58th Spring 218 - very early morning, after the defeat of the Eel
Infirmary - The Beauty
Vanja
The infirmary is dark. Vanja’s eye adjusts quickly to the lack of light, the runewords on her arm working just as well as the ones she had written on her shield. That was good. It seemed it had been the words, and not Jorung itself, that had granted her that power.
Bax can’t see in the dark though. Vanja shuts her own eyes, for an instant. Whoever Sylas was, he had Bax’s body.
Vanja spins her hand through the air and trails a stream of light behind it. With a snap of her wrist, she breaks the light away from her hand and pushes it toward the low ceiling of the room. The light expands to fill the space, shifting and undulating like a ribbon caught by wind, and casting a soft golden glow through the room.
Vanja nods to Sylas, and indicates the low table that dominates the center of the infirmary. “Alright,” she says, “I know…knew Bax, the host quite well.” She looks levelly at the man in front of her, “Even started to know Tarth a bit. But I don’t know Sylas at all. And as I said abovedeck, it’s important I do, so I can tell when things aren’t right, physically at least. When you might be in shock or have a head injury or be missing some vital nutrient.”
She tucks her bangs behind her ear, exposing her right eye, a useless automatic thing that does nothing to improve her vision.
“And if there’s nothing left of Bax, truly, if what came back from the Pale Lands was only ever a remnant, then that’s something I need to come to terms with. That this new person, you, Sylas, are the one I’ll be treating going forward.”
She takes a breath, letting it out with a soft, irritated “pah” sound, but returning quickly to her practiced, bedside patter. “And you can ask me whatever you like, too. I’ve got no secrets anymore, as you’ve likely heard by now.”
“So an exam in two parts. A baseline physical, to see what’s standard for you, and a few questions so we can get to know one another, as allies at least.”
“Alright?” she says, again, this time looking for confirmation.
Sylas
Sylas follows behind Vanja into the dark infirmary; before he has an opportunity to comment on the lack of a lantern, the room fills with the wispy green hues the physician often can be seen drafting from thin air. “Impressive,” he mumbles to himself.
Under the colored light, Sylas notices, seemingly for the first time, that he is covered in a dry mix of his own blood and the viscous gore of the creature they had just fought aboard the ship. As Vanja begins to explain her relationship to the prior inhabitants of the host body he now found himself in, Sylas peers through the room, searching for water and clean towels. In the corner of the room, set aside on a crate, is a small basin and a few clean cloths.
Vanja completes her introduction, asking if he understood and would cooperate with her. Despite himself, he smirks, as the first thought that came to mind was for him to reply, ‘No,’ and walk out of the infirmary. He couldn’t begin to fathom the level of contempt such a bold move as that would generate within the ship’s only doctor…Besides, he came down to strike a relationship with the woman, not agitate her further.
Sylas splashes water onto his hands and face quickly, and grabs a cloth to begin the arduous process of cleaning the filth from his body. “Understood,” he finally replies.
“I will be happy to answer whatever questions you may have for me. I will answer to the best of my current understanding of myself.” He flinches suddenly, having moved his left shoulder in a way as to agitate his wounds from the earlier fight.
“Ow. Right, it seems that in all my excitement I had forgotten about some of the damage I had received. Well I suppose it’s fortunate that I’m here for a physical!” he exclaims, as he begins to remove the clothing and armor from his torso. “So, what questions did you have?”
Vanja
At the sudden flinch, and brief exclamation, Vanja moves automatically to Sylas. Her hand is out, to make contact with the man’s shoulder before she stops, and self-corrects, pulling her hand back before her fingers make contact with the armor. He’s not Bax, she reminds herself. Closer, now, though, she can see what remains of the blood on Sylas’ face.
“Some of that’s yours,” she says, gesturing toward his face, indicating the path a tear would track, “Did you injure your eye, somehow, in the fight?” She’s spinning up another handful of riverlight, this clear and colorless, and only the size of her fingertips. She watches as the sudden flare of light makes Sylas’ pupils contract. That was good. “Follow the light for me, without moving your head, please.”
Sylas cooperates, and Vanja tracks the eye movement. Satisfied with the response, Vanja closes her fist, snuffing out the bright light. “You can continue with the armor and clothes, whatever you’re comfortable with. I’ll want to see that shoulder, though, and any newer injuries from the past—”
Vanja stops as the light in the room suddenly dips. The green and gold swirling near the ceiling weakening and dissolving and contracting back to her, the ceiling falling with it. Vanja’s breath catches in her throat and she braces herself, grabbing the edge of the exam table.
It’s not real, she tells herself. It’s the darkness. It’s making a blank space.
Vanja flicks her arm toward the ceiling, changing the color of the light from green-and-gold to white - the edges still tinted, slightly, but the entire room seeming brighter.
She laughs a little, offering a smile at Sylas, “Still a little unsteady on the water,” she says. “As I was saying, any injuries - pulled muscles, hurt joints, cuts that aren’t staying closed - from the past…two turns. However long I was…absent.”
Vanja lifts her injured arm carefully from its sling, and tests the movement. Still stiff, still painful, but she has more mobility in the joint than she expected. She turns her back to Sylas, giving him some level of privacy while helping herself to the basin and washing her own hands with the small brush she’d taken from the kitchen. “And anything that’s concerning you, as well. Trouble sleeping, or ongoing pain. And if you’re self-treating - if you’re drinking a lot, best to let me know, too. I won’t judge you for it, but good to know if you might need help staying steady.”
Sylas
“Hm?” He reaches up and touches where Vanja had indicated, pulling his fingers away to find smeared blood. “Well that’s odd. Don’t believe I took any hits near my head. Though in the midst of that wild battle, who could say…”
As Sylas follows the doctor’s lit up fingertip, in his periphery he takes note of what appears to be crude markings along her slinged arm. She steps away, commenting that he can continue removing his clothing, before the light in the room begins to flicker and change, Vanja stumbling slightly. He sits, without moving to assist, watching the young physician right herself, his eyebrows cocked slightly. She appears to be unbalanced, laughing off her unsteadiness as a result of the unfamiliarity of the moving ship.
Shaky… he thinks to himself. Perhaps I’m not the only one in need of a doctor.
Sylas continues to remove his clothes, slowly, as the pain in his shoulder flares up when raised too high. Ignoring her awkward pausing throughout her questions, he responds, “Nothing serious to report. Managed to avoid any serious fighting before boarding the ship; though I will admit that it’s difficult to remember everything that happened before me. Lots of memories that still need to be sorted. And that, in turn, is causing frequent headaches; but I made some progress with recovering the Inquisitor’s memories earlier tonight, so I’m hoping that results in fewer headaches moving forward.”
Having removed his shirt, Sylas hops up onto the table in the center of the room, waiting for Vanja to proceed with the inspection of the wounds along his shoulder. As he waits, he catches a better glimpse of the markings along the doctor’s arm while she cleans her hands. He leans forward, eyes studying the markings in the dim light.
“Are those…runes? Along your arm?” he asks, pointing toward her forearm. “How interesting. And are those…ah, Dwarvish.” His voice suddenly drops, as if speaking from his stomach when he continues, “Eyt grovt språk for å være sikkerye, menvak kert rune arbeyd.” [A rough language to be sure, but beautiful rune work.]
Vanja
Vanja responds automatically. “Tak skall. Det er språk til fodrenhjem me. Ye er runeskribe.” [Thank you/kind thing to say. It’s the language of my parents/homeland. I’m a runemaker.] She smiles, “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Jorungun,” she says, in the common language of Isendel, “You speak it well and clearly. And it’s much the same, Dwarven. Jorungun. Just named for a people instead of a homeland. Ye me språkforsiktig na.” [I’ll have to be careful-speaking now.]
“The runework is new, though,” she says. Vanja presses her fingertips to the edges of Sylas’ wounds as she speaks, gentle pressure sending small rivulets of fresh blood from where the creature’s teeth had broken skin. There’s no sign of venom, but the skin is dirty, and so Vanja uses a fresh, wet cloth to flush the wounds, and then another soaked in alcohol to prevent infection.
“I was taught that there’s power in words. In the runes. My people believe they help channel the River.” Vanja lays the palm of her right hand flat over the largest of the wounds, and presses riverlight into it. She watches as the light darts across Sylas’ skin, stitching the wounds together with bright threads before sealing. Rather than dispersing in the air, though, the excess light ebbs back into Vanja’s hand, and she lets out a small sigh.
“I used to have a talisman that my mother carved,” Vanja says, “But that’s gone, now. If you remember what the Inquisitor does - if you have his memories, then you know why I’ve put it on my skin, this time. If anyone tries to break my connection to the River again, they’ll have to flay me.”
She keeps her voice level but she’s unable to meet Sylas’ eyes as she continues. This man wasn’t Bax, but he wasn’t the Inquisitor, either. Not really. Still, with the imprisoned Swan dead, this was all she had, now.
“Do you remember any of that?” she asks, “Not as Bax, but in those memories from Inquisitor Sylas - the man whose name you’ve chosen to keep. Do you remember me?”
Sylas
“It’s not something I realized I could speak till just now. En annyeno verr askendyn oppdagelse syer deut yel.” [Another surprising discovery it seems.] The words seem lost to the doctor as she inspects Sylas’ wounds. He flinches slightly when the alcohol soaked cloth seeps into some of the deeper marks, though she doesn’t seem to notice.
She’s looking everywhere but my eyes…This may be more difficult for her than either of us had anticipated.
Finally, the young healer broaches the subject that Sylas had been anticipating. She asks how much of the Inquisitor’s memories he recalls of her capture. “…Yes. I do remember you,” he replies after an extended moment. “Not everything, but as I said, I have begun to breach the surface of the Inquisitor’s recollection. It has proven more difficult than I would have cared for, but progress has been made.
“If you wish, I can provide details of what I do recall. I do not know if it would be wise for you to relive that trauma so soon, but I will answer your questions as truthfully as I can should you want to proceed.
“Regardless, I would like to express that I did not choose the name ‘Sylas’. It was stolen from the Inquisitor in death and made into me. That, however, is a whole other topic all together, and would be better suited to explain to the group as a whole…”
Vanja
Vanja takes a step back away from the man sitting on her exam table - this stranger who had the Inquisitor’s name and Bax’s body but who was somehow neither. Self-consciously, she flexes her left hand, looking down, studying the runework as she answers.
“You don’t have to explain the name to me. It’s your name, now, but I’m glad to know it isn’t in honor of the man.”
She swallows hard. “I do need to know what he knew though. I’m… I’m alone in this, otherwise. I think it would help to know it was real. That it wasn’t something I dreamed or imagined. To have that confirmation.” She nods at this, her voice slightly steadier, “please tell me what you remember.”
Sylas
“Very well,” Sylas responds, maintaining eye contact.
“Like I said, I don’t have a complete picture. But I’ve managed to pull together a few pieces from my initial dive into the memories. Unfortunately, I can’t immediately divulge why you were kept in a chest or why that chest was being transported to Galoring. There is something important there though; I just haven’t learned what it is yet…” His mind begins to wander slightly, distracted by what he might still learn about the Inquisitor and his goals. After a brief pause, he snaps himself back to reality, and returns his gaze to Vanja.
“I believe that the Inquisitor was the only one aware of you being held within the chest. I have no recollection of him having notified any of the subordinates that were traveling with him, nor do I believe that he would have told them. He fancied himself a crusader, a paladin against the dark magics of witches that could threaten humanity. To him, you, all of us, are a scourge that must be wiped from existence.”
He pauses again, tapping his fingers against the wood of the table and closing his eyes, trying to think back to that fogged place where he could access the memories of the dead Inquisitor. Maybe there was something that he missed, something that could tie a bow on this short story so as to not leave the desperate healer wanting more.
This was all he could offer for now.
“I hate to say that this is all I can provide for you currently. The memories are clouded and it’s difficult to parse finer details…Did you have any questions?”
Vanja
“Thank you, for telling me,” Vanja says. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, but if you do remember anything else, could you tell me too? I’m…having a hard time, sorting through those memories myself,” she laughs drily, unkindly, at herself, “it would be good to have that confirmation. I think I might be going a little mad from it.”
“And as for the box…”
Vanja squeezes her eyes shut and she can hear her own voice, ragged in her throat but muffled by the gag, and the desperate twisting, trying to pull her wrist from the gauntlet of a soldier, trying to pull riverlight to her, the feeling of cold iron on her neck as her head is forced to her chest, the sound of her heart in her ears, her good eye wide, scanning the room in a panic. Looking for help. Looking for Deren. Surely if he knew what they were doing, he wouldn’t allow—
And then darkness.
“I don’t know why the Inquisitor thought he needed me so restrained. Why he put me in that…coffin.” Another humorless laugh, “I’d been talking. Cooperating. Demonstrated my magic - they found out I couldn’t do much without my voice, or my talisman.” She flinches at the memory. “And I’d already shown them so much, I don’t see why they needed to hide me, or keep me in the dark, it isn’t as if I’d even tried to escape… I just…” Her voice catches, but she clears her throat and continues, stronger.
“It makes more sense now, though. If it was to keep the soldiers from knowing. To keep them from second-guessing, maybe, or from trying to help me. I can’t blame soldiers for following orders.”
That was a lie, though. She’d blamed the captive Swan for what she’d been through. She had blinded him, been ready to kill him…and he hadn’t even realized what he’d done.
He didn’t show remorse for it though, she thinks, when he learned there was a terrified, injured girl in that box. He didn’t care.
Vanja clenches her jaw. “As for Galoring - Astarael says the Baroness is obsessed with magic, so it makes sense that she’d want to… examine me. I figured once she was done, they’d put me to work healing Swans.”
She lets out a breath and looks to Sylas. “I’ll need a baseline of your breath and blood,” she says. “I’ll listen to your chest with a glass and I’ll count your pulse.”
There are a few quiet moments, and Vanja counts the beats of Bax’s heart, and listens to the breath in Bax’s lungs. Familiar, comforting sounds that don’t belong to Bax any longer.
Vanja blinks hard, her eye stinging, as she pulls away from Sylas. “All seems well,” she says.
She turns her back to Sylas again, returning the listening glass to its shelf, and giving herself a moment of composure. She fumbles in one of the cabinets, removing a small metal canister.
“Do you have any healing magic, yourself? Or any new abilities I should be aware of? It’s an odd question, I know, but seems you’re a witch yourself, and all of us are different.” She turns to him and smiles a little, trying to set Sylas at ease, “Before I resurrected him, Roux would keep fighting even after his body couldn’t be healed any longer, even after he should have fallen. He claims he’s more cautious now, but it made it a challenge, sometimes.”
“And if you’ve got any questions for me, I’m happy to answer them, too. The inquisitor knows a lot, but who knows, maybe me sharing the same information with you will help you better access those memories. Help with those headaches.”
Sylas
Sylas remains quiet, letting the doctor speak her mind, letting her continue the examination. She is unsteady, keeping her body busy so as to not allow her mind to linger on the darker thoughts.
“I’m afraid to admit I don’t believe I have access to healing magic. An ability I assume Bax had? If so, it doesn’t seem that it carried over. I also don’t think I can tell you much about my magic other than I seem to have it. I haven’t had much time to consider where it comes from for me…”
He pauses, considering how to continue the conversation. Hopping down from the table, he walks over to his clothes and armor, beginning the process of putting it back on now that the examination is over. “I only have one question for you at the moment. The eyepatch I found among my belongings, that I gave to you. Why do you choose to not wear it?”
Vanja
Vanja brushes the hair from her face, revealing purposefully for the first time her blinded right eye. Now that the swelling is gone, and the small network of scars faded by magic, It looks much the same as the other, but with the color gone from it - the blue of her iris faded to pale gray, the pupil indistinguishable.
She looks down at the polished lid of the small canister clutched in her hands, and in the distorted reflection, she looks almost like herself. Skinnier. Hollow, somehow. Her features seeming larger on her face for the lack of fat.
Vanja looks up at Sylas, “I have the eyepatch, still,” she says. “I keep it with me. I just haven’t been able to…”
She sighs, “Bax used the eyepatch to disguise his magic - it used to leak from his eye as if it was overflowing from him, this cloud of starry black, like the night itself. But he could see. Whatever the source of his magic - and Bax would always downplay it - it didn’t affect his sight,” Vanja pauses, closing her own eyes for a moment, “And when he used his magic, to target an enemy, or to heal me up after a fight, he’d pull his eyepatch down around his neck, and in those small moments he didn’t have to hide that part of himself. It was…impressive to see.”
“I suppose I haven’t worn it myself for a few reasons. I don’t need it, like Bax did. I won’t be using it to hide some part of me that makes me more threatening or more powerful - I’ll be hiding this…damage,” she gestures at her eye, “as if it’s something that can be healed, if it’s cared for well enough.” A small smile, “And that’s not the case. I’ve tried all the runewords I know. All the riverlight I can channel. It is healed. This is just how it will be.”
Vanja leans against the exam table, allowing it to support her. The canister is still in her hands, and she runs her fingertips around the edge, absently trailing green light.
“More than all that though, it’s a reminder that he doesn’t need it anymore. That after he came back from the Pale Lands, and he had both eyes whole, that he wasn’t Bax anymore.” Vanja’s voice catches, and she speaks through unhelpful tears as they cut down her face, even from her blind eye. “I told myself for a long time that the boy who came back was Bax, still. That I could find a way to heal him, restore him to himself. That each new thing he could do - the new voices he would speak with, the flashes of black when he killed - that they were symptoms of something I could treat. And I…” She takes a deep, shaking breath, “Maybe I was making it worse. Because once I was gone, you solidified. A new person, with just as much life. And you’re not Bax.”
Vanja’s breath is coming quickly now, and she sets the canister down on the table beside her so she can brace her hands on her knees. She speaks quickly, and quietly, her voice a panicked whisper, “I feel so awful. So responsible for it. It was my fault. My magic. I don’t know how much you know about what happened, but I was trying to save Roux, trying to bring him back to life, and it went wrong. If I’d acted sooner, healed Roux earlier, or if when we were in the Pale Lands I’d bargained with the hooded woman myself - I was too hesitant. I could have thought of something…”
She shakes her head, and wipes her face with the sleeve of her good arm, “I’m sorry. This isn’t professional. It was an easy question, and I can answer it simply,” she looks up, “I don’t wear the eyepatch because it reminds me of Bax, and I miss him so much it hurts.”
Vanja gestures to the canister, “It’s cacao and spice powder. Willow would be better, but this is better than nothing for those headaches. Stir it into some water and it’ll open the blood vessels and relieve the pressure. It’s stimulating, though, so it might affect your sleep.”
Sylas
He listens to Vanja’s story, her guilt and pain on display. After finishing dressing, he walks over and accepts the small canister, holding it lightly.
Do not try to help.
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to let you know if I have other symptoms,” he says, walking toward the infirmary exit. With one hand on the door, he pauses, considering everything he had been told.
You’ll only make it worse…
With an exasperated sigh, he turns around, shifting to lean his back against the wall beside the door. “Before I go, could I offer some unsolicited advice? No, not advice. I suppose you’d call it my perspective on the matter.”
Before she has a chance to offer a rebuttal, he begins doing the one thing in his short existence he has learned how to do well. Talk.
“Skau Vanja, I understand that you are in mourning. And the very sight of me, of ‘Not-Bax’, makes that immensely more difficult. But you are far too focused on the past and your supposed mistakes. Now, are there events that you could blame yourself for? Certainly. Are there moments that you should have acted differently and altered your ultimate fate? Possibly.
“I have heard the story of your visit to the ‘Pale Lands’ from Astarael. She tells me that your magic allowed you all to visit that place, but it was Bax who offered the deal to trade himself to bring back Roux. Rather than blame an idiot, who made a selfish decision without consulting any of you, you instead choose to blame yourself. Because your magic wasn’t strong enough to do everything that you wanted. A magic that you hardly understand and can’t explain.
“Yes, Bax is gone. And I am here instead. Rather than accept that fact however, you opt to dwell on the past, on actions that lead to your capture by the Swans. Actions leading to your absence, and in turn, my existence. Have you considered, however, that whatever strange magic that was affecting Remnant would have lead to my ‘awakening’, with or without you here?
“I find that you focus too much on the possibilities, all the different choices you could have made previously, rather than accept the results as they are or how to learn from those encounters. You wish to take blame for being unable to heal Roux? Very well, be my guest. My understanding, however, is that just a moment ago you had told me that after a certain point, his body continued fighting and would no longer be healed. So whose fault is it? Will you continue to blame yourself for doing your best in an unprecedented encounter or should you blame Roux and his magic for not accepting your assistance?”
He sighs again, rubbing the space between his eyes. “You blame yourself because despite everything that has happened to you, you survived and Bax did not. Your guilt comes from a place of loss. But if you continue to dwell on the past, if you continue to grieve but not look forward to protect others, you will lose more people. And that guilt will continue to expand and impress on you.”
“…I suppose I do have some unsolicited advice to offer,” he explains, as he stands, straightening his posture. “Get over yourself. Accept the loss. Grieve. Mourn. Perform whatever ceremony you feel you must to make yourself feel better. Make peace with it. And then begin training your body again. You are many things, but first and foremost you are a fighter; you must protect those you care for or you’ll find them gone before your very eyes. Leaving you alone again.”
Sylas turns toward the door and as he pushes it open to leave he calls over his shoulder, “Thanks again for the tea. I’ll begin taking it tomorrow.”
Vanja
After Sylas leaves the infirmary, Vanja sits for some time, leaning against the exam table.
She waits, feeling the scrubbed wood of the table beneath her palms, the pressure of it against her hand sending a shock up her still-injured arm.
And then, she takes a breath and lets the grief wash over her. Letting it fill her. Letting it pull her breath from her. Letting it drown her. She hears her own voice, small in the space, and low, but audible, and it anchors her, reminds her that she is no longer truly trapped, that this small, dark space is hers, and there’s no one who will cause her more pain than she already has within her.
Green light rises around Vanja in a cloud, her body curled on the floor of the infirmary, and as her mumbled prayers break into a sob, and from there, a keening wail, the light explodes through the space, sending wave after wave of green and gold and raw edges of red and shocking pink spreading through the cracks in the beams of the infirmary and bursting into the hold of the ship.
It’s some time before Vanja sleeps, there, curled in the corner of the infirmary, her arms wrapped around her knees, folded small. Waves of light come off of her, ebbing and flowing with her breath. As she thinks of loss. As she fades in and out of restless sleep filled with the same green light that fills the infirmary. As she dreams of the boy who found her, when she was alone, who showed her magic, who brought her into this conspiracy. The warrior with his deadly spearpoint and easy laugh, who saved her life a half-dozen times. The man who was a beast. Who taught her to fight to kill, but chastised her for running into combat…the boy who she learned to rely on, those few good weeks in the woods. Images that blur. That mix with the white of snow, and the flat, black sky of the south, that she’d first seen in Bax’s dream, now shot through with the light of the River, as it never would be in life. It seems right though. All warriors should cross the River.
And Bax is gone.
So Vanja sleeps.
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