FMO - Hurt/Comfort prompts

#1 “I’d come for you. No matter what, when you need me, I will be there.” - Rez

The taste of blood in your mouth is pungent, and yet your tongue can’t refrain from licking it off your lips as you stagger out of the meeting room, almost forgetting to bow. 

The courtier’s screams and Mastravisch’s spine-chilling laughter still echo in your head as you stumble down the hallway, trying not to regurgitate on the freshly waxed tiles. You manage, though barely, and the contents of your stomach spill out on the grass just past the main entrance. 

It doesn’t bode well that the knights stationed here are more than used to such a sight. One of them offers you a handkerchief that you accept with a muttered, “Thanks.” Your throat stings from the mixture of acid and wine, making it hard for you to speak. 

The road from the courtyard to the training grounds is a blur, and you only realize that you’re heading there when you hear Rez’s voice, loud and boisterous. He/She notices you nearly instantly, but you must appear genuinely shaken for him/her to forego his/her usual greeting. 

“Continue without me,” he/she tells his/her sparring partner, already dashing at you. Halfway there, he/she chucks his/her sword aside, not sparing it a glance to see when it landed. “What did—”

“Nothing,” you mumble, wobbling slightly when Rez pulls you to the side, past the tents, and towards the cliff’s edge. With his/her arm supporting your back, you no longer have to worry whether your legs will carry you there or not - he/she will, and that’s all that matters. “Nothing, just—”

“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing,’” Rez huffs, grabbing you by the jaw to inspect your face for injuries. “Not yours?”

“No. One of the courtiers’,” you explain, or try to, while Rez rubs the splattered blood off your cheeks. It’s cakey and dry, so he/she has no choice but to give up on that cleanup. “He was ‘eliminated’ via the ‘popular vote.’”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” You’re new here. Judging by the reaction of the court, however, the execution was rather commonplace. “He... It was a trial, of sorts? He didn’t have anyone to back him up.”

“He died?” Rez asks with no particular concern for the man. It’s almost conversational, as far as he/she is concerned. 

“No.” The sigh that leaves your lungs sounds more like a hysterical chuckle. Rez frowns, and you take it as a hint to collect yourself. “No, we don’t... You know, we—”

“Right, shit.” 

The image of a mutilated body left to reassemble itself together doesn’t rattle Rez in the slightest, but that doesn’t mean he/she enjoys envisioning it, either. With another curse, he/she unscrews a small metal flask from his/her belt, and takes a generous gulp.

When he/she offers it to you next, you lean in to take a sip of your own, if only to get rid of the pungent taste from your mouth. “That’s enough, thanks.”

Rez nods in acknowledgment, downing the rest of the drink, then securing it with the belt again. “What did he do?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think he did anything. The only problem was that he didn’t have anyone to back him up.” 

His expression, when he realized the fact, is forever carved into your brain. Shock, betrayal, anger, fear... then resignation as Mastravisch’s sword descended on him over and over without respite. 

“I just stood there,” you continue, sounding as hollow as you feel. “We all did. And I thought, ‘that could have been me.’ That can be me, and no one would—”

“I would,” Rez says, swears even. “I’d come for you.” He/She’s not one to lie, or make false guarantees, but still, the promise is a weighty one, and he/she gives it to you almost carelessly, like it’s as easy as breathing. “No matter what, when you need me, I will be there.”

“...They wouldn’t let you in.”

“They could try stopping me,” he/she grins, all wrath and confidence that you know it’s not built on a shaky foundation. Still, you don’t seem convinced enough for him/her, so he/she adds, “’Sides, after the next conquest, they’ll beg me to join the meetings.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. You’ll see.” For a moment, it seems like he/she wants to add something else, but - as rare as it is - he/she bites his/her tongue. 

And so, you stand there for a long while in total silence. Rez, for once subdued, pats you on the back. Though, slapping might be a more appropriate term, given how much strength he/she puts into it.

“I believe you,” you say, and it costs everything in you to admit that out loud. “I truly do.”

Rez doesn’t respond with words, but his/her grip on you becomes even tighter.

#2 “You know I’m not dying right?” “Am I not allowed to still care for you?” - Lotár

Your consciousness departs between a sip of wine and another. 

You vaguely remember the sound of laughter, your cup shattering on the tiles, and the debilitating weakness in your knees, but the darkness pulls you into its cold embrace before your body can tumble onto the ground.

When you rouse, instead of the hard tiles, you’re reclined on a bed. Despite the aroma of herbs and the clang of what you might infer are medicinal potions, you’re not in the infirmary as you would initially assume, but in a bedroom. An unfamiliar one.

The heaps of books stacked on a messy desk, and the heady scent of the outdoors that permeates the air, give you all the inkling you need. And yet, your muddled-up brain doesn’t catch onto the identity of your ‘nurse’ until he/she thwarts your attempt at sitting up.

“Not ssso fassst,” Lotár tsks, pushing you back down with a hand pressed to your sternum. The other one shows up in your peripheral shortly, with a damp towel that he/she then rubs over your temple. “Keep wiggling like that, and you’ll get my bed wet.”

“Why am I in your bed?”

“Why not?” Lotár cocks his/her eyebrow at you, as though you’re the one being unreasonable. “Would you rather the floor?” He/She assumes the answer is ‘no,’ because he/she releases his/her hold on you to wring the cloth into the nearby basin.

Though his/her fingers are squeaky clean, the cuffs of his/her white shirt are coated in blood, red and black. You barely discern the stains from the embroidered flowers that decorate his/her sleeves. 

“Did I crack my head open?” It doesn’t feel like you did... but then again, you can barely feel anything. Even Lotár’s touch comes to you as though through a barrier. 

“No,” Lotár says smugly, in a tone eerily similar to the one he/she uses when he/she’s blowing his/her own horn. He/She taps your forehead, and you notice the unmistakable lack of pain there. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say ‘thank you.’” 

“Becaussse you have poor mannersss, darling, I know,” Lotár grins, paying no mind to your flagrant disrespect. 

Truth be told, you’re not intentionally hostile. You’re just plain confused. Less so by the poisoning attempt and more by the aftermath of it. 

Lotár, on the other hand, seems right in his/her element, fussing over you as if you were on your deathbed. 

“You know I’m not dying, right?” 

“Am I not allowed to ssstill care for you?”

“‘Care,’’ you snort, genuinely amused by his/her gall. “Let’s say that’s what you’re doing.”

“Oh? Do you have any complaintsss, darling? Am I not wiping the sssweat off your brow tenderly enough?”

He/She... is. Was. Just to be a menace, Lotár slaps the wet rug on your head, forcing you to swat it away. He/She laughs when you sputter, but eventually returns to his/her earlier ministrations. 

If it’s not your cakey blood he/she’s removing from your hair, then whose? You’re about to ask, but he/she goes ahead with his/her own question. 

“What elssse would it be?”

“Huh?”

“If not care?”

Ah. He/She’s still on about it. “Knowing you? Scheming on my momentary weakness? An attempt at bribery?”

“You flatter me.” 

“Believe me, that’s the last thing I want to do.”

Lotár laughs, but you miss his/her smile when you blink. It’s becoming difficult, you find, to force your eyes to stay open. 

“The poissson isss making you sssleepy,” Lotár explains patiently, listing a bunch of other, though no more dire, side effects. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll be here. I’ll take care of you.”

It shouldn’t be as reassuring coming from him/her. On the contrary, you should be alarmed.

And yet, his/her gentle touch and hypnotic voice are all your eyelids need to close. The rest of your body follows suit. 

What a traitor.

#3 “It would make me feel better to know that you’re alright.” - Saltire 

The wall of dust that forms in front of you is thick and impenetrable, forcing you to seek shelter inside a cluster of rocks, making your detour even longer, and your mood even sourer. 

With your rations steadily depleting, Malitiose takes it upon himself/herself to venture back into the cave system to gather drinking water, while you and Saltire share the hunting duty.

Though the shifter still didn’t explain what exactly lurks in the rocky depths, it has to be serious if he/she considers the weather conditions on the surface to be the lesser of two evils, thus delegating you to a less daunting - due to your weakened state - task.  

Less daunting, however, doesn’t mean ‘effortless.’ The sandstorms in the Void are merciless, growing worse the further to the edge you get. 

Another thing that increases proportionally to the diminishing distance with the Overshadow is your anger that rouses like a dormant volcano, ready to erupt. Unfortunately, the stray flames seem to bite those undeserving of your ire. 

“Easy!” Saltire yelps, rushing to stall your hand before it can send one more bolt of ice towards the - already defeated, oops - yak. “I don’t think it can be any more dead if it tried.”

“I also didn’t think I could be any more dead than—” Shit. 

Irritation unlaces your tongue. The lack of structure and stern etiquette of Nefas make you slip. You catch yourself too late, and now you have to face Saltire’s concern head-on. 

The pity he/she undoubtedly feels towards you is masked by that abrasive expression of his/hers that doesn’t match his/her tone at all. “Do you want to—”

“No.”

“But maybe you should.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Or anything, for that matter. 

Saltire has to realize it, because he/she nods. “All right.” 

He/She steps out of your way, in case you want to take it out on the yak’s carcass, but you’re too chastised by his/her attention to do anything of the sort. 

Ignoring your shaking from overexertion hands, you pour all your energy into skinning the animal. Your enthusiasm doesn’t help your lack of skill in that department, and sooner rather than later, you’re forced to seek Saltire’s council.

“Saltire, could you...”

“Of course.”

He/She makes it look as easy as you thought it would be. The skin, tendons, and even bones part for him/her bloodlessly like cotton candy. A ghost yak’s meat is much more tender than its living counterpart, but sadly not any easier to handle. 

You let the work of his/her hands distract you to the point that you almost miss his/her quiet, “I suppose it’s better to be angry than miserable.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, looking up. He/She shrugs sheepishly, but doesn’t exactly answer your question. “Are you? Miserable?” 

“No. Not anymore.”

“But you’re not angry either?” He/She shakes his/her head. “I know you feel obligated.”

Saltire doesn’t disagree, but he/she halts his/her work. “To an extent,” he/she admits. “But it’s not in the way you think.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Well...” 

Seating himself/herself on the sand more comfortably, he/she sends you a grin that instantaneously brightens his/her features. With the Fey’s boon intact, that’s probably all it takes to charm someone. At least, that’d explain the strange flutter in your lifeless chest. 

“It might surprise you,” Saltire continues, propping his/her head on his/her hand. “But I was never the life of a party.”

It doesn’t, especially considering what you remember of him/her pre-fall. But you’ve been far too cranky towards him/her today, undeservedly at that, and so you decide to humor him/her. 

“Really, now?”

“Mhm. And I’ve never allowed myself to form friendships deeper than,” he/she waves his/her free hand around, unable to pick the right word. “All that’s to say... I like you. I don’t want you to suffer.”

“Oh.” He/She... sounds genuine. But then, so did Rez once upon a time. “Thanks. I don’t want you to suffer, either.”

It didn’t matter much to you back then, the ephemeral partnership, the connection formed on the edge of that cliff, but you recall his/her expression donned as you fell, and, albeit belatedly, you realize that you wouldn’t take it as lightly now if you were to see it again. 

Saltire smiles gently, resuming his/her task. After a while, he/she looks at you again, then turns his/her gaze up, towards where you can only assume is the Overshadow. 

“Are you scared?”

“Of coming back? No.” 

He/She nods. Another beat of silence passes, then, “I don’t want to be pushy,” he/she says apologetically, “It’s just... Selfishly, it would make me feel better to know that you’re alright.”

“I am,” you assure at once, adding, “I’m angry, yes, but it’ll pass. I’m not... seeking death, if that’s what worries you.” Saltire winces, caught. “On the contrary, there’s much for me to do. I’m free, Sal. I can’t give up now.”

“That’s good to hear,” he/she admits after a while. “Like I promised, I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“I appreciate it.” The sentiment, at the very least. You know better than to trust, at least for now.