A soft voice echoed incoherently in her ears, but Talia ignored it.

For a moment, she allowed herself to just be.

She floated on a bed of…something soft. The words to describe the sensation escaped her. Realistically, she knew it was just pillows, filled with some kind of feather, or fur or—

Either way, it felt like bliss.

Like the weight on her shoulders had been lifted. Not just lifted, torn away by the grasping hands of gods and flung into the far side of an impenetrable abyss.

A shame that it’s temporary.

Had it not been for the norroot, the realization would’ve been crushing. Instead, Talia only felt a kind of nebulous acceptance. An understanding both simple and comforting.

But then again, it’s all temporary, isn’t it?

Norroot was an interesting plant. If her memory served, then the name was deceptive, as the part of the plant that was psychoactive wasn’t the root, but the flower itself. It bloomed in complete darkness; delicate white stems that were almost translucent, topped with drooping petals the shape and colour of tears.

Talia smiled as she remembered the day Orvall had sat down and tried to get her to learn herbology. She’d been in an unusually good mood and—the memory became muddled in her mind, fleeing all too quickly and leaving her with a sense of calm.

What was I thinking about? Oh, right norroot.

It was, as Lazarus had implied, mostly used for trauma treatment. Addiction wasn’t an issue, as most people built up a tolerance within a month, after which no amount of the flower would produce anything resembling a high for years. Not that it was really a high. Well, it was. But it wasn’t. Not in the traditional sense.

If Talia remembered her father’s wording right, norroot ‘induced a state of emotional dissociation’. Which was a fancy way of saying that it let people look in on themselves from a more…objective standpoint.

Feelings became less intense, fears less real, and impulses less…impulse-y. The anger Talia should feel at Lazarus for instance—for drugging her—was more of an undercurrent of indignation, mixed with cautious acceptance. The parts of her mind that recognized that the experience was a good thing were overriding the parts telling her to be outraged.

I guess he knew what I needed better than I did. Maybe I can just stay like this? It’s so peaceful… Why was I even in a rush to begin with? This is nice. Very nice.

“…alia, when you are ready, I’d like you to sit up, please,” said the voice.

Oh. But… I’m comfortable.

“If you really want us gone, this is probably the way to do it,” Torval/Zaric whispered, sounding much more coherent than they had in weeks.

That makes sense.

Talia didn’t so much sit up as she did flow upright.

Lazarus sat with his legs crossed, hands clasped on his knees, his peridot gaze assessing, but not critical.

Her ghosts sat on either side of her. Flickering. Shifting. Their faces melding into an amalgam of the one she hadn’t recognized in her mirror and the men she had known in life.

That’s unsettling. Or it should be. Maybe.

As soon as she had the thought, the pair smiled at her—was that sadness in their eyes?—and promptly vanished. But not before they flickered, letting her see reflections of herself for a split instant.

“Talia?”

The arcanist wrenched her gaze from the now blank spot to her right.

“Hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” Lazarus asked.

“Good.”

The elf frowned, thin blonde brows tightening gracefully across his ageless face.

I wonder how old I would look if I was over two hundred years old? Probably not that good. Damn elves.

“I see. Perhaps I was somewhat hasty in my preparation,” said the healer as he pulled the half-full teacup back towards himself.

Talia bobbed her head slowly, feeling every movement.

“I would like you to focus on the sound of my voice.”

There was a low hum that accompanied the words.

How is he doing that?

“Focus on my words, and let the sound ground you in the here and now. Drifting is fine, so long as you return to my voice. Let it be a haven in the dark of your thoughts. Can you do that for me?”

The hum took on a melodic refrain, a repetitive, soothing cadence.

Talia did as he instructed, allowing the healer to guide her back to some semblance of rationality.

Should’ve told me what the tea was, then I would’ve had less in one go. Hehe.

Even her thoughts had become…sing-song-y.

Time passed like wet sand through a tight sieve. Slowly, in clumps and jitters. The hum rose and fell and rose again. Lulling her into a trance that was somewhere between sleep and dream and wakefulness.

----------------------------------------

When the initial haze of too much norroot had faded somewhat, Lazarus went silent, allowing her a moment to return to reality.

Talia released a long breath, emptying her lungs fully before opening her eyes. Her mind was still altered, but not in an overwhelming way. It manifested as a kind of clarity. A crispness of thought, light and fluffy.

“Better?” Lazarus asked, with a quirk to his lips.

“Much better, thank you,” Talia croaked, “Actually, could I get some water?”

Once she’d had a drink, and cleared her throat a few times—the cold feeling of the tea tended to linger—the elf leaned back in his cushioned seat.

“Now, why don’t you tell me how you feel?”

Talia’s face scrunched up as she considered the question.

“About…everything?”

Lazarus spread his hands and smiled.

“Whatever subject you find is most on your mind at the moment. I find that it is as good a place to start as any other.”

The arcanist only bobbed her head slowly.

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“Broken. I feel broken. Like in the blink of an eye, I became less than—” Talia trailed off, unable to find the words to describe the void her useless arm had created. Luckily, Lazarus was quick to take up the train of thought.

“Why would you be broken?”

Talia’s face scrunched up again.

“Well, I’m right-handed.”

When the elf didn’t answer she continued.

“I’m a right-handed arcanist without a right hand. I can’t draw designs, etching is a nightmare and keeping my left hand steady is borderline impossible. I can’t swing a sword, and I can barely dress myself. Just the other night, I spilled half my stew down the front of my shirt.”

Frustration and sorrow built up in her like a pit of anger, but remained distant, like watching it happen to someone else.

“And?” Lazarus prompted.

“And what? That’s it. I’m broken. I almost died just yesterday because I relied on instincts that are an active detriment to fighting. If it wasn’t for my magic, I wouldn’t be here. And it’s not like I’m going to be able to avoid a fight anytime soon, since I’m the only one that even leaves this place when we have the whole of civilization resting on our shoulders,” Talia blurted out, “I’m fucked. We’re fucked, and no one seems to care.”

Saying it out loud felt like… She didn’t quite know what it felt like, but she felt better after saying it.

Lazarus, on the other hand, appeared non-plussed. If anything, he appeared to be considering something, almost looking through her.

“Good. You have touched on the heart of an issue that we will definitely be addressing, but for now, I would like to remain on the topic of your arm,” he finally said, “First, I would like you to know that what you are feeling is perfectly normal. No one, and I do mean no one, deals with the loss of a limb well. I would even go so far as to say it is impossible. We are talking, after all, about something so intimately you that to imagine yourself without it is impossible.

However—and I can not stress this enough—that does not mean that you are broken. You are alive and of sound mind, if a little lost, I think, and nothing tells me that you lack the drive to learn how to use your left hand just as well as your right. You also have a not inconsiderate resource at your disposal in the form of your telekinesis, and when—not if—we return to Karzgorad, I expect you shall be a prime candidate for an arcanic prosthesis.”

Talia froze, conflicting thoughts fighting with the detachment of norroot. Even with the drug soothing her mind, part of her still screamed that he was wrong, that she would never be whole that—

Oh. I’m catastrophizing. He’s right. Of course, he is. I just—

“I don’t—I-I think—It’s not that simple though, is it? Understanding, even knowing, and experiencing, are very different things. But—you’re right. I do have options. I’ll just have to remind of myself that. I guess.”

The healer’s gaze softened.

“I am not implying that it will be easy. But however you achieve it, this idea that you are somehow not whole must go. It is unproductive, and most importantly, not true. You are not your body. You are the mind behind it.”

Talia shrugged, not quite disagreeing, but knowing that if it weren’t for the tea, she’d probably take exception to the way he phrased it. He was right though. With the added clarity, her choice only became clearer.

But that’ll have to wait until I figure out a more precise spellform. Doesn’t mean I can’t think up some prototypes in the meantime though…

“I think I can accept that, for now,” she said noncommittally, her mind far away.

“Temporary acceptance is better than none at all, I suppose. Once the norroot has run its course and you have gotten some rest, I will give you some exercises to practice with your left hand,” Lazarus said softly.

Talia nodded, setting aside her idea for later, finding the act much easier than she would have otherwise.

She wasn’t whole, not yet, but she would be.

“Now, on to the meat of the matter, as they say. You have been on quite the warpath lately. Why do you think that is?” Lazarus asked, his hands curling in his lap.

Talia tilted her head, trying to see what he meant.

I guess I could see why he’d say it like that. I have been…abrasive, lately.

The part of her that wanted to protest let out a squeak of disapproval, but its hold on her was slippery. There was no room in her mind for the fear it embodied.

And that’s what it is, isn’t it? Fear. So. Much. Fear. All the time.

“Talia?”

“I think—I think I’m scared. No, that’s not right, I know I’m scared. For so many different reasons.”

Lazarus remained still, his expression encouraging, gesturing for her to continue with a wave.

“I was just supposed to come along on an expedition, learn the ropes, and use the time away from the city to let the mage-hunters think I was dead. Or gone, or whatever. Instead, I’ve been fighting tooth and nail for my life every other day, saddled with the expectations of every living sapient in the Under. If we don’t—If I don’t find a way into the upper reaches, if I can’t extract the matrix core, and figure out some way to get us home safely, we die. That’s it. No do-overs, no scrapping the artefact to start again. Done. Dead. Gone. And that’s all if the matrix core still even works. Which, who knows if that’s even a thing.”

Talia leaned over and grabbed the teacup, taking a small sip and sighing as the coolness raked its way down her throat. Lazarus opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, veering off in a different direction.

“I thought I was dead. On the bridge, I mean. I knew I was dead. I fought it, down to the bitter end, but deep down I knew. And you know what? Some part of me was okay with that. Is that selfish? That it was a relief? If I had died, none of this would’ve been my problem,” Talia cleared her throat and sat back, realizing she’d been leaning toward the elf aggressively.

“You all would be stuck here, twiddling your thumbs and wondering what to do next, and I’d be off gods know where. Some afterlife or something if Osra’s got it right. Or maybe just blessed oblivion. No more worrying if I’m going insane, or if I’m going to fail, or if it’s all pointless. In some ways, maybe that makes me more of a coward than the idiots out there fighting each other for sport.”

Talia took a deep breath, the bundle of emotion in her chest ripped wide open. The box had broken at the hinges, finally and the result was both expected and…underwhelming.

Norroot pulsed through Talia’s veins and thoughts sluggishly, keeping the boiling core of feelings at a remove. That same, detached part of her informed her that she wasn’t making much sense, that there was too much conflict there to properly explain.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was to let it all out, without it crushing her.

“So yes, I’m angry, because I’m terrified. I’ve had all this weight placed on me, and when the time came for us to step up and get things done, everybody just…lost the will to fight. Suddenly it was all up to me when I didn’t ask for any of it! The duty, the danger, the pressure, none of it. Nobody asked me, warned me, or even wondered if I had the damned ability to do it. All I wanted, all I’ve ever wanted, was to keep to myself. Become an arcanist. Live a quiet, boring life. Sure, maybe a little fame, a little fortune. Crack the Enigma, if by some miracle, I got lucky. Help some people as a biproduct.

Instead, I get to save the fucking world. I get to fight off beasts and monstrosities that have no place existing in the first place, manipulate people’s emotions with my godsdamned mind, and kill one of my only friends before he goes on a psychotic killing spree.”

You’re rambling, Tals. Deep breath.

Talia’s chest shuddered. No tears came to her eyes, but she felt drained. Fear and anger warred inside her, telling her that it was time for another sip of tea.

Lazarus just watched, expressionless but for the empathy in his gaze. Letting her pour herself out onto him.

The clink of the teacup seemed to echo as Talia set it back down on the table, its contents drained to a quarter.

“I see them in my dreams,” she whispered, unable to look at the elf, “The ones who died. Sometimes, when I’m in the mess, I smell the smoke and it smells like burning hair and cooked flesh. The woman, in the Chasm? I don’t think I’ll ever forget her screams. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone die from inside their own head? None of them went quietly. They all begged, or pleaded, or raged.”

The coolness of the drug flooded her once more in waves, stirring embers that had lain quiescent for years.

No. That’s enough trauma for one day. No need to bring them up.

“I’m on the warpath, Lazarus, because if I wasn’t, then I think I would collapse. Because when I’m focusing on the mission, or fighting with Calisto about getting the crew moving, I’m not thinking about how royally screwed we are.”

With that final utterance, Talia sagged, relying on the norroot to keep her thoughts steady.

Lazarus waited, giving her a chance to add to what she’d said. Only when it was clear she was done did he speak.

“That…is quite a lot you have had to hold on to.”

Whatever Talia had been expecting him to say, that wasn’t it. The understatement was so absurd that she chuckled. And then the chuckle turned into a full-bellied laugh.

The healer smiled and waited until the bout of laughter subsided.

“I suppose that is something of an understatement. Either way, it is good to find levity where you can. Laughter is a balm for the soul, as they say. I must say—although the norroot is likely helping—you have come a long way in communicating your feelings since the first time we spoke,” he said with a wink, “Though it seems we are still facing the same struggle as before, albeit amplified. Now, if you would like to hear it, I have some suggestions and comments you might appreciate, and a few meditations you might consider.”

Taking a deep inhale and settling herself against the cushions, Talia nodded fractionally.

Simply taking a drug and talking about what was troubling her wasn’t a cure. Not by a long shot. But it helped. A first step on the road she’d been avoiding, for fear that it would steal her drive.

A thought came to her unbidden, and she spoke out loud without thinking.

“The others—they’re feeling the same way as I am, aren’t they? The lack of control, the sudden high stakes…the danger.”

This time, when Lazarus smiled, Talia thought she detected something akin to pride in his eyes.

For a moment, Talia considered talking about her...hallucinations.

Not a good idea, Tals. If he decides you're in danger of losing it, that would have...consequences.

Instead of waffling over it, she decided to take a wait-and-see approach. There was a chance that the ghosts were symptoms of trauma, rather than anything darker. If they got worse...

She'd seek help.