or 24 for radanir perhaps :D
24. Showing up injured at their friend/mentor’s house >:3c
Rain on the grass and dark and dark- The sky grey against charcoal trees and dark-
Mud on his hands- only one glove?- by the well-worn path. He had to do something here. A whistle! Was it... was it high-low-high? Was it... did it mimic a bird call?
More of his senses cleared. On his knees, panicking, glancing wildly about the trees looking for some landmark he'd recognize. It had only been a few years! He knew that fallen tree. It was a little more worn and drooping than before but... He dragged himself to it in a frenzy. Two ascending notes? Three?
Radanir clung to the log. His heart hammered high in his throat and he whistled. And again. He was freezing. Panic bent him double and he held onto that fallen tree for dear life. He whistled again. It was dark.
Winter came in the middle of that rainstorm. He couldn't hold his eyes open anymore. It had been a day and a half of legs too valuable to be sore. Hollow stomach and empty caves and ears pricked for the faintest sounds of pursuit. A day and a half so close to his kinsmen, but quite too far. A day and a half of whittling five dangerous men to one, and then being so certain this last would do him in.
He wasn't far enough gone to have lost his knife, but it was close in coming. Rain pattered on and he tried to dig the blade into the dead wood for extra purchase. It kept slipping. He clutched the nub of a broken limb with his other hand and tried to whistle again. His mouth was too dry. It was too cold.
"Help..." he whispered into the rain, "...please, help."
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Dry. Hot- warm. He was warm. One of his arms was wedged close to his side, the other half-out of whatever encased him into the slightly cooler air. There was a pressure of some kind on his middle, a little itchy. It was warm down to his legs too, though he didn't have boots anymore. Tunic? his wavering thoughts asked, trousers? Socks?
He turned his head and met fabric. Before he could get too far into examining that, there was a scrape of wood on wood. Clattering. Footsteps too, headed his way. Someone took his hand up from where it had escaped cover. Another hand went to his forehead, brushing hair aside to check for fever.
For a moment he was sure he was back home, back when. But, he didn't sleep on a hard, wooden bed at home. In fact, most nights he slept in a bedroll or hammock.
"Radanir?" A voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you back with us?"
"Hmm?" Short, simple, not at all what he meant to say. "Where... where's here?"
A short laugh. No, sad. It sounded sad. "You're in my cabin. You almost... that is, you almost made it here yourself. Erebrandir heard you just beyond the treeline."
His forehead scrunched in concentration. "That close...?" He hadn't remembered seeing a light. Maybe Saeradan hadn't been home. Maybe he'd... maybe he just hadn't been able to realize...
"Got 'em all." He said after a moment. "Didn't... no one's following me here." He tried to open one of his eyes as he said it, but he didn't quite make it. Saeradan was still there, busily adjusting some thing or the other. Never letting go of his hand.
"Oh, don't worry about that." Soothing. Safe. "You just rest. You... you worried me."
Saeradan started pulling away, so Radanir tried to roll after him. It was a mistake, as he nearly pitched himself off whatever it was he was lying on- presumably Saeradan's table.
"Careful! Don't tear your stitches."
"...How many?" Radanir asked, more curious than anything else.
"Twenty. And you're lucky it wasn't more. Come now, we can't have you falling. Here, lean into me--" Saeradan took him under the shoulders and legs and lifted him off the table. Radanir was too dizzy to know if he'd been dropped or rolled down a hill, and then he was in a softer bed than the table. Maybe the couch Saeradan kept by the hearth. That was nice and soft.
"Better." He said, a little grin on his face. "Stay a minute?"
Saeradan sighed, and then his weight sank into the cushion in front of Radanir. Still holding his hand.
"New Rangers... You're going to be the death of me."
"Never." Radanir proclaimed, slipping off to sleep. "You'll outlive us all."
"I should hope not." Saeradan said. Squeezed his hand. Radanir slept.
