Credit continues to go to Duck, XalkXolc, Evelos, and my awesome thesis advisor for going over my work with me and helping to improve it. As a disclaimer, I own none of ff13 or anything relating to The Witcher, nor do I own any of the characters I'm borrowing from those ips.


"I can't apply my salves while your armour is on, Fang." Vanille huffed as she tugged helplessly at one of the moulded plates of armour that adorned Fang's shoulders.

"It comes apart for a reason, Vanille. Just take off the pieces you need to and get on with it."

"It's pinned to your back by a knife! I can't just-"

Fang snaked one arm around behind her back until she felt her grip tighten around the handle of the knife still lodged in her back. With a sharp tug, she pulled the offending implement free, heedless of the way a sharp spike of pain heralded a reinvigorated surge of bleeding, fresh blood staining the back of her armour as the stab wound suddenly found itself opened.

"Now it's not," Fang grunted. "Get to work, sister."

"I can't believe you!" Vanille protested, but she quickly set about struggling with Fang's armour. Fang could feel her entire ensemble shift slightly forward as the connections for the moulded chaincoat protecting her back were unattached at her waist and shoulders. It slipped to the floor immediately, exposing the undershirt beneath as the chainlink garment rattled to the floor. She heard a faint tearing as Vanille quickly cut the surrounding fabric away, and Fang felt a pang of disappointment rush through her. She liked that shirt; now she'd have to ask the local seamstress if she could fix it or make another one.

"It's just a shirt, Fang," Vanille said, and Fang felt her muscles relax slightly as Vanille's fingers lathered the area around her open wound with a chilling salve, the cold settling deep beneath her skin.

"It was blue," Fang argued. "I like blue."

"And if you'd been more careful, you wouldn't have ruined it," Vanille reprimanded. "Now don't move. This is still going to-"

Fang cut her off. "I'm hardly virgin to this. I know it'll-" Fang hissed as every muscle in her back seemed to tense at once. Her medallion tugged frantically at its chain, and she could feel the heat of Vanille's magic seeping beneath her skin. Her flesh felt like it was quivering, then surged into motion, knitting itself back together at the behest of Vanille's aggressive encouragement. Fang growled, low and rumbling, as she buried the urge to lash out at the source of the burning. She felt like a thousand coiling serpents were writhing beneath her skin. "Fuck," she said, when the process was finally over. "Never gonna feel right, burnin' up from the inside like that."

"Is it really any different than your potions?" Vanille asked, curious.

Fang resisted the urge to grit her teeth. She was better than this. "Told you before that Swallow doesn't work as fast as that. And I don't touch White Raffard. That stuff's more poison than potion."

"They all are, if you ask me," Vanille muttered.

"Good thing I didn't," Fang rebutted. "Now are you gonna take care of this arrow or what?"

Vanille whispered several remarks under her breath as she knelt down to examine the arrow. Fang made out the words insufferable and stubborn thrown into the mix, and decided it was a reasonable assumption they were all directed at her.

"The arrowhead, is it straight or barbed?" Vanille asked.

Fang was about to reply that she couldn't easily check what with it being lodged inside her when a voice from the direction of the cell block interjected.

"It's barbed. Hooks along both edges," the voice offered. The archer, Fang recognized. Lebreau, her mind helpfully added. There was an apologetic lilt to her tone.

Vanille frowned. "Fang…" Her voice was strained, weighted by a strange mixture of guilt and hesitation.

"I know what that means Vanille." Fang's tone brooked no reproach. "Just give me something to bite down on and get it over with."

Vanille stood straighter, looking for all of a moment like she wanted to argue before her shoulders slumped and she turned to rummage through her supplies.

"I don't know what you have against anesthetic," Vanille griped, retrieving and reluctantly offering a thick strip of cured leather.

Fang shrugged, reaching out with one hand to accept the offering. "Doesn't take in the first place," she argued. "No use wastin' it."

"Hmph. You'll take it one day," Vanille insisted.

"And I'll die one day, hopefully someday after you realize just what it doesn't take means." Fang didn't like lying to her sister, but she figured that in situations like this she had a good enough reason. Medicine was a precious commodity, and even for a witcher Fang had pain tolerance to spare. She bit down on the leather strip, her tongue curling away in distaste as she was met with the unpleasant flavour of tanned hide. She nodded once.

Vanille's face was a hard line as she removed a wickedly serrated dagger from its resting place at her hip. She carefully pressed the blade against the wooden shaft of the arrow, before sawing through it with quick, efficient motions, cutting away the nock and fletching and leaving only the bare shaft of the arrow jutting out from its lodging in Fang's waist. After briefly inspecting the cut and plucking away several loose slivers, the sorceress gripped the remainder of the arrow with her gloved hands. "Sorry," she breathed, apologetic. Then without another moment of hesitation, she pushed it in.

Fang ground her teeth against the leather in her mouth as she felt the arrowhead carve a vicious path through her flesh. The pain almost seemed to amplify the processes of her mind, granting Fang full access to its analytical portion in order to precisely describe the agony that proceeded to wrack her body. She could feel the way her flesh split against the probing point of the arrowhead, the metal itself warmed by the internal heat of her body and coating of fresh blood. The shaft of the arrow followed behind the tip like a snake, the smooth wood surface like the course scales of a serpent as it scraped its way through her innards. She felt where Vanille's hands pressed against the open wound, the fibers of her thin leather gloves pricking against her like needles as she tried to force the arrow through the last stretch of distance. Her teeth attacked the leather mouthguard like a hacksaw, cutting through the outer layer and choking her with the taste of torn leather.

Fang considered turning aside just to spit out some of the repulsive taste, but her attention was suddenly consumed by the sudden opening of another hole in her waist, the skin of her back sliced open by the razor tip of the arrow as it forced its way back out of her body. Fang bit down harder. After a few excruciating moments, Vanille scrambled behind her to grasp the arrow by its head and Fang took that moment to ponder the strangeness of having the back of an arrow lodged inside her while the point stuck out from her back. She inhaled, tasting more leather and almost coughing as small pieces of it caught in her throat.

Vanille yanked the arrow free in a sharp motion, and Fang fought the urge to curl up as the last remnants of the arrow finally slipped loose. Her teeth clicked together.

"Well that's the worst of it done!" Vanille exclaimed, offering her a bright smile.

Fang turned away and spat out two ragged strips of leather

"Now hold still while I apply the salve again."

Once again, the salve's application heralded a sharp chill that sunk deep beneath Fang's skin.

"Ready?" Vanille asked.

"Am I ever not?"

Vanille nodded, and her hands once more began to glow with a steady orange light as she uttered a string of whispered incantations. Fang's flesh heated to a burn as Vanille's magic seized control of it, the deep chill of the salve swiftly overpowered. Fang fought to keep her expression neutral as her insides began to squirm. On a whim, and admittedly searching for some small distraction, she tossed a glance towards the cellblock across from her and its newly arrived residents. Her gaze was met by an eclectic mix of fear, revulsion, disgust, and… admiration? Not often a witcher saw that. If it wasn't for keeping awful company and the minor fact that she shot her, Fang thought she could've gotten along with the archer just fine. The woman had steel in her, even if she did crutch on range. Observing her companions, however, Fang easily concluded that she could most certainly not say the same for them. The trio in the first cell were whispering amongst each other now, one of the men glancing fearfully in her direction every few seconds. She doubted they were saying anything useful. Then there was the kid.

Fang would have laughed if the sensation of her insides burning up and stitching themselves together wasn't so overwhelmingly uncomfortable. The kid's face was whiter than a fresh snowfall, his expression twisted into some amalgamation of terror, disbelief, and disgust. She managed a disarming smile.

"Something on my face?" she asked. The kid took a hesitant step back.

"She's a demon," one of the other hunters whispered.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Fang quipped. She savoured the moment as the man stiffened and froze in place. She held his gaze like she wanted to burn a hole through him with her eyes. He looked away after a short while, tucking his chin into his shoulder. "Heh. Bunch of cowards, you lot are, huh? Scared of a little medicine work?" Her stomach felt like it was twisting inside out then back again. For all she knew it might have been.

One of the hunters pressed his hands against the bars. From the expression of exertion on his face, Fang supposed he must have been trying to rattle them. "You shut your mouth, wench!" he cried.

Fang grinned. "Finally found your guts, did you? How about we take a closer look at them?" Reaching behind her back, her palm found the grip of the knife she'd yanked from her back before. She twirled it around her fingers, drops of her own blood flicking every which way as the knife spun until she finished the motion with a flourish, tossing the knife in the air and catching the spinning blade by its tip. The surface of the blade was still stained with blood, though much of the excess had been excised by the flashy display. The witch hunter's eyes widened and he stumbled away from the bars, pressing himself into the back corner of the cell. Fang ignored him in favour of examining the survival knife now caught in her grip, inspecting it with an appraising and appreciative eye.

She captured the kid's gaze as she concluded her inspection. "This is excellent craftsmanship," she said. "Very valuable." She watched his face closely, carefully analyzing his reaction. She expected guilt, regret, or maybe surprise, some indication of an acquisition through less than savoury means. Instead pride flashed across his face. Pride and… confidence? A gift? Perhaps. If it was, Fang would put money on it coming from an authority figure in the kid's life, if the brief moment of confidence was any indication. "You know," she continued. "It might even be worth more now that you've stained it with witcher blood."

The boy looked away. Fang opened her mouth to press the assault only to fall back as she fought off a sigh of relief. The fire beneath her skin was rapidly cooling, and her writhing flesh and muscles finally seemed to calm themselves.

"All done!" Vanille cheered. Fang pressed her left hand against her waist, feeling over her skin where the arrow had penetrated then exited her body. She smiled when she realized it was not only unbroken, but unblemished. Fang worked her way to her feet, carefully observing the reactions of her body as she stood. Stretching, she felt no pain or shudders, and even a sharp twist of her waist didn't strain her in the slightest.

Vanille let out a quiet 'eep' as Fang pulled her into a tight hug, grinning wildly. "You're a miracle worker, Vanille. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Die, probably," Vanille managed. "I think the trials broke your self-preservation instinct."

Fang allowed Vanille to squirm free of the embrace, taking several steps back. She started twirling the knife again, making sure she held the sorceress's gaze as she made the weapon dance. "Ya think?" she asked, tossing the knife in the air before catching it with her other hand. "I figure I was born without it. I don't really remember much of when they brought me in, but I met the one who claimed me from my family. He said I fought him every damned step of the way to the stronghold. Said he had half a mind to run me through with his sword and leave me half-dead for the wolves."

"Fang," Vanille gasped. "That's awful!"

"Nah, that's just life. Wasn't a bad guy, all considered. Honest bastard, and good to have at your back in a fight. Never gave me shit for rule breakin'." Fang smiled. It was often that she reminisced about the past. You spend enough years wandering, and suddenly there's too many memories to sift through. She supposed that as far as memories went, that one was a good one. "Gotta thank him if I see him again," Fang considered.

"Why would you ever thank someone like that?" Vanille demanded.

"Met you, didn't I?" Fang let a hand rest on Vanille's shoulder. "I wouldn't give up our little family for anything. I rather like havin' a little sister."

"If ya truly cared, you'd put the witch out of her misery!"

Fang whirled, quickly coming to face with the source of the interjection. The hunter she'd cowed into the corner earlier had found his spine again and was once more gripping the bars, his face a warped tapestry of outrage and spite. Fang's eyes narrowed, and she stalked towards him with predatory strides. Before he could back up more than a few steps, Fang snapped her arm out, snagging the witch hunter by his wrist with a vice grip. The hunter tugged at her arm, desperately trying to pull away to no avail. Slowly, Fang reeled him in towards the bars, pulling his arm all the way through the gap until his face was pressed between the bars, outrage spilling away to be replaced once more with a consuming terror as Fang schooled her face into something completely expressionless.

"I don't believe you understand the severity of your situation." Fang kept her voice cold and steady, accentuating her words with sharp twists and crushing squeezes of the witch hunter's wrist. "You are currently imprisoned for the assault of several villagers, the intent to murder a precious person within this community, and for attempting to burn the whole of Oerba to the ground. Right now, you are the most hated people in the area for miles, and the people around you are angry. When Vanille and I first caught you, they were crying for your hanging. I talked them down, because I wanted to personally carve out your entrails and feed them to the pigs." Fang paused, twirling the knife with a flourish in her free hand. "Can you imagine the pain?" she asked. "This little blade would carve right through your belly, splitting you open until you guts spilled out of your body. You'd live for a while too, desperately trying to cram your insides back where they belong as you slowly choke to death on your own blood. I can still make that happen. My word is worth a great deal here; if I lay down a verdict there will be no protest."

A foul smell began to waft from below, and Fang's expression twisted into a scowl. "You're pathetic. You set fire to these people's homes, all so you could murder a girl who's never once done you harm. Except you didn't just want to kill her, did you? You wanted to conquer her. You wanted to shackle her with dimeritium then beat her halfway senseless. You wanted to have your way with her so you could tell all your buddies about conquering the sorceress. You'd probably keep telling that story until the day you walked into the grave. You'd string her up and parade her through the streets like a fuckin' trophy."

Fang leaned forward so that she was face to face with the terrified hunter and leisurely bared her teeth at him. "You're gonna listen once, and you're gonna listen well. That witch has begged me to spare your worthless lives. She thinks you all deserve another chance. Now you're gonna think real hard and real well on what you can do to repay that kindness, because if you can't come up with something…" Fang shoved the hunter back, turning away in disgust as he lost his footing and crashed to the floor.

"My way is still on the table."

She stormed out of the jailhouse, pausing only to exchange a knowing glance with her sister.

You know what to do.

We're done with running.


"Dysley!"

She watched as the man paused his speech, quietly apologizing to his guests - she didn't recognize them, so she knew they weren't important - before pushing his chair away from the table. He stood quickly and approached her with speed belying his old age. He passed straight by her, raising a single hand as he passed to beckon her to follow him into an isolated hallway.

"You overreach yourself," he said, his brows furrowed and his eyes burning with quiet disapproval. "It is not your place to interfere with my business. This boldness of yours is not something I will tolerate."

"And your boldness is something I should? Three months, Dysley. Three months since our arrangement, and I have nothing to show for it. You made bold promises, and I'm starting to believe you don't intend to keep them."

Dysley's expression softened, though she didn't for a moment believe the empathy to be real. "Claire-"

"Lightning," she corrected, tone sharp.

Dysley continued as though she hadn't said anything. "Your sister's case is most unusual. I have scholars scouring through every last book in the kingdom and they've yet to discover a single parallel to her condition. Even my own analysis has yielded nothing resembling any curse or affliction I know."

"Then why am I still here?" Lightning snapped.

"Because you have patience. You are angry, frustrated; this is understandable. I can tell your sister is very dear to you. However, just because we have not discovered a solution yet does not mean we won't, and you have no better resources at your disposal."

"Tch." Lightning turned away with a huff. "We'll see." She made to leave, only to pause when she felt her shoulder gripped by an outstretched hand.

"You can pray for your sister all you wish," Dysley assured her. "Only I can turn those prayers into promises. If you wish to live to see your sister, I must live to dispel her affliction." He released his grip on her shoulder, and Lightning shrugged the lingering hand off of her. "Remember that."

Lightning scoffed. "Remember whose blade you live by."

"Oh I do, Lightning, I do."

Lightning scowled as she walked away. She wanted nothing more to plant Blazefire in the manipulative sorcerer's throat. She gripped the hilt of the saber, immersing herself for the briefest of moments in the power that flowed between them. She could almost feel the electric sparks coursing along the edge of its finely honed blade, well hidden beneath its dragonscale sheath.

Call me Claire again you bastard.


Turns out, removing arrows is a damned brutal process, so avoid getting shot by them. That's my advice. Anyway, Lightning makes her awaited debut at the end of the chapter here; I hope you all liked it. I consider myself a person who is very receptive to criticism so if something I'm doing bothers you, speak up! I'd love to have a conversation about what you think I could be doing better!

As always, feel free to follow my tumblr here: www. tumblr blog / orderlyanarchist (remove the spaces)
You'll get little previews of upcoming chapters, potentially some shorts I'm working on from the fangrai forever prompt list, and it's a good place to ask me any questions you might want answered.