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Description
There is only so much that Terah can remember with any significant detail from the night, and none of what she recalls is what those requesting reports want to hear. It isn’t tactics or weaponry, estimated counts of enemy forces remaining. It isn’t the who, the why, the what went wrong.

It’s the days before the end.

It’s the collective tension as the cycle rears its ugly head on the horizon, broken up by points of light and laughter, shattered and pieced together in a way that allows for the faintest hints of levity-- A little more breathing room, in preparation for when they all have to take one last one and hold their breath until the fighting is, hopefully, over.

It’s a frazzled, partially foggy memory of someone reading a hand edited and proofread copy of Hot Curio Summer that has been changed in some places almost entirely to properly represent the current state of the island, and how they spent a good half hour demanding that those present in the room with quote ‘good reading skills and big, incredibly loud mouths’ act out the dialogue for them with all of the confidence of a drunken hunter’s guild member about to stick their head in a Linny’s mouth as part of a dare. It had devolved into a light scuffle between the person reading for Yan and the person reading for one of the urchite minions over the pronunciation of a word-- with it only being broken up after someone finally got done laughing and remembered the edge they all had lived on for so long. The poor person tasked with punishments had just sent them off with a warning, if the accounts from those present were at all accurate, though she never quite bought the followup allegation that said person had then proceeded to grab some alcohol from their pack and down it as the group left.

It’s the sound of hooting and hollering from behind her as she reads a letter, sent alongside a collection of partially dried medicinal herbs and instructions for how to heat water just right for brewing them into a tea strong enough to knock a full grown phantaphin on its ass for a few hours. Someone probably had to transcribe it for Alphonse, which makes the way her fur bristles and her face flushes even harder to tamp down before someone can jostle her lightly, telling her to dish about the who, the when, and the how about their connection. She remembers the way her heart catches in her throat as she, tongue loosened by a few sips of the tea splashed with just two shots of the strongest booze she can get ahold of on short notice, tells them eagerly about home, and the kits, and the perfectly imperfect Bell who she hopes still wants to tolerate her when she comes back to him. An older man with warmth in his eyes tells her that it’s good to have someone worth fighting for in mind when it comes to the circumstances they find themselves in. A younger, possibly a little tipsy as well, woman, grabs her by the shoulders and tells her, enthusiastically-- despite having not seen him before, even in pictures, because she doesn’t have any-- that they’re going to have adorable kits, someday. A part of her screams for her not to, but she eventually eagerly agrees-- A part, deep down inside of her, hoping that she’ll have a chance to see whether or not she’s right sooner rather than later.

As she stares into the air ahead of her, desperately focused on memory rather than reality, her breathing remains uneven and every inch of her body continues to ache. There’s very little that she can do to protest where she’s moved or who tends to her, and there’s so much outside of the little bubble she wraps herself inside of that she just… Can’t process. Won’t process.

Not now.

Not when she can think of the kits held temporarily in the headquarters, and the way they delighted in the relative calm and security of a pair of sturdy arms. She doesn’t get their names-- Doesn’t want them-- because she doesn’t want to remember any relatives of theirs that may have been lost in the fighting. She doesn’t want to know if she might have been the one to take them away, or get them taken away by the Touched through her own errors in assisting the Blues. All she wants to know is that they are safe, and that their needs are met and exceeded as much as she can manage, while they’re with her. She thinks of a nap she’d taken with a pair of siblings, and the bobble headed, lopsided drawing they’d left behind after they were taken back to Mino Ami with a number of other survivors. It found a place amongst her things, folded upon itself and carefully preserved with a bit of waterproof cloth, just in case-- Because it depicts her and what they apparently were guessing that Cirrus looked like together, holding too large swords.

She tells herself she won’t hold on to it forever. That she’ll give it to Cirrus and actually act convincing when it comes to denying having drawn it herself.

After all, they’re fighting for their right to live. It wouldn’t do to act like they’re going to fail now, just before the end, right?

It burns a hole in her pack, now, as she desperately fights to hold on to the whole of it, however bloodstained and battered it is-- She doesn’t even know why she tries to latch to it, deep down.

Perhaps she just wants to get across a promise, something that even the simplest of fighters might understand, to Cirrus. To the bead in her pack. That she won’t forget them, that she won’t let go of what she learned and the desires that led to her deciding to side with the Blues through thick and thin.

Description
There is only so much that Terah can remember with any significant detail from the night, and none of what she recalls is what those requesting reports want to hear. It isn’t tactics or weaponry, estimated counts of enemy forces remaining. It isn’t the who, the why, the what went wrong.

It’s the days before the end.

It’s the collective tension as the cycle rears its ugly head on the horizon, broken up by points of light and laughter, shattered and pieced together in a way that allows for the faintest hints of levity-- A little more breathing room, in preparation for when they all have to take one last one and hold their breath until the fighting is, hopefully, over.

It’s a frazzled, partially foggy memory of someone reading a hand edited and proofread copy of Hot Curio Summer that has been changed in some places almost entirely to properly represent the current state of the island, and how they spent a good half hour demanding that those present in the room with quote ‘good reading skills and big, incredibly loud mouths’ act out the dialogue for them with all of the confidence of a drunken hunter’s guild member about to stick their head in a Linny’s mouth as part of a dare. It had devolved into a light scuffle between the person reading for Yan and the person reading for one of the urchite minions over the pronunciation of a word-- with it only being broken up after someone finally got done laughing and remembered the edge they all had lived on for so long. The poor person tasked with punishments had just sent them off with a warning, if the accounts from those present were at all accurate, though she never quite bought the followup allegation that said person had then proceeded to grab some alcohol from their pack and down it as the group left.

It’s the sound of hooting and hollering from behind her as she reads a letter, sent alongside a collection of partially dried medicinal herbs and instructions for how to heat water just right for brewing them into a tea strong enough to knock a full grown phantaphin on its ass for a few hours. Someone probably had to transcribe it for Alphonse, which makes the way her fur bristles and her face flushes even harder to tamp down before someone can jostle her lightly, telling her to dish about the who, the when, and the how about their connection. She remembers the way her heart catches in her throat as she, tongue loosened by a few sips of the tea splashed with just two shots of the strongest booze she can get ahold of on short notice, tells them eagerly about home, and the kits, and the perfectly imperfect Bell who she hopes still wants to tolerate her when she comes back to him. An older man with warmth in his eyes tells her that it’s good to have someone worth fighting for in mind when it comes to the circumstances they find themselves in. A younger, possibly a little tipsy as well, woman, grabs her by the shoulders and tells her, enthusiastically-- despite having not seen him before, even in pictures, because she doesn’t have any-- that they’re going to have adorable kits, someday. A part of her screams for her not to, but she eventually eagerly agrees-- A part, deep down inside of her, hoping that she’ll have a chance to see whether or not she’s right sooner rather than later.

As she stares into the air ahead of her, desperately focused on memory rather than reality, her breathing remains uneven and every inch of her body continues to ache. There’s very little that she can do to protest where she’s moved or who tends to her, and there’s so much outside of the little bubble she wraps herself inside of that she just… Can’t process. Won’t process.

Not now.

Not when she can think of the kits held temporarily in the headquarters, and the way they delighted in the relative calm and security of a pair of sturdy arms. She doesn’t get their names-- Doesn’t want them-- because she doesn’t want to remember any relatives of theirs that may have been lost in the fighting. She doesn’t want to know if she might have been the one to take them away, or get them taken away by the Touched through her own errors in assisting the Blues. All she wants to know is that they are safe, and that their needs are met and exceeded as much as she can manage, while they’re with her. She thinks of a nap she’d taken with a pair of siblings, and the bobble headed, lopsided drawing they’d left behind after they were taken back to Mino Ami with a number of other survivors. It found a place amongst her things, folded upon itself and carefully preserved with a bit of waterproof cloth, just in case-- Because it depicts her and what they apparently were guessing that Cirrus looked like together, holding too large swords.

She tells herself she won’t hold on to it forever. That she’ll give it to Cirrus and actually act convincing when it comes to denying having drawn it herself.

After all, they’re fighting for their right to live. It wouldn’t do to act like they’re going to fail now, just before the end, right?

It burns a hole in her pack, now, as she desperately fights to hold on to the whole of it, however bloodstained and battered it is-- She doesn’t even know why she tries to latch to it, deep down.

Perhaps she just wants to get across a promise, something that even the simplest of fighters might understand, to Cirrus. To the bead in her pack. That she won’t forget them, that she won’t let go of what she learned and the desires that led to her deciding to side with the Blues through thick and thin.