Canach Sleeps a Lot (I Can’t Think of a Name Part 2)
972 words. Part 2 of the trans Canach story! In part 1, Canach got shot and passed out. Content warning: dysphoria, injury.
Amnoon smelt of fish, and Lariab’s soups and stews, with a hint of alcohol that wafted around near the casino. It was fainter than he was accustomed to, but Canach could still pick it out. The fish smell was stronger too, so he assumed he was near the harbour. His chest hurt like hell.
Opening his eyes revealed Rytlock standing over him, his tiredness almost making him look gentle, with late afternoon sunlight dancing across his fur. “Cuddles,” Canach said feebly. Speaking hurt. He winced, and tried to sit up. The pain sharpened.
“Take it easy.”
Canach nodded, falling back into the pillow. “So,” he said, trying to slip back into his usual careless drawl, “what happened while I was gone.”
“We panicked for a few hours before we managed to get you to the Chantry of Shadows.” Rytlock paused for a moment, and sighed. “I thought you were gonna die.”
“It’s nice to know you have faith in me.”
Banter was an easy way to smother any serious emotions. Rytlock appreciated it. “Kas went to help the commander with Balthazar, so now I’m stuck looking after you.”
“How sweet.” Canach could feel his eyelids growing heavy, and he reluctantly closed them. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, and drifted back to sleep.
His dreams were a patchwork of memories, poorly stitched together and low in quality. There was a flimsy version of him as a sapling, and a caricature of him at Southsun, and he slipped between both their bodies and watched events unfold. He willed his face to scowl when he saw the Pale Tree, but it remained wide-eyed and innocent.
“Why did you make me a girl?” His past self asked. He bristled, tossing and turning in his sleep. The Pale Tree smiled, and Canach felt sick.
“I thought it was best for you.”
His past self nodded. Well you were wrong, he wanted to yell, but then the scene was changing and he was sitting in a cave, refashioning his armour. He wrangled the leaves of the coat so they no longer clung to his waist. While Canach hated that version of himself, he was grateful for some things. He saw his reflection and it was his reflection, with the thorn-beard just starting to show its face and the armour masking the thinness he used to have. The manic glint in his eyes was less familiar.
He was a little dismayed to find himself in the more distant past again, striding through the Grove. He shot Trahearne a glare as he passed, but didn’t stop to throw an insult. He was heading straight for the entrance to Caledon. The other saplings sat nearby, naive, innocent, ignorant. He couldn’t stand them any more than the Pale Tree.
He kept walking past the wardens and the merchants, then past the undead that rose from the waterside. “Death… good,” one rasped, and Canach quickened his pace. It lumbered after him, its rattling breath growing fainter and fainter as it fell further and further behind.
He didn’t know where he was going. He just wanted to get away from the other sylvari, spend some time collecting his thoughts where they were’t clouded by other people’s. He ended up stopping in Wychmire Swamp, which wasn’t safe, but at least it wasn’t the Grove. He sat at the base of a tree and looked at his appearance in the murky water. He hated it.
A few minutes passed. Canach sat there uncomfortably, staring at a face that used to be his, unable to look away or fidget or escape the memory entirely. “Was she wrong?” He heard himself say. It took a moment to realise what he was talking about.
Then he was working for the Consortium. He’d figured out that he could choose the way he grew, and the energy poured into broadening his shoulders had sapped the colour from his skin. He’d changed dramatically, but no-one at the Consortium cared. He picked a passion flower and twirled it around in his fingers, until it morphed into his sword and he was standing in Glint’s Lair.
“Yeah, I’m certain.” Rytlock was speaking. “Same smells as last time. And Canach needs a bath.”
“I need a bath, he says,” Canach muttered in response. Rytlock’s words would come back to him later that night, and he’d bathe despite hating it. He would have laughed at himself, if he could choose his actions. Kasmeer’s voice blurred into the firing of a bullet, and the incessant ringing that had filled his head days earlier.
This time, he could interact with the memory, and he looked down at himself, pressing a hand to the wound. Sap glistened in the desert sun. It pooled in his throat and smothered his cries, and when he tried to breathe, air didn’t come.
He awoke in a bout of coughing which turned his throat ragged. Rytlock was gone, and the room was dark. The haziness of the afternoon had been lifted from his mind, and his armour was gone. He was dressed in rags, and a bandage which covered the bullet hole, which in turn throbbed angrily. His torso looked small. Felt small too.
His face burned, and he forced himself to get up. He needed a distraction, and the pain of moving proved to be an effective one. He padded outside and sat in the sand, looking up at the sky. The stars shone against a dark background, stained by wispy blues and inky purples, and the moon, a single, half-shut eye, watched him lazily. Nights in Elona made everything feel insignificant.
Canach silently thanked the world, and let his eyes flutter shut, focusing on the sound of the water lapping at the shore and the cold dancing across his face. The rest of the night passed peacefully.