for those we have lost.

Minfilia's gaze, which had become sharp as Anwen had turned to leave, rises, softens again in understanding. If there's a small bite of guilt that gnaws at her arm at being treated with such care even after the Antecedent had been quite dismissive, she doesn't show it in the warm, spreading smile.

 "I shall make sure to do so. Thank you, Anwen."

What a pleasant comrade and future ally they've met.

And still, it seems, the responsibility of burdening falls upon her.

Ryne has had no small amount of experience in conceding her will to the will of others, and if this lancer would prefer that she follow him — well, then, that's all there is to it, no? For the present, at least, they appear to have a common goal — and in this case, the goal is hers. So that's — good, is it not? That she has received immediate assistance?

(It is the will of Hydaelyn, she thinks. It has to be.)

warm. she tried to envision what that might feel like, to make it something tangible, something real. no family to speak of, as far as she knew, and precious few memories to call upon. she remembered someone hugging her – a mother’s love, a father’s pride ( albeit one tinged with worry, always watching the windows as if waiting for something or someone to be at their doorstep ). warm meant safety, meant not having to run in circles for a time, at least. 

she liked that idea, even if the thought of being somewhere so crowded put her on edge. but that could be discussed later – if he seemed sure of this place, sure that they wouldn’t be betrayed by those living there, then it would be enough for now. “wary or no, i’ll be glad to see some friendly faces. how long will we stay there?”

      Thancred hums. “You know? I’m not too sure.”

      He’d have to check with the illustrious Exarch. Terse as their relationship may be, he can’t help but concede as to their similar goals — both to find potential ways for him to go back to the Source and ways to end this damnable heat.

      (And ways, he admits to only himself, to save Minfilia. Both, if it could be helped.)

     𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭,  had  lain  a  broken  man  upon  pillows  and  sheets,  heart  and  soul  still  tender  for  fires  that’d  blistered  through  his  being.  And  in  his  weakness  and  humiliation  had  the  broken  man  so  boldly  declared  to  comrades  and  allies  alike:  ‘my  hunt  is  at  an  end’.  Now,  with  time  placed  between  past  and  present,  does  he  wonder  of  the  truth  of  his  assertion.  No  prey  has  he  left  to  stalk,  yet  still  he’d  wandered  in  search  of  something,  some  meaning  to  a  life  bereft  of  purpose.  

        For  even  in  discarding  old  titles  and  burdens,  there  can  be  no  denying  what  he’d  forged  himself  to  be:  Ishgard’s  greatest  weapon.  A  warrior,  a  hunter,  and  ever  will  he  be  such.  His  sharp  and  keen  gaze  noting  the  wavering  within  her  eyes,  the  turmoil  in  her  features.  Oft  has  the  slightest  shift  in  another’s  posture  been  all  the  warning  he’d  have  ere  the  coming  of  a  fatal  blow  had  he  not  been  attentive  in  the  first  place.  Now  does  he  espy  the  uncertainty  in  her  gait  even  as  he  follows  her  to  the  rock  and  kneels  beside  her,  searching  through  his  pack  for  his  supplies.  

    He  pauses  only  when  he  begins  to  unclasp  his  gauntlets  for  better  movement  for  what  he  knows  will  be  no  easy  work.  Such  a  question  he’d  expected,  for  what  youth  would  want  to  make  their  way  alone  across  a  star  they  know  so  little?  Then  he  begins  to  pour  alcohol  upon  her  wound,  heedless  of  how  it  may  sting.  ‘Tis  better  to  be  quick  about  it  when  tending  to  an  injury  such  as  this  lest  hesitation  would  have  her  forestall  what’s  necessary.  

        ❝ Your  path  would  be  a  weeks  long  journey  and  I’ve  not  a  mind  to  return  from  whence  I  came. ❞  In  truth  he’s  only  half  aware  of  the  Warrior  of  Light’s  current  whereabouts,  though  he’s  listened  enough  to  conversations  across  the  linkpearl  the  Scions  had  given  him  that  he  could  chart  his  friend’s  path  with  ease  if  he  felt  the  need.  

    With  the  blood  and  dirt  cleaned  away,  he  begins  to  unravel  the  bandages,  wrapping  them  tight  about  her  leg.  All  military  precision  as  he’d  been  taught  in  his  days  of  service  and  only  with  a  sigh  do  his  hands  slow  and  become  gentler  in  their  ministrations.  He  sits  back  from  his  work,  peering  up  at  her  and  the  task  that  she  has  laid  across  his  path.   ❝ For  what  reason  did  you  make  such  a  perilous  journey  to  this  star?  Tell  me  as  much  and  only  then  I  might  reconsider. ❞

      Thancred tended to her wounds in a similar manner, and it is something of a difficult task to not interpret this stranger’s silence as brusque disapproval. Ryne weathers the treatment of her leg as she had in the First: with a hitch of her breath at the stinging pain and then a stubborn quiet thereafter, disregarding how it makes her eyes water and her nose run.

      (Not for the first time does she bemoan that she’d not taken to the precise bits of conjury quite as well as she’d hoped — though Master M— though Y’shtola had tried — or to the stars, as Urianger had taught. The ability is there, said Urianger, and Thancred had said there’s no time. We have to go.

       So they’d gone.

        It was... easier, she thinks, to believe in herself, with Minfilia’s soul guiding her along the path. Holding her hand in the back of her mind.)

       Still — when all is said and done, Ryne is still puzzling over his previous words. She unclenches her fists, which had stayed at her sides in an effort to appear unbothered, and traces a tentative finger up the bandages. They’re well-set. Practiced. Were Thancred’s as practiced?

       “I was. Called,” she starts to say, but then her initial train of thought overflows the question. “—I fear — I’ve been misunderstood,” she says instead, glancing at her leg, and then up at him. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you on your journey, nor make it longer than it ought to be.”

      The idea of being yet another burden wilts something in her lungs.