In the blackest depths, a light:
"Doc, i-if I can’t figure this out..."
"Then that will be that, Daniel, and I will die."
The cold finality in the doctor's tone had Daniel trembling openly, his heart leaping terrified up into his throat. Anders Davinov had always had a way of stating the obvious that made it sound like an ironclad decree -- the smash of a gavel, and any doubts beneath it crushed to scattered pieces. On the bed, the elderly Mordesh stared with an otherwise impassive rigidity at his tiny red-haired charge; the blotchy purple of his skin seemed to shift and darken and lighten again, the lamplight thrown haphazard over gaunt contours as he spoke. Daniel had to swallow the fear down hard before attempting to speak again.
"I understand that, Doc," acknowledged the boy, his voice a soft quiver. Hands raked backward through his curls, standing them up on end. "But... but what should I do? We could-- I-I'm sure we have somethin' on hand, somethin' I could... I could...?"
The words trailed off until Daniel was little but a trembling orange wisp, standing vigil at Davinov's bedside with his hands sliding down his face. Pale and small in the low yellow light of the table-lamp, he clasped those hands together and squeezed his eyes shut tight -- his lips parted, tugging uselessly at air; the words caught in his throat and silenced him. Where were the answers that he wanted? What were the solutions that he'd learned? His own incompetence beat mercilessly from within his skull; he knew this, damn him straight to hell.
A raspy, mechanical wheeze answered the boy, inhaled laboriously through a withered windpipe and into blackened, shriveled lungs.
"We have what, Daniel. Think."
"I can't--"
"--You can." Davinov's tinny undertones rumbled out from the ruin of his chest. He hissed the words upward, pressing them out with the slow groan of a dying steam engine: "Your patient will soon perish. What do you have on hand to help him, boy?"
"Doc, please don't do this," Daniel broke down, tears rolling down his freckled cheeks. Shoulders sagged, his hands dropped to his sides, helpless and defeated: "What do I need t'do? Tell me, please, I don't-- I can't--!"
That bone-thin, talon-like grip was wrenching Daniel downward by his sleeve in an instant. The young boy staggered forward, palms planting onto the bed astride bony shoulders -- suddenly face to face with the small, shallow, rapid breaths creaking mechanically out from the valves and tubing of Dr. Davinov's throat. The Mordesh's grip was clammy and cold; his white eyes seethed with calculated calm.
"You will not have time to tremble in triage, boy. Listen now. You will be the savior, the light for the lost, and you must not be seen to snivel. They will look to you and you must flourish where they falter. Do you understand?"
"Doc, I just--"
"Do you understand?"
A deathly silence fell between the two. The doctor’s grip weakened and his hand fell limply back to the mattress, but Daniel scarcely moved an inch -- swallowing hard again, meeting Davinov’s gaze with his own. No sound but the mechanized hiss of air between them, no words but the little nod that Daniel gave in teary-eyed reply. “A-alright,” he eventually breathed, straightening up a second time. Flourish. Don’t falter. The redhead’s breath steadied itself in measures -- his mind clearing, heartbeats slowing -- back held straight, and shoulders square. You will be the savior. They will look to you. Daniel’s brow crinkled minutely, eyes distant. “...Let’s push vasopressors. I’ll start a central line,” decided the boy in a whisper, pivoting from the bedside. And as he strode away toward the dresser drawer to sift through their stash of IV bags, Davinov’s gaze followed him unfailing -- head falling back down onto the pillow, a raspy breath hissed out in mixed pride and dignified relief. “Well done,” he groaned out, quietly.