Waking up that morning Emmett’s eye seemed clearer as though it had been recovering over the last couple days. His comprehension of the battlefield is impeccable, he’s able to catch every slight movement and distant things are easier to observe. His only current plight is his predicament with depth. Being so close to his comrades, he couldn’t swing carelessly, but surrounded by enemies he can let loose. A rain of arrows showers them, but he’s never touched. His world is warped and confusing at best, but neither holds him back.

His spatial awareness had been improved after years on the battlefield and he makes use of wild swings to accurately place all the guards' positions. When all have back stepped to avoid his attack, Emmett glances across the plain at Foxyn’s distant figure. He couldn’t begin to guess if the loss of his eye or the gift of the tiger’s eye had given him the ability to pick him out from such distance without a blur. Seeing Foxyn eased him though; Ashford, Mher, and Seton had stuck together and are with the group. With his improved sight he could watch over all of them and put pressure on the mob around him.

With an axe like his as heavy as it is, his biggest opening is after his swing ends. To make up for this, he doesn’t stop the swing while any enemy is too close, letting momentum carry him. Some weather the impact, deflecting or outright taking the hit, enduring for the sake of leaving a mark on him. Trying to wear down the one-man army became the focus of the west guards. The pain that had latched on and leeched his energy for the last month is buried by adrenaline.

Locked in battle, Emmett barely notices the cease in arrows. They’d help keep the guards in check, and now they’re more coordinated. Emmett looks to Foxyn; the archery unit fires at incoming guards. He swings, repositioning himself to find the others. Far off headed for the main force, Mher carries Seton on their back and Ashford- red from head to toe- tags along.

Emmett concludes Seton’s too injured to fight, having never seen him fall, and intends to make his way to Foxyn. A step to advance is immediately retracted as many guards leap to take skin. Despite continuously cutting down enemies, his number of opponents didn’t change. Bodies lay at their feet, but they’re not deterred.

He catches sight of Foxyn, arrows firing desperately at the guards trying to break through the meager defense. He briefly glimpses the red-figure of Ashford, still standing. Their leader would risk his body for them and Emmett feels inspired to do the same. He holds the blade flat in front of him and charges through casting aside some and trampling others. He feels a jab in his back and a slash in his arm, but carries forward relying on his muscle mass to overpower the multiple enemies.

The ones at the back joined up, prepared for his approach and are pushed several feet back but manage to stall him. Emmett’s jabbed and slashed and bashes back with his fist in retaliation- startling the guards that he’s able to hold back a trio of guards with one hand on his axe and beat back others with his fist.

Someone sneaks onto his blindside and scratches his cheek. Determination turns to fury and he swings his axe decapitating the perpetrator. It elicits shocked sounds of disgusted anguish. Reinstilled with savage assurance, Emmett blows back enemies, clawing and biting whoever’s in his way. With survivalism tossed aside, guards toss themselves at him, a muscular frame with a monstrous face. Their battle cries are equivalent to townsfolk fighting off a beast.

He endures it all until a bone-breaking stab slips through his calf; his grated shout is the change of pace the guards had been waiting for. Lunging forward, redoubling their efforts, they mercilessly hack at him. It’s too crowded for him to swing and they take chunks out of his arm to stop him.

An arrow lodges into an enemy’s skull, dropping dead. Emmett looks at Foxyn firing shot after shot. He can’t breathe, blood pouring from his throat and blades stick out of his back. He can’t feel his body moving, but Emmett reaches out.

Shivers crawl up Foxyn’s back seeing Emmett’s outstretched hand. Arrows snap from his bow, their fletching tipped with blood from his fingers. Foxyn breathes like he’s sobbing, but his eyes are dry. An erratic need to kill Emmett’s enemies consumes his movements, an unnatural haste to pull back the bowstring.

Even as Foxyn’s arrows land, the guards cheer as if achieving some magnificent feat. They turn their attention to him and the other archers and begin their approach. Crumpled on the ground, they rip their blades free from Emmett’s back, and Foxyn’s legs give out.

The blazing fire and the screaming disappear as the life leaves his body. His will fades and the shock takes hold. He wants to die.

The archer unit’s defense is breached, Foxyn hazily glances that way. Past the wrangling guards, near imperceivably three figures run for the main force. Ashford is bloodsoaked but still alive. Fullbody trembling, Foxyn stands, grappling with his last reason to hang on. Ashford needs him, he insists.

He wipes blood off on his sleeve and pulls an arrow from his quiver. There’s no time to worry about who can get caught in the crossfire. His arrows fly at the guards taking out other members of the archery unit. The numbers are ten to one, and Foxyn recognizes the inevitable peril.

He walks backward, enemies never leaving his eyesight. They keep the guards at bay momentarily, but they flood the forest. Some run immediately and others pull out secondary weapons. Foxyn unable to do either; he grips his bow and arrow prepared to use them in an unconventional manner.

His bow is no better than a sturdy walking stick when he swings at an enemy, who’s sword makes quick work of snapping it. Overcoming the fear, Foxyn lunges into the enemy’s personal space and forces the arrow into his ribs hoping it’ll pierce his lungs.

The enemy’s sword hacks into his arm and he screeches. Through fat tears, Foxyn continuously stabs the enemy’s ribcage and slams his fist down on his chest. The Misthen spits blood at him then grabs Foxyn by the hair. He effortlessly strikes, bringing the blade through his throat. Initially, the pain is unbearable and the blood is thick and hot. The enemy drops him, and he can’t feel his own movements. His hands fumble around his neck as the pain fades. He’s tired and dizzy. He’s worried about his unit. Ashford needs bandages.

Seton’s trapped in his body, waking with his head forcefully tilted toward the side of the battlefield they’d just left. With every blink an indeterminable amount of time passes. He witnesses their demise: the fall of Emmett and the archery unit overtaken. He doesn’t see their bodies, but he can’t imagine they escaped the onslaught. He’s mumbling incoherently and trying to move his arms or hands. He can hear approximations of words from Mher; he doesn’t understand, but their tone is soothing and fearful.

Ashford feels like he can’t stop shaking as he jogs alongside them. He keeps wiping blood out of his eyes and off his hands till there’s no article of clothing without stain. It feels like his core will vibrate out of his body. Things don’t feel real and it’s all out of his control, but he follows these two, trusting they know where they’re going.

Mher picks through Seton’s distorted words, the majority of which indicate paralysis and lack of mention of any kind of pain. They’re between here and the ley line, a swelling of anguish in both spaces, nauseating to experience and they have difficulty focusing.

The collapsed shack peaks out of the earth between two barren fields and again Mher searches it for signs of life and finds none. “Ashford, can you pull open the door for me?” Ashford nods and tears the door free from rusty hinges and the part of it buried in dirt.

Mher carefully sets Seton inside, his body limp but his eyes half-lidded and aware. Seeing Ashford still standing, anxiously alert, Mher tells him to sit.

“But what if someone comes?” Ashford asks, eyes watching the enemies on the horizon awaiting their pursuit.

“I use my magic to watch for them,” Mher lies, deciding it’s better to convince him to rest.

“Can you use magic to heal him?” Ashford asks.

Mher waits to answer, peeling off Seton’s tank top. The skin bubbled up causes Ashford to turn away gagging and Mher struggles with the same. They take their waterskin and dribble it over Seton’s shoulders to see his reaction. Getting none they pour more generously. They run out of water quickly and take Ashford’s and Seton’s to use. They’re truly at a loss for what to do and begin dabbing at it with clean bandages. They don’t know how hard to press.

Seton moves his arm, he wants to push himself up but there’s no strength behind the movement.

“Just lie down,” Bavo persuades.

“I’m fine,” Seton says tonelessly.

You’re not fine. You’re severely burned,” Mher’s worry and impatience mix for a harsher tone than they intended.

“It doesn’t hurt.” Seton’s statement is bizarre, but Mher gets the sense he’s not lying.

“Because you can’t feel?”

Mher looks at Ashford, shocked with his assessment then back at Seton who similarly stares with surprise.

“...Yeah. But how’d you know?” Seton’s voice is calm though his body has a hard time keeping up with him.

“The river was really cold, but you kept saying it was nice even though you had goosebumps.”