...that, should security regulations and procedures be overhauled as outlined in the recommendations above, incidents such as the one at Nanawa will cease to occur.
Signed,
Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire
Co-Signed,
Ser Kage Kiryuu
Ser Lambert Arkwright
He stared at those signatures for a few moments more, then slipped his copy of the report back into the manila folder where it belonged. A soft, pleasant moan came from behind him, and he turned in his chair as sheets shifted to smile at her as she rolled over, fast asleep beneath the covers, still in bed. He turned back to his desk and reached up to turn down the wick on the oil lamp there, dimming the light further from an orange glare to a reddish glow.
They were in Limsa Lominsa now, on leave for some much needed and much deserved rest. It had been two suns since Northern Thanalan, two suns since the mere thought of the woman he loved had saved his life.
Kanaria.
Gull.
Bird.
Fly.
Â
Those were the final thoughts that rushed through his head as he staggered into the stonework between the merlons, and those thoughts gave way to instinct, and instinct had reached out with one gnarled hand to drag in his determination: he was not going to die.
Â
His arms shot up to full extension, hands grabbing at the rope, gripping it tight as he deliberately leaned into the fall, as his legs hit the stone and he went over. He curled over as he fell headfirst, arms straining in anticipation as he followed through, momentum helping as he swung his legs up and over and around the rope above him, crossing his legs, then yanking them back, finding purchase against the rope. He gave it everything he had: legs pulled back tight, hands and arms pulled in tight.
Â
He fell. He fell with some slack in the rope between his hands and his neck. He fell as he pulled.
Â
The rope snapped taut. His arms were nearly wrenched out of their sockets. His legs ached. His back screamed. His neck burned, but didn't snap.
Â
His neck didn't snap.
Â
He screamed, a blood-curling cry of agony that echoed throughout the small camp at the watchtower. They knew he lived, now, but there was no time to fix their mistake; he'd been heard, and those Flames and Blades who had not been bought off to look the other way were headed over now to investigate.
Â
His would-be killers fled.
Â
The rope. The rope had to be cut before his stamina gave out and he hanged anyway. He strained further, doubling his right hand's grip, releasing the rope with his left as he drew his legs further down, tucking further into a ball. There was an instant's marvel in which he wondered whether he looked like an upside-down fetus, then his left hand found the inside of his left boot and pulled the knife from therein.
Â
He eased up just a tad on the tension again, then started sawing at the rope between his neck and his right hand with the blade. He twisted in place, glimpsing back and down.
Â
It was a twenty fulm drop to the next stone battlement.
Â
This is going to suck.
Â
He kept sawing anyway. Less than a minute later, he fell.
Â
Osric Melkire hanged and lived.
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
He assorted the rest of his papers and tucked them back into the folder as well. Askier's trial was in less than a sennight, and Osric would be spending his sleepless nights sifting through the evidence, looking for an out, looking for a way to exonerate the man for only doing what he had to do to save his sister.
Â
He moved to stand, and was amazed once more when his knee didn't complain. They had operated on him as soon as the commotion had died down, as soon as he had returned from escorting Master Rosethorne to the processing plant. Afterwards, Madam Rysen had sat him down and explained the particulars to very clearly.
Â
"It will feel as good as new, but it w-w-won't be," she had told him. The stutter was not indicative of fear, anxiety, or concern; that was simply how Daphine spoke. He'd grown used to the verbal tic, over the past year; it barely registered with him anymore.
Â
"You'll have full freedom of movement, full flexibility, full strength... but the damage was extensive. We can't rewind time, Mister Melkire. If something like this happens again... if it breaks again... you will have to l-l-lose the leg."
Â
He'd decided he'd worry about that when that sun came. 'til then, he'd be careful.
Â
The operation alone, he could have handled. Could have gone about his business, gone back to work, back to duty. There had been the ceruleum poisoning to consider, though: he'd gone swimming in the stuff, to pull out Zachary Evans after that bravehearted man had dived in after Askier's sister. They'd been warned: no aetherite contact and no fighting or any other such strenuous activity for at least a sennight.
Â
So he'd applied for leave after filing his report the very next morning, put in for six suns. That request had been approved. Before they'd left, he'd made an excuse out of dropping by his room at the Hourglass to pick up a few things. He'd made that excuse to check in on Teryn and the others.
Â
The companions were still targets; had been, since Sedalyne had been attacked a few nights ago. So he'd gone to Peak, presented the women's case as if it were one he was officially working on, and asked for a protection detail. He had tried to find Lanza - Lanza and Liliana would've been perfect for this, he trusted them - but the former Blade and the current Flame had been scarce. So instead, Corporal Kokojo was staying with the women, and Otopa had honored him by assigning his best guards to the hall outside their room... and his best archer outside, just below the companion's window.
Â
He'd called it in to Lady Grace, of course. It was the best he could do - he had to go out. Ul'dah had been smothering him, and he needed to be away for a while. He'd check in on them when he got back, but for now... for now, they were safe.
Â
His eyes glanced over to his linkpearls, strewn atop the small bag he usually kept them in. Orange: the Flames. Red: Peak's. Blue with three black dots: Heaven's Gate. Lavender: hers. His heart sank into his stomach as his eyes fell on the next two: sky-blue and green.
Â
He had forgotten. In the hectic craziness that had come to characterize this past sennight, he had forgotten Vale and the Miqo'te. Had nearly forgotten Erik, as well.
Â
He reached for a quill and tore a slip of parchment from a spare scroll, then wrote:
Â
He left the note atop his pillowcase, then headed for the armoire. The sun would be rising soon; already, the songbirds had started to chirp. He pulled his clothes out, pulled them on. Not the Flames uniform: he was on vacation, damn it. He went for the other outfit instead.
Â
Finally dressed, he made his way over to the bed. He couldn't afford the luxury of a good night's rest, these suns, but for her sake, he had taken the two or three bells he could afford and spent them with her, lending her the comfort of his warmth to lull her to sleep, before slipping out from underneath the sheets to head over to his desk. Here, now, he bent down and pulled the blankets further up and around her shoulders, then planted a soft kiss on her forehead. His turban was hanging from the bedpost; he left it there. Today, he had his bandana to wear.
Â
He made his way across the room and out the door, snatching up his pearls as he went, dropping them back into their bag and the bag back into its belt pouch. He locked the door behind him; she had her own key, and the establishment had the master. He stopped to have a word with the innkeeper, then left the Mizzenmast behind, left the Wench.
Â
He plucked out and held up the two pearls in one hand, looking, considering. Sky blue, or green?
Â
Green. You owe them. And Rosethorne said he needed more time, last you checked.
Â
He pocketed the Blue Skies pearl, and slipped the little green one into his ear and held it there.
Â
"This is Thomys to the Exiles. If anyone's hearing this... I owe you an apology. And an explanation."
Â
He started moving faster. Turned a walk into a brisk morning jog.
Â
 "I have news."
Signed,
Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire
Co-Signed,
Ser Kage Kiryuu
Ser Lambert Arkwright
He stared at those signatures for a few moments more, then slipped his copy of the report back into the manila folder where it belonged. A soft, pleasant moan came from behind him, and he turned in his chair as sheets shifted to smile at her as she rolled over, fast asleep beneath the covers, still in bed. He turned back to his desk and reached up to turn down the wick on the oil lamp there, dimming the light further from an orange glare to a reddish glow.
They were in Limsa Lominsa now, on leave for some much needed and much deserved rest. It had been two suns since Northern Thanalan, two suns since the mere thought of the woman he loved had saved his life.
Kanaria.
Gull.
Bird.
Fly.
Â
Those were the final thoughts that rushed through his head as he staggered into the stonework between the merlons, and those thoughts gave way to instinct, and instinct had reached out with one gnarled hand to drag in his determination: he was not going to die.
Â
His arms shot up to full extension, hands grabbing at the rope, gripping it tight as he deliberately leaned into the fall, as his legs hit the stone and he went over. He curled over as he fell headfirst, arms straining in anticipation as he followed through, momentum helping as he swung his legs up and over and around the rope above him, crossing his legs, then yanking them back, finding purchase against the rope. He gave it everything he had: legs pulled back tight, hands and arms pulled in tight.
Â
He fell. He fell with some slack in the rope between his hands and his neck. He fell as he pulled.
Â
The rope snapped taut. His arms were nearly wrenched out of their sockets. His legs ached. His back screamed. His neck burned, but didn't snap.
Â
His neck didn't snap.
Â
He screamed, a blood-curling cry of agony that echoed throughout the small camp at the watchtower. They knew he lived, now, but there was no time to fix their mistake; he'd been heard, and those Flames and Blades who had not been bought off to look the other way were headed over now to investigate.
Â
His would-be killers fled.
Â
The rope. The rope had to be cut before his stamina gave out and he hanged anyway. He strained further, doubling his right hand's grip, releasing the rope with his left as he drew his legs further down, tucking further into a ball. There was an instant's marvel in which he wondered whether he looked like an upside-down fetus, then his left hand found the inside of his left boot and pulled the knife from therein.
Â
He eased up just a tad on the tension again, then started sawing at the rope between his neck and his right hand with the blade. He twisted in place, glimpsing back and down.
Â
It was a twenty fulm drop to the next stone battlement.
Â
This is going to suck.
Â
He kept sawing anyway. Less than a minute later, he fell.
Â
Osric Melkire hanged and lived.
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
He assorted the rest of his papers and tucked them back into the folder as well. Askier's trial was in less than a sennight, and Osric would be spending his sleepless nights sifting through the evidence, looking for an out, looking for a way to exonerate the man for only doing what he had to do to save his sister.
Â
He moved to stand, and was amazed once more when his knee didn't complain. They had operated on him as soon as the commotion had died down, as soon as he had returned from escorting Master Rosethorne to the processing plant. Afterwards, Madam Rysen had sat him down and explained the particulars to very clearly.
Â
"It will feel as good as new, but it w-w-won't be," she had told him. The stutter was not indicative of fear, anxiety, or concern; that was simply how Daphine spoke. He'd grown used to the verbal tic, over the past year; it barely registered with him anymore.
Â
"You'll have full freedom of movement, full flexibility, full strength... but the damage was extensive. We can't rewind time, Mister Melkire. If something like this happens again... if it breaks again... you will have to l-l-lose the leg."
Â
He'd decided he'd worry about that when that sun came. 'til then, he'd be careful.
Â
The operation alone, he could have handled. Could have gone about his business, gone back to work, back to duty. There had been the ceruleum poisoning to consider, though: he'd gone swimming in the stuff, to pull out Zachary Evans after that bravehearted man had dived in after Askier's sister. They'd been warned: no aetherite contact and no fighting or any other such strenuous activity for at least a sennight.
Â
So he'd applied for leave after filing his report the very next morning, put in for six suns. That request had been approved. Before they'd left, he'd made an excuse out of dropping by his room at the Hourglass to pick up a few things. He'd made that excuse to check in on Teryn and the others.
Â
The companions were still targets; had been, since Sedalyne had been attacked a few nights ago. So he'd gone to Peak, presented the women's case as if it were one he was officially working on, and asked for a protection detail. He had tried to find Lanza - Lanza and Liliana would've been perfect for this, he trusted them - but the former Blade and the current Flame had been scarce. So instead, Corporal Kokojo was staying with the women, and Otopa had honored him by assigning his best guards to the hall outside their room... and his best archer outside, just below the companion's window.
Â
He'd called it in to Lady Grace, of course. It was the best he could do - he had to go out. Ul'dah had been smothering him, and he needed to be away for a while. He'd check in on them when he got back, but for now... for now, they were safe.
Â
His eyes glanced over to his linkpearls, strewn atop the small bag he usually kept them in. Orange: the Flames. Red: Peak's. Blue with three black dots: Heaven's Gate. Lavender: hers. His heart sank into his stomach as his eyes fell on the next two: sky-blue and green.
Â
He had forgotten. In the hectic craziness that had come to characterize this past sennight, he had forgotten Vale and the Miqo'te. Had nearly forgotten Erik, as well.
Â
He reached for a quill and tore a slip of parchment from a spare scroll, then wrote:
Headed out for a bit to meet with D'lyhhia. Should be back soon. Don't get up; I've ordered breakfast in bed.
Have my pearl with me; if you need to reach me, just call.
Â
Looking forward to your surprise.
Have my pearl with me; if you need to reach me, just call.
Â
Looking forward to your surprise.
Â
He left the note atop his pillowcase, then headed for the armoire. The sun would be rising soon; already, the songbirds had started to chirp. He pulled his clothes out, pulled them on. Not the Flames uniform: he was on vacation, damn it. He went for the other outfit instead.
Â
Finally dressed, he made his way over to the bed. He couldn't afford the luxury of a good night's rest, these suns, but for her sake, he had taken the two or three bells he could afford and spent them with her, lending her the comfort of his warmth to lull her to sleep, before slipping out from underneath the sheets to head over to his desk. Here, now, he bent down and pulled the blankets further up and around her shoulders, then planted a soft kiss on her forehead. His turban was hanging from the bedpost; he left it there. Today, he had his bandana to wear.
Â
He made his way across the room and out the door, snatching up his pearls as he went, dropping them back into their bag and the bag back into its belt pouch. He locked the door behind him; she had her own key, and the establishment had the master. He stopped to have a word with the innkeeper, then left the Mizzenmast behind, left the Wench.
Â
He plucked out and held up the two pearls in one hand, looking, considering. Sky blue, or green?
Â
Green. You owe them. And Rosethorne said he needed more time, last you checked.
Â
He pocketed the Blue Skies pearl, and slipped the little green one into his ear and held it there.
Â
"This is Thomys to the Exiles. If anyone's hearing this... I owe you an apology. And an explanation."
Â
He started moving faster. Turned a walk into a brisk morning jog.
Â
 "I have news."
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
