the wind around the willow

i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse

It had taken everything in him to conserve what energy he could – cloth torn and wrapped around an arm that’s limp – fabric shredding from needing to use his teeth to tighten the bindings. The rest of him, though, bruised and battered from when the fucking thing had exploded upon its demise. It had rattled him, rocked him and left him reeling.

Luckily for him, however, he is a survivor. And the trek home had taken all of his survival instincts to come together to prevent himself from turning to stone or bleeding out on the trek home. But he’s managed it, even if everyone gives him a wide berth – not because they see the damage that’s written upon his body but because of the shadows that whip out and keep it well concealed. They writhe from him, licking up into the air like makeshift flames of their own, his steps a mixture of rain, mud, and the barest tinge of scarlet.

His sleeve is ravaged, blood staining the frayed edges in three separate places that drip with the rain that creeps in, soaking the binds he’d used to try and staunch the bleeding. But this arm is absolutely useless, limp despite how he tries to keep it near his heart. Rainwater pools and drips from his oil slick horns, his dark hair catching each drop, enough to travel down the length of his long dark hair, soaked and half in his face half tangled around his horns.

He reaches the Dusklight doors precisely at the time a group is leaving – flushed and content until they witness him latching onto the door. A few gasps escape them as they get out of his way to let him stumble in, sharp teeth grit as he carves the path toward the bar, shadows blotting out the majority of the damage even if those that know him best within the confines of the Dusklight would realize he’s in a lot of pain.

Reaching the clean and warm bartop, his shadows spiderweb out against it as if to drag it into his cocoon of darkness. It doesn't hide the sheen of red from dripping onto the counter, nor the very evident scent of fresh blood that surrounds him (even if that's a somewhat normal occurrence). The butcher slumps slightly against the surface with a flash of distress in the wince that he tries to hide.

Astaroth

what was it like to feel in love?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

"Yeah, well," Danta is calling over his shoulder as he steps out from the backrooms, "he shouldn't touch 'em if he doesn't want me to headbutt him with 'em." Clearly he's gossiping with someone (the barman) in the stock room out there, drying his hands and tossing the towel over the shoulder of his ivory shirt. He's dressed as A Bartender today, his slacks black and his suspenders crimson and embroidered with tiny ghosts - not that the man at the bar is likely to be looking too closely.

The man at the bar who smells like blood and is wreathed in shadow, the darkness licking out of him like black fire.

Elation and affection start to flush into his expression, right up until he recognises the scent of blood as being too close, too potent, too familiar. It's then that the butcher slumps a bit and Danta is able to see the stitches all but holding his composure together.

Once he might have drummed up a greeting, bright and sprinkled with swagger and deceit until he can grant the other man some privacy, but the bluster dies on his tongue before it ever leaves his lips.

This looks bad.

This looks wicker woman bad, and there's no goddess parting the clouds to kiss Asta better today.

"Everyone get out." The Maverick's voice is soft, almost inaudible against the clamour of the Dusklight, the murmurs and gossip and stares from those who aren't still too wrapped up in each other to notice. The barman hears it though as he emerges from the back, and he starts to immediately clear the main floor. It's enough for Danta to let the rest of the world drop away as he steps around the bar, knocking a glass off the counter as he goes.

"Who was it," he snaps before he can help himself, hand hesitant as it touches to the small of Asta's back. "Don't... don't answer that." A shuddering breath and he tries again. "Can you talk? Are you..." Okay? Bleeding out? About to pass out cold? Cursing under his breath at how neither of them are remotely healers, all he can do in these immediate few seconds is drag a barstool across to let Asta try to sit down.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash

i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse

The voice that hums from the back, angled toward him feels like nothing more than the whisper of a breeze, casting a glance up to spy Danta as he arrives, spying the affection that sits there just before it breaks with the sight of him. He remains silent, his throat dry despite the way he tries to swallow. He wants to harbor all the swagger he can, to tell him the ghosts are a nice touch to the crimson suspenders, the black pants that pull it all together. He’d have more time to admire it if he didn’t feel like he was fighting for his life to use his haunt to hide the worst of the damage.

Even still, the quiet claim is heard by the bartender – ushering everyone out as he puts all of his focus on standing at the bar and not just collapsing, leaning heavily on the threaded cane for balance even if the tip of his spaded tail flits back and forth in both frustration and agony.

The glass that falls and shatters doesn’t even register, but he latches onto the blonde Ancient’s presence where he can, his back cold where Danta touches his ruined shirt. It’s coated in mud and bruises sit beneath it and even he can’t find it in himself to flinch when he feels the touch. The shadows part, stutter, before reaching out for him as he drags a barstool over for him.

“I am.. okay.” He blatantly lies, sitting once he can and only when he’s sure that the bartender has managed to get everyone out of the vicinity does the butcher finally let some of the shadows drop. His breath harbors a soft whine, tail whipping as he drops the threaded cane and lets it fall to the ground in a metallic thump, ignoring it to let his dark gaze focus on the Maverick as the shadows fall, bruising spotting around his face against his jaw and in the ring around one of his eyes.

Astaroth

what was it like to feel in love?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

Wincing to feel how cold and clammy the butcher is beneath the warmth of his hand, Danta resists the urge to let fire flare between his fingers, worried he doesn't have the presence of mind to keep it under control. He glances at the muck and blood as it becomes visible against the other man's clothes, Asta's shadows parting and grasping for him as he slumps to sit down. Danta doesn't even try to catch the cane, flinching at the noise of it clattering against the hardwood floor, but then he can see the butcher's face properly for the first time and his breath catches in the back of his throat.

"Gods," he whispers, his feet carrying him forward without his permission to stand between Asta's knees, hands reaching to gently cradle his face between them. "Why didn't you go to the infirmary?" he asks, trying and failing not to make it sound like a chastisement. Danta has no bloodboon or magic or fancy healing jewellery to help, and at the mere mention of it the barman touches a gentle hand to his elbow, the Maverick nodding to send him off to the Temple to fetch someone.

"We need to warm you up." The words leave his lips as if on autopilot, grasping for the things he can do rather than try to figure out the extent of Asta's injuries - and gods, the state of his arm - and how to treat them.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash

i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse

The shadows continue to fall away, slowly like he subconsciously clings to the portions of himself that could keep his weaknesses hidden. Piece after piece sloughing off into the mix of real shadow from the Dusklight, the butcher slowly shedding his blackened cocoon of horrors to reveal even more. He tracks him slowly, sluggishly, even when the heat of Danta’s hands cup his face and offer a bit of warmth to shock through his system after so long of being so cold.

He'll feel how tense his jaw is when his teeth clench, the muscles feathering in his jaw, the slow inhale of a breath that he holds. “I wanted to see you, darling.” He says, flashing a smile that doesn’t reflect in his dark gaze, glassy and dazed and not entirely there. He hears the plan in motion, doesn’t even really see that way that the bartender slips away to retrieve someone, instead he merely tilts his head into Danta’s cradled hands as if he’s being forgiven – like the destruction wrought upon his body was nothing more than a confession and here he was finally finding relief.

His mangled arm sits limply in his lap, the other grey and wet as it holds onto his wrist, the cloths tying off the wounds in three separate places are soaking wet with rain and scarlet that makes it appear as if he’s harboring more wounds than just the three he’s tried to close. His tail wraps around the leg of the barstool for additional balance as he finds a bit more fight in him to lift his head and take a slow, methodical deep breath – eyes shutting tight for a few long moments. “This shirt is.. mm, ruined.” He admits, as if an indicator that if Danta wished to burn it off of him, he wouldn’t complain.

If anything, it might make it easier.

Astaroth

what was it like to feel in love?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

Biting hard at the inside of his cheek as if to force himself not to react when the shadows continue to fall away, Danta glances between them to the ruin of the butcher's body and instead lets out a shaky sigh that tries to huff into laughter. I wanted to see you. "Asta..." His name leaves the Maverick's lips like a scolding, but there's too much affection and worry in it, his thumb brushing carefully across the other man's bruised cheekbone.

"I can see that," he says of the shirt - and whether it's the fact that Asta is still able to sit and hold a conversation with him (and kudos to his stubborn streak for that) or that Danta hasn't been involved at all in whatever the fuck happened, the Maverick is able to start to calm down enough to act.

"Someone will be here soon," he says, letting his hands drop carefully down to the butcher's collar, fire starting to eat away at the fabric almost immediately. It hisses and spits where it has to fight through layers of grime blood and sodden threadwork, and as the tatters of it begin to fall away, Danta is able to finally reach for Asta's hand - the bad one, the one cradled in his lap.

"How bad is it?" He whispers. Code for should I stop touching it? and also do you want to be high right now instead of in pain?

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash

i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse

He can chastise him later if he wants to. Right now the butcher doesn’t want to worry him more than he has, and with a pain tolerance to the extent that Asta does, it’s clear that any of this would absolutely destroy someone far less comfortable with the gore and hurt. So rather than focus on the line of fire that races up and down his arm in such a way that has his tail tip still whipping in jerky motions, he latches onto Danta’s voice and his presence.

At least until it gets a bit worse before it will hopefully get better. “Good.” He breathes as Danta’s hands fall to his collar, as the scent of smoke burning through water and blood heavy clothes, revealing a body smattered with bruising. The ones from their Climb trip were nearly healed — a yellowish hue to them that’s stark against the deep blossoming purple along the rest of his body.

He gives his limp arm to Danta to inspect, even if the motion has him huffing a sharp sound through his nose to try and calm any alarm. His eyes shut, focusing again as his smile falls and mask slips into place. “It is bad.” You can look if you want to, even if it hurts. He agrees through a voice carefully trying to hide the pain, lilted high enough to make it sound like a quiet dramatic whine rather than the sharp needles it sparks.

The fire burns the shirt away into nothing, trailing down his arm and snagging on the cloth in the process, cutting through it and smoldering at the knots as the carved marks are revealed. Skin butchered to the point of needing stitches or glue to piece it together unless someone arrives with healing magic. “Fixable, I presume?” He hopes. It had to be. If Dygra could fix his mangled form before, surely she could be his Hail Mary if he’s too broken to fix right here and right now.

Astaroth

what was it like to feel in love?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

Hissing in a breath through his teeth as the last of the shirt burns away, followed by the rough bandaging Asta has managed against his mangled arm, Danta doesn't try to manipulate the limb too much, setting it carefully back in his lap. "I'm sure the healers have seen worse," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, the Maverick stepping in closer now to wrap an arm carefully around the butcher at last.

"I thought you were just out hunting," he says, voice pitched low as he tries to piece together the man who had left for the Greatwood with the one returning now. He never voices it properly - what happened? - but the implication is there for Asta to respond in whatever way feels best for now. Even if there isn't an answer, even if the only sound for the next few minutes is the crackling of the fires Danta stokes in the hearths and the soft hush of their breathing.

Eventually, of course, the front doors click back open and Danta's head snaps up to see the barman returning with a healer from the Infirmary in tow, one with a hefty medical bag and magic already buzzing at her fingertips. "Finally," he whispers, reluctantly straightening up so she can get to work.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash

i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse

His nostrils flare slightly as his arm is manipulated slightly, another hitch of his breath as he closes his eyes and cradles his wrist with his good arm. Bruising sweeps up his arm from the dark ring of the crow charm bracelet, radiating out in clouds of reddened skin. It’s all forgotten the second Danta wraps his arms around him, though, his head tilting to press the less hurt side of his face against his chest, breathing in citrus and sage and smoke as a distraction from the needles spiking through his arm with every beat of his heart.

“I was.” He mumbles into his lover’s chest. There’s a slight tremor Danta would probably feel between his shoulders with each breath. “Then there was a giant memory mud creature.” He offers a brief explanation so that the Maverick might be able to put the pieces together. He quiets down and clenches his jaw again, breath holding for a brief second as he clears his throat in an “mm,” hiding the whimper to feel the lush crackling heat through his mess of hair and horns in such a gentle touch compared to the intense sharp pain of his arm with each breath.

He hears the healer arrive only through the addition of footsteps coming through the door that creaks open. There’s the hush of the bag as it whispers against clothes with her rush, and as Danta straightens up he already mourns the loss of heat flaring through him.

He straightens up, too, jaw working as he keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds longer as if mentally prepping himself to be ready for healing, opening his gaze to look at the healer to explain. Though, he’s sure she can see the extent of the bruising and the deep carved marks from a precise, sharp blade used to cleave portions of himself off to attack before getting coated in rock and mud from the exploding behemoth.

Astaroth

what was it like to feel in love?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

Don't worry Asta - Danta doesn't plan to be gone for long. Just enough for the healer to make her initial examination, honing in on the complete mess of the butcher's arm and deciding (rightly) that it's where the bulk of her magic should be focused. The rest might have to be dealt with in more mundane means, but this can't be left; that much is evident.

Having indeed put almost all the pieces together at memory mud monster, Danta is already wrinkling his nose, stepping in closer to slip an arm back around Asta's shoulders as the healer begins her work. She warns him just before having to manipulate the abused limb, but doesn't pussyfoot around it. And Danta is sure the butcher will appreciate it later; right now when she's forcing his arm to straighten to a more natural angle so she can stitch the skin back together? A different story, probably.

The Maverick, normally impassive to the sort of gore that comes naturally to being an Ancient, finds himself strangely unwilling to watch this, focusing on drying the other man off with fire-tipped fingers feathering through his hair and across his jaw. The barman has gotten back to work too, for his part, approaching them only moments later with a large glass of brandy for Asta.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash

i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse

He straightens to let her look him over, even if every inch of him wants to hide away from it. He knows better, he needs this if he’s to get better.

It doesn't mean he has to like it, though. And it becomes evident as she warns him — even if it’s a shit warning. The butcher surrenders the limp arm into her touch and as she straightens it, each careful masked attempt to hide the pain goes right out the window.

His shadows flare out across the floor in spiky, needles, his voice throaty and disembodied unintentionally when he growls out a curse, tail whipping back and forth under the stool creating a fan-type push of air against Danta’s legs. “Fucking hells.” He grits out, shutting his eyes tight, murmuring a quiet apology to the healer even if he’s being good and still as can be with his arm in her hands.

His skin begins to knit itself back together, the first wound slowly stitching back together. And maybe it’s a sign of the pain when he grips the counter til his fingertips are white, but given the fact Ancients can’t sweat from heat, condensation gathers in his temples, wicked away with the heat Danta offers through his hair, sweating solely from pain. He peels himself away just enough from the death grip to grab the brandy when offered, downing it as quickly as he can in the hopes it’ll melt the pain away.

Astaroth

what was it like to feel in love?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

Danta doesn't interrupt the considerable gulp of brandy, flashing a quietly grateful smile to the barman and reaching out to rescue the glass from Asta's grip before he shatters it entirely. There's nothing to say in response to the pain and the healer's work, nothing to make it better, though the Maverick has to school his expression away from a snarl and keep his touch gentle, his shoulders relaxed, lest he take it out on the doctor doing her best.

And eventually, though Danta has no idea how long it's been, the three deepest wounds are nearly closed up, though that's the extent of the magic they've got to play with judging by the weariness in the healer's face. Still, it's enough - he'll make it enough. "I can take it from here," he says quietly; better that no one loses a limb or gets a chunk bitten out of them for the trouble.

Unsurprisingly (and despite the butcher's apologies), she nods and straightens up again, leaving them with a supply of bandages, dressings and potent medicine that Danta is certain contains dreamdust to contend with. "Thanks," he mumbles, glancing fleetingly back to Asta. "You'll feel better soon," he promises.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash

i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse

It’s a good thing Danta does take the empty glass, because if he held onto it for any longer, his grip would have shattered it anyway – and they both know that the healer doesn’t need more things to fix. His focus is so intensely on the knitting of his flesh, the sensation of it pieces itself back together again and aching in the process.

Because healing like this didn’t quite take away the sting, it took away the danger. And while it was sharper and deeper than the rest of the faded pale lines along the very same arm from the very same actions, the pain of these ones would linger for days. It fills him with a hollow ache, his jaw throbbing from how tight he clenches his jaw against the pain – the way he hangs his head despite the burning in his throat from the liquor and perhaps a touch of fire that licks from the back of his mouth.

He swallows it down, head hanging until he can feel his chin against his chest with absolutely zero hope that his hair will stay tucked behind the horns, falling into his face as his shadows thrum beneath them in the rapid pace of his heartbeat, shuddering and quaking. He’s pale as he lets Danta thank the healer, unsure if he can focus enough to speak, but at least his arm doesn’t hurt from the pain of the skin stretching and pulling against the wound. It’s more of a bone kind of exhaustion.

Only once the healer leaves does the butcher’s head tilt up slightly, eyes still shut like he’s in prayer, only managing to offer a soft little “nngh, I hope” so, on his smokey, liquored exhale.

Astaroth

what was it like to feel in love?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

"You will," Danta insists quietly, and he's already nodding at the barman for another brandy. The man can clock off for the night after this - there's no way the Maverick is trying to get upstairs with Asta, so they can take up the entire main floor for the evening. His house, his rules. "You made it home, so the hard part's over already." Smiling at the brandy that lands on the counter, Danta reaches out with his free hand to uncork the stopper from the medicine, tipping its entire contents into the liquor.

"Drink this and come with me," he says - it's the last demand he'll make of the butcher if only because he needs him to drag himself to his feet, but they won't have to go far. The Dusklight is filled with places to sit and lounge and lay about, and it's to one such alcove that he leads them, his hands gentle and guiding as he ushers Asta to sink down into the plush cushions.

"Is the mud thing dead?" he asks softly; a tiny saving grace to make the state of his lover at least marginally worth it.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash