Cian (thebettingsort) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-21 14:36:00 |
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He’d called in a healer who’d sworn up and down the diagnosis was correct. “She’ll wake up,” the woman had said, wringing her hands (Cian supposed the thunderous expression on his face had something to do with it). “Tomorrow, maybe Wednesday. She’s hit her head, but it seems like she’s been well-tended, so --” He’d interrupted her, taken whatever medications she’d been able to give, and kicked her out. He hadn’t been able to stay in the house, though, with her lying still in his bed (he’d thought of the prophetess then, but this princess needed medicine and rest, not the kiss of true love or what the fuck ever the stories said -- if he was even qualified to deliver it). There was shit to do, besides. Tomorrow, maybe Wednesday. So he’d gone to the Faram-forsaken docks, started sorting through the wreckage of his warehouses. It helped keep his temper in check. He spotted her almost the moment she came into view, though; she looked a bit lost, clearly unaware that there were two men following after her. They’d pegged her as a mage, he supposed -- she looked the part. Plenty of people pissed at mages these days. (He might have been one of them, but the burden of the favor he owed rested on him; he wouldn’t speak against the Mages’ Guild when one of its leaders had fucking resurrected him.) So he stepped in, fell into step beside her. A glance over his shoulder had the men finding someplace else to be. “Not the best day for a walk, prophetess.” “We’re playing hide and seek.” Cracked and a little broken, but enough to keep on her feet, Siri was and looked too much like a mage, down to the cloak she often wore; a shield from her and the rest of the world (a fabric made of fractions of memories that did not belong to her). Cian’s appearance did not perturb her, swaying and angling her body towards his — always drawn to some people. Since they had spoken she slept (became sleep, heavy-lidded and hollow-soft). “They’re hiding very well though.” The destruction of the city, the Esper, everything was tucked away in the back of her mind; her focus was on this game. “Under rocks, boats, houses — not even under corpses of monsters.” “Careful no one seeks you while you’re looking,” he said, his tone mild. There wouldn’t always be someone to note the followers. She was the sort, he thought, to ignore danger to herself when she reacted to danger aimed at others. He had the first part of that in common with her, to a degree, though he thought his self-preservation instincts were probably better. Then again, she likely hadn’t spent most of her life with people trying to kill her, either -- just the voices in her head, which probably netted a different set of instincts altogether. “What’s hiding?” With her, it might not be a who. And really, if she had any information on this clusterfuck, it would come in handy. “No, it’s not my turn to hide yet.” The notion someone would be looking for her seemed odd in these circumstances; lack of self-preservation or uncanny faith in Faram (whatever happens, he wills it and with single minded focus she walked to the edge as commanded by Him and His voice). She looked at Cian from head to toe, watching his scales glint in the light, his fangs curve inside his mouth, forked tongue flickering as he spoke. She smiled. “Did you find the princess in the glass coffin?” “Yeah, and the dark witch.” He shook his head. “She’s got shit taste in people, that princess. Still sleeping for now, and life goes on.” Without her, would it have done? She still had a hold on him so powerful that he couldn’t be sure. “So who’s hiding?” Not a what then. And, because she was who she was -- because they were who they were -- he offered, “Maybe I’ll help you play.” “Witch, witch, witch.” Siri muttered the word, shook her head and dismissed it (an entire conversation passing in her head, Voices dismissing and pulling her attention like capricious children with a toy). Eventually one must have won because Siri turned her attention to Cian again, and gave a nod. “I guess it is not cheating too much if you help me play.” “Cas and Ric are hiding. They’re making it very hard.” “Lots of ways to play hide and seek. We’ll call this going around the rules instead of breaking them,” he said. He spent a lot of time going around. A necessary quality for someone in his line of work (more necessary still when he considered that unlike most people of his sort, he did believe, occasionally, in rules at all). The names were vaguely familiar, so he thought a moment, considering where he’d heard them. Probably something from the file he’d gotten on her (too thin, but it was too late to lament it now), when he’d first tried to look into this woman who had inserted herself into his life. “Surnames?” he asked, just to make sure he didn’t go on a hunt armed with nicknames (he had to assume they were real names -- not animals or birds, for once -- but who the hell really knew?). Only two people held full names in her head at all times, the rest came and went and thus giving him an answer took no thought at all, “Caspar Vaux and Rictor Cassul.” “Hrm,” he said, then, “Come on, let’s take a walk.” While he led her towards the crystal (here was not the place for accidental scapegoats), be withdrew his stolen communicator, sent out a few queries. He’d had people combing the clinics for days, after all. Makeshift morgues, too. What were a few more names tossed into the pool? They had walked in silence for only a few minutes when the device beeped, screen lighting up. He read the message, grimaced. “Found you Vaux. Got any sleeping prince stories, prophetess? Seems like you and I’ve got a similar problem.” Siri had glued herself to his side as they walked along, content to feel his scales at the tips of her fingers. The question puzzled her, “The princess never kisses the prince awake.” It just was not done in stories, not ones she had ever heard of at least. The matter was one to contemplate on another occasion as her brain caught up with the meaning of his words. “Cas is sleeping?” That didn’t sound right to her ear, it echoed in her ears making her feel inadequately small (young, as if she were five and chasing after Ric with impatience while they played). “He’s not supposed to.” He heard the distress in her voice, wrapped an arm around her shoulder in case she needed the support -- so often, a touch was all she required. (If only everything in life were that easy.) “Plenty of shit’s happening that isn’t supposed to,” he said, a fatalist to the end. “Don’t know what to tell you, prophetess -- but he’s alive. Commoners’ District clinic, Luxerion Street.” He waited a beat before offering, “Need an escort? I figure if anyone can rewrite an ending, it’ll be you.” A solid rope keeping her from bolting in panic down the street towards the Commoners’ District, Siri coiled closer, tightly wound and ready to spring. Paper sheet blank, the sounds echoing in the back of her mind: His voice was clear, louder than Cian’s with it’s cruel, chastising edges. You thought You thought You thought Yet Cian’s words made her smile, hope and comfort wrapped around his form; it did not reach her eyes as she looked at him — his seagreen scales and flickering tongue. “No, World Serpent, this is a reminder from Him that I can’t.” And should not try. “Everything is Fated.” Parrotting the words repeated in her head, “Only when Faram is dead is everything truly permissible.” She was all but thin ice, a misstep would cause her to crack and icy waters burn as fiercely as fire. “Interesting theory,” was all he said. Sometimes, he had to wonder if the world wouldn’t be better off without the idea of Faram at all. Probably not a thought to voice to this woman, especially at this time. The crystal came into view and he steered her there, still intent on getting her out of this neighborhood, but now with a purpose. “For now, though, let’s get ourselves to a clinic. Then we’ll see what we’ll see.” |