Maxwell

  “I told Sarah of my plans today - of my forthcoming expedition into the Darkenlands, and my eventual confrontation with the Corrupted One.

  Much shouting and screaming ensued. She accused me of abandoning her and my son to go chase after glory and a valiant death on the battlefield. That despite the peace I have found here in Hilfen, it will never be enough. For I am a broken man at heart, with a thirst for blood and battle that will never truly be slaked.

  Perhaps she is right. Perhaps this whole endeavor is naught but the product of avarice, and pride. Perhaps I am broken, in ways that can never be mended. And yet…

  I must do this. The safety of all depend on me facing this evil. My dreams cannot be made manifest. I will not allow it. Not now, not ever. And if I must pay the ultimate price… then so be it.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2155 Post-Separation (PS).

  The Medicinal Quarters were located further up the central tree, nestled within a large hollow that had been converted into an assortment of chambers. At the front was the general reception area, complete with seating arrangements for waiting patients, wooden tabletops and counters, and a large emblem carved directly into the wall, portraying a fig leaf with veins running across its surface. It was the same emblem that the healers wore on their robes, in the form of a metal pin attached at the chest.

  Hangings of knitted greenery separated each section, to offer both the patients and the healers some privacy. Similar gemstones to the ones I had seen embedded in the walls on our elevator ride provided light to see by, and despite being situated inside of a tree, the space was surprisingly clean, and smelled strongly of sap and antiseptic.

  Our group was escorted right past the front desk as soon as we arrived. Apparently, the healers here had been told to expect us, as they had already prepared a room towards the back of the Quarters. It was not a particularly notable space, consisting of a few cupboards, two stumps fashioned into simplistic chairs, and a bed with a feathered mattress.

  The healers deposited Amelie’s unconscious form onto said bed, working with haste to remove her clothes and inspect her wounds. I dutifully turned to look in a different direction, feeling out-of-place amidst this crowd of medical professionals.

  One of the healers must have noticed my vacillation, for she soon approached me with a serious expression on her face.

  "Your friend is strong, but she has pushed herself beyond her limits. She needs rest and time to recover,” she said, nodding towards Amelie’s scantily-clad form, which was growing more and more naked by the second. “We have prepared a separate chamber for you. Follow me.”

  And then, she walked off, disappearing beneath the curtain with a quickness. I lingered in the room for a breath longer, wanting to protest, to insist that Amelie needed my attention more. Yet, I knew with certainty that I was rapidly nearing my own breaking point, and that try as I might, I would soon fall into a comatose state, not to reawaken until my body had gotten the rest it so desperately needed.

  As such, I soon drifted after the healer, passing through the curtain into a hallway lined with a half-dozen similar entrances. I spotted my guide a moment later, standing at the far end, where the corridor met with another. She struck an impatient pose where she stood, arms folded in front of her chest, fingers tapping against her forearm.

  “Well?” she said, looking at me. “Are you coming?”

  “U-Uhh… Yes, of course. Sorry,” I said, hurrying after her.

  She took me back past the front desk again, down several long hallways lined with a number of occupied chambers where muted groans and sighs of pain could be heard leaking out from behind drawn hangings. The healer moved quickly. I tried my best to keep up, but my fatigue was starting to catch up with me, making each step feel heavier than the last.

  Before long, we arrived at a small room tucked away in a quiet corner of the tree. The healer pushed aside a curtain and motioned for me to enter. Inside, I found modest accommodations, similar to those in Amelie’s room. There was a simple bed with a feathered mattress, a small wooden table with a pitcher of water and a cup, and a simplistic coat-rack on which to hang my clothes.

  “Rest here,” the healer instructed, gesturing towards the bed. “I will be back shortly to see to your wounds.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said, too exhausted to argue. I sank onto the bed, feeling the weight of my fatigue fully. My body ached in protest, lamenting the relentless hardships I had put it through. And as the last of the Astra seeped from my skin, I felt the void beckon, urging me to let go, to float freely on formless seas.

  I must have dozed off, for when next I opened my eyes, my clothes had been removed, and I had bandages wrapped around my arms. A cold sweat had taken hold of me in my sleep, and there was a terrible pounding in my head, making a mess of my thoughts.

  I promptly closed my eyes again, and drifted off.

  /-0-\

  Consciousness returned to me in gradual passing, the line between wakefulness and slumber wavering thin and narrow. I waxed and waned in the borderlands separating the physical from the immaterial, my perception torn between those two most opposite of shores.

  It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, for there were no windows by which to judge daylight. There was likewise no clock or time-keeping device in sight, further obscuring the amount of hours I had wasted away in dormancy.

  It was not before the healer returned with a breakfast tray that I at last forced myself into a state of general lucidity, blinking away the blurriness of sleep as I dragged my body up into a sitting position.

  “Good morning,” I croaked, my throat parched of moisture.

  “Morning sir,” the healer said, placing the tray on my lap before moving to readjust my pillow. “I trust your sleep was rejuvenating?”

  “I feel like a wrung-out cloth,” I said. “How long was I out?”

  “You were asleep for a little over three days, sir.”

  “Ahh, I see. That makes se-... Wait, did you say three days?”

  “Yes sir,” she said. “I was told not to wake you, as you needed the rest.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “I suppose I did.”

  Having received an answer to the most pressing of my queries, I busied myself with studying the contents of the tray placed on my lap. It encompassed a surprisingly wide array of dishes, arranged in neat rows upon the surface of the platter.

  Slices of ripe fruit glistening with dew. A bowl of hearty porridge sprinkled with nuts and sweetened with honey. Freshly baked bread still warm from the oven, served with a helping of butter. A small pot of tea, wafting faintly of ginger and lemon.

  My stomach set to growling at the mere sight of it. Hunger long neglected reared its head, waking to life with frightful verve.

  I picked up a piece of bread and took a tentative bite. It proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back, as I promptly let slip a soft groan from somewhere in the back of my throat, and began shoving food into my mouth.

  I ate with the ardent fervor of a man on the brink of starvation. I had not realized how hungry I truly was before that first bite. Now that the metaphorical dam had been breached, I was helpless to resist the call.

  Some scant few minutes later, breakfast had been devoured down to the last crumb. The tea followed shortly afterwards, gulped down in eager mouthfuls to wet my throat and slake my thirst.

  All the while, the healer watched on, saying nothing as I gorged myself on the meal. Then, when there was nothing left but empty plates and a drained pot, she moved to take the tray from me, her pale hands brushing against mine as she did.

  “Your arm,” she said, eyeing the light-blue skin with its elongated fingers and strange markings. “What happened to it?”

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  “Oh, this?” I asked, following her gaze to my abnormal limb. “It’s, uhh… a long story.”

  “We have time,” she said.

  “W-Well…” I said, taken aback by the insistence. “It’s not as exciting as it looks. Just the product of a really stupid decision, to be honest.”

  “I have been a healer at the Medicinal Quarters for nigh on a decade now, and I’ve never seen an arm like that before,” she said, cocking her head ever so slightly to one side. “Is it painted? Or inflicted by some exotic variation of gangrene, perhaps?”

  “No, it’s… not that.” I shook my head. “Look, I’ll gladly tell you the full story some other time, but right now, I have to know how my friend is doing. Can you take me to her?”

  The healer frowned, clearly displeased with the sudden change of topic. Yet, she answered me all the same, whether out of professionalism or civility.

  “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I can. Get dressed, then come find me in the reception hall. I will take you to her.”

  “Thank you,” I said, with sincerity. “And thank you for the food, as well. It was delicious.”

  She gave a polite nod, before disappearing beneath the curtain with the tray in her hands. I promptly set about the task of getting dressed, finding my clothes in a neat pile near the foot of the bed. To my surprise, they had been washed and rinsed of filth, though some stains yet lingered. Faint remnants of battles fought, and blood spilled.

  The only thing I needed now was a proper bath, and I would almost feel human again.

  Alas, there was little time for such indulgences. I had been separated from Amelie for too long as it was. The need to see her burned bright in my chest, dragging me to my feet despite the protestations of my fatigued body. I would not be able to rest until I knew she was safe.

  I found the healer in the reception hall, tending to a middle-aged man with burn marks on his left arm. The wound looked bad. It oozed a strange, yellow-tinted fluid mixed with blood. The healer was busy wiping it down with a clear, gel-like substance when I approached.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, looking up from her work. “I was informed that your friend is already up and about. She should be just outside, taking some fresh air.”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s… surprising. But thank you. I’ll go see her now.”

  “You do that,” the healer said, turning her attention back to the wounded man again. I gathered that my continued presence here was neither particularly wanted nor required, and so made for the oaken doors that would take me back outside into the city proper.

  Harsh sunlight clashed against my sensitive eyes as soon as I stepped foot outside, the brightness momentarily blinding contrasted against the dim confines of the tree’s interior. I blinked a few times to clear my vision, my nostrils taking in the scent of damp earth and wildflowers.

  The view that awaited was stunning. A vast sea of clouds unfurled before me, set against cobalt skies and a golden sun. Far below, green treetops pierced through the cloud-cover, reaching skyward to challenge the heavens, yet falling short of measuring up to the behemoths that constituted the base pillars of Fogveil. In the distance, a mountain range loomed large and extensive, its snow-capped hats glistening with pinpricks of reflected light.

  And as I turned my gaze downwards, I spotted Amelie sitting on a bench at the edge of the platform, her posture relaxed yet contemplative. She was staring out at the great expanse, lost in reverie as the wind ruffled her hair and the sun caressed her skin. And the sunlight truly loved her; casting itself about her slender form in brilliant rays filtering in through the canopy above, giving prominence to her raven hair and soft features.

  Battered and bruised, with bandages on her arms and cuts on her skin, she wore her injuries with pride. And thus, I had no choice but to accept that she was, perhaps, the single most beautiful thing I had ever seen, a perfect juxtaposition between fragility and resilient strength.

  I approached quietly, not wanting to disturb her moment of peace. As I neared, she turned her head, sensing my presence.

  “Good morning, Maxwell,” she said, a faint smile forming on her lips. The sight of it nearly made me go weak at the knees. “I am glad to see that you are well.”

  “I could say the same about you,” I said, taking a seat beside her on the bench. “You were in a right state the last time I saw you.”

  “Yes, well…” she started. “It was a desperate situation.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That it was.”

  We observed an amicable silence in the wake of that statement, the tranquil ambiance of the city washing over us as we drank deep of the sun and the morning breeze. I could scarce recall the last time we had been afforded such halcyon respite. It was a welcome change from the blood and sweat.

  “I was worried about you, you know,” I said, breaking the silence. “When I saw you in those woods… I knew. You don’t cast a spell like that and walk away unscathed.”

  Amelie’s gaze wavered, and she looked down at her bandaged hands, flexing her fingers as if testing the strength left in them. “I am sorry,” she said. “It was not my intent to scare you… but it was either that, or our lives.”

  “I know,” I said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “But you need to take better care of yourself. I… I can’t afford to lose you.”

  She sighed, leaning back against the bench and closing her eyes, streaks of sunlight painting spots of white upon her skin.

  “Maybe I should have listened to you after all, when you cautioned me against these woods,” she said. “It seems all I do of late is lead us from one perilous situation to the next.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” I frowned. “It’s not your fault we keep running into trouble. In fact, if it wasn’t for you, I’m pretty sure I would’ve been dead thrice over by now.”

  “And if it was not for you, I would have met my end in those woods,” she said, turning to look at me. There was a strange tenderness in her eyes, part affection and part reluctance. “So thank you, Maxwell. For saving my life.”

  In an instant, all pretense of composure evaporated from my mind like morning dew beneath the fierce rays of the rising sun, leaving only raw, unfiltered passion in its wake. The strength of it frightened me, and so I averted my eyes to avoid meeting that beautiful gaze of hers.

  “U-Uhh, yeah, sure,” I said, blinking rapidly in an attempt to quell this most rebellious uprising of emotion. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  A gentle smile tugged at her lips, as she scooted closer to me on the bench. And then, she lowered her head onto my shoulder, resting it in the crook of my neck. As if my struggle for control was nothing but a joke to her, one she was intent on spoiling.

  I did my best not to tense up beneath her touch. I wanted her to feel comfortable, after all. Accepted in every which way, without room for doubt or hesitation. And yet…

  How am I supposed to resist this? I thought, as the scent of her filled me both within and without. Is it really okay for me to give in? To surrender to these feelings, this moment in time where the world stands still and it is only us?

  No answer seemed forthcoming. There was only her, and the soft rhythm of her breathing, and the beating of my heart that seemed to echo beyond the confines of my body.

  “I dreamt of home,” she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “In those days I was out. It felt so real, so… visceral. I could all but smell the sea breeze, hear the gulls...”

  My inner turmoil stilled as I listened to her speak, the sound of her voice ataractic to my frayed nerves.

  “What was it like?” I asked, my voice equally soft, as if anything louder might shatter the delicate moment we were sharing.

  "Beautiful,” she said, eyes distant, lost in the memory. “The cliffs covered in heather, waves crashing upon the shoreline in gentle sheets. It was… peaceful, in a way I have not felt for a long time. And I was with my family. My mother was there, and my father…”

  She paused, the hint of a wistful smile playing upon her lips. “We were all together, and for a while, it felt like nothing had changed. Like the weight of the world had yet to hit us, and my mother had yet to… to…”

  I gave her time to search for the words, as a strong urge welled up in my heart, one I was all but helpless to resist. Slowly, and with great care, I placed an arm around her shoulder and pushed her closer to me. It took all my courage to do so, but my restraint had already been stretched thin as it was, and in that moment, I simply wanted to hold her.

  My efforts seemed welcome, at least. She let slip a deep breath as she rested her weight against me, the feel of her body both tantalizingly unknown yet strangely familiar.

  “I am tired, Maxwell,” she said. “Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of losing people that I care about. It feels like that is all I have done these past few years. Would it really be so selfish of me, then, to desire a break?”

  “No,” I said, resting my chin against the top of her head. “No, it wouldn’t be.”

  “Do you think…” she started, then paused, as if unsure she wanted to speak the words.

  “… Yes?” I pressed, sensing her hesitation.

  “Do you think we could stay here for a while?” she said. “In this city, where the sights are beautiful and the people happy?”

  My heart jumped for joy at her words.

  “I think that sounds like a good idea,” I said, a pleasant shiver coursing through me. “A very good idea, in fact.”

  We sat there for a while longer, wrapped in the stillness of the moment. The world beyond our little bench seemed to fade just then, leaving only us, and the promise of a future we could yet shape. After all, who would not desire a life free of struggle, in a place as divine as Fogveil?

  Sadly, reality was soon in the coming, and it arrived with subtle intrusion, carried on the breeze that whispered through the trees. Footsteps sounded behind us, drawing ever closer. I glanced over my shoulder to see an elderly man approaching our bench, wearing robes marked with the same fig leaf emblem as the healer from before. He came to a halt at a respectable distance, before clearing his throat to draw our attention.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said, dipping his head in a shallow bow. “But I have news regarding your recovery, Miss Harthway.”

  Amelie shifted on the bench, sitting up but still leaning against me. “Yes?” she asked, her tone at once apprehensive.

  The healer stepped closer, his eyes filled with a mix of professional detachment and genuine concern. “Your recovery has been remarkably fast for one so grievously exhausted,” he began. “Yet, I must advise caution. The magicks you wielded exacted a significant toll on your body. Further use at such intensity without proper rest and recuperation could have terrible consequences.”

  Amelie nodded, absorbing the healer’s words. “I understand,” she said. “Rest assured I am fully aware of the limits of my flesh. I have no intentions of repeating that little stunt any time soon.”

  “Be that as it may…” the healer said, his mouth drawn in a strict line. “I am afraid there is a possibility that you may have already done permanent damage to your body.”

  “… What?” Amelie frowned.

  “Whilst our healers have little experience with treating Wielders and Wielding-related injuries…” the healer said. “We were… let us say, encouraged… by a third party to perform some preliminary tests on your internal organs whilst you were sleeping off your exhaustion. And I am afraid the results were… less than pleasing.”

  Amelie’s expression shifted from confusion to concern, her body growing tense against mine. I felt her grip tighten on my arm, and knew she was bracing herself for troubling news.

  “What kind of damage?” she asked, her voice steady despite the underlying note of fear.

  The healer sighed, his aged eyes taking on a hint of pity.

  “The use of such intense magicks placed an immense strain on your internals. Greater, even, than they should have been able to withstand,” he said. “As such, after performing our tests and reviewing the results, we have reason to believe that… your body may no longer be capable of bearing children.”

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