Mag Paget, Shotgun Knight (clippedwing) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-01 17:46:00 |
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The shouting beckoned to Mag, sent her running past the scholar at the door and the injured still awaiting treatment. It was a voice she would have recognised anywhere, but the pain in it tore her apart, for she had never heard anything like it warp the usually soft tones of that voice. She skidded around the corner to find Lavitz fon Amell being physically restrained by two members of the clinic’s staff. The fact that two mages could keep him in place was cause enough for worry, but all she heard was the name he kept repeating: Amarant. “Lav.” She ran to his side, placed her hands on his shoulders, tried to calm him down. “Lav, what’s going on?” It was a rare thing for Lavitz to be so overwhelmed by emotion that it led to exasperation and anger, but today was clearly an exception. He felt like a walking bruise― his broken bones had mostly been mended, and yet the pain lingered, blinding all rationality and leaving him restrained before he knew it. His memories of the fight against Vivian were less blurry than what had happened with Amarant on the way back, everything a smear of red and pain and a pained roar that echoed in his head. He barely calmed at the sight of Mag. “Amarant’s out there,” he breathed, voice shaking without any restraint. Without a care as to who was listening, who could see. “He’s out there injured and alone, and they won’t―” A move was made to yank out of the mages’ hold, but it only succeeded in jarring his ribcage and forcing his knees to weaken, nearly sending him to the floor if not for the arms holding him up. There was no need for him to finish the sentence. “Where is Amarant?” Lavitz would recover; the mages would see to it. But in the chaos of the aftermath, nobody would have time to tend to an injured wyvern. “I’ll find him and do what I can to patch him up. Where is he?” Evidently that’s where the dragoon’s mind was, because he knew no one would know where to find his dragon, who’d flown off into the sky with his wounded wing toward the only place either of them ever went for safety. “The aviary,” he admitted, struggling to right himself. “We fell, Mag. We fell out of the fucking sky, I landed on armor, he was―” His words were a jumble, one admission after the other, and he heaved through the pain, not quite surrendering into the hold just yet. He had to go, he had to. Amarant was his, they were partners, and it was his responsibility to see him healed. Why wouldn’t they just let go? “Keep your communicator close. I’ll let you know when I’ve found him.” She was already turning away, her mind reeling with Lav’s story, but she knew what she had to do. “And rest, for Faram’s sake, or I’ll be back to kick your ass.” There was a small smile given along with those words, but before the healers or Lav could speak again, she was already running back down the hall, and gone. If the aviary had been grim before the attack, it was a corpse of a building now, bricks and plaster fallen away in places to reveal a concrete skeleton below. Mag made her way up the battered stairs, wondering with every creak under her feet if they would hold her weight. The calling and chirping of birds that should have greeted her ears was not there; instead, there was only a silence as though the creatures that lived in the building understood the tragedy that had occurred, and were paying their respects. The dark red shape of Amarant, curled on the floor, stood out in the dark, backlit by the sunlight shining into the room through a hole in the wall, put there by some creature or other. Presumably, that was how Amarant had flown in. He was staring numbly out at the ravaged world below, but he tensed when he sensed Mag’s approach. He tucked his wings in closer around himself, curled his tail, as though trying to make himself seem smaller, disappear. “Hi, sweetie.” At Mag’s voice, the wyvern shifted, eyeing her warily. It shifted its wings again, as though it could not decide whether to stay there or fly away, and that was when Mag saw it. A wound running down the length of Amarant’s wing, the half-healed injuries below. Her chest felt tight. The grief of dejà-vu—but she had come to avoid that. “Do you mind if I come a little closer?” she asked, keeping her anxiety from her face and her voice. “I’d like to help you with that.” Amarant seemed to shy away, flinching back from her; but he stayed where he was, did not try to attack her. When he calmed down again, after a few seconds, Mag bowed her head and, careful not to spook the wyvern further, she approached. After every step she waited, hoping to show Amarant she meant no harm. He knew her, had even let her fly on him once before―but he was wounded, and she was not his Rider. The last thing she wanted to do was scare him and worsen the situation. He let out a low grumble as she crouched down beside him to inspect his wounds, almost like a whine. Mag gave him a small smile and told him, “You’re going to be okay, sweetie,” the glow of white magic already gathering at her fingertips. Like so many other grieving family members, Mag had become a familiar face at the clinic. She split her time between hugging Aspel back home, to reassure herself that she was alive, and worrying over the bedridden forms of her two friends. At night, she slept in a chair by either of their beds, their hand clutched in hers, a book draped over her belly where it may have fallen once she succumbed to sleep. Today, it was Lavitz next to her―and yet both their thoughts, she knew, lay with the man unconscious a few beds away. Clutching Lav’s hand in hers, she lifted it up to her lips and placed a kiss on it before she said, “We’ll be all right,” and tried, despite the situation, to make herself believe it. After a short time spent in the clinic, the pain was beginning to lessen, everything starting to knit and heal. The bruises had all but disappeared with the excessive healing Lavitz had attempted to shoo away the mages from doing, because there were more important people to heal, more grievous wounds to tend to. This was nothing; he was nothing. If they were going to do any casting, it was better for them to do it on Kiernan, who was still unconscious and showing no signs of waking. Dark eyes remained focused on the ceiling, tracing over spots of paint. Eventually, he said softly, “Will we?” She let out a chuckle that held no amusement, nothing but exhaustion and the emotional toll the previous days had taken on her. “I have to cling to something,” she said, just as softly. “It might as well be that thought.” There were footsteps outside the door, but calm, not the rushing that a comatose patient waking up would bring. Still she glanced at the door, hoping for any sort of news, but none came. The healers had said Kiernan was stable, but only time would tell if they were right or not. “We have to be,” she muttered. “You’ll get better. And Kiernan will, too.” Looking away from him, she blinked to keep the tears at bay; though if they would even flow anymore, she had no idea. “I won’t lose you two. I won’t.” As she averted her gaze, Lavitz angled his head toward hers, eyes moving over her face before dropping. “You won’t. We’ve―” He looked toward the curtain separating him from Kiernan, however many patients away he lay, comatose. “We’ve lost enough,” he finished, allowing his eyes to fall shut. “I’m not allowing for the possibility.” Not after Nowe, and definitely not after Leola. He couldn’t do it anymore-- he wouldn’t. The fight returned to her eyes and, when she smiled, there was determination in it. “No,” she said, shifting her hand to lace her fingers through his, “I’m not allowing for that possibility, either.” |