The aether remembers what drowning had once felt like, through the eyes and the lungs of the Erasmus-That-Was. It was a striking sensation, as though all sensations were the entirety of his pulse – thundering, fleeting, pounding, all in his head, his veins, his eyes, his lungs – and the sea threatened to merge salt and air and the waves crashed overhead in no more sounds than of muffled denial. The surging of oceanic currents, the distant rumble of thunder, the cascade of rain over the shifting sheets of water. Death is an inglorious thing, which is most ironic for the glory that so many have tried to paint it in – no matter in what way you eventually go, there is no valor to be found in it, no beauty left for the moment you feel that everything must cease. There is only desperation and fear, and sometimes anger, and maybe, just maybe at the end of that, peace. But he does not remember peace.
He remembers what resurrection felt like. It felt like seawater being jetted from his lungs, his legs too weak to recall their purpose, his eyelids too heavy to permit anything more than brief glimpses of sand and sky and rocks. Drowning in the Terminus Sea could not have felt like being sliced and diced by some monster in the mountains and left for dead, but the sensation of near-death and recovery he could share a kinship for. Luck never crossed his mind as a factor.
So it is patiently that he waits for his companion to rise and gather his bearings, heavy-lidded and sore, perhaps still numb from the belladonna thrumming through him still, knowing the desperation that wars with fatigue. He does not warn August to lay still like a crooning mother, not bid him to stay silent, to gather his energy. He has seen enough fighters recover from debilitating wounds as similarly, and learned not to doubt the strength of perseverance in times of crisis. They had all come to in the same fashion: sometimes coughing, sometimes groaning, sometimes crying, but all exasperated and confused, feverish and at times even violent. Erasmus was thankful that August did not rise swinging.
In fact, after a moment of delirium he seemed to come to terms with his captivity, resting again on the creaking cot as his eyes struggled to focus on the faint outline cast on Erasmus in the dark.
Erasmus nodded solemnly to August's first question, candlelight pulling restlessly across his sharp features, the angular lines of his grave face. Where am I? Came the second, a well anticipated question that returned the grin to his features. Despite having provided the Scarab at times with some stronger, questionably legal wines, he had always requested anonymity in the business as a source and was pleased by the confirmation. “Safe.” He answered pleasantly, casually, as if they were in the cozy bedroom suite at a high-end Inn.
A look around the graven state of the room however, told something otherwise of homely comforts. The large blood stain at the foot of an operating slab was not the friendliest of decorations.
With a sardonic grin and a small chuckle, Erasmus readjusted himself on the cot, stretching his neck. His mane fell in waves across his shoulders, gold tendrils catching the light of the candle as they fell. Another echo of brief bickering carried down the hall from the poker players, followed by a hushing sound. “I've seen you before, in the Scarab... I found you washed up in Vitreus Lake, fish nibbling on your heels. It looks as though someone attempted to patch you up, then left you in the cold. Perhaps they were optimistic.” In thinking about it, it was not much unlike the cloaked woman who pulled Erasmus from the icy depths of the Terminus to let him dry out on the shore. Perhaps sometimes it was best left for chance and survivability, letting nature work its own ways. Then again, August could have been fish food.
@August
