Following some in-game RP, in which Aden killed a person for the first time.
![[Image: tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png]](https://40.media.tumblr.com/ad3bee96533553de4327d8fcd1defd67/tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png)
Eight Missed Sunrises
“You’ll see why.†And Flynt turned away, a cool sort of certainty in his eyes.
By the gods, he did, when he already had his own spear buried in the gut of a heretic. The other landed a slash while Aden was staring horrified when newly-scaled flesh ripped past the third assailant’s robes. It was one thing to be told, and another entirely to see.
He only slipped for that one staccato heartbeat, because even before he took up a lance Nadine had spent years hardwiring response into him. Somewhere in the dim, distant part of his brain that still worked and wasn’t just motion and reaction, Aden wondered if all aevis had once been men and women. If the ones he’d torn the throats from not a moon prior had been. And how much of them remained.
Only when all three, two men and one former-man lay at their feet, did Aden pause again, staring down at the rapidly cooling bodies, at the blood on the head of his lance.
“The sort of folks beyond reasoning, then,†he recalled saying before they’d turned the corner.
“Is something wrong?â€
“No. It’s just…†He shook his head and looked up, hoped he seemed convincing. “We’ll talk about it when people aren’t trying to gut us.â€
Flynt regarded him for a moment with that sort of measuring gaze he so often did, as if he could weigh the value of Aden’s spirit, of his worthiness to pursue this path, with his eyes alone. “Good man,†he concluded, and they moved on.
All he could do under that gaze was pray his side of the scale not come up wanting.
That night Aden slept only in fits and starts, kept awake once the adrenaline wore off by the pain of his broken arm. He’d been lucky, when the ricochet hit the canon rather than him, that he’d been fast enough to duck and avoid the return of the blast from behind the gun. Lucky indeed, to walk away with only a broken arm, with a hitch in his breath, from the canon slamming back into him.
“I may not recall it well or fondly, but it’s where I’m from.â€
And yet the men he’d killed but a few bells prior, four more he’d added on by the end, had more claim to it than he. What did he serve, but himself? But the thought that he would be something more than what those who’d raised him conspired for? He didn’t know enough about Ishgard to guess who they might’ve been, where they’d come from, but he imagined they’d all had families, and hopes, and lives they’d meant to live before they ended up where they were.
And what drove them to it? Were they willing? Flynt had spoken of enthrallment, after all. The thought made him nauseous, that they might not be–it seemed so much easier to put reason to it if he thought they had known what they were doing and came to the outpost with murderous intent. He closed his eyes to try and steady himself.
But there in the dark were the bodies against the dark stone floor, the blood on the head of his lance.
The rest of the night he didn’t dare stray from somewhere safe to be sick, save to grab for a blanket when the room grew chill as the halls of the outpost had been. He kept his arm so very, very still, even as he curled around the violent ache of his bruised ribs–because retching did them no favors. And in the earliest hours of the morning, before he heard movement in the lodge, he felt the sweat on his skin beading to ice, wondered when the sweltering heat of day would finally arrive to convince him he wasn’t still in the outpost.
He must’ve slept at some point, because he woke late, curled so far around himself that his forehead rested against his knees, his eyelids tacky and his breath hitching, even in his sleep careful to avoid drawing too deep a breath. He uncurled himself and rose, but couldn’t stand up straight until the heat of a shower eased his joints apart. After, he managed a makeshift sling one-handed, from the shreds of the lining of the jacket he’d worn while fighting an escaped monster some weeks prior. He’d only just found a new one, and looking between the remains of the old one and the new one, barely worn, some strange sense of loss overwhelmed him. It quickly faded into a numb silence.
When Aden returned to himself the chronometer by his bed had ticked off another hour. He struggled into a shirt, settled the sling and threw his jacket over one shoulder. As an afterthought he awkwardly tucked his most recent assigned reading under his good arm, and headed down to the infirmary to wait.
He saw them again when he closed his eyes. It left Aden lying awake in the dark for bells, trying to reason with himself. Finally in the quiet hours of the night the most traitorous thought came: I was told to.
It seemed a weak, cold comfort at first, but when he closed his eyes this time he saw Flynt standing in the hall of the outpost, measuring his entire worth in a glance. Aden rolled over in bed, shoved his face into the pillow. He wouldn’t place that on Flynt. He’d seen more than enough horror in his mentor’s eyes the night he agreed to train Aden as a dragoon, and he wouldn’t add to that burden. Before he’d guessed, but he realized now what that might be. What Flynt had really meant when he said he was killing a part of Aden by training him.
Rather than let himself dwell on it Aden hauled himself out of bed, went into the front room and snatched his spear out of the rack by the door. He stood there for a moment in the dark, spear in hand and staring at the mat beneath his feet. The heretics had been there to kill Ishgardian soldiers and take the outpost, and on seeing Aden and Flynt had not hesitated to attack. Ultimately, why didn’t matter. There was no why. He would find no meaning in killing, no matter how long he looked for it.
He closed his eyes, and saw them there, dying on the cold stone. Then he forced himself to imagine them in the moments before as they came at him. Aden moved through the fight once more, matching each thrust and parry, hesitating when the man transformed.
Then he did it again, this time drilling into himself you must not waver–not for anything. Because the next time it would be someone else, someone he cared for, taking the blow while his attention turned. And so there could not be a next time for hesitation. The room seemed to grow cold as he did, the same chill in the air from the outpost. Though he knew it would be no match for facing the real thing again, Aden repeated the exercise until the transformations he’d seen no longer merited a response beyond the categorization of another threat.
Just before dawn he managed an hour of exhausted sleep, when his body was too tired to fight any longer, and his mind too dull to keep him awake.
He did it again the next night, and the night after, for the entire following week, until he made the right choices, the merciful choices. Because a carefully-wielded lance could pierce to the most vital parts of a man, and if he could not give their deaths meaning he could at least give them a quick, clean death.
Eight Missed Sunrises
“You’ll see why.†And Flynt turned away, a cool sort of certainty in his eyes.
By the gods, he did, when he already had his own spear buried in the gut of a heretic. The other landed a slash while Aden was staring horrified when newly-scaled flesh ripped past the third assailant’s robes. It was one thing to be told, and another entirely to see.
He only slipped for that one staccato heartbeat, because even before he took up a lance Nadine had spent years hardwiring response into him. Somewhere in the dim, distant part of his brain that still worked and wasn’t just motion and reaction, Aden wondered if all aevis had once been men and women. If the ones he’d torn the throats from not a moon prior had been. And how much of them remained.
Only when all three, two men and one former-man lay at their feet, did Aden pause again, staring down at the rapidly cooling bodies, at the blood on the head of his lance.
“The sort of folks beyond reasoning, then,†he recalled saying before they’d turned the corner.
“Is something wrong?â€
“No. It’s just…†He shook his head and looked up, hoped he seemed convincing. “We’ll talk about it when people aren’t trying to gut us.â€
Flynt regarded him for a moment with that sort of measuring gaze he so often did, as if he could weigh the value of Aden’s spirit, of his worthiness to pursue this path, with his eyes alone. “Good man,†he concluded, and they moved on.
All he could do under that gaze was pray his side of the scale not come up wanting.
That night Aden slept only in fits and starts, kept awake once the adrenaline wore off by the pain of his broken arm. He’d been lucky, when the ricochet hit the canon rather than him, that he’d been fast enough to duck and avoid the return of the blast from behind the gun. Lucky indeed, to walk away with only a broken arm, with a hitch in his breath, from the canon slamming back into him.
“I may not recall it well or fondly, but it’s where I’m from.â€
And yet the men he’d killed but a few bells prior, four more he’d added on by the end, had more claim to it than he. What did he serve, but himself? But the thought that he would be something more than what those who’d raised him conspired for? He didn’t know enough about Ishgard to guess who they might’ve been, where they’d come from, but he imagined they’d all had families, and hopes, and lives they’d meant to live before they ended up where they were.
And what drove them to it? Were they willing? Flynt had spoken of enthrallment, after all. The thought made him nauseous, that they might not be–it seemed so much easier to put reason to it if he thought they had known what they were doing and came to the outpost with murderous intent. He closed his eyes to try and steady himself.
But there in the dark were the bodies against the dark stone floor, the blood on the head of his lance.
The rest of the night he didn’t dare stray from somewhere safe to be sick, save to grab for a blanket when the room grew chill as the halls of the outpost had been. He kept his arm so very, very still, even as he curled around the violent ache of his bruised ribs–because retching did them no favors. And in the earliest hours of the morning, before he heard movement in the lodge, he felt the sweat on his skin beading to ice, wondered when the sweltering heat of day would finally arrive to convince him he wasn’t still in the outpost.
He must’ve slept at some point, because he woke late, curled so far around himself that his forehead rested against his knees, his eyelids tacky and his breath hitching, even in his sleep careful to avoid drawing too deep a breath. He uncurled himself and rose, but couldn’t stand up straight until the heat of a shower eased his joints apart. After, he managed a makeshift sling one-handed, from the shreds of the lining of the jacket he’d worn while fighting an escaped monster some weeks prior. He’d only just found a new one, and looking between the remains of the old one and the new one, barely worn, some strange sense of loss overwhelmed him. It quickly faded into a numb silence.
When Aden returned to himself the chronometer by his bed had ticked off another hour. He struggled into a shirt, settled the sling and threw his jacket over one shoulder. As an afterthought he awkwardly tucked his most recent assigned reading under his good arm, and headed down to the infirmary to wait.
He saw them again when he closed his eyes. It left Aden lying awake in the dark for bells, trying to reason with himself. Finally in the quiet hours of the night the most traitorous thought came: I was told to.
It seemed a weak, cold comfort at first, but when he closed his eyes this time he saw Flynt standing in the hall of the outpost, measuring his entire worth in a glance. Aden rolled over in bed, shoved his face into the pillow. He wouldn’t place that on Flynt. He’d seen more than enough horror in his mentor’s eyes the night he agreed to train Aden as a dragoon, and he wouldn’t add to that burden. Before he’d guessed, but he realized now what that might be. What Flynt had really meant when he said he was killing a part of Aden by training him.
Rather than let himself dwell on it Aden hauled himself out of bed, went into the front room and snatched his spear out of the rack by the door. He stood there for a moment in the dark, spear in hand and staring at the mat beneath his feet. The heretics had been there to kill Ishgardian soldiers and take the outpost, and on seeing Aden and Flynt had not hesitated to attack. Ultimately, why didn’t matter. There was no why. He would find no meaning in killing, no matter how long he looked for it.
He closed his eyes, and saw them there, dying on the cold stone. Then he forced himself to imagine them in the moments before as they came at him. Aden moved through the fight once more, matching each thrust and parry, hesitating when the man transformed.
Then he did it again, this time drilling into himself you must not waver–not for anything. Because the next time it would be someone else, someone he cared for, taking the blow while his attention turned. And so there could not be a next time for hesitation. The room seemed to grow cold as he did, the same chill in the air from the outpost. Though he knew it would be no match for facing the real thing again, Aden repeated the exercise until the transformations he’d seen no longer merited a response beyond the categorization of another threat.
Just before dawn he managed an hour of exhausted sleep, when his body was too tired to fight any longer, and his mind too dull to keep him awake.
He did it again the next night, and the night after, for the entire following week, until he made the right choices, the merciful choices. Because a carefully-wielded lance could pierce to the most vital parts of a man, and if he could not give their deaths meaning he could at least give them a quick, clean death.
