DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
He’d long since put the food away, took to ensuring the companions were fed, bedded down into their comforts, tended to the fire multitudes of times, before finally succumbing to the study, and jotting down notes for the end of the day, and the impending morning. At some point he probably dozed off across the desk, imprints of paper and charcoal left on his cheek, forgotten when her voice in his ear caused him to bolt upright. Blinking more than once to ascertain his surroundings, the reality of the matter contorted in on his mind, and he unfurled another breath, alone in the room. Nodding to nothing and no one, he pressed the cuff at his ear, steeling and preparing for some other onslaught. “Evie – on my way.”
Grabbing his coat at the door, and then Zuriel, for he wasn’t certain about necessities at the present, the pair drifted across the wintry road together. The mixture of dread and apprehension curled in the corners of his ribs, just below heart and lungs. The Sword wasn’t frequently called to the infirmary, existing as the opposite of a mender. But it always pulled stark reminders of white tents, blood, and screams, the echoes of friends not returning, of carrying their figures across battlefields and burying them hours later. Nowadays, he usually lifted one of his soldiers over to the building for broken bones or nasty wounds.
Greeting anyone remaining at the door with a nod, he and the unicorn entered. A few quiet questions left his lips, striving to ascertain the situation before it hit him fully, and the other nurses gave gestures towards the back room. Snagging at a few mugs of water and tea, he ventured in that direction too, Zuriel close behind and a calming presence, before he saw Evie’s familiar crimson hair.
And the patient before her.
“Yosef,” he greeted in a quiet rumble first, before grabbing a chair, and handing over Evie’s mug of choice. The lurking denizen of exhaustion, fatigue, and impending elements lingered too heavily, and he clenched his jaw, glancing at Zuriel as she lingered closer to the man’s bedside. For Deimos’ efforts, he sat beside the Evergreen, his eyes on the elderly gentleman. In all his days of war and worlds, very few had ever made it to the Halovian’s age. The Sword was used to seeing the haggard breath of the young, battle-torn and bludgeoned.
His machinations settled, something resembling stoicism passing over his features when he was anything but, and he leaned close to Evie’s ear, a low whisper. “What did you need?”
Grabbing his coat at the door, and then Zuriel, for he wasn’t certain about necessities at the present, the pair drifted across the wintry road together. The mixture of dread and apprehension curled in the corners of his ribs, just below heart and lungs. The Sword wasn’t frequently called to the infirmary, existing as the opposite of a mender. But it always pulled stark reminders of white tents, blood, and screams, the echoes of friends not returning, of carrying their figures across battlefields and burying them hours later. Nowadays, he usually lifted one of his soldiers over to the building for broken bones or nasty wounds.
Greeting anyone remaining at the door with a nod, he and the unicorn entered. A few quiet questions left his lips, striving to ascertain the situation before it hit him fully, and the other nurses gave gestures towards the back room. Snagging at a few mugs of water and tea, he ventured in that direction too, Zuriel close behind and a calming presence, before he saw Evie’s familiar crimson hair.
And the patient before her.
“Yosef,” he greeted in a quiet rumble first, before grabbing a chair, and handing over Evie’s mug of choice. The lurking denizen of exhaustion, fatigue, and impending elements lingered too heavily, and he clenched his jaw, glancing at Zuriel as she lingered closer to the man’s bedside. For Deimos’ efforts, he sat beside the Evergreen, his eyes on the elderly gentleman. In all his days of war and worlds, very few had ever made it to the Halovian’s age. The Sword was used to seeing the haggard breath of the young, battle-torn and bludgeoned.
His machinations settled, something resembling stoicism passing over his features when he was anything but, and he leaned close to Evie’s ear, a low whisper. “What did you need?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
