seaswallowed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
seaswallowed) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wondrousplace2022-05-08 01:49 pm
seaswallowed) wrote in wondrousplace2022-05-08 01:49 pm
for Lavai
Foundation reminds Aisanka of Limsa, in some ways.
Unlike the verdant sprawl of Gridania or the vivid marketplace of Ul'Dah, it too is a stony bastion of civilisation in what might otherwise be an unwelcoming part of the world. Unlike some other visitors, those similarities have left her well prepared for the climate. After years on the high sea, buffeted with ocean winds and whipped with icy salt water, snow and mountain wind takes only a little adjustment.
The man lying on the cobbles beneath her coughs violently, spraying a mist of blood over her glasses, and she takes them off for now.
It's hard not to feel bitter. This city has faced so much, been scarred by generations of war, and now at the last it's the fighting between men which has set the city ablaze. Ser Aymeric recovering from an attempt on his life, the so-called 'True Brotherhood' making hostages of their own countrymen - a child thrown to her certain death, only to be rescued by one of the very wyrms her would-be killer so reviled.
And now what remains is this. The victims of violence, the broken and bleeding. Ishgard boasts excellent chirurgeons, of course, but they can only do their work if their patients are delivered to them still breathing.
She's been working since the riots began. Tending the wounded, shielding civilians from harm, ushering the defenceless into places of safety. She's exhausted, drained, and the glow of aether beneath her fingers is starting to dim faster than the watchman's wounds are closing. His breath is starting to rattle in his throat.
She only needs to stabilise him. Just a little more.
She looks over her shoulder and latches onto the star globe lying folded against the back of a blurry figure across the square. An astrologian.
"Ser! A moment's aid-"
Unlike the verdant sprawl of Gridania or the vivid marketplace of Ul'Dah, it too is a stony bastion of civilisation in what might otherwise be an unwelcoming part of the world. Unlike some other visitors, those similarities have left her well prepared for the climate. After years on the high sea, buffeted with ocean winds and whipped with icy salt water, snow and mountain wind takes only a little adjustment.
The man lying on the cobbles beneath her coughs violently, spraying a mist of blood over her glasses, and she takes them off for now.
It's hard not to feel bitter. This city has faced so much, been scarred by generations of war, and now at the last it's the fighting between men which has set the city ablaze. Ser Aymeric recovering from an attempt on his life, the so-called 'True Brotherhood' making hostages of their own countrymen - a child thrown to her certain death, only to be rescued by one of the very wyrms her would-be killer so reviled.
And now what remains is this. The victims of violence, the broken and bleeding. Ishgard boasts excellent chirurgeons, of course, but they can only do their work if their patients are delivered to them still breathing.
She's been working since the riots began. Tending the wounded, shielding civilians from harm, ushering the defenceless into places of safety. She's exhausted, drained, and the glow of aether beneath her fingers is starting to dim faster than the watchman's wounds are closing. His breath is starting to rattle in his throat.
She only needs to stabilise him. Just a little more.
She looks over her shoulder and latches onto the star globe lying folded against the back of a blurry figure across the square. An astrologian.
"Ser! A moment's aid-"
no subject
There is a twisted kind of irony in the fact that, as the violence across Ishgard begins its descent from a frenzied peak, it becomes somehow more difficult for Lavai to be able to place himself in the right place at the right time. When the riots had been widespread there had been need for healers and helpers at every turn, but now? A fatal stabbing in a quiet alley can go unnoticed for as much as a day. Each new death twists Lavai's gut a little tighter, his heart burning for the vision of Ishgard's future for which Ser Aymeric so very nearly lost his life — but there will be time to tend to his own pains later.
He's en route to the Brume when a voice calls out across the otherwise empty square. A sudden squall blusters against him as he turns that very nearly sends him staggering, but instead of pitching him across the flagstones it serves only to buffet him in the direction of the cry.
It's his natural sensitivity to aether that throws the problem into sharp relief. The woman kneeling over the watchman is positively depleted of the force she needs to close the wounds: his brutalised body is draining her of it, soaking up as much of it as she can force herself to give, and Lavai can feel that neither of them will be able to last much longer at such a rate.
The planisphere spins into life as he pulls it from his back. Lavai sinks to his knees when he reaches them, one hand splaying over the watchman as he begins to channel healing energy through the stars, his own aether twining with that of the woman to bathe all three of them in cool, soothing light.
"Are you hurt?"
He asks softly, only glancing up at the woman when he's certain the man is beginning to stabilise. She looks exhausted, to be sure, and she is lightly misted with blood — but he'd rather hear the confirmation from her lips than wrongly assume it all to belong to the man beneath them.
no subject
She shakes her head, relieved by the rush of his aether, their combined spellcraft bringing the man back from the very brink. She hasn't even taken a real look at him yet - her focus is elsewhere - but it's not as if she can't recognise a Viera even with her poor eyesight. It's hard to overlook the long furred ears in her peripheral vision.
"Not a scratch. Simply drained," she has to admit. Another call sounds from across the square, and she watches with relief as two soldiers run from the doors of the Congregation. Stretcher-bearers, seeking the injured in need, wasting no time in transferring their patient to their care. Aisanka rises to help, too quickly, not realising quite how much has been taken out of her until she staggers and drops heavily to one knee.
"I'm fine!" she tells the soldiers, when they falter. "Take him to the chirurgeons, please. He's lost a lot of blood."
no subject
Lavai rises with the stretcher as the soldiers move to bear the injured watchman away — then falters along with them when the woman's knee meets the flagstones again. He snorts at her stubbornness (a quality he's always valued in fellow practitioners of the healing arts, if he's honest), then gestures for the soldiers to carry on their way.
"Now isn't the time for questions. Go, tend to your watchman," he encourages, offering a nod of his own as he indicates his star globe. "You leave her not without help should she need it."
He watches after them for a moment as they begin to move off to the chirurgeons, before turning back to the kneeling woman and offering a hand. She's bigger than him, certainly, and likely a good deal stronger besides, which is testament to the amount of her aether she must have expended in the aftermath of the riots.
"Come, let me help you to your feet at the very least."
no subject
She's not a little concerned that she'll just pull him down with her, but after a moment she takes his hand - using it more for balance than anything else as she rises, more thoughtfully, to her feet.
"You have my thanks," she says, finally taking her glasses up from where they've been folded around the neckline of her dress. "A few moments more, and you'd likely have found me lying next to him-"
She wipes her glasses while she talks, getting the worst of the mess off on one of the few clean patches left on her sleeve.
no subject
Now, that's a Lominsian accent if ever he's heard one. Perhaps it should have been obvious from the off — she's evidently Roegadyn, after all — but Lavai knows better than to make such assumptions when it comes to people and their places. What could have brought her this far north, he can't help but wonder?
"Think nothing of it. Now, will you at least let me buy you a cup of something warm? Far be it from me to attempt to heal a healer who insistes she's quite alright, but ..."
A playful little smile touches his lips; he's tired, he's cold, but he's no less genuine for it.
"It would make me feel better, if nothing else."
no subject
Oh.
Well, she should have seen this coming, really.
"You're the Champion of Eorzea," she says, blinking, and then pulls a face at her own idiocy. "I mean - you know that. Obviously you know that."
The Warrior of Light, probably out and about on important Scion business, and here she is ordering him to her side like a summoned carbuncle. Good job.
no subject
Honestly? Lavai is finally beginning to get used to eliciting such reactions from the people he meets, but there's something especially endearing about the way this woman immediately pulls a face after realising she might just have been staring the obvious. He chuckles into the backs of his knuckles before offering a little shake of the head:
"I was beginning to suspect it, but I'm glad to finally have the confirmation," he teases, before placing a hand on his hip and indicating the vague direction of the Forgotten Knight. Much to Gibrillont's relief it seems to have become something of a neutral zone among the rioting: it may be little more than sheer good luck, but the worst of damage has failed to breach its doors.
"Please, just call me Lavai. It's served me well for long enough."
A beat.
"And what should I call you?"
no subject
"Aisanka. It's an honour to meet you in person at last, Lavai - I've been mostly in La Noscea for the Scions, so I wasn't at the Waking Sands when..."
When. He knows, she knows, they all know what happened at the Waking Sands. She's at least moving now, towards the Inn, careful not to go too fast - she has a significantly longer stride than most people. Tataru has mentioned more than once that she can be tricky to keep up with.
"But Alphinaud put out a call for healers when he knew they'd be needed, so."
She's already cringing on the inside. He wanted your name, Ais, not your autobiography.