The memory of the last time is still fresh in his mind, even the source of an occasional dream. He remembers the scent of flowers and crushed grass and sun-warmed earth, laying back against a flowerbed and looking up to see a man so lovely the sight of him made him ache. He remembers the sunlight caught in his mussed-up hair, spilling out over his shoulders and over his bare chest, shirt hanging open, skin marked with kissed and bruises. He remembers watching him lose control as he sank to his knees in front of him and took him in his mouth, remembers his voice in his ear urging him to be with him, the taste of him under his tongue as they'd kissed again and again and again and again. He remembers how his smile always reached his eyes, bright and shining -- and how dull and bitter he'd seemed when Verso took his heart and shattered it against the ground.
Its fine, of course. Just a mistake, one of many that Verso has made in his too-long life. And it was so completely fine that two whole Gommages and Expeditions have come and dashed themselves against the rocks of their ambitions, and Verso still can't quite bring himself to go back to see what had become of Gustave, if anything.
But he still watches the Expeditions. Still does what he can. He's with Esquie, hovering in the clouds -- he remembers when he would watch a whole fleet pour in over the horizon, and now, its dwindled down to one ship. But they continue, as all Expeditions do, and as he watches from his perch, he feels his heart lurch and twist in a dozen different directions when he realizes he sees a familiar figure on board. Dark curls, eyes that light up with determination as he looks out from the ship, a warm smile for his fellow Expeditioners on board.
Merde. He doesn't know if he's glad or not. No -- he's glad. Glad to know he's still alive, that he has a chance to see him again. But this must be his last year, and on an Expedition so small, and -- wait. He sees him laugh, turn to regard someone beside him. She's grown quite a bit just in two years, but she's unmistakable, his heart aching to see her too. Alicia. Maelle. This is -- too early. Too soon. Why?
He doesn't have too much time to ruminate, at least, because the ship is already approaching the shallows of the Continent, and he realizes where they must be planning to make their landing. There are no real safe places to arrive on the Continent, but the Dark Shore is among the worst.
And sure enough, back on the Continent, hours later after the freshly minted Expedition 33 makes their drops their anchor -- it's a slaughter. Verso has long had his heart hardened to the sight of nevrons and the man he once called his father cutting Expeditions down like nothing. It doesn't always happen on their arrival like this, but Renoir was ready, and Verso had thrown himself into the fray as soon as he could. Moving through the fog, quickly cutting down a nevron if he can manage it, but mostly staying low, staying hidden, trying desperately, frantically to find --
Maelle. Collapsed on the ground. He sees Gustave nearby. His heart leaps into his throat, but he already knows what he has to do, there's not even enough time for him to feel in pain about the choice. There's still screaming around him, nevrons circling and talking more fresh prey than they've had in a year, but Verso goes straight for her. Assessing her quickly, hurt but not too badly, scooping her up into his arms. The entire way to the manor, those screams are still echoing in his mind, and he keeps seeing Gustave, lying in the sand, his eyes wide with a horror that he thought he'd been trained for but could never fully comprehend.
. . . He entrusts Esquie with the last leg of the journey, with ensuring she gets into the Curator's waiting care ( too many years early, but what else does that man have to do? ), and he heads back for the shore.
Gustave isn't where he left him, but Verso works through the awful sick feeling it causes in his chest, picks through the collapsed Expeditioners, one at a time. Dead. Dying. Dying. Dead. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Renoir is gone, but the nevrons are still circling, and putain de merde when he finally finds a Gustave's collapsed form, when he realizes he's still alive, pulse beating in his chest and throat, the dread that edges immediate into dizzying relief makes his head spin. But again, no time. He has to move before the nevrons return, before Renoir decides he might have time to check for stragglers, and he just does what he can, hauls the man into his arms and cradles him close.
Verso is exhausted, but takes him where he can, follows the trail of an Expeditioner he tracks from the sore that had managed to make it further inland. They chose a good heading, the fields here are one of the safer places to be. Its only when he finally finds somewhere to set Gustave's unconscious form down when he feels like he can breathe again, a small tucked away clearing of flowers and a worn path through the grass, a waterfall roaring nearby, kicking up a fine, cool mist. Verso is breathing heavily, his hands shaking, has barely had enough time to even think about how fucking stupid he's being as he shakily checks over Gustave's body. Bleeding in places, hurt and injured, covered in splattered blood that isn't his own, but. He's alive, and he will wake, again. Unlike so many of his friends.
And later, as some of that mist settles onto Gustave's skin, as he starts to stir back into the waking world -- Verso is already gone. Vanished back into the trees once Gustave had begun to stir, watching with his heart caught in his throat. Good. Good. He's alive. He's alive, and --
-- Everything else can follow from there. Everything else will have to wait. Right now, all that matters is that Maelle is safe, and Gustave is alive. ]
spring fields;
The memory of the last time is still fresh in his mind, even the source of an occasional dream. He remembers the scent of flowers and crushed grass and sun-warmed earth, laying back against a flowerbed and looking up to see a man so lovely the sight of him made him ache. He remembers the sunlight caught in his mussed-up hair, spilling out over his shoulders and over his bare chest, shirt hanging open, skin marked with kissed and bruises. He remembers watching him lose control as he sank to his knees in front of him and took him in his mouth, remembers his voice in his ear urging him to be with him, the taste of him under his tongue as they'd kissed again and again and again and again. He remembers how his smile always reached his eyes, bright and shining -- and how dull and bitter he'd seemed when Verso took his heart and shattered it against the ground.
Its fine, of course. Just a mistake, one of many that Verso has made in his too-long life. And it was so completely fine that two whole Gommages and Expeditions have come and dashed themselves against the rocks of their ambitions, and Verso still can't quite bring himself to go back to see what had become of Gustave, if anything.
But he still watches the Expeditions. Still does what he can. He's with Esquie, hovering in the clouds -- he remembers when he would watch a whole fleet pour in over the horizon, and now, its dwindled down to one ship. But they continue, as all Expeditions do, and as he watches from his perch, he feels his heart lurch and twist in a dozen different directions when he realizes he sees a familiar figure on board. Dark curls, eyes that light up with determination as he looks out from the ship, a warm smile for his fellow Expeditioners on board.
Merde. He doesn't know if he's glad or not. No -- he's glad. Glad to know he's still alive, that he has a chance to see him again. But this must be his last year, and on an Expedition so small, and -- wait. He sees him laugh, turn to regard someone beside him. She's grown quite a bit just in two years, but she's unmistakable, his heart aching to see her too. Alicia. Maelle. This is -- too early. Too soon. Why?
He doesn't have too much time to ruminate, at least, because the ship is already approaching the shallows of the Continent, and he realizes where they must be planning to make their landing. There are no real safe places to arrive on the Continent, but the Dark Shore is among the worst.
And sure enough, back on the Continent, hours later after the freshly minted Expedition 33 makes their drops their anchor -- it's a slaughter. Verso has long had his heart hardened to the sight of nevrons and the man he once called his father cutting Expeditions down like nothing. It doesn't always happen on their arrival like this, but Renoir was ready, and Verso had thrown himself into the fray as soon as he could. Moving through the fog, quickly cutting down a nevron if he can manage it, but mostly staying low, staying hidden, trying desperately, frantically to find --
Maelle. Collapsed on the ground. He sees Gustave nearby. His heart leaps into his throat, but he already knows what he has to do, there's not even enough time for him to feel in pain about the choice. There's still screaming around him, nevrons circling and talking more fresh prey than they've had in a year, but Verso goes straight for her. Assessing her quickly, hurt but not too badly, scooping her up into his arms. The entire way to the manor, those screams are still echoing in his mind, and he keeps seeing Gustave, lying in the sand, his eyes wide with a horror that he thought he'd been trained for but could never fully comprehend.
. . . He entrusts Esquie with the last leg of the journey, with ensuring she gets into the Curator's waiting care ( too many years early, but what else does that man have to do? ), and he heads back for the shore.
Gustave isn't where he left him, but Verso works through the awful sick feeling it causes in his chest, picks through the collapsed Expeditioners, one at a time. Dead. Dying. Dying. Dead. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Renoir is gone, but the nevrons are still circling, and putain de merde when he finally finds a Gustave's collapsed form, when he realizes he's still alive, pulse beating in his chest and throat, the dread that edges immediate into dizzying relief makes his head spin. But again, no time. He has to move before the nevrons return, before Renoir decides he might have time to check for stragglers, and he just does what he can, hauls the man into his arms and cradles him close.
Verso is exhausted, but takes him where he can, follows the trail of an Expeditioner he tracks from the sore that had managed to make it further inland. They chose a good heading, the fields here are one of the safer places to be. Its only when he finally finds somewhere to set Gustave's unconscious form down when he feels like he can breathe again, a small tucked away clearing of flowers and a worn path through the grass, a waterfall roaring nearby, kicking up a fine, cool mist. Verso is breathing heavily, his hands shaking, has barely had enough time to even think about how fucking stupid he's being as he shakily checks over Gustave's body. Bleeding in places, hurt and injured, covered in splattered blood that isn't his own, but. He's alive, and he will wake, again. Unlike so many of his friends.
And later, as some of that mist settles onto Gustave's skin, as he starts to stir back into the waking world -- Verso is already gone. Vanished back into the trees once Gustave had begun to stir, watching with his heart caught in his throat. Good. Good. He's alive. He's alive, and --
-- Everything else can follow from there. Everything else will have to wait. Right now, all that matters is that Maelle is safe, and Gustave is alive. ]