with the length of my blade, let history be written

You always liked the taste of blood

and i get off when i point the gun

It had taken a few days of reconnaissance to be sure of her target. Sunjata, at least, was easy enough to find. Those of Torchline are fond of the man, and happy enough to lead her onward to where he can be found, where he lives, and if course...the company he keeps.

The men are rarely found without one another, which makes it all the easier to hang around the outskirts of their errands, confirming the man's name that the young Ascended had unwittingly let slip. She plans for days. Every little detail within her control perfectly laid out to ensure her success. When the time comes, she is ready.

The Ascended travels here often for his bartering of herbs. She is counting on his foolish empathy, his inclination towards healing and sanctuary. Though Torchline isn much warmer, the winter season allows her to wear a ragged cloak to hide her wings that a dress or blouse would not conceal. Ludo's rags safely packed away for this single venture. She has darkened, dusted, and ripped it appropriately. And then she had taken a brief dip in the cold waters of the shore, wetting her hair to make it dark, using a small bit of clay to ensure the red color is indiscernible even if it begins to dry as she stalks her prey. Then she barters for a freshly beheaded chicken, and paints the blood artfully in a way to display that she is actively wounded. With her hood up to shadow her face and the loose arms of the robe hiding her chakrams, at last Nephele is ready.

She is no soldier. No warrior. But she has her mind, as sharp as any blade, and her learned patience borne of a lifespan far greater than a human's. She staggers and collapses to the side of the walkway as the sun begins to set, allowing the Ascended out and about. Her ragged breaths and bloodied appearance cause a small ripple of sound, of worry that is not acted upon.

This is Torchline, after all. And Nephele is counting on all of it.

it's so good to have someone

to be so very bad with

NEPHELE

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

It is, by all accounts, a normal day. Normal evening. After all their emotional turmoil, spirals on spirals, all manner of wounds, and baring parts of himself Nate had thought would be left forgotten until he died, it almost felt anticlimactic to return to normalcy.

And yet, that’s exactly what happened. Save for the fact that him and Sunjata perhaps walk a little closer now, Nates arm wrapped tightly around the other mans hips as they wander around the market streets, half pursuing a list, half just for the joy of wandering together.

When you live in a place, in a type of place, for long enough, it becomes easy to see patterns, things of interest, little ripples in crowds and along streets. This is not something Nate needs any instinct to notice. There’s a crowd, a murmur of concern, but not a lot people helping, and it draws him immediately, tugging his arm loose from Sunjata to shove past people, eyes finding a crumpled form at the side of the road, blood, and shaky breaths.

Unlike anyone else around though, he has the means, the knowledge, and the drive to help. Things don’t start getting better until people step in, and he does so without hesitation, coming to kneel beside the... girl, he thinks, his hand hovering just over her shoulder. ”Hey, do you need help?”

i wish it was mine

NATE

You always liked the taste of blood

and i get off when i point the gun

Her days of waiting and watching come to fruition in the hurried, purposeful steps of a single man. No, not a man. A creature. A twisted, self-inflicted destruction of one's own soul. Excitement and anxiety rise in simultaneous, calamitous waves inside her breast. Heart racing, pulse thundering, only lending credence to her act. The hood is drawn low over her brow, but the parting of the crowd is unmistakable. One step. Two. Everything seems both sluggish and incredibly fast, and within the concealed sleeves of her robe, dexterous fingers pull Lasracha to her hands. Prepared. Waiting.

The long limbs before her kneel, and she cants her head to the side, peering up just enough to remain as concealed as possible. I must appear frightened, not vengeful. It is a mantra in her mind as the creature speaks, the concern meaningless to Nephele. "Don't touch me!" she screeches in her hoarsest voice, and lashes out immediately. Lasracha comes to her aid, flame-patterned edges wicked and unrelenting. She aims for his throat, though Nephele admittedly does not know if the Ascended still have arteries, merely with their blood replaced. But the creature is shorter than she had expected now that it is up close and kneeling, and her strike goes high, the magic imbued in the single chakram in her weapon-hand burning and searing wherever it touches the monster's skin.

For Ludo. For my people. I hope it burns.

it's so good to have someone

to be so very bad with

NEPHELE

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

Maybe, when he tells this story later, when he recounts it, in a fast, panicked voice, a tremble shaking the words, Nate will say he knew something would happen. Something felt off, a twinge in his gut, a shiver down his spine. Too smart, too proud, too lucky to just be caught out.

The truth is, he is caught out.

So concerned with healing, with helping, and something in him that has been surrounded by niceness, by safety for so long it's like he forgets the truths of the world. Or maybe, it's the ascension that's made him so cocky, so confident in his own invulnerability that he forgets to be afraid.

There is no chance to even parse the words, the banshees screech just a noise. There is a moment where he feels something like a whine, the noise of a dentists drill, made physical, pulling across cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, his eyebrow. One eye goes dark, that realization having the chance to land, to send his stomach turning strangely, before the burning registers, and whites out everything else.

So long without pain, and the first sound out of his throat is a confused bark of laughter, and then a choke, the scream coming so fast he gags on it, falling back and not noticing.

Not over the fire, a conflagration so great he cannot move, so great that it's all there is, all he is. White and burning and roaring in his ears. Burrowing into his skin, scouring the edges of every vein, poison flowing through his face, pulling him apart to press it deeper. It seeps in, growing worse, how can it possibly get worse, greedy, sucking, thoughtless fingers reaching in, through his eyes, his nose, his mouth, through his skin and bones and muscles, nails scraping and dragging, against the inside of his skull.

He can't take it, doesn't know how to understand it, but something in his body, instinct, a mechanical reaction, sends his legs scrabbling while airless lungs choke and gasp, hands reaching for something, afraid to rise and be caught in the burn.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

There are some days where things seem to feel like a dream – like you’re there but you’re not really paying attention to what’s going on. Perhaps that’s what today was… Perhaps it’s what he wishes it were. Because nothing seems quite out of the ordinary, not for Sunjata. He can hear the crowd and snippets of conversation as him and Nate walk through, and then when the crowd is formed he pays it little attention.

Honestly, he thinks someone might’ve just had a bit too much to drink. So he edges outside of the crowd, focused on what’s happening around the outside of it – knowing Nate can handle himself when it comes to helping the people within he streets. After all, they both had when the volcano had erupted. So when Nate’s arm leaves him and Sunjata’s left to his own devices, the crowd packs a little tighter and he’s left on the outside as Nate pushes his way in, kneeling before the stranger.

Though not like Sunjata could see it.

It’s not like he can see what happens next.

And this is when it feels more like a dream – like a fucked up mix between a memory and real life that he’s not quite sure what to do with. But his body moves on its own accord, his attention snatched the second the woman screams to not touch her.

That’s not out of the ordinary.

But then – then there’s the sound that comes next, and he’d know it anywhere – would know him anywhere, and that’s when his throat hitches, hands immediately shifting toward those daggers at his belt, slipping out both of them as his body moves before his mind does, before he has a chance to truly wrap around what’s just happened. And thank god it does – because she’s shifting, moving, and Nate’s scrabbling and Sunjata has two choices to make, and he has to decide fast.

He shoves his way through the crowd, daggers at the ready, steel eyes going to Nate first with all the sudden flare of anger and fear. A series of pleas that the scent of scorched and cauterized skin in the air doesn’t catch and continue to smolder. And fuck it’s so much worse than Sunjata thought it could be. A knife was one thing, something combined with fire was another. Something like that combined with carving its way through his lover’s face was an entirely other ordeal.

So he goes for her next, because he’s been given a choice this time – his daggers tighten in his hands that threaten to curl into claws, and he surges for her with the daggers outstretched – hoping to maim something of hers for what she’s done, not thinking twice over whether or not it was a reaction to some form of self defense or not. He doesn’t care, not with the image of what she’s done to Nate’s face blinding his sight.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

You always liked the taste of blood

and i get off when i point the gun

The arc of her arm is not quite true, but the jagged, swirling edges of her chakram make up for any inexperience with the vitriol of their embedded magic. The rend and tear of their pristine edges. Though her body may not have the strength to puncture, to rip and shred, Ludo's creation does not fail her. Impact sings through her bones, and the creature goes crashing down like a felled tree, but with half the soul and and a greater purpose to its fall. At first, there is nothing. A stillness in her mind like an untouched lake, frozen and contained within the crystal of self-reflection.

Perhaps in another woman, this would be where regret seeps into the cracks of shock that quake across that sheer surface. Were she any other race, any less committed to her cause, the shriek of agony may have knocked her off her feet. For a moment it threatens to; so similar to the wounded, dying sound of a helpless rabbit beneath a falcon's talons. Compassion is not nonexistent within Nephele after all.

But compassion for an Ascended? No, that has been burned out of her very core. There is only vengeance.

So instead she bares her gritted teeth in a feral snarl of victory. Staggering to her feet as adrenaline - unlike all those novels and fairytales that claim it to be a drug of excellence, a hormone that improves and aids - thrusts shakiness upon her limbs. Her mind races, whirs, gazing down at the creature as it contorts and spasms, lost in the grips of agony that she has induced. Does she strike again? Try once more for the killing blow? The audience dissuades, her but this may be her only chance, and she is still fully concealed. Just as she moves a step forward, readjusting her grip on the chakram - not bloodied, for monsters do not bleed, but soaked nonetheless in the foul essence of its kind - the crowd parts beneath a vengeful form.

Cursing to herself at having forgotten Sunjata's place in all this, the Fae staggers back, twisting awkwardly away from a blow that is far more practiced than her own. It catches all the same, digging deeper than she'd hoped for as it sinks into her right side, tearing free towards her navel. Vital organs are center-mass, and there are no major arteries located in the flanks. The recitation rings in the back of her mind. It's a ridiculous thought to have when you're being stabbed, but perhaps that's merely her way of coping.

Lashing out with Lasracha to try to use her own blade to force Sunjata's arm away from her, she whirls away and sprints as fast as her legs can take her. No time for hesitation, for fighting an opponent she cannot win on even ground. She has made her mark (and what a mark it is, her mind crows victoriously) and though the killing blow was stayed, Nephele does not feel disheartened. Though wings would get her away faster, she cannot risk it, and never slows even as she melts into the crowd to disappear. One hand braced against the wound on her side, the other tightly gripping her singular chakram, hoping some measure of the creature's fluid remains upon it.

Perhaps she will not have to forsake her botanical, engineering mind after all.

it's so good to have someone

to be so very bad with

NEPHELE

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

There is no room for sense, for awareness outside of himself, outside of the pain, but there are flashes, tinged in red, in black, nonsensical. Like the beating of a heart. Gods, if he could get it to stop; the blurs of motion around him, the roaring in his ears, the pain, the constant, terrible pain, he would. He would trade every scrap of sensation he had left to end this.

Nate's body still moves, automatic, the lurching, jerky motions of a bug, half crushed. Some system, some deep rooted code still fighting to keep him alive, when all he wants, all he needs is to stop, to have his mind cut off by the bliss of blackout or death. The hand, shaking, more unsteady than it has ever been, finally makes contact with the face, neither of them feeling like him, though in an instant he comes to a very important realisation. He's not burning, no matter how it feels, how it invades and writhes in him, how it threatens to spread to his hand.

Important, but not a comforting realisation.

And what has happened is so much worse, kills the hoarse scratch of air screaming out of him, replaces it with a panicked whimper, the very tips of his fingers tracing along the buzzing line, the source of the burning, his face open, like the broken crater of Apopo, though at least that pain would have been over in an instant. Even trembling, out of his mind as he is, Nate cannot bring his hand close to his eye, cannot do anything more than hover his palm above it uselessly, some deep voice in him finally awakening and whispering advice.

Pressure. Water. A wrapping. All things he cannot heed, not as he is, and it drives his other hand out, reaching for something, for someone. For Sunjata. There's no one else to trust, with him in this state, with the person who had done this still, presumably, around.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

He’s too distracted, too torn between wanting to get some form of revenge for this crime and wanting to ensure that Nate’s okay. Despite his precision in his abilities, of his favored weapon being a dagger, he still doesn’t strike where he wishes he had. But it’s far better than a slight slash, far better than missing at all as he feels the resistance of the blade sinking deep, drawing red scarlet blood along the blade before she’s moving again, and Sunjata has his choice to make once more.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears, watching her twist away before she bolts and the decision is made easily then. Especially when his head shifts back toward Nate, toward the sudden realization that fuck, it’s bad, the panic growing larger in his throat, tightening like a choker around and growing tighter and tighter with each inhale of breath.

It’s not the throat, at least, that part of the memory can remain hidden. And his blood isn’t red – another small mercy that had the wounds not cauterized, that his hands would fill with that iridescent sheen and not that deep red he could have drowned himself in so many years ago. But already the daggers have dropped between him and Nate, latching onto the hand that’s outstretched for him with all his focus and panic and rage and fear burning in his gut.

He pulls Nate toward him now, inspecting as quickly as he can, knowing that they’ve got to get somewhere better than the middle of the fucking street, a place where Sunjata can ensure that he’s safe. So the boxing ring is the best choice, the only thing he can think of where he can lock the doors and promise himself that it’s safe. “I’ve got you.” He says, though his voice shakes and quakes in ways that he hasn’t heard in years.”ek het jou, liefde.” He manages again, scrambling for the daggers to cut a piece of his shirt off, hands trembling as he goes to apply a makeshift bandage around it, wincing internally because holy fucking hell –

– He puts the daggers in his belt, jaw clenching tight enough it hurts as he goes to grab Nate to lift him into his arms, moving to stand, to take him to a place they’re far better prepared to deal with the damage and unable to fully think about what’s just happened other than a mix of wanting to ensure Nate’s safe and a sudden bout of blood lust. All he can do is keep saying the mantra, a voice for Nate to follow through the panic. I've got you, love. I've got you. I've got you.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

His hand is grabbed, a pressure so outside of himself it almost seems fake, a memory of a memory of touch. And Nate latches on, squeezing hard enough to keep his hand from trembling, hard enough that it shakes anyway from the pressure. It doesn't quite register to him that it might hurt, that his buoy comes at the expense of someone else's pain.

A touch of awareness creeps back into him, with the touch, the way he's being moved, against his will, though he couldn't fight it even if he wanted to. He can hear the voice, without really understanding it, can see the fuzzy figure before him, without realising who it is, not at first. It's the Korofian that breaks through, that finally unlocks meaning, the extra step of translation forcing his mind to work.

He tries, desperately, automatically, to say something, anything back, but the only sound he can force out intentionally is a ragged huff, iridescence on his lips, though it's impossible to tell from the open wounds on his face, or the way he's shredded his throat with the screams, the choking. The effort though, becomes something to focus on, something to try to throw himself into, as if it would help him to move away from the burning.

Despite the bandage, the shaking hands that apply it — when had their hands come apart? — the palm hovering protectively over Nate's eye does not move, some deep part of him insisting on the cover, on nothing actually touching it. He doesn't know why, when it doesn't even register the fuzzy figures around, though there is still something. If it was black, nothing, then perhaps he might be less concerned for it, perhaps the loss of it would be easier to accept, but it's not. Flashes of white, like raindrops, like fireworks, still flash, only adding to the disorientation, only giving him a sickly hope.

Like everything else, it takes him a moment to move, to realise he's being moved, a voice dragging him to his feet as surely as a pair of arms do. He wants to help, to stand on his own, though nothing is working, nothing is responding. The hand not covering his face flails, latching to the first thing it touches, a shoulder, or chest, maybe an arm? He can't just do nothing, can't just let himself feel useless, as he's carried or dragged or Gods only know's what.

Another huff leaves him, the fluid on his lips more pronounced, though thats a wound he can't feel, pain not stopping him until Nate manages a ragged response to the repeated words, the most insistent lifeline he has. "Hhhnny...?" A gasp, barely sensible, and an attempt, beyond himself, to offer some kind of comfort.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

Nate latches on, and there’s a slight exhale that shakes him, that the pressure the other man has and the strength beneath the way he grips Sunjata’s arm. But honestly? Sunjata doesn’t mind. Not as he’s lurching forward to grab onto him, to get anything he can to help cover the wound, to staunch any of the fluid that slips from the open gash in Nate’s face – horrified and terrified of everything about it. But he continues on, because that’s what he does, clenches his jaw and keeps as much of a level head as he can in a situation like this even though every bit of the Korofian within him screams for blood.

The bandage is applied, as shakily as he can, wrapping Nate’s hand within it and not caring – not even bothered by the fact he wants to keep his hand there. If anything, Sunjata understands. Soon enough, however, his hands are beneath Nate, lifting and doing his best to latch onto him and likewise letting Nate latch onto him again – his arm finding Sunjata’s shoulder as the Attuned does his best to not jostle Nate too much.

There’s a huff that comes from the Ascended, and it breaks Sunjata’s heart, fuels more of that fiery rage and panic that he swallows down as hard as he can, before the ragged response is heard and Sunjata’s clutching Nate closer, trying to offer some semblance of pressure, of him that would scream that he’s there and that he won’t let anything happen to him – not unlike a guard dog in that way. “I’ve got you. It’s Sunny. I’m here.” He says again, as much a promise as it is a plea for it to break through. A sharp whistle is sent out as he uses all his strength in his arms to hold Nate as well as his legs, rushing toward the boxing ring.

A shadow of wings and Haai’s there, guiding the way and keeping an extra eye so Sunjata can focus on Nate. They make it through the doors of the Slagveld, Sunjata choosing to use whatever strength he has left and channeling his adrenaline through it to get Nate to upstairs portion – only the door’s locked, there’s flights of stairs in the way, and he curses himself for the problems of this. So he has to settle, setting Nate onto the couch down below – darting toward the door to lock it closed while Haai goes and lights the oil lanterns that illuminate the destruction.

He’s never been a healer – that was always Lusea’s job. Sunjata was always the one too busy getting fucked up to learn a thing or two on how to help someone that it draws his throat tighter, his mouth dryer, his mind screaming out with the rage and fury of everything else. The bristling of feathers coats his neck as he finally kneels beside the couch, reaching into the drawer to pull out one of the many kits they leave in the boxing ring for the inevitable, before shaking hands move to try and brush Nate’s hair out of the way. “Ek is so jammer, my maanlig.” He begins, voice cracking, hoarse with the dryness and the tightness within. “What can I do?”

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

Just like that, his only constant in the world shifts, goes from being the pain, the burning still flaring in him, to the body against him, arms and chest and motion all blurring together in a confusing tangle, no matter how hard he tries to keep it straight. He's still only getting snips, flashes of the world outside his head, outside himself, but a word, a name, a reassurance has him settling, sagging into the contact, then flinching, trying to draw back away from the whistle, the sharpness of the sound too much.

Should he feel so much like he's drifting? There's no sense of his feet against the ground, no sense of anything except arms around him, except for pain that he shouldn't be able to feel. For a single, blissful moment, Nate wonders if maybe that's all there is now, if that's all he is now. He can't quite figure out if its a relief, in the same way he isn't quite sure if he's holding himself up, if his feet are under him, but the thought passes in a moment.

It isn't until there's something sturdy, something yielding under him completely that Nate let's himself sag, sinking down, back, fighting the whole time the urge to draw his knees in, to curl up small. He knows better, somewhere deep down, knows he needs to be looked at, to be taken care of, that if he tries to hide himself now, he'll just have to come out when its worse.

Nate doesn't notice Sunjata come back to him, not until there's hands pushing his hair back, pulling his whole head with them, no strength in him to fight it, to keep still. His uncovered eye is blown wide, the blue in it gone, given way to black and white and a shimmering approximation of bloodshot, trembling hand still covering the other one. He lingers on the edge of unfocused, but tries, fights, to force words out, the list from earlier rattling around his mind, rattling through his throat like a hiss.

"Wa'er." Then a pause, to recover from the exertion of speech, the realisation that he has no idea what to do, what he needs, not without actually seeing what has happened. The burning edges of his face still plead for a release, for an end, and his vision is not yet clear enough to read the expression on the other man, so... "Mmmn... 'irror."

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

He doesn’t intend for the whistle to make Nate flinch. He doesn’t intend to make it all that much more confusing for the Ascended. All he wants is to get him somewhere safe, now that the girl has run off, already prepared to hunt and seek her out. But he can’t, not until he ensures Nate’s safe, fine, healing enough. Absently, he wonders if he should’ve ran to a shrine, to the Voice who could likely fix him up — unsure if Safrin would even show for a plea like that. And it sinks a bit further in his gut when he sets Nate gently on the couch, while his steel gaze scans over the face and what he can see hiding behind the bandage, hands moving and shaking as he pushes dark hair away from the wound.

He watches Nate slump into the cushions while he grabs the box of first aid items, unsure where to even start when he sets it to the ground beside him and asks what he can do, what would help, knowing that the Ascended healed faster than he did and yet… And yet he’s never seen something like this.

A cauterized wound, sure. But a cauterized wound on a flammable Ascended, one of his biggest fears when there’s the flickering of flame involved anywhere near Nate… And it cuts him like a knife. Every one of his wounds he’s sustained, the stabbing to the gut and the arrow to the neck, are minuscule for the Korofian as he hears what Nate wants, what he needs. Sunjata has been through worse, but it was nothing like this, because that wound on Nate’s face would scar.

It would change everything, wouldn’t it?

So he does what he can, to make it easier, thumbs brushing against Nate’s forehead as he silently commands Haai to get a mirror from the back room. “Okay.” He breathes, his stomach burning with the thought of Nate seeing it, of him fully seeing what had happened. But he’s quick about it, standing and practically running to the small kitchenesque portion of the downstairs, grabbing water and returning to Nate’s side. He’s not sure how much water to bring, but he’s brought more than enough. A cloth, as well, as he kneels beside Nate once more with the bucket and a cup.

He tries to shift some of the pillows wherever Nate might need them, to sit up a bit more when he’s ready — and Haai is quick to return with a small handheld mirror — one that Sunjata grasps easily enough and bumps the handle lightly against Nate’s free hand. “Here – here’s the mirror. I have water.” He manages through a throat that feels like pins and needles. His free hand reaches up to touch, to offer whatever comfort he could in the span of time, waiting for Nate to tell him to remove the makeshift wrap when he’s ready.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?

all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth

The little bit of support he’d had, the hands on his head, fall away as he makes his request, and without it, Nate slumps again. Everything had seemed so fast before, the pain burning through what felt like minutes, hours, days. But now, it feels like he’s alone for far too long, long enough for paranoia and panic and pleading to creep back into him, to start a cacophonous roar in his head, somehow carving out a space between everything else.

His hand closes around the handle of the mirror easily, not unlike a child in that way, his instinct to grip, to hold. Once he’s told what it is though, it’s lifted, trembling the whole while, only making it that much more difficult for things to come into focus, for it to make sense. He finds his own eye in the mirror, stares, because... it doesn’t make sense. What he sees doesn’t even make sense as a face, but he’s not seeing the whole picture still.

It’s as if he’s the only person in the room, not asking for help, not heeding whatever reaction Sunjata has as he lifts his hand away from his face, dragging the makeshift bandage with it, a low clicking that’s trying to be a hiss leaving him as it pulls on blackened edges of whatever it is that’s replaced his face.

Everything around him fades, as he zeroes in on the reflection, the curse staring back at him in the mirror. A gash, splitting him in two, ragged and cracked at its edges, but deadly straight at its deepest, baring bone, in his cheek, in his nose, in his brow. Its strange how he’s still red inside, when that isn’t the colour of the blood, of the fluid, still smouldering and sizzling into itself, sending tendrils of burns deeper into skin, widening the wound for every moment it isn’t helped. It’s already scars, already there permanently, already replacing everything he was.

And his eye. At least it’s was a clean cut some part of him says, a straight line, splitting it apart. It breaks him. A little bit. The mirror doesn’t move, his gaze doesn’t shift away, but a bubble of what sounds like coughing at first leaves him, his mouth barely moving with it. He almost chokes on it, drops the mirror with how he jerks, and then tips back, the noise revealed as laughter, absolutely humourless, dragging out of him, dragging tears to the one good eye.

Whatever this moment is, it lasts too long. Too long where he refuses to move, or be moved, where that terrible rasping sound leaves him, though when it finally stops, it’s almost worse, gurgling into nothing. Some part of him, perhaps an ascended system, keeping him safe, perhaps training, how to deal with this outside of himself, whatever it is, it forces words out of him. ”W... ssh it.” He doesn’t know where the water is, but he knows it’s there, knows Sunjata has it, knows his instructions will be followed.

He doesn’t know then when the water touches him, it will sizzle, steam up, the last of the burning dousing with a hiss, like its angry it couldn’t linger, couldn’t eat into him more. All hell fee is the sudden absence of burning pain, the relief cutting any control he’d managed to keep hold of, sending him completely limp, dropping to the couch, or the floor, or Sunjata’s arms.

i wish it was mine

NATE

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

He doesn’t think he’s been gone too long — the quick skip toward the kitchenesque section of the ring to grab water and rags, while Haai seeks out a mirror, and before too long he’s back, offering his comfort, offering whatever he can. Nate latches onto the mirror and Sunjata swallows hard against it, throat dry as he tells Nate what it is, confirms he has water at the ready, watching with everything he can muster at the shaking hands that lift the mirror.

He silently tells Haai to get a few larger towels, something to rest against Nate’s shoulders while they survey the damage. His steel gaze is dark, full of those shadows and storms of before, watching in what feels like slow motion and yet still too fast as Nate lifts the bandage. It’s deep, able to see bone through the smoldering edges and Sunjata’s already reaching for the towels that Haai drops beside him. He lifts them, pressing and draping them over the Ascended’s shoulder — missing the reveal of Nate’s eye, or more accurately, what’s left of it.

It’s the laugh that draws his gaze back, hand fishing for the cup to fill with water and bring it up as Nate’s anguish is aired and begins to die off, and he freezes for who knows how long. It isn’t until the instruction is granted that he realizes it, kneeling there with the water in the cup — half between telling him to hold his breath or close his eyes, but why does it matter? He’s still sizzling, and Sunjata snaps out of it immediately to wrap one arm around Nate for support, the next dousing the singe along his face, pouring it along Nate’s forehead so it’ll run down through the cracks and wash out whatever else remains. “I’ve got you.” He repeats from earlier, far hoarser, far dryer and crackling. A mantra from earlier, one that he clings to.

And he does it again, until he’s satisfied enough that he grabs the cloth now, soaking it and squeezing out just enough to apply to the worst of the damage, hoping to send more of the water into the places it might pull it further through, careful as he can be to not make it worse, feeling the way Nate sags into him, and gods does it hurt as much this time as it had before.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?