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“Garruk–”
His voice sounds small by comparison, even as he rising to his feet. Fingers draw back his hood and he meets that haunted gaze. What has she done to you, he thinks once more as he takes in the sight of the once proud warrior. Fingers reach in the space between them, itching to touch. Jace is certain that one wrong move will see this ends poorly.
A careful step forward is taken.
“I’m not leaving without you,” he says softly, pleading. His mind reaches out, feeling for the ragged edges of Wildspeaker’s mind. There is still light in him, still good, he knows it. “The veil’s power wanes in Liliana’s passing. If you give it time, the curse will pass I know it will, it must.” Jace remembers the words of warning spoken to him by Elspeth, by the great lion Ajani. They spoke of Garruk with caution and told him to strike first.
Jace stands before him, fingers featherlight upon an arm, and hopes.
This is not his realm, no, and Garruk rarely dares to tread the plane of Ravnica. But some part of him believes this is worth it, that the man before him is worth any amount of struggle. “You can still do a great deal of good,” he says, pulse rabbit fast and painful against the ache in his bones.
“I believe you can be saved.”
No longer do the beasts frighten him as his hand settles fully upon sickly looking flesh. Jace looks up at him, the monster apparent, and can’t help the aching burning anew in his veins.
“Let me do this for you. Let me help you.”
He’s coming closer. The rabbit approaches the wolf and tries to reason with it, even as the wolf bares its teeth. Garruk turns his axe in his hand. His grip tightens, and the leather of the grip creaks under the pressure. He may be poisoned, may be wretched and defiled, but he is still strong. Strong enough to snap this foolish little hare in two.
He wants to kill him.
He doesn’t want to kill him.
He wants to be saved.
He doesn’t think he can.
A touch, and he growls, a low and gutteral sound. His muscles twitch and flex under the touch, and his sickly black veins seem to writhe beneath Jace’s slender fingers. He wants to lean into the touch, into the hope, and he wants to draw away. He is desperate and resigned. He is vicious and remorseful.
“I’ve been helped.”
The words are gruff, clumsy. Strained.
“It came back.”
He still remembers the grief that clawed through his belly when the veins reappeared, spreading like thick tar under his skin. It aches. Even now, it aches.
“Leave.”
