They run, weaving through trees at an incredible rate, eyes glimmering green. Ashford’s amazed at their speed and their ability to cross the forest floor with ease. He’s consistently tripped up and his wounds burn at the exertion. He’s half certain that his gut and arm have started bleeding again, but the adrenaline and sweat keep him blissfully unaware of the extent of the damage.

Mher hops over ditches and slides down slopes; Ashford makes awkward leaps and takes stuttering steps down the leaf-slick hills. Whenever Ashford manages to catch up he’s impressed by the bundle Mher’s collected before they bound off again for some hidden treasury of herbs.

The sun sinks closer to setting, the pines casting finger-like shadows scraping across the hills, clawing at their running figures. Mher snatches up a sprig of coneflowers and stops; the green light is subdued and they’re panting. Ashford reaches them- out of breath- then leans on a tree to steady himself waiting to set off again.

Mher looks to the setting sun then the green flickers as they stare into the woods. “For a ritual I’d need to travel further away; we wouldn’t be back before dark.”

It’s not a question for Ashford; “We’ve come this far.”

With haste, they race against the dwindling light.

Back where the rest of the unit wait, Emmett is in and out of consciousness. Foxyn has dampened a cloth with his water and lays it on Emmett’s forehead. He dabs at all the cuts with little to no response from Emmett. Seton’s eyes wander the woods unconcerned, unfeeling.

“Was DeLuca like you?” Seton suddenly asks.

From out of an attentive trance Foxyn asks, “What do you mean?”

“You were a sailor who made sea maps and used that knowledge to make yourself the group’s navigator. Was DeLuca a medic or like you?” Foxyn can’t figure out why Seton’s asking.

“He was studying medicine… His enlistment was kind of like yours though,” Foxyn answers in full, thinking it’s possible Seton’s trying to help him relax.

“Oh? They were paying him?” Seton smiles with fake interest.

“The elites didn’t want to give up doctors to the army, but the army promised payment for the education of those willing to enlist.”

Something occurs to Seton and suspicion falls on his brow. “They’ve blackmailed the Alderkin, bribed the medics, promised payments to the mercenaries, and… what? Threatened death to those that refused enlistment?”

“...It was the choice between enlistment, jail, or a fine,” Foxyn laments.

“The wealthy opt for the fine assuming it’s skewed against the poor,” Seton murmurs gathering pieces.

“We were promised payment,” Emmett provides weakly.

Seton’s skeptical and muses aloud, “That’s a lot of money going out; I’d be curious about the money coming in considering these reckless- and wasteful- tactics. I have a feeling resources won’t be quite as promised either.”

Emmett has already slipped from consciousness before Seton’s last sentence, but Foxyn’s eyes are tinged with worry looking at Emmett. He turns to Seton with a look of hate, “You think he’s going to die whether we make it or not?”

“That wasn’t what I meant. I just can’t follow your army’s logic. They supply units with trained medics, but don’t recall them after the medic’s death. It would be one thing if they’re self-appointed and each unit was left to their own devices in devising how to get by. But then why force so many to enlist if they’re left to die? What’s the point in hiring outside mercenaries? The disorganization is worrisome.”

“I don’t know. Not like I can do anything about it.”

“What happened to that tough sailor who can weather any storm?” Seton mockingly asks a disheartened Foxyn.

“Everyone who enlisted with me- the ones I made maps with- has already died… or have gone missing.” The sorrow surfaces but the bitterness prevails, “I have nothing to go back to even if I live through this.”

“What about your family?” Seton asks, knowing the answer.

Foxyn shakes his head, “...Emmett and Ashford are all I have left.” Foxyn pours out the last of his water and clears up the bloody smears.

Seton lazily holds out his hand for the waterskin; Foxyn hesitates then hands it over. “And Emmett’s.” Seton gestures. Foxyn’s hesitation holds out so Seton adds, “I’m not doing multiple trips.” Foxyn passes it over. Seton slips stealthily into the forest leaving a trail of knives in bare trunks.

At the shore of a waterfall, candles struggle against the mist and woods become a wall of black. Mher has laid out the materials for the ritual and grinds some into a paste for a salve. Mher’s soft voice is forced to shout over the pounding of the falls, “Clean off the blood in the basin!”

“I don’t want to get wet before the night chill!” Ashford raises his voice back as he tries to shuffle the bandages around to soak up the fresh blood.

“Make a fire!” Mher pulls out kindling.

“Smoke will give us away!” Adjusting the belly bandages is dizzying for him.

“Use juniper! It’s smokeless! Warm up the water!” Mher pushes bark-stripped wood into Ashford’s hand.

“What?!” Ashford shouts at arms length away.

“Boil water!” Mher points and gestures their explanation to Ashford who gets the gist of it. The area has a layer of wetness that hinders Ashford’s ability to get the fire going, but it eventually catches. He looks at Mher’s candles and surmises there may be magic imbued in them as the tiny flames miraculously persist.

Again their eyes have trails of emerald glowing on their black-orb eyes; their gaze indistinct to an onlooker, but mesmerizing. They work purposefully imbuing individual specimens and placing stones and flowers accordingly going through a multitude of steps before building up to the salve. The salve, at the center of gathering energies, looks no different in Ashford’s eyes, but reflects more powerfully in Mher’s eyes- like a supernova among web-like constellations. The glow of the salve almost mimics an iris.

They point at the boiling water without moving their head bringing Ashford out of his dazed state. Ashford peels his stomach bandage off, dunks it in the cold water to drain the blood then soaks up a bit of the hot water to clean up his stomach. The edges of the cut has scabbed over, but the canter yawns open, raw and burning. Mher brings out the balm they’d concocted the day before, after their fight, and tries to hand it to Ashford.

Conflicted, Ashford wonders, “Shouldn’t we save this for Emmett?”

“Is Emmett bleeding out?!” they ask cockily.

“...No!” Mher responds before Ashford can say anymore.

“Then it’s all yours!” They smirk. “Or are you going to be stubborn?! Do I have to force it on you?!” Ashford huffs accepting the balm and sympathizes with Emmett and his annoyance with Ashford’s fussiness. DeLuca had a similar forcefulness with how he delivered his medicinal treatment. His heart drops when he remembers he’s gone. He smothers the cut with a dollop of the balm that sticks quick. The burn sensation worsens and he grits his teeth, bearing it. He sets up the bandage next to the fire so it could dry off. He checks the one on his forehead; it’s not bleeding, but the bandage is damp with sweat. He rinses it cold then hot delaying attending to his mess of an arm. Mher is still working on their ritual giving Ashford plenty of time to fix himself up. Removing these bandages is a painstaking process revealing oozing blood mixed with puss and tainted salve. He can’t help the noise he makes when gently dabbing at the wound. His nerves build up and heart starts to race the longer he observes the criss-cross of cuts.

He looks up for reprieve and catches Mher staring at it dsiturbed. It’s not like Ashford had forgotten that Mher’s not accustomed to the injuries of war, but to see them so openly squeamish is almost relieving. It’s as though he’s not overreacting and someone shares his worry; it’s not something he needs to tough his way through.

Mher pauses in their ritual and kneels next to him. They murmur something inaudible to Ashford and grab a still damp bandage from by the fire. Ashford’s heart wrenches as Mher clears the wound with a guilt ridden expression. They continue speaking- too quiet for Ashford to hear- and wrap sprigs of a leafy plant in a new, clean bandage presumably for healing energies. It makes Ashford feel calmer.

“What did you say?!” Ashford raises his voice, but doesn’t yell since they’re in such close proximity.

“Sorry!” they answer, ears down and earnest.

Seton’s “self-sacrificing’ comment surfaces and Ashford feels limited in what he can convey over the waterfalls audacious pounding. He puts his hand on their shoulder and exclaims, “War! Not your fault!”

They look saddened as though Ashford had misunderstood, but they don’t comment. Instead they finish up cleaning the arm wound and leave Ashford to rewrap it.

The gust is whipping water around more violently, Mher’s candles struggling, but they manage to finish up their task and pack up their things. Ashford’s wrapped up again and goes to extinguish the fire.

Mher’s ears twitch and they hold out a hand to stop Ashford. They peer around unbreachable woods, eyes aglow; their brow is drawn confused and concerned. Ashford searches uselessly, constantly glancing at Mher for some indication at the source of danger. Both their eyes widen as they seem to see a branch shift. They stay still and observe another sway in the trees. Alarm registers on Mher’s face and they grab Ashford’s shoulder urging him to move back toward the waterfall. Ashford begins to makeout a the outline of a large animalistic figure. Ashford can’t hear the approach of the shuffling figure, but the fire glints off large pearly black eyes.

It rises onto its hind feet, long snout snuffling, and immense size daunting. It makes gruff bark-like noises and glowing green lines emanate through its fur ruffling in the howling wind.

Its mouth opens showing a glowing green throat, and the bear-like creature lets out a growling howl at the petrified duo.