After a time, the rains finally begin to slow. The sky still weeps from time to time, but the showers are scattered and infrequent, their fall light and easy. The clouds even begin to part, flashes of blue woven throughout the gloom, a ray of sunshine piercing the murk.
But it only serves to shine light upon the destruction left in the storm’s wake.
The flood waters are still high and raging, the streams flowing far past their banks and drowning the surrounding meadows. The swamp has become one big, stagnant freshwater ocean, downed trees hiding in the muck and waiting to knock horses off their hooves. But the greatest change lies in the Sussoro Fields, where the earth has seemed to collapse in upon itself, leaving holes several tens of meters deep.
Sinkholes have ravaged the ground, hidden tunnels broken and fallen. The ground is unsteady and prone to mudslides, every step treacherous and uncertain. The cries of horses and other animals can be heard, half-buried beneath the mounds of dirt and mud. But rescue itself is also uncertain, when every step might prompt another section of ground to fall suddenly fall away.
With the storm passing and the sinkholes beginning, you can’t help but wonder: is the true disaster finally over, or has it only just begun?
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She seems so young, stepping pale as fog, pale as bone, from the falling rain. But there is nothing young about the look in her eyes, the weariness etched in each line of her face.
He listens to her report, the way she shapes the word fatality. It echoes down his hollow heart, another drop of sorrow in an ocean full of it. But Asterion only nods at her words; there is no time for grief. “It will be done,” he says softly, and then, after a pause, extends his dark muzzle to touch it once to her rain-slick shoulder. “Thank you,” he adds, and might have said more, but then the Commander arrives.
Marisol’s wings flash bright and fold as silently as an owl’s and it is only her greeting that draws his gaze from where it lingers on the dark of her legs, wondering if that is blood or mud or only water –
Sir, she says, the same as Theodosia, and at this Asterion manages a mock-grimace, half a moment of levity.
He is not sure from where the anger in her gaze is born but he is glad for it all the same – for any look that isn’t despair or sorrow or dread. “You see any gray hairs?” Never mind that his hair is shot through with silver and always has been – that ghost of a smile will see him through another day of rain because it says not alone, not alone. The speed with which it fades can’t change that it was there.
He listens to her report with more grim stoicism, follows her gaze into a world that is nothing more than mud and stone and water. “It will hold,” he says, because it must, because if it does not they might as well all be washed out to sea.
Asterion is about to ask them both inside, for rest, for food, for a moment to close their eyes (he knows, of course, they will both decline), when the pale cadet speaks.
Before anything more can be said, before he strains, too, to hear the shouts, she is gone like a ghost from the castle’s edge, and his gaze follows her out over the walls. Oh, to have wings, to be able to follow, to be able to help --
He turns his gaze, sharp now with something just shy of panic, on Marisol and thinks Cirrus, go look – And as the gull, ever obedient, drops down to see what new disaster unfolds the bay is already wheeling, already scrambling, already running as fast as his legs will carry him through the halls and the courtyard and out out out into the field that has become a lake, a river, a drowning sea.
In no world could he arrive in time, save maybe with Flora’s dagger, but hurry, oh hurry Cirrus cries, and he forces himself faster over the uneven, mudslick ground, because he knows the magic is there like saltwater in his veins and that it can help.
By some mercy they are still there, still struggling, and his heart stutters-and-pounds against his ribcage as he slides to a stop at the edge of the water and lashes out with the full force of his magic and a wild, wordless cry.
Around them all the rain stops slashing, the current slows to a crawl, and Asterion heaves for breath as he watches, wide-eyed, the struggle unfolding before him.
ooc: poo post but wanted to continue with the rescue. happy to move on to anything else if someone wants to start another branch of the thread. Theo gets Gold Star Hero award after this! @Theodosia @Marisol @Virun
Fiona did not think to the damage of her home, of the precious memories left from her childhood, of the items she had kept that had once belonged to her father. She did not think to what might be left afterwards, if anything at all. Did not think to the minutes, hours, years spent in the kitchen, chopping, measuring, cooking, nor the ones spent on the very rug that had started the blaze, learning to write at her father’s tutelage. The lavender and wildflower girl thought of nothing but the strangled, feral beating of her heart in response to her fear. Somewhere above the din of the fire Fiona thought she heard her name called. Was she imagining it? She did not know.
When she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, her eyes did not find the shadow of someone outside the window, too wild with thoughts of the flames consuming all the spaces behind her. Perhaps if she had she may have stopped, may not have gone so recklessly forward, but instead she breathed in, braced herself and leapt. Barely clearing the small table, Fiona just managed to tuck her nose against her chest before crashing straight through the window. It cracked unceremoniously, not shattering into small pieces but splintering into knife like shards. Most of them fell away in front of her, falling to the ground. Pieces above her began to shiver and shake, losing their grip in the frame. They started to fall just as the last of her body made it through, fortunately skimming past her rear legs without hitting them directly.
Fiona hit the ground with a heavy breath escaping her, adrenaline pumping swiftly through her veins. For a moment she laid and did not move, fearing she might pass out as the edges of her vision began to darken. Eventually, the roaring, buzzing sound in her mind faded and the world returned to her. Groggily, she attempted to stand. Behind her animals streamed out of the now broken window and into the streets of the court, escaping the fire still burning up her home. Even the mother fox, her two kits being dragged along, disappeared down the street.
The lavender girl looked up and there, swimming in her vision, was someone oh so familiar to her and yet still such a mystery. Atreus, and if the words could have slipped past her tongue they would have fallen to the ground with such softness. Still, her lips parted, a silent cry for help. She rose to her feet, taking her first step toward him, and then another, when she stumbled. It was only then that she felt the heavy cloak of burning pain. What she had thought was rain rolling down her side was not rain at all but blood. The cut spanned almost the length of her barrel, deeper in the middle and tapering off at either end, and all the other small scrapes and lacerations over her body paled in comparison. Though not fatal, it bled heavily, the result of being slashed by a broken piece of glass on her way through the window.
For awhile, looking at the way the rain washed the blood away, turning her lavender and alabaster coat to violet and pink, Fiona thought she might lose consciousness. She breathed in again, much more slowly this time, and once more pushed herself to a standing position. Her legs wavered, unsure if they would hold her, but she would not fall again. Atreus’ face swam in her vision and she closed her eyes, furrowing her brow. Focus, she told herself, we need to get away from here. Although the heavy rains would begin to douse the fire they were still unsafe. She gave no thought to how far she might get like this.
My poor girl Atreus (he might want to get out of the way)
