R Ü Y A

Eino was not meant to step foot in Ardentgate; the Legion had been called for some sense of containment, but they had all been drifting to Amon Sûl for their duties there were far more crucial and prevalant in containing this blight that leeched out in each crevice of the world. “Lusacan is not the only Old God threatening to rise from his hidden depths,” the legionnaire was certain that Rüya was well aware of this fact, her life was dedicated not only to healing and restoration but of the political cynosure revolving around the Queen as her dutiful Queensguard. 

The witch looked up. Eino, broad-shouldered and still as the pines outside, the firelight catching the planes of his face. The sight of him standing there, so calm in the face of what he believed was inevitable, made her chest feel too small for her own lungs. She found his quiet acceptance unbearable.

Rüya rose slowly, knees stiff from hours crouched over the wounded. The air in the tent felt too tight, pressing her forward until she was standing in front of him. Her hand reached for the same spot on his chest where she'd pressed her palm and drawn his magic through her, pulling herself back from the clutch of death. Her fingers spread there again now, feeling the steady beat beneath them, the heat of him, real and alive.

"You speak of sacrifice as if it were some holy thing," she said, voice low. "Not something ugly. We'll both end that way, I know it. Maybe sooner than either of us would choose." She pressed her palm harder against his chest, as if she could will his heart to stay beating.

"But not tonight."

where: anywhere between eterna or caer glas or even the astorian border

when:  before riandur's letter, like even a good week before said letter

note: as discussed !

So often the cambion did not know what to say and he had allowed Ruya to walk away when she had clearly still been reeling from the affects of the Kossith. Even the cambion could feel remiss to have simply watched her walk away but the South had needed him and he could not follow. This time when Eino spoke of goodbyes there was a clear heaviness in the air; he would head to Astoria once more, aside another legionnaire, but that hardly made the missive any easier.

When news of Ardentgate's fall reached Eterna, Rüya could no longer bury herself in surgeries. The Blight was spreading faster than anyone could contain it, and every attempt to keep the city habitable crumbled beneath the rot. She'd clawed her way back to control over the months, but even her magic faltered against the sickness corrupting those who remained.

Seeing Eino amidst the horror was an unexpected, but welcome surprise. He stood as steady as she remembered, though circumstance had etched deep shadows beneath his eyes. The title friend stung more than it soothed. Her throat constricted and she hated herself for wanting to reach for him. Instead, Rüya slowly twisted the golden ring on her finger, as if the small movement might anchor her to the camp's makeshift floor.

"I've lived my life surrounded by ghosts," she whispered a moment later. "I don’t want you to become one of them."

So often people were shoved behind this invisible barrier Eino had established within himself; far, far away, where nothing could ever wrought harm upon them. Even the Legion, this bastion of defense, made of surly and strong-armed people much akin to himself, were people Eino allowed at this distance, separated starkly from him. It was a necessary drought, something of a repercussion for being born of this tenebrous ilk. When he was simply a child he was told how much devastation his kind could bring upon the world and he vowed never to indulge, only to wash away the sins of bleak darkness established in this world and the strong threads which tied them here.

The ocean still wafted from the witch, salt and survival, this testament to what Rüya had endured and what she could still overcome, even after sapping only a fraction of this tangible weave of magic within him.

Rüya shivered and stumbled, this shock difference that was this warm, beating body of someone he cared for, now carving that distance which he so often was the one to instate. With this he understood, those of their kind, of their position in this world, were not privy to these moments of tenderness spliced between the violence. It simply wasn't what they had been made for.

Her gaze lingered on him longer than it should've, drinking in the sharp lines of his face, the dark curl of hair at his temple, the way the dawn light caught in his eyes. She wanted to tell him she would return safely, if only to spite the demons who'd violated her body and soul. She wanted to beg him not to surrender himself so easily, not when she'd only just found him alive on these shores.

Rüya had no such luxury. Her throat ached, but she swallowed the words, burying them like all the other selfish wishes she had no right to keep.

"I won't forget your kindness."

Duty coiled sharp in her gut, louder than longing. Survivors—there had to be other survivors. Every second wasted on her hesitation meant another lost. Her legs still trembled, but she turned and scooped up the cambion's cloak.

Do let me know…

All Rüya could give him was her retreating back, a silhouette bent to the tide.

He was more warrior than conduit of arcana within the Legion, and Eino hadn't been sure what to expect next, yet he trusted the Sanctuary all the same. Eino could feel this tether of a line reaching out into the dark ichor of his blood, pulling at whatever makeup was within; slow and subtle until it stretched to some feeling of ice within his boiling, infernal blood. Something mild affecting him, whereas Rüya seemed haunted by the very action, knees buckling, a gasp escaping her lips . The cambion's arms outstretched before Rüya could even make the gasping request, her hand placed still on his chest, though his heart remained steady and calm throughout whatever arcana tormented her currently.

Eino was no witch, but he'd been around plenty within the Legion, one in particular who often leeched magic from her very own lifeforce; he had to presume this was all apart of the process, however guttural it sounded within the moment.

Then it was over. Rüya managed a breath and nodded. Her curls stuck to her cheeks, soaked and tangled, but she was alive. She didn't say what this meant, to see his face after thinking she'd die alone. She didn't have to. The truth of it lived in the damp press of her palm, where his heat still bled into her skin.

Rüya felt her heart stutter. Her body knew it would rather stay here, tucked into the steadiness of Eino's arms. She was still healing, but she had no right to comfort after what she'd done. Carefully, the witch drew back. Her injuries ached, but that was endurable. It was the cold that struck her worst, the sudden absence of him.

Rüya shivered as the air rushed back between them, wind licking at the curve of her neck where his breath had just been. Her hand lingered at the edge of his tunic as if her fingers hadn't quite received the message. Then, with the smallest sigh, she let it fall to her side. She wanted to say thank you. She wanted to say I'm sorry. She wanted, foolishly, to press her mouth to his.

"Yes," she whispered instead, her voice hoarse. "I should take my leave."

Now, unwittingly caught in the snare of this woman and her prey, a Vanguard, he once again found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Clearly this woman was a survivor; why would he be so reactionary otherwise? Silent so as not to give himself away while this witch tore the Vanguard apart with as little consequence as a child battering some doll made of corn husks and twigs, he considered how several lifespans ago he had wished the don that same white armor and cape. Instead, he had found himself clad in the black armor of the Legion until that served him no longer. Ophir wasn’t sure which fate was worse than the other; all he knew was he was glad to be his own man. 

When the smoke thinned and the freshly minted corpse stopped twitching, Ophir approached, convinced that this woman had managed to collect herself once more.  “Now, that was one hell of a party trick you just performed there. I don’t suppose you’re inclined to teach me how to dispatch a man so fast. Poor bastard didn’t even have a chance for last rites,” he said, the expression on his face a hybrid of a cheeky grin and an entertained smirk. “Quite a trigger finger on you, isn’t there?” His hands were buried in the pockets of the leather duster he wore, otherwise he might have gestured his harmlessness to her with raised hands, palms facing her. “Lost in these woods? This is a terribly dangerous stretch of the world these days. And I think it’s just been made one thing perfectly clear to you: even if you weren’t looking for trouble, you surely found it.”

The Tower didn't teach witches to leash their power, but to breathe with it. Now magic raged through her veins, untamed and lethal. Precision had always been her creed. Ever since control had been torn from her fingers as a child, she’d clung to it. It was her tether, and the Kossith had ripped it from her—just as they had from everyone aboard their cursed ship.

He said something… light words, a joke maybe. Rüya's brow furrowed. Whoever he was, death didn’t seem to bother him much. Dispatch was a neat word for murder.

"Pretty words wouldn't have prepared his soul for the afterlife," she muttered, crouching to inspect the body. Limp, pallid, mouth parted mid-scream—she didn’t care. She flung a scrap of cape over his face, leaving his milky eyes wide open. Let them stare into the Abyss forever, she thought bitterly. The witch's hatred for zealots had been carved into her long ago. While her lapse in control rattled her, she wouldn't mourn this loss.

While the man before her didn’t immediately strike her as a threat, trust was a fool’s luxury. When Rüya stood, she made no move to bridge the space between them. "Not all who wander are lost," she said, with a vague motion toward the clearing. Wind stirred the loose strands of hair around her face, but she didn't brush them away, "But I am trying to make it back to Eterna without another blade at my throat."

"As for trouble…" Her lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. "We’ve got history. Where are you headed?"

The Queen's Station was the last place the witcher should find herself; swarming with people and arcana alike, it felt as though her senses were being continually attacked after what the Kossith had brought out of her. This animalistic violence, this sense of self that was long since shed until they had forced her to wear it again and hurt any who inspired a breath of liberation or rebellion. It was unfortunate that she, yet again, had the dragon to thank for saving her from some sense of doom and her face scrunched at the mental reminder.

Rüya seemed so absorbed, struck with similar feelings that Celaya seemed plagued by; crowds would likely rattle each of them for some time, but Celaya always managed to swallow her anxiety and fear, even if it cut her on the way down. Fear was the mind-killer and it would never have any control over her.

"I was Akanis' friend," Rüya answered at last, though the word felt too small for what they were. "And no, I'm not Queensguard. I'm a member of the Court." It felt strange, discussing titles in the epicentre of this mundane chaos. Olympian, advisor, witch, prodigy, disgrace, healer, rahaat…

She shook her head, recalling the night Akanis first spoke of Celaya. It was the last time she saw him alive. Her reaction had been far from pleasant. In the Olympian's experience, the Witchers of Iskaldrik were ruthless—blunt instruments forged to carve through magic. From her time in the Kingdom, she remembered how mere whispers were enough to summon them. How the bravest rushed to protect their families, only to be found strewn in pieces the next morning.

I'm going to help her, cause I’ll be damned if I stand in the way of someone trying to make changes for the better.

Akanis' words rolled through her mind. "He told me you can't remember your past, is that true?" With every fibre of her being, Rüya wished she could erase their last weeks aboard the dreadnaught.

Prisoners, survivors, had continued to trickle into the city in the weeks following the Dreadnaught explosion. He'd been among the first, fortunately - it'd given him time to adjust back to his normal life, if such a thing were even possible. The new scars littering his body ached whenever he looked in the mirror, even though they'd closed. Even though the Kossith were nowhere in sight, and he was often within the well-guarded confines of the Tower, sometimes he felt as though Raksha was still watching him, her ghostly hand wrapped around his throat in place of a sul'dam.

He spent much of his energy simply willing such thoughts from his brain so he could focus on his job. The strategy worked better some days than others. Today, he was struck with a painful reminder of his torment when a familiar Witch came into a view, walking the pathway to the Tower's entrance. He hadn't been himself the last time he'd seen Rüya, nearly driven mad by Raksha's torment, and from what he remembered, he hadn't been very kind to the woman who stitched him back up every time Raksha tore him a part. It was neither of their faults, but guilt and a slight pang of resentment lingered all the same.

He had to remind himself he was Kuno once more, and however he felt about the Witch, they were home now, and could start a new. "Welcome home, Rüya." He said, rather formally, but with a small and kind smile. "We've been awaiting your return, as have you, I'm sure."

The climb to the Tower had always been steep, but today it felt endless. The wind bit at her exposed arms, carrying the scent of crushed sage and lilac. The path curved like a question mark around the hillside, past her beloved greenhouse. Below, mist clung to the lower ridges, shrouding the bay in silver. She wasn’t the same young witch who'd once climbed this trail, fearful and untested. The Tower was home.

When the stones gave way to a long stretch of ancient steps, she saw him. Kuno stood at the outer post, his frame unmistakable even beneath the Guardian’s uniform. For a moment, Rüya froze, her heart hammering in her chest.

"You survived," she replied, her voice cracking as she dumped her satchel on the ground. "That’s… more than I let myself hope for." Without thinking, she threw her arms around him. "Thank you for protecting us," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. They’d been imprisoned beside each other. Shackled, starved, and broken beneath the decks of the ship. Rüya remembered the sound of his voice in the dark, speaking just enough to keep her tethered.

"My apologies," she said, letting go abruptly. “It wasn’t my intention to disturb you. Truth be told, I wouldn’t blame you for wishing I hadn’t come back."

The birds cry in the sky, the sun beats down upon her sand crusted skin, her hair is wet from the water that healed her and she is safe in the arms of Rüya, a sudden desire of wanting to kiss the witch burns her cheeks but the moment is too perfect to mess up.

Climbing to her feet, she offers Rüya a hand. There's a dimple in the cheek of her smile and she feels strong, she had always felt tethered to the Earth as a woodcutter and a wolf from the Ironwood forest but she kept afloat from an horrific Dreadnought sinking and she survived by being a sea-wolf.

She had sold those with blight in their veins to the slaughter and yet the strength of the joining, the blighted blood that ran through her veins made her a strong fighter. "A gust of wind sounds nice, I wouldn't mind taking a nap." She was certainly exhausted though, and was ready to fade into a wolf dream.

Pain coiled through her abdomen as she stood—each shift of muscle felt like dragging wire through an open wound. Wincing, she brushed the sand from her skirt. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous of your healing abilities." In truth, before their capture, the Olympian never would've had an issue undoing the internal damage inflicted by the explosion.

Leaning into Luna’s side, Rüya caught the flush blooming along her cheekbones. She didn’t comment, just let her gaze rest there a moment, her mind too tired to trust what it saw. Maybe it was warmth returning after the sea. Maybe not.

Without a word, she led the wolf toward the abandoned cabin at the edge of the mainland, the salt-wind catching their hair like tattered flags. More than anything, Rüya was simply grateful they were both breathing. "Thank you," Rüya murmured, almost to herself, as they crossed the threshold. "For still being here."

Eino only possessed magic to the sense of his own abyssal transformation; scaly skin, bat-like wings, horns which protruded from his head - he knew little of true arcana, but even he understood the weight of blood when it came to a witch and their spellwork. The cambion nodded slowly, how often he was told of his strengths, when all he ever saw his cambion nature as, was a susceptibility that he continued to fight against each and every day. Joining the Legion had only hindered him further, adamant whispers spilling forth into his quotidian life, taunting him as though they were divine truths that were unavoidable if he did not walk this path of darkspawn slayer.

The weight of what Rüya carried was clearly heavier than when he'd last known her, so much had been transmogrified within this world, so much darkness further leeched upon it. Eino was certain that Rüya had continued to be a Sanctuary for dozens, hundreds even, but such salvation and help for others often came at a grueling price. He could see it now, even without the influence of the Kossith and their a'dam, the exhaustion edged with a certain flare of wisdom.

The witch leaned in, her temple brushing his collarbone. There was no incantation, no ritual. Only breath and pressure. With as much focus as she could muster, Rüya reached past bone and blood, and hooked her will around the energy coursing beneath. When the cambion's magic met hers, she almost buckled. "Don't let me fall," she gasped, not trusting her legs to hold her through what came next.

The shattered threads of her magic began to stir. She anchored them low in her abdomen, teeth gritted as she located the deepest laceration: a slow internal bleed pooling beneath her liver. It felt like performing surgery in the dark—no instruments, no anaesthesia, just intuition and pain. In an effort to stay conscious, she synced her breathing to the rise and fall of Eino's shoulders.

Giving up wasn't an option. Those she'd healed aboard the dreadnaught had endured much worse. It was up to the Olympian to make things right. Rüya buried a scream as hundreds of microscopic channels of light ignited, sealing flesh in their wake. Her body shook, but the agony began to ebb.

"It worked," she choked, opening her eyes. They were still connected, and for the first time in weeks, she felt whole.