shadows of the dawn
He’d died. He’d died and maybe he’d come back too, but she can’t help but think that it is a close thing. That he might not have. That he might not understand how much he means to them, to her. Maybe it’s time she said something about it. [Pike/Percy. 2.3K.]
Giveaway prize for @sherlockianliza. Set during episode 69. Intimations of future Pike/Percy/Vex.
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Routine wakes her. Months of rising early to work on the temple, years of rising early in prayer, a lifetime of rising early to prepare for the day. A healer’s work is never done, and hers begins anew with the grey light of dawn.
The hangover is not usually a part of that routine, and it’s a bitch.
She drags herself towards consciousness, regret chasing her the whole way. Her tongue sits heavy and musty in her mouth and there’s a throbbing behind her closed eyes that makes her very much want to roll back over and sleep until she feels human again. Gnomish. Whichever.
But they have work to do, she has work to do, so instead she sits upright in the wide expanse of the bed, itself an island unmoored within the expanse of the room Cassandra has deemed hers for the time being. Whitestone is an impressive feat of architecture, that she cannot deny. But at times like this, in the pockets of privacy before she must don her armor and face the day, she misses the clutter coziness of Westruun. Of home.
Like most thoughts she has in these in-between moments, it is no help to her now. She leans forward and rubs her palms into her eyes and spins a thread of magic to cast a simple restoration on herself. Perhaps that is cheating, but being cleric to a divine being of hope and healing must be good for something.
Even if that something is instantaneous hangover cures.
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