Darling, it’ll be okay… Part 2
A/N: A big thank you to everyone who read, liked/reblogged Part 1! Let me know what you think of this. ^_^
Prompt: Inspired by @syaosakuweek ‘s week prompt ‘Shyness/Amaryllis’.
Beads of sweat lined her brow as she dipped the bucket into the river. The water was so cool and refreshing, she had half a mind to slip out of her dress and into the blue waters, splashing around with the fish below.
But she can’t afford to, not when he was in such a critical state.
“Come on, Kero-chan,” she says, fondly petting the large golden canine that lay sprawled on the grass beside her.
He was different from any other dog that she had seen, bigger and furrier, with a golden mane around him that made him look almost regal. His size alone scared most people - which is why she named him ‘Cerberus’ – but she wasn’t afraid. He’d been with her for as far as she could remember. Way back from when Touya would tease her for being a shrimp that only came up to his hip.
Even 5 days ago when she’d wandered into the middle of what used to be a golden field of corn, only to see it transformed into a battle-torn wasteland, he’d been by her side.
When she’d scoured the ground to find only one breathing body, he’d helped her carry it back to their home.
Now, as she lay crouched over the body of the soldier that had yet to wake up, he watched her, alert and cautious.
She dips a new washcloth into the fresh water and places it on his forehead. It had been 5 days since she pulled him from the clutches of death. She’d worked feverishly to close his wounds, mixing every healing herb she could think of, to create a soothing salve that she rubbed across his skin.
The gash on his stomach was responding well to her efforts, but the soldier had yet to open his eyes. His body burned with a fever that she was powerless against, and all she could do was trickle water past his chapped lips and try to cool him down.
She brings her face closer to his, a face that under any other circumstance, she would consider handsome. Even the war bruises couldn’t take away the bronze of his skin, the high brows and the arrogant bend of his nose. She remembers his eyes, tired and hurt before he collapsed that day in her arms and instantly feels guilty for being so inappropriate. Her cheeks reddening, she listens to his faint sounds of breathing.
His lungs were still functioning, but he refused to wake up despite her efforts to feed him or bathe him or change his clothes. It’s as if he’d said goodbye to the world and did not wish to glance upon it again.
Placing her head on his chest, she listened closely to his soft heartbeat.
“… You’re still alive,” she whispers, “… so don’t give up yet. You have,” -
Letting out a scream, she finds herself flipped on to her back and on the mattress, staring into reddened eyes made of pure amber.
“I’ll kill you,” he rasps, his hands closing around her throat, “… Everyone will know what a traitor you are,” -
“Please,” she chokes out, pleading to the possessed man on top of her. Lying on her bed, he had seemed, so broken, soft, gentle even. But now it seemed a gross misconception as he looked at her with the eyes of a madman who wasn’t seeing the person in front of him but someone else, filled with hatred towards a person that was not her. “… I am not a traitor! Please let me go!”
Sharp teeth clamp over his wrists causing him to hiss in pain. Kero tackles him to the floor, growling menacingly at his face and it takes him a moment to understand what is happening to him.
His eyes widen as he turns to look at the startled woman across from him. “… I,” he struggles, his throat dry, “… I didn’t mean…,” he whispers shakily.
The fear takes a heavy second to leave her. “It’s alright,” she breathes, body still heaving in response to the panic. “… Kero-chan,” she beckons, “… it’s okay, please get off of him."
"… Who are you?” he asks, even though it occurs to him that he should introduce himself first, common courteousness that could do nothing to save the awkwardness and horror of the situation that just transpired.
“Sakura,” she says meekly, hands rubbing against the grip marks he’d left on her throat, filling him with shame. “… What’s your name?”
Sakura, he thinks, knowing that in the language of Nihon, it meant cherry blossom, a flower that their people revered and celebrated. Slowly, he takes in the porcelain of her skin, the soft flush of her cheeks, and her willowy brown hair.
“… Syaoran,” he mumbles, taking a second to check his Nihongo, “… my name is Syaoran.”
