spiderparlour | No shame in it.

No shame in it.

Its omnipresence was still daunting.

Even as its grip slackened, the Greater Will still dominated the land. The golden light of the Erdtree illuminated Limgrave day and night. Turn your back to it, and you would see its children, mere seedlings that towered over all but their progenitor. Cast your eyes down, and you would see a Tree Sentinel patrolling astride his horse. Twice the size of a lowborn knight, clad all in gilt finery.

There was scarcely a tree in the Lands Between without a golden cast to its leaves. Blessed with Grace-given life, said the Golden Order. Autumnal, said others. The end of a millennial season.

It was little wonder that the Tarnished were still captivated. Without a more intimate knowledge of the Lands Between, they saw only the Erdtree's radiance, not the bare and dying branches. They flocked toward it like moths.

What fools they were. Intelligent, some of them, but fools all the same. Generations of hatred and scorn upheld by the Two Fingers, and now they answered the call to service? How could one be so delusional as to think the Golden Order would truly welcome them home with love?

No. They were being used, and he felt no shame in doing the same. Those who stayed loyal were fitting sacrifice, providing the materials he needed to guide the doubting toward truth.

And then there were the particularly hapless. That last girl and her companions, good heavens. He'd almost wanted to follow them, just to spectate. But he had his calling to attend to. Tarnished sailing from the west found the beaches of Limgrave the only place to row ashore, and they all passed by the statue-topped monument of the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. He had his pick of them all here, and sent them off toward the brooding walls of Stormveil Castle. Lords, vassals, rich and wretched alike. They came to take the measure of the hills beyond, and to rest at its Site of Grace.

The pallid little thing swirled and danced, leaving uncomfortably moving afterimages on the eyes if one stared too long. But it was warm enough at night to almost render a fire superfluous, and it warded off the beasts that stalked and soared over the lowlands to the south. Even the Tree Guardian kept a respectful distance, the brainlessly devout pillock.

After years of bloody toil in war, sleeping in the dirt beside a symbol of everything he rejected wasn't that much of a hardship. Though on nights when rain blew up from the Weeping Lands or the sea air took on a particular chill, he was forced to retreat into the entrance to the grave itself. There were the occasional noises deep below, the senile mutterings of deathless nobility trapped in the subterranean graveyard. None of them had yet figured out how to operate the lift, and he doubted any of them would.

He couldn't decide if they were the unlucky ones, or if that honor went to the desiccated starveling pinned to a martyr's bough outside on the hill. It barely ever lifted its head, and fortunately, it hadn't voiced an opinion about anything in days. He was no longer a merciful and compassionate war surgeon, but if that thing interrupted his speech to a Tarnished again, he'd find that old mercy within himself and tear it to pieces. Perhaps he'd do it anyway, save him the trouble later.

Ah, no. That would have to wait. He could hear something coming.

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He almost laughed, exhaustion and mania at war with each other. "I've appointed myself this task, and I'll see it done. here," he reaches into one of the pouches on his belt, retrieving a small packet of rose-infused boluses. "Swallow these. It will stop the bleeding."

He knelt to examine her back, teeth clenched behind the mask as the movement sent a shock up his spine. The wounds weren't clean, and pieces of her shirt were stuck to them. And something else lurked beneath the leather, though he couldn't yet tell what.

His skills were needed, then. "You'll need these cleaned before they can be healed."

There was a wary look at the boluses, nothing like medical care in the world she was used to, but she wasn't in much shape to refuse. She'd tried roasted kuaka on Cetus, how bad could this be? Even so, she made a face as she tried to swallow them as quickly as possible without tasting them.

"S'it that bad?" She didn't really need to ask but it was an odd comfort before she started undoing all the fastenings for her shirt. There was definite muscle tone under it but more noticeable, of course, was the blood and ink black tendrils that surrounded a relatively new scar.

"You will heal," he asserted, busying himself with the supplies he'd need, removing the pouch from his belt, so it could serve as a relatively clean, makeshift stand for the tools. "And the pain will ennoble you further."

Yet as she removed the tattered shirt, he... he had no notion of what he saw there. A grand and disfiguring scar, and... "What happened to you, dear one?" He cautiously touched near the mark, fingertips just shy of its edge.

She couldn't help a slight twitch at the touch. The skin there was still tender and the void scarring that spread from it was still new, a tingle on the skin like her blood.

"Old enemy stole my sword and killed me. Or tried to. Way he put it, he was sending me back to hell." He'd get his for that one, but then his words really caught her. No one had really called her 'dear' in more than an age. It left a warm feeling in her chest that she tried to shove aside.

"Don't worry too much about hurting me. I'm tougher than I look." Even if she was still immature in a lot of ways. Like swallowing the boluses like a child eating vegetables.

The attack she'd mentioned before. How lucky she was to be a Tarnished. Yet the death had still marked her, and in such a disquieting way.

His attention turned back to her latest injuries. He had rose oil. Sacred and potent in its concentration, but it seemed appropriate now.

"What a good soldier you must have been." His voice sounded rather distant. Most of his patients never kept their composure. Nor, admittedly, had he given them such care. That simply wasn't the way of a war surgeon.

He unstopped the vial and poured a few careful drops onto a tuft of clean, unspun rowa cotton. It instantly filled the air with the scent of roses.

Then he began his work, carefully spreading the oil over the wounds. The touch would hurt, he knew that. "This will inspire the wounds to reject impurities, and command the flesh to new life." The cotton was already stained so red with her unique blood. He would have to save these...

"It's all the Orokin thought we were good for." A good soldier? Oh yes. It had been a long time since the Old War, since they lived in service to the Orokin, but since they harnessed their abilities and bonded with their warframes-

The touch of the cotton and rose oil to her back earned a soft hiss but she clenched her teeth against it.

A distraction, that was all she needed to draw her mind from the sting. And his care provided the perfect thing to latch onto.

"What is that? I never smelled anything like it before."

He works with care, giving each wound its due. His hands were steady, despite everything. They always had been. It had made him an excellent surgeon.

"They've no roses in your homeland?" Truly? "What a tragedy. Beautiful things, the perfumers used to use these oils in their trade." In incense or poisons, they always smelled so sweet.

"There are many varieties, but these grow where blood's been spilled in abundance." The two scents blended so wonderfully together, even now. "Each place of slaughter in time becomes a garden, full of such beautiful flowers, protected by an armament of thorns."

His love for them is effusive, and why shouldn't it be? "They are a treasure, and a blessing." And they had become the sign of his devotion in turn.

Listening to him was a good distraction and he satisfied her curiosity at the same time. If he hadn't started talking about them, she would absolutely have started asking questions.

"Turning tragedy into beauty, I can appreciate that. It's poetic." And, what she could remember from some of her lessons, blood and rot left behind on battlefields were sometimes good for growth. For recovery.

It made her wish they were somewhere in the origin system. Somewhere safe, that wouldn't be trampled by soldiers or scavengers. They seemed like something that belonged in the Silver Grove or somewhere like it. Or the gardens of the Zariman, before the void jump.

"Wish they had them back home. Then again, I guess if they did grow there, we'd have left a hell of a garden behind when the Orokin fell."

"And sacrifice blooms into new life." He sets the bloodstained cotton aside, taking a fresh tuft of it to clean away the dirt loosened by the oil.

"There are only a few places they truly flourish now. The wars left such beautiful scars, but..." He sighs. Trying to remember how long it's been is folly. History itself is dead here.

"The Lords of these lands brought the land to such exhaustion, none have the strength to take up arms and march again." The surgeons had been so lucky. To think that they might have been hollowed out as the rest of the lands had been. Those that survived the blood were now so blessed.

"You have not seemed surprised by the state of this place." Some were, when they arrived. Affronted, even. "Are your lands much the same, then?"

It sounded so uncomfortably like what the Orokin had done to the system, so like the slaughter the Tenno had left behind, that she couldn't help a bitter chuckle. Almost immediately followed by another little hiss of pain at her own sudden movement.

"Some of them, yeah. They were so used to their lavish lifestyles that they ruined our whole system. It's how I got so screwed up, we were meant to colonize a new system for them."

The Sentients were menaces but they weren't wrong about the Orokin. They really would have just ruined Tau as well. And they gave the Tenno the opportunity to shine, gave them the chance to topple the empire...

He didn't need to know that though, she didn't want to risk losing her only ally because of some well-earned vengeance.

So familiar. On a more petty scale, perhaps, but the Lands Between had known something similar. The whole land had revolved around Leyndell, the tall and willowy princelings who claimed some fraction of gods' blood, or blessings from the tree above.

Those that fell beyond their reach bowed to Caria instead, mining glintstone for their sorcerer-nobles. The demigods had benefited from the fiction that they were any different from their mortal courtiers, but who set the example?

"Then you can understand why this land needs a new dynasty. One that loves as the old did not." One that they would both hasten, he was sure of this now.

"Here. Drink this. Now that your wounds are clean, this can heal the worst of them." He only had enough for one draught, insufficient to fully heal and purge the body. The Erdtree's dregs cared not whether new flesh closed over muck, and left wounds to fester.

"When day breaks and the Night's Cavalry retreats, we can make for a site of grace, and heal the rest."

“A new dynasty?” This world did seem in desperate need of guidance, of love, and she couldn’t deny how appealing more love was to someone like her.

There was a long moment of silence as she considered that, tried to ignore her own fondness for the idea. Would the Tenno have rebelled if the Orokin had even an ounce of care for people?

She took the draught with a wary look, considering and noting how much there was.

“Won’t you need it? I’m no surgeon, just a soldier. I can do field wraps but that’s it.” For when the non-Tenno were injured in the war.

"Indeed." He packed away the blood-soaked cotton, wrapping it in the waxed packet the boluses had been in. The residue would help fix the blood, and let it keep a while.

"Even the Golden Order has realized it had spurned its own salvation, when Marika banished the Tarnished from the Lands Between. But they still believe that they shall rise again."

He still tread along the edge of truth. It would be improper to speak more, until she'd proven herself. But hadn't her spirit proved so much already? "Perhaps they are right. But if there is a better way, why not see it done?"

As to the matters at hand, well. "Oh, you needn't worry. It will be refilled. And I've no need of it." Though the hoarseness was beginning to creep back into his voice. He'd screamed so, his voice would need time to heal.

She couldn’t help but hesitate still, turning her head to glance to him. As if she could glean anything from the sight of the mask. He was in better shape than she was and he knew this world and how to safely traverse it.

“Long as we can refill it.” Judging a book by its cover was the last thing she wanted to do with him but she still couldn’t shake her instinct to keep others safe.

Again, a cautious look at the liquid and a brief sniff to be sure it wasn’t some kind of kuva, and then downed it.

“If we’re stuck here the rest of the night, I can keep watch. Otherwise I might end up questioning you about this world.”

The sacred flask did its work quickly. The wounds contracted, became far more shallow. By the look of them, much of the tears' potency had been spent on healing her ribs. "For now, this will have to suffice."

He could bandage the remaining wounds with more cotton, but he wouldn't have enough to cover them all, certainly not enough to protect them against unclean linen--there were no bandages to be had here either, besides his beleaguered wrap. He'd have to scavenge more cloth. But even if he went out now, he'd need to light a fire and gather water to boil rags... and he simply didn't have the presence of mind to attend to more practical concerns at the moment. Truly, he was tired.

He packed away the rest of his supplies, glancing up toward their surroundings for the first time in... too long, if he was quite honest. Ayatan had found a relatively protected spot to nurse her wounds, and no storms blew down from the north tonight. He'd seen no signs of other tracks as he'd approached either.

Rest might be possible here. There was more to speak on, and so much more he wanted to do. But the enormity of what he'd already done was starting to weigh on him. Besides. The bloodflame within him wasn't done with its work. It still burned, such a sweet and nurturing pain.

"If you would." Sleep never found him easily, but he would try. "More questions can be answered in time."

It felt good to be able to take a full breath again without the ache of her ribs trying to crack further. Training under the Dax, cracked ribs tended to happen until they'd managed full transference into Warframes, and she found that she didn't miss it at all.

"Think it's safe to start a fire? I can get one going while you rest." Wounded or not, it wasn't easy to sit still. Although she wasn't sure now, after dealing with the Night's Cavalry, how smart a fire would be. And there was plenty around them to use as kindling for a small one, at least.

After a moment, she dug through her bag for her limited belongings, setting aside the journal with a sketch of a Mag inside, pulling out a small skin of water to offer him.

"S'not much but it'll last the night."

Lighting a fire always carried risks. But they were far from the road, and in the lee of a fallen ruin. He'd seen no signs of other's passage, save a faint animal trail. And no blood but hers had passed by this place in recent days.

"If you feel sufficiently recovered, it shouldn't bring us harm." And besides, a little warmth to stave off a fever would be appropriate for Ayatan.

He cleared a space for a campfire while she unpacked, rather than let exhaustion root him in place. "Oh. Thank you, dear one." He accepted the water, turning away to tip his mask up and drink.

He went still, trying not to choke. He almost couldn't swallow. His voice had made a valiant recovery, but not the rest of his throat. The mixture he'd swallowed for the ritual was a deadly thing, save for those blessed by their Lord. And even to them, it was no gentle thing.

His throat finally relented, and he took a deep, steadying breath, sliding his mask back into place. The ritual was worth all the pain. The pain was worth his imperfect respect for it. It was all for a wondrous demonstration of the new world to come.

"It won't take much energy." It wasn't an assurance of her recovery and she knew it but if they were stuck laying low for the rest of the night, they might as well be comfortable. And Varré had already done plenty by taking care of her wounds. Her turn to help out.

She let him relax and drink, giving him some privacy while he turned to lift his mask while she collected what she could, returning with an armful of sticks and leaves. Easy kindling and a bit extra to keep it going for awhile.

And she wasted no time on returning on getting it started, setting up a circle of rocks to contain it before getting it all lit.

"You... do you call everyone dear one? Or am I special?" She couldn't get it out of her mind or the warm feeling it gave her.

"The Tarnished--" He had to stop and painfully clear his throat. "The Tarnished once brought hope with them. But the lands have crumbled still further. I've aided them still, but oh, I've had my doubts." The Mohgwyn Dynasty would see the world restored, but it needed knights. So few had proven worthy, yet their failures were also his own. It could make him so bitter, sometimes.

And yet. "You are different. I know little of what you are, or what you were. But there is something truly special at the heart of you." There was a calculated aspect to this, of course. He'd devoted so much of himself to this task, it would be impossible, disobedient to set it aside.

But what drove him to such devoted service was love. How could that not affect him now? That was what underlaid his sincerity. "I have high hopes for you, dear one. Perhaps you are a herald of change."

She watched him for a moment, concerned by his need to clear his throat but trying to brush it aside as probably not being used to talking. Like her.

It was interesting though to hear how he found something special about her. It wasn't new, really, but it was nice to hear after... however long it had been since Margulis had been killed.

"Honestly, nobody has said that in years." It came out mumbled, but there was a definitely moment of vulnerability. One she tried quickly to cover up as she got a couple sparks going for the fire.

"Then may it be said more." He falls quiet for a long moment, watching Ayatan work. There were barely any who looked so young in the Lands Between now. And none that held such promise.

"I found no sign of your warframe," he eventually says, his voice yet more hoarse than before. "But I've undertaken something that should aid in the search. Once day breaks, I can lead you to a site of Grace, and we can test its effectiveness."

Varré just kept surprising her, somehow. She tried not to let it touch her but it was hard not to, even after the sting of the Lotus abandoning her and the rest of the Tenno. and she wanted to hear it more.

"Thank you for looking." With a little care, she was able to get the sparks to take and start to burn. It was a small fire but at least it would provide them some warmth. And let them see one another clearly if anything happened.

"You sound like you could use some sleep. It's not the post comfortable, but you can use my bag as a pillow." She'd heard voices that raw on the Zariman, no sense in him wearing himself out further.

He nodded, watching the little flame grow. He had little faith that they'd find Ayatan's missing armaments, but he couldn't be entirely sure. She had dismantled his expectations in short order upon her arrival. Perhaps the same would happen again.

"I suppose I do." It had been... well. He wasn't sure when he'd last rested. He took the bag, brushing a place on the ground clean of loose dirt and stones to set it down. "Thank you, dear one." It had been an uncounted age more since he'd slept on anything but stone or dirt. He was quite used to it by now. Even this much could be counted a luxury.

He lowered himself down carefully, mindful of the pain. His pulse was loud in his ears, but slow. He couldn't think of anything more to say for now. When had he last trusted an outsider to keep watch?

But she wasn't one, not truly. Not if everything went as he hoped.

It was easier with a Warframe, dealing with the elements. Even if she still felt everything, it was easier to bear in one than like this. So it had been a long time since she needed to worry about herself or a companion dealing with sleeping outside, it made her regret not getting a few more supplies when she had the chance.

Something she noted to fix later, anyway. If only so she could make sure Varré got enough rest as well.

It was easy to sit by the fire for the night, poking at it once in awhile to keep it going or gradually adding kindling, but otherwise, she watched and listened to the world around her.

Eventually though, she did get to her feet to try practicing a few of the nartas she was able to do in her warframe. If she couldn't find it, she did need to get her body into better fighting shape, healing wounds or not.

Sleep has never come easy for him. Exhausted as he is, he slips into its shallows with more ease than on many a night. He lies still for some time.

And then the pain pulls a memory up from the depths, to live it once again. Not as he saw it now, but as he knew it in that moment.

He kneels, bound and trembling. Beside him, another figure in white robes screams in pain, convulsing in the grip of a massive Omen. The beast is a horrific mass of black horns and vicious teeth, its claws stained with blood. Those who succumbed were carried away, placed before a massive silken cocoon, resting upon a pedestal of bone. Bodies cut open, left to drain. No matter how much blood is shed, the silk remains a pristine white.

The screams quiet to a choking laughter, and the Omen sets them down gently. Wild, blood-red eyes stare up at him from behind the mask. The cursed blood hasn't killed them, not yet.

"Another cupbearer to the divine." The Omen's voice is unexpectedly soft and hoarse. One could almost mistake it for kind. But it turns now to him.

A tremor in his hands slowly sets his whole body trembling, curling in tight around himself without waking.

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