Her dagger goes with the body of the Venatori when the corpse is flung off of her, which frees up her trembling, bloody hands to grasp at Deimos like a lifeline. But he spoke, didn't he, he told her to do something--
Fuck it's hard to keep her eyes open but she's trying, bleary through tears and sweat and rain and blood and delirium. His face is blurry, but she knows those horns, that gold glimmer from the adornments in his hair, the red painted on his skin, and she can feel how solid his arms are even if his touch is so gentle, unsure.
"Are you--hurt?" She grimaces, which should be a smile but she can't manage that as well as she'd like. "I think I might be."
Edited (she can't not make jokes is the thing) 2019-10-27 22:04 (UTC)
"Stop talking. You always talk too much." She doesn't have the strength. And he can't bear it. He can't bear to see her too weak to smile like she always does. That she is trying all the same only makes it worse.
But he doesn't let it stop him, as he draws her into his lap. Lifts her bundle of bird bones and trickling blood to where he can grip her properly. For once he doesn't just haul her about, no, there is a care, if off on him, in how he manoeuvres like he is trying best to make sure he doesn't jostle her unnecessarily.
She starts to respond, but as he pulls her to him and the Venatori spear rips free of her side, left stuck in the ground where she'd fallen, her words die and she can only clamp her teeth down around a cry of pain. The poison feels like fire despite the cold and rain, but she knows not to apply pressure no matter how much her hands itch to do so. Bleed the poison out, don't push it further in.
That's probably wrong, isn't it? Oh well.
"One of us...one of us has to," she jokes, as stubborn as he.
He does the simple thing, then, to shut her up. Leaning down and kissing her. Hard and quick against her lips, pressing a breath there to encourage her to remember to do that only. "No."
But with her in his arms, he stands, doing his best to not jostle her. Her weight no more than a bag of feathers in his arms as he begins to take slow steps. Away from the fight, away from the bodies they leave behind.
"Don't move."
Like he was giving her much of a choice.
feel free to time skip to camp bc she'll wake up when the wound is cauterized :>
Whimpering against his lips, brows knotted in pain, she curls her fingers around the strap of his pauldron and grips it tightly. Her face presses against his chest as he lifts her, and she tries to comply. Tries not to move, easy enough with him holding her, but a desperation sinks in as her consciousness falters.
"Deimos," she breathes. She tips her head to look up at him, eyelids fluttering with the threat of unconsciousness. How kind of the darkness to encroach from the edges of her vision, so she can see only him and not the carnage in their wake. "Deimos, I... have to tell you s-something."
He'll know how to deal with her wound, she isn't worried about that. He's the one, all those years ago, who showed her how to cauterize an arrow wound with gaatlok. He will know to burn the poison out of her wound to stop its spread, but what if it's too late? What if she spent all this time lying to herself about what he is to her, and dies with it in her blood, a poison that can't be burned away with fire?
"I..." Her fingers lose their grip on his armor, and what she says is nothing more than a delirious mumble, three words but unintelligible as unconsciousness takes her.
There she goes, as he knew she would. So much blood, even on him, would cloud his mind. But on her? On her it's too much, he knows it is. That she would fall unconscious. A bodies last desperate attempt to protect itself.
"See, now you cannot die." He says to himself, as he smoothes her hair back from her face, moving her unconscious form carefully, so carefully in his arms. "You know I can't stand not knowing things."
An ultimatum he must hold too like she would listen.
It is what he holds about it when he gets to the camp, their small tucked away corner against a cliff that had made do while they marched for the army. There were many being seen too, so many, he knew, that she would not be seen for hours, and by then? By then it would be too late.
The rest follows in a hurry. It is not forgiving. He tourniquets the wound, to stop the poison from spreading. He sucks out what blood he can in a bloody mouthful, spitting it out. Then gives her what he had been assured help detoxify the blood.
And with a hand he presses against her lips, he prepares to sear the wound. Giving her something to bite in the same moment, he holds her down with that steady weight. She was - always - so little in his head.
The last kind thought, before the searing hot spearhead, presses into the wound.
Her scream is muffled against his hand as the red hot metal burns against her side, but she does not bite. If it weren't for Deimos holding her down, she would have lurched upright and likely sliced herself open on the very tool that is staunching the flow of blood, the very thing keeping her from dying out here, on this battlefield.
Is it rain, or tears that blur her vision now? She blinks rapidly to try and clear her eyes, but when that fails she simply squeezes her eyes shut, clutching at Deimos' forearm and trying simply to withstand this new, life-saving pain.
And when it's over, she chokes out a broken sob and just breathes as best she can.
He holds it onto her, blank faced in the face of her pain. But it is more training, and determination to see this is done. Some part, some loud, demanding part, writhes at her suffering. Demands something - he doesn't know what, exactly. But to end what causes it.
He doesn't think on it long. He never does.
But he arranges what could loosely be considered a pillow for her, though it's no more than a cloak and gently pushes her back. "Breath, breath and rest."
She's trying, really trying to do just that, but it's not easy. Breathing hurts. Not breathing hurts. Movement, stillness, every possibility hurts and the idea of him leaving her side even by necessity hurts.
But she has to let him go, even just a few feet away. She points to her pack, wherever it lay, wincing and tightening her grasp on his forearm before relinquishing it entirely.
"P-poultice," she explains, and grits her teeth against the jolt that ripples up through her ribs. One of them is likely broken, thanks to that damn Venatori.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
KEHEHEH
Fuck it's hard to keep her eyes open but she's trying, bleary through tears and sweat and rain and blood and delirium. His face is blurry, but she knows those horns, that gold glimmer from the adornments in his hair, the red painted on his skin, and she can feel how solid his arms are even if his touch is so gentle, unsure.
"Are you--hurt?" She grimaces, which should be a smile but she can't manage that as well as she'd like. "I think I might be."
no subject
But he doesn't let it stop him, as he draws her into his lap. Lifts her bundle of bird bones and trickling blood to where he can grip her properly. For once he doesn't just haul her about, no, there is a care, if off on him, in how he manoeuvres like he is trying best to make sure he doesn't jostle her unnecessarily.
no subject
That's probably wrong, isn't it? Oh well.
"One of us...one of us has to," she jokes, as stubborn as he.
no subject
But with her in his arms, he stands, doing his best to not jostle her. Her weight no more than a bag of feathers in his arms as he begins to take slow steps. Away from the fight, away from the bodies they leave behind.
"Don't move."
Like he was giving her much of a choice.
feel free to time skip to camp bc she'll wake up when the wound is cauterized :>
"Deimos," she breathes. She tips her head to look up at him, eyelids fluttering with the threat of unconsciousness. How kind of the darkness to encroach from the edges of her vision, so she can see only him and not the carnage in their wake. "Deimos, I... have to tell you s-something."
He'll know how to deal with her wound, she isn't worried about that. He's the one, all those years ago, who showed her how to cauterize an arrow wound with gaatlok. He will know to burn the poison out of her wound to stop its spread, but what if it's too late? What if she spent all this time lying to herself about what he is to her, and dies with it in her blood, a poison that can't be burned away with fire?
"I..." Her fingers lose their grip on his armor, and what she says is nothing more than a delirious mumble, three words but unintelligible as unconsciousness takes her.
no subject
"See, now you cannot die." He says to himself, as he smoothes her hair back from her face, moving her unconscious form carefully, so carefully in his arms. "You know I can't stand not knowing things."
An ultimatum he must hold too like she would listen.
It is what he holds about it when he gets to the camp, their small tucked away corner against a cliff that had made do while they marched for the army. There were many being seen too, so many, he knew, that she would not be seen for hours, and by then? By then it would be too late.
The rest follows in a hurry. It is not forgiving. He tourniquets the wound, to stop the poison from spreading. He sucks out what blood he can in a bloody mouthful, spitting it out. Then gives her what he had been assured help detoxify the blood.
And with a hand he presses against her lips, he prepares to sear the wound. Giving her something to bite in the same moment, he holds her down with that steady weight. She was - always - so little in his head.
The last kind thought, before the searing hot spearhead, presses into the wound.
no subject
Is it rain, or tears that blur her vision now? She blinks rapidly to try and clear her eyes, but when that fails she simply squeezes her eyes shut, clutching at Deimos' forearm and trying simply to withstand this new, life-saving pain.
And when it's over, she chokes out a broken sob and just breathes as best she can.
no subject
He doesn't think on it long. He never does.
But he arranges what could loosely be considered a pillow for her, though it's no more than a cloak and gently pushes her back. "Breath, breath and rest."
no subject
But she has to let him go, even just a few feet away. She points to her pack, wherever it lay, wincing and tightening her grasp on his forearm before relinquishing it entirely.
"P-poultice," she explains, and grits her teeth against the jolt that ripples up through her ribs. One of them is likely broken, thanks to that damn Venatori.