Irony or penance. Gareth wasn’t sure what to call it.
Being at the Dusk Vigil had sheared his nerves. Memory howled horrible images through his mind, overlaying the scenes around him. He had pressed through the flashes of bodies in the snow, of blood steaming, of Jourdain, of his father. Helplessness scraped his throat raw, and he screamed against it, whirling lance and fury. Believe in yourself as I believe in you. The words were a mantra, Aymeric’s faith lending strength to the confidence Gareth tried to fake. He was aware of his former boyhood friend, Lisette, at his back, his side, conveying orders, and he focused on her aliveness – nearly the same volume as the ghosts behind his eyes.
The mission had been going fine, he had been distantly aware of that. And then everything fell apart. He had thrown himself in front of Nazaire, seeing the image of Jourdain in his place. And he had suffered pain for it.
The large wyrm had overtaken their ranks unexpectedly, tearing the fight to ribbons. Pain throttled Gareth into a nearby shelf of rock. He had picked himself up slowly, knee burning, had stumbled, tripped, struggled to retrieve his fallen lance. Too familiar. Bile had ached in his throat, had weaponized his breath. Father, his nerves had screamed.
“Retreat!” He had shouted, sprinting towards Nazaire, who seemed frozen in place. He saw himself, he felt his father’s spirit stir in his blood. “Retreat! Let me distract it!” He threw himself upon the wyrm. His lance sunk into its neck. It screeched and tossed its head, splattering hot blood upon Nazaire, the snow, Gareth’s own face. He held tight to the lance as it beat its wings, swiping at him with a desperate claw that caught his shoulder deeply. He cried out, nearly lost his blood-slicked grip on his father’s lance as the dragon carried him up into the sky. It tried to pry him off, talon digging in deeper and deeper. He held on with all his might.
Below, his comrades fled.
The icy rush stung his cheek, his eyes, conflicted sharply with the heat of blood. He threw the entirety of his weight into driving the spear in further, twisted the haft with all his strength. The dragon’s cry was piercing. It plummeted rapidly, side hitting the ground hard. Gareth was sent flying; he rolled through the snow, only stopping when he collided with a rock. He breathed hard, cheek throbbing against a patch of ice. Blood oozed from the deep wound on his shoulder. The back of his head and the base of his spine throbbed terrifically. Blinking away haze he dragged his body through the snow. A few yalms away he could see the dragon, shrieking and writhing.
Pain searing his face, blood filling his eye, body heavy, lame. Dragging heavy body through the snow. Torches up ahead. Needing to get close. Desperate voice clogging throat. Bursting out helplessly.
The memory slipped back as he reached the dragon’s side, the spiked tip of its wing narrowly missing him. He strained, desperate to retrieve his father’s lance, still deeply buried in the dragon’s throat. Sharpness burst at the back of his skull, racing down his nerves like Levin. Memories that were not his own captured his world.
She circles the Dusk Vigil from the air, watching as her son kills the invading Ishgardians. It is a massacre she wished he would take no part in, but he is young and his blood runs hot and wild. A lone dragoon fights him, bleeding to death. He will not win against her son. But the dragoon does something unexpected. She shrieks in agony as he turns the lance upon her son. She flies to them, exacts vengeance with swift and violent ferocity. But it is hollow. Her son…Her son…She lays a wing upon him, watches over him helplessly as his life drains out into the snow, mingling with that of the man’s. And the lance, the dreaded lance that did it –
Is the one that’s pierced her now.
Gareth swallowed hard against the vision. His hands went slack on the haft. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly as her large eye shifted towards him. “I’m sorry your son died.”
Her sides heaved rapidly. “You sought it too,” she wheezed.
“Yes.” He blinked water from his eyes. “Looks like it’s ended both of us.” A cough interrupted his words. He stumbled, nearly losing his hold on the lance before gripping it with redoubled strength.
“My mourning is about to end,” she said.
“That was my father,” he replied, the words low and shaking. “I envy you your peace.” He tore the lance free with all of his might.
Her blood gushed upon the snow. She twitched. Then she was dead.
Gareth looked down helplessly at the lance in his hands, his vision dancing with dark spots. He trembled, the cold cutting to the bone, and found himself looking at a nearby cave. He stumbled towards it, the lance tumbling from nerveless fingers. He crawled inside. He pressed his back against one frigid cavern wall, and sat down hard.
His breath whistled, blood loss and cold already beginning to nibble at his consciousness. Will they send someone to find me? He wondered if anyone would think it’s even worth the risk.
He remembered the look on Nazaire’s face, that tableau of all-too familiar terror. He remembered feeling his father’s courage surge in his veins, as if the spirit of his father had replaced his own fragile strength. A smile touched his lips. Was this the justice Halone had always had planned for him? To die slowly in a cave, alone, too wounded to return home.
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