I will be your lighthouse
Melita chose possibly the most unhelpful thing to return fire with. Yeah, I died that time, but what about all the other times I could have died, but didn't! Because of what, dumb fucking luck?
Iskra was incensed. "That's not better!" he thundered, heat searing the back of his eyes as if he was standing too close to a forge. The rest strangled in his throat and died inside him and he drew in a shaky breath instead. A blessed distraction was served as the roll of bandages hurtled towards him. He snatched it from midair with a hand, his fingers crushing the soft fabric against his palm like it was a stress ball. He glanced sidelong at her, grateful even if he couldn't ascertain it around the vicious terror.
Shit.
He could see the threads of her calm stretching thin, shadows drawn in new creases, carved there in the curt angle of her head and the weary pinching of her nose. She was being an anchor again, but she was not made of iron, he always knew she was the fire that shaped it.
He did not want to fight with her. Not just because he usually lost, but because how was this what he was wasting time on with her? It'd been how long since they'd talked, and here he was shouting at her. He sighed loudly and wisely kept his mouth shut for a while from then on, focusing on bandaging his cut hand instead, though his movements jerked with the rigidity of displeasure. At her death, at his choices, at Sah. Just, fuck it all.
He bit the cloth between his teeth and tore it to the side as he finished his wrap. He tucked the tail into the last layers and bunched the roll back in his hand, squeezing it once or twice again as he stared her down. He ran an anxious hand through his hair and approached the seat beside her once more. He leaned down to sit, if she'd have his stupid ass, after tossing the roll back towards her. "I want in," he said with a stiffness, his throat still thick with emotion, but he'd managed to swallow a lot of it. "I want to help you." His eyes flashed as he set them back to her, a colder edge to them than typical—Halo had taught him enough about ice.
Iskra was incensed. "That's not better!" he thundered, heat searing the back of his eyes as if he was standing too close to a forge. The rest strangled in his throat and died inside him and he drew in a shaky breath instead. A blessed distraction was served as the roll of bandages hurtled towards him. He snatched it from midair with a hand, his fingers crushing the soft fabric against his palm like it was a stress ball. He glanced sidelong at her, grateful even if he couldn't ascertain it around the vicious terror.
Shit.
He could see the threads of her calm stretching thin, shadows drawn in new creases, carved there in the curt angle of her head and the weary pinching of her nose. She was being an anchor again, but she was not made of iron, he always knew she was the fire that shaped it.
He did not want to fight with her. Not just because he usually lost, but because how was this what he was wasting time on with her? It'd been how long since they'd talked, and here he was shouting at her. He sighed loudly and wisely kept his mouth shut for a while from then on, focusing on bandaging his cut hand instead, though his movements jerked with the rigidity of displeasure. At her death, at his choices, at Sah. Just, fuck it all.
He bit the cloth between his teeth and tore it to the side as he finished his wrap. He tucked the tail into the last layers and bunched the roll back in his hand, squeezing it once or twice again as he stared her down. He ran an anxious hand through his hair and approached the seat beside her once more. He leaned down to sit, if she'd have his stupid ass, after tossing the roll back towards her. "I want in," he said with a stiffness, his throat still thick with emotion, but he'd managed to swallow a lot of it. "I want to help you." His eyes flashed as he set them back to her, a colder edge to them than typical—Halo had taught him enough about ice.
Iskra
