𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

Comments

act 2 AU things ahoy

[trebuchim]

[ It's like some horrible fever dream. Snatches of a panic-laced nightmare.

There's blood on Lune's hands, the coppery smell of it stuck in her nose, coating her palate. Sciel's face, chalk-white, as she robotically does as Lune tells her in clipped words, her usual joviality snuffed out. Somewhere in the background Maelle's tangible terror, a living thing that nearly drowns them all under its weight. Lune steels herself against the nausea, against the sickening, cloying fear that threatens to creep up her throat to choke her, mingled with the awareness they shouldn't leave Maelle alone with that stranger. She can't let any of that get to her now, brute forcing her focus into crystallizing into this one, single thing, on pouring all the healing power she can spare from her Pictos into Gustave's mangled chest. An inch more to the side and it would have been too much. He would have been gone before he hit the ground.

As it is, he's only barely holding on, clinging onto the slimmest thread between life and death that could still be severed any second. Lune pushes herself harder, hands trembling where they hover over him as she works. Cold sweat bathes her back and brow, desperate mutters squeezing between painfully clenched teeth, impotent fury mixing with fear. Don't you dare. Don't you dare. Die? Fail? She doesn't know who she's talking to, her cognitive processes muddled by dread and overridden by instinct.

The rest becomes a blur, and she loses track of time. Distantly, she feels badly about leaving Sciel to deal with Maelle and the stranger, but she can't allow herself to be distracted. Days pass, probably— Sciel is there at her shoulder, on and off, to help, to check in on things. Gustave's chest is whole once more and the blood has been cleaned off as best they can, but that doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet. Lune maintains her vigil, abusing what tints they can spare so she can keep pouring healing and rejuvenation into him, checks his pulse, his breathing, his chroma, how his pupils respond, and begins the whole cycle all over again. More hours pass, the sun setting and moon rising. Long at last, Gustave stabilizes enough that Sciel presses Lune into stepping away long enough to get cleaned up and eat something, to rest. Lune takes the first two but refuses the latter.

Next thing she knows, she's jolting awake from dreamless sleep in some early morning hour, slumped into a heap by Gustave's bedroll, in the makeshift shelter they've rigged up out of scavenged old tents. Dread lashes through her, instant and gripping. Oh no. No, fuck— she'd fallen asleep. She groans a muffled noise of pain as she wrenches herself up, aggravating the crick in her neck from the awkward pose she'd lain in for too long. She feels like shit, wrung out to the bone, but none of that registers as she scrambles to her knees and presses two fingertips into the side of Gustave's neck, a huff of relief escaping her at the feel of a steady pulse beating beneath the digits. He looks better, she realizes with a start once the spike of dread dissipates. Much, actually— his breathing is even, there's color to his skin again. His eyes move slightly beneath fluttering lids, almost as if...

Cautious hope flares in her and she extends her arms again, palms out as she gathers chroma to her, her Pictos singing to her as the cooling energy of rejuvenation pours out into him once more. ]

Come on, Gustave. [ Her voice is a quiet mutter, hoping against hope. ] Please.

[demainvient]

[ For those who come after.
Right?

The last words he ever expected to speak aloud. A last attempt at a smile at Maelle, stricken and pale as chalk beneath the spray of brilliant red blood that's spattered over her face. He has to make his best guess at where she's still locked behind that gleaming cage of paint; his vision is already going. There's only one chance left, and it's no chance at all, not really, but he turns and reaches his hand for the familiar grip of his sword anyway. His fingers close by muscle memory; he can't feel the ridges of the grip or the balance of the blade, only the weight, dragging him to the side. His arm is gone. Every movement feels drunken, off-balance.

It's all right. He doesn't have to go far. All he needs to do is lean forward and let gravity do the rest.

A heartbeat later, as he falls amid a bloody bloom of petals, he's distantly surprised that it still hurt. It doesn't last long. He hits cold, damp rock and blackness overtakes him long before the dissolution of his chroma sends him floating away on the cold, lonely sea breeze.

He's conscious of nothing else for what seems like an eternity, or maybe only the space of a few heartbeats. All he knows is blackness and emptiness, no dreams, no Sophie smiling at him from whatever world might lie beyond this one. He fell and then he wakes, drawn back to life by what feels like a Cruler sitting on his chest. A finger shifts; his brows draw together in a frown. Someone is talking to him exhorting him to come on, come on, Gustave, wake up, and when he blinks his eyes open its to find himself flat on his back, his vision hazy and a bone-deep ache in his chest. It's hard to breathe, but he takes a gasp of air anyway, confused and startled. Memory rushes back, and with it comes fear, cold and cloying, and Gustave's hand scrabbles at the air, grasping for chroma, for his sword.

If he's here, if he's still alive, then – ]

Maelle–

[ His voice is a wreck of itself, barely more than a whisper, but the panic is real. Where is she? Is she alright? What happened? ]

[trebuchim]

[ Suddenly Gustave's awake, drawing in a difficult, rasping breath— and though it sounds painful, like it's scraping and rattling along the entire length of his chest on its way, it's still the best sound Lune can remember hearing. Her own heart gallops suddenly, an abrupt rush of adrenaline flooding her veins as relief mingles with worry and leaves her lightheaded even as she's spurred into action. The glow of magic suffusing her hands fades away as she captures that flailing hand — his prosthetic was recovered, to be repaired later — and grasps it tightly in hers before he can hurt himself too much straining, her other hand coming down to press gently but firmly against his shoulder, steady pressure intended to signify he needs to keep still. ]

Shh— Gustave, listen to me. Maelle is okay. She's safe. You're both safe.

[ Her own voice is raspy too, roughened around the edges by stress and dehydration and lack of rest, but it's still unmistakably Lune, stalwart and determined. She squeezes his hand, her own breath shuddering out in a shaky exhale. ]

You're okay. I'll make this okay.

[ Again, she can't entirely say whether she's encouraging him or herself as she looms over him slightly, running critical eyes over every inch. He remembers what happened— that's a good start, but she's still on high alert, taut with barely leashed, antsy urgency. ]

Focus, Gustave. Breathe in— slowly. Tell me how it feels.

[ Horrid, probably, but every bit of information helps her. ]

[demainvient]

[ Energy and light pour into him like cool water, so much it feels for a moment like his chest clogs and his heart stumbles with it all — and then it's gone, glow and energy both, and he's gasping in their wake, tasting copper with each breath, feeling the cool air like knives in his lungs.

A hand grabs his, fingers curling firmly around his to keep him from his aimless grasping, and another hand comes to press against his shoulder; a laughable attempt to keep him down on a normal day, but he finds himself too weak to push back against it. They — she — could hold him down with a feather, it seems. He's never felt so helpless in his life. ]

Lune...

[ Because it is Lune, of course it it; she's found him again, somehow, just like she did back in the cave. He blinks up at her as her features swim into focus; her face is pale in the dark, lit from some low-burning fire somewhere nearby, and he doesn't understand how he got here, how she's here, what happened after that cane pushed abruptly through his torso and gravity took hold.

There's raw fear under the harsh, low whisper that's all he can manage; his breath comes too fast and too shallow, chest lifting and falling in a panicked rhythm. It would be so easy to let it swallow him up, to disappear again into the fog, but Lune is telling him to breathe, slowly, and it's easier to simply obey. He drags in a long, shaking breath, his eyes wide and locked on hers, his fingers tightening to a white-knuckle grip against her hand, like she's the only thing keeping him from plummeting into the darkness.

His brows flicker together in pained confusion, and he pants for a second before he manages to pull in another slow breath, muscles tightening at the pain. ]

Hurts...

[ The inside of his chest feels bloody and raw. Every breath in feels like his chest walls are lined with knives; each breath out feels like he might choke on the air alone.

She tells him toe focus, and some old muscle memory of listening to Lune when she orders him around has him blinking, trying to obey. Focus. Tell her how it feels. ]

Like I — my chest — like it's lined with glass shards. I can, can taste blood.

[trebuchim]

I'm here, Gustave. Shh— slow. Calm...

[ Her voice is low, the hand on his shoulder abandons its post before she realizes it, gently stroking back his matted hair in a soothing gesture that's almost maternalistic. His palpable fear and pain pierce her own chest, witnessing it tearing something up within her. Lune feels her own composure crumbling after days of uncertainty, dread and lack of sleep, wetness blurring her eyes no matter how hard she tries to stay strong and steady for him now.

But she keeps clutching his hand when he grips it tight, keeps her tired, wet gaze on his, wide and pained. After what feels like ages, just as she's starting to think it was a mistake to rouse him yet, he calms down some, enough to regulate his breathing a little. ]

Okay. I got you.

[ Squeezing his hand back, she nods, a frown knitting at her brows as she listens, thinks. I can taste blood. Internal bleeding? ]

Gustave. I'm going to help, but it may not feel good at first. If you pass out, don't fight it. It'll be alright.

[ She'd make it alright. She can't fail him now. She won't. With one last squeeze to his hand, Lune lets go to cast the strongest healing incantation she has, every gesture sure. Closing her eyes, she sets both palms against Gustave's chest, aglow with blue-white light.

This is not a quick emergency heal in the midst of battle to get him back on his feet. This is slow and deliberate and methodical, her chroma humming as she concentrates, energy flowing from her into him, feeling beneath his skin as her magic penetrates his chest— blood vessels and ligaments, tissue and muscle intertwined. Invisible fingers slide along his lungs, feeling the way they strain, whole but sore. His heart pumps, every chamber intact. Shattered bone has been meticulously knit anew. His major organs are all whole, but there is residual damage. He would still be sore for days in spite of any healing.

Her magic flows over all, searching, slowly repairing tears and ruptures, finding tiny fissures that are still weeping blood, the energy of it cool and burning all at once. Sweat from the exertion bathes her brow as she loses herself in the task, unaware of how long she works. She can't keep this up indefinitely, but she pushes herself to go as long as possible until the strain of it becomes too much. ]

[demainvient]

[ Don't fight it, she says, but when she sets her hands on his chest and starts the slow, methodical flow of chroma, begins meticulous surgery of the smallest parts of his insides; when the pain comes, deep and aching and cavernous, and his vision starts tunneling, all he can do is fight. He doesn't want to go back into the dark, not again, not ever, not knowing if he'll wake back up. He never expected to be drawing any kind of breath again, but now that he can, he's grasping for each copper-tinged gasp of air, the complex ache of consciousness.

Lune's face swims above him, bathed in the cool glow of her chroma. It touches delicately deep inside him, glances of fire quenched by rippling water; he can feel her knitting together torn muscle, shoring up leaking veins, every touch precise and deliberate. He feels like the strings of her guitar, gently but firmly tuned back from a sour note, plucked into life.

The more she pours into him, the more he wakes up, the more clearly he can see her, and now his breath is catching for a different reason. Gustave's hand lifts and scrambles to grip one of hers – his left arm shifts, but there's no hand there anymore to manipulate – his fingers spread, grip weak but determined, as he tries to lift her hands away from his chest. ]

Stop, stop–

[ He could drink all her chroma greedily, drain her dry, and it wouldn't be enough to heal him all the way. What he's had thus far is enough for his shattered mind to start turning, making connections too slow. Lune's pale face, her firm jaw, the stubborn way she's working – it's too much. She's exhausted, worn to a shadow of herself; he can see it now, hates himself a little for not seeing it before. ]

Lune, stop, you'll kill yourself – that's enough. It's enough.

[trebuchim]

[ Lune's head aches, a wave of nausea scouring along her stomach and a peculiar ache curling around her spine as it claws its way up, jangling along her nerves and nibbling at her joints. But it's all background noise that she stubbornly pushes aside as she keeps siphoning her chroma and pouring it into him, keeps concentrating on her task, gritting her teeth against the mounting discomfort.

She can handle it— just a little longer, just a few more injuries healed and maybe then...

The sudden and unexpected contact has her gasping sharply, her breath catching as Gustave's grip on her hand, weak as it is, breaks her focus and causes the flow of chroma at her fingertips to rear back and scatter— almost as if it lashes back at her like a living thing, leaving her winded. Panicked, almost, for a moment thinking she'd miscalculated, somehow causing the snafu herself. ]

No— Gustave, what...

[ She's confused for a bit, a faint humming in her head as if being underwater from the abrupt disruption of her chroma, missing half of Gustave's words in her moment of discombobulation. She grips his hand in hers again, shaking her head a little to clear it as clarity returns slowly. Her head pounds. ]

What are you doing? Let me do this.