CHAPTER EIGHT

Everything was too warm. Tatsuya clawed at the barrier surrounding him, but his hands stuck to it, suddenly tangled and trapped. He couldn’t breathe. No matter where he shifted or kicked, something was tightening around his legs, pulling taut against his face. A tearing sound and the whisper of cool air jumbled together until his eyes finally snapped open, realising the quick gasps of panic was his.

Both hands were embedded in his cloak like claws, rigid out of fear. The blood from the day before had become rust-coloured stains, sticking to his skin and cheap clothes alike. In his sleep, he had rolled under the bed, the echo of heat maddening when he was still mostly dressed and wrapped in the damned cloak— made worse by the golden, vibrant glow of the sun bathing his vicinity through the bedroom window.

It felt like falling through a fever dream.

Beyond the open shutters, the clouds drifted slowly across the sky, and underneath them, the green leaves of trees danced and swayed in the crisp breeze. In the distance, the sounds drawn to him by the air currents, the villager’s voices could be heard as they went about their daily routines, along with the occasional barking of a dog or the bleating of a goat.

It was honestly chaotic, but he found something about the laughter and chatter—the sounds of children playing, and the smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread wafting through the streets—soothing and comforting.

As he stood and stretched for better flexibility, listening even as his limbs quivered (unused to such exercises), an intense feeling of calm developed in his gut and took flight fully in his chest. His eyelids closed as he drank in the feeling, relaxing a soft sigh in the process. Moments like this were rare, reminding him somewhat of his childhood, and he couldn't help but pause midway through his stretches as unbidden memories wedged their way to the forefront of his mind. Like the harshest tides, they rose and forcefully dragged him back to the reluctant past, to his days in his village, Havenwood, before everything.

Life in his village, despite the relative wealth of Tartaria, was hardly one of leisure and comfort, or even restful slothfulness for that matter. In fact, life among those unfortunate to be born poor and farmers, even during times of harvest, was nothing less than hell; it was one of hardship, pain, and suffering.

Individuals, irrespective of age, had to do back-breaking work as laziness led to starvation.

It wasn't a lie to say it was the same old grind day after day, and the repetition was enough to drive one insane, yet Tatsuya had loved working the land. He had inherited the farm from his father, who had inherited it from his father before him, and even though Tatsuya was barely out of his teens, he had known every inch of it. The land was rich and fertile, and he took great pride in the crops he had grown.

His was a simple life—not so poor as to starve, but not so rich as to enjoy prestige—and, yet, trouble had found him. He knew, though he hoped not with all his heart, that the peace this village, Elmwood, felt wouldn't last, and there was no doubt that the Wind Blades— that he—would be involved in its eventual ruin.

Resisting the urge to sigh, he opened his eyes and turned his attention from the window to the door as a knock sounded. He opened it to see the young boy, one of the twins from the previous night, rolling a small wooden tub into his room. The boy, who he learned was called Finn, left, only to return a few minutes later with a large bucket of water. The innkeeper’s wife, Sif, a short, homely woman, followed with a kettle of hot water, but it was rejected as Tatsuya preferred washing with cold water.

Instead, he accepted the clean pairs of clothes she brought, though they looked slightly worn and small on him. They must have belonged to Finn as the innkeeper’s hand-me-downs would have been too big, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and he wasn't one to be picky.

“I heard most of your belongings were damaged because of the raider’s attack, so here, take.”

He had no belongings—Sif must have mistaken Farah’s surviving belongings as his—but he kept his mouth shut as he was handed a folded handkerchief, bearing a sweet-smelling soap and a small jar, the woman remarking that the foul- smelling liquid within the latter would kill any bugs.

Injuries and filth were a terrible mixture unless one enjoyed an agonisingly slow and painful demise, so once Sif excused herself from the room, Tatsuya waged a personal war against the layer of grime and blood caked on him. He scrubbed himself raw, taking comfort in every forming bruise and burning sensation as they were one less site for infection.

Soon, he was feeling cleaner than he had ever felt in ages, just in time, too, it seemed, as Finn returned with a several rolls of loose strips of cotton (makeshift bandages) and a salve smelling faintly of peppermint—a medicinal salve most likely: a less potent version of a healing potion (purely scientific in nature, or so the scholars claimed), used to supplement the elementals’ minor healing factor.

Shaking off the last vestige of water off his body, Tatsuya plopped himself down on his bed, the clean clothes placed over his lower half to protect his modesty. As he couldn’t go out looking for Jao, or even Rei for such a minor task, Tatsuya chose to wrap the bandages himself while the boy stood by the side, fidgeting in place. It, as always, took more effort than warranted, but—after cheating with some liberal air manipulation—soon, he was done with most of body, his face all that remained.

As it required finesse and he lacked a reflective surface to do it himself, he had to settle for Finn’s help, which, judging from the gawking he noticed through his peripheral—though Tatsuya refused to let it known, to spare the boy the embarrassment— might prove difficult. Still, Tatsuya was not one to skip on something just because it wasn't easy, so he soldiered past the feelings Finn’s reactions rose within him and turned to the aforementioned boy.

With Tatsuya sitting on the bed, they were nearly the same height, yet the former refused to meet the latter’s wide-eyed gaze. The weight of the moment stopped him; left him with just enough strength to try and convince the boy.

“Do you mind giving me a hand with this?”

No response came immediately.

“I could have done it myself if I had a mirror or something of that nature with me, but I don't, and it would be hard to arrange the bandages around my face neatly without such,” Tatsuya added.

Finn bit his lower lip, most likely torn between the natural inclination to obey an elder and the learned aversion to be near and potentially touching oddities. People, especially children, weren't known to be usually fond of those considered less attractive despite the state of the world demanding the normalisation of scars.

Everyone had them, yes, but there was no doubt in Tatsuya’s mind, his was particularly excessive. The boy had likely not seen anything close to it.

“I…don’t know,” Finn muttered, looking stiff and uncomfortable with his arms around himself.

Sigh. Maybe he had overestimated his persuasive ability.

“Yeah…” He trailed off, racking his brain for what to say. When an idea popped into his head soon after, he resisted the urge to sigh again. It was honestly not the best, but at such short notice, it had to be enough. “It's…because of my scars, isn't it? You are wary of them.”

“No…”

“Do you want to know how I got them?”

“… No.” The word came out strangled, yet rushed.

The dismissal stung, but Tatsuya didn't let it dissuade him.

“Then, please help me wrap the bandages around them.” Before Finn could speak, he continued, “You don’t even need to do much—just make sure it's neatly and properly placed around my face. That's all.”

“I…” A myriad of emotions crossed the boy’s face before settling on wary resignation. “Okay.” The set of his shoulders dropped in time with his affirmation before he drew closer.

Finally, Tatsuya dared to look Finn in the eyes and immediately regretted it: this close, he could see that horror had shedded the boy’s innocence, leaving green tingeing his cheeks at the sight of his scars—the numerous lines and splotches of faded silvers and bright reds seeming more apparent than they were due to the intensity of his gaze.

Tatsuya tried to look on the bright side. Maybe it would serve as a wake-up call to the boy that the life of the Wind Blades wasn't all it was cracked up to be and that if Tatsuya, a new member, looked this fucked up, what about the others? He knew they didn't look as bad as he did, not even close, but Finn didn't know that and probably never would, so his imagination would run wild.

A part of Tatsuya was banking on it.

The moment they wrapped the last of the bandage, the boy all but ran from the room, almost forgetting to remove the tub, and finally alone, Tatsuya didn't waste time releasing the feelings he held in the form of sharp laughter. His body was a disgusting sight to see, and despite already accepting his scars for what it was—physical reminders of his ordeals with his nightmares as mental—his stomach had still dropped with displeasure at Finn’s reaction, and he couldn't help but replay the incident continuously in his mind.