#aldis

Not her fingers numb and clumsy around the sword hilt. She knew how to fight with a longsword and shield, had practiced for bells. The body did too, she could feel the muscle memory wanting to respond, but it was sluggish, was stiff, was wrong…

As she desperately tried to defend against oncoming frenzied tempered, she randomly recalled the fight against the Alacran in the Quicksand long ago, Aldis calling instruction and advice, setting the example as his blade flashed. She recalled how it seemed to get easier and easier, once she fell into the rhythm Mylla had taught her, that Aldis repeated.

She pretended he was there now, laughing and cheering, giving those same instructions again, reminding her how to place the feet, when to swing from the shoulder, when to just use the wrist.

By the time she found the survivors trying to defend themselves from the tempered, the body was responding with remembered confidence, her control more certain. She could do this; she could use this form, chase after Zenos, save her friends—

—

Everything hurt.

Pain exploded through the body as she tried to make it move. It couldn’t stand. The stench of burnt ceruleum and charred flesh filled its nose, made it want to retch.

If she was herself, she could channel healing magics, could get to her feet and keep going…

If she was herself, she wouldn’t be crawling forward like this. Tears stung and filled the eyes, and she briefly wondered what color they were.

Zenos was in her body, and had to be halfway to camp by now. He wouldn’t fool them for long, but long enough to hurt, long enough to kill…

She kept dragging forward, letting the body weep from her frustration and fear, sobbing, the release fueling her motions, building her anger.

By some miracle, she found one of the medkits, its magic potions intact.

—

It was not her voice screaming at Zenos.

Not her body she slammed into her own, to stop him from hurting her friends.

He had so much more control over her form than she had on this one—how often had he violated the laws of nature to do this?

Didn’t matter. She didn’t care. What mattered was stopping him and getting herself back.

Was that him or her crouching before her dazed and useless form? She seemed to see both as vision swam.

Gods, she needed to shut Fandaniel up sooner rather than later.

—

As the others got ready to assault the Tower of Babil, she slipped away from concerned friends and into the room where they had put the body.

He had been a young Garlean man, utterly average. Brown hair. Tan skin. Bluish eyes, perhaps; hard to tell through the film of death. Were the gray hairs frosting his hair natural, or caused by his murder and subsequent abuse of his corpse? His third eye seemed deflated somehow, the keratin cracked and dulled. His body was oddly well preserved, though mottled with bruising and burns and cuts that could never heal, a precise sword slice that indicated how he had died. A soldier’s lifetime of scars underlay those more recent wounds.

Who had he been? What had he done? Why this body? Had Zenos found him alive? The original killing blow suggested it. There was nothing in the gear the body had worn to indicate who he had been.

“Whatever crimes you committed in life, your remains deserved better than this,” she whispered, covering the corpse again.

She turned to leave, and found herself confronted with a mirror.