"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
08-24-2018, 07:21 PM (This post was last modified: 08-24-2018, 07:21 PM by Warrick.)
there was a heaven in youbut god there's a devil in me
Days faded in and out. Nights were long and terrible, filled with pain and blood and wheezing breaths. He had hidden away when the symptoms had first racked his lungs, bloody spittle spraying from his mouth and nostrils after a romp with Sibyl in Tephra’s sea. Deep underground he had tucked himself away in the warmth of the volcano’s grotto, where Tangerine first noticed signs of his weakening body; where her soft lips whispered breaths of hope and encouragement into the frailness of his throat, urging him to remember his strength and resilience, but all the words in the world could not stop the disease from spreading through his blood.
Each day becomes worse than the next, and quickly the Overseer forgets all of his title and politics. He can feel the very life from him draining ever so slowly, each breath accompanied by blood and harsh, crinkling sounds of raw lungs and throat. It is when a fever hits and his consciousness slowly begins to ebb, that the stoic gaze of Marble peering down at him becomes the last thing he sees before drifting into a sleep that holds him for days.
Marble had left the grotto (Tangerine refused) and during that time Warrick’s eyes never opened. His daughter would return a few days later, bringing strangers into the familiar hearth with her.
It is because of these strangers that Warrick’s tired eyelids finally peel open.
The pain is still there - rampant and burning in his chest and organs, the disease gripping him tight - but whatever they had done had given him consciousness. As he blinks back the bleariness and tiredness in his oceanic eyes, he is suddenly brilliantly aware of the terrified and glassy gazes of both his daughter and lover as they stare upon him. He does his best to hide the growing seed of uncertainty that sits unbridled in his chest and offers them a weak smile as he attempts to shift his weight onto his barrel instead of his side, legs tucked beneath him.
“Tang - ” he begins, but his voice is cut off and met with a terrible cough, where blood speckles the warm stone beneath his mouth. The fit subsides and he inhales deeply, a sickening wheeze accompanying the large intake of breath. He closes his eyes momentarily, as if to compose himself, before opening them once again. He smiles weakly, despite the maroon-color that paints the navy of his muzzle. “We have visitors,” he finally says, addressing the unfamiliar women before him.
In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep
Her dreams are vague in these days of little rest. Even when her body stills her mind continues to race, and the smallest murmmer from her mate is enough to bring her full attention to him. Tangerine remains below the earth, tending him, sending the children to gather fresh grasses for him to eat. But Warrick never eats much, and reminding him to drink from the grottos little pool is more important anyway.
Her days pass in a daze, never fully here nor there, but always beside him.
She had always been a traveler, flighty and rambling, but six children had grounded her and Warrick's affection had settled her. She wasn't the girl who wandered from one side of the continent to the other on a whim anymore, and that was fine by her. Tephra had everything she needed, and short journeys to the common lands were enough to give her a taste of freedom when she felt the restlessness coming on. But anytime she left it wasn't for long. For the call of her children and husband was stronger than that of someplace new, and the warmth they gave her was more valuable than her lonely independence.
But now she needs to calls upon that girl once again, to journey to the battleground and face her kings usurper, to lead her family from a place which was no longer theirs. If only, If only...
She rises to her feet as the stranger enters, hope kindling in her liquid-amber eyes. Tang steps forward to press a grateful kiss to her daughters brow. Her delicate little bird was growing up, and her mother's heart is burning with pride at the sight of her. But the brief interaction paces in a breath, and the full force of the seers attention turns to the newcomer.
It seems wrong that she can hear these sounds tumble from her father - the rattle and hiss of weary lungs, the wet way he coughs when he brings blood up to smear against his lips - and find them to be usual. This shouldn’t be normal for anyone, man or woman or child. Even the healer at her hip seems more than a little surprised by his condition. She had tried to do her best to explain how her father lay wasting away from a disease that just woudn’t relent, but an explanation is nothing like seeing it in person. Feeling each rasping breath tightening sympathetically in your own lungs.
They understand now, though.
She leads the women into the grotto, leaves them standing together so she can go accept this kiss from her mother, touch her own blue lips to the curve of a white cheek as pale as bone. It is so quick and so brief, like the flutter of moth wings against warm, worried skin. But it is so much from the girl who doesn’t touch, doesn’t hold, doesn’t know how to be just like everyone else.
Then she is walking to her father and her movements want to be stiff, her muscles locking up at the idea of moving closer to the cloud of death and copper blood that seems to hang over him. Every deep instinct wills her away from him - no, not away from him. Never him. They will her away from the death hovering over him like a second skin. But he is her father, he is hers, so pushes it forcefully back until she is at his side and the feather-touch of her navy nose is nuzzled against his skin.
She can see the color of the ground beneath his mouth, like a rainstorm of rubies fell and buried themselves here to grow into something more. Roses, poppies, something red. Always so red here now. For an instant she closes her eyes against it, doesn’t want to be reminded of this color she has grown to hate, of the way red reeks of copper and pain and desperation. Especially hers. “Hi, daddy.” She says, the words soft and whispered, to be caught only by those who know her well enough to be listening for them. “This is Exist and Leliana. They’re healers.” And then she’s easing back to give them room to work, leaving one last nuzzle beside his ear and slipping out past her mother with a gentle nudge and a whispered, “I’m going to go find Sibyl and Warden.”
There is a part of her that hates to leave. A part of her that needs to see what happens next, if the sisters laugh and turn away and tell them how silly they are to think that this dying king could be fixed. A part of her that needs to leave for the same reason. Mom and dad will understand.
while collecting the stars, I connected the dots. I don’t know who I am, but now I know who I’m not.
It is impossible to be prepared for the scene they walk in on. Exist isn’t like the golden pegasus girl, but even she finds herself wincing quietly at the copper tang that permeates the humid air of this earthy den. She hasn’t been exposed to sick quite like this yet, not the decay she can feel wrapping itself through his lungs and bones and sinew, all of it melting away to leave this wasted king behind. She is used to smaller things, cuts and scrapes and abrasions, broken bones and aching muscles.
But this is so much more.
She is glad to have her sister at her side, now.
The copper mare waits until Marble has greeted her parents and slipped out again. It is so easy to see in the tension stretched in lines across her delicate golden face that she does not want to be here, perhaps isn’t ready for any truths she and Leliana might discover. So she lets her go with a softness in her eyes, a slackness in her mouth that is not quite a smile, but something kind and gentle. This doesn’t feel like a place smiles belong anymore.
Her eyes find those of the gold and white woman - Tangerine, marble had called her, Tang, by her mate. “Hello, my name is Exist,” another not-quite smile, gentleness in those summer green eyes as her gaze shifts to the bay and navy man curled against the ground, “and this is my sister, Leliana. We’re certainly willing to try, I’ll stay as long as you need me too.” But her focus is already shifting elsewhere, the magic in her veins aching and reaching for the failing things in the body of the broken man. “Do you mind if I touch you, Warrick?” Her voice is so soft, those eyes round and green and concerned despite the way she tries to school her expression for them. “This gift is easiest in a tactile form.”
ooc) i’m hoping leliana is the more social-savvy sister :|
Leliana has faced sickness before. She has watched the decay as it wraps around her deft hands, watching the cancerous illness dig into a body and rot it from the inside out—but this, this is an alien thing in its power. Her face remains calm, but internally, she can feel her gut churning, fears beginning to rise in the back of her throat. She doesn’t want to show them the extent of her worry; she doesn’t want them to know the fear that they are too late, that they can make him comfortable and nothing more.
She doesn’t want them to know just how bad it is, although she suspects that the once-King already knows, and so she remains calm, her hazel eyes washing over the group, her breathing steady. She reaches over and buries her nose in the wild mane of her sister, taking comfort in the feel of her twin, in the scent that is as familiar as her own. If she was to confront this, she is glad to have Exist here with her.
Perhaps—perhaps it will be enough.
She smiles as Exist introduces them both, dipping her head when she is introduced, and taking a step forward. The healing in her breast begins to uncoil slightly, the golden light of it pooling as it rises from a never deep slumber. “It’s going to be okay,” she murmurs, loud enough that both the stallion and his family will hear it. Leaning down, she runs her velvet lips across his brow and down his sweat-slicked neck. “Just be still.” Her voice is calm, the sound of an ancient river running a path it has long ago memorized, and she begins to hum, the soft lyrical sound of it beginning to build in her throat.
Leliana closes her eyes, shoulder to Exist, and lets the healing loose, unwinding in her veins and reaching for him. She guides it slowly, in tandem with her sister’s magic, letting it root out the worst of the illness. It is long, exhausting work, and she feels her neck beginning to dampen with the effort. She has never had to battle a sickness like this, and she is surprised by the ferocity of it. She wonders if Exist feels the same strain, the way that it seems to rise up and challenge the healing, unwilling to bend to their magic.
She fights a groan that builds in her, exhaustion wearing her thin. Outwardly, the twins are still and quiet, but internally, Leliana wages war. It twists and battles and rails against her, but she presses onward. For each defense that it rises, her battles it down, the golden light pulsing as it races through his veins. She knits together that which has split apart. She staunches wounds where she can. She builds moats around the most vital of organs, reinforcing weakened walls. When she has done all she can, when there is little left for them to do—but so much left to fix, so much decaying even now—she pulls her healing back.
She trembles slightly from the effort and her neck is darkened with exertion, but she does her best to keep the fatigue from her eyes, despite the terror that slithers up the back of her throat. “That should feel better,” she murmurs, lifting her gaze to the two mares who worry over him but saying nothing more.
it started with a perfect kiss, then we could feel the poison set in
there was a heaven in youbut god, there’s a devil in me
He feels Tangerine leave his side and the moment her warmth is gone from him there is a shiver that uncontrollably rattles his spine, instinctively shifting his body weight to somehow sheild himself from the fever of the disease. Slow blinking eyes turn from the two strangers (alike in quiet solemnity, as well as the softness etched on their unfamiliar faces) and the glassiness of his gaze rests on the shadowed figures of his wife and daughter, the sight of their tender embrace allowing the gentlest of a smile to prick at the corners of his cobalt mouth. He remains on the warm, stony floor with the navy of his legs tucked carefully beneath him, lowering his chin to rest on the crook of his knee.
Weariness sets in again easily like an old friend. The pinprick of sleepiness and the welcoming embrace of a coma tempts him, darkening his eyesight with slick and oily promises of rest.
The world around him brightens though as the sound of his daughter’s voice calls to him. He’s roused once again, lifting his head from his knee to search for her nearing face. Her navy mouth finds the burning auburn of his flesh and there is a tremble of a fatigued sigh that shudders from his lips. Her voice is so soft, so quiet, but it is a sound he knew extremely well - like a drop of water in the midst of an ocean, her voice, but he would hear it always - even in the midst of turbulent seas and cyclones. Marble names his guests, and his brilliant cerulean eyes flicker towards the sisters. Healers. Warrick’s eyes click across Leliana and Exist curiously, a sparkle of hope igniting in his pupils.
Perhaps this is all he needs. Healing.
His daughter’s muzzle presses firmly into the part of his skin behind his ear, a reassuring touch that he knows would have been hard for her to withstand. He attempts to glance at her retreating form, wanting to say something but unable to find words. He then remembers that Marble would rather there be no words spoken at all as she leaves the warmth of their family’s grotto.
“Exist,” he manages to breathe with warmth on his face, finding comfort in the emerald green of her quiet eyes. “Leliana,” Warrick repeats, shifting his eyes to the other. He says nothing in response to Exist’s request, but instead gives her a solemn nod.
They both step forward - strangers, yet so willing as if Warrick was an old friend - and he finds his eyes fluttering closed. He remembers being healed once - by Amorette - and he wonders if it would feel the same, or if the disease inside him would fight back like a striking viper.
Immediately at their touch there is a warmth that spreads through him. It is a curious feeling to have magic flowing through blood and muscle, though not at all unfamiliar. After all, the sickness within him is bred by magic and magic alone. Warrick breathes heavily and for a moment he feels lighter (unburdened, unyoked). It is in this moment he feels a stirring of hope - perhaps not all is lost, perhaps light will defeat the darkness. It thrums wildly in his veins, their gift, and it breathes a new life into him that he had nearly forgotten he had.
When their touch fades away, however, so does the light. He had almost thought he would stand and fly into the night sky only moments ago, but as Exist and Leliana step away with darkened skin, he feels his strength drain. The disease curdles and festers, weakened but not at all destroyed, writhing madly within his lungs. Despite the blood that begins to trail through a single blue nostril, he looks at them almost wistfully. “It does, actually,” came his confession, and though it appeared as though the worst is yet to be over, he truly did feel better. Enough so that he positions his legs beneath his body and attempts to stand.
It is clumsy and silly looking - like a foal, nearly - but trembling legs finally straighten enough so that he could fully stand and even shake the numbness of lying down from his body. He can still feel the stain of blackness that riddles his insides, but it is cloaked with renewed strength that allows him to appear less sickly, less frail. His cobalt feathers shuffle idly at his sides, stiff with sweat and disuse. “Thank you,” he tells them both, his voice solid and the most that it’s sounded like himself in a long while. “I cannot bring into words to tell you both of my gratefulness. You have already sacrificed so much for a man you don’t even know.” He pauses, truly in admiration of such a thing.
“If you are sure that you wish to stay with Tangerine and I, we have made plans to travel to Hyaline. My daughters - the queens - will welcome you with open arms and will protect you as one of our own.”
WARRICK
All my Warrick posts are novels, sorry not sorry.
Wrapping up this thread (of course any are free to reply!) so that we can focus on getting everyone over to Hyaline! <3333
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