Thank youuuu thank you for sending this prompt *checks calendar* almost 6 months ago <3
Leofard swore under his breath as he nudged at the smouldering pile of sticks. It'd taken him almost an hour to get an actual fire going, a feat that left him snarling with frustration and light-headed from the effort. The branches he'd managed to scrounge up were pitifully spindly, and damp, courtesy of the perpetual clouds that blanketed these lands. Words ran through his mind again, words he thought he'd only paid half-attention to: the things that kill off whelps like ye are those what ye can't see. Not beasts or beastmen, nor even the constant threat of an endless fall, but the elements themselves.
He knew that, of course. He'd made it through several Coerthan winters in Ishgard's underbelly, nights so cold his teeth had ached from chattering. But he'd also known the warmth of a blazing hearth and four solid walls. Gentle hands that had rubbed the cold from his smaller fingers.
The fire was going. He'd managed well enough with a good piece of flint and onzes of determination. The folks who lived here survived somehow. He and Stacia would figure out how to do the same.
A soft groan brought his attention to her, where she lay on the other side of the fire, buried under a layer of blankets. Still she shivered, her body running hot and high with fever as it battled the poison wracking it. He didn't know a cure; he didn't even know the name of the scalekin that had attacked them, only that it had been bleedin' fast, and that three bullets in its ruddy body hadn't sufficed to kill it. He doubted it would come back for them with such injuries, at least. Small mercies.
Stacia groaned again, her face scrunching up, and Leofard tensed, wondering if it was pain or sick this time. He hoped it was pain. He cleaned up what he could after each bout, but the smell still hung in the damp air, and he couldn't even say how much he hated it.
He heard a murmur—his name, maybe. He shuffled towards her.
"You called?" he whispered. When Stacia didn't respond, he frowned. "Oi." Nothing. He prodded at her cheek and got another groan, louder this time.
"Stop it," she growled, turning her face away. Lucid enough to complain, then.
"Are you goin' to hurl again?"
That earned him a glare, and a proper look at her face. Her forehead was matted with sweat, and he didn't like the way her hair looked more tarnished grey than silver, even under firelight. But her eyes seemed a tad less dull. "Not if…can help it," she croaked out. Weak, but still tough. Still fighting.
"Good." He might as well keep her talking. "Need some water?"
"I'm fine." Something dug in her voice, beneath the raspiness of her wrecked throat. "Would've been fine if you'd let me take another shot…"
He'd shot at that oversized moth to ward it away, but Stacia had wanted to kill. The girl still had a ferocity to her, the kind that ran through the blood of every Brume rat who'd had to scrounge and bite for survival. She'd made chase, and the beast had caught her unawares. "If you'd had that shot, chances are you would not even be here, spilling your guts out while I clean up after your mess."
Stacia glared at him again, and he wondered what she'd spit back this time. Gone too soft, perhaps, or too highbred to weather the stink. He was preparing a retort when she suddenly convulsed, and a wave of coughing overtook her. He was back at her side instantly, rolling her onto her side so that she could breathe more freely, so that she wouldn't choke herself.
When it was over, she slumped back down, looking a whole lot smaller under the thin blankets and coats. Leofard hesitated—and then leaned over anyway, reaching out to dab at her chin with a handkerchief. He brushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair from her brow.
A long moment later, he heard her say, "Leofard…'m sorry I messed up."
"You didn't." He hadn't even considered blaming anyone for this. And in all sincerity, he'd rather have her spit and hiss like a feral cat than mope. "It's a strange new land, eh? Can't help it if we run into a surprise every now and then."
"I promise I'll do…better next time…"
"You will," he said. There was a forcefulness in his voice that was still foreign to him. Something that ran deeper than authority or desperation.
More softly—unsure if he wanted her to hear it, or if that was more than he could bear, he added, "There's no one else I'd rather have by my side for this adventure, Stace."