She found an abandoned hut just outside of town. Nobody would bother her there. She shambled through the gaping door and fell against the back of the shelter. She gasped as she lifted herself, clutching her arm. She was in immense pain. She needed to fix this. She needed to make that replacement arm. She breathed heavily and stayed still for a moment. She had thrown it around quite a lot just looking for this place.
The pain subsided slightly. She looked up at the door and the ruined building. Some of this will make good arm building material, she thought as she looked at the piles of wood and rubble. She looked at the door again. The hinges might make good joints. I'll need more than that, though. She placed her hand on her chest. "Avery," she called softly as she lifted it, allowing the robotic familiar to come out.
"Get me some parts for my arm, will you? Wood, nails, and pipes from dilapidated buildings from around here will do." She looked up at the blue eye on top of the hovering four-armed robot body. It nodded back with a sympathetic growl. She looked down for a moment, considering her predicament. He would have to be her arms until this passed. She remembered the hinges from the door and snapped her head back up. Avery had yet to leave as he floated close to the exit. "And hinges! I need hinges!" All she got was an affirmative nod and that was all. She slid the sheet off of her and took out a charcoal pencil she kept on hand. She began to draw the blueprints for the device.
She had them in her head already, but she needed to make sure her calculations weren't off. She used her right to compensate for her left. She watched how it moved. She even figured she'd need to make ball joints for the elbow and fingers. She let out a heavy sigh and recalled that it would have to be able to absorb impact. What kind of item would she use then? She thought for a moment about the more complex designs she had read about in Hamelin. She thought about the pickpocketing gun and how its pistol design worked.
She would have to fashion springs to make it less hard on her shoulder. She thought long and hard about comfort. This was a permanent procedure. She'd have to live with it for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes and made use of her bond with the creature. I need grass and as much metal as you can find, got it? She didn't need to see or hear it. She knew he had heard her loud and clear.
He was her creation, after all. He was a soldier from her soul. Somehow, someway, a familiar based on her childhood toy. As he worked hard to find what she needed, she toiled away, day and night. She had him forage from around the area rather than go into town. If anyone saw him, she knew the goons from earlier would find out.
Finally, all of the parts were mapped out, all of the items she needed: collected. She had quite a pile sitting in the middle of the room. She scooted over, keeping her arm from moving as much as humanly possible. She began her work.
Rejuvenate was almost essentially alchemy. She took the pipes and manipulated them to a cleaner state. If they were the wrong length, she had Avery slice them with his claws on the lower arms where she marked them. She fashioned wood bearings and made sure to limit the movement of those bearings with the very design of the rest of the body. The most complex parts were the hands. She pressed her hand to her face and observed each joint and how each part curved and flexed. She became wholly intimate with her right arm to recreate her left.
With each piece that required the use of two hands, she had Avery attend to one thing while she maneuvered the other delicate parts of her arm. For other parts, she used the spell, Fuse, to join them, easing the process. The hardest part was the shoulder. She found herself testing various combinations to best imitate the movement and finally settled on one.
The arm was completed. All she needed was a way to secure it. She sifted through the materials and found some metal. Using Fuse again, she fashioned the parts for a collar. She added hoops to the edge of the shoulder. She took some of the cloth and filled it with grass, tying it shut to add to the eventual limb. She had Avery fetch some supple leather. She'd have to use Fuse one last time to create what she needed- belts. She hated belts, she hated wearing any kind of belt. It just reminded her of that ridiculous tradition of wearing them. Why belts? Was there some sort of purpose? She always figured her ancestors used them to carry tools. Now it seemed more like a flashy accessory.
She sighed. This wasn't for fashion. It was for her health. She smirked at the irony. The accessory she hated was to be her savior. She gripped her left shoulder to remind herself of this. She winced and let go as she stared down at the newly fashioned arm. Once she made the necessary parts she would do it. She would cut off her own arm.
She looked up at Avery once she was done with the assembly. "One last thing, boy." She grinned, tears welling up in her eyes. "You aren't going to like this very much." It nodded as she took her left arm out of the sling and removed her jacket. "Well, you know what to do," she led on as she balled up a part of her coat and bit into it. "Don't stop no matter what you hear, alright," she said through a mouthful of cloth. She had her wand at the ready, the page opened to Fireball. She nodded at the robot again for him to start.
Avery took the arm, hesitating when he saw her wince. "Do it," she snapped. "Cut it off!" The familiar looked down at the mangled limb and pulled on it. As its master cried out in pain it pulled harder, eventually tearing the arm out of her shoulder socket. He looked at her face and growled softly, sympathetically. "I'll- I'll be fine! Just finish the job," she whimpered through the spit-soaked red fabric. "The sooner the better!" It nodded and readied its claws on the other arms. It sliced down on the shoulder, cleanly cutting the arm off. She recoiled and screamed in absolute agony. Through her anguished cries, she slowly picked up her wand and held it up. With a shaky hand, she drew the rune for Fireball over her shoulder.
She screamed again as the flames scorched her skin, cauterizing the wound. They went out slowly as she sobbed. The pain was unbearable. She flopped over to her right side and clutched her burnt shoulder. Death didn't seem so bad now. Anything to get out of the hell she was experiencing. She even thought of returning home briefly. She shook her head. She didn't want to go back. That would be a fate worse than death to her. If she went back her father would hold onto the delusion that she would be whatever he said she would be. Or worse… consider her a complete fool for even trying to be anything else.
He would make her an empress, molded for the throne. She narrowed her eyes as she thought about this, slowly losing consciousness. She wanted to be something of her own making… If a thief was what that was, that was what she would be.
"Tell me again… about the thief," a ten-year-old Lynnea requested. She sat next to her uncle and looked up at him. The fluffy curls of his hair caught her attention and she reached up to touch them. He smirked down at her. He laughed when he felt curious fingers toy with the tangled mess on his head. "You want to know more, do you little Lynnea?" He glanced away mysteriously then back at her. "Fine. I'll tell you. He was an absolute legend."
"'Legend'? He was famous," she asked with a tilt of the head.
"Only for saving the world. Rumor has it, Swaine was pretty brave. He looked out for his friends, he put his family first." He tossed her hair and smiled when she giggled. He sighed. "He went on so many misadventures with his friends. He had inadvertently helped so many people just by being there for the pure-hearted one."
She let out an awed gasp as she withdrew her hand. "And he had no magic? He sounds so cool," she said. "That makes father pretty cool, too. He also helped!" She giggled and grinned up at her uncle. She kicked the couch with the back of her foot. "But why do I like Swaine more?" She tilted her head away. "Father was there…"
"Hah! You always did prefer tales about the underdog." He looked down at the princess. He held a hand out to the rest of the room. "My question is why do you wait until I visit for these tales? You could just ask your father."
"They sound better coming from you. Papa's too boring when he tries to tell them." She looked up at her uncle. "I want to build things just like the gun in those stories! I want to make all sorts of machines!" She tugged on his coat sleeve. "Can you teach me?" She looked up with large pleading eyes.
He looked away, his smile falling. "I dunno. Maybe. It's been a while since I've gotten my hands dirty when it comes to machines." He nodded and looked back down at the teen. "One day… maybe."
"…One day," the seventeen-year-old questioned. "You never came back…" She looked disdainfully at the memory. "So, I had to figure out machinery on my own. I had to read your plans, what plans I could find." She laughed quietly. "I wanted to be even more like you after I read them."
She walked up to the memory, her younger self disappearing and her uncle simply looking up with a neutral expression. "Why didn't you come back? Where did you go?" She realized she knew hardly anything about him then. She realized the man was an enigma. Who was he to her?
He rose from the sofa and looked slightly down at his niece. He smirked, taking his coat off, revealing the rest of his red tunic. He carefully placed it on her shoulders. Chuckling he looked thoughtfully down at the now ten-year-old version of her. "There. Now you look like a thief." He smiled when she raised her arms, the coat still a little too large for her.
"Uncle Gascon," she drawled out. "It's too big," she whined.
"I'll take it back, then," he suggested with a playful grin.
She shook her head and ran behind the chair. "No. It's too comfy." She peeked out from behind the magenta sofa. "Tell me more stories," she demanded.
She felt a familiar warmth in the jacket. The warmth was almost real. It was real. Before the memory could play out, she awoke, barely opening her eyes. Covering her thin, weak frame was a large beige coat… at least that was what it looked like. Under her head was her own. She was too tired to question it. She was too tired to care. She felt heavy, achy. She drifted off again, gripping the new makeshift blanket. Perhaps Avery had found it before returning to her and took care of her… Whatever.
A man with a cloth wrapped around his head and face rode on the back of a furry beast native to the Winter Islands. He was just passing through, making his way to Al Mamoon to meet with the Cowlipha. He had a message from the capital of the eastern Pig Iron Empire to deliver. Along with this mission, he had a personal endeavor. It seemed the ruler of Hamelin's precious daughter had gone missing. He made a promise to look for her and to bring her back if he ever found her.
He hadn't seen her in so long… Why had she run away? The Great Sage was hardly a confrontational man. What could have possessed her to be so cruel, to make him worry so?
The creature suddenly stopped and the man riding it looked down. "What's wrong, boy?" It grunted as it stared at a hut near the outskirts of one of the small desert settlements situated near a rather small oasis. "Look, I know it's hot. I'll get a bucket from a vendor when we get to Al Mamoon and pour some water over you to cool you off. Just hold on for a bit." He rubbed his legs. "I can't walk as much as I used to… Getting old sucks."
The creature grunted up at him again tilting its head violently to get its owner's attention. "Huh? Is there something else you're trying to tell me," he asked it, petting the fur on the side of its face. It sniffed then huffed out air as if affirming his question. It wildly shook its head. "Then show me!" It bolted towards the hut, leaping to cover more ground. When it stopped, it nearly threw its rider. "Woah! Easy! Are you trying to kill me?!" His eyes were wide as a cold sweat formed on his back.
He dismounted and walked in, the beast following him by squeezing through the door. It sniffed again and carefully walked up to a body lying on the ground. Its eyes drifted to the dismembered limb leaking blood which pooled on the floor. It nudged it, whining.
Its owner gasped when he finally realized what had happened. He looked at the body- a girl wearing an orange shirt, a short, teal skirt and red leggings. Her shoes were dark brown, flat and feminine in style. She had short straight dark brown hair. She was breathing weakly as she clutched the burned stub where her left arm had been. Her coat lied next to her, the piece she had bitten earlier fallen out. She had a pained expression on her face, her body still processing the shock of the sudden loss.
"It's that girl… the one from the wanted posters." He crouched down and looked at her young face. "She's just a kid," he realized sadly. "A kid from Hamelin, judging by the style." He lightly placed a hand on her forehead. "She's burning up… That injury did quite a number to her." She shivered and he looked down at her sympathetically. He took the sun-bleached coat from his shoulders and draped it over her body. He wore a red tunic- faded from all the wear. He took the coat from near her head and folded it. He gently lifted her head and placed it underneath. "There we are…"
"Ssh, it's alright," her father comforted her in her memory. She seemed to be dreaming of home more and more. She didn't want to go back but her state at that moment made her long for the safety of the palace. In this dream, she was four and had tripped and skinned her knee. Pain was a fairly new concept to her. How much pain a skinned knee was, she knew now, was child's play compared to losing a limb.
"What's wrong," her uncle chimed in, his curiosity getting the better of him. He saw the wound and knelt to look at it. "Ah. I see." He looked up, a concerned look on his face. "It'll pass," he encouraged. "You'll get used to things like this. It happens."
She rocked back and forth. "But it hurts. It hurts." She looked up at her father. "I don't like it! I don't want to hurt, papa!" The four-year-old gripped her father's robes as she cried.
Her uncle, his face set, stood and walked around to her back. He knelt down and pulled her into a hug. "Hey. It's okay. Just bear with it. Look, he's casting a spell." He directed her attention to Marcassin who had his wand out. He was casting healing touch on her. The wound closed and left a small scar. "See. All better."
She looked at her knee and then back up at her father. "All gone?" Her face lit up with glee. She giggled. "I want to learn neat magic like that, too!"
"You may. You must have the talent for it, first," her father answered. He glanced at his older brother. "But even if you don't have any talent, that doesn't mean you aren't special. It just means you have to be even more inventive… and careful." He placed a hand on her head. He knelt down as well and joined the embrace, her father and her uncle holding her. She felt safe, secure.
She woke up, barely comprehending her environment. She felt an arm behind her back and another cradling her side. She groaned softly as she looked up. "Ssh," a man's voice hushed her. "Easy. Take it easy." He let the arm at her back support her as he leaned forward. He grabbed a cup from near a small fire he had built out of the wood lying around the hut. He lifted her head carefully and pressed the edge of the cup to her mouth. "Here. Drink this. You need all the help you can get."
Usually, she would have been on her guard. Usually, she would have shoved the cup away and tried to resist. She would have questioned him and his motives… But she found herself in a state of need. She was so weak. She didn't understand why. Her arm had been cut off but she failed to see the correlation. Why was her body reacting so negatively to this change?
She allowed the mysterious broth to enter her mouth, sipping it. Who was this man? Why was he being so kind to her? She shifted her eyes to try and see if she recognized her caretaker. All she could make out in her blurry vision was a pink looking shirt and greyed stubble on a rounded chin. Nothing more. She decided she had had enough of the warm soothing soup and closed her mouth again. He withdrew the cup and carefully lied her back down.
"Who… who are you…," she whispered before he could get up.
"That doesn't matter now," he responded. "Focus on getting better, alright?" She could hear the comforting smile in the stranger's words. "Don't try to speak anymore," he softly advised. "Save your strength."
With that final suggestion, she closed her eyes again, drifting off to sleep.
