sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-30 13:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, !plot: as i lay dying, rictor cassul, violet black |
if i withhold nothing, it is my bleary-eyed duty.
Who: Fw Violet Black, Kpl Rictor Cassul, & eventually some Hptm Athos Hauville.
What: The collapse and progression of her illness.
Where: The Necrohol, then Cathedral infirmary.
When: Five scenes over the past week.
Rating: Tame.
Status: Complete.
Their work was not yet done, and neither was Faram’s. It would never be done was the thought running circles around Rictor’s mind, even as he spent more time with the new Feldwebel. The months had taught him to hold his tongue around her, and if a vitriolic remark ever wriggled its way to the surface, he would bite it back especially in light of the Fete of the Holy Saints. Hauptmann Hauville seemed to have disappeared, presumably to the hassles of his position and responsibilities, leaving them to follow Black’s lead and her orders alone. Rictor had practically framed the letter from the Cardinal, tracing the words on the official stationery again and again: That said, it remains your continued duties to safeguard the city from Evil, wherever It should seek to thrive. So they patrolled together, the Feldwebel and the Korporal. She seemed paler these days, if he had to wager a guess — but then again the woman always seemed pale, as if she’d caught some lingering chill from the Necrohol, all sallow skin and too-blue eyes and too-dark hair cutting a waifish figure. (More reasons the willowy samurai had never quite fit into his mental image of the world. When Rictor thought Feldwebel, he thought tall, broad, masculine, bearded, possibly blond. The blue eyes were the only anchor between the two leaders.) Tonight, they’d finished going over the paperwork (she’d slid across the latest report on the site found in the mountain passes, and it seemed they would indeed have to go investigate it in-person, and soon), and were now on patrol. Black wasn’t the most enjoyable of patrol partners — he obviously preferred Lex by a long shot, Raol or Balder by a second, Amos by third — but it would have to make do. Partway through the evening, they stopped by one of the graves while Violet leant over and coughed, a fist pressed against her mouth. A smile curling on Rictor’s mouth, he assessed his impending remark and deemed it not too scathing: “Catching a cold, ma’am? Could head back to the Cathedral for some soup, if you like.” When she finally turned around, the muscles in her shoulders loosening slightly, and levelled that piercing gaze at him (and too many times had she been coolly angry, his own temper running hot where Violet’s was like ice)... he finally saw there was a sheen of sweat slicking her skin, despite the chill of the evening. His smile faded. “Are you—” he started. “Fine,” was her automatic response. It would have been much more believable if not for the fact that she nearly choked on the word. Her chest felt tight and her breath ended in a quiet wheeze that she sincerely hoped Rictor couldn’t hear. Violet lived in a world where being anything less than fine was an admission of weakness and so she did her best to stand straight and breathe deep. It wasn’t something she could fully pull off and with the feel of Rictor’s stare hitting her, she turned her attention to the ground. Another coughing fit came and she shut her eyes as her body shook in response. For the past week, Violet had been sick. She couldn’t remember the last time this had happened, though it hadn’t worried her especially until now. Realizing that she had grown worse by the day, Violet breathed slowly and deeply through her mouth. She felt dizzy, but not so much so that she needed to sit. She absolutely refused to stumble in front of Rictor, whose loyalty, Violet suspected, was tied to how much he respected someone. There was an uneasy silence as Violet regained her composure. As she did so, she rethought the past five days, during which she’d slept more than she ever did and had taken potions to ward away mild muscle aches and night sweats. Violet wondered if she shouldn’t have gone to a healer sooner, but it was the time of the year where the flu hit and so she’d not thought much of how run down she’d felt. Smoothing hair that was plastered to her forehead away, she was surprised by how quickly the illness had snuck up on her this night. She’d felt well enough while doing paperwork and after resting for the past week, she’d figured a patrol and fresh air would do her some good. Now she was regretting it. “I do think,” Violet said once her breath had returned and her back was straight, “that it might be a good idea for me to go to the infirmary.” With anyone else and anytime else, this might have merited another joke from Ric and a playful reference to weakness. But then he remembered Luscini’s warnings, the note about potential contagion, the multiple warnings across the networks… Rictor’s jaw tightened and he instinctively reached out to present a gentlemanly arm for balance—but then withdrew it just as quickly, wavering on the verge of offering aid, searching for the right line of propriety to tread but coming up blank. The thing to do was offer succour to an ailing woman, he knew, but those rules seemed to grind to a halt when it came to Black. If there was a glimmer of concern present, Rictor squashed it under his heel. He wrapped himself back into the steely inhuman shell of a soldier, his back straightening. “Alright,” he said and started leading the way with the Feldwebel lagging behind him, their patrol aborted and turning back towards the Cathedral and its trove of healers. But sooner than he would’ve liked, they ran aground again, the woman wobbling to a halt by the gates to compose herself. He watched Black reassemble herself piece-by-piece, mustering each limb back into working order. Others might have stumbled and crumpled entirely, he suspected. Violet Black was a great many things, and stubborn was one of them. (Just like him, some might be inclined to say.) “Want some help?” he finally asked, grudgingly. “A Cure to tide you over ‘til we’re back?” Rictor’s awkward uncertainty might have been funny in another situation. The way he held out his arm and then drew it back earned a raised brow from Violet and probably would have gotten a sarcastic quip if she’d felt she had the breath to spare. As it was, the walk was a drain on her system and so she saved needless cruelty for another day. It’d been a kind enough gesture, anyway, and she supposed she shouldn’t complain when he was being nice. At his question, Violet simply nodded. Stubbornness was good and well but feeling faint wasn’t acceptable. Better to take the aid than to fall to her knees, as she was sure he’d never let her forget such a thing. Taking as deep a breath as she could muster, Violet stood before Rictor and tried to focus on such petty thoughts as he did his magic and not on the niggling concern that was slowly eating its way through her thoughts. Illness was a rare thing for Violet, but when it did come, it didn’t normally knock her over so quickly. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d felt weak on her feet due to sickness and yet as white healing mist surrounded her, she reached out for Rictor’s arm to ground herself. Cure made her legs feel stronger in a matter of a few moments, but Violet still felt a bit too warm and she knew that it was only a temporary fix. It would get her to the infirmary without stumbling or gasping for breath and that was better than nothing, but concern was still knit in her brows. “Damn it,” she exhaled softly as a weight that had been on her chest lifted. She removed her hand from Rictor’s arm and managed to stand straight once more. Her breathing came easier and the need to cough wasn’t quite so bad. “Thank you, Korporal,” she nodded and then continued to walk, not waiting for him because her thoughts were scattered and manners took a backseat to the concern she was feeling. The walk thus far to the infirmary had been slow, but with the extra boost thanks to the magic, the second leg of the trek wasn’t quite so painful. When the building was just a few steps away, Violet felt relief wash over her. She wasn’t wheezing and her legs weren’t quite ready to give out on her, but she felt drained. Violet wanted nothing more than to be in a bed. Turning to Rictor, she said, “You don’t have to come up with me if you’d rather not.” She appreciated how uncharacteristically patient he’d been, but figured giving him an escape route wasn’t so terrible an idea. And he seized the opportunity like a drowning man reaching for a raft, gratefully accepting the opening. The Fete might have drummed some self-conscious tolerance into the man, as if topping up Rictor’s reserves of patience (in what I have done and in what I have failed to do—), but there were still limits, and these two were not friends. Far from it. “Hopefully it’s not what Luscini warned us about, huh?” Rictor said, voice light and noticeably forced. After a considering pause, he added, “I’ll finish the patrol on my own.” He gave a crisp salute, hand stiff against his temple, and watched Violet turn and walk away. As they parted ways, the Korporal quickly detached himself from the infirmary, readjusting his white cloak and marching back to the Necrohol, towards his duties, striving not to think of their leader laid low. For what could he have done, if he were in her place? (When he tried to be patient and sensible with himself, that inner voice sounded suspiciously like the Kaplan.) Sickness could come so easily, and stubbornness and sheer force of will (his favourite armaments) could only go so far in repelling it. How Rictor would eat his words. The next two days found Violet going in and out of fever dreams so vivid that she couldn’t be sure what was real and what wasn’t. It utterly confounded the mages who tended her, as her temperature would rise and fall unpredictably. When they thought that perhaps the worst of it was over, her skin would take on a new sickly glow and she’d sweat through her sheets or start to shiver uncontrollably.They used their magic on her when they could, but as the hours wore on it seemed to have less and less effect. Violet was too exhausted when awake to really notice their frowns, but she did feel the oddly oppressive silence that followed in their wake. She figured it wasn’t a good sign, but more than half the time she spent in her sickbed she was too out of it to really care about her wellbeing. The dreams were just too distracting and her thoughts grew fuzzy around the edges when she had the strength to be awake for more than a few minutes at a time. The worst of it was that the dreams she had were of pleasant things. She’d dreamed of Blue, of her younger years when things had been so much simpler. In one, she’d been training as a knight, running and laughing. Someone had been chasing her, a friend, and she was out-sprinting him by a longshot. At one point, she’d been in bed with Justinian only to wake and find herself alone. The illness was bad enough; it seemed doubly cruel that her mind would taunt her so with the sweet things she could no longer have. Visitors came and went, some only getting Violet’s brief attention before she sank back into her dreams. Once, she’d woken to find her husband’s face staring down at her. She tried to scream when this had happened, but found that her throat didn’t work. The noise she made came out like a hoarse gasping and Justinian, whose face melted into Filip’s as he grew nearer, grasped her hand and tried to soothe her. There was little comfort to be had, of course. Late on the second day, Violet woke suddenly in her half-dark room. There was a figure standing in the corner cloaked in shadow. “Where’s my husband?” Violet’s voice was a soft whisper. She reached for the figure. “Is he sick, too?” Her hand was grasping and pale. Startled, Rictor glanced back to the empty doorway, instinctively looking for someone to tell him what to do, helpless in the wake of this question. The Blades working safety and security meant a lot of things, but it also meant stalking up and down those hallways, being deathly aware of each patient interred in the Cathedral’s infirmary. Too many people. His older sister, his squire, his Feldwebel—an increasing list of casualties, each name another one of Rictor’s stitches undone. The responsibility of command had shifted onto his shoulders and he found himself at a loss. “Your husband—” he began, before petering out to a halt. One hand scrubbed at Ric’s face, awkward and unaccustomed to seeing the woman folded in on herself like this, a shrunken shade of her usual self. Normally when he gave Violet hell, she gave it back to him twice over, a rigid and unyielding force to his attitude. Instead she was a machine winding down, bleeding words into the air. He’d heard bits and pieces: Blue, Faram, Athos and Ulric (and that was uncomfortably intimate, the Korporal nowhere near accustomed to thinking of those foreboding men as forenames). Occasionally he’d leaned in closer out of sheer curiosity to hear more. Take the prisoner, she mumbled, or at least he thought she mumbled, until Rictor stepped back to his corner. Now, the question arose: to give the delirious woman the truth, cutting and devastating as it was? Or a pacifying lie? Speak the truth at all times. Give succour to widows and orphans. The two tenets ran headlong into one another. Staring down at Violet, Rictor weighed his principles and came to a conclusion. “Your husband isn’t here,” he said. “Go back to sleep.” His blunt honesty would be best served with those who refused to acknowledge it, those who could not look their own failings in the eye, who needed to hear it—not a widow with her brain fogged by sickness, lurching into the past. The room seemed overly large and warm. As Feldwebel, Violet had been provided a private room with windows, which was more than many of the sick could brag. The privilege was lost on her, however, and the night sky gave little comfort in the bare, white space. Violet looked around as if for the first time and drank in the few sights that she could. There was a small table beside her bed, a large pitcher of water there. The walls were bare, save for two squares that were paintings of something she couldn’t make out. Contrasting with the memory of the home she once kept, it seemed small and empty and utterly lacking in comfort. There was exhaustion written into the lines of her face, but the question was important enough to her that she could focus through the fog. She wasn’t sure if it was the darkness or the illness that made it hard for her to get a good view of the man standing before her. He was tall, shoulders hunched, and he kept glancing out the door as though expecting someone to burst through at any moment. She could tell he wasn’t a mage, he hadn’t the right build, and he hadn’t the stance of a priest. That a strange man was standing vigil at her bedside didn’t strike her as odd. He was familiar in a way that Violet couldn’t place and so she didn’t concern herself with safety. What she was concerned about was her family. More important than her illness or prognosis was the safety of her husband and child. And so she felt the urgent need to keep the young man’s attention, if just for a scrap of news. “Please,” she said. It wasn’t quite begging, but there was a pleading edge to her fatigue-thick voice. Her hand fell to her side, as she was too tired to keep it up for more than a moment. “Is he alright? Is he with my daughter?” The man’s mouth thinned and thinned with every word. Violet reasoned that if Justinian wasn’t at her bedside, he had to be with their daughter. The quiet doubt of worry that one or both were sick lingered in the back of her mind, but she refused to focus on such a thought. “I need to know.” The knight’s discomfort seemed to grow as she went on, all of her memories stirred into a muddle when faced with this unfamiliar figure. When Rictor looked down, all he saw in return was a blank staring lack of recognition, her blue eyes frantic and struggling to communicate across the years. How long ago had her family died? He had no Faram-fucking idea. Normally the Feldwebel spoke not a word of them. This sudden reminder was jarring. (That she was human, that she once had a life outside of the Blades, that she experienced pain like anyone else.) Frozen and rigid, Rictor didn’t take a step closer. Would she remember this later? Would she be mortified? Would she be angry with him for lying? Would she be angrier with him for telling the truth, for splitting her wide open? Finally, as if the words were being forced out of him, he cast about for an adequate response. “He’s with your daughter,” the stranger said stiffly, his throat dry—and it was meagre comfort, knowing that it was not technically a lie. It was quiet instinct that kept Violet from pressing further and asking any more questions. As confused as she was, there seemed a small part of her that knew the things that the illness had momentarily robbed her of. As it was, she took the man’s word as gospel. Her family was together and, she thought, filling in the blanks, well. Relief washed over her and it showed in the way she relaxed into the mattress. The stubborn need for knowledge had made her rigid, while the confirmation that she’d needed brought her peace profound enough to have a physical effect. “Thank you,” she said, eyes watering. No tears fell, but her already congested nose closed up even further and she sniffled in an effort to get air. Violet had never been more tired or more relieved. “Thank you,” she repeated as her eyes shut against her will. Fighting to keep them open, she squinted at the stranger. The more she looked at him, the more familiar he seemed, but his name escaped her and the exhaustion was quickly tugging her into sleep. Her eyelids fluttered as she seemed to struggle to form words that didn’t come. Weak from the illness, Violet was asleep as Rictor’s name finally came to her. It was late. The rest of the Cathedral had settled down for the evening, leaving only white mages and chemists and priests working overtime to seek some way to treat their patients. Some church higherups had removed themselves from the contagion a few days previous, but a few were still caught and laid low, the disease following no discernible trajectory that they could track. Athos Hauville washed his hands again and again before his visits, scrubbing the skin raw, and then covered himself in thick white gloves, long sleeves, and a high-necked sweater. And then he stayed there for hours, sitting vigil in his Feldwebel’s room, his usual sharp lines ebbing as he half-napped in the chair. Faram’s supposed will made flesh, the Hauptmann’s silver cross still gleamed against his cleanly-laundered shirt but his boots were worn from years of service in the field, experience carved into his face and the disheveled stubble on his cheeks, the drooping signs of exhaustion around his eyes. Athos watched his old friend and he staved off sleep. Were he another man, perhaps he might have spoken to her unmoving form—but he bore the weight in silence as he always did, the migraine building against his temples, his heart heavy. Whatever prayers the man had, Athos must have uttered them within the privacy of his own head, his eyes dark. The Blades were never around for these visits. He timed it well to ensure his privacy (save for one glimpse by Millie, and the girl had simply given wide eyes and a hurried bow before scuttling off). The night shift nurses learned not to disturb him when he was there, small white-clad satellites orbiting the stern-faced captain with the severe expression, who perpetually seemed to have a private storm cloud over his head. It had been years since he looked any different or any better. Over the course of Violet’s hospitalization, clarity came and went in indiscernible patterns. She sometimes woke with no notion of where she was, or what year it was. She would ask for old friends and dead relatives, sometimes with a bright smile on her face. Other times, she was herself, frail and ghastly in pallor, but hawk-eyed, still. She could never be certain how many hours or days had passed in the bed, and could only really gauge time by the color of the sky and the state of her hair, which grew thick and greasy from sweat and lack of washings. On her clearest days, she wondered if the room lacked a calendar on purpose and supposed it might have been wise on the part of the mages, however frustrating it was for her. Consciousness came slowly in the middle of the night, Violet stirring quietly. Her sleep, especially at night, was often noisy. When she wasn’t speaking, she was gasping quietly for air or moaning as she exhaled. This night, she’d grown quiet as she woke. Shifting on the mattress, she opened her eyes and tried to take mental notes on her state of being. She felt better as far as fever was concerned. Her body ached, but it was a mild sort of thing and she didn’t feel overly cold or hot. Still, that was no indication as to whether she was any better or worse, as she’d woken up in similar states before only to plunge back into worse symptoms. Her nose and chest were heavy with congestion and her throat hurt. It was difficult to swallow, and, she figured, also likely difficult to speak. But with so much sleep and inaction, she felt the restless need to move and talk. Violet was afraid. It didn’t exactly show on her face, but she was worried for herself. Each time she woke with a clear head, she wondered if a cure would come. Death wasn’t so terrible a concept to a widow who missed her husband and child, but this wasn’t a worthy death. Wasting away in a bed was torturous. Violet would have much more liked her end to be quick. But these were thoughts she tried to banish and it was easy enough to do when she wasn’t alone. Looking around the room, Violet felt Athos before she saw him. When she did, she recognized him instantly. His head was bowed and he seemed only half-awake. His presence, stern and miserable as it was, brought comfort. Violet met his eye and tried to speak. When only a squeak came out, she cleared her throat and tried again. “You have the look of a man at a funeral,” she said, a half-amused grimace on her face. That grizzled croak didn’t sound anything like Violet Black, but it brought Athos back from near-sleep, like a tide drawing him back to this room and this bedside. “Best not be. I’m very good at eulogies, but I’d be rubbish at yours.” He smiled, and it had the same look she’d seen for years: the gauged smile he wore when he was trying so very hard to convince someone that everything was alright. It was only recognisable for those who knew him well, by the faint downturn at the corners of his mouth and the careful evenness in his stare. That very expression had become more common lately, Athos’ walls building themselves up brick by brick from the outside world. The years had left their mark on him, even as they robbed Violet clean. “How are you feeling?” he asked, leaning over. He was a distant and aloof Hauptmann, overseeing both squads but suffering in the trenches right alongside them—that austere and professional shield only seemed to relax around his fellow officers, some of the human creeping out from behind Faram’s imposing soldier. She stared at him for a long moment, attempting to read into his features. On a good day, she could sometimes pick up on his thoughts from the hunch in his shoulders, but this was far from a good day and Violet couldn’t be certain whether she wanted to know the true severity of her illness. She figured if there was information she needed to know, he would tell her. And if there wasn’t anything new to share, he would do as everyone else did and be grimly optimistic, except he would be able to look her in the eyes. “Not great,” she admitted, rolling onto her side and almost shrugging. If there was a time for honesty, this seemed it. Violet might have been able to put on a brave face through this sickness, but she didn’t especially want to, especially not with a true friend near. “How long have I been out? I’ve lost track of the days.” “Four days.” So far, and no sign of improvement. Violet had her lucid moments, but they were brief and fleeting moments between the swells of illness, like the sun flickering behind oppressive cloud cover. “But we have it all in hand,” Athos continued, his voice smooth and unruffled, his hand resting at the edge of her bedcovers. “Luscini has his crisis centre in operation. Simply focus your energies on getting better, Vi.” Four days. Violet had guessed two. She wondered how much time she’d been awake in the past 96 hours, and how lucid she’d been. When she woke clearheaded she half remembered past conversations had with visitors, but couldn’t be certain whether they were real or imagined. For a silent moment, she looked at Athos. She could tell he was worried, though she knew he was doing his best to put on a brave face. The man had his tells. A worry line ran down his forehead and couldn’t be hidden, not even with smiles and faux certainty. “It’s worse than you’re saying,” she observed mildly, wishing she had her communicator to see what people were saying of this sickness. “I’m doing my best,” she said once the silence got too heavy between them. The words were more painful to get out as she went on, her throat protesting her speech, but she soldiered on. “Can’t seem to get past this fever.” She wanted to ask if there was an end in sight, but felt it was an unfair thing to ask of her captain. “Are the rest of the Blades well?” The topic change was sudden, but necessary. “They are. None of them are sick. They’re helping others around the Cathedral.” The sound of pride rose in Hauville’s voice like water trickling from a long-desiccated brook. He’d worked hard over the years to build up his stable of loyal, fiercely driven templars. Many things were going wrong lately, the world shivering on its axes around him, but the Silver Blades still held true. And then the man rose, the exhaustion writ in his sagging shoulders, his twitching frown. “It’s good to see you speaking, but you should sleep. I’ll be here again tomorrow night.” Seeing Violet swim out of that fugue was a comfort, a testament to his friend’s strength (stand strong against Faram’s enemies and never falter, Athos thought). But there was still no sign of actual improvement. Violet was reluctant to watch him go. She spent the majority of her time in this bed sleeping, and she was afraid she would eventually fall into a sleep so deep that she wouldn’t wake. But the little energy spent talking with Athos had drained her. She could feel exhaustion weighing down her limbs, half closing her eyes. There was no doubt that Athos could see this. He knew her too well. Putting up a brave front was no use with the man. “Faram be with you,” Violet said. She watched him go, not letting herself fall asleep until he was gone from her room. As the darkness took her, Violet willed herself to wake up with her wits about her. Silently, she prayed that this disease would not be the end of her. Rictor didn’t spend much time in this room—it made him indescribably uncomfortable. Filip was a far more steadfast presence by Violet’s side, popping in between patrols to read aloud to the Feldwebel (he’d heard somewhere that this did some good), readjusting the flowers on her windowsill or decorating her nightstand. Conscientious and dutiful, just like Gardist Auvray always was. It almost made up for Rictor’s continual absence. Almost. But they had a duty to their leader. The Korporal had a duty to his leader. So he occasionally (and reluctantly) stopped by to relieve one of the other Blades, usually at the tail end of a shift escorting other incoming patients or maintaining peace at the Cathedral gates. And by complete happenstance, he was there when she woke lucid. Ric didn’t entirely notice, at first; he was seated in the corner, boots propped up on a second chair, scrolling through pages on his network communicator, keeping an eye on entries and tapping out the occasional response, eyeing the clock and waiting for the moment he could leave the infirmary. (He’d spent all day here weighed down by the sight and smell of sickness, the creeping awareness of Aspel’s deteriorating condition.) The sound of rustling and movement made him glance up. Clear blue eyes were trained on Rictor. “Justin-” Violet was lucid, but memories of the previous night flooded her. For the briefest of moments, she thought it was her husband sitting casually in the corner of her room, feet propped up on a chair. It was the sort of posture he would take, seemingly carefree though trouble was weighing heavily on his shoulders. The shadows almost made his hair look the same inky black color. But Violet had her wits about her and as her eyes focused on the man in the corner, she remembered his name. This wasn’t her husband, this was Korporal Rictor Cassul. This was a man who hated her simply because she was not the man who’d come before her. Justinian Black was dead and had been for some time. And Rictor’s words from the night before, ”He’s with your daughter,” rang in the back of her head. Violet’s eyes started to sting. No matter the cause, the fact that she’d forgotten that her husband and child were dead was a blow that would have knocked her over had she not already been in bed. A lump formed in her throat and she quickly found herself unable to breathe out of her nose. She exhaled shakily and loudly and watched Rictor, unable to speak. “You’re awake,” he said, snapping his boots off the chair. Rictor fumbled the network device back into his pocket, straightening and rising to his feet, all straight lines once more. His reaction shook Violet out of her silence. Watching him there, stiff and clearly uncomfortable, Violet was suddenly angry in a way she hadn’t been in a very long time. She glared at the man even as the tears welled in her eyes. Had she the strength, she’d have jumped out of the bed and run to him, the need for violence settling comfortably in her limbs. She wished for her sword, wanting to swing it and not stop until the rage worked its way out of her. “Get out,” she tried to say, but the illness made it sound like an unintelligible squeak. His eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak again and a rattling cough came out instead. Violet pressed a fist to her mouth as the cough rattled her and made her stomach ache. Rictor seemed unsure whether to reach out or run away. Slowly, he stepped forward, going for the pitcher of water that sat on the bedside table. Gasping for air, Violet cleared her throat and suffered through the burn in her throat to bark, “Get out!” This time it was easy enough to understand. There were tears rolling down her cheeks, but she barely noticed them. All she could feel was her anger; Violet was mad that she was bedridden, mad that no one had found a cure, mad that her family couldn’t be here to comfort her, and mad that this man had seen her in so weak a state. “Get out of my room, Korporal!” she shouted, tempted to reach for the pitcher and fling it at him. Her words might as well have accomplished the same effect: they built up like a rolling stone, a years-long landslide of Violet’s anger suddenly unleashed and hurled at her insolent Korporal. It was as if she’d fired a gunshot into the room; Rictor jarred, jerking away from the pitcher of water, his hand falling and his steps backpedaling towards the exit. He didn’t need to be asked twice. He didn’t even want to be here, for fuck’s sake. The knight sped out of the room, chased by invective and grief as he went. There were periods when Violet, too wired from sleeping for so long, could do nothing but sit and stare at her ceiling, waiting for a mage with a new potion or some food to stop by. She could blame no one but herself for the fact that her visitors were few and far between, as her Blades often had training or better things to do than sit around and wait with her often unconscious form. The sun was sitting bright in the sky, causing the vase of flowers on her window to cast long shadows across the floor. Violet felt the need to rise to her feet and check that the world outside still existed, but it took much out of her just to sit up, let alone get to her feet. She had no way of knowing whether she'd last a walk the few feet across the room. And she couldn't bear the thought of someone finding her crumpled on the floor in a gown, unable even to pick herself up. So she distracted herself with her surroundings and idle thoughts. She ignored the worry that gnawed away at her. After enough time had passed, she reached for the book that Filip had left her, a fantasy piece that wouldn't have otherwise interested her. She'd seen nothing of Rictor since she'd kicked him out of her room and having had enough time to think on the incident, Violet was feeling guilty that she'd lost control of herself. She'd been unfair to the boy, pointing all her insecurities in his direction because he'd been the only target she could find. And so, when he shuffled past her room, glancing quickly at her before turning his attention ahead, Violet shouted after him, even though it hurt to do so. "Korporal, wait!" He ground to a halt a couple feet down the hall, wincing. There was the brief thought to pretend that he hadn’t heard, simply keep walking and continue on with his day—there was enough to do, after all, with Amos piling on more and more responsibilities and all of the gardists looking to him. But fleeing had never been Cassul’s approach. So he turned and stepped back into the room, unsmiling but unwavering. “Aye?” With some effort, Violet pushed herself up into a sitting position and watched Rictor, who seemed cautious. She couldn’t exactly blame him after how she’d behaved the last time they’d been together. She wondered if he was expecting more abuse from her and was silently preparing himself. Instead of letting the awkwardness grow into a deeply uncomfortable silence, Violet dove right into it, “I want to apologize.” She met his eye and tried to keep it. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did…” she realized that she wasn’t entirely sure if her outburst had happened last night or many nights ago. Being stuck in a bed made the hours blur together unevenly. “Was it last night? Whenever it was,” she said. “I’m sorry for speaking to you the way I did.” “It’s fine.” There was no warmth in the man’s voice, carefully modulated to be as impersonal as possible—it was a defense against the too personal, the knowing too much. He’d been accidentally privy to something more intimate than Violet would have let slip otherwise. “You were… indisposed.” It was a careful selection of words, the safest and most clinical way to refer to her debilitating illness (that still had no cure) and hallucinations. Having to relive the loss of her family twice over—Rictor couldn’t imagine. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he could not imagine it. “I was quite in control of myself at the time,” Violet countered gently. She didn’t want Rictor making excuses for her. The stress on her body and mind was a lot, but it didn’t give her free reign to behave like she had. She’d never before used her personal tragedies as a crutch. Once she’d returned after her leave of mourning, she’d not let herself shed a tear or raise her voice in emotional turmoil. It was unbecoming of a Feldwebel to stoop so low or take advantage of so easy a target. “I simply let my emotions get the better of me. For that, again, I am sorry.” There was an uncomfortable pause where Violet looked over the man, all straight lines and controlled expression. She wondered if he hated her or pitied her and couldn’t tell which was worse. “I know better than to let my fear take such a hold of me and it will not happen again.” Her lips curled into a dark smirk, “Faram willing I live through this disease.” Each word was another sliver beneath Rictor’s skin. His expression rippled as Violet went on and apologised, then twitched even further as the humour turned morbid. But there was no need to be petty (and that was a thought that didn’t occur to him often, especially with this officer). What if she was correct? What if she didn’t live through this? Their last parting words as Feldwebel and Korporal couldn’t be so poisonous. Perspective sidled in, clear-eyed and punishing after one year. So Rictor marshaled himself together and managed to squeeze out a strained “Forgiven.” A breath, another gathering in his lungs and bones, and he continued dryly, “I can understand emotions getting the better of someone.” There was a sardonic and self-aware edge to the remark. He knew himself that well, at least. The man was still standing rigid, at military attention. “Faram willing. I hope you recover soon, ma’am.” And then, relenting: “I mean, who else will give my ass a hard time if you don’t? Pardon.” Violet couldn’t help the small smile that made its way onto her face. Perhaps there was hope for Rictor Cassul. All it had taken for him to soften a bit was life threatening illness; he was stubborn in a way she could admire, at the very least. Turning her head to cough, Violet took a moment to gather her breath before giving her full attention to the Korporal. She couldn’t maintain the rigid posture that he did, but she was sitting a bit straighter than she had. That it took all of her energy to do so was, she hoped, not easily discernable. “You do so like being given a hard time,” she said, an unfamiliar warmth in her tone. This couldn’t be friendship, but it was something almost like it. Bonding through mutual fear of what might come to pass. Her smile turned sharp at the edge, though, as she continued. “Perhaps you’ll get your wish for a replacement. Only time will tell. Though I will do my best to keep you from getting what you want.” A grin. “As usual.” The joke was another piece of discomfort, but being open about their resentments and strife was oddly working for them. There was a pause, in which Rictor seemed to be caught between finding the proper way to respond. “As usual,” he finally echoed—for that was how they worked, wasn’t it? two forces diametrically opposed—and gave a bitter little smile, trying not to think of the recovery mission on the morrow. Their Feldwebel didn’t need to know about the mission; either one or both or neither of them would be dead by the end of this, and telling her wouldn’t change a thing. And he wasn’t much for goodbyes, anyway. |