Chapter Nine: Red Snow

Vex didn't slow down as she came to the doors of the Zenith, reaching out with both hands to shove them inward with all her might as she all but ran through. They sprang open far more easily than she'd anticipated, slamming against the stone walls inside with a thunderous boom that reverberated through the temple like a shot from Bad News. She barely noticed, sprinting up the aisle as she stared wildly around the empty nave. "Somebody help!" she cried. "Please!"

Halfway to the altar, she stopped and turned in place, searching for an answer to her plea. The rest of Vox Machina poured in behind her, her own near-panic reflected on their faces: Vax, Keyleth, Scanlan, Pike, and finally Grog, with Percy cradled unconscious in his arms. Vex deliberately turned her back as Grog stepped inside; she couldn't stand to see Percy like that, pale and limp and cold. If it weren't for his shallow, ragged breathing, she'd have thought him dead. And that idea was just too much to bear.

A door near the altar swung open, and two robed figures rushed out toward her. One was a young red-haired acolyte; the other, a tall Elven priest. The acolyte stopped with a gasp of horror as her eyes fell on Percy, and clapped both hands to her mouth, seemingly frozen in place. Without a glance back at her, the priest continued to stride forward, sweeping wordlessly past Vex and the others to stand in front of Grog. He placed a hand on Percy's forehead, a warm golden-white glow emanating from his palm. Vex could only watch with her heart in her throat.

"I did everything I could, Father Tharivol," said Pike in a small voice. "I cast every healing spell I know. I even tried Greater Restoration. Nothing worked!"

Tharivol nodded, entirely too calm. "What happened?" he asked sharply. If anything, he sounded more annoyed than concerned. It took an effort of will not to throttle him until he showed a little urgency.

"Fuck if we know," Vax bit out. "We were all sitting in the castle, discussing what to do about these Righteous bastards, and he just passed out!"

"Hmm." Tharivol withdrew his hand and turned to the rest of the group. "Bring him to the hospital wing," he commanded. "Quickly. Follow me."

His pace still entirely too sedate, Tharivol continued questioning them as he led them toward the right door. "Have you encountered any of The Righteous since arriving in Whitestone?" he asked. "Has Lord de Rolo had any contact with them, that you know of?"

"Yes," said Vex slowly, her stomach twisting as she realized where he was going with this. "A couple of them attacked us in the castle a couple of hours ago, and Percy was hurt. But… I cast Cure Wounds on him, and it seemed to work!"

As they entered the temple's hospital wing, Tharivol snapped his fingers and gestured to another acolyte, who scurried off to obey his unspoken orders. To Vex, he said, "I feared as much. His condition, and its resistance to magical healing, is too similar to Lady Cassandra's to be coincidence. The delayed onset, however, is different—and troubling." He led them to the room next to Cassandra's and ushered them inside. "In here. Lay him on the bed so I may examine him. Where was the wound?"

"Right shoulder," said Vax. "The bastard stabbed him."

"Do you have the weapon?"

"We do!" Vex seized on the opportunity to do something useful. "Grog, toss me the Bag of Holding." Catching it deftly, she reached inside, pulled out the dagger in question, and handed it to Tharivol. She couldn't completely keep the tremor from her voice as she said, "I… wiped off the blade. It-it was covered in Percy's…" She felt her brother's gentle hand squeeze her shoulder as the words lodged in her throat.

Perhaps it was her imagination, or the blur of gathering tears, but she thought the stern, harsh lines of Tharivol's face softened, just a little. "Some trace of the poison may yet remain," he said. "You did well to keep it." He wrapped the dagger in a cloth and handed it to the acolyte he'd sent off moments ago, as she returned with a basin of hot water, some herbs, and a cloth. Vex had barely noticed her arrival. "Bring this to the alchemy lab," Tharivol told her, then bent over Percy and began to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. To Vox Machina, he said, "I would ask all of you but the cleric to wait outside. Sister Pike, if you would assist, please."

Despite his words, he wasn't asking.

Pike stepped forward. "Of course, Father." Turning back to the group, she said, "He'll be okay, guys, I promise."

"Do not promise such things yet, Sister Pike," Tharivol snapped. "The rest of you, go. Now."

Vex remained rooted to the spot, unwilling—unable—to move. But someone tugged at her arm, and a voice murmured, "Come on, Stubby. Let's give him some space, yeah?"

Slowly, reluctantly, she let vax pull her from the room. The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that pierced through her gut like an arrow.

I reach the end of the tunnel and peer outside. Nobody there—good. The Briarwoods must not know about this secret exit. It's only a short run to the edge of the Parchwood, over snow-covered ground the sunset paints in shades of red.

I turn back to my brother and wave him forward. I can barely see him in the darkness, just his shock of now-white hair and the tiniest glint of dying light on his glasses. He creeps toward me slowly, hesitantly, as if he doesn't dare believe that freedom is within our grasp.

But there isn't time to sit here and process. Surely Doctor Ripley knows we're gone by now, and she will have alerted the entire castle. We are certainly being hunted. "Come on, Percy," I hiss. "We have to run!"

My voice seems to shake him out of his stupor, and he darts forward, out of the tunnel, grabbing my hand on the way by. His fingers, so cold they burn, wrap around mine like bands of iron as he practically drags me over the red snow, into the woods, sprinting toward the river. I can barely keep up with his longer stride, but desperation and terror and the spark of triumph drive me onward.

The winter air hits my lungs like shards of glass as I struggle to breathe. It smells of burning flesh, tastes of ashes and despair. I stumble over rocks and roots, and my hand slips out of his. "Cass!" Percy gasps. He looks back to make sure I'm still there, and keeps running. I keep running. Our shadows are black on the red snow.

Hoofbeats behind us. Gaining on us.

I push myself faster, panic endowing me with a strength I didn't think I had left. A few yards ahead of me, Percy bursts through the tree line. He stops, turns, reaches for me—

Three impacts on my back, and I'm face-down in the snow before I feel the pain. It's turning red, the snow, and not from the light this time. I try to reach for my brother, but I can't move. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. The last thing I see is Percy's horror-stricken face as he turns away… and keeps running. He leaves me to die in the red, red snow.

I freeze over and the world turns to black and crimson and

"Lady de Rolo?"

The gentle voice cut through the nightmare, memory and reality blurring together in feverish swirls of red and white, of black and gold. Cassandra forced her eyes open, only to squeeze them shut once more against the too-bright light. Her whole body burned and she shivered from the cold, in agony but feeling it only through a thick layer of numbness like snow on brambles.

(red snow he left me to die you left me to die you left me you left me)

"No!" The word tore its way out of her, scraping at her throat and catching on her teeth. That memory was (yesterday) long ago, far in the past and finally forgiven.

A hand, so hot she thought it would sear her flesh, pressed itself to her cheek, to her forehead. "Hush, milady," whispered that same gentle voice. "It's all right. You're safe."

"Hurts," Cassandra mumbled. It was all she could force out.

"I know. We're doing everything we can, I promise."

Cassandra opened her eyes again, just a little, just enough to see who was talking to her. One of the acolytes of the Zenith—Dara? Deena? No, Deora—sat beside her on the edge of the bed, stroking her hair and studying her face with a satisfied smile. What she probably meant to be a comforting touch was excruciating, fingers trailing fire and ice in their wake, but Cassandra couldn't form the words to tell her so.

Deora's features shifted, rippled, and for a moment it was Doctor Ripley's face leering down at her. The hand in Cassandra's hair was a wicked steel hook, the sharpened tip scraping delicately across her scalp as she trembled in sick anticipation. "No," Cassandra choked out, summoning all her strength to turn her head away. "No more. Please."

Ripley's low, throaty chuckle was her only answer.

(skin freezing in red snow arrows burning in my back)

When she looked up again, it was only Deora there, watching intently.

(alone all alone Percy come back come back for me please brother help me)

"Percy," Cassandra whispered. "Please…"

Deora gave her a gentle smile. "Your brother is well, Lady de Rolo. Do not worry."

Throat burning, Cassandra swallowed thickly. "See him?"

"I'm afraid that's impossible right now, milady," said Deora, "but I will send word to him." Reaching into a pouch at her side, she withdrew a small glass vial. "Here. I've prepared a potion that should ease some of the pain. Drink."

Moving of her own accord proved nearly impossible, her muscles simply refusing to obey any but the smallest commands. Gratefully, Cassandra allowed Deora to cradle her head in one burning, frozen hand and pour the viscous concoction into her open mouth. She gagged on the bitterness of it, on the taste of blood and ashes and Gods only knew what else, but Deora held her mouth firmly shut until she forced herself to swallow.

The pain began to fade almost immediately. She let out a sigh as the room began to spin, to darken, and Cassandra sank into red snow and darkness.

(come back for me)