"You're hurt."

This is starting to feel cyclical, really; a loop of concern, an ouroboros, a snake of sorrow devouring itself for ages and ages on end, the cycle perpetuated with each new wound that opens on their weary bodies, each new scar that makes itself known, tangible and intangible. Kvasir flinches at the way Morrigan looks at him, those pale blue eyes icicle-sharp in a way he's never seen before-- even logically knowing that it's concern that hones the edges and not distaste, not yet spite or the budding seeds of resentment, it's strange to be the recipient of anything other than a fond sparkle or a teasing glint, delivered with a wink or some other sign of earnestness.

It's foreign, disconcerting, and all Kvasir wants to do is take that look from their face, take them from here and give them a reason to smile again, return them to easy smiles and false stardust, to talks of magic and grandeur, all the grandiose and glorious things a person as grandiose and glorious as Morrigan Moonweaver deserves.

Bitterly, sorrowfully, he wonders if such a thing will be possible again.

"Yes," Kvasir whispers, the answer hushed, knowing he can't deny it, knowing that he can't pretend his back isn't a lattice of gashes they simply do not have the time to fix. Even so, something about the sheer exhaustion in his eye must be enough persuasion, because Morrigan does not push the issue; they merely place their hand against the small of his back, fingers curled protectively in place, still somehow careful to mind the mess of fresh and ragged wounds, and continues walking by his side.

Once again, he pushes forward with every ounce of strength he has, apologizing to his future self should they survive this; he knows his legs will despise him for days in the wake of this, will burn with an agony unlike any other, will keep him in bed at Bleakfort for as long as they can get away with, and after the hell they've suffered through today, perhaps it is deserved. Kvasir seldom ever lets himself have a day off of work, but if he and Morrigan somehow manage to escape this mess with their lives, perhaps he's owed a few days' worth of a break from mixing medicine and traveling across Charon and perfecting every bit of healing energy he can command within his body-- at least, once Morrigan is attended to. Break or no break, Kvasir will be devoting ample time to ensuring they're alright, ensuring that they recover well from this frozen hell they've endured--

Any of that hopeful fantasizing of warmth and safety crumbles for what feels like the twelfth time as that all-too-familiar roar sounds behind them again.

No-- please, no...

Kvasir could almost cry all over again. How many times is hope going to dance between his fingertips, empty promises poured over him like sand, tangible but impossible to hold? How many reminders will the world throw his way that he's irrevocably doomed them both?

He feels so weak, each step the two of them take together nowhere near enough to clear the area unscathed. And then Morrigan speaks of a possible out, of something that could help, and despite how many times hope has been dangled before them both and so cruelly wrenched away, Kvasir lets himself fall right back before its feet anyway, another helpless follower to a deity that seldom gives him answers.

His heart sinks a thirteenth time at the dismay that touches Morrigan's features as they pull a woven basket from that strange little bag-- they're both too tired, now, to conceal such things, to pretend that being toyed with by the universe itself isn't working its way beneath their skin. Kvasir has no idea what lies within that bag, no idea what Morrigan might have been praying for when they reached into it, but he's quite confident that this certainly was not what they had been hoping to find.

The Girallon's footsteps sound so loud.

His hands shake.

Kvasir has no clue if this is a fight they can win. It's two broken, fraying bodies against something strong, something that shrugs off damage like it's nothing more than a fly bouncing off its skin; in their weakened states, this feels like something they cannot wrench victory from, no matter how desperately they fight. But a kill is never the only key, never the only ticket out of a situation as hellish as this-- sometimes, when your back is against the wall and there is no other way out, your only choice is to play a little dirty.

"Stand back... j-just a little," he whispers, careful to put just a bit of distance between himself and Morrigan, just enough so they won't get caught in the crossfire of the sharper edges of his magic. Kvasir doesn't believe he could forgive himself if they did. "I... I have to... to try."

His shoulders sting with exertion as light thrums within his hand once more, bending, twisting into a long, jagged shape, extending with every additional second it stays in his grasp [1]-- he waits, waits until the power feels just right, waits until the Girallon is the right distance away, before tossing it forward with all the strength he can manage, aiming right for the beast's forehead, delivering a surge of blinding, brilliant light right between its eyes.

It's going to be quite the challenge for such a creature to pursue them if it can't see them, after all.

---

[1] Purity Bolt 3: The Purity Boltening

A picnic basket. A cruel sense of irony bubbled up in Morrigan, the utter frustration from everything that had happened so far finally coming to the surface. Now, when they’d left their fates to random chance, only now when Morrigan prayed for a miracle, did the gods finally decide to grant them their picnic.

Morrigan could not help but wonder if this was somehow Kasra’s attempts to get the last laugh.

“It’s a little too late for this, don’t you think?” Morrigan demanded to no one in particular, too hysterical at their current situation to care whether Kvasir thought they were crazy or not. But the Girallon was still charging at them with enough force to barrel them both over, and Kvasir was about to do something stupid again- and those suspicions were only confirmed as Kvasir put space between them, as if his still-broken body could do anything to stop the beast’s rampage before it reached them.

His holy bolt of light was impressive, nailing the Girallon right in one of its eyes- Morrigan couldn’t help but cheer from behind, impossibly worried but proud of the healer for landing such a precise blow in the middle of a tense situation. The Girallon roared in pain, clutching at its face as it reared back, temporarily deterred from its warpath. But it was not enough to stop it entirely. They’d need something stronger than what Kvasir’s light magic and Morrigan’s flimsy little basket could hold.

Morrigan staggered, clutching at their jacket. By now, they were conscious enough to stand upright, but not enough to make a mad dash in some last ditch effort for safety. Based on Kvasir’s haggard breathing, the way his shoulders heaved while Morrigan watched blood slowly trickle from the wound on his back, he couldn’t either. They needed something to stop this beast, and in that moment, Morrigan would do anything to obtain it, even if they had to rip that Girallon apart bit by bit with their own bare hands.

There is a moment, in the animal kingdom, in which a beast sizes up its prey to determine whether the mark is worth going after or not. There are some monsters who have never spotted a creature they thought they could defeat, never known the fear of meeting something they thought they couldn’t handle. The Girallon was one such beast.

Until it pulled itself back up and locked eyes with Morrigan Moonweaver, who had given up on any semblance of the usual flippant, happy go lucky act ages ago. That ship had sailed when Kasra asked Morrigan to beg. And if Morrigan could look in the eye of a powerful deity, and make a mockery of him, then they wouldn’t let some stupid ape be the one to make them bow.

And somehow, inexplicably, the Girallon felt fear.^[1]

It did not recognize the tiny tiefling as someone strong in the traditional sense, but Morrigan didn’t build a life of fame and fortune by being soft and malleable. They had fangs and claws, and were not afraid to make use of them.

That was the kind of fear that made the Girallon pause, identifying Morrigan- the Wizard- as a predator.

It did not come any closer.

Emboldened, Morrigan took a step forward, and the frightened Girallon took a step back, averting its gaze so it no longer had to stare into Morrigan’s frigid eyes, wild with the promise of violent murder if it dare make another step.

They limped forward until they stood next to Kvasir, handing him the picnic basket. “Here. Don’t think I forgot I promised you a picnic in the Ashlands, my friend.” There was a ghost of a smile in their lips, a spark of their usual humor, if only for the briefest moment. While Kvasir held the basket, Morrigan pulled back the gingham cloth, revealing a wonderful arrangement of meats and cheeses, something that would have been downright pleasant to enjoy if they were in any other situation. Maybe they still could… if Kvasir could still stand to call Morrigan friend once this was all said and done.

In the back of the basket there was a champagne bottle, which Morrigan grabbed with an enthusiastic grin before popping the bottle with their thumb. Champagne flew everywhere, running down Morrigan’s arm as they raised the bottle up and drank a long, triumphant swig before smashing it to the ground. The glass shattered against the ice, the loud noise spooking the already frightened Girallon.

“I will not be slain so easily by the likes of you. There’s already a god who’s claimed that right, and I don’t intend to let him make good on his promises, either.” No, not even Kasra would get that right- he could try to murder Morrigan’s physical body, but they’d already won by forcing a deity to stoop to such mortal concepts in the first place.

With those final words, Morrigan reached into their bag of wonders once more.^[2]

---

1. Warlord’s Banner
2. Jolly Bag of Tricks
NF5U4w_e

The very last thing keeping Kvasir on his feet is sheer willpower, at this point; as cleanly as that carefully-charged strike had hit, he'd poured nearly every last bit of energy he had left into it, and his magic reserves feel like a dried-up well at this point. He chokes out a desperate gasp for breath, the inhalation ragged, pained, as though his body is beginning to shut down on him, and he really can't blame it at this point. They've both pushed themselves to and well-beyond any limits, the glass panes well and truly shattered, and the fragments dig deep, drawing more blood than they can stand to lose.

Even with the precise aim of a marksman of his caliber, it isn't enough. All Kvasir has done is pissed the damn Girallon off more, its last seeing eye still fixed on them both with fury, its advancement delayed instead of stopped and he's all too ready to just hang his head in defeat by this point--

But that's when the vicious roar fades to a quiet grumble, a stutter in the beast's throat, the quiet sound of snow flying up around it as it skids to a stop.

...What?

Kvasir glances up, gaze drawn over to where Morrigan stands-- weary, still, but awake, their spine a little straighter and their stance a little steadier, head held a little higher as that cold blue gaze fixes on the beast that towers before them. Their eyes are glacial, a cold blue flame stretched across their face, brow and jaw alike set with determination, with something predatory, a challenge; it's as if they are daring the Girallon to move closer, daring it to come forward and pick a fight. And despite the fact that Morrigan is less than half its height, broken down and delicate in comparison, the Girallon is as frozen as the world around them.

They take a step forward, and it takes a step back, as though Morrigan is the predator and it is the prey. The scales have shifted, and the power lies in Morrigan's hands.

As much as he favors gently teasing them, Kvasir has never really doubted the capabilities Morrigan says they have; he may not entirely believe them when they speak of a power that lies within them so great that unleashing it would unravel the fabric of the earth around them, may be confident there's a bit of a showman's exaggeration to their talk of their magic, but he has always trusted in what they can do. Morrigan has never given him a reason not to trust them. They threw their own safety on the line for him in an instant on the very first night they met, handed him pocketfuls of stars the second his sky showed signs of going dark, has stared a god in the face and laughed. They are starlight, luminous and intense, passionate, burning and burning and burning until there is no fuel left to keep them going. And even then, they'll still find a way to shine brilliantly.

Right now, they are fire and death and stardust, and they have stolen the breath from Kvasir's aching lungs.

He stays silent as Morrigan places the woven basket in his arms, gawking like some starstruck fool as they speak, as they pluck a bottle of champagne from it like this is some mere celebration, downing the contents and throwing it down against the ice with all the force of a bomb. It shatters around them in a hailstorm of glass, and they don't even flinch, their voice fiery as they speak to a monster that cannot understand them, promising that not even a god-- not even Kasra-- can lay claim to their life.

Oh, despite the danger, despite the exhaustion, despite every sign that this should be the last thing on his mind, Kvasir's traitorous little heart flutters, singing with pride and admiration and something he knows he should not dwell on, not when things are so dire and when only strained threads connect them both, now. But Gods above, Kvasir wishes he knew beforehand that Morrigan could be this... this... commandeering, forward, attra-- a thousand other words he should not be contemplating right now, not while the tiefling is reaching for that strange bag of theirs again, fingers diving past the silver cord and reaching for another mysterious item.

What they produce this time is far more impressive.

This time, it is no mere object; Kvasir briefly catches sight of a curved, silvery little item before light floods over it, a beautiful, silver-and-white creature emerging from it in a burst of heavenly light-- a dragon, a lion dragon, carved from the silvery sunlit clouds of a winter morning. It springs to life around Morrigan, as if in some joyous little dance, like it's waiting for their command. It's a far cry from the simplicity of the basket. Gods, what the hell is in that bag? How does it go from unleashing a simple basket to letting loose a dragon?

"...Morrigan Moonweaver," he calls weakly, stepping forward just a few paces, careful to mind the shattered glass. He does not take his eye off of the still-frozen Girallon, as if terrified it will spring back to life, terrified it will break free of whatever spell Morrigan has it under. "What... can this... get us out of here...?"

“YES!”

Morrigan could not stop the triumphant, joyful laughter that escaped their lips as the raised the dragon’s fang into the air, sending forth a shimmering aura of moonlight and energy through the air. In a split-second, a silver and lavender dancing dragon appeared, prancing through the air as jubilantly as Morrigan felt in this moment. The Girallon was still frozen stiff with fear- it would not last long, but that didn’t matter. Morrigan immediately clambered on top of the magnificent creature, running a hand through the dragon’s fur.

They stared down at Kvasir, who was looking up at the dragon with pure, unconcealed shock painting his features. Morrigan held a hand out to help Kvasir up, a reminder of the same motion they’d made long ago in their wagon, utterly overjoyed. “Come on, let’s go for a ride!”

They hoisted Kvasir up onto the dragon’s back, right behind Morrigan, and didn’t waste another second. “Come on, let’s go! To Bleakfort!” They weren’t entirely certain that the dragon knew where Bleakfort was, but the general message was the same- get us the hell out of here.

The dragon could comply.

The Girallon did not make any more moves after Morrigan as the dragon took off like the wind, blowing freezing air in their face. Morrigan raised their hands in the air and let out a triumphant cheer as that horrible ice field- and the Girallon- disappeared in the distance, leaving behind nothing but a forgotten memory and one extremely angry gorilla once it would eventually return to its senses as and realize that it had lost its prey… and its snack.

Over the roar of the wind, Morrigan whipped around to face Kvasir- probably not the smartest idea, but they weren’t exactly piloting the dragon, which seemed to have a mind of its own as it bounced and pranced as if dancing on the clouds. “Kvasir! We did it, we made it! By the gods, I had no idea that would work!” If the basket had given them anything else, Morrigan shuddered to think about what would have happened…

But that didn’t matter right now. They were free, and-

“And I got the beans!” They cried, an expression that could almost be called hope painting their features- hope that they’d done a good job, that they’d done enough to make this trip worthwhile. If the Golden Consortium accepted these, then they would be able to join the alchemist’s guild together, just like they’d talked about! “I managed to get the beans! We’re in the guild!”

In reality, Morrigan was all too aware of their limitations- their weaknesses in the face of powerful adversaries. When it came to people like Lady Kamille, or Kvasir, Morrigan knew that they’d never be able to produce magic with the snap of the finger. Even their elixirs, the real ones, could not hold a candle to that kind of power. That was the pitiful truth contained behind layers of bravado and ambition, the one Morrigan so desperately hoped Kvasir would never learn of. Even if he accepted Morrigan as they were, they knew that Kvasir’s feelings towards them would change, and they would just become even more of a worry, a glass doll that was meant to be put on a shelf and fret over.

Even if he loved Morrigan as they were, there would still be pity.

But right now, as Morrigan watched Kvasir’s awed face, Morrigan got the feeling they’d just created a miracle- a real one, this time.

And that felt pretty damn nice.

There's no way they've just survived this.

The thought lingers, set in stone, cycling over and over on a perpetual loop, an inhalation and exhalation, sunrise and sunset, in and out and out and in-- it does not fade even with the cry of pure, elated triumph that spills from Morrigan's lips as though they've been named the victor of a too-long war, with the feeling of their hand slipping into his and pulling him forward to safety, with the feeling of their back, solid and tangible and real, against his chest, their heartbeat resonant against his own. The solid proof of their survival thrums between them, racing with all the freedom and fury of an escaped horse breaking for the fields, and yet it still somehow does not feel real.

Amidst the dizziness settling in, amidst the hysteria that all the chaos has rained down like lightning upon the audacious, amidst the blank space between the branches and the old whispers in his mind, the fact that they have lived through all of it does not feel real.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing his eye shut.

Who are you?

I am Kvasir Sigurros.

Who brought you into this world?

Austri Sigurros.

And?

I don't remember.

What are you?

A medic.

What are you not?

A god.

Who matters most to you?

The person right before me.

Kvasir takes one more deep breath, the sound of it ragged, too harsh and broken and desperate for his liking, before he reaches his hand to his back, searching for the deep gashes the Girallon had left on his body. He's spilled more magic from his veins than blood, it feels, but he conjures up that familiar light anyway with little fanfare, managing just enough power to lace the wounds together so they no longer demand his attention. [1] There's nothing he can do about the blood loss or the frostbite right now, but mercifully, the situation is no longer so dire; he's free to be as useless and pathetic as he wishes, now.

The dismal look in his eye fades as Morrigan whirls around to look at him, their whole face alight as they explain what they've achieved, the victory they've pried from the divine, unforgiving jaws of defeat; even though Kvasir had said it didn't matter, that their safety was more important, that they could try again, Morrigan had gone and achieved it all anyway. Triumph settles naturally on their face, sunlight that burns stronger than their exhaustion, eclipsing all they've suffered at divine and mortal hands alike.

Did the gods know what they were doing when they spun Morrigan Moonweaver into being?

"...I'm gonna start running out of... space for titles for you," Kvasir murmurs, fighting to keep his eye focused on that radiant smile, on the victory burning like fire in that glacial eye. Even so, he manages a smile, awe painted across his face like the stars themselves have plucked themselves from the sky just to dance around him. "Morrigan Moonweaver... diviner, enchanter, god-and-Girallon-slayer... miracle-worker..."

A moment passes-- a brief one, where the only sound between them is the whistle of the wind, both of them paused in place, still and stationary as the atmosphere will allow-- before Kvasir lurches forward, trembling arms flying around Morrigan's body, pulling them in to hug them as closely and as tightly as his weakened body will allow. It's sweet for all but a second, nothing but tenderness poured into the gesture, but then his shoulders shake and it ripples through his spine and then a weak, broken sob tears from his throat and--

"--and idiot," he chokes out, tears spilling down his cheek for what feels like the hundredth time. It's pitiful, pathetic, but his fragments are fragmented and he lacks the means to piece them together, lacks the steady hands and patience and the necessary tools to pretend he can be whole. "You-- you-- I c-can't believe--!"

Whatever else he'd meant to say is lost beneath the howl of the wind, beneath a mass of babbled apologies, incomprehensible but relieved tangents about what a fool they are, and what can only be abandoned begging for forgiveness. It's a messy web of words, spun and tangled and lost beneath exhaustion and sorrow and the weather's relentlessness, but it passes-- it passes, as soon as breathing demands his focus and all he can manage is one last whisper of a few broken words, blood loss and exhaustion stealing full syllables from his lips before they can be properly spoken.

"...'m so glad you're... you're alive."

He falls silent, then, for a long moment, his face half-buried in Morrigan's shoulder, eye an emerald stormcloud as it fights to stay open. He keeps his arms looped around their waist, clinging to them like a lifeline, not bothering to look down at the world below, at the dragon keeping them aloft. Kvasir seems content to let the silence linger, almost ready to doze off until the wind picks up, his nose twitching and his ears flattening, quick to adjust so his face is buried further along in his companion's shoulder.

"Morrrrrigan M-Moonweaverrr," he practically whines, a stark contrast to the composure he's so adept at maintaining, the syllables melting together into a solid mess of sounds. Even so, despite the way the words slur, the way they might after a shot too many at a tavern, he still manages to bring out their full name-- only ever their full name. "The dragon shhhould... slow down. It's... it's fuckin' wimdy."

It's clear in that moment that whatever hold Kvasir had on the moment has started to well and truly slip from his fingers, disorientation and exhaustion rising to claim him now that the promise of safety lingers so close.

"...how... far is Bleakfort...?"

---

[1] Major Healing