Zi'da 52, 717
The trial that he and Darcy had returned to Bellesoir in the late morning of the 52nd had been spent making sense of the inexplicably nonsensical, a bloodied aftermath of Pythera's surprise attacks, both within breaks of each other. Notrerevé's doctor had earned her keep and tenure over the past two trials, truly, between Oliver's and Caius' injuries, both of which had nearly proved themselves fatal, but now that the fear and panic had faded into pain and exhaustion, she could rest a little while her patients rested as well.
Or, at least, they were supposed to be resting.
Only the young Gawyne was far too restless. Sleeping and pausing always evaded him, ever since his sister's kidnapping over a decade ago. Instead of letting the pain of his wounds and the warmth of Darcy's embrace keep him in bed, curled up in comfort, he was desperate to move through the terror and anger from yester-trial that currently overshadowed the beautiful excitement that had been the charity gala just two trials before simply to process everything and think things through. Anger, helplessness, and frustration flooded his molten veins after the adrenaline and reevi faded, leaving him unable to truly be still and rest. So, much to the objection of everyone else, especially the delicate pianist who he'd already hurt too much with his heartbroken admissions that this brush with death would not be his last, that his prophesied death date was fast approaching whether he wanted it to be or not, he was up, dressed with his right arm in a sling to keep it still, to keep the fresh Fates-be-damned second set of stitches that crossed his chest from tearing, Darcy's basic work replaced by a more professional treatment.
Scarring was guaranteed, he was warned, given the cauterization and the stitching, but Caius couldn't care less. Syroa's reluctant blessing had given him a strange propensity for healing, but he wasn't about to say that out loud to the physician.
At least he'd lived. Sort of. Was it worth it?
At least Oliver had lived. Sort of. Was he crippled?
But Pythera lived, too. And that was dangerous for Darcyanna.
That singular thought burned his breath in his lungs and melted his bones like so much hot lead, knowing that beast of a woman had stalked them, had watched them, had known everything about them, and then ambushed them. And had almost killed them. No. Never again. While it wouldn't matter for him, he'd admitted to his delicate pianist, while he knew the numbers of his days thanks to the lingering Immortal lineage in his veins, it would matter for Darcy. Caius would do everything in his power to make sure she was safe, even if it was the last thing he did.
It probably would be. And that was enough for him.
The northern noble wandered the lovely halls of Notrerevé rather aimlessly, listless in his helpless frustration, not wanting to sit lest he dwell on his pain, not wanting to go outside in the sting of the cold as snow fell once again, covering his blood on the road somewhere in the stretch of farmlands between Bellesoir and Andaris.
It was in the hall that he met her, hardly any less disheveled than himself, Charlotte Warrick worn thin by her care for Oliver and what he could only guess was a similar sense of impotent anger. While he'd left Darcy napping in his room, slipping away this late afternoon break before dinner, it was apparent the older Warrick couldn't sleep any more than he could. Her military mind was surely working like his academic one—far too sarding much.
Caius offered the woman a weak smile, free hand instinctually moving to run fingers through his unkempt hair as if his appearance mattered at all, shirt untucked and shuffling about barefoot in the halls chewing the inside of his cheek with the ache of his shoulder, toes curling against cold stone,
"Taking a break, too, Lady Warrick?" He sighed, his words an admission of his inability to sleep even while injured, "I can't sarding stop thinking about things, so, sleep evades me—is Oliver resting?"
Or, at least, they were supposed to be resting.
Only the young Gawyne was far too restless. Sleeping and pausing always evaded him, ever since his sister's kidnapping over a decade ago. Instead of letting the pain of his wounds and the warmth of Darcy's embrace keep him in bed, curled up in comfort, he was desperate to move through the terror and anger from yester-trial that currently overshadowed the beautiful excitement that had been the charity gala just two trials before simply to process everything and think things through. Anger, helplessness, and frustration flooded his molten veins after the adrenaline and reevi faded, leaving him unable to truly be still and rest. So, much to the objection of everyone else, especially the delicate pianist who he'd already hurt too much with his heartbroken admissions that this brush with death would not be his last, that his prophesied death date was fast approaching whether he wanted it to be or not, he was up, dressed with his right arm in a sling to keep it still, to keep the fresh Fates-be-damned second set of stitches that crossed his chest from tearing, Darcy's basic work replaced by a more professional treatment.
Scarring was guaranteed, he was warned, given the cauterization and the stitching, but Caius couldn't care less. Syroa's reluctant blessing had given him a strange propensity for healing, but he wasn't about to say that out loud to the physician.
At least he'd lived. Sort of. Was it worth it?
At least Oliver had lived. Sort of. Was he crippled?
But Pythera lived, too. And that was dangerous for Darcyanna.
That singular thought burned his breath in his lungs and melted his bones like so much hot lead, knowing that beast of a woman had stalked them, had watched them, had known everything about them, and then ambushed them. And had almost killed them. No. Never again. While it wouldn't matter for him, he'd admitted to his delicate pianist, while he knew the numbers of his days thanks to the lingering Immortal lineage in his veins, it would matter for Darcy. Caius would do everything in his power to make sure she was safe, even if it was the last thing he did.
It probably would be. And that was enough for him.
The northern noble wandered the lovely halls of Notrerevé rather aimlessly, listless in his helpless frustration, not wanting to sit lest he dwell on his pain, not wanting to go outside in the sting of the cold as snow fell once again, covering his blood on the road somewhere in the stretch of farmlands between Bellesoir and Andaris.
It was in the hall that he met her, hardly any less disheveled than himself, Charlotte Warrick worn thin by her care for Oliver and what he could only guess was a similar sense of impotent anger. While he'd left Darcy napping in his room, slipping away this late afternoon break before dinner, it was apparent the older Warrick couldn't sleep any more than he could. Her military mind was surely working like his academic one—far too sarding much.
Caius offered the woman a weak smile, free hand instinctually moving to run fingers through his unkempt hair as if his appearance mattered at all, shirt untucked and shuffling about barefoot in the halls chewing the inside of his cheek with the ache of his shoulder, toes curling against cold stone,
"Taking a break, too, Lady Warrick?" He sighed, his words an admission of his inability to sleep even while injured, "I can't sarding stop thinking about things, so, sleep evades me—is Oliver resting?"
❦
