Scorched Resolve | A Trial of Survival

[zuziee 4004]

Spoiler

OOC: Song

 

A Trial of Survival

 

A Mirage of Home by Philippa von Reuss, 572 E.S

The Aschenwalder bore a great weight upon her shoulders, leaving behind the familiar comforts of Haense to return once more to the outskirts of Petra. Though a month had passed since her last tribulations, the echoes of suffering still clung to her flesh—burn scars, twisting outward from her right palm like the branches of a gnarled tree, a permanent testament to past horrors.

 

She arrived at a modest cluster of homes, where the scent of warm hearths and baked bread contrasted sharply with the journey ahead. Steeling herself, she raised a hand and knocked gently on a familiar wooden door. It creaked open, revealing Ser Manfred, his expression unreadable beneath years of wisdom. With a silent nod, he beckoned her inside.

 

Philippa hesitated, breath caught in her throat. “Hallo,” she greeted him softly, the weight of unspoken understanding thick between them. They both knew why she had come. “Ich believe I’m ready.”

 

Manfred’s lips quirked, eyes gleaming with an excitement she had seen many times before—anticipation for a challenge well-crafted. “That’s good to hear.” He folded his arms, studying her. “I’ve given much thought to your final trial.”

 

Philippa stood stiffly in the cozy confines of his cottage, her gaze drifting past the man who had trained her. She had never been able to settle in this part of the continent—too plain, too temperate.

 

“I want you to cross the desert,” Manfred declared. “On foot. From Balian to Hyspia.” He leaned forward. “Are you familiar with the terrain?”

 

Philippa’s fingers twitched at her side. “No,” she admitted, “not past the jungle.”

 

“Good.” His smile deepened, pleased with the difficulty of the task. “You will be permitted only a few essentials—a weapon, cloth, string, and a flask for water.”

 

Philippa barely heard him. A tide of uncertainty crept up her spine.

 

“Any questions?”

 

She swallowed hard. “Ah… no,” she muttered, forcing her focus back to him.

 

“You have one day to prepare.”

__________

 

At dawn, Philippa stood outside the Portoregne gates, her trusted steed left behind. She had packed lightly—the sword she had forged with her own hands and a small bundle of supplies. Kneeling, she adjusted the laces of her worn leather boots, knowing that comfort, however fleeting, could mean the difference between endurance and collapse.

 

The first day of walking was methodical. She scavenged for twigs and stones, her path skirting the sapphire waters along Balian’s borders. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she found shelter beneath a tree, setting up her first camp at the desert’s threshold. That night, she busied herself shaping a bow and a small handful of arrows—her preferred weapons. But her hands trembled as she worked, her mind drifting unbidden to ghosts of the past.

 

She thought of the way her heart ached on that warm Sunholdt afternoon her life got turned upside down,  of Johann bleeding out in the river and Varon, curled in his cot, his cheekbone exposed and burned, his eyes empty. A shiver coursed through her. She should have protected him better. The guilt gnawed at her, bitter as bile. Despite her exhaustion, knowing that she needed to rest now, sleep evaded her. She lay beneath the endless sprawl of stars, fear sinking its claws into her chest. What if she returned and Varon was worse? What if he felt betrayed by her sudden departure like past lovers had? 

 

By morning, her body was weary, her mouth parched—but not from the heat, from worry. She scoured the jungle's edge for sustenance, snaring small rodents and gathering bitter berries. But when it came time to eat, her appetite had fled. The weight of her thoughts was heavier than hunger. Instead, she packed what she had caught so far. Midday struck as she took her first steps into the desert. 

 

The moment she stepped beyond the last oasis of green, the world changed. The air grew drier, the sky an unforgiving white, the sand stretching in every direction like a vast, empty sea. By midday, she found out that the heat was unbearable. Sweat slicked her skin, seeping through her tunic and pooling at the nape of her neck. Each step sank deep into the dunes, sapping her strength with every movement.

 

Hours passed before she collapsed onto the burning sand, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her flask was already half empty. The realization struck her like a blow—she had barely made it a few miles. Nightfall brought little relief. The desert was cold, a biting contrast to the searing daylight, but she welcomed it. She constructed a feeble shelter from cloth and twigs, curling into herself for warmth. Hunger gnawed at her insides, but she had no fire to cook, no energy to eat. Her body trembled, but she forced her eyes shut.

 

One step at a time. One night at a time.

 

Days blurred together in an endless march of suffering. She learned to walk in the dim hours of dawn and dusk, to carve water from cacti with her sword, to ignore the way her burns throbbed and cracked with every movement. She hunted lizards when she could, their meat stringy but filling. The desert gave nothing easily.

 

And then, the hallucinations began.

 

At first, they were small things—the distant mirage of water that vanished when she approached, the flickering shadows that danced at the edges of her vision. But as the days stretched into weeks, they grew worse. She saw Primrose standing in the dunes, her long black braid swaying in the wind, her voice lilting and sweet.

 

“Pippa, oh Pippa! My dear Pippa!”

 

The sound shattered something inside her. She ran forward, heart pounding—only to stumble into a thorny bush. The vision was gone. Reality crashed down. She sank to her knees, sobbing wracking her thin frame. Her fingers curled into the sand, into the nothingness. She was alone. And she was breaking.

 

Night fell, and with it came agony. When she awoke, her back was blistered, the sun having burned her already sensitive skin as she lay unconscious in its grasp. Tears stung her eyes as she forced herself upright, wrapping what little cloth she had around her body. The pain was unbearable, but she gritted her teeth and pressed forward. This trial had stolen her time, her strength, her sanity. She had lost count of the days. Had it been months?

 

She had once thought of herself as strong. Now, she felt hollow. Yet still, something in her refused to stop.

 

She thought of Velen, of the Aschenwald’s towering evergreens, of home. She thought of her father—the man who had raised her well, yet whose cowardice had seeped into her very blood. He had run from his burdens. And perhaps, so had she. 

 

No more.

 

She pushed forward. One step. Then another. And then—at long last—the sandstone walls of Hyspia appeared in the distance. She was so close. The air was changing—warmer, more humid. The land was no longer barren. Every fiber of her being ached for the promise of water, shelter, and safety.

 

She didn’t see the snake until it was too late. A flash of movement. A sharp pain seared through her leg. She fell.

 

A strangled cry escaped her lips as the serpent slithered away, leaving behind nothing but two puncture wounds and a trail of fire spreading through her calf. Panic surged, but she forced herself to breathe, to focus. Shaking fingers tore a strip of cloth from her tattered tunic, wrapping it tightly around the wound. The venom—if there was any—had to be slowed. She was so close. 

 

With the last of her strength, she crawled forward, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through her body. At twilight, two months after she had first set foot in the desert, the Vander squire collapsed at the gates of Hyspia. 

__________

 

She woke in the cool embrace of a clinic, the scent of herbs and linen filling her senses. A familiar feeling. The bite had not been venomous. Her burns had been treated. She had survived. The healers called it luck. Philippa called it something else—a miracle.

 

Yet, as ever, the world had not waited for her. Life had carried on, indifferent. Once her strength had returned enough to carry her beyond the clinic’s walls, she wandered through the city, reacquainting herself with the steady pulse of Hyspia. The marketplace hummed with voices, merchants peddling their wares beneath bright awnings. At the castle gates, guards stood at attention, their armor gleaming beneath the sun. But it was at the aviary, amidst the rustling of wings and the scent of parchment, that she found them—two letters, waiting patiently for her hands.

 

She had to get home.

Spoiler

OOC: Story for my final vander trial! No one currently knows the events. Rp with me to find out! The art is by ME!