Cian (thebettingsort) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-19 09:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, cian wilde, siri d'albis |
Who: Cian & Siri
What: Cian takes Siri’s warnings seriously
Where: The Tower and beyond!
When: Evening, concurrent with the start of this
Rating: PG-13-ish for language
Status: Complete
Open the window, he’d said. He’d been pulling his jacket on already as he’d sent the message, certain now that she would obey the request (not quite an order, but he wasn’t fully certain she could appreciate the difference). He’d taken the steps two at a time to the roof, thrown the tarp off his bike. He’d caught the words she hadn’t said, though it had taken him a minute to decipher anything useful out of the children’s circle song that he’d had to dredge out of his memory. Ring around the rosie; Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. He’d been intending to head to the Ring himself -- in case, even though he hadn’t seen any movement from the people he suspected were conspiring against the syndicate -- but this was a detour he would simply have to take. It wasn’t a long flight to the tower at the center of the city, made shorter by the fact that he rose well above the height mandated by the authorities and swung around anything that threatened to get in his way. He skimmed over the treetops in the garden, searching out a third floor window open to the cold night air. There -- and framed in it, the prophetess, her eyes turned upward. He pulled up to the ledge with a sharp turn, reached out his hand to her without thought. “Hop on.” Against the night sky she was a flimsy figure, cloak warmly secured around her because Spring was not here (the ground was still frozen in patches, the flowers curled downwards), just gentle traces of it. On his instructions she flung her window open, stood on the edge — never look downwards, that’s how gravity works so she fixed her eyes skywards to Him. I’ll never lead you astray if you trust me. Peace and silence: a reward? a punishment? Breathing in the sweetness of winter and spring, Siri saw the stars move above her, racing each other until they faded at the sound of an engine. Cian’s voice felt distant, Siri was not here; each action was pure reflex, fingers curling around his scales before taking that step and settling behind him with ease. “The bell hasn’t rung yet” her voice sandpaper against his skin, there was time. He had come to recognize the moments she wasn’t fully present, so he ensured her arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, fingers clasped. Maybe the physical contact would steady her and maybe it wouldn’t; right now, her relative lucidity was not his greatest concern), but in any case, he didn’t want her falling off the back of the bike. “Yeah,” he said, as much for himself as for her, “there’s still time.” Not as much as he would have liked -- the warning had had him detouring to one of the storehouses, grabbing a couple of things that had been quickest to reach and would do the most good. Maybe not enough, but at least he was wearing that pendant he’d bought off the countess, even if he hadn’t worked out how to get Ash to put one on (rules were rules were rules; he didn’t care about the Ring past tonight, but she did). As they flew over darkened buildings, he spoke, knowing how loud to pitch his voice to be heard over the wind. “Remember that bit about keeping my secrets?” he asked. “I’m going to take you somewhere. You’ll probably like it.” There would almost certainly be blood tonight, more than a few cuts and scratches. Yeah, she’d probably like it. “But I’m going to need you to stay quiet unless it looks like things are going to shit -- and keep what you see to yourself. Can you do that for me?” Somedays the gentle brush of fingers could draw her back; surroundings could trick her senses but hume contact had yet to led her astray. Regardless, sometimes a simple touch was not enough, nor the steady weight of hers against another. Folded into herself, her mind shuttered from the world; everything felt muffled from her senses — far away. Siri was comfortably still, more lost in the thrill of the ride than worried about there being enough time. There would be. She knew, she knew and it made her unnervingly calm. Tonight she was not herself, but a shade under Faram’s gaze. Watch what you’ve tipped with my eyes and your hand. Cian’s steady cadence reached her, clear enough to draw her attention for the moment (probably helped that they were in such close proximity, because he might not have drawn her back but he was still a line to this reality). “Tonight He has me be His eyes and not His mouth.” Then for his benefit: “All your secrets to swallow me whole, ours to keep and none may speak.” “Good enough.” And it would be, he realized. He’d come to trust her -- she’d passed his tests each time, never quite perfect (perfection was a lie) but just right enough. (He’d caught himself wondering at times who and what spoke to her; that it was Faram was something he continued to doubt. Whatever it was, though, it knew things, and he wasn’t above using a tool at his disposal even if it was dangerous to wield.) The Docks were almost deserted this time of night, the ships quiet in the harbor. No trouble at sea tonight, and he fucking well hoped no earthquakes. He had enough to worry about without the elements getting in his way. “Going down,” he warned before swooping to a rooftop and squealing to a stop under an outcropping of bricks invisible from above. He used this spot often. “You okay?” he asked, already hopping from the bike, lifting her off by the waist, activating security. Maybe it was not Faram, but it didn’t really matter in the end — not to Helios, not to Cian, because what yielded results was the priority. However she knew and whatever she knew, it was hers. A cloak of stitched memories and voices which were not her own, Siri was still Siri but one day she wouldn’t be that, she’d be but a shadow made of others. Siri was fluid in his grip, holding still as he lifted her and clasping his hand firmly once her feet were on the ground. “Are you?” Flipping the question as if this were a game of deflection, after all it was not her life on the line tonight. “Still alive, so I’m calling it good.” Most days, that was the best possible measure -- everything else was secondary. “Let’s get going, then.” Down the rusted metal staircase zigzagging down the building they went, her hand still in his as he tried to match his pace to what she could reasonably do (he’d run, if he could), jogging down the alley to the back door of his own building, deceptively dark and quiet in the night. Inside would be a different story. “Got anything else you’d like me to know before we go in there?” Not as fast as Cian but keeping up her pace - not a run but not a walk. Time was moving again, the grains slipping downwards (arid and constant) Siri felt comforted by that steadiness (or maybe it was Cian’s pulse that was keeping the beat of time going). The question was taken, broken, examined and put back out in an answer (twisted and coiled — ouroboro). “You’ll make yourself the target once you step through the door. They’ll forget the wounded scale and go for your head and remember the face of seven times twelve is the poisoned rat.” “Yeah,” he said grimly, “that’s the idea.” In the end, it was his one selfless impulse, buried under justification, business, rationality: better me than her. But then, they’d both be walking out of here alive. He felt it thrumming through his veins like blood: luck. Tonight wasn’t his night to die. “Right,” he said, disabling the security on the back door, nodding to the two guards who appeared, weapons up, as it opened. “Showtime.” |