Dragoncrest Cliffs i gotta get mine, i gotta get it

dated 03/13

In the middle of ripping Blackhead's throat out, his eyes opened, and the scene disappeared.

He lay in a quiet, herb-smelling place he didn't recognize at first; soft afternoon light flooded through the entrance, and the nearby sound of waves was a quiet murmur. Vercingetorix groaned, feeling his head begin to pound. He made to rise to his paws--and slumped back down again, as if every muscle were weighed down by thousands of pounds.

Every movement was agony. He began to realize, with utter disgust, that killing the Rusalkan witch had been a dream only. Instead, he was here, clinging to life. The last thing he remembered was seeing the tall shadows of the redwoods. After that, it had all gone to darkness, and then dreams had slowly surfaced, like bubbles in boiling water.

But there was plenty to recall before he'd collapsed just past the border. Insolent Blackhead, going after him. Her mouthy friend following suit. They'd fucking jumped him. And--

And he was still by the sea! Where was Aure?! Where was Drageda?! Had they sought vengeance for his sake? If so, he was not about to let them charge into battle without him.

Gritting his teeth, Verx tried to stand again and collapsed with a rasping roar of agony, hanging his head. His throat felt like it was on fire; every breath seemed strained, and noises were even worse. Breathing hard, he lounged with a low, furious growl simmering in his chest, eyes like blue fire.

Several days had gone by in the aftermath of Verx’s ruby-throated arrival, and in that time the herbalist had only ever let one other kru help her, whether it was Rose or Dacio or some other; anyone who was available, not yet taken by their own heedings. The bathing and cleaning, the dressing and undressing, the situating and the propping-upping, and the watering and even the feeding — these were what was most immediate in the days since his collapse.

These prospects would be as immediate as need-be, and this was the myriad of her mind as she returned to her apothecary, the spring sunlight bringing out bits of muted, old blood. She hadn’t quite been able to give herself a good grooming — and with this belly, how would she ever have the means to reach by herself? With a quiet, weary groan at the ache in her back, she turned from Verx’s slumbering form to resume inspection of her stores.

As the cheka roused, that porcelain, hunched back remained turned to him, as it had been each moment since that devastating evening; taut musculature hummed ivory beneath a wilting ruff as she pores over her most insistent tenant’s needs. Her thoughts had been nothing but of which dressings would be suitable, and how fast would they hold? What of her stores was Stormborn depleting the most? Where should she shift her attentions to next? So up until his roar of agony and chagrin, only an ear had curved back to listen, as if the rest of her was steeped in earthly concentration.

But then she felt a plaintive herald in her blood, and she shivered back to the present, whirled about — and before a film of hot tears could gloss over entirely spent, argent eyes,  she hustled on over, snipping up a wad of drenched moss along the way. That soothing, hushing part of her had withdrawn. In its place was only diligence and instruction; but for him, forever and only for him, there remained something tender in her voice, now worn. 

”Settle,” she murmured, her low voice brooking for no arguement — but abysmally more gentle than which she’d subjected Rose and Blodreina to. ”Thrash about as you are, and you will turn my dressing to ribbons, solider.” A curl of her lips was there, lurking just beneath her guise of pale perseverance, but she refrained from letting it come to fruition.

Regardless, she reclined alongside him into a sit, hocks akimbo to accommodate for the swell of her budding belly. The backs of one of her snowshoe paws cusped at the inked cheekbone closest to loam; coaxing, supporting. ”Drink what you can — slowly.” The sodden wad of moss was then brought to his curled lips. Her starlit gaze glimpsed into the blue of his own, meeting that fire with her own molten make; softening just a fragment.

He hadn't noticed her, still as she was, but when she turned, his gaze met hers. So she was still here, and why?! Aure, he called to her--and then snapped his jaws shut, his eyes wide. The normally bold, jocular tenor was gone, replaced by a ghostly whisper he'd not heard even during the worst winter cold. It barely cut through the air between them; she'd only know what he said by the shape of his lips, not the sound of the word.

Enraged and frightened beyond measure, Vercingetorix began to breathe hard and fast, even as she came near. He drank, but drank too quickly--great listener, this one--and ended up gasping and sputtering, coughing, the action causing his throat to catch fire once more. His ears were pinned back against his skull.

What the fuck?! Verx demanded in that quiet, ragged new sound, eyes hollow and empty as black holes as he stared at her. What did she do to me? Why are we still here? Rusalka-- Each word took herculean effort, and he had to abandon the queries after so long, wheezing, sinking back onto the ground in exhaustion. His ribs ached.

Noticing the strain of his ribs, she didn’t answer him right then — somehow hearing him despite this altercation — and instead turned, flitting back to her stores. She took this moment to let her countenance falter further, a quivery blur of almost-tears and fury of what had been done to him. But then she was returning to him, chewing a mash of goldenrod and soon massaging it into the tenderness of his ribs, tongue laving studiously.

When she withdrew, a bit of poultice crusting the corner of her lip, she finally said, ”We are still here because those of ze Sound have not retaliated, and I haven’t heard a word of Drageda even budging. I assume some sense has finally returned to Rusalka, if they mean to stay away and provide for their young. But if that is ze case, then why—” Why would that harpy endanger that? Beneath a furrowed brow, her eyes flickered down, to the side; quiet, veiled from him. They needed to move at this point. Her children were not going to be born in such a ravaged state of affairs. Why did there need to be a war to come from this skirmish? Why?

“And you have been asleep for three days since.” Three days. The memory of a child-Vonnaruil rose before her, murky and milky, where the cascades of starlight couldn’t reach. Like him, Vercingetorix had been so — so still. I lost you for three days. A faint tremor made itself known in her jaw, and she mustered away those ridiculous tears; war-nurses such as herself didn’t cry. ”I must redress your throat. Will you stay still for me, Verx?” Her voice was lilting, ever-patient regardless of the sudden emotion that threatened to consume her.

It was getting harder to speak, as if her own throat was closing up; constricting. But she only furrowed her brow more, raised her chin, and set her gleaming eyes upon the smearing of greenery beneath his jaw. Dragomir. What had that harpy reduced her beloved to? Even with him breathing, how could someone have put him in such anguish of himself? Isilmë.

The herbalist tasted salt on her lips as the second name came to her, unbidden, as her tearful gaze clambered into his own. The terror she had endured would never compare to the fear and ferocity Verx felt. It was her rage for him and what that ignoramous harpy had done to him and the chance for further, uneasy stagnantion between the sound and the cliffs.

”Dragostea—“ Aure’s voice crept from her, fragile and fragmented. The hectic remedying of Verx following his incapacitation, she’d mostly smothered every tender thought and feeling in order to bring him to this side of the abyss once more. But now that he was awake and here... she didn’t quite know what to do with herself; with this softening of herself she plainly struggled against. And these tears were so selfish of her, weren’t they?

Retaliated was the first word that sparked anything within him, and he snarled. That bitch went after him first! He hadn't done anything (well, apart from being snarky)! And three days?! They had been sitting on their paws for three days? Hadn't anyone gone to avenge his near-death? Hadn't anyone made plans to leave?!

WHAT THE FUCK WAS WRONG WITH EVERYONE HERE?!!!?!

Then he noticed her face, which looked like it could shatter into pieces at any moment, and his snarl faded--well, not faded, but changed. He wasn't just angry for his sake, but for hers, too. Blackhead had gone out of her way to attack for seemingly no reason, and that put Aure in danger. His kids in danger.

Yeah, Vercingetorix whispered in response to her query, lifting his chin slightly to give her a better working angle. His eyes wandered to hers, soft compared to the ferocity that still contorted his muzzle. Don't cry, bounkola. Not over me, anyway. I'm alive. . . He trailed off, exhausting himself once more.

Yeah, sure, alive. Alive and only a shell of what he once was. And was that really living?

When he’d simmered down for the moment, she lingered several heartbeats so she could hear what he needed to say; ears flickered back, and her pale throat worked in a tiny gulp. There was truth in that she needn’t cry for him anymore — she’d done as much in the waning, blue hours between eve and dawn, cradling the silly bit of quartz Opalia’d foraged away for her.

Verx was alive, in the sense that his heart still beat, yes, but... also not living; this rumination trailed after her as she retrieved what she needed for him through muscle memory alone. The earlier protests of the opkepa and the dark gona had only heckled at her; made her riled enough to withdraw from the both of them. Aure herself had assumed a more reclusive stance as she’d toiled over a solider of theirs.

Returning to him and settling down once more, her silver brow furrowed as she began to edge for the dressing. A moment before she proceeded, though, she murmured to him with spiced-stale breath, ”You are still a champion in my eyes, Verx.” Regardless of it all, it was the cheka whose body had answered the work done to bring him back; and with Dacio’s aid, Aure had merely supplied the remedies. Pressing a soft kiss to his dark temple — a familiar, almost-forgotten gesture of his-to-her — she cherished this lapse, until she withdrew to resume her work.

Aure pulled the dressings off with as much care as she could. Still, the mashed webs and poultice stuck to the flesh, coming away with a soft crackling of dried blood. Droplets of fresh blood oozed around the edges of the marring, but thankfully, it looked to be healing well. Nosing against the raw skin, scenting for any infection and finding none, she set about washing once more.

After some time, the gruesome part was done, and she pulled away to inspect her work. Once another poultice and a firm, breathable dressing, Aure would be finished. As she turned to ready moss and garlic, though, she cast her beloved a fleeting, almost shy curl of lips, ”I’ve been meaning to tell you — I’ve chosen names for our copii.”

Ours. The word chimed in her breast, as bright and sweet as a bell, and she quickly focused on her properties. Ears curved back further; definitely shy, even when there was no reason for her to be.

He knew that what she said was meant to make him feel better, but it made him feel even worse. Like someone trying to make a kid on crutches smile. He nearly cringed when she kissed him, feeling weak and pathetic and angry and mortified all at once, but he held steady. Verx was eerily quiet as she worked on his throat, staring straight ahead, his gaze intermittently blank and full of heat.

Our— He stumbled over the unfamiliar word, blinking. Our kids, you mean? What are they? He was sure she had picked out something nice for them, better than he could have done, anyway.

Not that he'd ever really get to say their names, anyway. Not in the tone he'd imagined.

Tears welled up suddenly in his eyes, hot and volatile. He blinked them away with silent fury, gritting his teeth. Goddamn it, Blackhead had turned him into a fucking shell of himself. The humiliation was worse than the pain.

Her own eyes were turned away, focused elsewhere. ”Dragomir,” she mused, before turning back, gaze on his throat, and daubing at the wound with moss and garlic. Giving a small sigh through a pink nose, she withdrew and returned with another poultice; once it was laved and applied, she made to rise, but was suddenly held in place by a glint of — tears?

The last thing he would want would be to be doted on; and here she was, edging that exact definition. Ears pressed back with a flush of shame, and she averted her eyes at his chagrin. But then she realized she hadn’t finished, and quietly did so: ”and Isilmë. Drago, Isi — it’s... it’s what’s gone through my mind ze last few days.” She was probably making this worse; making it seem as if shortening the names would help.

Unable to face him, she gathered up her things and set about clearing the area up, if only to give them both some space to breathe. Usually, she would address them — the tears. Yet, as she came back to him, there was a hesitation to her, as much as there was nothing more she wished to do than drape herself alongside him, cradle him. What could she do, or say?

”You are not a waste, Verx. You are worth every goddamned—“ Her own tears returned, a hot film, seething in the cusp of dark lashes; and she turned from him once more, her pale face dark with her own fury, at Rose, at whoever else had doubted his survival; willing her tongue to keep from profanities. Aure kept herself facing elsewhere, pressing her eyes closed closed closed to keep the rivulets at bay. ”We must leave.”

He repeated the names, lips moving silently. Dragomir and Isilmë. He couldn't have come up with anything better than that. They were perfect.

The names would have helped his spirits a little had she not interjected, and his face grew hot with mortification. Did I say I was? Verx rasped back, teeth clicking together. He didn't know what was more embarrassing--that she had read the self-loathing within his expression. . .or if she had heard things from other wolves along the same lines. I--

His throat quit on him, just then, and he stopped, breathing hard. He nodded fervently in response to her statement, scowling. It was well past time. The Rusalkans were clearly out of their fucking minds, and with kids on the way, he wasn't dealing with that kind of shit on an everyday basis. Maybe once upon a time, sure. But not now.

When? he croaked.

At his words, and her own from before, had her jaw clenching; a muscle flickering in her cheek as she peered at him from over a crude shoulder, her argent eyes hard and bright. The silver brow wreathing her scars, she didn’t reply to him at first, favoring to turn away for another moment before trailing her way back to him. Settling with a huff, Aure situated herself at his flank, her boney rump facing him and budding belly pudging at her knees.

Draping the curve of her neck along him, a red-riddled cheek gingerly smushed into poulticed ribs, she hummed, ”A fortnight — a bit beyond that. You will be...” pale face scrunching, stifling a tearful yawn, ”Your injuries will be well enough by then. And if they are not...” wrinkled muzzle struggling in vain to not yawn, ”If... if they are not, I will do all I can to fend off... infrections.”

For some time, she did nothing but gaze at him without seeing; her irritations and woes took their time to melt from her red-hewn façade. When they did, though, all that was left was utter, parchment-thin exhaustion; and some waning vulnerability that hadn’t made itself evident for some time. ”We... I want us to go to Diaspora. I know Stigmata, and I know that... that Takiyok would advocate on our behalf. There is her little ‘favor’, sh-should she need me, after all...” A thin frown that trembled at the corners; a tired tear, fatigued, quivered from her heavy eyes that she made to keep open for Verx’s sake.

What he needed was time to himself; for him to come to terms with all of this on his own time. She should leave him be — not ruin these off-kilter tatters of them as she’d already done. But the sound of his breathing was the most precious thing she’d ever heard, and she’d forgotten the last time she’d really slept, and... 

Aure huffed, nuzzling a scarred cheek into his dark coat, making off with the ridiculous tear. She deemed to peek back up at him, though, with one point of dreary silver, patient for his reply regardless. Even in his state, he might as well be the better speaker today. He doesn’t need this affection; not now. You need to stay awake! But she only finished with, meek and murmuring, a listless pout into his inked fur, ”I want to... know wh-... what you think.”

He stiffened as she came close, but was ultimately too tired to put up much of a fight. As she relaxed, he did as well, bearing what little weight she put on him as she spoke.

Diaspora, then. He was fond of Takiyok, and assumed Vonn would go with them as well. It would be a good little group there, sheltered away from Rusalka. At this point, he would have gone anywhere; even better that it was somewhere with friends already. He nodded again, slower, gentler this time, staring ahead.

That's fine, Verx whispered. I think that will be good. For you, for the kids. For me.

But would it? All his life, he'd been kru. Leaving now meant desertion, potentially marking him natrona forever. All he'd known was this. And now, so quickly, it was all going away. All of it.

The tears came again, and this time, with Aure drifting off, he let them fall. He hoped she'd at least have enough respect for him to let the weeping go unremarked upon.

So, it was decided: they would head to Stigmata’s claim. Had she the will to smile, she would’ve, knowing how thrilled her brother would be to return to the mountain-king. Ears, limp and furling, lolled at his admittance of going there with her — and another stragglers who trailed after them, she presumed.

What she could do for Verx in the meantime (forever, if need be) was to be there for him; more importantly, to have done so in silence... as she should’ve done the entirety of their afternoon exchange. What more could she do? What more could she give?

Nights ago, they’d admitted to another how they both stumbled along parenthood, and... and whatever they were. Aure couldn't help but feel a bit more ridiculous than usually at her incessant fumbling today, but as the darkness of him drew her further and further into slumber, those mistakes were already far from her mind. So she nestled further against him, peering at him through a veil of salt-lashes.

Aure saw the glimmer of his tears; felt the hiccupy ebb against her cheek. But she did happen to respect him, and more immensely-so than he prayed. Giving one last, soothing nuzzle into his ribs, she let her eyes flutter closed; the two of them were left suspended in the deepening amber of afternoon.