"Recovery"

Part of my "Farewell Tour"

By Al Kristopher

Lucile had never consciously wished she were dead before, but now she was willing to make an exception.

The physical pain was bearable. Her legs had been pierced by needles and knives, ripping through muscle and scratching her bone; she remembered screaming from the blinding pain as one of the Sinspawn horns tore straight through, creating a disgusting hole. The skin on her arms had been nearly burned off, and her hands were in such excruciating pain, she wanted to gnaw them off by the wrist just to relieve herself. Two of her rib bones had snapped, her right elbow was dislocated, and her face had been scarred, beaten, smashed, and burned. Countless other cuts and wounds adorned her body like each intricate snow-crystal of a glacier, and to top it off, she had a headache and her throat tasted terrible from the vomit.

But that was nothing, nothing at all, next to the emotional torment going through her mind. In her heart, she knew she deserved it all, stupid and cowardly she was. She had lost her mind and focused only on the battle; she didn't heed the words of her comrades, falling though they were, nor the shouts of those in pain, nor even Elma, who fought like the fiery angels of the Farplane. She just drove on, mad with bloodlust and overcome with hatred and animal strength; she was so infuriated that she could not even stop herself.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—and damn my wounds, I'll kill every last one of you, avenge the fallen, make you all pay—make Sin itself pay! Those had been her thoughts! That was what had gone through her mind, angry and lost in the dark of a battle, one of many battles, one that she had started and lost; one that Elma finished, with calm hands and a steady nerve. They had given each other love the night before, and Elma had confessed how deeply Sin had scarred her life. Lucile had been filled with rage—righteously, she believed—and struck out the very next day to avenge her love.

It was fear, she knew. Fear of losing Elma, or having to see her suffer again, or others like her. Fear of her own past, her own dealings with Sin—it bottled up and turned into anger. No, I won't be afraid, because I can prevent all that from happening. With my sword and my steed I can smash my enemies, bring order to this world, and see my beloved at peace. Whether in Djose, Macalania, or Zanarkand itself I will fight, and to Hell with those in my way. You made Elma suffer. You made so many suffer. You made ME suffer! Now you will suffer!

Lucile had nearly paid for her recklessness with her life.

Elma had been her avenging angel and saved it, just barely. She had pulled Lucile out of the fire at the cost of her own safety and carried her somewhere safe, speaking softly and desperately as she ran. Lucile remembered the bumpy ride, the metallic taste of blood and the acidic taste of vomit, and then stillness. She felt toxin inhibit her. Her lips tasted bitter healing potions, and the chapped, dirt-crusted mouth of Elma, given perhaps she felt it would be their last, or else she was just not breathing…

And now she was bedridden, wounded beyond recognition and feeling lower than a penitent murderer facing an unforgiving Maester. Her body would heal in time; the medics, mages, and serum would see to that. Bones could mend, flesh could be merged together, wounds sewn and burns cooled. It was her heart and mind that were in the most danger: Lucile had far too much time to think about what she had done. A fool would call her brave, but the brave would call her a fool.

Elma still called her beloved as she visited every day, combed her hair and washed her wounds, and spoke or sang. She could not sing at all but it was too beautiful nonetheless. She could tell jokes better; dear Elma tried cheering her beloved Captain up with many lame, weak jokes.

"I've got one," she whispered one day as she held Lucile's shriveled hand. Her own arms and hands had been affected by the fire, but not nearly as much. They still caused Lucile absolute grief, because it had been through her doing (and misdoing) that the burns were there in the first place. She wept and tried to talk.

"What?" she croaked. Elma smiled sadly and touched her cheek.

"Why are eggs so bad in sports, Lucile?"

"…Don't know," she managed.

"Because they're easily beaten." Lucile chuckled weakly, and coughed. Now she just coughed. Elma forced her to sit up and drink water, then gave her another potion. "I've got another," she continued once her Captain had quieted. "What did the fish say when it swam into the wall?"

"Mmnn."

"'Dam.'" Lucile grinned. "Hey, Captain."

"Emma." She couldn't even say her name…

"What do you get when you cross a chocobo with a moogle?"

"Mm."

"The Kupo Express. Lucile?"

"Too good." Too good for me, that is. Elma deserved better. Lucile knew she would never be good enough for the younger woman now. Best to find someone worth fighting for and live a long life with them.

"Knock-knock."

"Who's err?"

"Ailav."

"Ailav who?"

"I love you." Lucile blushed and smiled weakly. Elma kissed her softly, caressed her hair, and smiled though her lover was ugly from war, in agony from pain, and shamed from her actions. "Always, you know." Lucile just squinted. The doctor came in and asked Elma to leave just then, so the younger woman parted with a squeeze from her hand, and said she would be back as soon as possible.

It took Lucile a month to recover to the point where she could stand up and attend the ceremony for Elma's advance in rank. She would never recover in time to attend her personal demotion of rank.

…

I never thought I would be uncomfortable or jealous with Elma, but hearing the Maester give such praises and rewards to her made my insides feel like mush. I had to hold myself and look away. My actions at Macalania had been disgraceful; hers had been outstanding. I had lost my temper and forgot myself; she kept her head and, irony of ironies, remembered everything I taught her as she applied herself. It should've been the happiest day of my life when she became a Captain, but it was not. I felt miserable, ashamed, and jealous. Worse still, I knew she still loved me, as she said so—"No matter what", those were her words. Even now, Elma—Captain Elma? Even now?

I withstood my demotion with as much dignity as I could. Feeling the ceremonial badge ripped from my clothes was painful, but it should've been taken from my chest, my heart, and torn apart so fiercely that all the world would see me bleed in the misery I was in. I was dismissed and left with myself, my thoughts soon after, and Elma. She was now my superior. She clung onto me and rubbed my back as if nothing had changed. I shoved her away and told her, Ma'am, a Captain should not behave like that towards her insubordinates. What bitter irony. The very words constructed my own hypocritical gallows! Her arms were like a noose.

"I don't care. I love you."

But what I did was shameful. I should not have lost myself. I was scared out of my mind—for you. Hearing you say all that made me so afraid. I wanted to prevent any more pain from affecting your life, but I only succeeded in making your worries grow. I am a horrible soldier, a disgraceful lover, and a disgusting human being. Go away; I'm not worth it.

"I don't care. I love you. Now stop crying."

Is that an order?

"No, of course not. I'm never going to treat you any different. I just want to love you. Please don't beat yourself up; I do forgive you and pardon your actions."

Don't.

"I will anyway. I should be the one who cannot be forgiven. If I had not told you all those things, you never would've gotten so riled up, so please don't think it's all your fault. Please…"

Oh Elma, my star and my entirety, I would have been frightened even if you had remained mute. I would have been horrified to lose you, angel and treasure, upon the first moment of our meeting. I could not stop myself from caring.

"I don't want you to. I care for you too. I would've done the same thing."

You had your chance, and you handled it well, like a true warrior. I destroyed my chance, and for that I'm shamed.

"You'll get another. Lucile, I do agree that what you did was wrong—"

A-ha.

"But I say that with love. You did wrong, and you're clearly upset about it, which means to me that you've learned, that you've suffered enough. Enough. You can cry as much as you like, and I'll be here to hold you, to not judge you, to not think any less of you as you break down—because my heart bursts with love when you do, and I can face my own errors with more dignity and less guilt because I know that someone stronger has went through the same trials. And you are stronger than me."

Not anymore. We are… the same now, exactly the same. Oh Elma, I do love you so—why must you care so much for me?

"It's the least I can do, Lucile. I owe you my life, many times over. If all I ever give you is my soul and my heart, it may still not be enough. But I will be content and happy, as long as you are. So please be happy. No more beating yourself up over this. You forbade it, and now I do too. That is an order."

Very well. If you insist. I will do it for you.

"I know you will. Now come on. I would like to show you how much I truly love you."

…Oh? Go on. I'm intrigued.

"My beloved Lucile, morning star and bright moon in darkness, why did the chocobo cross Mi'ihen Highway?"

Darling Elma, who I devote my every action to, I haven't the slightest idea.

"To get to the other side, silly."

…Oh. Very funny.

"Lucile."

My love, my attention and everything I am is yours.

"What did the bee say when he entered into his hive?"

Tell me, dear-heart.

"Honey, I'm home."

Ah. Hahah.

"My love…"

Elma…

"What did the brave Chocobo knight say to her partner, whom she loved with all her heart?"

Tell me, O dearest.

"You first."

the end