lionel baines. (chivalries) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-11 22:00:00 |
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Lionel Baines loomed in the doorway of his brother’s room, his mouth pressed into a thin, worried line as he watched his brother sleep. His face was marred with bruises and cuts, but then again, so was Lionel’s. It had not been difficult to locate Miles. There were only so many clinics in the city, and Lionel was familiar with most of them. Mr. M. Baines, he’d learned, was in one of the more nondescript clinics in the Commoners District. Small, quiet, usually understaffed. Not today. The hallways were bustling with activity: hurried white mages, nervous family members, recovered patients bracing themselves for what was left of their homes. His brother stirred. Lionel dragged a chair over to Miles’ bedside and sat down. Thank Faram you’re alright, he thought. “You look like hell,” he said. The voice came creeping in through various fogs and hazes, and Miles groaned, seeming to want nothing more than grind his eyes shut and roll back over and to sleep. But he cracked open his eyelids at last, squinting blearily at his brother. “A ray of sunshine you are, like always,” Miles croaked, his throat dry and parched. He managed to process his surroundings after a moment, however: it looked like he was finally in a private room, upgraded from the cramped, shared space with Tom and Rhys. He had no idea how much time had passed, but this seemed to imply that the patients were winnowing out of the clinic. His head flopped back onto the pillow. The corners of Lionel’s mouth twitched into a weak smile. “Don’t worry, you haven’t lost all your looks. I’m sure some lovelorn mage has enjoyed being your nursemaid.” He raised his hand, tempted to put a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder, but he decided it against at the last moment, and the hand fell back into his lap. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. And then: “How are you feeling?” “Fucked up. Having sampled the experience, I’m now fully certain that I don’t like guesthouses landing on me.” It had been a ludicrous sticking point which he never failed to bring up, an acrid complaint that Miles was certain he’d never drop (and which Rhys and Thomas, surely, had grown long-tired of hearing recited over and over.) Lionel was a silent for a moment. “Guesthouses?” he echoed, arching an eyebrow. That cut the other man’s half-asleep grumbling short, and Miles hitched an intake of breath. The rest of the mental fog cleared, leaving his senses knife-sharp as they usually were—but too little, too late. Shit. “I was,” he said slowly, mind whirling to try to latch onto an appropriate alibi in time, “passing through the Noble District when a monster came a-swiping. Rotten luck and timing.” There was another pause as Lionel slowly processed the explanation. The small smile slid right off his face as he considered his brother’s words, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of asking another question. There was a but on the tip of his tongue. But the moment—and it was only a brief moment, really—passed. “Ah. Well, thank Faram you weren’t too unlucky.” Lionel’s emotions were on full display now, all the worry and fear and concern he couldn’t school away. “I thought—there was a moment when I was worried—” The mage’s hand fell on Miles’ shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alright.” Relief (of more varieties than one) rumbled through the older brother, and he felt his nerves sighing back into something like peace. That hand on his shoulder had been shrugged off so many times in the past, spitefully, pettily, but this time Miles lay easy. Perhaps it was because most of his limbs were trapped in casts, but then again. “I’m glad to see you pulled through, too,” Miles said. “You’re always blundering yourself into some sort of trouble. Whatever would you do without me?” Lionel always greedily latched on to any praise or sentiment from Miles, and this was no exception: a wide smile blossomed on his face, like an eager school boy in the presence of his favorite teacher. “I’d have significantly less worries, for one. And I would be Mother’s favorite. They’re both fine, by the way,” he added hastily. “The house was damaged, but they aren’t injured.” “You’re a mage like she is, of course you’re already her favourite.” There was something recognisable in this: the familiar ebb-and-flow of fraternal repartee, the old routine and performance they’d honed into an art years ago. They were back on solid ground. All was normal, all was well: both Baineses were still alive. Under normal circumstances, the banter would’ve continued. And if Miles had been in worse shape, Lionel probably would’ve kept the news to himself. But Miles’ list of loved ones was short, and he deserved to know about them all. “Loch, er—she was hurt. Not too badly, of course. She’s Loch. But I found her, she’s at the Cathedral, and she’s recovering quite nicely.” But Lionel was a bad liar. The forced nonchalance of his voice, the cheery nothing-to-worry-about-here, all of it rang false, no matter how hard he tried to mimic his brother. And those words made Miles’ breath lodge in his throat, choking on something that was supposed to be a witticism, some words he’d mustered to atempt a joke. Instead, everything came to a halt. “You’re lying,” Miles said. “How bad was it?” “I don’t want you to get worked up, Miles,” Lionel said sternly, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m stuck in a bed, it’s not like I can fling things at you. How bad?” Lionel eyed him warily for a moment, as if he expected nothing less for Miles to throw off his casts and chuck them at his head. But his expression softened, and he leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh. “When I found her by the Cathedral, she was close to death. She was bleeding out, hallucinating. She thought I was Amos. But I wasn’t lying about her recovery, Miles. She’s going to be fine.” Miles’ already-pale face turned paler, his lips thinning into a stern line as his imagination ran rampant (he was an actor, he had a very good imagination) and spun this image of Lemach, close to death, bleeding out. Each detail added another layer of colour and vibrancy to the mental scene. It wasn’t a very pretty one. “And you helped her?” he asked, voice strained. Lionel nodded. “Yes, I helped her. I did what I could to stop the bleeding, then I carried her inside the Cathedral. I’ve been looking after her.” He’d spent the last few days checking in on her when he could, and he’d prayed to Faram for Loch’s swift recovering. But he knew there was no point in mentioning that to Miles, who’d only scoff at him. “She asked me about you,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper. “You two are ridiculous.” Miles let himself flop back onto the bed, having previously struggled to sit up as much as possible and level a withering, questioning stare at his brother. Having reassured himself that Loch was fine, the immediate concern had now been addressed. He could breathe. “She’s my oldest friend,” Miles said in a mumble, perhaps even a grumble. “Can’t blame me for asking.” Lionel wasn’t in the habit of rolling his eyes, particularly at the injured, but he couldn’t help himself. “Ridiculous,” he repeated, his mouth curving into a smile. “But what do I know of matters of the heart?” “Yes, what do you? Whatever happened to that nice girl from the flower shop? Mildred something. Annie. One of those names.” “Laurel,” Lionel corrected. “Laurel was very nice, but I’m not—I mean, she was very beautiful, but—this isn’t about me. You should consider telling Loch she’s your… oldest friend.” “She knows,” Miles said simply. The silence dragged out, then; it seemed he wasn’t about to add more. “Do you need anything?” Lionel asked suddenly. “Are they giving you decent food? I could smuggle something in, if you’d like. It could be like old times.” Miles gnawed on his lower lip, worrying the flesh as he pondered. “It’s utterly indecent, but my appetite’s not really… well, it’s not up to snuff. Thank you for offering, though. Won’t be near starvation this time, at least.” It seemed near-death experiences did at least make him slightly more polite. The man looked spent, however, mingled irritation-relief-OUTRAGE-confusion having tapped him of the last vestiges of his energy. His arms flopped bonelessly on the cot. “You’ll be at the Cathedral?” “For the foreseeable future, yes.” Lionel stood up slowly, but he didn’t move—he seemed content to hover by Miles’ bedside like a worried mother, his expression a mixture of relief, fondness, and concern. “But I’ll be back in another day or two.” His mouth twisted into a wicked smile that was more Miles than Lionel. “I know you’ll want ‘round the clock updates on your ‘oldest friend.’" The bard groaned. |