It was funny really, how quickly things could change in an instant.
This morning he had awoken peacefully in western Novus, surrounded by lilacs and baby’s breath, the sun warm and gentle. Hours later he had fought a smiling she-wolf by the name of Liesel in the Bellum Steppe, tending to both she and himself after.
Now he was surrounded by the carnage of a Solterran raid, walking past the bodies stacked unceremoniously by the city walls.
Aion was no stranger to the darker side of life, to betrayal and drugs and fighting. His best friends had been of that scene once upon a time. But this—nothing came close to this. He had never experienced war firsthand—hoof?—before, and it shocked him to his core.
Not that he would show it. His blue eyes were as guarded as always, almost appearing bored—his blackened lips turned downwards in an ever-present scowl. To anyone who didn’t know him—and that number was many—it might look as if he resented the Davke simply because it gave him more patients to attend to: ’How dare they make more work for me…’
But in actuality, this was far from the truth.
He didn’t care whether he treated Davke or Solterran. A patient was a patient was a patient, and in his eyes they were all equally wretched and worth saving. He was, after all, the worst of them: and still he had been saved, given a new name and a new purpose, strengthened by new life. He would be repaying this debt forever.
’Starting with this poor soul.’
A spear rose out of the side of a horse sprawled upon the ground. They were covered in sand, the dust clinging to their sweat-soaked body, fresh blood running in streams away from the wound, carving tracks through the sand. Aion crept closer, dropping to his knees beside them. Pain-filled eyes rolled back to look at him, breath coming in gasps and gurgles.
“You’re lucky,” Aion began, surveying the damage. Of course, he doubted this fellow agreed with him. “The spear missed your heart. Otherwise you would be dead already.” He grasped the shaft carefully with his telekinesis—not to pull, but to stabilize.
“Of course, this is still going to hurt.” At least no one could fault him for being honest.
@Cyrene in case you want to pop her in! But open to anyone to jump in ;u;
”are you still talking?”
there's too much smoke to see it,
there's too much broke to feel this
A smile as faint as the crescent moon above descended like a ragged hawk over Cyrene’s hollow, starlit eyes. She had gone without sleep, without rest, for so long it was hard to tell when night had begun and dusk had slipped off its throne of lavender stars.
She felt nothing. Fatigue did not nip at the nymph’s heels like anxious dogs, pain did not throb in her chest like drums. Sorrow did not burn across her eyes like fire, and hunger did not steal her strength like a thief.
It was almost terrifying, how quickly the girl had stifled her emotions like a tightened noose, until one wondered if she was not merely a shadow, if that, of her previous self. It had happened only once before, this transformation. And that had been a long time ago.
Yet now, in such carnage, she did not have the luxury to feel.
“Don't move, soldier. That blade is a mere hair from your lung — one lunge, and there will be nothing I can do to keep you from spilling your blood across the sands. It is a painful way to die,” she breathed coolly, amber eyes stripped of their warmth, of their mirth, as she stared evenly into the bloodshot eyes of the Davke girl.
“I would rather… die, than be healed… by the likes of you,” she spat, raising her head to snap at Cyrene’s open wings. With a swift flick, crimson feathers folded themselves neatly along her bloodstained, sweat soaked sides. She grimaced as the girl cried out with the pain of her movement, blood dripping in a thin stream from her parched, curled lips. "Are you alright?"
Narrowing her eyes, Cyrene ignored the stream of curses flowing from the Davke’s lips like poison as she inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply. It would require utmost precision to remove the sword cleanly. And even then, she would have only seconds to apply the potion and bandages before the soldier would bleed out in her arms.
But a chance at life was better, so much better, than a grisly death.
“I am not one of them. A Solterran, I mean,” she spoke, her voice soft despite the barbs the flame-haired girl was shooting at her between every blink of those blazing emerald eyes. With a tilt of her curls, a silver vial drifted out from the worn leather satchel strapped across her shoulders. The flap was barely in place, attached by a few measly threads. I’ll have to get a new one soon, she sighed, as she set the vial carefully down in the sands.
The Davke girl’s eyes narrowed. “Then why are you here?” she hissed, though her tone was no longer dripping with malice. Merely hinting at it, if that, and Cyrene frowned at her sudden shift in composure. The puddle of blood running out the girl’s heaving sides confirmed her suspicions. She was running out of time.
“Because I am a healer. And healers do not choose sides,” Cyrene murmured, a sad smile settling like snowdrift across the drawn planes of her face. “And also, because I hate being told what to do,” she finished, a wry smirk flashing across her lips as quick and sharp as any soldier’s sword.
The girl’s hatred seemed less potent, then, but Cyrene wasn’t sure if it’d been because of her words, or because each second she waited, the Davke soldier was inching closer to Death’s door. All mirth, however brief and deploring it had been, was brushed aside. She wasn’t about to find out.
---
It was by nothing short of a miracle that the chestnut-coated Davke survived. Cyrene had bandaged her wounds and slipped a sleeping draught between her gnashing teeth, before sparing one last glance at the girl’s sleeping body as she slipped away into the night. Had we met under different circumstances... But she was no longer naive enough to finish that thought.
“You’re lucky.” Stifling a gasp, Cyrene dived with uncanny speed for the shadows of a crumbling pillar as a low voice resounded across the deathly silent sands.
“The spear missed your heart. Otherwise you would be dead already.” There was someone else there, out in the suffocating night, and from what he had said… was he also there to treat the Davke’s wounded?
Two sympathetic souls within earshot of each other were such glaring odds, that Cyrene dared not wander an inch from her hiding spot. Not until she was sure the strange man wasn’t a stray Davke healer — though, did they even have any? — who’d be more than happy to cut her down without a second’s hesitation.
For now, she would watch.
@Aion | this turned out super long ^^; but hurrah for these two healers to meet at last!
The wooden shaft of the spear trembled in his grip, Aion having to jump out of the way as the bloodied horse thrashed on the ground. Droplets of blood splattered against the ground, splashed upon his own chest, adding to the many layers of red he wore. Just this morning he had been as white as snow, clean and dry and more or less safe in the desert heat.
Now he was soaked to the bone in blood. Blood he couldn't even claim as his own, not that anyone would be able to tell from looking at him.
A scowl turned down the corners of his lips and for a just a second, Aion considered that maybe this wasn't worth it. It was a thankless job after all, healing a man he doubted he'd ever see again, and one he could very well be killed doing if he stumbled upon the wrong person. His own life might not be worth much, but he still wasn't ready to give it up so willingly or foolishly.
He gripped the spear tighter. "I've told you once already, stay still and let me help. I'm not going to ask again." 'I'll just leave.' The injured horse groaned in a way that seemed far too dramatic to Aion, but settled back down, sides heaving as fresh blood carved tracks through the dirt. "That's better."
Time was quickly running out, the window he had to work shrinking by the second. He could almost count how many heartbeats separated this stallion from life and death--but he wouldn't. Doing so would be nothing short of acceptance, and that was the quickest way to kill in this line of work.
Instead he gave the spear a good yank, so that several inches of soiled wood appeared. A few more tugs and the weapon was freed, then discarded quickly in the desert dust. Without hesitation Aion shoved several rags into the gaping hole that was left, buying himself just enough time to douse his potions into the wound. And just like that the time for talking was over, hunching himself over the stallion and his wound.
Aion worked quickly, pulling the many layers of tissues back together again and bounding them with sutures, all the while using his rags to staunch the bleeding and applying copious amounts of salves.
Finally, the last rag was removed and the last line of stitches was sewn.
It was only then that he saw the cuff of leather and bear teeth, wrapped snugly around the stallion's left leg and nearly obscured by mud. Carefully, slowly, he wiped away the dirt and dust with one of his now dirty rags to reveal a symbol carved by hand into its detailing. It was one Aion had seen for the very first time this morning--painted across a banner that flew above a burning pile of slain bodies.
The Davke.
He looked at it for hardly a second before turning away disinterestedly.
"You really ought to pick a different career... preferably one that doesn't involve dying."
He didn't wait to hear the rebel's response before taking his leave. He wasn't interested in a story, an excuse, a reason--his work here was done. Davke or Solterran, what did it matter to him, a foreigner not only to this Court of Day lovers, but to Novus as a whole? They all looked the same to him, and not a single one of them resembled the man he was looking for. He should have known better than to come looking for him in a desert, the dryest and hottest he'd seen yet.
No matter. It was just one more place to cross off his list, a confirmation to what he already knew to be true.
He came to an abrupt stop. Was his mind playing tricks on him now? Or was that hoofbeats he heard behind him? Obviously it couldn't be the man he'd just healed, who was in no shape to be up and moving. But the hoofbeats stopped just a half-beat after he did: someone was following him.
He turned slowly, looking into the shadows of the ruined buildings scattered around the Solterran capitol.
"Well there's no use in hiding, is there?"
@Cyrene a thousand years later
”are you still talking?”
