[b]Private Aden Robertson[/b]

Healing magic had always been the thing of fiction to Aden. Tales relegated to history and the occasional play or novel the private indulged in occasionally. Rumors abounded about some squirreled away within the higher echelons of some societies but that was the standard gossip along the like of those vile cure all drinks they peddled in the seedier districts. 

Yet for all the stories; none had actually captured how it went. Mitunbaal looked drained in the glimpses he caught of her. Not withered but more akin to the aftermath of a long march. Or how his wound felt as if he had simply overexerted the limb and not suffered a near debilitating gunshot. The scar almost faint instead of the angry red and upraised skin it should have been. 

Though the still stained greatcoat hanging in his locker a stark reminder of how close he came. Physically at least. 

Mentally he could still remember the panic and the pain as Zoe flittered about. The deck rumbling around him as he felt his eyes grow heavy; the fear that this was it. The cold spreading in his chest. Thoughts of his family; abandoned in a moment of youthful rebellion. His first squad, their corpses splayed across the Calarian border, eyes bulging from gas. His first kill, the young mortar spotter, killed by Aden so the marksman could die on a airship. Poor trade- 

Then Aden woke up in his bunk. Fresh clothes and scar too small for the wound he remembered. It had taken a day for him to gather what had happened; a miraculous save by all accounts. 

"Poor trade." He muttered aloud as he worked at a side table within the bridge. A manual for ariel gunnery laid beside his sketchbook. The private making notations within the sketchbook and scratching out ballistic calculations; trying to figure out how to adapt his sniper rifle for the airship. 

The book was made with machine guns in mind but the rounds were similar enough to- 

'[i]Once again you cheat death. How many others more deserving didn't?[/i]' 

The thought was intrusive; his pencil scratching harder then necessary and breaking off the slightest bit of lead. Aden gave a grunt of frustration, closing the sketchbook and reaching into his borrowed airman uniform pulling out a cigar; half squished and partially smoked. A [i]flick[/i] as his lighter followed the cigar; stubbornly remaining unlit for just long enough to remain annoying. 

Finally, the familiar taste of the cheap tobacco and those other flavors he and the others had associated with their "trench smokes" filled his corner of the bridge. 

"Thank the Dawnbringer for helium."