Plotted starter for @thescions [Haurchefant]
There is no rest for the wicked, nor the champions that chase the bloodied path in the snow.
The short snap of a book closed had cut through the crackling silence of the fire in the hearth. Leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, the Keeper held the small tome in a relaxed grip. Rubbing her eyes delicately, she wondered exactly how long they would have to spend sneaking around. Lord Fortemps was was generous enough to give them shelter within his decorated halls, but the generosity felt more like that of a shroud than simple hospitality. So it came as genuine surprise to the feline healer when the sanctuary had been extended to herself as a member of their small party.
To be included in the same consideration with Alphinaud, Tataru, and of course the Warrior of Light should have been an honor. It should have meant that her presence held value among the peoples of the very land she had been taken from. Yet here in the heart of Coerthas, she still felt so very far from being part of the whole. Not that the others hadn't tried to make her feel comfortable- no they were quite clear on how much her assistance mattered to them. The consistence in their desire to check in on how she had been handling the sudden change of scenery, and the gravity of the situation they had found themselves in had been rather...annoying.
The generosity had been nothing more than a terror of time passed come back to haunt her. So, when the moment came for them to keep their heads down and take shelter, the option to self-isolate came easily to her. The Lord of the manor had granted them relative free-roam of his beautiful home. The many rooms filled with innumerable comforts she had never known, the winding hallways decorated with paintings, and expertly crafted furniture she felt she couldn't afford to even look at-
Surely she could find some small corner of solace to keep to herself within stony walls.
It was a shame that she found it after raising her voice towards Alphinaud in response to this unexpected restriction. Of course, none had explicitly told her that she couldn't leave the comforts and safety of the manor. It was simply a buried reaction she hadn't anticipated. The memory of such pain and fear had clawed to the surface when it felt the chill of snow. It was only a matter of time before they would break free of the bars and chains she had so carefully constructed in order to reintegrate into society.
Gods, you're a mess, she thought. Here, sitting alone in the small room, she felt like a prisoner. There was no real threat to her own well being, but there were rather dire consequences should she take the risk to leave. Other than the Scion's payment for her services, she had remained at their side by her own good will. Had she known that her assistance would have taken her to the biting cold reminiscent of the nightmare she lived, her decision to join them in Ishgard would have been different.
Cyra could have abandoned them. She could have said no, and left to return to her home in The Black Shroud. But it was the guilt of the healer's heart that would chain her to the Scions. What if something happened? If she had taken herself up on that selfish desire to return to familiarity, would she have been able to bear the weight of knowing her presence could have saved the life of another, but didn't? Would the woman she had worked so hard to become be strong enough to hold up against that potential truth?
No. Their hurts, their loss...they would paint her hands red.
The moment was brief, but she didn't remember when she had come to stand from her seat. The thunderous crack of the book slamming into the far wall beside the fireplace had brought her back from her inner storm. Her heart had been hammering in her chest, recognizing the fearful flutter as the answer to the questions that had swirled behind her eyes. She watched how the pages of her tome had fallen loose from the force of her throw; how they had delicately, and slowly drifted to land on the table, the floor, and the other cushioned seat. The trail of papers was proof enough that she had lost her temper.
She cursed in a whisper of short growls and hissing words of a language she kept practiced in private. Just one of many secrets she resolved to keep and take with her to the grave.
"It's the damned cold. It's always the snow that brings it back." She sat back down, nearly dropping herself into the cushions like she had died standing. Her head fell back into her hands, pressing her scarred palms firmly over her eyes to block out the light.
