“I would argue that such assumptions are justified, given that you speak as if you’ve given this pitch before.” Morrigan said, shifting their stance to their other foot. “Though I amend my statement. Perhaps you have not directly influenced his life, but I am under no illusions that you have not played a guiding hand from the sidelines. Either way, your very presence would color any of Kvasir’s relationships, wouldn’t it?” Because Kvasir was stupidly noble like that, the kind of man who offered his services to people for free because he wanted to make a difference. If he thought he presented any kind of danger to someone, he would… isolate himself. “Though I suppose the more apt question to ask is how many of his loved ones have left him after learning of your existence. Not a good look for you, is it?” Morrigan sneered.

“Which one of us threatens barbarism now, friend?” The familiar term of endearment slipped past Morrigan’s lips, though the term was twisted and gnarled as they addressed Kasra. “I hardly consider threats to my person a diplomatic approach. Or perhaps I’ve managed to burrow my way into your skull so deeply that I’ve managed to rattle this farce of a scholar’s facade you wear?”

Focus. Work. Morrigan’s mind reeled with strategies, running through their, admittedly slim, pool of options. How in the hell did one rid a body of a god who had so clearly planted twisted roots in its lovely flowerbed? Their thoughts drifted towards a priest before remembering that they exorcized demons and spirits, not deities. A being like Kasra would be right at home in any god-forsaken temple that Morrigan brought him to. No, Morrigan needed to be creative. They may not have had spells in the traditional sense, but their bread and butter came from potions, elixirs. They could use one of those. A glitter bomb to smoke Kasra out? No, a drop of parasite poison to remove spirit from flesh. No- none of those would be strong enough. They needed something powerful. Morrigan could…

Morrigan could…

What could Morrigan do?

All they truly had was their words and their cunning, the only weapons that remained in their arsenal no matter how much time passed. But what could sweet nothings and a coy smile against someone who’d seen through the paper-thin ruse?

They only had one advantage: Kasra spoke like Morrigan was nothing more than a stain on a carpet, but Morrigan was a setback. A problem. Kasra needed them out of Kvasir’s life, no matter how much he asserted that he was above such mortal things. And perhaps Kasra could get rid of them with time and effort, but it would be an annoying process, and one he clearly wanted to avoid, if he thought petty little threats would be enough to get Morrigan to take care of the job for him.

He was about to learn what many mortals had before him- exactly how big of a nuisance Morrigan Moonweaver was.

“Perhaps you’ve underestimated how readily I would bite off my nose to spite my face.” Morrigan said, digging their heels into the snow both in the literal and metaphorical sense. This was it, the point of no return. Kasra offered them an out, easier for both them and Kvasir in the long run. Kvasir would be hurt, and he would ache and yearn and wonder why Morrigan had decided to cut him out with surgical precision, but it would be an act of self preservation. Any sane person would have taken Kasra up on such an offer.

“But when have I ever taken the easy path in life?” Morrigan murmured, voice softening for just a moment.

There were plenty of times Morrigan had fled at the first sign of difficulty, but never when something they wanted was on the line.

“I built a reputation for myself with my own two fucking hands- I will tear that foundation down just as quickly. But love me or hate me, Kvasir Sigurros will remember me.” Morrigan uttered, a promise and a threat all wrapped up in one. For a minute, they might have had the upper hand… until Kasra laughed, a sickening sound with Kvasir’s voice, and aimed right for Morrigan’s heart with his pointed barb, every bit the marksman Kvasir was, but with twisted words and half-truths.

Morrigan’s mind drifted to another one of Kvasir’s medical lessons, another they’d been paying attention to despite being distracted by a particularly pretty butterfly that had landed on one of Kvasir’s ears. But they distinctly remembered him telling a story about a young boy he’d helped who broke his leg, and had to walk around with gauze and plaster caked against his leg so it would heal properly. He hated the cane he had to use to help assist his movements, but Kvasir had sat him down and said something that stuck out in Morrigan’s mind.

“Crutches help the bone grow back stronger.” Morrigan recited. “It is only natural he would lean on someone else after you have broken him so. If I am that person to him, then so be it.”

And those words sounded an awful lot like love.

Well. This is... quite the surprise.

Although he's loath to admit it, a flicker of interest slips into his gaze at the sheer conviction Morrigan speaks with, the tranquil shadow of the sister moon eclipsing the cruel sun. As one privy to Kvasir's memories, able to witness flickers of events, flames of feeling left behind after every little interaction, every little word, of course Kasra was aware of the way these two were interconnected, the way they spoke to each other. He knew of their first meeting in the Lantern Light Wood, brushes with death, a night wrapped up with gentle laughter and the bittersweet taste of Zeinav's liquor-- he knew of their encounter in the market of the desert city, a venture heralded by laughter. He knew of every travel venture they'd taken since-- every letter Kvasir had spent hours writing and rewriting just to ensure he got the message just right, every letter he'd received in turn and smiled over for equal amounts of time.

Kasra knew well of the intricacies, there, of the threads that tied these two so tightly together-- and he knew well of the gaping holes that threatened to tear the whole tapestry apart.

Kvasir Sigurros was blinded by adoration-- by lavender and roses, by the sweet feeling of want and being wanted and all that came with it. Whatever suspicions he had about Morrigan's true nature, he openly elected to ignore; leaving dandelions to pop up in the garden merely because they seemed beautiful, harmless, as though the whole place wouldn't become overrun with weeds if his attention slipped so. His faith in them was unshakeable, no matter how unfounded, and Kasra has always merely been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In stark contrast, of course, it was... easy to assume that any fondness Morrigan Moonweaver exhibited for Kvasir was all part of their elaborate facade; practiced charm, a spell of their own making despite no reserves of magic lingering at their fingertips. Kasra had been counting on it; it seemed natural that a charlatan like them would leap at the very first opportunity to cut their losses, to preserve their image in the eyes of someone who was willfully blind to anything that didn't quite line up, to run and leave Kvasir with nothing but a delicately crumbling memory. Such was the way of a liar, after all-- their true allegiances only ever laid with themselves, with what was necessary to preserve their own image.

But oh, that sharp tone, the fierceness in Morrigan Moonweaver's pale, burning eyes... it stirs up a memory of something like devotion.

"Ah," he says slowly, the smirk on his face evening out, the virulence tucked into the corners of his lips slipping away as though an antidote had been brought forth. He glances Morrigan up and down one more time, as though appraising them, faux-amusement and disbelief swirling together in that sand-golden gaze. "It seems I may have miscalculated once again. How... very, very strange. You really do... care for my vessel, don't you?"

Another laugh leaves his lips, though this one lacks any venom-- it's softer with surprise, a blade dulled ever-so-slightly after missing a strike, an edge blunted through poor planning.

"It does not bother you to know you are being used?" Kasra says, tilting his head just so as he looks up at Morrigan, that smile omnipresent. "You are... truly alright with being clung to, this way, merely so he does not forget? How well do you even truly know him? What has he told you? He speaks so fondly of you, claims to adore you, writes your name in that damned journal every night as part of some foolish prayer, but he doesn't truly know you and you certainly don't know him."

A desperation clings more steadfastly to the words with every question the God of What Once Was asks, bitterness pouring from them in a broken mess, dipped in utter loathing. Why isn't this working? Why won't this damned charlatan yield to his offers, his threats, all these arrows he knows should strike truer than anything Kvasir Sigurros could fire off with a bow?

He's losing this match, has been from the moment he let a mere mortal get under his holy skin.

Deep down, Kasra knows it.

"...why does someone like... this matter to you?"

Kasra’s grin suddenly widened in interest, sharp teeth glinting like a predator who’d finally found something to latch onto, and he would not let go so easily. And then he accused Morrigan of caring, more than a liar and a charlatan ought to, and Morrigan’s blood ran cold as they realized their folly. They should not have given them that ammunition, another arrow to load in Kvasir’s longbow and aim right for Morrigan.

Morrigan held their breath, waiting for them to strike-

And they burst out laughing at Kasra’s confident assertion that Morrigan was only being used, that they didn’t truly know Kvasir, as if that really mattered.

“Well of course he’s using me!” They said, wiping off a stray snowflake that had landed on their cheek with their thumb, like wiping away a stray tear. “That’s how people work. Not a one of them is wholly unselfish- and if they were, I would not trust them as far as I could throw them. That does not mean he cares about me any less.” For now, at least. That was subject to change once this was all said and done- Morrigan did not know if Kvasir retained Kasra’s memories the way the god seemed to be able to sift through Kvasir’s like some dirty voyeur, but if he could, then he’d see this entire conversation.

He’d know.

But that was a problem for later, once this was all said and done.

For now they had to focus on Kasra’s insults, still designed to tear Morrigan’s confidence down, plant seeds of doubt into their mind about Kvasir in an attempt to poison the garden of thoughts and feelings that had accumulated in their first meeting. He was obviously still trying to get Morrigan to leave of their own volition. A thought occurred to Morrigan, one they did not voice- it would certainly explain their choice of continuing to use barbed words despite their threats of violence, or why they had not yet used Kvasir’s healing power to patch their legs and choke the life out of Morrigan.

Perhaps he did not yet have access to Kvasir’s magic- or the full extent of it, anyways.

This was the desperate ploy of a man who was grasping at straws, attempting to break Morrigan down with the only weapons he had at his disposal. It was unfortunate for him that words alone would not break down the foundations Morrigan had solidly built for themselves, an overconfident persona that had grown so solidly into their perceptions that the insults from a petty, groveling god. There was a certain joy from being the one to have put a chink in a god’s ego. Kasra was clearly used to getting his way, as if he’d earned his rightful place on whatever gilded throne he once planted his ass in, when in reality, Morrigan doubted he’d worked a day in his life for it. He did not know weakness, was not intimate with what it meant to get thrown to the ground or what it meant to pick oneself up again and restore the shattered remains.

And so he lashed out like some petulant child, expecting to get his toy back if he bitched and complained enough.

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed as Kasra tried to inquire why Morrigan could possibly care, gaze as sharp and chilly as the ice lakes around them. “Do I need some grand reason to care about someone? Do you hope to take my proffered words and pluck them apart until you find something worth using something against me, or him? Because there is one simple reason that I hold such affection to someone like Kvasir, and it is the only one that matters.” Morrigan paused.

“He makes me smile.”

Even that small truth felt like giving Kasra too much. Morrigan shook their head, affixing a faux-mournful frown on their face as they looked down at Kasra, making sure that the deity felt every inch of their height difference right now. Morrigan wanted him to remember that he’d suffered a defeat here. “Not that I would expect an old, forgotten creature like yourself to understand. You’ve clearly left behind no one who cared enough to preserve your memory.”

Now, they began to pace back and forth, before pulling out the pale dagger from their sleeve. IT was still nearly invisible, save the flecks of Kvasir’s own blood painted on the side where Morrigan had cut through flesh and severed nerves. They ran their finger along the side, slow and purposeful, making sure Kasra saw every agonizing movement so he would remember who it was who’d drawn ichor from a god.

Yes, Morrigan wanted him to remember their face, to burn with agony of defeat every time it came to mind.

“Do you understand what I’m saying now? You clearly won’t be able to have your wicked way with me so easily. Now why don’t you be a doll and tell me what your plans with Kvasir are?”

They already had their suspicions. If Morrigan understood correctly, Kasra was trying to… erase Kvasir, override his mind until the god had taken over entirely, leaving behind nothing of Kvasir save those who clung to his memory. But Morrigan wanted to hear it from Kasra’s own mouth.

Leech had been a rather apt description for Morrigan Moonweaver, truly; they cling to their ideals with endless tenacity, teeth buried deep, doubling down on every word they've said as if they've never considered the possibility of turning around. The word almost felt too kind, really-- gnat did, too. Leeches were pesky and disgusting creatures, but they were useful; gnats were annoying, but harmless. No, the word Kasra felt most accurately summarized this agonizingly irritating fool was cockroach.

No matter how many times he attempts to bury his heel in them, they still won't keel over and die.

Morrigan's tongue seems to grow sharper with every verbal arrow Kasra fires their way, every swing of a blade, every sort of strike from any sort of weapon absorbed and dealt back in equal measure, as though they are a living, enchanted shield. There will be moments where he thinks he's finally found the chink in their armor, the moments where he swears he's seen a flash of blood and vulnerability, only for Morrigan to bite right back with a swift, easy deflection, as if they've pried the arrows from their own bleeding body and fired them right back, with all the desperation and precision of a moonlit huntress.

And oh, does one of them strike far too deeply, embedding itself deep within the fruit of a divine pulse, all too happy to shed holy nectar.

"Lord Archivist, she's gone."

It aches--

"Our numbers are dwindling more by the day."

far more--

"We can't go on like this anymore."

than he cares to admit.

There's that little show of triumph, once more-- smug delight painted over Morrigan's face as they sweep their finger across their weapon, pale and translucent as a moonbeam, marred only by beads of chilled vermilion. Kasra knows what this is, now; this is a show of power, of supremacy, a general holding their enemy's bloodied weapon before the gates of his falling city.

All he can do is sigh.

"...You wish to know what is mine to do with my vessel?" he begins, voice as even as he can make it, hiding the tightness in his throat with the cold command he's always been so good at using. "Fine. I need this body so that I may return to my place within my lost temple and resume my divine role, and to do so, I need someone willing. Alas, my vessel did not quite like the idea and ran away from the White Sand Sea like a petulant child-- so if he is not willing, I will ensure he has no choice but to be. If there is nothing left of him, and no one left to want or miss him, then my mission becomes all the easier."

There's a sick, cold desperation that undercuts his tone, the hunger of an animal crawling its way back to its prey, no matter what vicious traps mar its steps, no matter what vile things it must do to get there. There is much he will not say, much this charlatan does not deserve to know, much they would not understand-- he doubts they would be any happier if Kasra explains that they would find a way to honor Kvasir's memory and service some time long after he is gone, as is owed by him as an archivist. But that is alright. The God of Remains speaks of his work with a need, a dire purpose, and the willingness to do anything to achieve it.

Oh, he will do anything to achieve it.

"Now, I do tire of this little dance, charlatan," he says, a grimace sewn in beneath the venomous smile he shoots Morrigan's way-- oh, he wishes he could mask the weariness in his voice a little better, conceal just how livid he is beneath the solid veil of composure he once wore like a second skin. It's unbecoming of him, wise and infinite, powerful and controlled, immortal beyond death, to become so incensed because of the words of a transient little creature, one whose lifetime was but a speck in Charon's grand hourglass, but oh, it is difficult to maintain a steely facade with the way they poke at the fire. "I can tell you tire of me, and every god above and creature beneath knows I tire of you. I imagine you want my vessel back in your arms, do you not?"

A wicked little edge returns to Kasra's face at that, the corner of his eye pinched with sadistic delight, canines glinting with a illusory razor-sharpness as he tilts his head to the side. There's a mocking tone his voice adopts in the last words, lording what he knows of that gentle, mutual affection over Morrigan's head-- a gambit for another day. Oh, he may have lost this, may have yielded to a mortal's audacity, may be broken down in humiliating defeat, but he demands the last laugh.

His demands seldom ever went ignored.

"I will return him to you," the God of What Once Was begins, voice low, dangerous. "--if you beg me for it. Convince me just how desperately you wish to have him back, and all will be well. It will be like nothing even happened to begin with; I promise you, my vessel won't remember a thing."

Won't remember a thing, indeed.

There was an anger that seemed to radiate from Kasra, like the white hot sun on a day in Zeinav. Morrigan continued their slow, unhurried pace, boots crunching in the snow with every step they took, driving home the point that they had the upper hand in this conversation- to use a gambler’s metaphor, they held all the cards.

And then Kasra flipped the script.

His words were cold and authoritative, spoken like an adult reprimanding a child, but there was an underlying fury, a hardened edge not unlike the knife clutched in Morrigan’s hand. And he explained exactly what he had planned for Kvasir, what he needed to accomplish to assume his divine role.

With Kvasir’s body.

Which would… erase Kvasir entirely.

Morrigan clutched the dagger in their hands with a pale-knuckled grip, unable to control their reaction this time, composure slipping away like sand. For the first time in this entire verbal battle, Kasra would finally see quiet hatred that had been simmering underneath, a sparkling elixir left on the cauldron that was violently beginning to bubble over.

“Then I will just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Morrigan uttered, low enough that they hoped Kasra did not hear, but with the same demon’s fury that bubbled in their veins. Kasra may have been a holy being, but Morrigan still bore the mark of an infernal creature, and they would show Kasra exactly what it meant to piss off someone with a demon’s spirit.

“The feeling is mutual, friend.” Morrigan let out a humorless laugh in response to Kasra’s mock fatigue, another attempt at mimicking Kvasir to tug at Morrigan’s heartstrings, soften the ice that had formed around their heart the longer they conversed. Needless it only had the opposite of the intended effect- the longer Morrigan watched him attempt to wear a humans mask, the more sick they grew. That revulsion only came to a head as Kvasir tilted his head and told Morrigan to beg.

Like a dog.

“Oh?” Morrigan raised their brow. They would be more amused at Kasra’s last attempt to gain footing in this conversation, to find some chink in Morrigan’s armor- in a way, they supposed he’d found it. Morrigan’s fondness for Kvasir would prevent them from being driven away from his side, but Kasra was banking on them being desperate enough to cry and plead and restore some of the god’s authority. As utterly childish and petty as the move was, Kasra ordered it with the confidence of someone who knew that he was the one holding the reins, and only he could relinquish them at his discretion. They were at a stalemate- he could not heal himself any more than Morrigan could drag Kvasir’s consciousness back from the dark depths that Kasra had plunged him into.

One of them had to budge.

And the worst part was that now, the cards were stacked in Kasra's favor.

The fight left Morrigan's body, shoulders slumping with the defeat of someone who knew their opponent had won. They tucked the knife delicately back into their sleeve, taking small, hesitant steps closer to Kasra. The god was still smirking triumphantly, confident with the knowledge that he had coaxed such pathetic words out of a cowardly charlatan. Knowing that he’d finally won.

Morrigan opened their mouth.

And spat in Kasra’s face.

They took a moment to savor the look of shock that Kasra no doubt wore, wiping at the side of their mouth with the back of their hand.

“You seriously thought you could make me whine and beg like some bitch? Let me tell you something, Kasra. I may be at your mercy to get my Kvasir back, but right now, you’re also at mine. Deity of all that once was, collector of ancient knowledge, never forget that right now, I am your god.”

Morrigan sneered, a sharp-toothed look of utter triumph.

“I will bow to no man, mortal or immortal. Now relinquish your hold on Kvasir before I leave you out here to freeze. You can't exactly walk to the White Sand Sea without the use of your own legs, can you?”

To accentuate their point, Morrigan turned on their heel, and began slowly walking away.

There was no way Morrigan Moonweaver was serious.

Their saliva stings like acid, like poison against his cheek, the weight of spite and biting cold eating into soul and skin alike. It's a petty, childish little gesture, a mere act of defiance from the lowly, from those who think the dirt that flows from their tongue is a revolution all its own, but Morrigan seems utterly convinced that it gives them power, hubris spilling from their lips just as readily as spit. It's vile, really, how twisted they have it, how they seem so convinced that they have the upper hand and cannot be forced into the position to let go of it-- it's infuriating. His golden blood boils with it, magmatic in his veins, threatening to erupt as the faux wizard turns to leave.

"Charlatan. Turn around."

There's no way. There's no way-- if this fool adored Kvasir Sigurros so deeply, then how were they so willing to leave his body behind? Would they truly go this far, solely to spite a deity?

"Charlatan."

What kind of sick game were they playing?

"Charlatan!"

They don't budge, footprints still trailing in the snow behind them, slow but purposeful, not even bothering to glance back with every screech of their title. They're serious-- they've thrown out half of their pieces just to give Kasra the confusion of a lifetime trying to sort out why.

Well, then. If Morrigan wishes to play mortal games, then so be it.

"...Fine," the ancient god begins, voice cold and clear, low with defeat. "If you want him back, then come take him back."

He closes his eyes, letting out a deep sigh as he leans back against the snow, his vessel's body haloed in cold-- it's easy to focus on that, to focus on the way the chill sinks into his skin even through these heavy clothes, the way it makes him feel sluggish and weak, the way the hunters would feel when they'd return from trips out through the desert. Slow breathing, a simulacrum of sleep, as though consciousness is slipping from his fingers. He focuses on those earthly feelings, tethers himself to them, etches every bit of focus he has into drawing upon these feelings of fragility.

He'll need them, after all.

A moment passes, then two, before he manages to force out a weak, strangled whimper, a sound of pure exhaustion-- twitches against his boreal bed, struggling to move, cracks an eye open, barely enough, ink-dark lashes hiding gold.

"M... Morri..." he forces the noise out of his throat, pitiful, agonized, as though the mere act of speaking is painful to him-- a wounded songbird incapable of its last song. A frantic edge slips into his tone as he feebly presses his palms against the snow, feigning confusion as to why his legs won't respond to him, tears springing to life and racing down his cheek, practically starting to freeze before they reach halfway. "...I-I can't... w-why can't I...?"

It takes every ounce of Kasra's divine power not to burst into laughter as soon as Morrigan practically whirls around, guided back by the promise of their dear medic being placed back into their arms, guided back by remorse for having left him behind to freeze all alone in the cold. That panic, that desperation, that hope is enough to draw them back, back toward what they think is Kvasir, merely a fish reeled into the jaws of a predator--

Because as soon as they're draped over him, ready to speak, ready to do what they can, ready to explain, light bursts to life in Kasra's hand, and finds its target between Morrigan's shoulderblades. [1]

"Savor every moment you are given with my vessel while you have it, little wizard," Kasra whispers, voice coarse, hatred poured into every syllable torn from his throat like molten iron into a smith's cast, searing, febrile. He leans back, then, the motion stilted, a doll moving on rusted joints, neck slowly tilting back until that auric eye directly meets Morrigan's, one final, cruel grin splitting across his borrowed face, a fang-filled gash. "Savor today, savor tomorrow, savor everything, because this will not last."

He leans back in, then, voice dropping down to a sharp whisper, stolen breath ghosting against the shell of Morrigan's ear in a burst of cold air, venom curling into vapor.

"I already tore him from the arms of one love. I will do it again."

And with those parting words, the God of What Once Was withdraws, leaving nothing behind but a promise and two broken bodies entangled in the snow.

---

Consciousness flows back into place with all the gentility of the tide, ebbing and flowing, bits and pieces of sensation slipping in and out of Kvasir's awareness in tiny, fleeting moments. There's the distant howl of the wind overhead, relentless in its chill; the bite of ice and snow in all the places they can creep through, caring little for any efforts he's made to protect himself from its teeth. There's the ground against his back, the sky above, and a slight, gentle warmth draped just so over him-- and then nothing, strangely, no matter how long he waits for feeling to return to his legs.

Kvasir Sigurros cracks his eye open-- green, forest-green, no trace of the sun left save for that tiny golden ring-- to look at the scene before him, still barely processing a thing.

"...mm... Morrigan Moonweaver...?" he murmurs, confusion sewn into his voice. This was certainly a strange way to awaken; sprawled out on the snow with Morrigan laying on top of him, the winter storm still whirling down around them. "...my dear enchanter, I... I think you've laid on me so long, my legs have fallen asleep. Or... they've become so frostbitten I can no longer feel them. Or both."

Kvasir maneuvers his arm to propel himself upward, one arm rising to wrap around Morrigan so they don't slip too far from his hold--

but he stops short at the sigh of scarlet gathered around their back--

at the sight of scarlet staining his own hand.

It is in that very moment that he realizes the ground beneath them is solid ice, cold and unforgiving, nothing like the snow-veiled earth they'd been wandering before-- the caverns' gaping maws hang open not far away, enticing jaws begging fools to enter. The path they'd taken is nowhere in sight. They are, somehow, far deeper into the World Crown than they had been, and he has no memory of how they've gotten here, or what they've done, or why he can't move his legs or even his tail or how Morrigan wound up like this or how their blood ended up on his hand--

"Morrigan Moonweaver," he whispers, desperate, quiet, a choked prayer. "Morrigan Moonweaver, p-please, I-- I don't know what-- what happened...? D-Did I... do this to you...?"

---

[1] Purity Bolt (sorry Morrigan)

Morrigan was going to leave.

They were going to walk away, and they were going to stay gone until they heard Kvasir’s voice coming from his own mouth once more- perhaps confused, but his own once more. Kasra needed Kvasir alive and well to finish his twisted plans, and in this moment, that meant relying on Morrigan, caving to their demands. That didn’t mean every single one of Kasra’s cries in Kvasir’s own voice didn’t sting, or remind Morrigan that they were essentially leaving Kvasir to die in the snow if Kasra did not call them out on this asinine bluff.

But they kept walking, stubbornly, as this gambit was the only ammunition they had.

Eventually, Kasra stopped screaming, and Morrigan stopped as they heard the god declare his defeat. They turned just in time to catch Kasra slumping over in the snow, deathly still for a few moments, a hauntingly familiar callback to the situation they’d found themselves in only hours ago. That had felt like a different lifetime, now.

“Kvasir?” Morrigan’s voice was soft and hesitant as Kasra?-Kvasir?-one of them struggled to sit up. And Kvasir’s voice, weak with exhaustion and confusion, attempted to call their name, tears slipping from half-lidded eyes, putting another crack in Morrigan’s heart. Was this Kvasir, or Kasra putting on an act? How could Morrigan tell?

The eyes.

But Morrigan couldn’t make out whether his eyes were currently Moonglade forrest-green or Zeinavian treasure-gold from here. It was too difficult for them to discern the colors. All they could see was the way his hands trembled as he tried to make sense of what was going on.

And logically, Morrigan could have assumed there was a chance this was a trap. That Kasra was attempting to catch Morrigan by acting as Kvasir once more, all in an attempt to lure them in and make good on his promise to get rid of Morrigan one way or another. But Morrigan couldn’t risk it. If there was a chance this truly was Kvasir once more, and he was lost and confused, then Morrigan could not leave him here in the snow.

Morrigan spun on their heel and immediately ran back to the medic, dropping to their knees to help him up, support him in any way they could. “Kvasir, don’t try to push yourself, your legs-”

They did not get the chance to finish that sentence as the breath was stolen from their lungs with a sharp, unbearable, pain in their back, right next to their lungs. They inhaled a shuddering breath as Kasra whispered in their ear, promising a reckoning.

Morrigan opened their mouth, desperate to get the last word, but all that passed their lips was a cacophony of crimson blood as both Morrigan and Kasra collapsed into the snow.

Consciousness was a difficult concept to grasp, for some time. Morrigan struggled to hold onto themselves as they drifted in and out of that dark place, all their energy pooling out from the wound in their back. It could have been minutes that Kvasir did not stir. It could have been hours. Either way, it was enough for their blood that trickled into the snow to begin to freeze. Morrigan could not muster much strength to move, much less attempt to wake Kvasir up.

It was only the sound of Kvasir’s voice once more, gentle and still confused, managed to rouse Morrigan from their state. He was mentioning something about… his legs being sleepy? Morrigan’s thoughts were beginning to grow muddled, but that sounded about right. Morrigan had been laying here for quite a long time after all. They giggled, barely a hoarse gurgle of a sound.

“Mmmmmsrry. I’ll… move.” They struggled, but they still could not muster up the energy to move, much less crack open their eyes to see their medic’s face.

“S’ green again?”

Then Kvasir sounded… upset, for some reason. What was he asking about? He hadn’t done anything to Morrigan that they could remember.

Oh, right.

The wound.

Morrigan hummed, still unable to open their eyes but raising one of their hands, trying to reach out for Kvasir. Eventually, they managed to weakly nudge his cheek, smearing blood like they’d once smeared glitter, in a different forest, a different herb hunt.

“Nooooooo.” The syllable was long and drawn out as Morrigan’s brow furrowed. Their back ached, the pain nearly unbearable, threatening to pull them under completely. No, they couldn’t go just yet- there was something important they needed to say before they went to sleep completely. In the misty fog of their mind, that message was just beyond their grasp, no matter how many times they tried to pull it down.

Yes, that was it.

“Kvasssssir. Mmmmyyyy jacket is… ruined.”

None of this made sense.

The very last thing Kvasir could remember was the sharp agony of a migraine, sudden, devastating, and all-consuming in its onset; it had sucked the energy from his body with vampiric devotion, bitten away at every bit of willpower he'd clung to so desperately, leaving him to wilt against the snow, the last memories lingering in his mind being the numbing sting of snow against his cheek and the distant, yet comforting warmth of Morrigan's palm against his back, faraway and drifting further as his consciousness was stolen from him. There was nothing but blank space beyond that, the ink-black infinity of blissfully dreamless sleep, no voices or memories or visions capable of chasing after him.

Sleep was all that had come after. It's all that could have come after. And yet, the irrefutable proof of action beyond unconsciousness unfolds before him in every possible way-- in the clear distance of their travel, in the footprints in the snow, in the steadily-chilling scarlet of Morrigan's blood that has seeped into his gloves, his shirt, his skin, stinging like a snakebite where it lingers, the fangs buried all-too-deep. It's all paradoxical, nonsensical, antinomic-- how could any of this have happened? Did-- Did he ever actually lose consciousness...? Are his memories being tampered with again? He has no idea, no way of knowing, no means of figuring it out, and Morrigan's coherence is fading so quickly...

Kvasir bites his lower lip to prevent it from quivering, to rein in the tears he knows wish to flow freely before they can cut themselves loose.

But before he can think to cry, his dear enchanter's reaching out to him, slowly, laboriously, as though every bit of energy in their body is being poured into the mere act of lifting their arm and flexing their hand. Morrigan's fingers are achingly gentle as they tenderly brush against Kvasir's cheek, an echo of an old comfort, a ghost of glitter and captured stars; but where tiny specks of starlight once lingered, dragged across his face in an effort to light it up with a smile, now there is bright crimson, outlined in their fingerprints, proof of all Kvasir's done to harm them.

He has to undo it. There is no other option.

"Y-You sweet idiot," he whispers, tears springing to life all over again in that viridian eye, clear and warm and his, the sorrow painted over his features his and his alone-- there's no true rage, no cruelty, nothing beyond heartbreak and concern colored by adoration. He's quick to wrap his arms around Morrigan, careful but hasty, cradling them against his chest and burying his face in the snow-streaked strands of their hair, as though this alone is enough to keep them warm. "How c-can you worry about your clothes at a time like this...? Y-You never have your priorities straight, a-and I... I..."

A shuddering gasp escapes Kvasir as he chokes on a breath, the inhalation desperate, pained. There's that wire-wound feeling in his lungs again, as though no air can flood into them, the cycle of breath an impossible chase. Panic claws at his chest from the inside, caged within his ribs and desperate to escape, gnawing at every escape opportunity it can find.

"...I'll buy you a new jacket," he whispers against the crown of their head, setting his hand at the small of their back, channeling that summer dusk light through his palms and pushing it forward, praying it's enough to stitch the wound together, praying he's made no lethal mark. [1] "A-Anything you want, Morrigan Moonweaver, y-you heart attack of a man. J-Just don't fall asleep-- please..."

The urgency in Kvasir's voice is palpable, desperate, a thousand pleas poured into his every word. This would likely not be enough to restore Morrigan completely; they had lost so much blood in the indistinguishable amount of time Kvasir had spent unconscious that there was a fair chance that alone would still knock them unconscious, or at least keep them too dizzy to remain fully coherent, but as long as it stops the bleeding, prevents any chance of this getting worse, then that is what matters. They can worry about the rest once they're out of here--

Gods, they need to get out of here.

Kvasir squirms underneath Morrigan once more, brow furrowing with further concern at the way his legs refuse to respond to him, the way not even his tail gives an involuntary twitch; it's as if his lower body has gone and died on him out of nowhere. Really, the more he considers it, the more he realizes that... may not be an exaggeration, as terrifying as it is; if he really did wind up paralyzed, then... he needs to know what caused it so he can quickly patch up the wound. If he's going to get Morrigan to safety, then he needs full use of his legs.

"Morrigan Moonweaver," he murmurs once more, gently nudging the top of their head with his cheek, hoping they can give a coherent response. "I-I... I can't move my legs. I-I suspect it may be a case of... paralysis, and I... do you know what caused it...? I need to-- to heal it."

---

[1] Major Healing

There was an odd sensation, almost like floating. Morrigan was filled with the same weightless feeling they’d experienced while flying through the air in the lava pits of Mount Drakolt, a never ending plunge in which they were suspended between wakefulness and sleep, never quite reaching the bottom but unable to return to the top.

Kvasir was still talking to Morrigan, sounding just as worried as he had then, the memories of being called sweet, darling idiot with such worry and sorrow blending together in their mind.

“Rreaallly ‘s you…” Morrigan mumbled, the tension in their shoulders finally relaxing- even in this state, there was still a fear that they were being played again, that this was Kasra putting on the act once more to lead Morrigan gently into the night. It would not be the worst way to die, Morrigan figured, to spend their last moments of consciousness believing that they were being held by a loved one. But Kasra was too cruel for that, and spit endearments like they burned his tongue.

Which meant that the one scolding them right now, the same way he had countless times before for being reckless, and caring about their clothes first, truly was Kvasir returned to them.

Morrigan pouted, even with their eyes still closed. “But ‘s a… important jacket.” They said, like a child who didn’t understand why they’d been told no. “I need it. ‘S mmmmyyyyy…” They gave another ragged breath, one that sent another wave of pain through their back, “Wizzzard jacket.”

They slipped down further, back to that old circus tent, huddled in a stool on a corner, hissing in pain as they pricked their finger with the sewing needle for the third time that evening. “Ahh, Dipluz!” They hissed in infernal as a few drops of blood got onto the oversized jacket in their lap.

Madman Medb chose that moment to stroll in, bringing in the exciting sights and smells of the carnival with her as she pushed back the tent flap. “Kai-“

“It’s Morrigan.” They corrected her sharply.

Medb raised her eyebrows, pressing her lips together, making her resemble even more of an old, wrinkled walnut. “Oh, yes. How could I forget your little stage name?” The words were spoken sternly, but with the kind of fond amusement only a mentor could hold for her precocious wayward protege. “Alright then, Master Moonweaver, oh-so-great diviner, why don’t you show this old hag what you’ve been working on?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.” She lied.

Morrigan hesitated for a moment before lifting up the jacket- an oversized fur-lined one they’d managed to steal from one of the animal tamers. The back of it contained what looked like a sparkly nightmare of stitched-together fabrics and sequins, most likely meant to resemble a crystal ball and an eye, though from the teenager’s messy stitching, the true design was difficult to discern.

Madam Medb burst out laughing.

“I told you that you’d laugh!” Morrigan huffed, shoving the jacket back down where she couldn’t see it.

“What the hell is that thing?”

“It’s my coat!” Morrigan explained, utterly mortified the longer Madam Medb laughed at it. “You told me the first rule of any con is looking the part. Well- I’m going to be a wizard, so I have to embody that role! So… I made this!”

Madam Medb opened her mouth, but whatever words she’d been about to say dissolved into smoke as light flooded the memory, warm and strangely familiar, and Kvasir’s voice pulled them back into reality.

The sudden shift was disorienting, though Morrigan found they had slightly more energy than before. What was going on? The dull pain in their back had abated for now, which could only mean that Kvasir had healed them. The damage, the blood loss, had already been done. They were still woozy, but they were slowly coming to their senses as Kvasir Sigurros tearfully asked what had happened, how he had ended up in such a state.

It was a testament to how much the information had been ingrained in Morrigan’s mind that even in this foggy, uncertain state, Morrigan was able to recall exactly where they’d inflicted the wound. They tried to pry their eyes open as Kvasir struggled under them- desperate to make sense of what happened to fix it.

“Mm.” They tried to flop over into the snow, but still didn’t have control of their limbs. “Cut to the spine. Severed the nerves. Had to… stop him from moving.” They hummed. “Ssssssorrrry. Didn’t wanna hurt… you. Used numbing poison… no pain.” They tried to grope around and find the spot on Kvasir’s back where they’d made the cut, but they still could not manage to find the cut.

“Didn’t wanna… hurt you.” They mumbled again.

Oh, Gods.

The horror that had only lightly swept across Kvasir's face, largely muted by confusion, takes the lead as everything clicks into place, this nightmarish waltz only accelerating with every sparse little detail he's given. Morrigan is still too disoriented to give too many concrete details, but what they are present enough to provide is enough. Kvasir still doesn't quite have the whole picture, but the pigments are in his hands, ink-dark and ugly in the way they mar the canvas, and that alone is really all he needs to know.

A shuddering, anxious breath punches from Kvasir's lips as Morrigan's hand weakly finds its way to the small of his back, blindly dragging their fingers around in search of a wound they had left behind-- a wound made with memory of information he'd once given them, a wound made to prevent some nebulous "him" from moving. Severed nerves, specific area on the small of the back, an instant cut in communication between brain and the lower half of the body-- Gods, Morrigan had needed to paralyze him, whether to protect Kvasir or themself or both of them, he can't be sure--

Him.

Kasra.

That's the only person, the only entity Morrigan could be referring to-- the only explanation for all of this, no matter how ludicrous. Had... had Kasra seized hold of his consciousness, wielded his body like some puppet in order to try to get at Morrigan?

Kvasir knows all too well of the ancient god that sleeps within his brain, tossing his memories away like dusty books that have lost their right to linger within an esteemed library any longer, prying everything tangible from his desperately grasping hands, hellbent on erasing every little thing that anchors him to this existence, everything that has ever proved that he was here to begin with. Kasra has been an omnipresent force for years, now, the reigning champion of their every skirmish-- no matter how hard Kvasir fights to leave behind proof that he was here, that he mattered, Kasra is quick to cleanly erase it, with precision that would rival Kvasir's marksmanship, his skill with a scalpel.

But things had been getting better.

It had been a whole year since Kvasir had last woken up and not remembered his own name-- longer since he'd woken up in a tent on the edges of the Eclipse Jungle and couldn't figure out who he was at all, only saved from that horrifying brink by the details in his journal.

They were supposed to keep getting better.

Nausea stirs violently, suddenly through Kvasir's head, his stomach, dizzying, agonizing, threatening to pull him right back into cold unconsciousness the way it had before. He ignores it. He has to. His body has failed both him and Morrigan enough today, and they-- they need him right now, they need him to be strong and capable, they need him to be the one to get them both to safety, away from the stinging cold and howling wind and sea of threats that unfolds around them both, external and internal. Morrigan needs him, and so he must-- he will-- pull himself together.

Following the blind touch of Morrigan's hand, Kvasir reaches back, searching for a torn seam, an indication of where Morrigan's weapon had made its mark-- it's difficult to find between the snow and lingering effects of the numbing poison, but in time, his fingers dip between split fabric, finding bare skin that is wet with something other than snow. Kvasir lets himself marvel over the cut's precision, the exactness of it, how carefully it had been made-- it makes his heart sing with adoration, endearment that muffles the sickness, for the fact that Morrigan apparently listened so carefully to all of his medical babbling. It's nauseating that they'd had to turn it against him, but... he's proud.

He does not give himself very long to muse over such a thing, though-- he squeezes his eye shut, pressing his fingers around the wound, calling upon the passion of the sun over Zeinav, the light that pours over the sandy horizon at dawn, the reflection of light on the water of the oases he used to wander with what was once his second family, taking those threads of powerful, aching sunlight and using them to stitch his body back together, his nerves locking back into place, the cut sealing above them, the ghost of warmth and feeling slowly but surely returning to his legs. [1]

"...thank you," Kvasir whispers, unable to resist holding Morrigan just a little closer for a moment, his face still half-buried in their hair, breathing in the proof that they're here, in his arms, alive, no matter how loosely they cling to it. "Thank you-- I'm sorry, I-- ... We'll-- w-we'll fix your jacket, I promise... we just have to... to get out of here. I can carry you, we'll get t-to Bleakfort--"

He gently slides out from underneath Morrigan, trying to lift them up so they can lean against his side, his entire body serving as their beacon of support, only barely managing to prevent them both from slipping on the ice beneath their feet as they stand--

...the ice.

The Gods-damned Ice Beans.

The whole reason they'd come out here, and yet they feel so unimportant now. Kvasir gives one quick glance to the ice beneath them, to the phantasmal outline of little black seeds beneath their feet, and he quickly turns away, starting to lead Morrigan away.

"...Let's go."

---

[1] Massive Healing

Kvasir must have managed to fix himself- and even in their muddled state Morrigan still sagged in relief. They’d taken this risky gambit on the assumption that Kvasir would be able to undo any of the damage they’d caused, but there was always a fear that he couldn’t, that they had irreparably damaged Kvasir’s body in a way that would never be put together again. But suddenly, they were uprooted from their comfortable position before Kvasir pulled them tight, mumbling thanks into their ear that was a far cry from Kasra’s threats only a short time ago.

“Yyyyouuu… have nothing to thank me for.” And that was the truth.

They didn’t mention Kasra. Now wasn’t the time or place to discuss what just happened, not when Kvasir was so distraught, the damp side of his face still pressed against Morrigan’s own, and Morrigan so weak. There would be plenty of time for that later, in the safety of Bleakfort, just as Kvasir promised.

And then they were lifted up, propped against Kvasir’s side so that the two could lean against each other, neither one fully able to stand on their own right now. Morrigan stumbled, feet slipping unsteadily on the ice as Kvasir half-supported, half-dragged them slowly across the ice. Morrigan blinked in an attempt to clear up their vision, but all they could really make out was white on white, the ice and the snow all blurring together.

They were forgetting something.

Something else that was… important.

Morrigan tugged at Kvasir’s arm, hand still trembling from the cold and the blood loss. After everything that had happened, they had nearly forgotten the entire reason that the two had come out here in the first place.

“Kvasir… the beans…..” Morrigan’s voice barely came out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the roar of the wind as the weather picked up. They cleared their hoarse throat, attempting to raise their voice just enough so Kvasir could hear them. “The beans…!”

Guilt stirred in their stomach as Kvasir kept walking, clearly bound and determined to get away from this place. Their injuries were healed, but they were clearly in no condition to be moving, much less help collect the plant they’d come out here for, and Kvasir was too concerned to continue the herb hunt, keeping at their pace with a single-minded intensity. If that was the case, Morrigan would be the reason they failed this trial.

They couldn’t let that happen.

It was probably an entirely childish move for Morrigan to suddenly go limp in Kvasir’s arms, preventing him from moving forward from the sudden, boneless weight in his arms, but it was all Morrigan could do in their weakened state. “Kvasir, we need… that pllllannnt.” They dragged out the last word, still unable to fully regain the use of their tongue, which was beginning to frustrate them to no end. Still, they attempted to struggle through the words, cut through the cloudy confines of their mind.

“The Gggggolden Consort-” They stopped, unable to stop themselves from breaking into another round of wet, broken coughs. “Consortium. We’re supposed to get in together. Not gonna… be the one to drag you down.”

It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to be fixated on, but Morrigan refused to yield after they’d gotten this far. This entire quest had resulted in broken limbs, paralysis, and near-fatal injuries, and Morrigan Moonweaver would be damned if they did not find success from the jaws of defeat after everything they’d been through.

Any of Kvasir’s further arguments, though, fell on deaf ears as a sound in the distance caught Morrigan’s attention. It was barely louder than the roar of the wind or the dull, thudding sound of snow falling from a high place, but it caught Morrigan’s attention all the same. They stilled, which was not a difficult feat given how straining movement was on their body at the moment, clutching to Kvasir’s arm.

“Did… you hear that?”

It's moments like these where Kvasir isn't certain whether to muse over how impossibly fond he is of Morrigan Moonweaver, or to sigh over how impossibly idiotic they can be sometimes.

As they go limp in his arms, refusing to make the travel forward any easier, perfectly aware that both of them are consumed by exhaustion, by the phantom hold of their healed injuries, by the brutal jaws of the snowstorm still raining down on both of them, all Kvasir can do is sigh, gently helping Morrigan down to the ground for a moment. He sets one hand against their shoulder, offering what little support his trembling hand can, before brushing his fingers against their cheek, fingertips curling around their jaw so those cloudy blue eyes can meet his own, sky and earth aligned.

"You, Morrigan Moonweaver," he begins, voice heavy with that same sense of exhaustion, but with such sweet fondness bleeding through every syllable he forms. He traces his thumb in a circle over their cheek, as if demanding their attention, demanding for them to look at him. "Diviner, enchanter, crown prince of all idiots within Charon-- d-do you know how many years you've shaved off of my life? I'm going to die in my forties because of an early heart condition, a-and you'd best leave... leave the prettiest flowers at my grave. Listen to me: I don't care about the beans. Fuck them. You are all that matters to me right now-- you are more important than any g-guild quest. We can always... always try again, my darling idiot."

It's true that their goal lays right within their grasp, mere inches beneath the ice, but it could take ages to dig beneath it, ages to procure them properly-- and neither one of them has that kind of time. There's only so much light magic can do for older wounds, after all; Solaria may breathe miracles, may imbue light with the power to turn back time, but once enough blood has been shed, it cannot be forced back into the body. Kvasir cannot teach his own body to adjust to the feeling of free motion immediately the way he would like to, cannot erase the dizziness from Morrigan's mind, cannot piece them both together like the patches of some well-loved Zeinavian quilt and simply go on. The damage they have sustained runs far deeper than anything any spell can heal in an instant.

If they stay here, they are practically beckoning for Death to take two weary travelers along for an endless journey.

So they can try again. They can rest at Bleakfort, can... can talk all of this over, and they can figure out what to do next. Kvasir can cover the cost of two inn rooms so Morrigan doesn't have to fear waking up with an angry god's stolen hands wrapped around their throat, and then Kvasir will dedicate every waking moment he has apologizing for not telling them of the god that sleeps within his skull, for not doing more to prevent this, for hurting them with his own two hands, with the gifts Solaria gave him.

And if... if Morrigan does as Mehr did before them, and bids him farewell, then Kvasir will go with a smile.

His heart aches at the thought, but he is given no time to dwell on it, no time to ponder what the night will look like if he'll have to carve the stars from it, because that is the moment when Morrigan asks him if he heard something.

He pauses, ears twitching as he tries to pick up on the sound.

The sound of movement.

A roar.

Kvasir thinks back to before this journey began, to the chorus of laughter they'd both been faced with upon mentioning they were traveling out in search of Ice Beans in the height of winter-- to the mentions of the monsters that prowled this land, favoring the very seeds that flourished beneath the frozen lakes.

Girallon.

Panic immediately floods through his veins, adrenaline rising up to challenge the exhaustion dragging his body down, a gladiatorial match of brain and body; they need to run, they need to get out of here, need to get out of sight, he needs to get Morrigan out of here--

He carefully lifts the tiefling back to their feet, dragging them along with a far more desperate pace, fear darkening his eye as he moves as quickly as his legs will let him, as quickly as their exhausted bodies will allow. If they can just get out of sight, get away from the lake, then maybe--

Those desperate thoughts fall to pieces as the ice shatters a mere few inches behind them, the telltale cry of the monster far too close.

Kvasir glances over his shoulder, the hulking shadow of the snow-furred beast a mere few feet back, rage twisting its features, its arms poised for a fight. He doesn't imagine it's all too fond of seeing two strange little humanoids running around the place it gets its snacks from, after all-- no wonder it's so angry, its beady, alabaster eyes set on new and different prey. As Kvasir glances between the beast and the softly breathing man in his arms, this massive threat and his dearest friend, the Girallon and Morrigan only barely clinging to life, he knows what he must do.

He dives to set them behind a snowdrift, murmuring an apology for the cold, before rushing back out into the monster's line of sight, a weak surge of light barely pulsing to life in his hands before he throws it forth at the beast, just desperate to get its attention. [1] It makes its mark, but the Girallon seems to shrug it off completely, caring little for the dim shot of a tired mage-- all it sees is prey, stark against the snow, seizing its attention, within reach.

There's something strangely nostalgic about this, really-- a different time, a different monster, a different meeting, one with a gentler light cresting over jade-colored leaves, the danger no less present, but then, it had been Morrigan rushing to his rescue, stepping to serve as his shield, sustaining every bit of damage so Kvasir could fire off arrows from the safety of the trees. He thinks of the brutal damage Morrigan had sustained, of how they had stared Death in the face and so sweetly asked if they could be its dance partner, still offering a handful of stardust and a sweet, blood-marred smile after all was said and done.

As Kvasir charges into a sprint to lead the Girallon away, his newly-healed legs protesting every single movement, he can't help but hope that he's finally returning the favor.

---

[1] Purity Bolt (albeit a shitty one)

It didn’t take long for Kvasir to grow tired of attempting to drag a limp, petulant and whining Morrigan, and they were eventually settled down on the ground, a hand only slightly warmer than their surroundings, still trembling with fatigue, rested on their cheek. Morrigan’s gaze was hazy as they tried to focus on Kvasir in front of them to no avail. His voice, on the other hand, kept Morrigan centered. They tried to hold onto the words, as if that could help keep their consciousness centered, though even that much was becoming more difficult.

He definitely sounded angry, though. Morrigan had been lectured more than enough times in their life, and heard plenty worried rants from Kvasir, to know what that sounded like. But what was he angry about…?

Oh, yes, the beans.

“Crown prince of all idiots…” They mumbled, “That’ssssss a… new title.” It made them giggle until they heard the genuine anguish in Kvasir’s voice, cracking slightly as he accused Morrigan of being the reason he’d develop health problems by the age of forty. And in the same breath, assured Morrigan that they could leave, regroup, try again another day. But Morrigan stubbornly kicked their feet, brain still muddled and focused on thoughts of agonizing failure. They needed the beans now, so Morrigan could get Kvasir out of this awful place, and they never had to return to this frozen hellhole again. Most of all, Morrigan needed to be useful.

They didn’t get the chance to argue on this point, though, because that was when Kvasir heard the same sound that Morrigan had, pulled the still-dazed charlatan to their feet once more, and pulled them along with a sense of urgency that hadn’t been in his pace before. Morrigan stumbled in his arms, struggling to catch up, frustrated at their legs for being unable to respond regularly.

An ear-shattering CRASH from behind finally cut through the sluggishness. Morrigan saw Kvasir turn, felt the tension build in his shoulders as he saw something he definitely didn’t like. But what? Morrigan didn’t have the chance to ask as Kvasir suddenly bolted, and Morrigan’s already loose grip on reality was shaken as they were flung into a nearby snowbank. They blinked rapidly, attempting to clear their fuzzy vision, when they caught sight of something large and hairy, chest heaving as it set its sights on Kvasir. Kvasir shot a beam of light at it- the attack bounced off without doing any real damage to the Girallon.

Morrigan opened their mouth, unsure of what they could even say or do while their body was in this useless, sluggish state- but before they could, Kvasir had bolted, running off in a direction that Morrigan couldn’t see, and the Girallon let out another horrible roar, giving chase after the medic.

“No!” Morrigan cried, but they were far too late. The Girallon had already set its sights on Kvasir, that self-sacrificing idiot of a healer, and there was nothing more Morrigan could do. Morrigan kicked their feet up in the air, attempting to force their body to do something- anything- that would help. But all they managed to do was weakly roll around, propelling themselves to their stomach rather than their back.

Great. Well, now I have a view of the ground rather than the sky. This is extremely helpful.

Morrigan lifted their head, attempting to get a better view of their surroundings, when they noticed something odd in the ice just ten feet away from them. It almost looked like a crack in the ice, giving Morrigan a view of the lake water below. But what stuck out more was the small, darkened pods that Morrigan could just barely make out against the bright backdrop.

The ice beans!

Morrigan grunted, attempting to pull themselves to their feet once more before entering a losing game with gravity. They nearly face-planted with the ice, body still too weak to manage walking on their own.

“Then I’ll… crawl if I have to.” Morrigan uttered, putting one arm in front of the other and pulling themselves across the ice. The pace was agonizingly slow-going, and Morrigan had probably cursed every god under the sun, including that half-wit Kasra, by the time they made it to the hole- but they eventually did, fingers grasping at the cusp of the broken ice.

“Yes!” They cried, pulling themselves just close enough that they could peer inside. The hole, they realized, was fist-shaped, which meant that had probably been the source of the loud noise they’d heard earlier. But more importantly, they’d given Morrigan access to the beans bobbing in the water underneath.

Morrigan didn’t think twice about plunging their already-cold hand into freezing water, grasping at the treasure underneath the surface. The sting of the ice-cold water made them hiss- if they hadn’t developed frostbite already, they surely had now- but they were bound and determined to get their hands on these damned plants by now if it was the last thing they did.

Morrigan forced their freezing hands to curl around the beans, pulling their arm out of the water. Their heart rate began to pick up as Morrigan uncurled their fist, counting how many they’d managed to grab.

Four whole pods.

It would have to do- if the Consortium wanted any more than this they could go stick their stuffy scrolls in a place the sun didn’t shine for all Morrigan cared. They shoved the beans into their bag before attempting to pull themselves in a sitting position. The snowfall was so thick that Morrigan couldn’t make out the Girallon or Kvasir, and worry began to build in their heart. They cupped their hands against their mouth, calling out for the medic as loudly as they could, a desperate attempt to get the Girallon’s attention, or find any kind of sign that Kvasir was alive.

“Kvasir Sigurros!”

But no answer came right away, and Morrigan was let to wonder if the two of them would constantly be stuck in this loop of foolish self-sacrifice that they’d seemed to find themselves in.

It's hard to say what exactly it is that's carrying him forward.

Some part of it could be adrenaline-- after all that's happened to them both today, from Kvasir's war with consciousness to the agony of their travel, it's only natural that this final threat to both their lives would set one last fire within him, the choking embers just enough to keep propelling him forward. Another part of it could be spite, both toward the Girallon chasing him down and toward Kasra, who he just knows is lingering somewhere in his consciousness, watching this unfold with some sick, twisted smile.

What it really, almost definitely is, is desperation-- the desperation to not let Morrigan get caught by this horrible creature while they can't defend themself, the desperation to prevent any more damage from coming their way, the desperation to just keep them safe. It's the only thought flooding his mind as he runs through the snow, his limbs feeling heavier by the second, muscles screaming at him just to stop, to let them rest for just one moment, his nerves still raw with the feeling of recent restoration. The snow is of little help, too, weighing down his usually nimble movements, slowing his pace as he tries just to outpace the beast, no longer sure of where his feet are taking him except for away.

Even so, no fire can burn forever, and the agility granted to him by his lineage is hardly enough to let him outpace this creature.

This realization comes in the form of claws against his back, catching on the already torn seams in his jacket from where Morrigan had made their cut earlier-- there is a brief moment of cold, of wind rushing against slightly bared skin, and then there is pain, searing as a blacksmith's iron, fire shaped in jagged lines against his back. A hoarse, agonized cry tears from his throat, the wind wailing above it, his pain drowned beneath the snowstorm, pushed down and silenced under snowfall and wind-wail.

Kvasir can't help it-- his knees buckle, his legs giving out beneath him once again, angry with how far they've been pushed in the wake of their very recent recovery. He lets out a shuddering breath, barely able to support himself with his arms, when another strike of curved claws makes its mark against his back, just as agonizing as the first, ripping another pained wail from him.

Gods, is this going to be how he kicks it? In the middle of a snowstorm in a foreign land, his own body surrendering as a beast tears into him? As brutal as it is, it's a good final "fuck you" to Kasra, who will no doubt be quite upset that his vessel passed so unceremoniously, mauled and abandoned in the snow of the World Crown, a long ways away from the White Sand Sea. It's an embittering thought, really, but perhaps this isn't the worst fate for him; at least this way, he dies as himself, dies with his own name, dies with his memories intact, rather than dying in the recesses of his own stolen mind, his consciousness erased, his body puppeteered for a god's use for ages to come.

He closes his eye.

...but what about Morrigan?

Morrigan, who's waiting for him, somewhere out in the snow, unable to get any further out than this on their own-- who'll wait and wonder and question for hours on end, never knowing what happened, unable to get up and find answers. Morrigan, who can't run away, who'll stay put and fall victim to the chill, to the dizziness that threatens to claim them at any minute, to the approach of the monsters doubtlessly clustering around this area--

And just as quickly as Kvasir had closed it, his eye snaps right back open.

He moves with enough haste to roll out of the way, just narrowly dodging the scrape of claws, the cavernous jaws of the Girallon, both aimed for his shoulder-- a sharp exhale escapes him, anxiety and relief entangled in some strange dance, though he isn't given long to reflect on it. The Girallon's arms are upon him again nearly as quickly as they missed, and Kvasir throws his hands forward, calling upon what weak reserves of magic his body can manage, pushing forward a glimmering gold pane of light, the beast's arms crashing uselessly against it. [1]

It isn't much, but it's bought him some time. As soon as the Girallon's arms bounce off of the light wall, Kvasir scrambles to his feet, sprinting as fast as he can back toward the ice lakes, ignoring his body's harsh protests-- it will simply have to learn to deal with it. He can hear Morrigan's voice over the wind's whistle, quiet, but there, and it just pushes him forward all the faster. The blood-wet gashes on his back burn, the cold air stinging against them, but he doesn't pay them much mind-- he'll worry about healing those up when he has the time to.

All that matters right now is Morrigan-- all that matters is getting them to safety.

It isn't long until he catches sight of them draped over the ice, laying by the hole the Girallon's fist had formed within it-- Gods, what are they doing now?--, and Kvasir is quick to reach for them, lifting their arm over his shoulders and breaking into the fastest pace he can with them against his side, urgency and prayer pushing him forward. The Girallon hasn't caught up yet, likely still taken aback by the light wall, and-- and this is their chance, they have to get out of here--

"Morrigan Moonweaver," he whispers, voice broken, weak. He hates just how tired he sounds. "Please... let's just go."

---

[1] Wall of Light

There was nothing, for a long time. Morrigan wasn’t sure exactly how long they sat there in the ice, feeling like a court jester who’d been asked to make an ass of themselves in front of the court. They’d done their little song and dance, performed exactly as asked, and now they were only left with the silence of an audience who wasn’t sure what to make of everything. Of course, those were not the thoughts swimming in the forefront of Morrigan’s mind- mostly, they were thinking, my body hurts, and this sucks, and where in the hell is Kvasir?

That was when they heard the cry, not unlike a fox’s startled yelp after getting caught in a trap, and their entire body went still.

“Ahh, Wmiz zmy mydd vory haf vaulq, oaad?” They uttered, the fatigue, brain fog, and worry finally causing them to slip into their native tongue while cursing Kvasir, cursing that damned Girallon, cursing themselves. They raised one of their hands, attempting to smack some feeling into their legs, get the blood flowing, anything to get them to stand and move. “Szfeuv kuvh, sarc!”

They managed to pull themselves into a standing position- success!- and attempted to take a step, but in their haste, they only manage to slip and fall face first straight back on the ice.

“Dammit all!”

What the hell did having a living and functioning body if they couldn’t even use it properly? If there was one thing Morrigan couldn’t stand, it was the stillness from lack of movement, lack of action. Their constant need to always be doing something to stave off the boredom ate away at them. They were always in motion. So why, when someone they cared about was hurt, one of the only damn people Morrigan had given a shit about beyond what he could offer them, were they stuck?

At least while Morrigan was alone, there was no one who could be able to confirm where the already frozen stains on their cheeks had come from.

Eventually, as they lay there lamenting their shitty fortune, the sound of boots on ice, irregular, as if whoever was approaching was limping, caught their attention, and Kvasir called out in an impossibly tired voice, weakened, but alive.

What the hell had happened? Morrigan wanted to ask how Kvasir had even managed to get away from the Girallon, but for once, as the charlatan opened their mouth, they could only manage a single word.

“Okay.”

Kvasir helped them to their feet, and Morrigan leaned against their shoulder for the briefest second, just enough to catch their breath, when they noticed something odd, the slash in his cloak where Morrigan had sliced him earlier just a touch bigger than it had been before. An ordinarily small detail one wouldn’t have noticed unless they had a passion for clothing and fineries.

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hurt.”

The hardened, exhausted look in Kvasir’s eye told them that now wasn’t the time to fight about this. Morrigan pursed their lips, sighing. They didn’t even try to argue. There would be plenty of time for this talk once they were safe. Morrigan placed a protective hand on Kvasir’s back, hand shaking as they gently urged him forward.

A roar from behind caught their attention- whatever Kvasir had done to slow the Girallon hadn’t managed to kill it. Morrigan could still see the fear plastered on Kvasir’s face as he tried to move Morrigan faster, put distance between them before the monster could catch up to them. But with Morrigan slowing them down, there was no way they’d be able to get out of these ice fields in time. And they hated being dead weight.

“I might… have something that can help.” Morrigan mumbled, reaching into a bag on their waist, tied together with a silver string. They may not have had an inkling of magic themselves, but they had garnered more than enough magic items in their life, including ones that were… a little crazy. It was a risk to use, but they needed to do something.

With their free hand, Morrigan reached into the bag and pulled something out at random.^[1]

---

1. Jolly Bag of Tricks
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