Weal in Woe Chapter One --- A very bad day begets a very good day as a brush with death brings a gatherer and an artisan together. --- While this story is set in the world of Final Fantasy XIV, it isn't as firmly defined by it as my other works within the fandom. This is an exercise in selective vagueness - the idea is to see if I can create a sapphic romance that exists in the world, that folks unfamiliar with Eorzea might find approachable on its own merits. Thanks to [https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunWithNix](FunWithNix) for giving this story a read prior to release. --- Bright. Still. Dry grass; scrappy, resilient wildflowers in vibrant purples and blues. Thick forest surrounded the clearing; grass gave way to brush gave way to a thick darkness she had always found inviting, intoxicating. She sat on the rock in the clearing for awhile longer, long legs folded under her, leather trousers smoothing the jagged stone to a faint irregular pressure that she found comforting, in its own way. A light breeze, bearing the distant sound of children - or possibly a young group of adventurers, trekking along the river that snaked through the valley below. A hawk circled overhead, seemingly bored, disinterested - gliding slowly, silhouetted against the sun. She squinted, covered her eyes with a hand, still couldn't make out coloration, pattern, species. She returned to her sandwich - grilled fish, crisp bread, a drizzling of sweet sauce she could never remember the name of. A few bites later she was licking her fingers, sipping from her water skin, and standing - slowly, her upper back and shoulders popping and cracking. She turned, surveying the clearing, checking over the spot she had chosen for lunch. She picked up her walking stick and flicked a stray crumb in the direction of a surprised and grateful squirrel, stretched, and headed up the hill. Through the brush, into the vast dark forest that surrounded the clearing. --- Snapping, stinging brambles gave way to a cacophonous buzz of insects, the songs of birds, the roaring hiss of a nearby waterfall. The forest was dark, the canopy thick. Warm light pooled in broad, irregularly spaced patches of thinness, flared brightly through occasional gaps, teased the thick mat of leaves and debris into the appearance of liquid flames, frozen in place. Ponds of silent unburning flame surrounded by irregular rings of thick soft moss - drooping, dripping from the branches. She picked burrs from her sleeves, adjusted her pack, and headed upwards, parallel to the sound of the stream feeding the waterfall. She moved slowly, probing the forest floor with her walking stick - the ground was rocky in places, leaves and branches and drifts of pine needles creating the deceptive appearance of a smooth, gently rolling surface. She knew better, knew what to look for. Knew not to take it for granted. Not this close to the river, anyway. --- Further up, further in, she began to relax. The ground was steep, small hillocks of dark earth rising from leaf litter forming a faint suggestion of a trail. She glided upwards, bracing herself with her stick, against tree trunks, occasionally both - jumping lightly from mound to mound. Onward, upward. The canopy began to thin as the space between the trees widened. Her world brightened, slightly - from a dark inky blue to a lighter, muted blue-green, shot through with the occasional beam of sunlight. The ground leveled, smoothed, the tip of her stick regularly sinking no further than her boot heels. She straightened, relaxed, slowed. A long drink from her water skin. Deep breaths, savoring the crisp clean air. Savoring, and seeking. There - a faint whiff, a vague suggestion. Acrid and sweet. Towards the stream. She reached back, to the bracket on the side of her pack, and drew out a tightly folded assemblage of sharp metal and hard wood. With a few twists, her scythe took shape. With a few more, her walking stick took its place. She looked over the blade, smiling as it glinted dully in the cool dim light. She examined her fingers, chose a slightly irregularly trimmed nail, tested the readiness of the scythe by evening it out with a slow, deliberate motion. The tiny crescent of fingernail fell away, vanishing into the leaf litter beneath her feet. Practiced fingers worked at the drawstrings of the pouches attached to her belt - loosening, opening, dancing through the collection on each hip - empty, empty, all empty. For now. Inhaling - a long, deep breath. Through her nose, out her mouth. That sweet, slightly acrid scent again - faint, towards the water. The crunching of leaf litter beneath her feet became lost under the burbling roar of the stream as she drew closer to the water. She found herself near the top of a gorge - narrow, deep, and turbulent. Water rushed over irregular rocks, jetting into the air in some places, splashing against the steep embankment in others. And there, between her and the slope, nestled in the roots of several nearby trees - white mats of mycelia. White stems. Pointed, cream-colored caps half the size of her hand, studded with tiny orange bumps. She flipped her scythe, hooked the tip of the blade under the cap of the nearest mushroom, lifted, tilted. Orange gills - darker than the spots atop the cap. Just what she was looking for. She pulled on a pair of work gloves, twisted the heel of her scythe to set the blade perpendicular to the segmented snath, spun the tool blade-side down again, and got to work. --- There were three clusters of mushrooms mature enough to harvest - there were more to either side, more across the embankment, but she was early. In the future for those, if someone else didn't get to them first. With practiced hands she cut stem after stem, severing them as close to their caps as she could. She flipped each with the tip of the blade, exposing the gills to the cool light that leaked through the canopy high above. There were a few that weren't quite the right color - too dark, or too light. She maneuvered them out of each cluster, balancing them on the flat of the scythe blade, careful not to touch the gills. She took a moment - another sip from her water skin, the scythe supporting her weight without complaint. She was about to begin collecting the caps when she heard an unexpected noise - the snapping and crunching of leaves and twigs, just barely audible above the rushing water of the stream. A colleague, perhaps? No, the noise was growing louder far too *fast*. Faster than any soul could run. A low, growling grunt. Behind her. She tensed and spun, the snath of her scythe skidding along the angry charging snout of the biggest boar she'd ever seen. The beast slammed into her, snapping its head upwards, her clothing snagging, ripping as a tusk dug into her bowels and glanced off of her ribs. The wind rushed out of her, the scythe flying from her hands as the animal knocked her backwards. Emptiness. Rushing air. Falling. Sharp cold wetness and blinding white pain as she crashed into the stream pack-first, her head bouncing off of a rock. She nearly blacked out - she *wanted* to black out - but fear kept her awake, alert. The beast grunted above her, tossing its head, snorting. It glared down at her and lurched forward, mud spraying beneath its hooves as it charged down the embankment, gathering speed. The rocks digging into her back were sharp. The rocks passing under her palms as she struggled to sit up were sharp. She grabbed at one - just starting to smooth - got her fingers around it, hauled it out of the water and swung. The beast slid into the stream, tusk grazing her thigh, blood gouting around the stone lodged deep in its skull. She sighed heavily and sunk backwards, into blackness. --- Pain. Cold and clear and as crisp as the water she was soaking in. She blinked rapidly, coaxing her eyes into focus. It was later - but not *much* later. The boar lay dead at her feet, blood trickling into the water, clouding, diluting as the current swept it downstream. She'd cracked her head, scraped her bottom, ripped open her hands - small cuts, the fingers of her gloves dotted with blossoming blood stains. Her harvesting belt lay in the stream, cut through at the buckle. Her shirt and trousers hung loose, the current tugging at loose flaps of sodden, blood-soaked cloth. She'd been ripped open, from just above her folds to just below her breast. Shallow in some places, deep in others - the wound was irregular, bleeding freely. Heavily. She felt faint, felt like she wanted to sleep again. She knew that if she did, she'd never wake up. She pushed with her feet and hands, struggled to sit up, pain arcing through her torso. A moment later she realized she was screaming, had *been* screaming - her throat was raw, her breath ragged. A sharp intake of breath, a conscious effort to close her mouth, to stop wasting what life she might have left. She was soaked and needed to be dry for anything she had in her pack to slow the bleeding or close the wound. She needed to put pressure on it, quickly. She worked off her sodden gloves and tossed them aside. Gasping in agony she fumbled for the remains of her belt, for her knife. The blade made short work of her trousers. She cut the right leg off as quickly as she could, whimpering in agony as she twisted her torso to get at the back of her thigh, sobbing as she made a long cut down the inseam, easing the leather off of her bruised and battered limbs. The material was just long enough to wrap around her belly - the wound bulged alarmingly there, bled profusely there, definitely needed the most pressure there. It wrapped, but wasn't long enough to tie. Moaning and yelping in pain, she quickly unlaced her boots, tied the laces together, and wrapped them around her torso. A simple, sloppy knot, blood running over the woven cord, pattering on the rocks and mud of the embankment. It would do for now. It had to. She knew where the nearest settlement was. She didn't know if she'd make it. She had to try. A deep, pained breath, hissing through clenched teeth. She drew her walking stick from the side of her pack, shook the water off, unfolded it, locked it. With a short sharp whimpering grunt she scaled the embankment and began her journey downstream - one hand clenching the stick, the other her poorly wrapped and tied midsection, blood trailing behind her.