Caspar Vaux (sentinel) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-31 23:18:00 |
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The clinic around them was active enough, those speaking to their loved ones, others who mourned, healers shedding their exhaustion for one more patient before crawling off for a break. The clinic was alive despite the way death clung to its inner walls, oppressively swallowing the light. Siri sat in silence, fingers had torn the inside throat raw, she didn’t even have enough to whisper prayers for Caspar. (Then again, He had already decided and He would not listen). There was no contact between them, ramrod straight as if held by strings — she watched his chest rise and fall. Alertness came slowly, one sense at a time. At first, it was only sound — low murmurs cutting their way through the hellish landscape he had been trapped in for weeks, sending his mind spinning even faster than it was. Then the images faded, replaced by a dully fuzzy glow. He blinked, once, twice, his brain registering the blurs of color that had been absent from his nightmares. Awake. This was awake. He had waited for so long, and now he was finally here. He rolled his head to the side, and the pain that flooded his body was so sharp that he wished he was unconscious again. No. Not there. He could not go back there. Steeling himself against the pain he knew was coming, Caspar turned his head once again, this time catching sight of the curled up figure in the chair next to him. It took him a moment to register who it was. "Si--" his voice cracked, dry from weeks of disuse. "Siri?" The word came out in a low, dry croak, just loud enough for her to hear it. “Cas.” Her reply automatic, drawn out by his voice - her own quiet but firm as she moved from the chair to the bed, her hand cupping his face tenderly.”Good morning.” Even if it was no longer morning, it was to her- because he was the sun and he had come back. “Don’t move, don’t talk.” Fingers trailing his skin, afraid as if he would crumble beneath them, she was smiling (her lungs needed air, burning something but it didn’t matter because he was awake). “You were injured during the fight. Ehing is okay now, you can rest.” A small lie, because everything was far from okay but any agitation would hinder his recovery. He was a puzzle to solve: what he needed, what he wanted, what could help. Siri thought water but she was reluctant to take her hands away, though in the end she did pull away one to reach for the glass of water by the bed. Confusion still lingered on Caspar's face, but he obeyed her missive to stay still, at least. The pain was so intense that he couldn't have risked moving even if he wanted to. He sipped tentatively from the cup she held to his lips, sighing slightly at the cool relief for his parched lips and throat. Swallowing the last of the dryness away, he looked back at Siri. She looked ragged, though not from battle as much as exhaustion. "What hap–? How long was I–" A pause, another swallow. "–out?" The cup was returned to its place of origin and Siri turned her attention to his questions, her hands trailing light touches along the side of his face (a reminder that he was warm and breathing, not cadaver cold— the rotting smell of the city). “The Sage and her creature destroyed half the city.” More Siri did not know or understand, the facts were not lost on her (she could see them as she touched the rubble left behind) but motives and intentions were complex and unique to each hume. Siri could not read minds (mostly). How long? Wasn’t that the question, to measure time you needed a clock (Siri had none, and days became one — without him there was no day, only endless fog that stretched around her, a limbo only Rictor visited her in). “Too long.” Her lips touched his temple lightly, “A week plus another week of nothing until you woke up now.” Her fingers, treacherous things, brushing his cheek, his jaw, the curve of his lips. Asking questions turned out to be a mistake, as Caspar had a near impossible time wrapping his head around the answer. The Sage? Creatures? Unless he was missing something big here, that made no sense at all. He frowned, then shook his head. He could figure that out later. What was more concerning was how long he had been out. "Two weeks?" His voice cracked with incredulity. He had expected to have been out for a day, maybe two. Not two weeks. If it had taken him two weeks to wake up, then the healers must have thought there was a chance he might not wake up at all. And they would have told Siri that. "I'm sorry," he said, closing his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned his face as much as he could against Siri's palm, her touch the only calming thing in this maelstrom of pain. "I didn't mean to scare you." “Two weeks.” Siri echoed back with an easily missed nod, that was past because he was awake now (breathing, moving, talking). He felt frail beneath her touches, ephemeral (and she was afraid — that he would crumble into dust ashes to ashes, dust to dust). Wherever he went Siri wanted to follow — across Reinberg, across Emillion. “S’not your fault.” Her lips touched his cheek lightly. “I know even if I don’t understand.” What had happened had been but the cards Fate had dealt them, Siri’s quiet anger was aimed at Faram, screaming her desperation into the decadence of the city. “You’re awake.” The words a repeated susurration as her lips brushed his skin stopping at the corner of his mouth, “You’ll stay.” Mouth on his, slow, cool and delicate, while her insides burnt. Caspar closed his eyes as she told him it wasn't his fault, wishing he could believe that was true. It was his fault, of course it was his fault. He was a Faram-forsaken Sentinel. His job was to draw fire, to distract the opponent, to be the punching bag so that the rest of the group could finish the battle. But just because it was his sworn duty to do so did not make it any less his fault. Even though it wasn't in his nature to abandon a fight, it did not take away from the fact that he had made the choice to stay. He was so wrapped up in his guilt and regret that he did not notice the mage's movements. The brush of lips against his cheek was nothing new. They had always been affectionate — Siri's lips against his cheek, his on her forehead or the top of her head — to the point where it was second nature. But then she was kissing him, soft yet sure, lingering long enough to where there could be no doubt whether she had done it by mistake. Instinct had him kiss her back, his lips moving against hers before his insides could roar at him to stop. What was he doing? This was Siri. She was glad he was alive, that was all. Withdrawing from the kiss, he raised his unbroken arm (ignoring the pain shooting across the ribs due to the movement) and cupped her cheek in his hand. "Yes, I'll stay." |