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Breaths heavy. Vision blurred. Thunder rumbles above the tempest and screech of Fungi. The ground is slick. Rain loosens grips over weapons, obscures accuracy. Lightning strikes, a flash of white across the battlefield, an assault against the protectors of the forest rather than their enemies.
Cyno is relentless, a storm of Electro. Fungi are blown away, bouncing back into the fray moments later. The winged shrooms pose more of a challenge, empowered by the Withering. He cannot afford additional damage, not when the rain allows for deadlier combinations.
Withering Branches cast an ominous crimson veil against the purity of Dendro. Tighnari aims at one, followed by a Dendrograna. It hits, running to dodge the projectiles, only to come upon Fungi. He jumps backwards. “Enshroud!”
His Vijnana-Khanda Field illuminates the darkness. Fungi are beckoned by the illusions from within, giving the fighters a brief respite. Cyno prepares to attack. “I’ll call upon–“
“No. Don’t.” A slick glove pinches the corner of one of his loincloths. “We’ll handle without it.”
“Nari–“
“The rain is on our side, remember?” Tighnari raises his bow, charged Wreath Arrow already aimed at their enemies. “We can utilize Dendro Cores.”
He fires, each arrow locked onto an opponent. Dendro Cores blossom upon contact, concentrated elemental energy. Cyno strikes, electrifying the air to create a Sprawling Shot. The fungi are defeated, replaced as soon as they fall.
Decay is ruthless, but so is he.
Look at the state you’re in, a voice rasps at the back of his mind. It’s a fragment of a primordial power, a timeless spirit that resides in his soul. Do you really think you can handle another possession?
His head pounds in the same rhythm as his erratic heartbeat. His grip is loose, slick from rain, weakened from exertion. His senses are muffled, on the precipice of deafness, blindness. He cannot catch his breath no matter how hard he breathes, cannot think of anything else but fight, fight, fight.
Judgment is upon you.
The spirit inhabits his body. Electro envelops his arms, shaped like claws. His eyes become occupied, blacked out so all he sees are the elemental bodies in front of him. Sparks fly off his limbs, though he is unaffected. He moves forward.
“Cyno!”
It echoes behind him. Tighnari. Cyno speaks, voice intertwined with the warrior within. “Support me.”
His hesitation is brief. Another field draws enemies. Cyno rushes forward. Dendro. Electro. A merciless dance that leads to defeat after defeat, an elimination of the competition until all that remains is the victor.
Ten seconds. A jet of water from a Hydroshroom hits him. He whirls in its direction.
Dendro alights. Tighnari has an arrow charged to hit a Withering Branch, successful in his shot. Panic sharpens his tone. “Watch out!”
It comes a moment too late. A shard pierces him. Cyno’s breath is knocked from him, and he falls as the spirit retreats. His vision returns, a canvas of death. His ears ring from the song of Decay. His chest heaves as he coughs, droplets of blood mixed with rain in an instant.
That…doesn’t look good.
“Cyno!” Tighnari stumbles to a halt when he crouches beside him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m…” Cyno turns to him. His partner is a mosaic of green and white, expression distorted. “Yeah.”
“You have to retreat. You won’t last much longer if you stay. I can finish this on my own–“
“Not…not gonna leave. You’re…on your last legs, aren’t you?”
A decisive strike of lightning hits close to him. Debris flies in their direction, yet neither of them flinch, unwilling to yield, lost to their exhaustion. “I’m better off than you,” Tighnari insists. “Please, Cyno. If you keep this up–“
He staggers to his feet. Blood drips from his nose, smeared against his finger when he wipes it. “This is nothing. You should see the desert – much more dangerous than a bunch of mushrooms and water.”
“The Withering is not a phenomenon that you should–“
“I know. Point is-“ Cyno sticks his polearm in the mud to steady himself. “-I don’t yield until my enemies do.” Not that there are any enemies at the moment, anyway, eliminated in his previous assault. He tries to steady his breath, hoarse and winded. “Go. I’m ready.”
Tighnari straightens up. He raises his bow, launches his arrow at the last Withering Branch to guide the Dendrograna. They dodge the projectiles and turn to the Tumor of the Withering, where a call of Decay summons fungi. The final barrier before purification.
He creates another Vijnana-Khanda Field. Cyno’s attacks are slower, haphazard. Fungi dodge and retaliate, their blows glancing off him. Dendro Cores turn to Sprawling Shots. It barely affects him – at least, he tries not to let it slow him down.
Tanglevine Shafts blind him, verdant against the diseased environment. They defeat the small fungi, so all that remains are the Hydroshroom and Cryoshroom. Cyno staggers backwards. He’s lightheaded, barely able to see straight. Tighnari, no longer a sharpshooter, reliant on his Clusterbloom Arrows. Those take time to charge, and if he’s attacked, it’ll get interrupted. They need his Dendro. They need him.
Cyno needs him.
Are you sure? This might actually kill you. The spirit isn’t malicious, not in the way it was before, when he was naïve and the spirit was arrogant. It wasn’t until he established a contract that they reached the mutual relationship they have now, a product after years of struggle. So long he protects the spirit’s home, its power is at his disposal, whether he yields it for himself or others.
I’ll do anything for Nari.
A sigh echoes in his ears, resonate with defeat, bitterness. Fine. The familiar jolt of Electro crawls across his arms, formulating into claws. His vision darkens, dimmed elemental shades in front of him. He takes a step forward, and another. Arm raised, he prepares to strike.
It never comes.
Cyno becomes seized with Electro, a tremor that wracks his entire body. A gasp escapes him, caught between surprise and regret. His vision lightens to a dark violet, white flashes that assault his eyes. His polearm falls from his hand. His head pounds with a magnitude that makes him fall. He clutches his head, feels the spirit release him from its control. Told you so. It’s faint, unable to penetrate the amplified ringing in his ears.
He reaches for his partner, years for his voice, his touch. Fingers close around thin air. The storm swallows him, consciousness drowned in the Decay.
Heavy. His body is leaden. His head pulses. His limbs fail to respond. Cyno struggles to open his eyes, mind blanketed in a haze that he can’t shake off. The ringing remains persistent, yet quiet enough to be able to hear a gentle fire and swish of a tail across the forest floor.
He blinks awake to darkness. It’s nighttime, stars hidden behind the canopy of trees. His head is propped up by a hard pillow, and he rests on a mattress woven from leaves and vines. He is wearing his cloak again, hood pulled over his head, hair spilled across his shoulders, heavy blanket tucked beneath his chin. The fire is visible out of the corner of his eye. After some effort, he rolls his head in its direction.
Tighnari sits on a log. Behind him, their outer layers are hung on a rope tied between two trees. He leans forward to stir the pot, flames reflected in his vacant eyes. Cyno’s headpiece rests on his lap, cloth left in between the decorative ears.
Cyno’s breath catches in his throat. Tighnari’s ears twitch, glancing in his direction. Their eyes meet, and he puts the headpiece down to crouch beside him. “How do you feel?” His inquiry is quiet, emotion stripped from his words. Only exhaustion reigns.
His cracked lips forms a response. Fine. Tighnari turns around to grab a cup and ladle some liquid into it. He returns, spoon in hand. “This is a tea that we use to help with elemental exhaust. You collapsed because of it. I reckon you’ll be weak for a few days.”
It’s bitter and leaves a sour aftertaste. Cyno makes a face, but Tighnari is unsympathetic, pouring spoonful after spoonful between his lips. “You need it. What were you thinking, risking your life like that? You’re lucky that we set up camp before we found that Withering Zone. If I’d known how reckless you’d be, I would’ve avoided it in the first place. I would’ve came back with reinforcements and you–“
Cyno coughs, liquid dribbling from the corners of his mouth. “Nari–“ His rasp is ignored.
“–You wouldn’t have called on your spirit so many times. I know what it does to you, Cyno. I know it doesn’t harm you, but I still get worried. After you collapsed, I just…” Tighnari’s hands shake. His bottom lip quivers. His ears droop. “I thought you were going to die.”
Guilt presses against his chest. He can imagine his partner’s distress, torn between protecting him and defeating the Withering’s guardians, carrying him to safety, removing his sodden clothes, and preparing tea for his eventual awakening. All this, while it stormed, exhausted from battle, senses overloaded.
“I’m sorry.” His words are shallow, worthless, yet it is all he can say.
Tighnari remains quiet, neither accepting nor rejecting. He pours the rest of the foul concoction between his lips. “Don’t try to use your Vision for a while. We’ll stay here until you’re strong enough to return to Sumeru City.”
Cyno is motionless, paralyzed by his own fatigue. The spirit dwells in the corner of his soul, weakened from the lack of elemental energy within him. He watches his partner turn his back, stirs the pot once more, and sits on the log. His headpiece is put aside, attention directed to his staff. Tighnari’s own verdant bow leans against the tree behind him.
Even in his condition, he can still see how his partner winces at every sound, vague eyes aimed at the floor, repetitive motions that are redundant at best. Cyno calls out to him. “Nari.”
He jumps. “Huh?”
“Rest with me.”
“I’m not…”
A harsh squawk slices the air. Tighnari cowers, eyes flattened against his head. The staff rolls off his lap, sinks into the mud. He blinks at it. “Ah…”
“Leave it. You need to rest. It won’t help either of us if you’re indisposed too. Please?”
Tighnari opens his mouth but considers otherwise. He wipes the mud off and rests the staff against his bow. Boots kicked off at the edge of the mat, he climbs in beneath the heavy blanket, unafraid to press close to him. He always does, whenever it storms. “Just so you know, I’m still mad at you,” he mumbles.
“I know. I’m sorry that I can’t promise that it won’t happen again.” It’s his responsibility, the crux of his vow that empowers him. His reputed strength dissuades academic dishonesty, and his skills allow for the desert to thrive. Any limitation undermines his title as the General Mahamatra.
“If I hadn’t taken so long to get rid of the Withering Branches…”
“Don’t blame yourself. We should’ve left it and came back with reinforcements, like you said. We’re just devoted, aren’t we?” Cyno, to his warrior spirit. Tighnari, to his protective instincts. A force to be reckoned, as reckless and tactless as they are, to cure the land of ailments and eliminate threats to their nation.
Tighnari makes a small noise in agreement. He closes his eyes, buries his face against his chest. Cyno, too, invites darkness and lets his senses slide. A voice rasps in his ears. You chose a good one, General.
I know. He’ll make it up to him, his healer and love of his life.