Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
He couldn’t think of her as broken, even when his eyes glanced over the foundations, over the features, where a familiar gaze should be, the tears and dishevelment, the beam, the flicker of circuits and shudders; she’d never been in such a way, in such a state, in such a mess. He refused to acknowledge fettering states, swallowing, consuming, the bile coating the length of his throat, down into his chest, rendered speechless while he carried, and then tenderly placed her on one of the tables. Her whine, a silent plea, tore something in him, and he shoved it down, down, down into the sanction of his soul, later, when there were not a thousand other things to secure, destroy, heal, and mend.
Jigano was at his side, and Zuriel, queen of the forest, nestled her way through the crowd, steady and stalwart in his place while he chiseled foundations of long since passed. He’d never been someone to assuage, to tend, to soothe; not in his repertoire, not in his talent, only meant to sever, to destroy, to unleash hell, a weapon, not a restorative, not a cure for anything but havoc and upheaval. But the medic tents had been familiar, once, their ivory flags and bastions a portion where he had carried comrades, where he had watched, where he had seen these moments in times before. The Sword didn’t look to the Sage, but his voice was there, a command, a demand. “I am going to remove the beam.” His hands gilded a firm, ghostly glow now, in the patchwork of veils and shrouds, in the nettles and thorns and barbs, bandages upon bandages rendered across his fingertips, then handed over to Jigano. “As soon as I take it out, press down on the hole with these.” It wouldn’t be blood, but Ascended lifeforce, whatever ichor they had to restore their form. He’d need to staunch the bleeding. Deimos was powerful, potent enough, to retrieve the impaled venture himself.
Zuriel, quiet and obliging in these grave, perilous moments, when she knew her bonded was at his wit’s end, when she knew strife had marked them again, had already begun her work. The length of her horn hovered over Rexanna’s form, striving to catch and sew together all the jagged, wilted pieces, all the wounds, all the lacerations.
Before his hands wrapped around the beam, they flickered over to hers, a firm squeeze, even if it wasn’t felt in her haze, as a notion of reassurance. I have you. She was safe. She was sound. She’d be all right (he couldn’t afford any other mode of thought; strength and conviction in those paralyzing junctures). Then the calloused palms held the impalement, no warning when she couldn’t feel pain, when she wasn’t in agony now, grabbing hold and pulling, pulling, pulling, maneuvering aside when it was fully in his grasp, empty of her frame, so the bard could place the bandages. He released it from his grasp with a dull thunk as it hit the floor, before producing more of the gauze and wrapping, quick, efficient, action over anything else.
Jigano was at his side, and Zuriel, queen of the forest, nestled her way through the crowd, steady and stalwart in his place while he chiseled foundations of long since passed. He’d never been someone to assuage, to tend, to soothe; not in his repertoire, not in his talent, only meant to sever, to destroy, to unleash hell, a weapon, not a restorative, not a cure for anything but havoc and upheaval. But the medic tents had been familiar, once, their ivory flags and bastions a portion where he had carried comrades, where he had watched, where he had seen these moments in times before. The Sword didn’t look to the Sage, but his voice was there, a command, a demand. “I am going to remove the beam.” His hands gilded a firm, ghostly glow now, in the patchwork of veils and shrouds, in the nettles and thorns and barbs, bandages upon bandages rendered across his fingertips, then handed over to Jigano. “As soon as I take it out, press down on the hole with these.” It wouldn’t be blood, but Ascended lifeforce, whatever ichor they had to restore their form. He’d need to staunch the bleeding. Deimos was powerful, potent enough, to retrieve the impaled venture himself.
Zuriel, quiet and obliging in these grave, perilous moments, when she knew her bonded was at his wit’s end, when she knew strife had marked them again, had already begun her work. The length of her horn hovered over Rexanna’s form, striving to catch and sew together all the jagged, wilted pieces, all the wounds, all the lacerations.
Before his hands wrapped around the beam, they flickered over to hers, a firm squeeze, even if it wasn’t felt in her haze, as a notion of reassurance. I have you. She was safe. She was sound. She’d be all right (he couldn’t afford any other mode of thought; strength and conviction in those paralyzing junctures). Then the calloused palms held the impalement, no warning when she couldn’t feel pain, when she wasn’t in agony now, grabbing hold and pulling, pulling, pulling, maneuvering aside when it was fully in his grasp, empty of her frame, so the bard could place the bandages. He released it from his grasp with a dull thunk as it hit the floor, before producing more of the gauze and wrapping, quick, efficient, action over anything else.
DEIMOS
