@spirit-tigress / spirit-tigress.tumblr.com
"Now you’re just speaking gibberish-"
"WHAT IF MILLIA HAS A STROKE?"
"T-THAT’S YOUR LINE OF WORK!! HOW SHOULD I KNOW?? THIS IS YOUR FAULT, SO DO SOMETHING FAST"
"I-I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO."
"CAN SPIRITS GET STROKES?"
"H-HOW MANY FINGERS I AM HOLDING UP?"
"Hmmm... Fifteen potato."
"Ah, well I sat down for some tea with Rowen and Alvin, and the very next day my vocabulary appears to have been noodledeckin’ every time i asscurtain."
"Proud of you~"
"DON’T BE PROUD-"
"Y-YOU ARE SPOILING HER HOLY VOCABULARY!"
"Yes! My holy pubetable! Ivar's speaking tootsiepoodles."
"I’ve take it you learned some new, "lingo."from Alvin, right? I think I heard him use that before."
"What in the world are they teaching you, Lady Milla?"
"Ah, well I sat down for some tea with Rowen and Alvin, and the very next day my vocabulary appears to have been noodledeckin' every time i asscurtain."
”..Bomb diggidy?”
”..Is that supposed to be a good thing?”
"The what?"
"It's a good thing. It speaks volumes of your diddledong ping pong ball."
"That’s too bad."
"I don’t think Millia appreciates handmaids who lack self control."
"N-no way! I bet she doesn’t appreciate crude, lying phonies either!”
"That's not true, Jude. I think that shindig's the bomb-diggidy."
The knowledge of different worlds wasn’t uncommon these days, nor was the means to travel between them. Traversing time and space itself seemed an outlandish concept for most humans, however; but not for the Lord of Spirits herself. In fact, the very notion had proven to be quite addicting. It wasn’t all fun and games, mind; she did have a purpose wherever she went. But it was just so fascinating seeing all these different cultures and places, as if a distant breed to Rieze Maxia and its neighbour. Despite all their dissimilarities, they were still fundamentally the same.
This trip in particular had taken Milla Maxwell to a world called Auldrant. It had taken her a while to get settled; a few terms had been hard to grasp at first, for instance. But eventually, she managed to mingle well enough with this world’s inhabitants.
Not so much with the wildlife, however.
Only a few days after her arrival, Milla had found herself stuck in a field that seemed to stretch on forever. She’d come to the conclusion that she’d simply taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up elsewhere than intended, but she’d been too preoccupied to recall which path to take from there – the beasts of this place just wouldn’t leave her alone. Be it due to her scent or their natural tendencies, there had been a continuous assault since she stepped foot outside human civilization; sometimes too relentless for Milla to handle on her own.
One such moment was now. She wouldn’t be in much of a position to request audiences with leaders of this world should she end up in the maw of a wolf, so all she could do was fight – but there were so many of them!
Milla’s breathing was getting somewhat heavy. She’d been given a moment to regain her stance as the pack slowly circled around her, treating her like a prey, some tasty morsel to snack on. But Milla had other plans, and no matter what they did to her she would stand right back up again. Their deaths would be an unfortunate means to carve her path, but she simply had no choice.
What Milla didn’t know was that she’d stepped right into their territory, and the entire pack was ready to fight her off to the death.
okay listen up babes
tomorrow my immensely gay twin will arrive in sweden and she’ll be here for about three weeks and also attending a con with me on the 24th. SO posts may be scarce but i’m making sure the queue is doing its job. for rp blogs, i’ll attempt to do replies if i have any, but don’t be surprised if i’m not crazy active.
Solid.
Her hand was warm and pressed against his, a physical sense of finality drawing over him. His eyes fixed on where their fingers met, moving to clasp her hand with all the realness it offered; within him it still didn’t seem like it could be possible, and yet somehow it was and all he could think to do was drown himself in it.
Finding her face again she was smiling more than he’d ever seen her smile before, and his arm reached up to pull himself even closer, as if the arm at his back wasn’t enough. It was surreal, unworldly almost, and the warm glow radiating off her grazed his hardened soul and chipped away at each hardship after hardship he’d struggled through after she’d left; it felt like going back in time, now, seeing her here like this - it was as though she hadn’t changed at all - except somehow she had, treating him so kindly, and while back then he might have swelled with pride it now only made him weep more.
Her words of comfort let go of whatever he was holding back, and his knees began trying to fall out from under him; he refused to let go of her, his arm still hung stubbornly and selfishly around the back of her neck. He clung to the contact as though it was his lifeline - it almost felt like one, and very nearly could have been; he’d thought working hard would get him through losing her, but seeing her now made it more clear than ever that he’d never taken a single step forward. It didn’t matter anymore, though, because she was back, she was here, and he could return without a single drop of hesitation to the life he led before; he’d follow her to the ends of the world, and this time, he would never let her out of his sight again.
"Lady Milla," he breathed again, snivelling, weight slowly pulling her down as he refused to stop clinging, "H-how are you here? I… I thought you were…"
So he hadn’t heard...
Milla contemplated how to address this. A lot had happened since last they saw each other, and if Ivar had truly believed her to be deceased, he must not have been informed of anything that’d transpired after her death. The best approach would be to explain it all from the beginning, a regrettable choice for someone in such a hurry. But Ivar was in no state to protect the village without the guidance he’d lost, and he deserved to know if it would put his mind at ease.
As she gazed into his misty eyes, so filled with adoration, Milla wondered if she really had been too hard on him – if this was all because of her. She’d been so focused on her mission; and with good reason, as she knew Ivar understood. But it had often led her to hurt her human friends, when they were the help she’d needed all along to finish her task. It had taken her so long to understand what made them tick, what was important to them – and what made them fight like she for her mission. By relating like that, they had all grown so much stronger in the end; but Ivar? He had constantly placed his duties elsewhere than ordered, much to Milla’s frustration. But perhaps it hadn’t been up to her to choose his mission. Perhaps, much like Jude, he wanted his purpose to involve assisting Milla with hers.
For all his hard work – despite straying from his assigned duties – Milla supposed she could give him the time required, considering the circumstances.
Holding onto Ivar’s arms to steady him, she lowered both of them down to the floor. Once they were both seated, she began her long-winded explanation; she told him of how she had lost her human body, how she was never truly Maxwell. She told him of how she'd been used as a pawn in someone else’s game, but how she had overcome it and fought for her mission until the end – how she in the end became the Maxwell the villagers of Nia Khera had worshipped all this time... and how she could never return. This brought her to the current conundrum. Milla had no clue what had caused this new breach, but had hoped to find some information in Rieze Maxia, and that’s why she’d come back; temporarily.
“So you see, Ivar”, she said. “I can’t stay. I was hoping to do this quietly without involving anyone else, to spare them the weight of goodbyes. That way, I could find the anomaly and dispose of it, then return to my duties as Maxwell.”
She looked up, searching his eyes.
“I’m sorry for everything that I put you through, Ivar. I know you were only trying to help, and I ended up causing you great pain.”
Alvin’s fragile luck held; there was a sudden tugging on his sleeve. With his free hand, Alvin seized the hand that held him and pulled. There was little leverage atop the snow, nothing to brace against, but a little blind strength and desperation helped him unearth someone from the layers of heavy powder.
Alvin didn’t make it to his feet. He fell to one knee, and crouched before him covered head to toe in clumps of snow was Milla Maxwell. Alvin realized, distantly, he looked much the same. Snow clung to his coat, and sweat was already freezing against his forehead.
With his breathing heaving and cold air prickling the back of his throat and the insides of his lungs, Alvin could only hold out Milla’s missing glove as way of greeting. It wouldn’t do her any good for warmth, but it was all Alvin had. He was freezing as it was, and he wore layers beneath his coat.
"Good of you to drop by," said Alvin. "Divine timing. You in one piece?"
She didn’t appear injured, but it was hard to tell through the gloom. She wore a literal cloak of snow, and that was more worrying to Alvin than anything else. He ran a hand through his hair and cringed when half-melted icy slush dripped down his neck.
"I think I can feel my muscles freezing solid. We gotta get outta this weather before we turn into ice cubes."
Fresh determination filled Milla’s lungs at the solid touch; she didn’t know whose presence had just come to her aid, but it mattered not. There was no other remedy for her situation at this point and so she gratefully accepted the assistance.
As she was pulled up, it felt like another avalanche – small this time – rolled off her shoulders. There were clumps of thick, powdery snow all over her; in her hair, in her clothes, melting into frigid water on her skin. This was when Milla felt her senses return, and as soon as her knee hit solid terrain she doubled over in violent shivers. She only looked up once her glove appeared in the corner of her eye; as she took it, she found Alvin’s eyes and tried to focus on what he was saying. His voice seemed distant somehow, and Milla had a feeling it wasn’t because of the storm. All she could catch were the words “get outta’ this”, so to that she nodded; she had no idea a simple nod could be such a chore on the body. Had she really pushed herself that hard trying to break free of the snow? Or was it the cold itself, burrowing into her nerves and holding her back?
Such force, Milla thought.
She didn’t bother reaching out for support; chilled bones or no, she wouldn’t let that stop her from something as basic as standing up. And true enough; with some willpower she shook herself to her feet. Stiff as a pole, Milla simply stood there for a moment and gathered her thoughts. Every quivering breath felt like an eternity, even though she had only been on her feet for mere seconds.
“Yes”, she finally squeezed out. “We should find some cover.”
She didn’t feel quite present, but her state was unreadable from her tough exterior. The only visible component was the intense shivering; it wouldn’t settle down and it made her not only lightheaded but also drained.
With the first sluggish step, Milla’s thoughts went to their other companions. She looked off into the distance, solemnly hoping they hadn’t been buried without anyone there to help. With all this snow, however, there was no way to find them and get out in one piece; she just had to trust in their abilities and believe that they would see each other again. For now, she and Alvin had more pressing issues – the wind was howling wildly, like a wounded wolf about to deal its last blow. If they didn’t find a place to keep warm soon, they’d freeze to death.
Milla raised one hand. With a twitch, Fireball came to be of use once more; only this time it was smaller, and hovered above her open palm like a firefly. It didn’t offer much light, and with every snowflake darted towards it, it flickered – but it was warm, and might provide them with some comfort until they found something better.
M!A: you are now ivar's handmaid, and ivar is the lord of spirits.
tHAT’S PERFECT IT ‘S SO ON
"C-CHICKEN?? YOU IMBECILE YOU HAVE MURDERED ONE OF OUR OWN. AND YOU CALL YOURSELF MY HANDMAID? GO TO THE TIME-OUT CORNER THIS INSTANT"
"I don't understand. I'm sure I heard Sir Ivar say very clearly that he loves chickens. My apologies, Lord Maxwell! I appear to have done you a disservice, and I'll learn from my mistake."
"It seems I will have to get rid of the entire week's worth of roast chicken."
M!A: you are now ivar's handmaid, and ivar is the lord of spirits.
tHAT’S PERFECT IT ‘S SO ON
"Make it snappy!"
"Lord Maxwell, I have returned with your sustenance. Will this roast chicken do?"
M!A: you are now ivar's handmaid, and ivar is the lord of spirits.
tHAT’S PERFECT IT ‘S SO ON
GO FETCH ME SOMETHING TO EAT
"Yes, Lord Maxwell. I will prepare a feast right away!"
The way she stood there smiling softly, radiant as ever like in his memories and his restless dreams, felt out of place against the layer of dust on every surface around her. It was a stark contrast that made seeing her feel even more painful, and he questioned why he’d ever tried coming back here in the first place. It was bound to happen - he couldn’t escape from his memories, not anywhere else, and certainly not here. Even if she wasn’t really here, somehow seeing her look so real left him breathless, as though not breathing would stall the moment in time before she disappeared into nothingness once more.
Except that moment never came, and her voice reached his ears.
He jolted, the sound being far more real than disjointed pieces of his scattered memories, and he stared at her now with newfound intensity and bewilderment. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible. How much longer did it have to go on? She was dead, dead, so there was no way she could have been standing there. Yet it felt so real, the way her gaze pierced right through him, the presence only Lady Milla could command, the sound of her boots against the wooden flooring. He stood, petrified, nary a sound leaving him.
She raised a hand towards him, smiling softly, and more than anything he wanted to give in and raise his hand to meet her. How long had it been since she left? How long had he been trying to forget about it and leave her behind? He couldn’t leave her behind. The harder he tried to, the more weak he became, and it felt as though each attempt to became stronger only backfired. He wanted to give in. If living in the past meant seeing Lady Milla like this again, then he would have given anything, anything, to see it be so. He was so tired of fighting it. Ivar was so tired.
He knew the minute their hands met she would disappear, and he looked into her eyes, keeping still. She was always so hard to read. Immovable Maxwell, mysterious, yet with the usual stern tinge in her steely gaze replaced now with only warmth. He wouldn’t let her go, not this time. It was a nice thing to see. If he didn’t let her out of his sight, maybe she could stay a while, and just for a day he could pretend nothing had ever gone wrong. She’d leave when he awoke, from whatever this was, or maybe he’d passed out on the way up to the shrine, but it was all the more reason to stay for a while. He couldn’t bear to see her go. Not again. Despite being impossible it felt so real, like losing her now would be worse than her dying a second time.
Her hand brushed his shoulder, sending shivers down his spine and goosebumps crawling up his arm. A phantom touch, like a feather faintly brushing against soft skin, a gentle caress in smooth moonlight, something no memory could have ever given to him, moved to a small touch at his back. It felt ethereal, and tingled, like something slowly stirring to life with a touch of magic.
It wasn’t possible, but it was - somehow, some way, she was here. She was here.
It hit him like a brick wall.
"L-Lady Milla!" The arm around him was solid, and the body that found his own was warm and there and real, despite being impossible, but he wouldn’t yet question how. She was here, and it was too good to be true - he could not believe it, but he had to. He had to believe she’d come back, because no contact in his life had ever felt less real but more solid simultaneously. He didn’t know when the tears started falling, trickling down his face in huge, streaky messes, or when her chin found the top of his head. It was so secure, so reassuring, and Ivar felt like a child sobbing with no way to stop himself.
Raising a hand, tentatively, he sniffed, reaching for Milla’s other hand. Part of him was afraid to touch it, still scared of this all being a figment of his imagination, wishful thinking that she would return so easily - but he had to know, he had to know if she was real, to feel real, solid fingertips beneath his own, his fingers grasping weakly at the air.
At the sound of Ivar’s pained sobs, Milla was overcome with a variety of emotions; too many to decipher all at once. One was an odd conjointment of serenity and happiness. There was a certain relief to her embrace being accepted; once the distance was closed and the boundaries broken, again came the feeling of belonging, again she felt some semblance of normality. But that wasn’t all. A certain tightness in Milla’s chest dissipated, as it seemed Ivar wasn’t angry with her at all. With this, however, came the subject of her curiosity.
Why wasn’t he angry with her? And what had happened to him to spawn such fractures in his old self?
But perhaps such things were of no concern right now. Ivar wept out his suffering into her chest, and Milla would be no Lord of his should she not allow it. Of course, she had never meant to actually hurt him. It had never been a plan of hers to ruin him so; be it through her neglect, her forged identity, or anything else. She had merely meant to look out for him in the way she thought he needed, at the time.
For so long, Milla had known little else but the words in her books, the worship from the villagers, and Ivar. And as such, he had known little else but her, and only her. She had thought it would be in his best interest to grow away from her, to build himself up and move forward without her presence always lingering. She had truly believed this was how he’d be able to grow strong. But all this time, had she miscalculated? Had she done him a great disservice, and broken him in the process?
No. Ivar wouldn’t break. Milla had faith in him. He had merely lost his path, and he would find it again.
The smile gracing her face now was wide and proud. To still his sobbing, Milla moved her hand to pet Ivar’s head; the silver strands felt like twigs beneath her fingers. To still his insecurity, she moved her other hand towards his. They met softly, yet with resolution; resolution which tinged every movement of hers, like there was no other way for her to move, to breathe, to exist.
Ivar’s rickety hesitation, meeting Milla’s steely resolve.
“It’s alright”, she mumbled into his hair.
You’re going to be fine, she thought to herself.
M!A: you are now ivar's handmaid, and ivar is the lord of spirits.
tHAT'S PERFECT IT 'S SO ON
"Neither of us are special. Not yet anyway, Ivar."
It haunted him. Evey step of the way, the words haunted him, mocking him, a constant reminder in his head that Jude was so much more than he’d pegged him for. Jude, with his big head, became stronger and stronger to the point where he could no longer be beaten. Moved forward so far no one could catch up. Jude only won because he’d become something, and Ivar couldn’t win because he was less, and would probably never win until he became something better.
It shouldn’t have been hard. Without Milla there was no reason to stay in Nia Khera, as he’d already failed his duties by letting the village be attacked - there was hardly anyone left to miss him. He’d vowed to find something to latch onto, to prove himself, to come back later and find Jude and beat him and show him once and for all what he could do - though part of him suspected he’d never do it, never look Jude in the eye again, and if he did, would still lose.
He felt like a sail with no wind to steer it.
From the earliest age he’d been chosen to be Lady Milla’s handmaid. It was his pride and joy to serve her, to devote his life to her, and he’d never thought of imagining what his life would be without her. She was invincible, she was Maxwell, and he’d never thought something like a sinking ship could snatch her away from him forever - no thanks to Jude - but the world was not what he’d pegged it to be, and the odd job here and there was neither satisfying nor enough to become stronger. To move forward. Because he still thought of her, every day, and wondered how things could have been different.
He would always be stuck on her. Ivar slowly came to realize that, unlike Jude, he couldn’t move on.
He couldn’t prove anything to anyone, anymore, and there was no reason for him to stay away. Instead of returning to Nia Khera with triumph, ready to defend the village for his own sake, he crawled home with his tail between his legs, like someone utterly defeated. In a sense, he was. Money had been scarce on the move, so he hadn’t eaten much; he hadn’t had much of an appetite, either. Picky eatings slimmed down to barely anything, and nights were long and sleepless. Half of him just went on in the past, because it was the only place of safety he could find. Back when Lady Milla stayed in her shrine, and Ivar quietly moved about cleaning it, before there were other worlds and phonies to screw them up. Simpler times. Nicer times.
Nia Khera had become a bit more lively with his help before he’d left, and upon returning it was clear they were moving on fine without him. It was like a kick in his stomach to realize that the entire world could move on. That everyone could lose Milla Maxwell and move onward, that the world could keep turning without her, that people could go on with their daily lives without a hint of regret. He couldn’t. He didn’t know why he was stuck, but he hated it. He was driven to the point of madness by it. Why was it everyone but him?
Growling to himself he kicked up dirt in frustration, sending a rock scattering a flock of grazing chickens screaming. The air didn’t feel clean like it used to, but stifling and oppressive, and the bewildered stares of the new townsfolk only told him they had no idea who he was; but why should they know anymore? Without Lady Milla, he wasn’t anything. Nothing special. Not Ivar the handmaid, not Ivar the defender of Nia Khera, not Ivar the anything. Ivar the nothing. Just Ivar.
"What do you want!?" He screeched, sending the villagers scrambling away. He didn’t care what they did. It was clear they were getting on fine without him, anyway, so even if he did think to take up his old duties again, would they even need him to sort out their problems anymore? What was the point of cleaning the shrine of someone who would never return home because she was dead?
Sighing, he looked wistfully at his house; the fight left him, and he turned to head out of town. He wouldn’t return home until he visited there, first. He would clean it every day because he had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to, and even in her death he’d keep it clean for her, because he was her handmaid. There was no other job. The Chimeriad was no place for him, the life of a traveller was no life for him - there was only one thing he was born to do, and now he knew he would always be stuck there.
The shrine was unkempt, and seeing it that way filled him with too many emotions to sort out. He was enraged that no one in the village thought to keep Lord Maxwell’s shrine clean; but it was a painful reminder that it was his job to do so, and he’d left. He’d failed her so many times, now, and her dirty shrine in front of him was the proof of his failures.
He was sure, though, that something was amiss. He could have sworn he’d seen the door closing; maybe someone was cleaning it, at least on the inside. Someone had begun doing his job for him, despite there really being no job left to do. Ivar looked aside into the trees, listening as the sound of wind whistled through the clearing. What was there left for him to do? He grasped but found no answer, his feet carrying him forward on instinct. Never before had he been so hesitant to approach her shrine, but somehow now that he knew that he had lost, it felt so much harder to reach the door. He didn’t know what he expected to find but a room covered in dust, dust he should have been cleaning, but he did it anyway. There was nothing to lose.
He didn’t expect to find himself hallucinating.
"Why?" He croaked, eyes never leaving the apparition in front of him. He couldn’t escape her, he’d tried over and over to leave her behind, but instead she pulled him back and kept him there and when the sight of her should have been relieving, he knew it wasn’t possible, and it felt more than ever like his very existence was being mocked. “Why won’t you let me go?” The words became stuck in his throat, then, unable to pull them out from where they’d been buried too long.
Lady Milla.
The state of the interior was sad, in a way, as if forgotten. But the shrine was still standing; Maxwell was still standing. A little dirt was a shame indeed, but also a wistful reminder that Milla wasn’t needed there anymore.
Her thoughts were cut short as the door creaked open, and she was once more met with the sound of mingling nature. She hadn’t expected any company at all during her investigation – especially not at such a remote place – so Milla was somewhat taken aback by the unforeseen intrusion. She ran one hand through her hair as she flipped it over her shoulder, turning to greet her visitor. Her breath hitched. She knew who it was before even catching a glimpse; that voice was unmistakable.
It was like going back in time. There she was, Lord Maxwell, by her lonesome in her comfortable shrine. In came Ivar to perform his duties as her handmaid, as usual – a routine moment throughout the years. But it was merely an illusion. Milla’s sight shifted back to the present, and she looked upon Ivar now with surprise and curiosity. It was not a usual day, and this was not the usual Ivar. As she got a closer look, Milla realized he was just as unkempt as her shrine; as if her leaving meant leaving everything she had ever touched in a state of damage.
He was dirty, his hair and clothes not nearly as neat as before, and he appeared affected by improper nutrition or an insufficient diet. But that wasn’t the worst part. When Milla’s eyes met his, she felt they lacked the life they had once possessed. It made Ivar look like an empty, broken husk and it pained her.
But even more so, his voice pained her. His words sent a twinge in her chest and Milla broke into a sympathetic smile. Her first thought was to comfort him through cuddling, like she had once practiced on Jude. She had never before seen Ivar in such a state, however, and wasn’t sure how he would respond to touching. Perhaps it would have to wait. After all, she had continuously pushed him away – albeit for his own sake – and then vanished without a word of thanks. He would be rightly cross with her, and Milla needn’t make things worse by attempting to console him. Yet despite all this, anger didn’t seem like the right word to describe it.
Something seemed off about the way he looked at her, somehow. Had he not heard that she’d returned? Perhaps he had knowledge of the fact that all this time, he had served a fake Maxwell? It was hard to say. She just didn’t want to see him like this. She didn’t want to see him lost, with so much to give and so many human years left.
But despite not knowing what to do or how to approach him, Milla had to say something eventually.
“Ivar”, she started, watching as her voice seemed to make him flinch.
She took a few steps forward, until she was close enough to touch him. She then reached out her hand, initiating contact without actually overstepping any potential boundaries. A maternal smile tugged at her lips, and she waited for any signs of Ivar repelling her advances. It faded somewhat as she met his eyes once more, sensing the pain and the vigour long adrift.
She really should have waited a moment longer, but was struck with selfishness unlike her.
Milla’s outstretched hand met Ivar’s shoulder in a light touch before moving around him. As she placed her fingers on his back and pushed him towards her, she thought of the dishevelled shrine, the messy silver hair, and knew those weren’t the only neglected things there.
Ivar had stopped cleaning his own interior and left his soul untended to.
Perhaps it wasn’t the right gesture of her, but Milla hoped that the soft strokes of her hand on his back would be a sufficient payment for all the times he’d cleaned and cared for her. She knew not how to clean up the mess in someone’s heart, but in her journey towards understanding humans she’d realized that once lost, it was best to return to the basics.
A blast of cold wind seared through the fabric of Alvin’s jacket; he swore a low oath to himself and crossed his arms over his chest, a shiver rippling across his shoulders. Snowfall had been getting uglier and uglier by the minute. Visibility was poor enough that the little group had to huddle together as they trekked, shoulders bumping and tripping over each other’s heels, just to make sure they all stayed together.
It was suffocating, this weather. The sky was trying to bury them, and Alvin had no breathing room. He’d been at the back of the group between Rowen and Leia, but they were too close and Alvin had begun to feel smothered around the time his fingers had started to lose sensation from the cold. Not long after, Leia had lost her footing and nearly choked him grabbing onto his scarf for purchase.
Alvin had made his way towards the front, because if he stood beside Milla, he’d have at least one free side. And Milla, Alvin figured, wouldn’t try to grab onto his scarf if she lost her balance.
Their silence wasn’t a comfortable one—but Alvin hadn’t been comfortable in days. They would face Gilland in mere days, and no matter how confident Milla was and no matter how much faith Jude put in Milla, they didn’t know what they were up against. They couldn’t. Gilland was as easy to grasp as a hand full of water, and even Alvin couldn’t say for sure what they’d face.
Though the gloom, a rumbling sound filled the spaces in the air between the falling snow.
"Was that thunder?" Elize said, her voice high with alarm and shaky with cold.
"No," said Jude. "No, it can’t be. That’s—"
The snow lurched beneath Alvin’s feet; he let out a wordless yell, his arms pinwheeling as he tried to keep balance. The ground moved again, and Alvin’s hand closed around the first thing he could find: Milla’s arm.
He didn’t have to hear Jude scream “Avalanche!” to know it was true. The sound that filled his ears wasn’t the screech of wind; it was the deep relentless snarl of the world trying to bury him. Alvin had enough time to watch the world tip sideways before it blackened. All he knew then was rushing, of the snow, the screams of his friends—distant—and the roar of white-noise in his ears.
Later, Alvin wasn’t sure how long the avalanche writhed around him. He wasn’t sure if he’d been conscious the whole time, because the next thing he remembered was blessed stillness. The wind sang around him once more, and the world did not move beneath his feet. He was cold enough to hurt—or maybe he was hurt beneath the cold. He lay at an angle, his head and shoulders exposed to the elements. The rest of him was encased in snow—and there was something clenched in his fist.
Alvin lifted his head and pulled—Milla’s glove, just her glove, was in his grip. Alvin looked wildly from side to side and found no one immediately visible.
"Milla?" said Alvin. His voice was lost to the wind. He kicked at the snow, wriggling to pull himself free. Milla had to be close—surely she couldn’t have been separated from him from the start, not if he’d been holding onto her glove. "Milla!" Alvin’s muscles ached with cold and made his movements stiff and erratic. He scrambled to his knees and began to bat at the snow, as if he’d be able to dig through enough of it to find someone.
"Come on Maxwell," said Alvin. "I could use a little divine intervention right about now!"
Nature had been a relentless force this day.
It had been a battle and a half, trudging through the snow while simultaneously keeping an eye on the group. They had clearly shown some signs of fatigue, earning Milla’s concern as she’d trusted her companions not to fall over – and to catch whoever might.
Blinking through the chilling assault – like tiny spear particles against her exposed skin – Milla had kept a resolute eye on the road ahead, slowly but steadily trekking through the pass with her companions in tow. From time to time, she’d heard their voices as if somewhere far away; any attempt to speak over the onslaught of the storm had been silenced and the only thing they could have done was walk.
But even with that steadfast determination, Milla had felt her balance warp and leave her as the first blow hit them. In fact, had Alvin not thought to grab hold of her, she might have fallen. It had been a dreadful realization, to become knocked back without any fighting chance, without any manner of being to protect oneself from. But she’d been standing nonetheless, thanks to Alvin or not. Having regained herself after that short recess in her body and mind, Milla felt herself shout but heard nothing.
“Everyone take cover!”
It had been of little use; she’d been thrown off the cliff like a puppet of the wind. In the end, the ringing in her ears overcame her and she lost sight of where she was. Darkness had violently enveloped her and she battled against it tooth and nail, with little use. She swam through rumbling eruptions of the suffocating earth, like trapped in an aggressive river herding her towards a waterfall.
Milla bit down hard, refusing to succumb to this force that was not her enemy, but every tiny movement was a struggle. It brought her back to the time when she could do nothing but crawl, and it enraged her to be put in such a position again.
Then suddenly, it stopped.
She must have hit something.
Milla waited for a moment, listening for any of the others. But she had to cut it short as she felt the lack of oxygen burn in her throat. She was barely able to dig in her position – she didn’t even know how far buried she was – but she couldn’t by any means allow herself to end here. If she had Efreet, she would have been able to break the icy husk, but she had to settle for her other artes. Fireball was of great comfort at a moment like this, and while not Efreet, it could still melt a hole through her prison.
Thankfully, the fire wasn’t close enough to burn her skin.
Fighting to keep every last sliver of air, Milla shot a successful orb of fire through the snow and pulled herself somewhat free. Triumphant, she felt air caress one of her hands and flailed it around for anything to grab -- and caught fabric. An arm?
