𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

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[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.