Light surges throughout his system rapidly as the clay beads shatter and crumble beneath his touch, and he knows that he has to hurry because she is drowning on dry land and he has to get this arrow out--
Without hesitation, he swiftly pulls the arrow free from her body, the bloody shaft clattering to the tabletop as he drops it, frothy blood welling quickly to the surface of her wound, spreading from both sides of her body front and back. He reaches over his shoulder, grasping at what appears to be thin air - searing a ward? Signaling? No - a fistful of feathers yanked quickly into his grasp, which he plasters over the wound on the frontside of her. Another fistful gets placed behind her as he lifts her slightly into his grasp off the table.
(His feet are only just barely touching the ground, but there is likely no one in the room that will notice.)
Visions and echoes are ricocheting throughout his focus as he reaches, eyes closed tight, seeking to repair the damage within her body. With the extra Karma, he is able to knit faster (it still isn't fast enough, she's slipping further from him) and repair internal wounds with greater efficiency (not fast enough, you are losing her she is going to drown) and then something sparks in his brain.
"Give."
It is a command (one he did not know he could give, one he will likely never be able to give again) which shall not be disobeyed. His own lungs quickly grow heavy, filling with blood (her blood) as the tears in her body mend and seal beneath his reach, his touch.
He doesn't let go of her as he turns and coughs, choking, before he spits and retches blood (so much blood, more than should be possible) into a bucket on the floor beside the table. His vision is blurred, and he's still coughing, his own lungs gasping for oxygen, but he needs to feel her breathe beneath his hands, his mind willing her chest to expand and rise with every ounce of Light he can possibly spare pouring into her soul.
Another fistful of feathers is torn free from his wing and he threads them quickly into her hair, eyes glancing desperately at her face. Her throat, her chest, her heartbeat (he can still hear her heartbeat, it is fainter than it has ever been but it is still here) pulsing through the vein in her neck. He reaches further--
breathe, my dragon, my mate. breathe, kreyu. i will not let you drown here on this day. this is not the way this ends for you. breathe, please. breathe!
Skellig has walked with Death many times. But Kreyu will not join Them. Not today. Not so long as he has breath in his lungs.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-04-04 11:07 pm (UTC)Without hesitation, he swiftly pulls the arrow free from her body, the bloody shaft clattering to the tabletop as he drops it, frothy blood welling quickly to the surface of her wound, spreading from both sides of her body front and back. He reaches over his shoulder, grasping at what appears to be thin air - searing a ward? Signaling? No - a fistful of feathers yanked quickly into his grasp, which he plasters over the wound on the frontside of her. Another fistful gets placed behind her as he lifts her slightly into his grasp off the table.
(His feet are only just barely touching the ground, but there is likely no one in the room that will notice.)
Visions and echoes are ricocheting throughout his focus as he reaches, eyes closed tight, seeking to repair the damage within her body. With the extra Karma, he is able to knit faster (it still isn't fast enough, she's slipping further from him) and repair internal wounds with greater efficiency (not fast enough, you are losing her she is going to drown) and then something sparks in his brain.
"Give."
It is a command (one he did not know he could give, one he will likely never be able to give again) which shall not be disobeyed. His own lungs quickly grow heavy, filling with blood (her blood) as the tears in her body mend and seal beneath his reach, his touch.
He doesn't let go of her as he turns and coughs, choking, before he spits and retches blood (so much blood, more than should be possible) into a bucket on the floor beside the table. His vision is blurred, and he's still coughing, his own lungs gasping for oxygen, but he needs to feel her breathe beneath his hands, his mind willing her chest to expand and rise with every ounce of Light he can possibly spare pouring into her soul.
Another fistful of feathers is torn free from his wing and he threads them quickly into her hair, eyes glancing desperately at her face. Her throat, her chest, her heartbeat (he can still hear her heartbeat, it is fainter than it has ever been but it is still here) pulsing through the vein in her neck. He reaches further--
breathe, my dragon, my mate. breathe, kreyu.
i will not let you drown here on this day.
this is not the way this ends for you. breathe, please. breathe!
Skellig has walked with Death many times.
But Kreyu will not join Them. Not today.
Not so long as he has breath in his lungs.
(Bloodied as they are.)