[ti]private[/ti]Vitae

Steps crunch through the foliage, curious eyes blinded by the forest’s namesake, but the wanderer continues moving forwards—led by the faintest light glinting through the unknown.

The light, as it turns out, comes from a gem. It’s an ornamental clasp, fastening together the clothes of a drowned body that floats, half-submerged, in a dark lake littered with moss and fallen blossoms.

It takes Saint a minute to realize what he’s looking at isn't just a painting, and once it registers, the man sputters into action. He rips off his thick coat, tossing it carelessly before rushing into the water, leaving his popplio by the shore. His skin jumps on contact with the freezing lake. He wades towards the body, the water climbing past his hips before he can grab it by an arm, pulling it towards him and to the shore.

His mind races. How could someone drown? Wouldn’t the game send them back to the shrine, should they suffer? Regardless, he goes through the motions, quickly and efficiency checking airways, for breathing, for pulse. When the results come up short, he places his hands over the center of the stranger’s chest and begins chest compressions.

Meanwhile, Gumball has wandered to the water. He noses the wiggling Pokeball around like a toy, before scooping it up in his mouth and waddling back to his trainer with his prize.

To his utter relief, the stranger revives. “Ah, be careful—!” But before he can urge them to rest, he’s shoved away, and a burst of light leads to the entrance of the most peculiar creature he’s ever seen. It looked like an amalgamation of different beings—chimeric, yet its voice is coherent, just as unique.

He’s paying attention to the conversation at hand, silent to allow Silvermoon and their pokemon re-orient themselves. Gumball, on the other hand, looks indignant. He spits out the pokeball in his mouth in order to claim the other prize he had found because finders keepers!

“You went into Mistra?” His brows furrow, recalling where he had read that name. “Trainers are forbidden from entering.” He had figured the game would bar them entirely, but it appears to be accessible.

His eyes take in the state of the two and he breathes out, dipping his head. There would be no point in chastising them. “Your body temperature is too low. You need to warm up. Gumball—don’t you dare!” Gumball freezes where he has outstretched his neck, mouth wide over the tip of Kintsugi’s tail. “No. No. Down.” The popplio slowly and begrudgingly backs off.

Saint sighs, exasperated. He gets up from where he’d been kneeling, moving over to his heavy coat, which he had discarded atop some shrubs. Brushing away some leaves from it, he moves to hand it to Silvermoon. “I’m going to build a fire. Please cover yourself with this. I would recommend removing any soaked outerwear, but you don’t have to, if you aren’t comfortable with it.” None of his own clothes would get soaked anyways. Despite wading in the water, he was completely dry thanks to his trainer class.

Saint is for a moment taken aback, suddenly on the receiving end of a Torchic’s furious clucking. Despite the threat of immolation and having his fingers pecked off, he still found him cute. Strangely enough, it’s the chimera that provides him instructions, but Saint is happy for an extra pair of—claws. “I’d appreciate it, Phoenix. Let’s gather some twigs first.”

He whistles for Gumball to join them, the trio not having to wander far to gather the needed kindling. The timberland is teeming with supplies. Saint finds himself more concerned with keeping Gumball from goading Phoenix into a twig-gathering contest—which they really didn’t have time for, nor does he think the local wildlife would appreciate having their nests dismantled.

When they return to Silvermoon and Kintsugi, it appears the other trainer had done as he asked. His gaze softens seeing them bundled in the oversized jacket. With their hair pulled down, they look much younger, and far colder. He hurries to make a campfire, making a ring of stones and stacking the fallen branches. “Please light this,” he asks Phoenix, waiting patiently.

Once the campfire is lit, their little circle becomes a small beacon in the sea of fog. Saint takes a seat beside Silvermoon, leaving a polite distance – mostly because they’re still strangers, but also because he didn’t want to incur Kintsugi’s wrath. The pokemon appeared quite protective of their trainer.

The fire feels warm on his bare arms as he stretches his hands in front of the fire. He hears Silvermoon’s voice, quiet, but clear. “It’s no problem.” Gumball waddles up to his side with two sticks in his mouth, and he reaches for his bag, rummaging through supplies for a moment.

“Neither of you have to answer me. If you’d rather just rest quietly, we can do that.” He takes the offered sticks and pokes the ends of them with marshmallows, handing them back to Gumball, who excitedly scoots back to Phoenix to offer one. “I’m curious to know how you all ended up here. You said you went to Mistra. Did you fall off a cliff, or something? This lake connects to a river, but it’s still a ways off from that direction.”

He offers the bag of marshmallows to Silvermoon and Kintsugi.

Saint remains patient. He expected nothing as he asked that question and he expected nothing as he offered the bag of marshmallows, so when Silvermoon takes the bag without eating and stammers a response, he doesn’t mention it.

What does get his attention are the wounds on their leg. “That’s—!” He tenses, biting down on his tongue. His hand is in the air, reaching as if to grab, the desire to inspect and treat such ghastly punctures and lacerations deeply-ingrained – he refrains. His hand closes, instead moving to his bag.

“A flooded castle… boxes… a creature?” None of it makes sense. Whatever Silvermoon had found in Mistra had been unlike anything he had encountered thus far. He pauses his search to glance up, seeing Kintsugi lean into Silvermoon, the two of them finding comfort in each other. Saint’s mouth twists. Just what is Mistra?

He pulls out first aid supplies. “I’d guess you were washed out. Like I said, there’s a river that fills this lake. But you could have also been teleported.” His brows are furrowed as he unwinds bandages. “If that thing had killed you, you should have respawned at a shrine, not here. Strange.”

He turns to them now, kneeling. “Do you mind if I check on your wounds? They appear to be healing, but we should make sure they’re not infected.” Maybe not infected in the sense he’s used to. He can only hope that whatever they had drowned in hadn’t been tainted.

There’s an uncertainty in Silvermoon’s voice. In – well, their mannerisms really, but it’s a point Saint can empathize with rather than deride them for.

“Thank you,” he says as they allow him to inspect their injuries. He keeps his touch minimal, only gently moving their leg to get a better angle on the bite. He grimaces at the sight of it – the punctures and torn skin reminiscent of a bear trap. “Whoever’s in charge of wounds in this game should be proud,” he mumbles absently as he cleans and dresses it.

He pauses, antibiotic still in his hand as Silvermoon asks if he’s a doctor. It’s a familiar pang in his heart. A burn like a parent’s glare. “Not in real life, no. I’m only a student.” His eyes shift to the side. “Pharmacy major.”

“But I was in medical school for a while, and I have first aid training.” Hence why he doesn’t fumble, for once in his life. His hands are quick and deft. “Which I know doesn’t mean much in virtual reality,” he chuckles. “But if it means making your return to the shrine more comfortable, then it’s worth it.”

And in no time at all, he’s done. He sits back and tilts his head. “Can I ask… why were you at Mistra?” There is no blame in his voice, just pure curiosity that he’s never been good at tamping down.

The sight of tears alarms him. The guilt is instantaneous and crushing; he regrets asking the question, and finds himself scrambling to fix it.

His body falls back on muscle memory. He’s back home, pulling one of his siblings into his arms. It isn’t a tight hold: he has always left enough room for them to push him away; has never desired to trap them in his endeavor to comfort them. Every single one has different needs.

He’s glad to have chosen a jacket so thick. It bundles Silvermoon, offers a modicum of comfortable distance between two strangers. “It’s okay,” he hums, his hand patting their back gently. “It’s okay. You aren’t a bad or lesser person for wanting to help. This is not your fault, Silvermoon.”

He pulls back, adjusting the collar of the jacket so it doesn’t slip, tucking it around Silvermoon’s neck. “Sometimes bad things just happen to good people. That doesn’t make them any less good.” He raises a brow. “And really, who could’ve guessed they’d go so far in a Pokémon game?”

Saint’s brows knit together. While his experience in UNOVR hadn’t been purely smooth sailing thus far — strange glitches, shitty roommate — he still didn’t believe the game would be capable of anything truly harmful.

And yet, when Silvermoon continues— it sounds as if their journey has been littered with nothing but danger. He didn’t interject, but is unable to help how his expressions morph at the descriptions of Silvermoon’s near-death, the terrifying experiences they’ve had that extends even to their team.

He’s silent for a long time as Kintsugi stares him down, Silvermoon pressed up against them. It should be touching to see.

It isn’t.

“It isn’t all there is,” Saint agrees. “This world— in any world, really—” though he would be lying if he wasn’t hoping the virtual one had better chances “—it’s capable of showing us some truly wonderful things.”

He pets Gumball, the popplio’s mouth stained with melted marshmallow. He’s pretending to joust with Phoenix using the sticks.

Saint’s eyes move back to Silvermoon, eyes soft with worry. “Has it not done that for you? It honestly sounds like you’ve been— like you haven’t been able to feel that good, being here.”

Everyone, without exception— everyone in this game is here for escape in some form. But it doesn’t seem as if Silvermoon has been able to escape any horror— rather, they’ve been thrown back into it, time and time again. His eyes drift back to their bandaged calf.

“I’m sorry, I know I have no right to talk. We’ve only just met, but— I’m worried. You shouldn’t have to push yourself so hard. You should be having fun.”