Night, 48th Roalis, 2719
Castle Hill, Old Rose Harbor
Castle Hill, Old Rose Harbor
Aremu held himself as upright as he could manage, his gaze on Cailan’s back for a long moment as the white-haired passive walked away. He made no good-byes of his own, but turned slowly to look at Niccolette. He waited a little longer, until he was sure that Cailan was out of earshot. Aremu was conscious that he was breathing a little too hard. Pain ached in his side, shot through him, and he was genuinely not sure how much longer he could stay standing; he was not sure whether sitting would help.
Niccolette grinned at him, and then the expression faded, slowly, when he did not return her smile. Her jaw tightened, and she looked away.
“You cannot keep doing this,” Aremu said, softly.
Niccolette scowled, holding the railing, and her gaze swept back to him, sharp and furious.
“You do not want me to say it, I know,” Aremu said. He was sagging a little himself; he was so tired. His hand lingered at his side – lowered, slowly. His right arm was still pressed close to his body, his wrist still resting against the edge of his pocket. “I cannot carry you, Niccolette.”
“I did not ask you to,” Niccolette spat, furious. Her field pressed down on him, bright and sharp.
Aremu shrugged, feeling the prickling weight of it sweep over him. “But you knew I would.”
“I was trying to heal you!” Niccolette said, stung, her voice tight. “If we had not bothered with that,” she gestured vaguely in the direction that Cailan had gone, then clung to the pillar again. He thought perhaps her legs were growing stronger again, but she did not seem quite ready to stand once more.
“Yes,” Aremu agreed, although he could not bring himself to regret it; he could not regret helping him. “But it is not only that.”
Niccolette looked away. He could hear the change in her breaths, the way she liked to focus on them. The pressure in the air lessened.
When she spoke again, Niccolette’s voice was small and quiet. “I am doing the best I can,” she said, and Aremu could hear her breaking on the words.
“I know,” Aremu looked at her for a long moment, and she did not meet his gaze. “Come back to the island, Niccolette. It is not good for you to be here. This is not a good place.”
Niccolette shook her head.
“You need time,” Aremu said.
“I have taken time,” Niccolette spat, shaking. “I have taken – I have taken so much time, and I am no further – I have not – ” She shuddered and broke off, and doubled forward; he saw her right hand come up and grab hold of her side, clutching tightly at it. Aremu knew what lay beneath the dark black fabric of her dress, the handprint that she would wear for the rest of her lift. He glanced down at his arm, and thought about scars.
“You cannot keep doing this,” the imbala repeated, as quiet as he had been before. “He would rather have you alive – ”
“Fuck off!” Niccolette shuddered, lifting a tear-filled gaze to him through the rain. “If Uzoji wanted to have a godsbedamned opinion, he should have stayed alive.”
Aremu stopped, his jaw clenched tight. He stared at her. The storm was picking up again; sheets of rain slapped across the dark streets, and lightning burst through the distant sky. He sighed, softly, and shrugged his shoulders. He took a step towards her, slow and dragging, his head spinning.
Niccolette watched him, her face as dark as the storm.
Aremu’s shoulders sank a little, and he shook his head, ever so slightly. “All right,” Aremu lied, and he did not know if she could tell. The silence between them stretched for a long time, punctuated only by the steady rattling of the pain, the sweep of the wind. Light lit her face, and Aremu wondered what she saw on his.
“How bad is it?” Niccolette asked, finally, her gaze lowering to his side.
Aremu glanced down as well. Slowly, he reached his hand to his shirt, and lifted it, revealing the sluggishly bleeding wound in his side, the skin around it swollen and irritated already, washed but not made clean by the rain.
Niccolette let go of the post, and limped to him, slowly. She knelt on the muddy ground, and Aremu stiffened, glancing away, unable to look down at the head of dark hair before him. The jolt of pain through him was welcome, although he did not watch her touching the wound.
“Don’t – “ Aremu began.
“Do not tell me what to do,” Niccolette said, her fingers light against his skin. Aremu held, silent, and jerked as she pressed down.
“I cannot make it gentle,” Niccolette said, finally.
“I know,” Aremu said. “I will manage.”
Aremu closed his eyes through the pain, oddly hot beneath the sleeting rain, and held. It was only pain, he promised himself. He had been through worse, and he knew the difference. He forced his mind forward – forced himself to think about the journey that would come, across the rattling streets of the Rose to Silas Hawke – to think about lessening the burden of gems and gold that weight heavy against his heart – to think about the heavier burden of the Bastian kneeling at his feet, chanting steadily in monite, her field swirling around him. It was only pain, Aremu told himself, and this sort he knew would pass.
Niccolette’s voice eased to a stop, and Aremu shuddered; he dropped to his knees, too. Niccolette doubled forward, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. Aremu eased his arm around her, slowly – one, and then both, holding onto his wrist with his hand, and held her tightly. His eyes closed, the water splashing against his face like tears, and he let Niccolette cry as long as she needed to, her hands clenched tight in his shirt.
"It is all right, poa'na," Aremu lied. "We shall find a way."
The rest would come; they could not stop it. She had bled the poisonous heat from his wound, and if it was tender, the bleeding had closed. He could not do the same for her, but he would try; he would try as best as he could.
Niccolette grinned at him, and then the expression faded, slowly, when he did not return her smile. Her jaw tightened, and she looked away.
“You cannot keep doing this,” Aremu said, softly.
Niccolette scowled, holding the railing, and her gaze swept back to him, sharp and furious.
“You do not want me to say it, I know,” Aremu said. He was sagging a little himself; he was so tired. His hand lingered at his side – lowered, slowly. His right arm was still pressed close to his body, his wrist still resting against the edge of his pocket. “I cannot carry you, Niccolette.”
“I did not ask you to,” Niccolette spat, furious. Her field pressed down on him, bright and sharp.
Aremu shrugged, feeling the prickling weight of it sweep over him. “But you knew I would.”
“I was trying to heal you!” Niccolette said, stung, her voice tight. “If we had not bothered with that,” she gestured vaguely in the direction that Cailan had gone, then clung to the pillar again. He thought perhaps her legs were growing stronger again, but she did not seem quite ready to stand once more.
“Yes,” Aremu agreed, although he could not bring himself to regret it; he could not regret helping him. “But it is not only that.”
Niccolette looked away. He could hear the change in her breaths, the way she liked to focus on them. The pressure in the air lessened.
When she spoke again, Niccolette’s voice was small and quiet. “I am doing the best I can,” she said, and Aremu could hear her breaking on the words.
“I know,” Aremu looked at her for a long moment, and she did not meet his gaze. “Come back to the island, Niccolette. It is not good for you to be here. This is not a good place.”
Niccolette shook her head.
“You need time,” Aremu said.
“I have taken time,” Niccolette spat, shaking. “I have taken – I have taken so much time, and I am no further – I have not – ” She shuddered and broke off, and doubled forward; he saw her right hand come up and grab hold of her side, clutching tightly at it. Aremu knew what lay beneath the dark black fabric of her dress, the handprint that she would wear for the rest of her lift. He glanced down at his arm, and thought about scars.
“You cannot keep doing this,” the imbala repeated, as quiet as he had been before. “He would rather have you alive – ”
“Fuck off!” Niccolette shuddered, lifting a tear-filled gaze to him through the rain. “If Uzoji wanted to have a godsbedamned opinion, he should have stayed alive.”
Aremu stopped, his jaw clenched tight. He stared at her. The storm was picking up again; sheets of rain slapped across the dark streets, and lightning burst through the distant sky. He sighed, softly, and shrugged his shoulders. He took a step towards her, slow and dragging, his head spinning.
Niccolette watched him, her face as dark as the storm.
Aremu’s shoulders sank a little, and he shook his head, ever so slightly. “All right,” Aremu lied, and he did not know if she could tell. The silence between them stretched for a long time, punctuated only by the steady rattling of the pain, the sweep of the wind. Light lit her face, and Aremu wondered what she saw on his.
“How bad is it?” Niccolette asked, finally, her gaze lowering to his side.
Aremu glanced down as well. Slowly, he reached his hand to his shirt, and lifted it, revealing the sluggishly bleeding wound in his side, the skin around it swollen and irritated already, washed but not made clean by the rain.
Niccolette let go of the post, and limped to him, slowly. She knelt on the muddy ground, and Aremu stiffened, glancing away, unable to look down at the head of dark hair before him. The jolt of pain through him was welcome, although he did not watch her touching the wound.
“Don’t – “ Aremu began.
“Do not tell me what to do,” Niccolette said, her fingers light against his skin. Aremu held, silent, and jerked as she pressed down.
“I cannot make it gentle,” Niccolette said, finally.
“I know,” Aremu said. “I will manage.”
Aremu closed his eyes through the pain, oddly hot beneath the sleeting rain, and held. It was only pain, he promised himself. He had been through worse, and he knew the difference. He forced his mind forward – forced himself to think about the journey that would come, across the rattling streets of the Rose to Silas Hawke – to think about lessening the burden of gems and gold that weight heavy against his heart – to think about the heavier burden of the Bastian kneeling at his feet, chanting steadily in monite, her field swirling around him. It was only pain, Aremu told himself, and this sort he knew would pass.
Niccolette’s voice eased to a stop, and Aremu shuddered; he dropped to his knees, too. Niccolette doubled forward, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. Aremu eased his arm around her, slowly – one, and then both, holding onto his wrist with his hand, and held her tightly. His eyes closed, the water splashing against his face like tears, and he let Niccolette cry as long as she needed to, her hands clenched tight in his shirt.
"It is all right, poa'na," Aremu lied. "We shall find a way."
The rest would come; they could not stop it. She had bled the poisonous heat from his wound, and if it was tender, the bleeding had closed. He could not do the same for her, but he would try; he would try as best as he could.
