Long before the thought of wielding tactics had crossed my mind, my dear mother had suggested the wielding of staves.

"Healers never find themselves unneeded, and knowledge of medical techniques are never considered useless," she had explained to me back then.

Her theory had been sound and my mind had been too bound to the present at the time, so I had obliged.

However, as time passed, realization had dawned on me: I was incapable of using any magic. With that fact haunting my mind, I had paused my progression into that field.

I had never regretted my choices, even when I had stood firm in my decision to turn to tactics... but that steadfastness had faltered at times.

Poisonous Doubt

Ugh... The pelting of the rain against the window before him echoed in his skull. His chin tucked in his arm, he lazily held his feather quill over his eyes, wondering about the places its "owner" could have been to. My kingdom for a single dreamless night...

After spending many days traveling westward, the group had arrived at the border separating Lycia from Sacae, but a single loose end- the Ganelon- had managed to catch up to them for a final clash. One quickly-settled struggle later, they had decided to recuperate in the nearby town's inn- just in time for the weather to turn sour. Now, as the others rested in their rooms, the tactician lazed in the lobby.

The sound of creaking boards caught his attention, but exhaustion paralyzed his body.

Too. Lax. To. Respond... Must. Brace. Self...

"Good evening, Mark!" a female voice chirped as she approached the advisor slumped over the table.

"Good evening, Lady Serra," he intended to respond, but his mouth slurred the words to a whisper.

Reaching him, she took a seat near his frail body. "Pardon?" she spoke as she leaned her ear closer, his voice apparently too subdued.

Mentally cursing himself for the disrespect, he lifted his chin and mustered the rest of his energy into his lungs. "Good evening, Lady Serra," he managed to elucidate with his best smile before his head hit the table once more.

Noticing the thud, she asked him, "Are you alright?"

"Never better-"

"Oh, no," she cut in, sitting upright with worry etched onto her face. "You're not going to pull that on me, mister! Lyn told me about that habit of yours, so don't even think about hiding it!"

"But-!" he tried to explain.

"No buts! Either tell me your ailment, or I'll get her to make you cough it up!" She readied herself towards the stairs to emphasize the demand.

He looked at her, at the stairs, and then back at her before sighing deeply. "Alright, alright, I'll talk."

Turning back to him, she returned to her cheerful demeanor. "That's better... You shouldn't conceal anything from me, you know- even if you can't."

He gave a soft chuckle. "Yes, now I know, Lady Serra. Forgive my offensiveness."

"Apology accepted. Now, what's been troubling you?"

"A being that feasts on pleasant dreams," he responded. "I haven't been able to sleep at all."

"Interesting... how long has this been happening for?"

"Oh, about ten days now," he mused absently.

"Ten days!?" she exclaimed.

The incredulousness in her tone appeared to have shocked her, though the witless tactician failed to pick up on it; then again, maybe it was the insomnia at work.

"Mark, that's certainly not healthy for you at all; you've already crossed the threshold to insanity, for Elimine's sake! You. Need. Rest."

"I tried to sleep, Lady Serra- really, I did- but the being won't go away. Oh, and please don't suggest using your Heal staff; it's better used elsewhere, and I already know it can't help me."

Moments passed in relative silence as the duo pondered on a solution.

Breaking the air of stillness, the cleric suggested, "Maybe if you do something relaxing, then you can sleep soundly! Everyone's stuck here, anyway, so now's the perfect time!"

He juggled his thoughts. Maybe the workload had gotten to him; a bit of indulging just might solve his dilemma. "Alright, then..."

"Here you go, Mark- one cup of Cayenne Twilight," she said as she placed the tea in his hands. "This should help you relax."

"Thank you kindly, Lady Serra," he replied as he accepted it. "Sorry for making you go through all this trouble..."

"It's the least I could do. Just make sure to get my good side!"

He gave a playful yet assuring nod as he lowered his quill into the ink bottle. After the point was sufficiently-inked, he gently forced it onto the journal page- the start of his attempt to capture her graceful form.

When the tactician had thought of an activity to relax with, he had also intended to make it productive- well, more than his usual antics, at the very least. One glance at his journal had cemented his choice; he had decided to draw portraits of the Legion's members, starting with the cleric herself. Not only would it help him clear his mind, but it would also add to the value of his journal when it's checked. Besides, he considered himself a decent artist.

With each stroke of the quill, his restlessness lessened bit by bit, as if its essence was being transferred into the page. The lines became a head, a body, limbs, a face... As time passed, the page absorbed more and more ink, and the shell of the person captured grew more detailed and elaborate.

Every now and then, he took a sip of the tea, quenching his thirst slowly but surely. Its initial mildness soon gave way to a fiery spiciness, burning his fatigue away all the while.

"This tea..." he muttered after half the drink had entered his system.

"Is there a problem, Mark?" she inquired.

"No, it's delicious, truly. It just... brought back a few memories, is all." Continuing on his drawing, he asked, "Lady Serra, how are the duties of a healer?"

She pondered on her reply before answering, "Complicated."

"How so?"

"Learning the healing arts had been quite rigorous. There had been times when I had felt the amount of knowledge to be staggering, but in the end, I believe- no, I knew- that all my efforts had paid off. Helping others with my skills gives me a sense of... belonging."

"'Belonging', huh..." He stared at the drawing. "To tell the truth, my mother and sisters are all healers... and I had once aimed to be one, as well. I had always wondered why they had focused on their profession so strongly. When I had asked them about it, they had said that part of the reason was for stability, but they had also been fiercely devoted to helping others. I had understood their reasons, but in the end, I had realized that I hadn't inherited that 'fire' and followed this profession instead." He tilted his journal upwards as emphasis before chuckling. "A pathetic turn of events for a lowly being such as myself, huh, Lady Serra?" When he received no reply, he rose his voice a bit, thinking he had spoken too softly again. "Lady Serra...?" Putting his quill into the ink, he lowered his journal and saw her staring at the floor.

Something incoherent escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry?"

"...You dummy..." she repeated.

"Lady Serra...?" Putting his journal onto the table, he walked towards her. Tilting his head down, he looked at her face and noticed her holding back tears.

"You have a family... and yet you choose to face death...?" Her voice quavered. "How can you... be so selfish...?"

For once in his career as a tactician, he found himself frozen in place and unable to answer. The cleric's words had been as blunt as rocks, and yet they had held the sharpness of the Mani Katti's blade. Doubt began to form in his mind. What if this career was a one-way trip to his coffin? What if his profession was only the working of a carefree whim?

"You don't realize..." she continued, "how lucky you are..."

Sighing, Mark sat next to her, his hands gripping themselves. "Lady Serra... Forgive me for divulging my past to you like that... but know that I regret nothing. Stopping my progression into the healer's role, becoming a military advisor, separating from my family like this... I did all that of my own accord. I may not be able to heal souls, but I had felt- and still feel- that my skills can prevent them from being harmed; this is why I had thought I could do more good as a tactician than as a healer. Besides, I have no intention of dying or getting any of us in mortal danger. I'd like you to understand that, but I won't force my beliefs on you; you're allowed to think of me as a scoundrel and a foolish son if you so choose..." He stood up from his seat. "Well, I believe this session is over; I've apparently upset you too greatly for me to continue the portrait," he spoke, turning towards his possessions and tea. "I'll just clean up-" A tug on his sleeve made him halt mid-step. Turning towards the source, he found her hand on his cloak.

"I'm sorry..." she spoke, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "It was wrongful of me to call you selfish... Forgive me."

"It's my fault," he softly countered. "You were in the right."

"Even so..." She took a deep breath and calmed down. "Please finish the drawing, Mark," she added, a beaming smile back on her face. "You promised me, after all."

"Ah... of course." He picked up his journal and quill; that side she showed him needed to be caught, and quickly.

"A bit more here, a touch there, and... finished!" he announced, emphasizing with his last stroke.

"Great! May I see?" she asked him.

"But of course," he answered as he showed her the journal page. "It's actually been a while since I've done portraits; a few details may look a bit skewed and the proportions may seem slightly off, but-"

"It's magnificent!" she spoke in excitement.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's gorgeous! Oh, thank you, Mark!"

And with that, the tactician found himself caught in a tight hug.

I guess I still have that artistic flair...

Yes: Sorry for the long delay, but I feel that Lady Serra had been one of the harder subjects to write about. My mood seems to have swung back into focus...