In
the span of minutes, Rhalgr’s Reach had been plunged into one of
the Seven Hells. All around Portia was smoke and blood and fire, the
screams of the wounded and the shouts of those who were fending
off the Imperials.
The tents set up for her fellow crafters and sutlers had been
overturned; as she fought her way out from the splintered wood and
ripped cloth, she heard Macchia’s thunderous barking nearby.
Terror twisted her heart. You
stupid dog, they’ll kill you—
It
took too long for her to straighten up and scan the area. There,
Rolfe the blacksmith was kneeling by a bloodied Resistance
soldier—there, a man she didn’t know crumpled as an Imperial
shoved a blade through his chest—and there was Macchia, advancing
stiff-legged and snarling towards her. No. Past
her. She spun around and dropped to one knee, long-dormant reflexes
snapping back into place; the shot nicked her ear and left her half
deaf, but now she had the Imperial in her sights. As Macchia leapt on
him, teeth bared, she frantically felt around for something,
anything,
she could use as a weapon.
“Get
that mutt!” Garlean. Not,
she saw, her initial assailant; that man was decidedly dead, having
been a much easier target once pinned to the ground by two hundred
ponzes of purebred canis pugnax. The
man currently advancing towards her wore the armor of a centurion,
bloodstained where some Resistance fighter had landed a lucky blow.
Macchia
was smart enough to leave the corpse, but
seemed confused by the lack of any immediate threat. As the dog
circled snuffling
back
to her side, her hand closed around a heavy wrench. Red
rage filled her. “You bloody whoreson sack-of-shite bastard!”
He
took a step back, sword lowering for just a heartbeat. His surprise
at being cursed at in Garlean gave her all the opening she needed to
lunge forward, bypassing his feeble guard—really, how were
they training soldiers these days—and smash the wrench into his
jaw. He
staggered with the force of the blow, but before she could press her
advantage she had to jerk out of the way of his sword. Too
slow.
Fire opened up along her ribs, but it was a distant pain, easily
ignored.
His
mouth hung open and bloody, but he managed to snarl, “Damned
traitor!”
Traitor.
Traitor.
She breathed out, and the world around her crystallized. It was blind
fury that propelled her forward; agony
bloomed in her hip, but it was nothing next to the desire to kill.
The
Empire took what I loved! It took my father, it took Petros, it is
taking my friends from me as I watch! And you have the nerve—!
Someone
was screaming in
Garlean,
hoarse and
half-wordlessly;
it took her a moment to realize it was coming
from her own mouth. “False gods fuck you! You disgrace your ancestors!”
Armor
cracked under the force of her strikes and blood splattered her
knuckles, but he was still
standing. When he tried to step away and give himself room to strike
back, she buried
her wrench in his already-wounded side and twisted.
As he buckled, screaming, she yanked it free and smashed it into his
temple until she felt bone crunch.
And
then she was standing over a corpse, chest heaving, with the stench
of blood and ceruleum and death filling her nose. Her anger had
ebbed, replaced by a simmering rancor. There—I
can’t take on the reapers, but that group of soldiers…maybe.
The centurion certainly wasn’t going to be using that blade
anymore.
Gunshot.
Pain.
Pain.
It stole the breath from her lungs, forced her to her knees.
Macchia
bounding past her.
Darkness.
—
White
curtains. A red stone ceiling high above her. Pain was a distant ache
that promised to be a very up close and personal one if she dared to
move. As awareness filtered back in, she realized that there was a
badly-hushed conversation occurring three fulms away from her.
“…bloody
well knew it, didn’t I? Told you Portia was a weird name…”
“You
are an Elezen. Yer one t’ talk, yer name sprouts ‘alf a dozen
extra letters when ye write it down…”
“Look,
Garlean or not—”
“—still
can’t believe she’s a swivin’ three-eyed—” A meaty thud,
and a yelp.
“…beat
an Imperial officer to death wi’ a bloody wrench,
glad she’s on our side…”
Her
mouth was dry. Air
hurt. When she tried to force out words, nothing came out but a
choked groan.
Rolfe’s
ugly face appeared around the edge of the curtain, made uglier by a
bandage over his missing ear. “Cor, she’s awake! How’re you
feelin’, mate?”
She
swallowed roughly. “…Macchia?”
He
took a moment to frown at her, but then visibly relaxed. “Mac’s
just fine.”
There
was more after that—something about how they were trying not to
feed her too much bacon, she thought—but she was already drifting
again. Macchia was safe. She was safe. She could sleep.
ffxivswarm 