it is so much simpler to bury reality than it is to dispose of dreams.
[Being the famous Warrior of Light has its perks, right? People are thankful that you exist. They speak your name with a reverence reserved for royalty, and they're always eager to give you discounts or do you favors or whatever else. The leaders of pretty much every free nation know you to be someone dependable and trustworthy. Simply walking down the street of any city or backwater settlement will prove just how recognizable you are to the masses.
Being famous is also a very bad thing when the last thing you want to be is widely recognizable.]
Ow.
[No amount of hair dye or hair styling or abuse of glamour can change Cain to a meaningful degree. Wincing, clutching his shoulder, he's reminded of some platitude from way back when: A coeurl cannot change its spots. He'll always be that shifty loser who deserves to get the tar kicked out of him by a bunch of mother-loving half-wits with a grudge. The Echo doesn't redeem him any more than it damns him...
And, as it turns out, all the healing magic in the world doesn't matter when there's constant stun-locking and an astrolabe flung into the freezing abyss below the Brume. It won't be fun going down there to retrieve it later.]
Ow.
[Ishgard itself is colder than a chorus of ice elementals. Cain can't seem to convince his battered legs to move him to warmth and safety, though. He's just going to stay sitting at the end of this dirty, likely diseased alleyway, feeling sorry for himself. Even when the alley's entrance is darkened by a certain silhouette, he doesn't react all that much. He's too busy tonguing one of his bloody teeth.
In a frosting of breath, he says,] Before you lose your mind, I'm fine. But I might need some help getting back to the Manor.
Being famous is also a very bad thing when the last thing you want to be is widely recognizable.]
Ow.
[No amount of hair dye or hair styling or abuse of glamour can change Cain to a meaningful degree. Wincing, clutching his shoulder, he's reminded of some platitude from way back when: A coeurl cannot change its spots. He'll always be that shifty loser who deserves to get the tar kicked out of him by a bunch of mother-loving half-wits with a grudge. The Echo doesn't redeem him any more than it damns him...
And, as it turns out, all the healing magic in the world doesn't matter when there's constant stun-locking and an astrolabe flung into the freezing abyss below the Brume. It won't be fun going down there to retrieve it later.]
Ow.
[Ishgard itself is colder than a chorus of ice elementals. Cain can't seem to convince his battered legs to move him to warmth and safety, though. He's just going to stay sitting at the end of this dirty, likely diseased alleyway, feeling sorry for himself. Even when the alley's entrance is darkened by a certain silhouette, he doesn't react all that much. He's too busy tonguing one of his bloody teeth.
In a frosting of breath, he says,] Before you lose your mind, I'm fine. But I might need some help getting back to the Manor.
no subject
He isn't exactly image-obsessed, but he doesn't want to end up with poor Thancred's collection of injuries. For facing so many gods or would-be gods in battle, Cain has come away unbelievably unscathed. That's another benefit to the Echo, he supposes. The close-at-hand healing magic is another help. He relaxes under Alphinaud's spellwork, then, closing his eyes lightly. He never expected to take to healing magic himself. It's so selfless a role that he thought wouldn't mesh with his personality, but then...]
If it's going to scar, I hope it's symmetrical, at the very least.
[He's dropping his hand now to grasp Alphinaud by a thin, pale wrist. It's a grateful gesture, if the tenderness of his squeeze means anything. One of life's greatest mysteries is how Alphinaud can stand to be around him. To worry about him, even.]