Coping Skills

Things weren’t as clean as Tiarnán usually liked them, but there simply hadn’t been time for tidying, as he repeatedly told himself. His work desk, once finely organized and sparse in its covering, was now drowning in papers with notes scribbled in margins and vast swaths of text crossed out on seemingly random pages within the stacks.

He was distantly aware of the smell of buzzberries and their leaves, as he’d knocked over the jar they were contained in yesterday while seeking a misplaced note. This, too, was unusual, but Tiarnán refused to acknowledge it. There wasn’t time, not if he was to interview every rebel Sidhe on the ship, let alone the two hundred and fifty others aboard.

A wisp caught his attention, fluttering away from his form before it faded away into nothing. Tiarnán refused to acknowledge it for several long minutes, focusing harder on the papers in front of him.

There was potential in Feradach, but his specific, questioning nature would make it difficult for even the winter Sidhe to interview without raising suspicions. If he was a spy, then…no. Tiarnán couldn’t let anything happen, not if he was to keep everyone safe, as he desperately wanted to. Keeva had come so, so close, they’d almost lost her, they’d–

Perhaps a non-Sidhe would’ve cried. Perhaps they would’ve broken down and sobbed at the thought of losing a dear friend, but no, not Tiarnán. Tears could never come. Sidhe mannequins just weren’t built for that.

Instead, a fog had descended upon the room, so thick and fluid that it nearly obscured Tiarnán’s ankles from where he sat at his mismanaged work desk. If he imagined hard enough, it seemed as though his eyes might grow misty and gloss over, as he’d seen countless non-Sidhe’s eyes do when they felt such profound, aching sadness.

Such a simple expression was not in Tiarnán’s cards. He’d learned that many years ago.

Tiarnán didn’t like going to the front lines, but what he’d heard he had to see for himself. It was a small-time soldier who’d said it, laughing despite the haunted look in his eyes.

“So he just flops over, covered in his own blood, like a ragdoll made flesh. Wouldn’t you hate to be one of those bastards?”

“I hear they never come back,” his companion muttered, their affect much more closed off. Tiarnán thought he saw a wisp or two float away from them as they brushed past him, no more cognizant of his presence than they were of the horror they were discussing. “Can you imagine? Dying that way? Never living in Hadreon’s light again?”

The second soldier shuddered, but the first powered on as if emboldened by his compatriot's distress.

“That’s not our problem! No use thinking about things like that, that’s what I say!”

There had been a fuss when Tiarnán arrived at his destination. Ahead of him was nothing short of a magical wasteland where the remains of spells and corpses littered the earth. At the far end of what had once been a field spotted with trees, Tiarnán could see the edge of a crater in which sparks of black light resided. They shot off in random spurts and it was clear that everyone was avoiding the area.

Closer to Sidhe front lines was a glistening patch of black, shimmering in even the late-day sun. Tiarnán knew it to be boiling obsidian, a glass-like substance that would not only burn a person at even the slightest touch but would also absorb them into its depths if they were foolish enough to step on the otherwise smooth ‘puddle’.

Not a single soldier wanted to let the logistics officer anywhere near the area, let alone spend time outside to view the dangerous scene. 

“You don’t belong out here,” they’d say. “Go back to your books.”

Tiarnán didn’t give up, however, claiming he needed to see real battles to understand further the books he worked in and around. Soon enough he was fitted with a helmet and a spyglass, and soon enough he saw far more than he ever wanted.

Never had the Sidhe seen so much blood.

Tiarnán set the paper he’d been looking at down and buried his head in his hands. He didn’t have to see to know more and more wisps were fluttering around him like ethereal butterflies as he drifted from active consciousness to a distant dissociative state. His emotions were running rampant, his very last strands of composure strained and frayed until they were ready to snap. Deep down, he knew he didn’t have much time left before he fell apart, possibly where someone could see it, but…but…

There was still so much to do.

The third regiment was badly wounded, most of them missing a limb or suffering damage to their very spirit, and those were the ones who had made it out of battle at all. Tiarnán wrote missive after missive directing aid to the correct locations, but the imagery that played behind his eyes was at least as horrific as the truth of the matter.

A Sidhe was carried past the logistics tent, grunting sharply in their agonized state, catching Tiarnán’s attention. He walked to the opening of the building, peeking out for a moment just to see more Sidhe soldiers carried past him, their supporters passing by as if Tiarnán wasn’t even there. Except…there were no people on the stretchers, nor were there identifiable bodies. Even the classic Sidhe mannequins had been abandoned.

The only thing the soldiers had retrieved was piles of equipment. Tiarnán realized with a jolt of horror that he’d imagined the cries of the first Sidhe to be brought past him; the stretcher had been empty but for a suspiciously human-shaped group of gear.

Another scream echoed in his ears.

Tiarnán looked for it, his head swinging back and forth in wild motions as he sought the pained cry. It sounded so familiar to him, like someone dear, but why would they…why would they…?

“Keeva…,” Tiarnán whispered, an inexpressible pain gripping his non-existent heart.

Arturus had nearly killed her. It hadn’t been his intention, his will, not truly. That had been Fionn, casting dominate person and giving the simplest, most heartbreaking instruction.

“Fight your friends, Arturus.”

The glow of the ship’s engine cast an ominous backlight as Arturus slowly turned away from the enemy party, his face a mask of impassivity. Arturus twirled his scimitar only once before he struck like a bolt of lightning.

The scream that went up was soul-wrenching and heartbreaking. The roar of rage that should’ve accompanied it never did — Lan was still missing in action. Instead, there were just the scattered cries of horror from the remainder of the party members as Keeva collapsed.

Arturus slid the blade from the summer Sidhe’s middle, a soft shlick sound accompanied by the clatter of Keeva’s mannequin collapsing as her form started to flicker and drift.

Tiarnán struggled to keep his knees beneath him, as they felt like they were made of cracked glass. The fight had to go on, but the winter Sidhe could only see Keeva’s fading form, floating away on an unfelt wind.

In truth, Keeva had been saved, and Tiarnán struggled to remember that fact, even now, days later. Still, the vision hadn’t left him: her body lying on the ground, alone, broken. Her spirit fluttered away each time the image came to him, gone before anyone could reach her to heal the damage her compatriot had wrought.

It haunted him.

Still, Tiarnán knew there was no time to consider the vision, let alone the emotions that came with it. His understanding of the tasks at hand did not keep his hair from floating around him in a globe of watery particles, nor did it keep the fog from thickening about his feet. His hands were shaking, causing a clattering of wood combined with the steady bmp of flesh against his desktop.

He needed to calm down. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was Keeva’s almost death or his unusually solid fingers. In fact, he had several other things he could consider, even if he were to avoid this particular task for…for a moment. Just a moment.

A reprieve, that’s all, the winter Sidhe thought, pushing back his chair and rising from where he sat. I’ll…get some tea, perhaps–no. There is no time for frivolity, I must…I must…

Tiarnán’s thoughts were awash with plans and logistics, but the image of Arturus stabbing Keeva still played on a loop behind his eyes. He felt like he might be sick, but that was a physically impossible task. He didn’t even possess the orifices necessary, not really, and certainly not the organs. What was this feeling?

It was the shell upon his desk top that caught his attention next. It was a simple thing, shaped as if it had come from a small clam, but it glittered gold in the dimmed light of Tiarnán’s room. He couldn’t help but reach for it, thinking of a better Sidhe than he, an absolute beam of sunshine in a world rent with darkness.

Tiarnán fiddled with Naoise’s gifted shell for a few minutes, trying to process his thoughts. It was a simple matter, really. Keeva was fine, they would’ve saved her no matter what, and Arturus was truly a friend; this had been proved without a doubt. He had to focus on these facts, for they were what would see him through the days to follow.

Focus. Yes. I could use something to focus on, he thought as he left his desk, passing by his unkempt tea station with little more than an unconsciously wistful glance. There was simply no time.

Tiarnán left his quarters at a brisk pace, though he worked to walk more steadily and with a calmer affect when he was within eyeshot of another person. The shell he now held like a lifeline was still clutched firmly in one palm, though he tried to keep it out of sight when the act began. The moment he was alone again, the fast, uneven pace returned, as did his fiddling with the shell and his too-solid fingers.

It wasn’t until he reached the area Sorethlyn had set up shop in, for the moment, that he had to put the mask back on and keep his cool — even if that meant slipping the shell away into a pocket somewhere upon his person.

The drakon looked up from his work as Tiarnán approached, a smile spreading across his snout.

“If it isn’t my friend Tiarnán! Have you come to help?” he asked cheerfully.

“I do owe you some time, Sorethlyn,” Tiarnán responded, working hard to keep his voice steady and cool. If the drakon noticed the way his hands trembled without an activity to occupy them, he said nothing of it.

“Come, this way, the work that needs doing is in the back of the shop,” he said instead, gesturing vaguely with a clawed hand for Tiarnán to come closer as Sorethlyn turned away to lead.

Tiarnán gingerly touched Naoise’s shell, now hidden in his pocket. Thinking of the pink summer Sidhe soothed him somewhat, but he hoped that feeling would last through the archival work for the teleporting merchant wizard. It wouldn’t do to fall apart in front of Sorethlyn, no, that would waste far too much time and…and…

Frankly, Tiarnán didn’t want to be that vulnerable. Not right now, maybe…maybe not ever again.

Gods, how he wished Móirín could be here…they had always provided such support, but now…now…

What would they even think of Tiarnán? Would things be…as they were?

He shook the thought off, visibly shaking his head as if to clear the fog within his mind. It would do no good to think about them, not now, not when there was nothing he could do to help them. Not when there was nothing they could do to help him.

“Are you alright?” Sorethlyn’s voice seemed to come from nowhere, startling the winter Sidhe into standing upright, his back as straight as a board. Sorethlyn chuckled good naturedly, as if hoping to put the wizard at ease. “Now, now, no need to get so formal on me.”

Tiarnán gave a slight smile, reaching for the shell again, unable to stop himself. He needed support, he needed to be comforted, he needed…

Nothing.

He needed nothing.

It was more important that the others saw their needs seen to, and there simply wasn’t time for the wizard to fall apart.

There had not been time for a long while, and would not be for a long while yet.

“Perfectly alright, Sorethlyn — just thinking about something I’ve been mulling over for some time,” Tiarnán replied as cheerfully as he could manage. The words rang false even to his own ears.

“Good to hear!” Sorethlyn replied just as cheerfully as before, though a handful of cautious thoughts were brewing in the back of the drakon’s mind. He was not one for fighting, as there was no need to stay when the going got rough, but he felt for the wizard. It couldn’t have been easy, dealing with all that they had lately.

Sorethlyn paused when he reached the table with his archival scripts, pulling out one book full of hand-written information and flipping through it for a few moments before he looked at Tiarnán again.

“I remember now, there’s a great deal of work to be done. Can I get you something to drink while you work, perhaps? Or would you like to make some tea?”

Tiarnán’s smile became a little tighter.

“Today, I’d prefer to just keep working,” the winter Sidhe said, though his thoughts betrayed a much grimmer outlook than his relative calm in the storm that had become his life.

If only today didn’t feel as though it would last a lifetime…