loch lemach gives zero fucks (cutandthrust) wrote in emillion, |
The streets swam before her vision, and she leaned her weight against the wall of the alley, felt the world threaten to turn on its side. Her energy was running out, every breath came harder than the last, and avoiding the debris that littered the pavement with every step took all of Loch’s concentration. Her thought processes had shut down hours before; now she moved by instinct, following the layout of the city that had been etched into her mind for as long as she could remember, leaving behind her bloodstains like a trail of breadcrumbs in a twisted version of a children’s tale. Her muscles no longer complained of the pain; they were too tired for that, but still she made her way to the Cathedral, led by a memory over a decade old, her blood staining her clothes and the boy Amos Luscini, who had never been anything but a thorn in her side, infusing her wounds with healing white light. A man stood in her way; she saw his feet first, blocking her path through the chaos, then looked up and imagined robes, an acolyte, the dull pain of a remembered knife in her side. “Amos,” she gasped out. The figure that stepped out of the shadows of the Cathedral was not Father Luscini, no, but another mage whose past entwined with Loch’s. Lionel was marred with cuts and bruises of his own, pain a constant companion ever since his fight yesterday, but his injuries were nothing in comparison to Loch’s. The blue mage immediately rushed forward, curative magic already brimming at his fingertips. “Faram,” he muttered under his breath. He needed to get her inside the Cathedral as quickly as possible. Then: “Loch, it’s me. Lionel.” At the sound of the voice she looked up. Recognised, through the haze of pain, her name being called, and she stepped forward―no point in wariness, when she was already half-dead―and tripped over her own feet, her legs giving up what little strength they had held. Before she hit the ground, there were hands pulling her up, supporting her weight. (The cobblestones, the reedy figure of Amos Luscini kneeling beside her, crumpling under her weight when he tried to help her stand; she remembered the debt still unpaid, the acolyte with robes drenched in blood not his own. But these were not his hands, they were another debt to add to the list, one she had no choice but to incur.) “Lionel,” she said, closed her eyes. Every word pained her. “I fucking hate this city.” A low, quiet laugh escaped from Lionel’s throat before he could clamp down on it. He quickly looked Loch over, taking stock of her injuries and wounds, and then he gently brushed a blood-matted lock of hair from her face. “No, you don’t. You love it.” He gently pressed a palm to her torso and closed his eyes, casting White Wind. There was nothing he could do to completely heal her wounds, but he could at least steer her away from death’s door. When Lionel spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “And Miles is here.” Her eyes widened at the mention of the name and she searched Lionel’s face for any signs of emotion to provide additional information, did not see grief. Concern, perhaps. Concern meant there was still hope. But she felt dizzy, too far gone to keep the word from leaving her lips. “Alive?” Lionel nodded. “Thankfully, my brother is a very difficult man to be rid of.” In response, she let out a weak chuckle. It turned into a wet cough. She covered her mouth with her hand, saw the dry blood across her skin replaced with fresh. The warm glow of the magic faded, the worst of her wounds mended. He gingerly picked her up—she normally cut such an imposing figure, it was alarming to have her feel so small in his arms―and held her close to his chest. “Let’s get you inside.” Low, like the furtive whisper of a forbidden word, she muttered, “Thanks,” and closed her eyes. |