Hydaelyn Role-Players

Tenderness was felt upon tired features. Calloused fingertips brushed heated flesh, running a languid course down the bridge of her nose, to partially divorced lips. There he felt the lifeblood escaping her, dribbling from the thick lower lip, which trembled ever so slightly. She was dying, and he felt each weakened breath escape her. “You're dying,” his voice resonates quietly into the air, into this dark, cold ambient.

“I know,” Rivienne replies as her eyes opened into the velvet nothingness, which began to melt away and reveal a lush forest. She was greeted with the soft caress of the wind, the smell of Azeyma roses. She did not see him, but she felt him there, his warm body ever so close. His voice was comforting, but it was a sound that did not exist any longer. “I want to rest, let me, with thee..” Lashes sank as weariness ensnared her, and the tendrils of the dark, threatened to pull her down.

“Not yet, it's not time,” Marceloix whispered upon her ear. When he turned to her, he was in his youth once more, the young man trapped in a time she held on to.

“Let me have this.. freedom.” She speaks in the same, mumbled, fashion. In his golden eyes, she saw her reflection, a very young girl, reaching out for him. But he soon began to fade, and her image was enveloped in shadow.

There was nothing but silence. Silenced she welcomed. A silence meant for her only. For as she slept, and sank deeper into the frigid embrace of death, the world around her came to life.

Lifeblood spilled around her from the wound, staining her attire entirely, filling the air with the aroma of her vitae. Chaos spreads like wildfire, erratically, as knights soon entered the gape of this cave, knights that were not under Carvallain's command. Their blades sang this day, as night began to fall, and the howling winds resonate their song into the cavern. They claimed the beasts, their lives were forfeit. These same men were sent, by coincidence, to investigate Dravanian activity.

Among these men, Lanceloix, son of Lairemont and Gabrielle Delacroux, twin sibling of Louix, brother of Marceloix, counted the bodies he slain with his lance, nearly passing over the slumped form of a golden haired maiden. Rumors were heated with talk of a woman using the corpses of the fallen to perform deeds against the people of Ishgard. One could imagine the pain that surged through his chest at the sight of a face he had loved, one all too familiar after all these years. As men cried out their victories, he removed his helm and tossed it carelessly aside. From his gold crown, long hair framed his scarred visage, now twisted with an expression of grief. Hazel eyes softened when the gruesome display painted a clear picture. Behind the deceit was his own blood, something he could not speak of, a shame embedded and carved into his existence.

Down to a knee he fell and swept his eyes away from his deceased mother, to the woman who had sunk her chin to her clavicle. He saw the arrow that claimed her, and figured she was but another casualty, for she was not dressed like the others. Carefully, he sought her cheek and jaw twixt steel-covered fingers and lifted to see the face of the woman caught in the entire ordeal.

What he did not expect, was a vision of the past.

Air emptied from his lungs and he felt agony return twofold. She was broken before him; the young girl he begged not to take up Marceloix's training, the young lass who blossomed into a woman, the woman who he swore to protect in the end.

“Rivienne, Rivienne,” he whispered mournfully and moved a free hand to her chest, where the arrow was embedded. The blood was warm, staining his gauntlet as it spreads across her leather garment, saturating it. She was bruised; her flesh turned a nasty shade of plum, it was evidence that she was physically involved. Swallowing, the knight lowered himself on the adjacent knee before her and held back the sorrowful sob lodged in his throat. His forehead fell to her own and tears formed in the basin of his eyes.

The world around him died along with her this moment. He will never be able to see her smile, hear her sing taught by their mother, bicker. He would never know the reason she had come to this desolate, frigid wasteland. Already, he began to pray to Halone and pressed his lips to her brow, only to hear a small, ragged breath from her lips. Immediately, panic stirred within him. She lived. And lived on a sliver of life.

"You're dying."

“Chirurgeon!” The cry shattered the cacophonous hum of conversation that dwindled to nothing when they heard his cry. Among the lancers and bowmen, there were but a few good men that had the capacity of treating wounds whislt on the battlefield. One of them stood from his kneeling position, after confirming the death of one of the cultists present. The frenzied expression, upon the face of Lanceloix, gave him enough indication that this was of importance. A survivor, in this scene of death, did not have favorable odds, but again he heard Lanceloix's plea of desperation, and felt vigor take bloom with his hurried steps.

Clutching the saturated leather, enveloping her frame, Lance ripped apart the material, exposing the battered, tender flesh, underneath. Hot, dark blood, was yet wet on her breast, running in thick rivulets down the curvature of it. He cared not if she was bared, her life was in his hands, and he could see it slipping twixt his fingers. Sorrow etched lines of worry across his once hardened features whilst the chirurgeon rushed to fall at his side. His hands hovered over Rivienne's chest, where the arrow was. “We have to move her, now," the surgeon whispered, "I can not begin to try and operate on her-- not here.” He applies pressure around the shaft at her breast whilst Lanceloix removes his cloak from his person with haste to place around the area of the wound. The beating of her heart was felt, a trying thing that refused to give up, yet.

“Then we ride with the very wind,” he whispered harshly in returned and gaze a quick look to the image of his fallen mother, and then the remains of a skeletal figure, one with a its empty eyes seeking the ceiling of this wretched cavern. This was now to become their tomb, along with the bodies of those heretic fanatics and their Dravanian brethren. No proper burial would be given to them, and until he could ease his mind, his thoughts would not linger on wicked blood spilled, but the one now soaking his mantle. Into his arms she was raised carefully, as to not move the arrow that claimed her. His eyes roamed her face, how peaceful and tired she appeared, and how death longed to claim her from him.

The jagged mouth, of the cave, did not offer them much light; the clouds of snow shield the moon from spilling forth. Greeted by bitter winds, the destriers and palfrey steeds, were growing restless, not due to the incoming storm that came with a warning in the winds, but the lonesome chocobo facing the cold alone. Chains still remained on his champron and hung from his barding, heavily trailing behind his steps as he neared the band. His cries were swallowed by the gales when those dark eyes caught sight of his fallen companion in the arms of another Elezen. Avenger, one dutiful to Rivienne, did not charge, instead slowly approached as Lanceloix knew immediately of who stood vigilance before them. Avenger, the courser of dark plume, was to be lead away with them.

With her placed before him, secured on the saddle, her body was shielded from the cold with the cloaks offered by his fellow knights. Without warning, he raced into the howling winds, without a helm, without protection on his person. It mattered not to him if he was to fall into illness from the bitter kiss of this everlasting winter. He shared heat with her, he fueled the heat needed for her to survive; in his ears was the tormenting beating of his heart, knowing that perhaps he would not be able to hear her own.. soon.

“Hurry, I can not feel the strength of her pulse,” Lanceloix hissed as her body is rested on a cot and the healers quickly began to remove her leather jerkin, allowing them view of what they had to deal with. The arrow was rigid within her breast, and they needed not her brother to stand vigilant over them. He was not composed, flustered he appeared, as he paced the space of this small clinic. There were cots with inhabitants in them, and he knew it would be selfish of him to inhabit the, already crowded, area. His men were told to remain at the cavern, to seal it shut. Inside, he buried his brother Marceloix, who would finally find the embrace of the Fury, and his mother, who would not be graced with bliss. Troubled thoughts occupied his mind, for he would have to face the truth that those bound by blood, were ill-fated. He would think she, Rivienne Juliette Delacroux, would share the same fate this night. But she fought; he had not given her much hope.

“Thou hast been through much, have rest, I will summon thee,” there came a quiet voice behind him when the oak door opened slowly. Her gentle words eased his heart, for he knew the fair maiden that spoke all too well. “Anabella,” he pivots on his heel and offers a bow of the head to the chirurgeon that quickly approached the area where others were gathered. Her dark hair was kept up away from her face, allowing Lanceloix to meet her eyes of the lightest blues. He spoke of his family to her, of his brothers and youngest sister. How her hair was spun by the beams of the sun, how her eyes shone like gold. Upon seeing her face, Anabella knew who she was, the features were unmistakable.

His wife cupped his cheek and ran her fingers over the scars that cut deep into the flesh of his lips. The warmth of her hand melted away the icy grip that anxiety had on him, but it lasted not long. He took her hand into his hand, still adorned in a gauntlet, and turned to Rivienne.

“She hast lost much blood from what was reported, we needeth to replenish her,” Anabella parted from his side and whispered while a smile spreads 'pon her pale lips. There was compassion in her gaze, and as he watched her walk past him, he knew what she meant. He would offer her what she needed, without a second thought. The blood transfusion had to succeed, he prayed for such, atleast.

The bells had passed, night soon turned to daylight, or what they could make out as day. He was watching her as she slept, the serene look that painted her visage. Golden hair was pushed aside, allowing his lips to fall on her warmed forehead. Feverish was her skin, but was told not to worry. But worry was all he could do as her lifeless hand was taken into his own. It was so small, calloused, bruised. Guilt took the reins of his heart and pulled taut; he could have protected her if he had returned; she would have never needed to fight.

“I am sorry,” his baritone voice filled the expanse of the room. Blood he had given her, but he didn't think it was enough. He wanted to shield her from the nightmares, free her from the troubles that stirred her. His fingers delicately squeezed her own and tresses of gold spilled over her face, a veil as he pressed his forehead to her own and began his prayers to Halone. She could not be taken, not this day, nor the next.

“Will thou tell her?” He felt his heart lodged in his throat when Anabella's voice filled his ears; he languidly straightened himself and turned to see her worried expression, the touch of sorrow found in the sea of her eyes. He had not heard her come in, lost in his own thoughts of melancholy.

“No, I can't.” He responds while placing Rivienne's hand over her abdomen. The arrow was long removed and she was bound by bandage. Her body was draped over by the clean linens; soiled habiliments were replaced on her person by none other than Anabella.

“..She has to know, why would thou depri--”

“Because it is best she does not seek me, that she does not involve herself in our war, this is not her fight. Already she hast lost a mother, two brothers, Ana . .” He stood to walk to Anabella and take her by the hands. She was warm, always so warm.

“But she found you.” she replied quietly while his face was brushed with her knuckles. “Now let her find a flame of hope that everything is not lost.”