pick through the wreckage

CHULANE

In a world where only the tough survived, Chulane would resolve to always be kind, where he could. In a world that took and took and took, he would resolve to give and give and give. He would bear it as long as he could, carrying the weight of the loss, the heartbreak, the many different crises that struck - he would resolve to become stronger, to make it look effortless, that he might ensure those he cared about had all the chances they needed to survive in a world determined to knock them down.

And he didn't want anything in return, except perhaps more time with those he considered friends, more time simply living alongside the ones he cared about. And when his friends needed help, he would step up, he would be that help, he would be whatever they needed him to be. In this moment, the Sword needed him to be a crutch, to be a friend, and he stepped into the role easily, manoeuvring awkwardly but managing well enough as he and Morgan's efforts combined to get the tower of a man to where he would be able to rest properly, to heal and recuperate.

"Get watered down apple cider," he instructed one of the healers who went past after they had Deimos on the bed. He was met with a look of confusion, but ultimately the healer nodded, and disappeared to fulfil the request. Chulane knew that most with this illness were literally dying from thirst, but hated water - a cruel joke of a symptom. He'd managed to convince Loren to drink water by convincing him to drink apple cider instead - it wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing.

Then the Chief worked at getting pillows in position, should the man want to properly lay back and rest, or even simply lean back to sit against the headrest. "How're you feeling, Deimos?" He asked directly, hoping to draw out more details on the man's condition. What do you need? he voiced silently, wishing he had more of a guiding hand in this strange time.

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

DEIMOS

He didn’t, couldn’t, recall in the next few moments how they’d wandered into the midst of this unknown world, how he’d been settled along a bed, eyes quickly darting around but taking nothing in. The surroundings were strange and for a moment an inward panic started to rise, and the notions of being left there alone scraped against his chest. Because that’s what he’d always had – alone, alone, alone, abandoned into the sanction of weapons and scabbards and what he could implement, wield, until there was naught left of him but bones in the mountainside. And sometimes all he could do to stop from breaking was to swallow down the apprehension like the emotions were knives, feel them stab against his throat, larynx, and lungs, glide down into his soul where they stayed, interlocked, knotted, and gnarled.

The Sword expected them to go – and his hands wanted to reach out, to catch at voices and friends so they didn’t leave again. It was a desperate, undignified sort of gesture, and in the end he only grabbed at the sheets, fingers clutching until knuckles were white, breathing labored, attempting to constitute a semblance of control so fleeting and insubstantial now. Barely upright, his head bowed when Morgan asked him about shoes, and he stared down at his feet, surprised to find he was wearing any at all. “No. I can get them.” A distraction from the claws within his own mind, and leaning forward made him dizzy, everything fumbling, until he’d managed to slip them off, sliding them under the bed.

Then he curled in amongst himself once more, against the wall and the chilling stone, listening as Chulane called for something to drink – and he nearly rejoiced at the notion. The other question made him blink, slowly, trying to regain his senses, to understand how to answer. Shudders and shivers ran through him, despite the layers of clothing wrapped around his figure, taken and snagged and placed upon in the midsts of the wild fever. “Cold.” An idea, delusional, sprang to mind, and he lifted one palm. “Can I have my fire?” The embers started within the center, glorious, bright, and minute, for the moment.

i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky

Morgan raised a quizzical eyebrow as Chulane asked for apple cider, though she supposed she could see the sense in it. She remembered the way Deimos had rejected her waterskin, how he had seemed scared of it in his hand even when he had asked for it. In that moment she was painfully glad for Chulane - for his knowledge, for his intelligence in working out so many solutions and ways to help the sick.

Letting Deimos sort out his own shoes (it was good to let him do as many things for himself as he could) she took a step back. It was clear he found it difficult sat up for so long, but he completed the task; Morgan couldn't help the small smile on her face, a kind of pride in him for the determination he held.

The fire in his palm was....concerning, to say the least. While in normal circumstances Morgan would not begrudge him his magic, here she worried he might get distracted and put his hand down, set the entire infirmary alight. "Well...I could get you some extra blankets and ask the nurses to put some more wood in the fire. Would that do instead?" The way she asked didn't really leave too much room for him to say no.

MORGAN

Snakes are biting at my heels
The worries that refuse to let us go

CHULANE

He didn't know if the same trick would work twice, if telling Deimos he was drinking mostly apples would convince him to swallow the mostly-water beverage, but it was worth a try. After a short while, the apprentice healer returned with the jug of pale golden liquid, and a glass. Chulane thanked them, setting the glass on the bedside table and filling it up.

Once Deimos had figured out his shoes, and was settled more on the bed, Chuy pulled a chair up alongside the bed and sat in it. He was intending on being here for a while, clearly.

The Chief frowned at the ember that started in the Sword's palm. Normally, he'd be enthralled by magic; but he had also seen Deimos unleashing his magic in a delusional tirade against hallucinogenic enemies, and had the scorched pants and shirt in his wardrobe to prove it. "Your fire is glorious," warm tones observed, "but we have our own, which is sufficient for now."

He reached for the glass, and presented it to the man. "It's not water," the Chief reassured, assuming he'd get a similar reaction as he had with Loren, and doing his best to pre-empt it. "It's mostly apple," he explained, making a show of smelling it, and presenting it to the Sword to smell for himself. "Will you try it?"

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

DEIMOS

No fire seemed to be deemed the proper measures, and without his stoic, impassive mask, the pretenses of his disappointment shown clearly on his face. The beast studied the little ember for a moment, before closing his fist, calloused fingers closing back over skin, and it was no more. “My father had flames, and my mother had rivers.” Musings, brief and strange, likely not meant to be voiced out loud, probably part of a mantra he’d begun as a boy or some other simplistic venue in which his mind wandered, eyes not on anyone or anything in particular, the fever pitching and keening and hurling him through other dimensions and timeframes. “And I had -,” death. He didn’t finish the statement, brought briefly back to the present by the Warden, by the Chief, by the friends he didn’t know he’d gained. His jaw clenched in the midst of silence; blinking rapidly, trying to find the boundaries again.

A nod was granted to the notion of blankets, they had their own infernos, and perhaps if they needed it, he could always bring the conflagration closer, larger, bigger, brighter, for the whole infirmary to feel. But Chulane insisted they didn’t need any more, and they would know better about their own world, so he thought he understood – when in reality the notions would never have been there in the first place.

Barely upright, folding over and leaning precariously to the left, he eyed the glass Chulane offered suspiciously. Gaze narrowed and sharpened, almost as if he was his normal self, curling a set of machinations and calculations behind his piercing stare.

Except now he was analyzing if the resin contained the feared, dastardly element.

And when had he ever been afraid of water? An insulting notion, considering how he’d been born next to the sea, had been a part of salt and brine and fortitude since infancy.

Very slowly, very carefully, his fingers closed around the glass and he brought it to his nose; a partial shift of a hound’s nares, inspecting, pondering. It wasn’t a distrusting act, but one borne of sickness and delirium. A bland statement to follow, and then an arch to his shrewd brow when he detected the substance. “I cannot have water.” Then he tried to hand it back, to either Morgan or Chulane.

i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky

Deimos' reponse about his parents was nonsensical, but Morgan did her best to nod as if it were not; she did not think it would do him any good to argue with what he had to say for the moment. At least it was related, the ability to control flames apparently something of a family legacy. Nodding as she went to go and get the agreed-upon blankets, she looked over her shoulder and asked: "Were you close to your father, Deimos?"

Anything to try and distract from the deep sense of despair he gave off.

She watched Chulane try and convince him to take the Cider, unsure if it would work. Were Deimos the same as Neron, she would have been willing to cut her wrist open again, let him drink from there...but he wasn't and if he wouldn't drink, he would only grow thirstier. "You're thirsty, aren't you? It's apples. You could try just a sip and see if it hurts. Please, just try." Morgan encouraged, softly pushing the cup in his hands back towards him.

MORGAN

Snakes are biting at my heels
The worries that refuse to let us go

CHULANE

A glimpse into the past of the Sword, a hint at what made him him. Perhaps one day, when the illness was through, when his mind was clear and his trust intact, he would tell them again, in more detail, of his past, of the trials and tribulations that he went through, the wars and hardships and good times too. Chulane could hope, could cling to the optimistic thought that they were going to get through this. He let Morgan probe further, let her be the one to see what else the Sword might share, might relive, in a space where he could do so safely, with friends and support nearby.

If anything, finding Deimos today only further solidified the Chief's resolution to find a cure.

Seeing a canine nose take over the man's face was comical, though Chulane restrained the laughter. He merely frowned, and held the glass back up to his own nose to take another sniff. "Definitely only apples here. Loren drank a whole jug of them." He wasn't aware of the details of the history Deimos and the healer might share, but he suspected there was something there - and if making it into a competition got the Sword to drink, it was worth it.

"But if you're not up for it," he shrugged, and made to put the glass back on the bedside.

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

DEIMOS

Imminent confusion, his eyes veering away from their piercing depths and into cataclysms of distortion; mystified by the entanglements scratching and scraping their way into his skull; blinking rapidly, struggling to diffuse the layers. It didn’t work, and he thought about hanging his head, or curling into a ball, or flattening himself against a wall and peeling himself apart, lacquer by lacquer, until there’d be nothing left and the pain would stop. Would cease. Would end. He’d already forgotten the previous moments of conversation, if there’d been any pride associated in his words, in the way bloodlines had trickled down into his veins and administered the incantations, one by one by one – Morgan’s question surprising him, taking him out of the suffering stupor for a moment, not realizing he’d only been staring at the floor. “Yes.” They’d been close; someone the boy admired, someone the teenager respected, someone to hold aloft and regard in a brilliant light.

Then he’d lost him. A pattern, a cycle. Slain and gone.

“Were you?” He asked to neither of them in particular, as if it were normal to share details of brethren and family, head tilting, lilting, could feel himself continue to lilt to one side, as if any second he might completely keel over.

Chulane’s antics, methods, and motives were commendable – if he weren’t ill, the Sword would’ve seen right through them; laughed, maybe a great booming one if he were in any good spirits. Now though, the Chief had found a tried-and-true contortion when it came to Deimos, a childish, very juvenile aspect to the man that had served him well throughout his life: a challenge. A competition. The ability to overcome others. Galvanized, incited, and kindled, the dog nose disappeared, bringing on a boyish sneer instead. “I am better than Loren.” Nothing against the healer; but the provocation and dare was already there.

So he grabbed for the glass again, pushing aside the dread for impudence, insurrection, and sedition, swallowing the vile substance.

i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky

Well, it seemed she hadn't succeeded in getting Deimos to engage in a distracting conversation, but he was at least responding. "I was not ever close to your father, no." Morgan joked, though she quickly went back to seriousness, not used to making light of things (and not sure she'd done it right). "I was close to mine. He was a Captain here, once. A good man." Her smile turned a little quieter and she glanced down at the floor, the same spot as Deimos had.

Her amusement did return slightly as Chulane managed to convince Deimos purely by setting him up against Loren; a rivalry she had not known of. The thought of it made her laugh and she stored it away for later, to ask them about when they were well.

With him having drunk, she put her hands behind her back and nodded to both Deimos and Chulane. "I have things I must do. It's good to know you are resting, Deimos. I will see you soon." A final smile later and she was turning heel, walking towards the door.

(Morgan is out!)

MORGAN

Snakes are biting at my heels
The worries that refuse to let us go

CHULANE

His father? Yes, he'd been close. He'd helped on the farm that'd been in his father's family for generations, branching out to take up his mother's profession as well, working and living on the family farm, building a life for himself. He'd been encouraged to travel, to expand his horizons, and well… that's exactly what happened. "Mine was a good man too," he nodded along, speaking quietly, not quite willing to go into his past from another world here and now. Perhaps when Deimos was healed, when he was well and conscious and the grief was less fresh, they could learn more about each other.

It had been a hunch, a shot in the dark - and the Chief was gratified when it proved to be true. Inwardly, he chuckled at the notion that he could pit the two men against each other in such a way, and was honestly silently chuffed at his own genius in the idea. He watched closely as the Sword downed the drink, taking the empty glass from him and putting it back on the side-table once it was empty. "Great work." Nodding and lifting a hand to farewell Morgan, he turned his attention back to Deimos. "You can have another glass later. Gotta beat Loren's record," he assured the man, the sheer relief of finding the Sword, of having him here, drinking, resting, safe and hopefully on the road to recovery bringing a smile to his lips, even if the simple expression felt so strange and foreign to his face, especially given recent times.

"You're safe here, Deimos." He was leaning back in his chair, intending on lingering until the man fell asleep or was otherwise occupied. "Rest up."

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

DEIMOS

Morgan’s attempts at a joke almost earned her a snort, but then he was distracted, brows furrowing, forgetting how to best describe his own father. Boisterous? Fire? Had he been a good man? What constituted great, what levels did they have, what prospered one over the other? His mind was shrouded and veiled in convoluted terms, and suddenly it merely ached to be alive, his skull swimming and spinning, too many directions to decipher, too many angles prospered, too many god damned nuances to shake.

A momentary panic, an impulsive notion when he usually was anything but, flooded his presence when Morgan announced she was leaving. He couldn’t fathom why it shook him, why fingers trembled, why he thought about crying out, or why he simply sat there, frozen, a chilling sort of despair wrapped around his insides. Alone. You are always going to be alone. An echo, a glacial expanse wrapping around his neck like a noose, and he knew it was true, and that friends were slim to none now –

And turned to see Chulane still there, still remaining. It’d been too late for him to say thank you, to acknowledge the Warden as she left, and he wanted to curl back in on himself all the more, apologize profusely for everything. “They always leave,” he murmured, maybe to himself, maybe to Chulane, maybe to the walls. “And they do not come back.”

They died. They disappeared. They thought him not worth the time, the effort.

The other man’s assurances were perhaps the only thing that made him ultimately, finally collapse again, relinquishing whatever strength was left into the bed, head hitting the pillow, arms grabbing blankets, eyes closing – trying, trying, trying to not to become a burden to this world too. “I am sorry.” An endless record, as if he said it one more time, it would alleviate the guilt, the shame, and the hurt. “Thank you.”

{FIN}

i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky