Chapter XIII - Pressure Point
"Now, mister Thiebaut. In what year was the town of Loftwey founded, and for what purpose?"
"Ahh... 1467, to host the first Foothills Summit."
"Not bad." The elderly instructor in charge of Wymare's history class offered only passing praise for his student's correct answer, pacing in front of the slate at the head of the classroom. "In the nearly 200 years that have followed the first Foothills Summit, many people in our nation have come to see the conference as a simple decennial tradition. But at its inception, it was far more revolutionary than today's commoners give it credit for. It marked the first time a Brilanian king and a Stézan emperor stood aside from one another since Claudas and Bors at our very inception, the rulers coming together to discuss diplomatic affairs and negotiate peace face to face."
The instructor turned to the slate board and added to the simple timeline he'd been using to visually convey his lecture, tagging the first Foothills Summit just after a lengthy stretch of the timeline marked as 'The Fifty-Year Attrition'. Wymare's eyes followed the chalk in his teacher's hand as he wrote on the board, tracing the lines of every letter added under a bizarre compulsion born from his lack of stimulation.
"Now, Loftwey's geographical position was advantageous at the time," the teacher continued. "Its proximity to the Lanseam Mountains and the Eaucrest River made it easy for Stézar's rulers to navigate through the jagged peaks that stand between our nations, allowing the royal family to meet them halfway, in a sense. However, its location has since given rise to a problem unique to the town. Can anyone tell me what that problem is?"
The old instructor's sagging eyes scanned the room for a volunteer to answer his question. However, all the Scadarah present were quiet, either because they lacked confidence in their answers or were simply loathe to speak up.
"Really now...? Do none of you pay the capital criers any heed?" Scowling at the lack of participation, the teacher shook his head and sighed. "The answer is border control. Brilanians and Stézans looking to pass from one country to the other have found it easy to use Loftwey as a crossing point, smuggling themselves through unofficial channels in the town to dodge bureaucratic riffraff. This crossroads between our kingdom and their empire has resulted in the town being something of a cultural melting pot."
Despite the dry delivery of the curriculum, this bit of information caught Wymare's attention. His theater of the mind was quick to conjure up an image of Merliad in a dingy fishing boat, drifting with the current of a river that snaked below and through rugged mountains that jutted above the clouds. Perhaps that was how they had made their journey from their Stézan hometown to the lands of Brilan, though Wymare had a hard time picturing his caster acquaintance as a sailor capable of navigating such terrain.
"In fact, seventy years after the first Foothills Summit, this intersecting of Stézan infiltrators and Brilanian natives resulted in what we now refer to as the Loftwey Brawl," the teacher went on. "Marking the first major instance of Stézan-Brilanian violence since the Attrition, what started as a simple bar brawl escalated into a night of looting, chaos, and arson. Dämian reinforcements were only able to bring peace to the city the following morning, with contradicting reports of what lit the fuse for the initial fighting leaving us unsure of why this terrible incident occurred."
The professor wrote a summation of his words on the board as he lectured, filling out the historical timeline a bit more with the new entry. Before he could continue, however, all the Scadarah students in the room perked up at the sound of a large bell being rung from elsewhere in the Academy, the anticipated sound resonating through the stonework of the building and signaling the end of the current class period. The Scadarah seated in Wymare's midst all began to rise from their places and gather their belongings to move to their next course, with the professor sighing as he set down his chalk.
"Well, we'll pick up from here at our next meeting. Make sure you have all of your things on your way out, please. No shoving to get through the door, mister Karnegie."
Wymare wasted no time in following his fellow Scadarah out of the classroom. It had been a slow day for him thus far, and the boredom he felt from his classes did nothing to distract from the lingering soreness in his arms. He'd been sentenced to changing the water in the communal washrooms, forcing him to haul pail after pail of used water up to the moat that surrounded Castle Gornemant and back again with a fresh load. It was a cruel irony that he'd only finished the assignment just before the bell for his first class rang, leaving him no chance to enjoy the fruits of his work with a clean bath.
His aching muscles were not helped by the rushing crowd of Academy attendees that filed up and down the hall around him. One inattentive student was too lost in their conversation to notice Wymare walking in the direction they'd just come from, and the two's shoulders met with a rough collision as they passed each other. Wymare grimaced as a dull pain rushed through his exhausted body, placing a hand over it as the other student turned to look his way with a scornful glare.
"Ugh! Mind where you're walking, urchin!"
"Yeah! Wipe the dirt out of your eyes next time!"
His lips pursed as the taunts reached his ears, Wymare resisted the urge to turn around, instead lowering his head as he clutched his shoulder and kept walking. With no visible reaction to their jabs, the pair of students huffed and went on their way, resuming their conversation as they faded from earshot.
The sour experiences he'd gone through that day were starting to form a sickening feeling in Wymare's chest. Every instance of exertion and toil was compounding on the next, leading to a sense of dread at the prospect of seeing the rest of his day through. But Wymare just kept walking in the direction of his next class, knowing there was nothing to be done but keep his head down until the less-than-thrilling aspects of his daily life were past him.
"Oy. Thiebaut."
The sudden mention of his name gave Wymare a fright, snapping him out of his gloomy demeanor. With a nervous turn, Wymare looked behind him to see who had spoken to him, revealing the source of the deep voice to be an older man with dirty brown hair and a face lined with deep wrinkles. Despite appearing to be somewhere in his thirties, the imposing figure was clad in a sackcloth uniform identical to Wymare's, marking him as another member of the Scadarah labor unit.
"Um, yes? Can I help you?" Wymare asked, put off by the laborer's gruff expression and folded arms. Despite having addressed him moments earlier, the man was staring further down the hall, giving Wymare the impression that, for some unknown reason, he was refusing to make eye contact.
"You've had a long day. Come. Sit. Let's chat."
The stranger delivered his words with a blunt coldness, and that together with his continued refusal to lower his gaze to meet his left Wymare puzzled as to why he had approached. His instincts were starting to urge him to get away, but with how the man stood a good several inches taller than him and had come at him out of the blue, he doubted he'd be able to slip out of the conversation.
"Talk? About... what, if I may?"
The man standing behind Wymare looked to the left, and Wymare followed his glance. Another older laborer, bald and bearing a scar on the underside of his chin, was standing in the open doorway of a classroom, watching the conversation that was happening across the hall. His arms were similarly folded across his chest, but where the man standing behind Wymare had a mostly neutral expression on his face, this new observer had the corner of his mouth twisted up in a scowl. His body language seemed to convey that he was annoyed to be wasting his time on whatever was about to happen, making the nervous feeling in Wymare's gut all the stronger.
"I, um... I apologize, but I still have my next class to get to." Wymare cursed the hesitation that was palpable in his voice, knowing his fear was betraying him as he offered, "Perhaps this could... wait until later?"
There was no response from the brown-haired man at his back. Despite the continued flow of Academy students walking to and fro around him, Wymare felt small and alone as he began to cross the hall and move toward the open door, sensing that the stranger that had approached him was following him as he went. Similarly, he could feel the bald laborer's eyes piercing through him like crossbow bolts as he passed him on his way into the classroom.
"Well, hello there, mister Thiebaut. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
A new voice called to Wymare from the middle of the classroom, this one more expressive and youthful than the one that had called to him in the hall. As he heard the classroom door close and lock behind him, he looked to see a mid-twenties man with a muscular build and soft-looking skin seated at one of the student chairs. His shaggy blond hair seemed well-taken care of for a man donned in laborer's sackcloth, and his chummy demeanor struck Wymare as equally unusual. Where these would be mere oddities in less tense circumstances, however, here they only added to his confusion and unease, contrasting the seriousness of the other two laborers that were now moving to surround him.
"Who are you?" Wymare asked, his hands balling into fists ever so slowly. "What do you want with me?"
"Just a moment of your time, that's all," replied the man, a knowing look glimmering in his eye. "I'm Pecard Basqin. I believe you've already met Detlef and Otto."
The man who introduced himself as Pecard glanced at the other older men standing around Wymare, sharing glances with them that confirmed to Wymare that they knew what they were there for. Anxious, Wymare's eyes darted between the men and around the room, an action that Pecard seemed to pick up on.
"Let me ask you somethin', Thiebaut," Pecard asked, leaning back in his chair. "You're a fresh face with the labor unit, are you not? What was your life like before this? What's your story, kiddo?"
Wymare frowned, repulsed by the condescending tone Pecard employed in his line of questioning. "I don't believe that's any of your business."
Pecard chuckled. "My, my. What kind of attitude is that, answerin' an innocent question from a new friend? Perhaps that's how you've gotten on the supervisor's bad side in such a hurry."
Wymare's eyes froze on Percard at this. He was beginning to piece together why he had been called into this unannounced conference. "...What do you mean by that?"
"There's a lot you can learn by bein' here, Thiebaut," Pecard continued, ignoring the question altogether. "You're livin' free of charge in the heart of everything Brilan has to offer, after all. Trust us - we've been here a lot longer than you have."
The smug-looking man rose from his chair and began to slowly approach his captive audience. Wymare went to step away, still suspicious of what the men around him were intending. Those suspicions were reinforced when the two men referred to as Detlef and Otto moved to block him, glaring down at him as he glanced between them with the look of a cornered animal.
"I'll even offer you a nugget of wisdom right now: know your place," Pecard said, his casual demeanor suddenly shifting. His smile remained ever-present and casual, but his eyes lacked any of the same friendly vibrancy. "The laws of our nation aren't the only ways our leaders have of punishin' the disobedient."
"Clerebold put you up to this, then?" Wymare said, asking the question despite already knowing the answer. When the men around him said nothing, he continued, "Why are you following what he tells you to do? You must know that this isn't the right way for someone to lead."
"Weren't you listenin', kid?" Despite the smile, Pecard's voice was starting to sound less friendly and more irritated. "We've been stuck here for a lot longer than a runt like you. We know what we are, and we don't waste time playin' at acting like we're anything more."
Pecard was standing right in front of Wymare now, leaning down so his face was mere inches from the red-haired boy's. "You might be a part of the unit, runt. But you don't seem to understand what bein' a laborer means. Let me show you."
Before he could react, Wymare felt Pecard's fist drive into his diaphragm from below, expelling the wind from his lungs in a pained wheeze. The edges of his vision blurred as tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and he stumbled into Detlef and Otto as he tried to recover from the staggering punch, coughing all the while.
Despite his pained state, the burly men behind Wymare gave him no quarter. With Pecard having started what they were assigned to do, Otto moved next by slamming the bottom of his fist into the back of Wymare's neck. With a winded cry, Wymare crumpled to his knees, leaving himself open for Detlef to grab him by his shirt and throw him across the room. Wymare smashed into several of the classroom chairs upon landing, the unrefined wooden furnishings cutting him on their jagged edges and causing blood to begin trickling from the small lesions.
As he lay in a heap of disturbed furniture, Wymare attempted to catch his breath and summon the energy to stand up. For all of his strained grunting and efforts, though, he was but a boy in this circumstance; these were no Shadows, and his Persona-user strength was locked behind the door in the Mage's Guild. With small trails of red marking his exposed skin and his head spinning, Wymare was powerless to escape from Detlef, Otto, and Pecard as they crossed the classroom and surrounded him again.
Otto was now the first to strike. The bald man grabbed Wymare by the scruff of his sackcloth and pulled him close before driving his knee into the boy's sternum. Wymare felt the bone crack slightly, and he clutched his injured chest while shouting in agony. His cries were cut off when Pecard raised up one of his legs and swung it toward him, the bridge of his foot slamming into Wymare's nose in a perpendicular line. Again, he felt a torturous cracking, his nose visibly bent out of shape from the attack. Wymare's vision went white as he stumbled back, but he didn't get far before Detlef picked up a chair with both hands and clobbered Wymare over the head with it.
As the chair broke into fragmented parts and a spray of splinters, Wymare fell to the floor once again, his breathing shaky and his head spinning. With so many parts of his body screaming at the same time in a pained chorus, he could only think to try and crawl away. But no sooner had he reached his right arm out past the men encircling him than Detlef stomped his foot down onto his wrist, almost crushing it under his weight as Wymare screamed and tried to wrest his arm back.
After a moment of screams and whimpers from the boy, Detlef lifted his foot, allowing Wymare to withdraw his arm and clutch it close to him in the fetal position. Pecard, caring not for his pain, planted his own foot down on the small of Wymare's back, flattening him against the floor with a sinister chuckle. Moving in with an unnatural glee, Otto began kicking Wymare in the side of his chest over and over, grunts of effort escaping through his toothy smile with every swing. Wymare shook and whimpered with every hit, but the sound extracted from him was lessening by then, for he was too exhausted and pained to keep shouting out as he had been.
After what felt like an eternity of endless curb-stomping, Wymare felt Pecard's foot move off his back. It didn't stay away for long, though, as Pecard placed the tip of his shoe against Wymare's forehead, using it to lift the boy's face up to meet his gaze. Through his blurred vision and squinted eyes, Wymare could see Pecard glowering down at him, the same smile as before still stretched across his features.
"Rubbin' elbows with the wrong folks ends poorly for those of our station. That's the supervisor's lesson to you, little runt. Learn it well."
With that, Pecard stepped away, letting Otto move in and pick up Wymare off the floor. Holding the bloodied, bruised, and beaten boy aloft by the scruff of his clothes, Otto laughed to himself before throwing his victim across the room again. This time, Wymare flew head-first into the classroom's back wall, slumping to the floor without another move to resist. There he sat, blood pouring from his arms, face, and head, with only his shallow, shaky breathing to indicate that he was still conscious.
With their task complete, Pecard waved for Detlef and Otto to follow him, and the three unlocked the classroom door before slipping out as though nothing had happened. With that, Wymare was alone, staring blankly at the disheveled room in front of him as his entire body ached as it had never ached before. With no strength to move and no voice left to cry for help, he lay against the wall like a discarded marionette, welcoming the escape from his wounds that unconsciousness eventually provided him.
. . .
When Wymare stirred, he could feel a small hand laying upon his chest and a warm, tingling sensation slowly flowing through his body. The agony of the injuries that his attackers had left him with was still present, though far less severe than he remembered them being before he slipped into his indisposed state.
Upon gathering the energy to open his eyes, the sight that greeted him was a familiar one. He was in the medical office of the Godhalls again, staring up at the same stone ceiling and chain-bound lantern he'd seen after first awakening to his Persona abilities. In that way, it was somewhat reminiscent of that night, but he was far too exhausted to get up in the way he had then. Here, for as much care as the nuns could have given him, he knew he still had to be quite injured considering the pain he was still in.
"You're in no state to be getting up this time. Please, just stay there a bit longer."
The voice that spoke to him was also familiar. Wymare tilted his head up from his lying-down position to look around the office, and he recognized the sister sitting next to his table, seeing that it was the same nun who had greeted him upon waking up from his awakening fatigue. It was her hand that he'd felt on his chest, though he could also see a dull glow shining from underneath her palm as it lay on his chest.
"My sisters and I have stabilized your condition and healed most of your smaller wounds," she said. "But you still have several broken bones and have lost a lot of blood. Those will need more time and care." His breathing seemed to have revealed to her that Wymare was conscious, but she was still maintaining her focus on the magic pouring out of her hand and into his body.
"...Okay," Wymare responded. His answer was quickly followed by a few small coughs, which prompted the nun to place her free hand on his shoulder.
"Please relax. My magic won't be as effective if you're tiring yourself out." Wymare nodded and laid his head back down, letting out a soft sigh.
For the next several minutes, Wymare sat in silence, tensing up now and again as the pain left from his beatings flared up at times. The sister's magic was slow in its effect, but he could feel the bruises on his skin fading and the aching in his bones subsiding bit by bit the longer she focused her efforts on him. As he was the only patient in the wing, the room was silent outside of the low humming coming from the nun's casting. He wanted to relax, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the three older laborers coming at him over and over, leaving him unable to let go of his tension completely.
"You know... you're a rather strange patient." The nun's sudden words struck him as odd, and so Wymare looked at her with a confused, though tired, expression. "Twice in one month, you wind up in here under strange circumstances. First, you're completely comatose for hours with no obvious injuries, not responding to even my most experienced sister's magic. Now, you're rushed up here by a bewildered Academy professor who found you beaten within an inch of your life, with nobody having seen a thing."
"...It was just an argument," Wymare noted, soft in his tone. It was no use telling her what had really happened, for even in the unlikely event she believed him, there was nothing she could or would do about it.
"With whom? The entire Brilanian military?" The sister giggled at her own joke, and although Wymare failed to see the humor in it, the sound of her youthful laugh was strangely pleasant. Perhaps the joyful noise was just a pleasant change for him compared to the rest of the day he'd had.
"Well, I'm not going to pry. It's not really my job." The glow under the nun's hand faded as she finished using her healing magic, sighing as the exertion of casting took its toll on her. "But you should be more careful. Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong isn't good for you. The other nuns tell me that whenever I sprinkle some itching powder on their pillows."
The nun laughed again, though this time Wymare could only stare at her with a raised eyebrow and a puzzled smile. Were such juvenile acts of horseplay present even among the nuns of Bahamut? "Um... Thanks, I suppose," he answered. "I appreciate your insight, ah..."
"Oh! I'm Emilia," the nun said, nodding her head down as a polite greeting. "Emilia Crestienne."
"Right. My thanks, Emilia. I feel better already. Though I'll be checking my person for itching powder before I sleep tonight, if you don't mind."
"Hah! Oh, don't be silly," Emilia replied. "I wouldn't do that to a patient who was hurting. I'd never hear the end of it from the prioress. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to fetch my sister for her shift. Rest well!"
With that, the nun named Emilia strolled out of the medical office, leaving Wymare in total silence. He groaned as he lifted an arm and ran a hand over the parts of his body he could reach without stretching, feeling the cuts and bruises that hadn't yet been healed on his skin. There were also several areas that were wrapped in bandages, which he presumed to be areas where the bone or muscle underneath had suffered a breakage. They were sore to the touch, and as he felt more and more areas of severe pain, he continued to wince.
With a multitude of reminders marking his own body, it was little wonder that Wymare couldn't do much to keep his thoughts from trailing back to his encounter with the three older laborers. Between Detlef's stoicism, Otto's brutality, and Pecard's chipper indifference to the violent nature of what they did, he was sure Clerebold had chosen them knowing well the kind of beating they would give under his command. In fact, given what he had seen in Parallel Brilan about Clerebold's nature as supervisor, it seemed only natural that he would employ barbaric strategies against those under his purview.
It was the reason behind Clerebold's dictation that Wymare struggled to make sense of. Pecard had mentioned that he'd made Clerebold angry somehow, but what did that mean? He remembered that the supervisor had been put off by his behavior when he'd arrived on the day he came to Rìo Ghaile, but that was all he could think of that he'd done to irritate Clerebold. It hardly seemed like ample reason for him to target Wymare in this manner.
Approaching footfalls outside the medical office caught Wymare's attention before he could think on the matter further. To his surprise, it was Emilia again, the sister of Bahamut peeking her head through the door to look at him.
"Um, pardon me," she said. "I know I told you to rest, but you have some visitors who are asking to see you. Shall I let them in?"
Wymare tensed. Had Pecard and his men come back for a second round? The thought terrified him, but it didn't linger in his mind for long, as a familiar pair of voices spoke up from outside the room.
"Wymare! Are you awake? Please, let us in!"
"Y-Yselt, don't shout! You're in the halls of the Church, for goodness' sake!"
The fear that had sprung up in Wymare's heart faded as he recognized who was there. He smiled, answering, "Yes... Please, let them in, Emilia."
Emilia nodded before turning to look outside the room and nodding, walking away again as Yselt and Merliad hastily made their way inside the office. Upon laying eyes on Wymare, the two rushed to his side, both looking appalled at his condition.
"Wymare...! What happened!?" Yselt asked, her voice hoarse like she was out of breath. "Are you alright? Who did this to you!? You had better tell me!"
"I was worried when Yselt came to fetch me, but this... is beyond what I was expecting." As they spoke, Merliad swallowed their shock and knelt on the floor next to Wymare's resting table, pulling up their sleeves as they did so. "Please, allow me," they said, proceeding to put a hand on Wymare's arm and begin casting their own healing magic.
"Thanks, Merliad. I still feel quite tired, but the pain has died down a bit." Despite how loathsome he truly felt, Wymare was glad to see Yselt and Merliad had come to see him. Not only was he appreciative of their company after the day he'd had, but he knew he needed to confer with them about what had happened.
"All those bandages... How bad are your injuries?" Yselt asked. Careful not to cause harm, she ran a gentle hand along the cast of wrappings that shielded Wymare's right wrist, feeling the texture of the bandages on the tips of her fingers.
"Not so terrible now. The nuns have been taking care of me for a while - at least, I think they have."
Merliad's brow furrowed. "You 'think'? I take it you've been in and out of consciousness, then."
"Something like that. What time is it, anyhow?"
Yselt glanced at the candle clock that sat in its holder on the wall next to the door. "Umm... It's just after six, I believe. I became concerned when I didn't see you at dinner, and when I overheard whispers of a Scadarah found beaten in one of the Academy classrooms, I rushed to find Merliad before coming here."
"She was in such a state that it's a wonder nobody stopped her in the Mage's Guild," Merliad remarked. "She just about took the door to my quarters off its hinges, too."
"W-Well, that aside," Yselt said, trying to hide her embarrassment, "We're here now, and there's nobody else around." She stood up and walked to the medical office door, pulling it closed to make the most of the privacy offered by the room. "Let's hear it. Wymare, what happened during classes today?"
Wymare grunted, putting a hand to his forehead as he began gathering together his thoughts and somewhat blurred recollections. "Well, it was just after my history period. I was intercepted by a laborer named Detlef, and he forced me into a room with two other laborers, Otto and Pecard. I can't remember it all too clearly, but... Clerebold put them up to something. They attacked me, saying things about associating with the wrong people as a laborer."
"They must have been quite ruthless," Merliad noted, their voice troubled as they maintained concentration on their healing magic. "If you've been getting treated for hours and you're still in this state, they'd have to have been."
"They were older and bigger, and they all struck as one. Without my Persona, I didn't stand a chance."
"Wait... Clerebold put them up to it?" repeated Yselt, her voice beginning to tremble as her expression alternated between shock and rage. "How do you know that?"
"They said it themselves. Pecard said... something about how I'd angered him," answered Wymare, his facial muscles tensing as he struggled to recall the words of his attacker. "I don't know. I'm trying to remember it all, but... the memories are hazy."
"The physical trauma has likely impacted your ability to remember the details." Merliad finished their brief bout of casting, moving their hand to clasp Wymare's as they locked eyes with their injured ally. "I'm sorry this happened to you, Wymare. If we would have been there, perhaps..."
Wymare shook his head. "Don't speak in that way. We couldn't have foreseen this happening."
"But... why?" Yselt planted her hands down on one of the empty tables for patients in the office, staring down as she wondered, "Why would Clerebold do something like this? Do you think... what we're doing in Parallel Brilan is changing him somehow?"
"Hmm... I suppose that's possible," replied Merliad, releasing Wymare's hand as they stood up to ponder. "Subtle shifts in his perception of us occurring due to our actions there wouldn't be illogical, given our current understandings of that realm. But I wonder if his reasons have anything to do with his Shadow self at all. If they did, why wait until now to do anything against us? You two have been venturing into his prison camp for some time, no?"
Merliad's theory seemed salient to Wymare, who nodded in agreement despite the frown that stretched across his lips. The implication of what Merliad was postulating was not lost on him, and it troubled him to consider what it meant. However, looking past his caster ally to his Scadarah bunkmate behind them, he could tell Yselt was unsettled by it far more than him.
"So, what you're saying is... my brother chose to do this on his own? But that's... " Yselt trailed off, sinking to her knees. "Hating Scadarah is one thing, but to resort to physical violence in this manner? The Clerebold I knew could never have done such a thing!"
Yselt's voice was choking up with emotion. Her long black hair spilled around her as she began tearing up, driving her to wipe the moisture from her eyes.
"How is it possible? How can he have changed s-so much...?"
Despite turning her head to the side so neither Wymare nor Merliad could see her crying, the shaking of her quiet sobs and muffled sniffling gave Yselt away. Without thinking, Wymare moved to get up and go to her side, but the pain of his lingering injuries seared through his nerves like lightning, anchoring him to his table. Cursing his wounds under his breath, he then turned to Merliad.
"Ugh... Merliad, can you-"
Wymare stopped abruptly as his gaze shifted to Merliad's face. The caster was already glancing down at Yselt's shrunken form, a hand raised in front of their mouth and a contemplative look in their eyes. It was the same sort of expression he had seen on their face when they were deep in thought, though he struggled to guess what could be so inviting of stoic consideration about their despondent friend.
"...Merliad... Would you mind...?" Wymare said after his momentary pause. This time, Merliad seemed to hear him, and he gestured toward Yselt when they looked in his direction.
"Hm? Oh, yes; forgive me," Merliad apologized, moving to kneel next to the crying girl. "Come now, Yselt. This isn't the time nor the place for that. We need to discuss what we're going to do in light of these new facts."
It took Yselt a moment to show any reaction to Merliad's words. She swallowed the lump in her throat, drew in a deep breath, and let the air back out in a heavy, uneven sigh before she pulled herself to her feet, wiping her face with the sleeve of her uniform as she did so.
"...Let's stop him."
Wymare and Merliad both jerked their heads back, surprised by Yselt stating her proposition so bluntly. Her voice, though a bit soft as she fought to keep her sadness at bay, was full of steeled determination, and her eyes, looking upon Wymare's bruised and bandaged form, were full of a fighting resolve that shone as bright as a midday sun.
"W-Wait, really?" Merliad asked. "I mean, yes, that's the gist of what we've been planning, but... are you sure you're alright with that?"
"Whoever made the decision to employ intimidation through violence in this manner... that person is not the Clerebold I know. His Shadow said to me that he was doing all of this for my sake. For the sake of restoring our family. I don't understand how he's come to believe that any of this is a means to that end, but what I do know is that he's been corrupted by the power he now holds."
Yselt's hands clenched into fists as she spoke. Where moments earlier her body had been quivering as a result of her crying, it now shook with a wave of restrained anger. She could see the time she and Clerebold had spent together on the streets of the capital, and she remembered how reassuring his presence had been; how her anxieties had all felt small when he grasped her hand and looked at her with his eyes full of brotherly instinct.
"My brother is still inside that monster somewhere. And I will drag him kicking and screaming back to me if it's the last thing I do! I swear it on my mother and father's names!"
Wymare and Merliad stared at Yselt for a spell, silenced by the speed at which she'd gone from sorrowful to resolute in her course of action. Moved by her strength, Wymare nodded in agreement with the motion, an action that Merliad was quick to mirror.
"Very well then. It seems we've come to a consensus," Merliad concluded.
"Clerebold's Shadow said he would be waiting for us in the depths of his prison," said Wymare. "We'll enter through the door once more, find the path to where he's hiding, and take him down together."
"Once you've fully recovered, that is," Merliad amended, recognizing that their red-haired ally had a ways to go before he would be back to health. "I imagine that will take at least another day of treatment, so let's convene the day after next. I'll set about making minor preparations on my end in the meantime."
"We must make haste in this," added Yselt. "The longer we take to find his Shadow, the more time he has to enact another vile scheme in reality. If Wymare is banished from the labor unit, or if he reports you to the Mage's Guild, Merliad, it will be too late."
Merliad nodded, as did Wymare. In that moment, the three Persona-users could sense each other's determination to see their plan through, and at the same time, they felt a deeper sense of camaraderie beginning to be forged between them. Whether it was because of their shared Persona abilities or their similarities in being victimized by Clerebold, it was hard to tell, but it was a sensation that none of them disagreed with.
The light sound of knuckles rapping on the door to the medical office reached their ears. A second later, the handle of the door turned, and a woman adorned in nun's robes stepped into the room, looking upon the three with slight surprise.
"I'm sorry," she said, regarding Yselt and Merliad with an elegant look. "The treatment of this young man must continue with as little interruption as possible. I must ask that you leave."
"Of course. We'll be on our way, then." Merliad moved to leave after replying to the nun's curt request, but not before sharing one last look with Wymare, the caster's verdant eyes wishing him well without the need for words. Wymare nodded his head and smiled a bit, thankful for the company that his comrades had provided.
"Get well soon, okay?" Yselt asked. She masked her prior dark expression with a smile as she grasped Wymare's arm one more time before following Merliad's lead.
Before long, both visitors had departed the office, and the sister of Bahamut closed the door behind them. A new face for Wymare, she rolled back the sleeves of her robes a bit before stepping over to one of the workstations on the other side of the room, dipping some squares of cloth in a bucket of ice water before grinding some herbs up in a small bowl.
"You seem to be in better straits compared to when you were brought here," she said, not looking up from her work. "I trust your friends were good company in the interim?"
Wymare blinked at the sister's use of the word 'friends'. It hadn't occurred to him before she'd said it, but when he applied that word to the feeling he'd shared with Yselt and Merliad in the moments before her arrival, it felt like a fitting label. He couldn't remember the last time he'd known a person he would have ascribed such a title to, and now, in the madness that had followed his arrival in Rìo Ghaile, he found himself with two such people. Perhaps he'd already thought of them as such, and he simply hadn't realized it until then.
The expressive girl from the capital streets and the reserved Stézan practitioner of magic were more than just his allies in a dangerous operation. They were his friends.
Wymare's lips curled up in a bright, genuine smile as he stared at the ceiling. "Yeah. Yeah, they were."