Adrianal arrived to the infirmary with Avada at his side. He looked withdrawn, holding the little baby girl in his arms to his chest with a wide eyed and broken look in his eyes. His red hair was tied back out of habit, his clothes clean out of kindness of his maids. But his blind eyes were blank, hollow, void of emotion or feeling. He took in a shuddering breath, looking warily to Avada now, “I…thank you….for coming with me today….”
Avada had a similarly drawn look to her face. Though her hair shone bright and silky as ever, her black cloak from the previous night hadn’t been changed. Exhaustion tugged beneath her eyes, a tribute to her long vigils at her friend’s bedside. “There’s no place I’d rather be. I’m here for you both, and for your daughter.” She pulled her lips upward in a kind smile that didn’t touch her eyes, the most reassuring look she could muster. “He will wake. Of that I am confident. He just…needs time. As grass seeds lie dormant for the rain, he needs time.”
The paladin seemed to curl in on himself at her words, disappearing inside himself in the emotional agony. But his daughter reached up, a lovely delight of a child with curly brown hair and wide starlit lavender eyes. She tugged Adrianal’s hair and gave a crystalline whine, it made him shudder alive, taking an uneasy breath as he touched her small heart-shaped face. “Okay….” he whispered, voice barely audible. He was a man only living for the child in his arms now, only functioning because she needed him still.
Avada’s eyes deepened in sorrow. She took Adrianal’s elbow and gently guided him along to his husband’s room. The phoenix on her shoulder seemed to sense his handler’s stress. He fluffed himself up, gazing between her, Adrianal, and the baby.
The room still smelled of incense, and by the altar it looked as though a certain spellbreaker had kept his promises, a very chocolatey slice of cake sat on a plate uneaten upon it. But in the bed, Felo’thore had not stirred, the man appeared in an endless sleep, comfortable, his arms placed by loved ones as if he slept casually even. The astromancer was inert as a dormant tree with a jarring scar along its bark. The mark seemed not as red or blotchy as it did evenings ago, but there it remained a reminder of the trauma the man had been through.
I have spent much time contemplating my healing skill and abilities. I have grown in leaps and bounds since I first learned to dull the pain of a broken arm. When i first learned of the Light, when I listened, I did not accept it out of a desire to be better. I did it because I had so little talent in the arcane that i would have eagerly accepted almost anything to replace that lack of talent. In a society where magical talent means much I possess enough skill to do the simplest spells and little more. My strongest spell allows me to conjure candy into existence (and even that comes through an enchanted item.). It took years for me to see the Light as more than the job I accepted whenever I put on my priestly rainment.
It was when I broke my arm I discovered my calling. I could repeat speeches and sermons, repair the armor of my fellows, see the Light, bless things. But the first time I healed I felt my purpose. I left home when i was young and all I desired was a purpose. Not just to be a simple blacksmith, someone big and important.
I am not big or important in the way i had imagined when I was younger. But I am behind the front lines on the battlefield, the face the wounded see. When I call upon the Light to mend the wounds of my allies I find my purpose again and again. I see them walk off the battlefield or leave me restored. I care deeply about all of them, though I don’t imagine all of them understand this empathy. In some small way I am important. The Light gives me power to bestow its grace and kindnesses as well as its blessings. Flesh mends beneath my fingers and pain becomes a distant memory, bleeding men are healed instead of succumbing to mortal wounds.
Which brings me to the title of this entry.
Do no harm.
I entered a tourny competition. In every battle up until that point I’d always been a healer. It is an anomaly when there are to many healers so I always chose to heal my allies and I had joined the Guard as a healer. I fought one of my fellow guard- Avada, swift, burning and fierce. I did not try to inflict harm beyond that of the smallest sorts. I used the Light to tug her hard enough she would stumble or fall, just enough damage to ensure I got a point. Avada is smaller than I am and I have much more muscle than she does. As a healer I knew where I could break her arm, grab her slender wrist and twist, or call on the Light to hit her with the full force of a hammer blow.
But each time such a thought came to mind I recoiled from the idea. I did not know her as a good, close friend but at the same time I cared for her. I would have rather hurt myself than see harm inflicted on her. I won the battle on a technicality only to lose to a paladin from Lorderon- he threw his heavy warhammer at me, not shying back from a win.
When I fought with my fellow guard as demons invaded Sunsail Anchorage I healed them, chanting and praying. They fought bravely and countless demons died at their hands. But I was no fighter and when the group that healed alongside me was besieged by demons I knew I would fall if I did not run. A traitor demon hunter saw me in her sights before I could gain distance and I could see in her eyes that she wanted my blood on her blade.
I knew I could save myself. I knew the Light would come. But behind me and bleeding through his armor, Ethalarian stood upright in his saddle. His back was straight, his jaw set, and he clung to his weapon. It was only the briefest of moments but in that moment I cared for Ethalarian so deeply that I didn’t give a thought to my life. I would not, could let him fall from his saddle.
I felt my strength leave me as I decided, the elation of knowing I was able to heal, that he could possibly walk off the battlefield unhindered. Barely a second after I had chanted I felt pain as my body was thrown into the ground. the sky and the cobblestone blended together as I felt my own blood stain my robes.
I have sworn no oath, no promise, and am not bound by magic or the Light. But I choose not inflict harm. I care so deeply that I do not feel that is something that i remain capable of doing anymore and that making that choice when it is easier to harm is important.
I still craft weapons and items that can inflict harm. but with my own hands, the light and of my own volition, I cannot. It’s not to say that i think myself unable to do so. But it is a choice. I am a healer. I will do no harm, I will commit no injustice, I will speak no bile. The Light gives me its grace and love to restore others, to mend their broken flesh and ease their pain.
I do not think others will understand how much I care. But if they let me heal them do they really need to? Through the Light I have my calling. To heal it to see the glory of the light, to see their smiles as their pain is heartwarming. And for those who remember what i’m done and thank me I find my only reaction is happiness. For there is nothing greater than to tell death ‘not today’. Even if I am forgotten in the infirmary. Is this not the greatest gift the Light can give me?
Tyril Sunspear rushed forward, leaping over the cooling pool and into the great burning flames of the Phoenix Heart. The reaction was instantaneous: his armor melted. His tabard burned, his hair burned, his skin burned. Soon Tyril no longer existed and all that was left of the Knight was a memory. But the well was a creature of its own, a creature of burning passion and unyielding power. Tyril rose anew, and where his skin was soft and pink now bloomed with burning plumage. Where once were hands now rending talons clawed. His eyes burned, his mind burned, his heart burned; he was reborn.
Avada Emberfall felt tears slip down her cheeks as she shielded her eyes from the oh, so radiant light. Her sword went slack in her grip, its flames going silent for the second time that evening. This time, in solemnity.
Eyes shining in the phoenix’s brilliance, she knelt, swordpoint against the bloodstained marble floor. Felo’dracon burst back into flame as the phoenix disappeared, though she did not see it. Her eyes, averted with respect, were closed. Instead, she saw peace.
“You are going to live. Breathe deeply, and relax.”
Despite the lingering bitterness of Thanelor’s potion on her
tongue, pain eclipsed her awareness of self in the seconds that followed as the
mender removed the dryad’s spear that had pierced her gut. Black spots swarmed her
vision and–
Lie still, little
ember; no harm will befall you here.
Losing consciousness was pleasant if only because she beheld
Caliastrasza’s fleeting gaze behind her eyes. She almost regretted coming to
before she could feel its sunny warmth.
Remember,
scale-daughter, that life is a circle. Its balance must always be upheld, or
the rest of the world will crumble. For what is life without death?
That question of balance Avada always found difficult to
uphold. The actions she’d been forced to take weighed more heavily upon her
than the sedative that seemed to press her limbs into the bed. Yet as
Felo’thore, and then Xenus, fell to the druids before her, the question became
nonexistent. Perhaps there was never a question at all.
“I t-tried to reason with th-them,” she insisted mostly to
herself as the priest knit her wounds back together. “They thought we would hurt
them like the L-lllegion. They’d gone m-mad.” Tears pricked her eyes as a
sudden fear did her heart. Shock and blood loss slurred her words and clenched
her jaw. “W-where are Felo’thore and M-miss Everdusk? I have to see them,” she rasped
quietly, struggling to lift her head against the weight of the sedative. “I
have to tell them I’m sorry.”
Thanelor barely glanced away from his work, still focusing on
mending the hole in her belly. “Just relax. The best thing you can do for
yourself, and by extension your friends, is to recover.”
She grew quiet, her sluggish brain recognizing how exhausted
she was even beyond the medication.
When she’d later been left alone with strict instructions to
sleep, Avada wept. She wept for her friends and for the druids she’d killed.
She wept because
Tyleril Silversword 
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