Everest doesn’t run after Isla, not exactly—he matches her stride in a long, quick gait that’s too exacting to be called a sprint. His eyes snag on the bloodstains before they even cross the threshold, cataloguing colour, density, spread. His mind is already classifying: blunt force, penetrating trauma, elemental scarring. He follows Isla inside, shoulders tightening against the chaotic press of movement, his hands flexing at his sides as if to bleed out the static of too many things happening at once.
The moment Isla starts directing, he latches onto it like a lifeline. Orders are patterns; patterns are structure; structure keeps panic away. He’s on his feet in an instant, scanning the clinic with that sharp, restless attention. A bucket near the doorway. A basin pushed under a cot. His eyes snag on a pair of copper kettles stacked haphazardly in the corner, probably meant for boiling linens. Containers. Adequate.
He mutters it aloud as he moves, "Containers—capacity, weight, distance—" his mind breaking the problem into workable steps. He grabs the kettles, their handles clanging too loud in the chaos, and flinches at the sound but doesn’t stop.
Out on the street, the cold air slaps his face and helps him orient. He tucks the handles into one hand, clutching them tight against his thigh so they don’t swing, and pushes his stride into a fast, mechanical rhythm. Counting his steps. Measuring the blocks. The noise of the clinic falls away behind him, replaced by the distant crash of waves against Torchline’s cliffs and the rush of blood in his ears.
The fountain comes into view, its carved stone basin already gleaming faintly where healing water gathers. He kneels, careful and reverent, lowering the kettles in one by one. Each fills with a low gurgle that he measures in heartbeats—five, ten, fifteen—until he judges them full enough to carry but not so heavy he’ll spill or slow. Gripping the handles, his knuckles blanch white, and he lifts with deliberate control. His lips move soundlessly, rehearsing the path back, the steps in reverse. Back through the narrow alley, cut right at the cart, left at the blue shutters, straight into the clinic.
And when he bursts back through the door, breath sharp but his movements precise, he sets the kettles down with both hands, not a drop spilled, gaze finding Isla through the chaos. "Healing water—two full vessels," he reports, clipped and certain, before stepping back just enough to let the medics swarm in and make use of them.
"Will it be enough?"
The moment Isla starts directing, he latches onto it like a lifeline. Orders are patterns; patterns are structure; structure keeps panic away. He’s on his feet in an instant, scanning the clinic with that sharp, restless attention. A bucket near the doorway. A basin pushed under a cot. His eyes snag on a pair of copper kettles stacked haphazardly in the corner, probably meant for boiling linens. Containers. Adequate.
He mutters it aloud as he moves, "Containers—capacity, weight, distance—" his mind breaking the problem into workable steps. He grabs the kettles, their handles clanging too loud in the chaos, and flinches at the sound but doesn’t stop.
Out on the street, the cold air slaps his face and helps him orient. He tucks the handles into one hand, clutching them tight against his thigh so they don’t swing, and pushes his stride into a fast, mechanical rhythm. Counting his steps. Measuring the blocks. The noise of the clinic falls away behind him, replaced by the distant crash of waves against Torchline’s cliffs and the rush of blood in his ears.
The fountain comes into view, its carved stone basin already gleaming faintly where healing water gathers. He kneels, careful and reverent, lowering the kettles in one by one. Each fills with a low gurgle that he measures in heartbeats—five, ten, fifteen—until he judges them full enough to carry but not so heavy he’ll spill or slow. Gripping the handles, his knuckles blanch white, and he lifts with deliberate control. His lips move soundlessly, rehearsing the path back, the steps in reverse. Back through the narrow alley, cut right at the cart, left at the blue shutters, straight into the clinic.
And when he bursts back through the door, breath sharp but his movements precise, he sets the kettles down with both hands, not a drop spilled, gaze finding Isla through the chaos. "Healing water—two full vessels," he reports, clipped and certain, before stepping back just enough to let the medics swarm in and make use of them.
"Will it be enough?"
I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through
but i'm grateful to get through
