Notes: This is 2 months overdue and I have no excuse. Warning for description of injuries, but nothing too severe.
Pings: @jollyroger-fr, @fusefr, @dragonhomeclan, @kattafr, @hawlucha-fr, @mask-fr, @shadowdrac-rising, @hellkite-fr, @archaic-fr
The early morning is eerily still. Mist hangs in the air, stretching out and obscuring the already muddied horizon. Eden takes a moment to stand alone, his hands against the frosted glass that surrounds the top dome, the pinnacle of his home. If he strains, he can hear the building creaking around him. Wooden supports spun with rot and yet the tiles stay utterly impeccable; itâs unfinished and from here, you can tell. It moans like a pained creature, the noise clear without the drone of rabble overlapping it. Itâs morning, and the Halls are quiet.
He stares out as minutes tick by; until the sun rises and temporarily blinds him. He rubs his eyes with a frown, turning on heel with the soft chime of bells to make his way back down the stairs.
Another day without word.
He sent a scouting party himself, led by Dawn and Dusk, to make their way west. Just search for something, he whispered, anything at all. And they had nodded, a solemn vow alongside the fists pressed to their hearts- a salute, he supposes with a flicker of pain in his gut, itâs a salute- and made their way into the withering plague heartlands.
The absence of voices is akin to a physical ache- he shadows no one, and no one shadows him. There is no sound of steel boots following him, and no quiet reassurance within his mind. No arm around his shoulder, no subtle curve of a smile. He feels adrift, as if lost in a dream. No, his dreams have always felt more real than reality anyway. This is far too soft at the edges, his pain just a dull ache that has slowly become background noise to reality.
And the reality is this. He is alone.
The spiral staircase whines low under his feet as he makes his way down the steps with light footed haste. With the worst of the infected now treated, the real problems have fallen to his feet. The clanâs structure has been shattered, their safety compromised, and their trust all but ruined.
But they do trust him, because he is one of them. He is a commoner, now handed the crown.
And so easily routine comes back. The able bodied tend to the sick, they mend and build the hall around them, they go and hunt and patrol the currently unmarked borders; they write letters, they drink and pat each other on the back-
Eden does what he can; which is to say, all of those and more.
Being handed the responsibilities of the crown prince- temporarily, he insists to himself as he turns a corner, temporarily- is quite a burden. Thanks to the Bloodbornâs help they are now stable, stable enough to seem less like the ruined wreck of a fire and more akin to the survivors of a disaster- which they are.
Eden tends to those still injured- Okaazâs host of broken ribs, Aciesâ broken arm, the abating sickness Malice valiantly fends off- and all the while Negaprion sits next to him and talks him through every step, harsh, unforgiving even, but endlessly diligent. He wants to learn, and Negaprion will abide that. Even if it is difficult- he canât stand to be still. He needs to help everyone he can.
He still swims in nausea around the sight of blood; he just ignores the feeling.
âYou sure about this?â Woe asks as Eden carefully places replaces the splint on Aciesâ arm.
Acies doesnât shift a muscle, shutting all four of his eyes to breath in slowly. In, out. Heâs so tranquil that Eden almost wants to snap a finger in front of him, to see if heâs even awake.
He might not be.
âYup,â Eden replies without looking away from his work.
Woe shifts, tucking his legs beneath himself, and nods.
âAlright,â Woe says tentatively. âHave you seen Gloom?â
Eden stands and dusts himself off, bouncing on his heels. He has an ache that hasnât shifted in days.
Itâs probably not physical.
âNope,â he says, frowning as the words come out. âWhy?â
âSheâs⊠been off lately,â Woe replies, stroking his chin. âI canât blame her, but you know what itâs like.â
Eden pats him on the shoulder, looking off into the quiet chatter around them. There arenât as many inhabitants as there once was. It feels strange. He feels like a ghost.
âYou worry,â he muses.
Woe just nods, and thatâs that.
Thereâs a call- a sharp whistle that cut through the lingering, slow air and forces Eden to turn, bolting down the halls steps and onto the dusty ground without a second thought. A forward scout waves at him in the distance, beckoning him over.
He wastes no time, instead running straight for them, his heart in his mouth- and all the while, something whispers to him, infernal in his mind.
What if itâs bad news?
What if they-
What if theyâre d-
âReport!â he barks, skidding to a halt. Red dust kicks up in a cloud, partly blown back until it coats his calves.
âNothing conclusive, sir,â the scout says, with only a slight waver in her voice.
What he feels first is relief- second only to being awash with guilt for the relief.
âAnd?â
The scout wavers, but Dawn and Dusk quickly join her side with what Eden can only describe as barely concealed weariness.
âIâm sorry Eden. There was-â
âSome blood. I think-â
âIt was probably Bastionâs.â
He bites his tongue hard enough that he can taste iron, forcing his shaking hands into tightly curled fists, shifting from foot to foot.
âWhat else?â he asks, voice tight and sharp.
Dusk shakes his head. âIâm sorry. I tested it and it was infected- he was never freed from the Shade, so likely it was his. Itâs not enough to constitute as any more injuries, just from exhaustion-â
âSo he was running?â Eden asks, interrupts, fighting the urge to be sick.
Focus. Calm down. Youâre supposed to be their rock.
Dawn nods, her eyes downcast. Unable to meet his. Dusk fidgets with his tome, equally downcast.
âFuck,â Eden murmurs. Dawn reaches out to stabilise him, her brow furrowed with concern as she does meet his eyes.
âDonât worry, weâll find them. Theyâre both ridiculously tough, dad thinks they just needed time-â
âEden.â
His head snaps up when his name is called, back into the looming brambles of rot and roots, churning from the earth. Several metres away, half shadowed by a pulsating pile of branches that some may call a tree, stands Spite. She looks off into the distance, where the thickets grow, with a faraway look in her red eyes. Eden jogs over to her, swallowing hard.
âDo you see something?â he asks, as she drops to her knees and her fingers trace lines in the earth, patterns he doesnât understand. She drops bones as she etches symbol after symbol, one over the top of the next. Her fingernails scratch into the earth until liquid wells up. Eden knows better than to say the ground beneath them is bleeding- but it sure looks like it, the smell of iron cloying in his lungs within seconds.
âNot them,â she murmurs, breathy, âSomeone else.â
Her long, spindle index finger raises towards the north. Eden steps forward, leaning, peering into the shadows when he sees a flash of crimson- crimson and black, black melting into crimson eyes, he sees a figure in the trees and a sharp cackle bursts through the air.
He hears Spite call his name but heâs already gone, sprinting away and after the figure in the trees. The thorns catch on his skin as he runs, immediately his whole body is alight with the ache of it, but he doesnât stop, weaving around the growing forest and never taking his eyes from the shadow who laughs at him as she runs away, just a bit ahead but when he tries to reach out and grab her, demand something, his hand meets thin air.
He runs and runs until the cackling grows to but a whisper, an echo on the breeze, and he finally careens to a stop, tripping on an uprooted branch that makes his knees hit the earth with a bone-shaking thud.
The breath fully knocked out of him, he rolls onto his back. He gasps and wheezes for it, his soft hands making indents in soggy earth. Minutes tick by before he realises the sound of someone gasping for air isnât just him. There is a quiet hiss in the air, a wet noise, and he hears a whimper.
He rolls back up, looking around for the source- and there, caught under a root, is a tiny hatchling.
âHey little guy,â he coos breathlessly, scooting closer to the tiny form. He canât see much whilst it stays hidden beneath the mesh of thick roots; what he can see is the bump on the forehead, the beginning of a horn, and a tiny sparkling gem he knows is a pearl. It must be a few weeks old at most.
There isnât time to think about it- he grabs the brambles and shoves them aside, pulling the hatchling free as carefully as he can, but it is only then that he realises the extent of the damage. With the hatchling cradled in his arms, he realises that itâs neck-
It's neck is broken, and slit, a mess of pulp more than anything else and he feels bile rise in his throat with mounting panic; he kneels once again and forces his hands to stop shaking.
âItâs alright,â he murmurs, though the hatchling is quiet now, still nearly. He bites back a hysterical noise, a shriek for help, and grits his teeth.
His magic is feeble at best; he has only ever used it to keep the ache from his muscles when performing, to keep himself cool, and soothe headaches when hungover. It is not the kind of magic that can tie broken vertebrae together, but heâll be damned if he doesnât try.
The magic is cool against his hands, cool against the blood that now pools in his palms and spills over onto his legs. He keeps his hands still, completely still as he tries to mend tissue.
It is an achingly slow process. Sweat beads over his forehead, slipping down his neck and back.
Minutes tick by.
The air is heavy with moisture here, and it makes everything feel so slow. He can see the muscles mend, sinew by sinew.
One. Two. Three. Four.
He's nearly sick but then the hatchling peeps, a broken noise that makes him sob aloud.
âHey! Oh, hey little guy. I promise youâre not going to die, okay? Not today. No, Iâve got you,â he murmurs, mumbles almost to himself in a steady stream, crouched over until his own neck feels as if itâs on fire.
The noise is what rouses him from his concentration, the feeble heartbeat beneath his hand flickering like an unsteady light.
Spite emerges without noise, but Dawn and Dusk crash through the forest with panic when they finally reach him.
âOh thank the Eleven,â Dusk pants. Dawn stops him before he steps forward to haul Eden up; Spite instead going around him.
âEden,â he says gently. âWe need to go.â
Eden bites his lip. His vision swims, but he doesnât move. A fractured bone slots back together.
âI canât get up yet,â he grits out. âThis one needs help.â
Dawn and Dusk crane their necks to see the runt held in Edenâs hands. They trade glances with one another, seeing only the reddened form and splattered blood.
âWe donât have the resources and itâs not going to survive. It will be a mercy-â
Eden looks up, and if Spite didnât know better, she would call the expression on his face a snarl.
It thrums through his gut like a foreign thing, low and dangerous. He bares his teeth, canines sharp and white against the muted forest embracing them all.
âNo one else dies,â he snarls.
The hatchling whines, the noise nearly drowned out by the ambient noise around them.
Spite looks at him with pity- at the both of them.
Dawn shifts from foot to foot before she speaks, her tail dragging against the ground.
âLet me go get the healers,â she says. âIt wonât take long if I sprint.â
Eden nods, looking back at the hatchling, nothing but resolute as he continues to work his thread-bare magic.
Dawn backs away several paces, shifts, and takes off in a burst of speed- the sound of foliage thrown aside by the speed of her acceleration echoing through the forest.
There is silence, save for Edenâs laboured breath.
Dawn was right- she returns quickly with Negaprion who carries enough medical equipment that they can keep the hatchling truly still, with its neck bound.
Eden refuses to let go. His arms and hands are practically locked anyway, so he keeps the hatchling cradled to him, glancing down every few seconds as they make the trek back home. Itâs eyes open, and they are red- but cloudy, like obscured pools.
He doesnât speak to anyone else, simply repeating reassurances to the bundle in his arms, all the way home, as his feet meet cold stone and he moves on auto-pilot, back through the halls until Negaprion stops him, and leads him to their half-built medical ward.
Nasolamia touches his shoulder gently and her magic is like a beacon, bright and clean as it surges through the small hatchlingâs body. Eden squints against the light. When it is done, the open wound is fixed, leaving a thick pink line that spans the whole width of its neck.
Next, they insert a feeding tube and silently set up a blood transfusion; Mahir and Huit play rock paper scissors to see whose blood will be used. Having lost, Mahir chats to Nasolamia, but Eden canât quite hear it.
His hands have been pried away, and he washes them until the water runs pink, then clear. He stares at the open tap, clears his throat, and turns it off.
He still canât bring himself to leave. He has paperwork to do, so much, so many letters to write and things to decide, to sort out-
It's all like a dream.
He slumps into a chair and waits.
The sun ghosts along the horizon.
Mahir places a glass of water in his hands with a concerned, gruff noise.
âWeâve done what we can, but heâs a frail little thing,â Nasolamia murmurs, rousing Eden from his stupor. He stands on shaky legs, planting himself next to the cot. Itâs more of a basket- they donât really have beds yet. With the blood and grime now washed away, he can see rippled skin- cracked and cry. He nods at her words, turning to rummage through a set of drawers. He knows that in here somewhere-
He pulls out a scroll and opens it over the hatchling, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
âThis should help,â he says. The scroll glows, the patterns dance in the air and then etch onto the hatchlingâs skin. Like blooming flowers, the sickly green is replaced with oranges and reds not unlike the setting sun.
Nasolamia smiles gently. âLovely,â she murmurs, removing some of the tubes.
If anything, he looks even more fragile with them gone.
âIâll stay here tonight,â Eden says. âHe can stay with me.â
Nasolamia opens her mouth as if to ask âare you sure?â but she shuts it with a good-natured shake of her head; she squeezes him with a one-armed hug before leaving, shutting the door behind her.
There is a lone window that looks out into the settling night. Eden takes a seat at the bottom of the cot so he can look out of it; he stares into the misty night, and wills himself to stay awake. This time, his willpower isnât enough.
He drifts in and out, each time shaking himself awake, splashing freezing water on his face, but it doesnât last for long.
He dreams of the cold, he dreams of snowstorms, and of-
Twilight greets him when he wakes with a start. His eyes slowly adjust to the shapes, and he lets out a shaky sigh. His back hurts from falling asleep in a cold metal chair, but as he blinks rapidly, he sees movement in the cot. He stands and nearly drops like a stone, having to brace himself against the cot until it bends a little from the pressure- and then the hatchling stirs again, rolling from its side to stand on plump legs. It looks around and then at Eden with large, cloudy eyes, and opens its mouth to squeak proudly at him.
He bursts into tears, immediately dropping to his knees with a resounding thud.
The hatchling climbs to the edge of the cot on wary legs, one outstretched forepaw patting the edges of his hair as he sobs; he reaches up to let the hatchling happily crawl back into his arms with a high-pitched chirp. He canât speak past the lump in his throat that has his chest in a vice grip- his sobs echo in the lonely room as the hatchling climbs up and nestles against his shoulder- all he can do is cry, with shuddering violent breathes, half formed apologies and gratitude dying on his lips with every intake.
It is all he can do to hold the hatchling close, and feel the heartbeat against his own like the quick-pace march of a drum.
He is so, immensely glad-
And utterly, utterly ruined.
