“i’m not going to leave you behind. if need be, i’ll carry you.”
Blood and Bruises || Accepting
It would have been so much easier to simply leave him there, and see the objective assigned to them through to the end with no further complications. By all means, it is the smarter, more tactically sound move. Yet here they are, the archbishop doubled-over, a hand pressed firmly against an open gash on his stomach, and Sigurd insisting that he should not be left behind, despite his urging. The wound itself could be fixed, provided they made it back in time-- that much Saias knows, and is the very reason he began telling the other to go on; that he would find his own way to the healers stationed nearby. Perhaps the way his free hand could barely keep him from collapsing on the ground had been enough to garner sympathy, or the sight of a renowned tactician-- a descendant of the Crusader Fjalar-- almost being felled by a wing of an axe was too pitiful to ignore.
“V...Very well,”
His words, while filled with more air than sound, are reluctant to leave the archbishop’s lips. He is not used to this. Even among the liberation army led by Leif, he had not experienced a wound so severe, and while their comradeship had come in abundance, such a thing still feels so foreign to Saias. Though unable to focus enough to properly discern the look on Sigurd’s features, somehow he knows that it is not one of disappointment, nor tainted with some degree of coldness. No-- it is not like the looks he had imagined his own father would have shot his way upon hearing of any sort of failure at his hands, even if the rational side of him knew that would never transpire. He takes a moment, attempting to steady his breathing, and tries once more to stand. His form quivers. A sharp inhale. A grunt of pain, and Saias is unable to do more than straighten his posture. He was not made for the frontlines of war-- or not when weapons other than magic were involved.
“If you could help me stand... that would be enough.”
