change. the world changes. and etlia will never be free if leila doesn’t take the opportunities that are presented to her. in the face of that, how can she back down? how can she view this as anything other than simple?

“i just don’t know how we can do anything else, really. we ran once already, and it kept us alive. but now we have a chance to go back and hopefully do some good, so how can we not take it?”

that’s why we make it ours. of course, leila is passionate and eager to take back etlia as usual, and she makes a good point. their hopes to return etlia to its former glory (or former existence–– he isn’t sure if their war-torn country has ever been glorious) have been quite unreasonable up until now, with gleerium troops receding and how little they care about etlia making itself evident.

he supposes, with alfan locked away in castle felice’s dungeon and his only son dead...they are the most powerful etlian figures capable of acting on behalf of their country in this war. it’s a grave realization, and a sudden heavy burden on his shoulders that he somehow didn’t process until now. no one else is here to do this work for them. logically, it’s better that he doesn’t have to do it alone; that leila is here to strategize, plan, and act with, and yet for some reason, part of him feels it would be better if he did it by himself. there is less uncertainty; more perceived control of the situation, and more responsibility for him to bear himself, without anyone else getting wrapped up in his mission to try and redeem himself, if that’s what this is.

he knows leila couldn’t bear to stand back without getting involved herself, though, and he does know it’s better this way. 

“i don’t want to act rashly,” he explains, levelheaded. “this is important, and if we aren’t careful, we may make enemies of ganggyn as well. if we do that...” we’ll never have hope of getting our country back. he’s sure leila knows what he means, and he doesn’t need to finish that thought.

he doesn’t know how many etlians there are left to fight. so many died in the war, under finn’s guidance, and many of the others with fighting strength may have already pledged themselves to ganggyn. he can’t hope to earn their allegiance by asking them to leave ganggyn’s side. that won’t do them any favors with the nation that provided them aid for so many years. 

“i don’t think ganggyn will appreciate us advertising our desire to build our own army when they’re trying to poach etlian fighters, so we’ll have to do it quietly, and personally ask anyone we believe may be able to fight. i’m not sure how we’ll keep rumors from spreading to ganggyn once we start recruiting, but hopefully, so long as we fight the same enemies, emperor misu and the rest of ganggyn will leave us be. once we start fighting, we’ll want ganggyn to notice us, and we’ll have to get enough done for them to see us as useful. i think the strategy is to help chase gleerium’s forces out of etlian territory, and not leave our borders without ganggyn’s promised assistance.”

ufasher​:

taking finn’s hand had been a risk enough, in asher’s fragile mind. finn taking hold of his arm to steady him might be necessary, but it makes asher’s heartbeat pick up, the sudden fear of being trapped through the touch running through his mind. he tries to take a deep breath, tries to calm down from what he knows must be irrational thoughts. it only does him very little good; instead, he just kinda lets out a shuttering breath. he doesn’t pull away, not when he thinks he might lose the strength in his legs right now, but he can’t quite relax. something might happen if he does.

asher makes his peace with the camp they’re leaving behind. he expects them to return to scraps and scuffs in the dirt as the only signs that they were ever there. starving to death in the woods would be such a terrible way to go, he can imagine. and his imagination has become quite vivid about such things these days. finn assures him that he’s more vital than anything they’re leaving behind, but asher can’t quite believe that. he knows he offers nothing to this group. company, maybe. but mostly he just takes up space and costs more to feed. maybe it would be better if finn did kill him. is there any point in living in this world?

when did his thoughts become something not truly his own? asher has always loved life. he’s always taken pleasure in the little things; the sounds of birds, the wind on his face. now every little sound, every little sensation makes him just about jump out of his skin. he knows he’s not the person he used to be; he’s barely a person at all.

finn lets go of him only for a moment and asher sees black spots in his vision and the world suddenly seems like it’s twisting this way and that. it’s all he can do to bend over in time before his gut tries to turn itself inside out. the young man lets out a terrible, hacking sound as he spits out nothing but bile. “sorry,” he gasps between retches that he can’t seem to control, “sorry—” is he crying again? he can’t tell.

they need to go. finn needs to take him somewhere, to someone who can help, and asher can only think about how truly pathetic he’s become. you should kill me, he almost says aloud, some tiny piece of his original self being the only thing that holds his tongue back. no, he needs to find the strength to walk, at least for a little while. if the journey kills him, at least he died trying to get better. asher spits, trying to clear out the foul taste in his mouth. he forces himself upright again, wiping at his face as if that’ll make him look any less like an ill man. “let’s just… go,” he croaks, voice hoarse. “i’ll manage.”

asher throws up. finn doesn’t really know what to do, but he figures, at the very least, that it’s a physical indication of asher’s dire state. it only makes finn more determined to get him to the priest he has in mind. even if she can’t help his mental wellbeing, surely, if he’s throwing up, something can be done about that, right? it strangely almost makes him feel a little better about doing this.

he just puts a careful hand on asher’s back. “it’s okay,” he assures him, voice soft, because it’s not like asher can help it, and finn would never expect him to. he hesitates again, thinking, and leaves asher’s side for another moment, just to fetch his canteen, thankfully still mostly-full of water. “can you drink some water?” he asks, both a request and question of if his friend is physically capable of doing so, especially without vomiting again. “it might help, especially if you’re dehydrated.”

i’ll manage, asher says, and finn nods. they really have no choice but to believe that. finn doesn’t know what he’ll do if asher can’t. he decides not to think about it.

[ TIMESKIP ]

it doesn’t take too long to reach the doorstep of the priest finn desperately hopes will help them, but maybe it is too long. any wait at all feels too long in this moments. he knocks on the door, a little frantically, and after waiting about 15 seconds without response, pounds on it louder. “i need help, please!” he calls, hoping someone on the other side of the door will hear, and alert the priest, if she doesn’t hear it herself.

eventually, he hears something on the other side of the door, and it opens, just a crack.

“i’m sorry to disturb you this late in the night, but i have an emergency. please help us.”

the door opens a little wider to reveal a familiar face, whose eyes widen in recognition when she sees him. “lord finnian,” she mutters.

finn doesn’t argue over that not being his name anymore, and simply bows to her in greeting and gratitude. “my friend is very ill.” hopefully she can see that herself. she spares a glance at asher, and gives them a small nod.

“come inside,” she says, opening the door enough for them to slip inside, and she closes it beside her.

there are some ill and injured, on cots or bedrolls on the floor, but the priest leads them to one that’s unoccupied, up against one of the walls. “please sit,” she instructs asher. “you can as well,” she says to finn after. there’s enough room for them both to, so finn does sit beside asher.

“are you injured?” she asks asher.

“he’s not; he’s vomiting, and hasn’t slept in days. nightmares. paranoia,” finn explains quickly, and the priest nods in understanding, eyes flickering to asher once more as she observes him for a moment.

“i’m going to fix some tea that should calm you,” she informs asher. “then we can discuss what to do next.” she looks to finn afterwards. “keep him occupied.”