Experience


Guess this is a bit of a tight spot I'm in. I want to participate in Xirysa's 'Senses' challenge, but I have less than a month to drum up five stories, and as a result I'm likely going to end up rushing them and not doing as well as I could.

Which is a bit of a shame. But even in the end, even if I slip past the deadline I consider this a good writing experience. Thematic writing isn't something I do very often. (I think this is considered thematic writing.)

First fic – based on Sight. And for the record, why isn't Mia/Rhys a more popular pairing around these parts anyway?


White Cloth – Sight


He wasn't much to look at, Mia mused. His body was really rather scrawny – nothing as drastic as her eternally starved roommate and friend, but you'd have to be physically blind to mistake him for any sort of a muscleman. And while some people, like Mia herself, could be both thin and with an undercurrent of muscular strength - 'wiry' was the term, she believed, she could tell, almost upon sight, that Rhys was most certainly not that kind of person.

Not that his white, flowing robes didn't cover up most of his body most of the time. It kinda sorta had the effect of making him look like one of those noble heroes of old.

Kinda. Sorta.

And so it had been a rather dreadful disappointment to her when she'd realized her destined rival, her ultimate goal, her one true partner for her duel at dawn was… well, him.

It was nothing she couldn't take in stride, though (or so she thought), and so, she'd set about on the lengthy, tedious, and ultimately fruitless process of toughening him up to the point where a duel between him and her would be one for the history books.

Or, well, at least an epic, joined, battle.

Or maybe a nice, rousing bout.

Or maybe they'd reach a point where he could actually defend himself against a single one of her attacks.

After learning that, in this case, you could judge a book by its cover, she reluctantly abandoned the idea of Rhys being her destined archrival. Well, there was that tiny idea of him being mounted on a gallant steed, but the Greil mercenary troupe really didn't have many spare mounts, and after asking Titania if she would lend them her own steed for practice the female knight had all but fallen over laughing at the idea of Rhys being a horserider. So that was quickly mooted.

Brief mishaps concerning their meeting aside, the blue-haired myrmidon had quickly developed a friendship with the young priest – although she'd quickly realized that she was now stuck watching after two sickly people on the battlefield. Ilyana wasn't so bad, but Rhys' predisposition to pushing himself up to the point of collapse despite suffering raging fevers often caused him to faint in the middle of a battlefield for no apparent provocation.

At one point, she'd caught sight of his gleaming white robes fluttering forlornly on the field, and with a cry of alarm she'd rushed over to the healer's side. Later, carrying him over her shoulder much like one would a sack of potatoes, as she headed back to camp, she'd grumbled something about how he was going to get himself killed one of these days running about healing people with no regard for his own frailty. It'd also struck her as rather bizarre that someone could overexert themselves from healing, after all they did was stand there holding their staves at particular angles while praying, but hey, she roomed with a mage that could collapse from hunger not five minutes after consuming a meal, so what did she know?

After getting him to promise that he wouldn't push himself quite so hard anymore (her reassurances stemming from this promise was somewhat blunted by learning that similar promises had already previously been extracted by Titania. And Mist. And Oscar. And Boyd. And the Boss. Hell, even Soren had commented that Rhys really shouldn't be overdoing it), the two of them had ended up in a slightly more enjoyable, if mundane routine. On the rare occasions when she wasn't engaged in battle or practicing her swordplay, she'd seek out Rhys, instantly recognizable even in the grey dusk by the flash of his white robes (she was half-prepared to swear he'd infused some sort of Light spell in to them, so much in contrast to the dull surroundings were they) amongst the others. Then they would sit down together, him talking to her about theology and nature. And she, in turn, would describe her swordplay, the fast-paced frenetic battles she had engaged in, of the near misses and scrapes she'd been through time and time again. And in such a way, each caught a glimpse of a life they never had – could never have.

And then one day, in yet another fight to stop the Mad King's war, it happened.

Cutting her way through her foes as usual, she'd felt a momentary impact in her stomach. Glancing down, she had time enough to note that there was an arrow embedded in her belly before the pain hit. Later, she'd compare it to putting a knife blade in a fire until the whole thing was red hot and then grabbing the blade with her bare hands (Rhys, after wincing at the imagery, had then questioned her on how she knew exactly what grabbing a red-hot knife blade with her bare hands would feel like, whereupon Mia hastily changed the subject), but at that moment, the part of her brain that dedicated itself to making such comparisons was summarily drowned out by the part of her brain that reacted to pain and it was currently screaming. As was Mia herself.

She was supposed to be a warrior, she was supposed to be able to fight past the pain, but for whatever reason, she couldn't. Not just then (Later they would find traces of some solution on the arrowhead specifically designed to cause intense agony. Cheating bastards.). She'd doubled over, using every ounce of her willpower not to clutch at her midsection because she knew that any pressure applied to the area meant more potential innards for the arrowhead to cut through, and after fighting to remain conscious for a good minute, she'd passed out.

When her eyes fluttered open again, she found herself staring at white robes again. It took her a couple of seconds to register that it was because her eyes were currently at Rhys' chest level. Then she shifted her gaze up to look at Rhys' face. He was currently sweating and looking as if he was about to keel over any minute… which was actually pretty much par for the course in any situation where he was forced to breathe heavily for more than ten seconds.

Just as Mia was about to tell him that she was awake and perfectly fine now (and it was the truth too, seeing as the pain from her arrow wound had disappeared), Rhys' arm strength apparently gave away at that and she landed rather unceremoniously on the ground.

"Ow."

"Oh! Ah, you're awake! Sorry about that…"

"Fine. It's fine." And it was, really, once Mia realized that Rhys had charged into the thick of the melee, healed her, and then proceeded to carry her all the way to the rear. Others in the Mercenary band called it a miracle he managed even that.

Predictably, he came down with a fever shortly afterwards. Not quite so predictably, Mia found herself taking care of him for those next few days. Since he still insisted on taking the field during his sickness, Mia found suitable action as a bodyguard.

Truth be told, she didn't half mind. Rhys may not have been the archrival she had been searching for, but hey, there was plenty of time for her to find one. And in the frail, gentle priest, she may have just found something far more precious.


Chapter End


Eesh. Thematic writing is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. Having to focus on an abstract value as the basis of the story can be difficult, especially if you have a plot, and the characters (as characters are wont to do) start doing their own thing and you follow along, only to realize later that they've strayed quite a bit from the original theme. In this case I tried to link the imagery of Rhys' robes to himself, but I don't think I did very good job.

Here's to hoping the next chapter/oneshot is better.

Anyway, thanks for reading, please review, offer concrit, that sort of thing.