Rosalyn Merriweather is rudely awakened from severe injury. Her hasty reaction could drive a wedge between her and her ally – or will it bring them closer?

Actual-play flash fiction from a TTRPG campaign in which I am a player.

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I’m shaken awake by Varo’s shadow fiend, the faceless creature’s burning red eyes staring into my soul from much too intimate a distance.

I shriek as I kick the thing back and roll away. I stand, brushing dirt off my tunic. “Bloody hell, Varo! Don’t let that thing near me, you’ll get me killed.”

Varo is taken aback. “Rico? They’re the most caring person I know. They wouldn’t hurt you.” I open my mouth, with a few pointed objections ready, but he knows my angle. “–At least, not anymore. They see you as a friend now.”

Friend? Most caring? I glance at the fiend and my heart sinks with pity for Varo – it’s like hearing a child describe the monster in their wardrobe as their best friend.

Rico floats in place obediently, their clawed hand holding an empty vial – evidence they administered the healing potion that stopped the stab wound in my side from becoming fatal, and a pit of guilt forms in my stomach. There might be truth to Varo’s words.

I turn to Varo again, and a sharp pain in my side steals my attention. I apply pressure near the wound, and it’s like a wolverine trapped in my side is ravenously clawing its way out. Still, I’ve endured worse, and the wound will heal on its own.

Varo has a hurt-puppy look as he sees my pain, and he starts to rattle off an over-the-top apology that is quite unnecessary.

I interrupt him, “Why must it be your fault alone? I shouldn’t have pushed past you in battle, and you might have defended me if you had more skill.”

“I’m unskilled? I knew it, you hate me.” Varo crumples, my bluntness bringing out levels of distress I didn’t know existed.

“Of course not.” My words sound insincere, even to me, so I add, “You didn’t hesitate when I called for your help, so we’re alright. Alright?”

Varo looks unassured. Cheering the nearly grown man out of his spiral is a bloody chore. But I know about his traumatic upbringing, and it’s hardly his own fault he’s sensitive to a bit of tough love. I can help with that. Besides, there is a thing or two I could learn from him about not making snap judgments.

“Varo,” I say, and he turns to me, startled. “Could you tell Rico I said thanks?”

Varo turns to Rico, and they gaze at each other in silence briefly. Varo turns back to me. “Rico says ‘You’re welcome.’”