Chapter Eighteen: Drowning

As he strode out of the room, Percy nearly collided with Father Tharivol. An un-priestly snarl twisted the Elf's features, and Percy could swear he heard a touch of sarcasm in his voice as he said stiffly. "Excuse me, my Lord. It is good to see you up and about, but I fear I must protest my treatment at the hands of your—"

Gods above, he absolutely did not have the patience for this right now. "Later," Percy snapped. He moved step around Tharivol, but long, thin fingers seized his arm and dragged him to a halt with surprising strength.

"Lord de Rolo, I have been assaulted and—"

Drawing himself up to his full height, Percy drilled Tharivol with his most imperious glare. "Not. Now," he growled, then slowly, pointedly, let his gaze drift down to the hand on his arm.

Tharivol released him, jerking his hand back as if burned. Lip still curled, he stepped aside to allow Percy to pass.

Once inside Cassandra's room, Percy closed the door behind him and hurried to her side. He practically fell to his knees beside the bed as his legs gave out from under him. Reaching out with one hand to cup her cheek, he stopped before making contact.

She looked… well, she looked dead. The dark lines that had begun to creep across her cheek when he'd first arrived here had now spread over her entire face, her neck, her hands—every inch of exposed skin was shot through with necrotic-looking scrawls as the poison still surged unchecked through her veins. Between those lines, her skin was almost translucently pale, her eyes sunken above dark, bruised circles. Her breath, the only sign she still lived, rattled in her chest, ragged and shallow.

She was slipping away. He was long her. Again.

I push my broken body as fast as I can go. Running, pulling Cassandra behind me. Every step, every movement pulls painfully at my wounds, breaking the fresher ones open again. Blood, warm at first, rapidly cools to icy rivulets on my skin. My hands are numb, my knees shaking. I don't have the strength to go on, but I must.

It takes an eternal second to realize Cassandra's hand has slipped from my grasp. I turn around, frantic. "Cass!"

"Cass," he whispered. It might as well have been a prayer. "I'm sorry, Gods, I'm so sorry."

She's still there, thank the Gods, running, stumbling, catching herself and surging forward. Her eyes blaze with terror and determination.

For a moment, I dare to hope. I can see the tree line, and beyond it, the low cliff that forms the bank of the river. If we can make it to the river, we're free.

The moment of hope is fleeting, crushed under the ever-louder pounding of a horse's hooves.

We push faster anyway. Almost there. I stop, turn, and reach for my sister.

She falls, and time stops.

Three arrows protrude from her back. Her blood stains the snow red beneath her. The light fades from her eyes as her last breath rattles from her lungs. Sound and color drain away as my sister, my savior, the last and bravest of all my family, dies before my eyes.

A shadow falls over her. I don't look up. Can't look up. I know Ripley's silhouette, and if I look at her, I'll freeze. So I turn and run, fully expecting her arrows to find me, too.

But they don't. And I launch myself off the cliff and into the freezing waters of the river, and pray to drown.

He was drowning now. Drowning in rage and grief and betrayal. Numb shock enveloped his senses like icy water. Helplessness drained the fight from his limbs to stain the snow red beneath him.

Even as his rational mind insisted his friends had saved him because they loved him, a darker part knew that he should be the one lying in that bed, not Cassandra. After the things he'd done, the evils he'd wrought, he didn't deserve to be saved. She, on the other hand, deserved everything. Besides, nobody needed him the way Whitestone needed her.

The way he needed her.

He took her hand—sweet Pelor, she's so cold—and pressed a kiss to her knuckles as tears spilled down his face. She was not going to die, damn it. Cassandra was a survivor. But more than that, she was a de Rolo. And de Rolos didn't go down without a fight.

Yes, she's fighting. But she's losing.

Percy shook his head sharply, but the cruel thought clung stubbornly to his mind like a leech, refusing to be put aside. All of a sudden, he couldn't stand to be here any longer, to see his sister in this state. He stood, took two steps backward, then turned and fairly fled the room.

The corridor outside was mercifully empty, but for Vex. It seemed everyone else—including that insufferable priest—had gone while she lingered by the door, waiting for him.

He wished she hadn't. At any other time, under any other circumstances, Vex's presence would have been a comfort, a balm on his frayed composure and shattered nerves. He could fall into her smoke-and-whiskey voice and the warm honey of her eyes and find a moment to rest, to gather himself. She could always draw him out of the worst of his spirals of self-hatred and fear.

But not now. Now, he couldn't bring himself to so much as look at her. Without even acknowledging her presence—lest he say something he'd regret later—he turned to walk away.

Clearly, however, she didn't get the hint. "Darling," she called out after him, so softly and gently it made his steps falter for just an instant. She hesitated for a long moment, then asked helplessly, "Are you… are you all right?"

Percy stopped walking but kept his back to her, his posture stiffening as something like contempt spread like ice in his veins. "It's not like you to ask stupid questions, Vex'ahlia," he bit out. "It doesn't suit you."

Vex huffed indignantly. "Now, Percival, that was truly uncalled for," she snapped, a hint of an edge creeping into her voice.

(That was good. He could deal with anger. Anger was better than pity. Anger was armor. Anger was leverage. Anger would give him the space he needed to just stop and fucking think for a minute,)

"Was it, though?" he shot back, and began to walk away once more.

Her voice followed him again, all that useful anger gone. "Where are you going?"

Damn her. Damn her and her perceptiveness and her compassion. She wasn't about to let him push her away. "Back to the castle," he replied through gritted teeth. "I would ask that you don't follow me just now."

"Dear, the castle isn't safe," she protested. "We think The Righteous have infiltrated the Pale Guard. We discovered the Chancellor's aide was one of them. If you go back there—"

"Then you'll regret wasting that potion on me, won't you?" Stopping again at the door to the main temple, he pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. That, he hadn't meant to say out loud. He sighed heavily and tried to change the subject. "You say you've already found cultists among the household staff and guards? How long was I out?"

"About thirty-six hours, give or take."

He'd missed more than a day. Gods, that was disorienting. "You've been busy," he said.

"Of course we have!" Vex snapped. "We were trying to save you!"

Percy rounded on her and glared into her eyes. "We came here to save Cassandra," he snarled. "If she dies because you all were too bloody sentimental to see how much more important her life is than mine—"

"Then what?" Vex met his glare with her own and planted her hand on her hips. "You'll never forgive us?"

"I'll never forgive myself."

The words came out with far less force than he intended, squeezed out as they were around the rising lump in his throat. Rather than let her see him break, he turned and flung open the door, and strode out of the hospital wing into the temple proper.

He'd meant to leave, to go back to the castle and hole himself up in his chambers or his workshop until he'd sorted himself out. But that was asking for trouble, apparently. With no way of knowing who to trust, he could very well end up right back here, poisoned again or worse. He'd be of no help to Cassandra that way. And clearly Vox Machina could not be relied upon to think logically and prioritize her recovery. They would waste resources on him, and she would languish.

Percy scowled to himself as he wandered slowly across the back of the nave, trailing a hand over the polished wood of the last row of pews. There wasn't time to wallow in resentment. He needed to pull himself together and make a plan.

Behind him, he heard the door to the hospital wing creak softly open. Vex's nearly silent footsteps crossed from there behind him to the main doors, but he didn't turn to look at her.

"We're all staying at the Lady's Chamber," she offered quietly. Unobtrusively. "Just… so you know."

He nodded his acknowledgement, then heard the main doors open and shut.

Alone, finally, Percy clutched the back of the pew with both hands, leaning heavily on it and bowing his head. In the silence of the empty church, his own heartbeat thundered in his ears, his breaths harsh and ragged. He was shaking all over, he realized, his overtaxed body still throwing off the last of the poison's effects. And of course, he hadn't eaten in a day and a half. It was honestly a wonder he was even standing.

But right now, the thought of trying to eat anything made his stomach turn, And besides that, the idea of walking all the way from the Zenith to Dawnfather Square, just to sit in some noisy tavern where he could hardly hear himself think and he'd have to watch his back for more Righteous assassins, all while decidedly not at his physical, mental, or emotional best… well, that was simply out of the question.

So instead, he stepped around the pew and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. A trembling sigh whispered out between his fingers. Maybe The Righteous had the truth of it, he thought. Maybe his family was cursed. Or maybe he was cursed, doomed to find himself the sole survivor of a house of ashes and dust.

"Is that it?" he muttered aloud, bitterly. Straightening, he raised his eyes to the great stained-glass window over the altar, the giant golden star of Pelor just beginning to catch the first light of dawn. "Am I to watch them all die? Will everyone I've ever loved be taken from me?"

And would that include Vox Machina, too? For an instant, his mind flashed back to the room in the hospital wing, to pale cheeks and sunken eyes and creeping necrotic veins—only this time it wasn't Cassandra, it was Vex. He shuddered, and it took an effort of will to force the image away.

He pushed himself to his feet and stepped out into the center aisle, stalking toward the altar and stopping about halfway there. He held his arms out to each side as he glared at the brightening star in the window. "What is this?" he demanded. "Is it some sort of punishment? A test? A lesson? What am I supposed to do here?" His voice grew louder and louder as he spoke until it rang through the space, reverberating in the rafters and echoing from the walls. "What do You want from me?"

The Dawnfather didn't answer. He never did.