Chapter Text
Felix grunted as he stumbled, his footprints fresh in the snow behind him, giving away his location. Not that the Great Wolf hunting him would need them when the blood seeping into his jacket at his shoulder provided an easy scent to follow.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. Taking down a Great Wolf pack for a terrorized town wasn’t a particularly tough assignment, but in the winter the wolves were hungry and desperate, and the pack leader got in a lucky swipe with its paws.
A wolf howled not far away, off to his right, on his wounded side.
The forest he was running through ended abruptly, sheer cliffs giving way to a valley scores of feet below. He had been looking behind when he ran, and he tried to pinwheel his arm to regain his balance but his wounded shoulder didn’t allow him to twist appropriately. He slipped down the cliff face, gripping his wounded shoulder tightly, curling in on himself to try to lessen the impact.
Perhaps the coating of snow on the ground made his landing softer, but it still flattened his ribs together, squeezed the breath from his lungs until he was gasping. His sword slipped from his hand, his shield scraped along the cliff before falling away from his back.
He heard growls and forced himself to look up the cliffs to the forest, and although he couldn’t make out much of the wolves in the snow he could see their eyes and their steaming breath as it disappeared in the wind.
After blinking down at him a few times, the pairs of eyes disappeared.
So he didn’t have to worry about the wolves killing. Just the damn Faerghus winter.
His shoulder was stinging and aching, and when he splayed out his arms to feel for his sword in the snow, it seized up. Wind swept across the valley, and he pulled his arms close and buried his forehead against them, trying to conserve his body heat.
Without a blockade of trees and branches to block the bitter winter wind, and with snow and blood saturating his clothes, the situation was quickly becoming worse than Felix thought.
His face was numb, too numb to even mutter a swear. His fingers brushed painfully against freezing metal and he wrapped them stubbornly around the Sword of Moralta. The Shield… They were the only things left of his family’s namesake, the only reminder of his father since that cursed war erased borders and caused chaos around the country. More than that, though, they were both damn good pieces of equipment. He dragged himself through snow, digging his left elbow into the ground and pushing forward with his knees.
It was slow moving, and he was shivering and sweating at the same time, furs whipping uselessly around his frozen face and pushing heavily against his back. His numb fingers found it, the flat edge of the shield, and he cursed the goddess for the heatless orange glow that flared to life beneath them. At least it was visible proof that he was still alive.
His shoulder was numb now, but a deep stinging lanced down his back when he moved his arm too much. The face of the cliff was only a few feet away, and dragging the sword and shield with him, he forced himself to sit against it. Snow was falling gently, the scene before him serene and oblivious to his suffering.
He forced himself to sit against the rocky cliff face, which was at least free of ice and snow. His horse, along with his pack and gear, was waiting for him on the other side of the forest, over the cliffs.
What a miserable life, Felix thought. He’d been born the second son to a noble house, lost his mother as a child, lost his brother, his childhood, and his father, fought in a fruitless war, killed people with no greater purpose, and eeked out an uncomfortable existence as a mercenary before meeting his demise in some nameless valley in what used to be Galatea but now had been renamed to honor one of Edelgard’s generals in the war.
At least the cliff was dry, and as he leaned on it a melody played in his mind, the same one he’d hummed to himself when he slept on wooden inn floors or as his stomach growled for lack of food or as he shoved his sword through the heart of a particularly unpleasant target.
Oh this mountain of sweets, and treats that I long to eats! Oh stacks of steaks and cakes and crumbs and yums!
He sighed, his breath fogging weakly in front of him.
If he could rest for a few minutes and draw together his strength, perhaps he’d be able to find a way out of the valley that didn’t involve climbing up a cliff. Or maybe he could find kindling dry enough to start a fire.
It was stupid of him to fall asleep, and when he woke it was a struggle to clear his mind of heavy fog that filled it.
A cloaked figure loomed over him, a painted mask reflecting the flickering glow of a lantern.
He flinched back, and as he did snow fell from his arm. How long had it been? He didn't even feel cold. He didn't feel much of anything.
It must have been a woman behind the mask, because the lips were painted red and intricate designs were painted over the cheeks and chin. The eyebrows were painted where her actual eyebrows might be, thin and curling.
He slammed his palm clumsily into his hip, grasping for the hilt of his sword, but it wasn't there.
The woman put a hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle. He bared his teeth at her anyway.
“Sh,” she soothed, the sound muffled by the mask she wore, and wind whipped brutally past them. Strawberry hair lashed at his numb face and he squinted.
Pathetic. He couldn't even raise his arms to block the wind.
His eyes grew heavy as warmth flooded through him, and as he drifted to blank unconsciousness he realized that she was healing him.
Felix awoke to warmth and the smell of food cooking. He swallowed a groan as he lifted his head. Pain lanced through him as he moved, most specifically to his right shoulder.
He was naked from the waist up, and bandages had been wrapped around him in several places. They were stained with blood in many places. Several crocheted blankets had been thrown over him, and as he pushed them aside he was disturbed to find that his pants had also been removed, and a gash on his leg that he didn’t even remember getting had been bandaged up similar to his torso.
His back stung, and as he shifted it only got worse. He was on a lime green couch in front of a stone hearth, and suspended above the crackling fire was a small cast iron pot. He ignored the pain that fired through him as he sat up to better observe his surroundings.
Thick green curtains were drawn over every window, though it was still quite drafty in the room. It must have been late morning or early afternoon, judging by what light he could see through cracks in the curtains.
The room he was in appeared to take up the entire house. Walls made of wood logs surrounded him on all sides in a neat square. There were plants all around, some with strange leaves that he’d never seen before. They were crowded into each of the corners of the room, above windows, on shelves, on every surface, all of different sizes and shapes. Aside from plants, the other main piece of decor appeared to be books. Mismatched bookshelves lined the walls, and they were all crammed full of books, some stacked on top of each other.
The floor was made of stone, though woven rugs had been thrown down, presumably to keep the chill away. A small kitchenette with a cast-iron stove was next to the door, and a round table with two rickety wooden chairs was the only surface in the house not covered by books or plants.
A staircase that wound around in a spiral led to a low loft above the kitchenette, and with no wall to separate it from the rest of the house he could see the makings of a bedroom, namely a wooden bed, a small dresser, a washbasin, and more bookshelves and plants.
There was no sign anywhere of his weapons or his clothes. It made him uneasy. Were they still in the damn forest? That woman might as well have left him there to die.
He groaned and shifted to his feet, his body protesting as he moved. His back, his shoulder, his leg all ached constantly, and the pain crested to a burning when he moved. He dove into the pain, wrestling with it and besting it. Better to be in pain and alive. His head throbbed, too, and he realized he was terribly thirsty. How long had he been unconscious?
He wrapped a blanket around his waist as he stalked around the cottage. There had to be water somewhere. The kitchenette was a long way from the couch, and he limped slowly over to it. A carafe was set on the small counter next to the oven, and he grabbed at it with his left arm while his right hand remained on the blanket around his waist.
He glanced inside the carafe to make sure that it was water inside, and he smelled it, too, though he mostly smelled tin. He was too thirsty to think better of it before he lifted the whole thing to his mouth and gulped greedily, sloshing water onto his chest and the bandages wrapped across it.
On the other side of the thin door, Felix heard footsteps approaching and he tensed, spilling more of the water as he set the carafe down. He rifled through a drawer, guessing that he’d find some kind of knife or utensil, anything that would help him. He found one, grasping the handle and hurrying as quickly as he could to the door, still clutching the crocheted blanket across his waist.
The door opened and the small figure of a woman stepped inside, and Felix shot out his hand that held the knife to grab her by the shoulder and whirl her around, then keep the knife aimed at her throat. A basket tumbled out of her hands and she looked through her mask at the blade in his hand.
The same mask that swam in front of his vision before he passed out at the cliff face. The same woman.
“Who are you?” he growled.
Unbothered by the sight of her own knife pointed at her, she looked down his body at the bandages at his chest, spattered with blood. She tipped her head down lower, to the blanket he’d wrapped around himself.
He brandished the knife, bringing it closer to her throat. “I asked you a question,” he said in as menacing a voice as he could muster.
She quickly blasted a thin jet of wind magic at his feet, and he was knocked onto his ass on the hard stone ground before the sigil faded.
He grimaced, baring his teeth at her, and she calmly kneeled down and picked up her basket, scooping up the laundry that fell out of it.
His clothes.
Wordlessly, she selected his teal pants and handed them to him, not bothering to help him up.
He either needed to drop the blanket or the knife to take his pants from her.
He did not drop the knife.
She didn’t react, instead she placed her basket on her hip and set it down on the round table.
There was nowhere private in the house to go to change, so he took the knife with him as he limped to the green couch and sat to pull them on.
Light footsteps approached again, and he was still fastening his pants when she approached with the rest of his clothes. He extended his hand for them, but she turned her body away, shielding the clothes from him, and reached beneath the bundle of linen and furs to retrieve a roll of bandages.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you not speak?”
She ignored him and sat next to him, placing the bundle of his clothes on the understuffed cushion next to her. In addition to the bandages, she had several bottles and salves.
He snatched a bottle from her as she lifted it to the light of the fire to check how full it was. “Do not put anything on me. How do I know you aren’t trying to poison me?”
She balled her fingers into annoyed fists and shook her head at him.
The cork stopper came free with a popping sound, though it strained his wrecked shoulder to pull at it, and he inhaled. The bottle smelled of Manuela’s infirmary at Garreg Mach Monastery, and of apothecary shops.
He had no way of discerning whether or not the bottle contained any poison.
Even when he brandished a knife at her, she made no move to attack him. And if she was going to poison him she would have already done it. Probably.
He handed her the bottle, and she shifted closer to him on the couch, her knees touching his. She leaned in as she unwound the bandages around his chest. He winced as she peeled away the last layer, flinching as dried blood stuck them to his skin. She reached for one of the bottles and saturated the bandage with it, and when she peeled it back again there was no pain.
The slice across his chest was deep but clean. Blood welled at the irritation, but it wasn’t spilling out of him. She placed a hand on his chest, below the slice, and a sigil flared over them as heat sank into him. He gritted his teeth as his wound knitted together. The frank redness of the wound faded into a delicate white line. She tipped a bottle onto a strip of bandages and laid it over the line on his chest. It made his skin tingle, but didn’t cause any pain.
She finished and looked up at him and gestured for him to turn around so she could access the wounds on his back. He did, and she began the same process. There were three long cuts along his back, diagonal from his shoulder blade to his hip. She healed two of them completely, leaving the longest one to be patched up without magic. This one stung as she added a salve to it, and he flinched as she laid the bandage over it. She unwrapped his shoulder last, and that was a mangled mess. A wolf had sunk its teeth in there, and the wound was deeper than the others.
His sword arm.
He refused to think about it as she added salves and tonics to it. She used healing magic again, though he had the sense she was hitting the bottom of her well. The heat didn’t penetrate as deep or easily as it had when she first started.
When she was satisfied, she wrapped him up again, winding the bandages around his shoulder and his chest and his back until most of his torso was bound.
She sighed when she finished, and Felix rolled his shoulders to test his mobility, and hissed through his teeth at the pain in his right shoulder.
The woman stood, gathering her medicinal supplies and leaving Felix with the rest of his clothes.
“Where is my sword and my shield?” he asked, the pain in his shoulder still ebbing away.
She tilted her head at him, assessing, and she gestured vaguely around them.
Here, then.
“Give them to me,” he demanded, and she scoffed at him.
Anger roiled through him, but all he could do was pull on his shirt, his shoulder protesting as he shoved his arm through the sleeve.
He wanted answers. “I cannot stay here long,” he said. “Once my arm heals I will not allow you to keep me.”
She scoffed again, a barely audible exhale of breath. She gestured to the door and waited.
Go if you want, she seemed to say.
“I need my sword and shield,” he told her, gritting his teeth.
She shrugged, instead walking over to the kitchenette. She tilted the water carafe to peer into it, finding it empty. She took two ceramic bowls from the cupboard and a large spoon from the same drawer Felix had procured the knife. She walked over to the hearth and spooned what appeared to be stew into a bowl and set it on the table for Felix.
He was hungry, he realized as his stomach lurched. He sat in front of the steaming bowl and inhaled the steam that wafted from it. She set a spoon on the table for him.
“And how will you eat, without removing your mask?” he asked.
She took her own bowl and marched up the spiral staircase to the loft above, where Felix had seen her bedroom. She loosed a small burst of wind magic and what appeared to be a sheet tumbled down from the rafters, unfurling a few inches above the floor.
There was no lock to keep him out, but he would not pursue her. It didn’t matter who she was. He was staying here on borrowed time, and if he needed to threaten her with death to get his sword back, he would.
There was no harm in letting her heal his shoulder first.
The woman served the stew again for dinner, and Felix was bored out of his mind as she puttered around her cottage. He mostly languished on her couch while she fussed over her plants, cleaned the house, though it seemed clean already, and then he sat across from her at the small table while she ground up and measured out different leaves, mixing them with different liquids and placed them on shelves among her books. A thick book was spread open as she worked, and sometimes she would flip to a certain page, read it, and continue working.
Felix never thought he was much for conversation, but silently watching the woman work was maddening. He could do without idle chatter, but he wanted information and he didn’t know how to get it.
He’d been watching her for almost half an hour, his chin propped on his hand, when he murmured, “You’re a mage, clearly. I’ve seen you perform Reason and Faith magic. But you’re also an apothecary. This is a recipe for a Concoction, isn’t it?” He jerked his chin toward her book and the ingredients sprawled out on the table in front of her.
She nodded, her ginger hair falling over her mask, and she tucked the long strands behind her ear.
“Tell me your name, witch. Write it down.”
She shook her head no and he scowled at her.
“Don’t you have mail or something you can point to? I want to know what to call you.” She ignored him as she finely chopped up a broad leaf. It occurred to him then that he never bothered to tell her his name.
He shouldn’t. It could be dangerous.
But if she was as intelligent as she seemed, she could have figured it out already. The Crest of Fraldarius was emblazoned on the Aegis Shield anyway.
“I’m Felix,” he muttered, and she stopped her chopping to look at him.
He wondered what she was thinking. He wished she could tell him.
“You probably figured this out, but I’m a mercenary. If you need anything, I suppose I owe you a free job.”
She shook her head at him.
“Really? A powerful witch like you has no enemies? I don’t believe that.” She ignored him, but he could see her shoulders stiffen a little as she worked. “Though, I suppose if you go around healing people for free, you probably don’t. A kindhearted witch,” he said with a scoff.
She tilted her head at him and he imagined that she was glaring at him beneath her mask.
“Did you heal me for free? Or do you intend to collect a life debt? I’m not honorable enough to keep those.”
The witch kicked at him under the table.
“I’d leave you in peace if you gave me my sword.” His hand ached for his sword. It had been years since he’d gone even a day without unsheathing it, if only just to clean it.
The witch gestured to her own shoulder, and he knew she was telling him that he wasn’t well enough to wield it.
“Worried I’ll undo your handiwork? I’m not a child. I know my limits.” And he didn’t want to fuck up his sword arm beyond repair.
She shook her head at him, slowly, like she didn’t believe him.
“How many days will it take?”
She paused. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, considering. Then she held up five fingers.
He sighed. “Five days?”
She nodded.
“So… four more.”
She put her chin in her hand, copying his posture.
“I need my sword.”
She only flipped her book to the next page and continued to work.