M Ritual Resurrections

[Ezrihel]

“Althaus... May I ask you a question?”

The tall blonde aristocrat sat across from Isra, his legs crossed rather delicately. He idly swirled a nursed half glass of bourbon, a drink the interloping cowboy Arthur Morgan had turned him on to, and cocked a fine brow while tilting his head. They had already been talking for over an hour at this point, catching up on various things happening on the Phantom Blossom “Hm. You may, Doctor~ Though I make absolutely no promises that you’ll enjoy whatever answers you wish to wring from me. Is it about the Incident or are you wanting to interview me as a patient~?”

Isra rolled his eyes. It was always the smarmy coyness with Ez. The arrogant man certainly loved taking any chance to stroke his ego. “It’s about Nausicaa, yes.”

The noble smiled with a hint of giddiness, the glow around him brightening ever-so-slightly. “And what is it that you’re wanting to ask me about that circus-show~? Those twaddling bureaucrats make my skin itch. So obnoxious, the whole lot of them. Can you believe how they treated us? I for one--”

“You did trash their leadership and general competence at the end of the day.” The medic was quick to remind him.

“Well. Yes. Sometimes the truth hurts, but it still needs to be said regardless. Maybe they should stop being such sensitive politicians and care about their people for once. Even so they treated us terribly over the issue of magic before the incident. What business is it of theirs if we are magical beings or not? I might understand a ban on the use of magic, but treating the magically inclined as a second class is filthy any way you approach it.”

“Yeah, it’s a real shame.” Isra sighed dismissively. “Loved the seafood--”

“You liked that stuff?” The general’s mouth curled into a frown, his face tightening as a wave of goosebumps raced across his skin.

“And you didn’t? I saw you enjoying it once you got over yourself. Hopefully this spaceport has decent rations.”

The aristocrat’s stomach roiled. A very distinctive oily decay sprang to the forefront of his mind at the mention of seafood, it coated his tongue and begged his guts to retch at merely a memory. He raised the back of his hand to his mouth, closing his eyes. It had been nearly a week since leaving the City of Hope behind, and yet he swore he could still smell that rot-tainted bilge water deep in his sinuses. “Please-- please. No more. It sickens me profoundly.”

The medic took a deep breath and sighed heavily, shaking his head. Yeah. They were getting sidetracked on Ez’s tangents, and the man looked about two-seconds away from vomiting all over the meeting room's walls.

Isra had carefully watched the ongoing news on the incident from his medical ward, his mind desperate to gain the context he lacked- but there was woefully little helpful coverage of the battle of the Flying Dutchman. “I wanted to ask you about that young man I took a half a meter of rebar for, Tobias...”

“Ah. Yes. The Gal’skapian cultist.” Ezrihel gave a soft scoff as he regained himself, tossing his bangs from his face. Almost instantly his tone grew distant and semi-disinterested. “What about him?”

Once upon a time, it had been his utmost priority to weed out heretical zealots preying on society... And yet he found himself an ally to one of these mad cultists in the apocalypse. Perhaps he was simply being irrational in his fear, after all, now was not the time for them to be turning away friends, however temporary.

He had already spent about a handful of hours researching the cult of the so-called elder god of madness. What he found were various snippets of the cult’s appearances at Syntech’s annual Abyss, and their seeming connection to an obscure Inverxe settlement and strong ties to a Mesa-Rojan ‘Uruk’ owned by the Babylonia faction. The online spaces he had found gave him an awful feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, an unease that refused to settle.

“I didn’t see him in any of the news reports, or in the medical ward when I was volunteering.”

Ez frowned, now his voice grew quiet. “Tobias fell while providing myself and Morgan the opportunity needed to vanquish the fallen Arbiter.” His jaw tensed, clenching a few times as his emerald eyes dropped to the rim of the snifter. A misplaced stress-chuckle escaped the noblethem’s throat as he struggled to remain dissociated. “Ruedlen inspired him as a final act I suppose. She was brave until the very end. Warrior priestess and all that... You know how she was. Always knew how to motivate people.”

“Was? You’re speaking like she’s already dead.” The doctor sounded hurt, his thick dark brows furrowing.

“... Israphael... We both saw how bad it was. You know what damage like that means. I’m just not... Entirely sure...” Ezrihel slowed as he noticed Isra’s expression darken dramatically, and frowned deeper in turn. “Ehem. Not that I’m trying to insinuate that you are a poor medic,” he guessed, “but the odds are not in your favor. Davy Jones was a cruel god to face.”

“Besides,” Althaus continued, “why drag her through such a lengthy recovery? Tzalel can perform the rites of Yntaeus and Koneus, repair her frayed threads after the fact.”

Isra’s full lips were pursed into a thin hard line, his jaw clenching for a moment. “And how much of her soul’s memory will be lost if we let her die and be reformed, hm?”

Ez shook his head, utterly perplexed as he scowled at the medic. What was into him, suddenly caring so much about something so menial? “What’s most important right now is that she be returned to us as soon as possible.” He scoffed. “What’s a couple of years lost amongst thousands when her absence hurts us more each and every day?”

“Was that something she told you she wanted?” Came the skeptical inquiry of the doc.

“Oh and suddenly you care more about ethics and dawdling than the efficiency of your treatments!” Ezrihel laughed- no, cackled and guffawed at that notion. “What in the name of the gods has gotten into you? You’re being ridiculous with this nonsense, Isra. You have a job to do, and I expect it to be done promptly and efficiently. You act as though you would know what she wished.”

“I do not presume to know what she wanted done.”

Ez lifted his hand, gesturing at Isra’s expression and getting right in the man’s face. “And whatever ‘this’ is? Get a hold of yourself. ‘Professionals have standards’, isn’t that what you enjoy saying, doctor?”

“And weren’t you the one to preach about ‘honor in ethics’, Althaus?” Isra retorted in kind, softly tapping his pen with an anxious rhythm. “Where’s all that glorious motivation to care about it now, hm?”

“I don’t have the luxury of crystal clear ethics, doctor. In case you haven’t noticed, these gods forsaken Crossroads are in the middle of a galactic, maybe even interplanar catastrophe! You and I both know that you read the reports of Govermorne’s destruction. This is far bigger than your individual qualms and morals.” The inquisitor leaned forward, grabbing Isra by the hand and guiding his pen down to the table. The medic looked abnormally pale and hollow. “Quit fidgeting and listen carefully to my words: as your superior I don’t care about your sensitive ethics. Ruedlen is too valuable to wait on. We need her and her input right now. I am not asking for your opinion on this, I am demanding your compliance and I am expecting competence. Am I understood?”

Isra did not- and could not- meet the aristocrat’s eyes. Instead his gaze focused down, away from his superior because he could feel his face going cold and numb, that tingle in his fingers and twisting in his stomach. He knew his composure was slipping away by the second, his hearts climbing into his throat as he struggled to swallow. It was too much at once, too many intense emotions and thoughts conflicting until it all coalesced into the irritating fuzz of unfiltered, chaotic static. In a mere moment his inner monologue had evaporated, leaving his body unusually catatonic as if the medic had turned to marble.

“I expect things to be ready once the Saerhaus brother comes to you--”

Raphael yanked his hand out from under the aristocrat’s as if he had just been plunged in slime. “Don’t touch me, Ezrihel....”

The noble was confounded and the frustration was becoming increasingly apparent on his face. Then it suddenly all clicked in his head, the revelation dominating his expression before his eyes narrowed. “Ah-- I see... I had a feeling when I picked you two up together. Two officers. Fraternizing. Compromising the function of the crew and this ship. That’s why you don’t want to do your damned job, you’re busy being caught up on your personal emotions.”

Isra abruptly sprang up from his seat, as if to avoid the brutal daggers of the General’s words. He snatched his suit jacket from the back of the chair and yanked it over his arms. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to think about it. “I need space to think.”

“This problem is bigger than any of our personal needs and comforts--”

“Would you do the same thing to Eliza if the need called?” Israphael blurted out in his upset state, voice cracking along with his self-control. He was already storming from the room, lithe fingers tapping on the door’s keypad with a shaky urgency as he made his veiled accusation. “After all, what’s a few years? What’s all their memories of you right now when they may live for tens of thousands more? Just do it all over again!”

The question struck the inquisitor like a sack of bricks to his chest. Something deep inside recoiled in discomfort as his brows pinched together, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Our situations are not the same.”

“You are too selfish and egocentric to understa--”

Ezrihel tossed his crystalware to the floor, bolting up from his chair in a quiet fury. His beautiful visage was twisted by his vehement indignation. ”I am too selfish, Israphael?” He hissed, clutching his chest. “I have lost far more than you could ever imagine for the sake of this.”

“Good.” The hydraulic door slid open and the medic took the three steps necessary to leave. “I’ve lost enough and I don’t care to imagine suffering any more for the sake of whatever this is.”

The inquisitor scowled deeply. “Hurry up and figure yourself out, Israphael. I would hate to court martial you for insubordination amongst other things.” He was answered with the door hissing shut behind the medical officer, leaving him alone in discontented silence. On the floor the shattered snifter remained a stubborn, obnoxious reminder of his loss of face, the fine bourbon and glass wasted across the cold metal like the blood and brains of a homicide victim. He chewed at his bottom lip, still staring hard at the mess he had made. Someone else would clean it up.

“Truly, your incompetence is astounding at times...” Ezrihel grumbled with a sigh, stalking out into the hallway. Isra was too hot to the touch right now, unreachable. He would have to wait before approaching once more, a considerable inconvenience. This was his ship, his crew. He expected them to act in the best interests of it. He expected them to be mature enough to avoid compromising themselves in such stupid ways. As Ez made his exit from the meeting room he was greeted by the waiting form of the resident time-traveler aboard the Phantom Blossom, who was leant against the far wall of the lounge by one shoulder.

Arthur dipped his head, chuckling deeply at the high dramatics that seemed to follow the andromedan general at every turn. “Whatever you’ve said has got him iller than a snake. I suppose the talking didn’t go over too well?”

Ez frowned. “No.” He answered flatly. “But that doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for baby-bellyaching and coddling.”

Morgan raised a brow at the catty complaints and gave a scoff, shaking his head and shrugging. “Coming from you? Must’ve been bad, huh.”

What was that supposed to mean? The andromedan narrowed his eyes at the veiled criticism and stalked off, unwilling to dignify the teasing with a response. He had suffered more than enough disrespect for the day already.

“Oh com’on General. You know I was just messin’--”

“Do me a favor, Morgan,” Althaus snipped tartly over his shoulder, “find something to do and get busy with it-- in fact, you can find someone to clean the meeting room up.”​

 

[Ezrihel]

Isra had barely managed to make it back to the infirmary, barking at his assistants to get out before collapsing in a heap at his gray desk. Again it was cluttered. Again it was disorganized. The sight alone made his psyche ache with an exhaustion that seeped into his bones. More things to do, more evidence of his vast incompetency. All around him wherever he looked he saw the proof, but more importantly he felt it as an internal truth. He was a fucking idiot for falling for her. Stupid stupid stupid! In the middle of a war, when they both had things more important than frivolous carnal comforts and companionship to focus on. Especially when she was high-aristocracy and he was simply gentry. Especially when she was a high priestess, and he was just a medic.

The doctor had repeated this cycle of thoughts many times during their illicit affairs, and every time a nagging voice in the back of his skull poked and prodded at him about all the risks. He knew it was a mistake to subdue that train of thought so often but... by the gods, he had wanted so desperately to hope. Hope that it would work out, hope that it was meaningful and could mean something more, someday.

He scowled and sniffled as he finally picked his head up off the desk. His throat hurt. His chest hurt. He ached deep in the seat of his soul to the point of suffocating. Why? Why couldn’t he just turn this all off? Reach into his brain and flip a switch to halt all of these uncontrollable embers burning his hearts up? Why did his mind have to be a complicated, disordered mess so bad he could barely think? He just wished that it would stop, that it would ALL stop- because he could not parse the actual depths of his emotional agony. All his denials had done was prop him up for a colossal fall from his version of reality.

There was no denying what Ezrihel had said. He was lost in his emotions. He was being incompetent. He was the Chief Medical Officer aboard the Phantom Blossom. There was no one who could simply replace him at a moment’s notice. He had a job to do that was bigger than himself. He was expected to do it well. This attachment to Ruedlen? It was nothing but a hindrance, he told himself, nothing but a distraction that would serve no one well...

Israphael gasped, sucking in a sharp breath as he realized he’d hardly breathed the last several minutes, and wiped at his face. Idly his azure eyes fixated on the softly-glowing horizontal immersion chamber where Ruedlen’s comatose form lay suspended in a thick gel and soon he found himself sitting at her side. Various sensors decorated the woman’s pale gray skin, reading out to a monitor that confirmed she was in a stable but ultimately critical condition. The medic brushed his fingers across the glass above her face, his lips trembling as he struggled to find his words.

“Hey, Rue...” He started weakly. “I...” wanted to say that I lo- no, no. He bit back that thought, slamming his heart shut to it. It was too great an admittance of his loss. “... I suppose that you will not remember me once everything is said and done... Everything we have talked about. Everything that we wanted... The future... Yeah. I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore. It’ll all be gone and over with soon... And yet here I am... crying. Like an idiot. Crying like we both didn’t see something like this coming eventually...”

Isra’s blue orbs pleaded as he looked over Ruedlen’s peacefully still face, a face that was for all intents and purposes that of a dead woman. "But hey. You have a pretty nice sarcophagus right now. Real state of the art like you always joked about wanting, so at least... At least..."

He faltered. There was a wide, yawning cavern of anxiety that consumed him from the pit of his stomach. She was dead. She was already dead and this was his goodbye. In just a day or two's time he would be expected to medically induce her cardiac arrest so that Tzalel could bring her soul back across the veil. More tears welled up as Isra fought to keep his voice and failed. He couldn’t go on trying to keep up a casual façade. A sob choked him up before he managed to break through with a frail whisper. “Gods... What were we thinking, Rue? What was I thinking? What was I thinking? ... Now you’re gone and Ezrihel has figured us out because I cared too much to stay calm. I made another mistake, fearing the fate of your threads, fearing the state of us... Althaus thinks that it is.. more important that you come back to us now...”

He leaned forward to rest his forehead against the glass sarcophagus, taking a few moments to try breathing through it all. The words were getting stuck in his throat, piling up in his windpipe. “Why can’t I fix this?” He sobbed, painfully raw and vulnerable. “Why can’t I fix you, my darling Rue?”

His eyes pinched closed. He knew why. “Koarae grows weary of our time and Yntaeus bored of our story.... Our chapter rushes to a close before I am ready...”

A trio of loud and intrusive buzzes rang out from his desk across the room. Someone was trying to contact him and would have to wait until he got around to actually composing himself. Right now he was busy being content with wallowing and dwelling in his miserable emotional state. The communicator buzzed again and again over the course of several minutes but went purposefully ignored. He had begun to calm, and wanted to be left alone in the hazy half-present TV-static. If it was an emergency they could visit in pers-

!! KNOCK-KNOCK !!​

The medic groaned softly, not bothering to face the door. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as it wasn’t Althaus- and Althaus didn’t bother knocking on public doors. “It’s open.”

“Are you alright my friend?” A warm, mellow voice asked through the crack of the door.

Isra let out a sigh of relief at the sound of Sari’s friendly voice. Oh, thank the gods above and below for his rock, his pillar, his best blue-haired friend. His shoulders slumped as he visibly relaxed. “Hey... Come on in... And dim the lights a bit for me as well, please...”

With little more than the blink of an eye the assassin was standing on the inside of the door without ever having touched the handle. The man’s tall broad form was mostly concealed under the layers of durable robes, and with his cowl pulled over his head, only the beard on his neatly groomed chin was visible. Sari chuckled, obliging the medic’s request with his signature playful smirk. “I certainly hope this is not meant to pass as mood lighting, my friend?”

“Heh. Of course not... I just have a headache.” Raph glanced around the room vacantly. “Have a seat, why don’t you? The assistants left a few stools around...”

Sari was quick to pull up a rolling stool and made himself right at home next to the medic. While the assassin knew his friend to be rather passively morbid and pessimistic, he had seldom seen the man so low even amongst all the years of war. He let out a sharp little exhale and simply smiled. A headache? “It must be one bastard of a migraine then.”

“Yeah well. It is what it is.” Isra shrugged with a lethargic dismissal. He was barely keeping it together, that much was obvious.

"Is that so?” There was a hint of playful skepticism in the Sari’s tone. “Certainly the great and smart medic Israphael has some acetaminophen or caffeine lying around."

The medic rolled his eyes. Leave it to the intrigue chasing assassin to point out the flaws in his excuses. "And you, my blue-haired friend, can certainly pull that cowl down and stay a moment."

"Ah, but you know the look is too stylish compared to those stuffy uniforms you enjoy so much!" Sari chuckled, pointing at Isra's crisp maroon-red uniform.

Isra scoffed, a small bit of energy returning to his expression as the very corners of his lips curled into a little wry smirk. He thought the formality of it fit him perfectly. "I like my uniform just fine, thank you."

"I know, that is why I tease you after all~" Sari murred as he reached up and pulled his cowl down to his shoulders, exposing his handsome features; full lips, a hawkish nose, large attentive aquamarine eyes lined darkly with kohl-black pencil, that borderline irresistible warmth offered in his chiseled visage, and of course his chin length cobalt-blue straight hair. The pale and dimmed sterile lighting of the med-bay did little to help the man’s natural deep warm complexion. Sari’s aquamarine eyes gleamed from under his brows as he maintained prolonged eye contact in a silent battle of wills. He was a man unflinching in his mannerisms, and utterly unphased by the cold aloof personalities he was often surrounded by.

At the moment, Isra hardly offered a challenge of poker face by any comparison, and in fact was soon fidgeting with his stylus. “You know, you could--”

“Do you care to lighten your hearts to me,” Sari eyed his friend, all hints of light-heartedness and silliness suddenly absent, “or... should I start taking guesses at why you sent all your assistants scampering down the halls after your meeting with Master Althaus today...?”

Isra recoiled with a pointed scoff, going cold. “Oh don’t tell me you’re only here to gather information for him.” He absolutely did not want to deal with a game of politics and hushed whispers. “You know how I feel about gossip-”

“Which is why I am not doing that to you.” Sari quickly interrupted, his tone not giving away a single hint of hurt from the accusation. “I would not damage us like that, my friend...”

Isra shook his head and laid a hand on the glass of Rue’s tank in deep consideration. The silence, only pierced by the soft beeps and hums of medical equipment, prevaded the space as the doctor struggled to find his words. It was a Sisyphean task, leaving his mouth dry with each attempt to push the words from his throat. “... Did Althaus brief you on our meeting?”

“No. One of your assistants, Zelena, nearly ran me over in the hallway-”

“I didn’t-- ... I wasn’t that bad, was I?” Isra bit his bottom lip, distinctive and sharp shame coming over him when Sari merely shrugged. A bitter disgust coated his tongue. He had acted like Althaus, explosive and demanding... How would he apologize to Zelena, Contoti, or Malika?

“It seemed major, and by the looks of it, your inability to even talk about it... I am not surprised.” The assassin reached out and gently laid his hand on Isra’s upper arm. “Find your strength, doctor, and get it off of your chest.”

“It’s just--” The words caught in his throat again as he looked up at Rue’s sleeping face. “Althaus needs her back as soon as possible...”

“Ah. You are worried over her threads.” Isra nodded not-unlike an upset child so Sari continued. "My friend, does she not keep extensive restorations? Surely she will take to bonding with them once she is reformed, no...?"

Raph shook his head dismissively with each pause. "It's not that... It's just..." He sighed harshly. "It's just us, you know? Ezrihel figured us out. It's inappropriate, and it would just be better for me and her to not-- ..." He looked at his friend, the helplessness as obvious as daylight on his face as he wrang his fingers. "We are not meant to be... We have responsibilities wholly separate from each other, responsibilities we should not allow ourselves to be distracted from."

Sari studied the man, carefully listening to his words and watching his expression. "... And you feel final about this whole concept? I thought you loved her."

Israphael narrowed his eyes in cynical judgment from his fortress of resignation. "Does it matter at this point? It's not like Ezrihel will suddenly be a-okay with the fraternization because some sort of whimsy about love got introduced.”

“He is more understanding than you might assume.” The azure-haired man gave a small discerning frown. “Maybe he would be willing to hear you out about it.”

“I doubt it.” Isra spat, lips crinkled into a desolate and thin line. “He threatened to court martial me if I did not comply.”

“And your compliance with his request is mutually exclusive from the terms of your relationship?”

“Not everyone’s relationships can be so perfect, Jalal- I--...” Fuck. Isra gasped as he caught himself, his face scrunching up as he winced over his own mistake.

Sari blinked idly a few times before slooowly raising an azure eyebrow at that particular string of words. He hadn’t been called by that name in a long time, and it summoned up memories like grains of sand in a storm, ones that threatened to sweep him away. “Ah, my friend, you distract yourself. We are here to speak of you, not me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry... I know better... I just--” Isra groaned, bolting up from his chair and spinning on his heel. Dread rushed up from the pit of his stomach and threatened to swallow him once more. He always fucked things up, always said the wrong words, always made the same damn mistakes. It wasn’t his place to make external comments about their relationship, especially unsolicited and presumptuous ones like that. He knew better than that, just like he knew better than using a deadname. Gods, was he useless. A mistake on the cosmic ledger, really. Only someone with a massive affinity for ruining everything could or would make this many mistakes in such a short order. He drug his hands down his face and wished that he could rip it off.

Yet what truly dominated his mindscape was the idea of going through the motions with Rue again. Had she made note of the long nights of arguments when she made her restorations? Of the times they had embarrassed themselves in front of each other? Did she make sure to remember the weight of the secrets they’d admitted to between sheets? ... Or would she leave those spots in her memories blissfully blank? Gods have mercy on his soul, but why did Anva need to make everything so difficult in his life? The idea of retreading the same interactions like that with a woman who might only half-recall him made his stomach twist into knots, all sorts of wrong and uncomfortable.

He was snapped out of his lurching emotions when he felt Sari take him by the shoulder and turn him back around. Isra found himself wrapped in Sari’s strong arms as he was pulled into a snug bear hug that resulted in the satisfying wave of crunches and cracks that emanated from his back. Isra clung to him for a moment, swaying on his feet with a level of lightheadedness he hadn’t felt in a while.

“Breathe with me, my friend.” The assassin instructed, holding him close against his stern chest. “Just focus on that, and I promise to not drop you.” It was a feat easier said than done in an instant, but with their chests pressed together in such a firm embrace the doc had no choice but to breathe in the negative space that was left for him whenever Sari exhaled. It took a few moments, but there was a sureness and a steadiness to each breath Sari took that helped soothe the shallow rapid racing of the doctor’s anxious hearts... And part of him vehemently hated to admit it, but it was nice to be held so tightly and physically relax. Eventually Sari helped to guide them back to their seats with a firm hand. “Now... speak when you are ready. Breathe if you get too upset, and focus only on the task of talking.”

“... Was I that bad?” Isra asked. Sari tilted his head a bit, so he elaborated with a little gesture. “You know... The whole breathing thing...”

“Ah... Yes.” Sari answered airily. “I was trying to tell you that I am not upset about the name, but you had a thousand yard stare my friend. You were here, but not very present. I am glad that I can be here to ground you.”

The doctor nodded with a bittersweet little smile and looked down at his cold hands. “Thank you.” He managed. He was silent for a long while after that, just focusing on keeping the rhythm of his lungs steady and relaxing his aching throat. When he finally did speak, his voice was soft and quiet. “Even if she does think whatever we were was important enough to remember in her restorations- and I have spent many nights worrying that it is not- I am not in a position to continue. The relationship... Sari... It’s compromised my integrity as the Chief Medical Officer. Look at me, I’m all bent out of shape over it.”

“Mm. Yes. As evidenced by how your poor back cracked in a thousand places.”

Isra sucked in a deep breath, pursed his lips, then decided to humor the good natured prod with no acknowledgement. “I can’t spend my nights with this ache in my chest, this worry. If we were meant to be... Maybe we wouldn’t need to hide our entire relationship all of the time. I just feel like her dirty little secret...” He shook his head, recentering his thoughts when that red-hot pang of hurt welled up in his chest. “I have a responsibility to this crew, as well. I can’t let myself be constantly distracted like this- useless like this- when so many people depend on me. I have been so incredibly irresponsible... So reckless... It’s my duty to be a good doctor, not entertain pining thoughts of romance.”

“Then you think the ending of you two as a couple is the best course of action.” Sari concluded thoughtfully.

It pained him to admit it.

“Yes.”

 

[Ezrihel]

"Tzalel, my brother, I need for you to perform the rite of resurrection on Ruedlen."

The ghostly aristocrat squinted his solid black eyes and cocked a thick skeptical brow at the General. Sure, he respected the noblethem as his wartime leader, and cared for them as a matrimonial-sibling, but that did not translate into understanding the inner machinations of their mind in any sense. When the aristocrat had demanded a sudden impromptu meeting with him as soon as possible, it had done nothing but raise many notable concerns. "Hm... But I thought my sister was alive and in critical condition? I wasn't informed of any changes to her medical status... Have her hearts suddenly failed or something?"

Ezrihel shook his head, his blonde bangs flicked carefully back into place in the movement. "No, but her recovery is taking far longer than desired in these times. With how grim her injuries are, she might struggle to learn to physically walk again, struggle to feed herself, struggle to talk. There is a limit to the speed of technology-"

"Just as there is a limit to the reasonability of magic, I implore you to remember." Saerhaus reminded in a soft and stern voice.

"... Yes. I am aware." Althaus sighed with an obvious fatigue.

"Then what exactly are you requesting?"

"Isra will bring her out of stasis in such a way as to provide you the opportunity to retrieve her soul while the vessel is repaired."

"You want me to release her soul to the other side?!” Tzalel started, taken aback by the rather appalling request. “Ezrihel, she'll lose memories as soon as the soul departs the body, it could begin to unravel if not done perfectly! How could you expect me to do that to my sister?"

"... Am I the only person on this ship that keeps up with their restorations?” The general snipped. “I know that Ruedlen wasn't expecting this, but we hardly have the comfort to afford this time for her physical recovery. In case you haven't noticed, we are still in a mass conflict and need as many minds and hands on deck as possible. Your sister and her wisdom is beyond vital to us. We need her gifts of foresight, urgently. We need it to keep ourselves as safe as possible." Ezrihel sighed, bracing his fingers against his forehead as if something weighed heavily on his mind.

The Saerhaus man was silent for a long time, his solid onyx eyes liquid mirrors under a clear night sky, deep and dark as he struggled to find the balance between his words and feelings. His memories easily returned to his eldest sibling, Asenath, and how in their hubris they had made a singular devastating ritual mistake that cost the Saerhaus family two members: themself, and their mother Lieba. “I-... Althaus, I don’t think I can do that... Pulling her back and forth across the veil is so risky for the both of us. I don’t feel comfortable after-”

“Your mother and sibling. Yes.” Ez cut in quickly, seeking to nip that fear before it took root. “I understand why, but what happens when we need one of Koneas’ rites performed? Who will walk the path and give guidance to departed souls, you? You know as well as I the damage that awaiting souls are subject to when they have nowhere to escape to.”

Tzalel fidgeted a bit, focused on the amber rose brooch worn at the hollow of the General’s throat. There really was no one who could take Ruedlen’s place in this circumstance. His own knowledge of Konean ritual was paltry at best, paltry enough that he was certain he would incur the wrath of the gods should he dare to attempt. He had spent his life in study and reverence of Yntaeus. He had been the one to tell her she had no death to fear that day. He felt responsible in a way that weighed his hearts and soul down.

"And this didn't step on Isra's toes at all, Ezrihel?" The nobleman asked gently, hesitant and uncertain. He had never been one to pry heavily into his elder sister's life, but he had a certain understanding that she didn't like her time with the doctor questioned, and he was fully capable of inferring the writing on the walls when she acted secretive with him in that way. Of course, Rue had denied anything between the two of them, but that deceitful denial meant little to Tzalel. Perhaps the doctor would be a convincing voice of reason, after all, Isra had brought many of the crew back from the brink in the past. It was easy to respect the man for his stubborn refusal to give up on his patients, even when the treatments called for increasingly difficult protocols. Surely Ruedlen’s critical condition would not be any different-

"He has already agreed to it." Althaus answered bluntly, the medic's compliance fully assumed. Himself and the medic were far more alike than Isra was willing to admit, and if there was anything that inspired action in the man, it would be the weight of expectation and frigid logic. He was a cold hard diamond in that way, concerned with his perfection and perceived flaws.

"Oh, has he? ... Well." Tzalel sighed softly, the faintest glimmer of dejection apparent in his tone- or was that disappointment? "Then I shall not be the branch halting the flow of the stream... How soon until I need to begin the ritual?"

Ez sighed in deep relief, folding his hands in his lap and easing his shoulders as he relaxed. Finally someone else was willing to put the needs of the group ahead of their own personal qualms and moral hang-ups. "Frankly, dear brother, as soon as you are able to, within the next few days.” The aristocrat reached across the table, taking Tzalel’s cold hand in his own gloved ones in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. “Remember, this is for all of us, for our children’s safety. For the greater good."

Tzalel nodded in solemn resignation, the words barely able to leave his trembling lips. "... For the greater good."​