#aisanne using her druid abilities to make sure nyra doesn't die

[i-mybrunettelady]

How about a lil 23 from the kiss prompt list :3c

Hey, hey! Sorry for the late reply, I had a really tough time making this not either terribly and painfully angsty or weird angsty. I think this is an acceptable level of angst.. Slight spoiler for HoT.

-- prompt: life-or-death kisses

--- Maguuma, 1328 AE

When Deborah hears someone yell for a medic and when a green body vaguely enters her line of sight, she smiles. They found the Marshal!

But when it becomes clearer, the smile drops. There’s no way in Grenth’s watery halls that he’s alive, with a hole ripped through his body like that, with Caladbolg dripping with sap against Rytlock’s fur.

But then her heart sinks to her heels and dies there. Nyra looks so small in Braham’s big arms, head tilted back, arm hanging, sap dripping from her fingers. The cut on her back is so deep she might as well have died while they came down here.

“Grenth have mercy on us,” she murmurs, paling. Her hands shake so much she lets her sword drop to the ground. Warmaster Bjornsdottir stares, Boy screeches.

“Warmaster, tell me what I’m seeing is not real. Tell me that’s not my sister, please.” Deborah whispers. Tears gather in her eyes. Her heart keeps skipping beats so much she thinks she’ll just drop down.

“I.. I can’t,” the warmaster stammers out. “Ainsaph, Bear help me, I can’t. That’s the Commander alright.”

“Dwayna, please,” Deborah stutters, feeling tears on her tongue. “Dwayna, please, don’t let her die. Dwayna, Melandru, whoever is listening, please.” Before she knows it, she’s pushing people on her way to get to Nyra, uncaring who she pushes aside. Bjornsdottir runs after her, but Deborah just runs faster.

“ALYSANNYRA, DON’T YOU DARE DIE! DON’T DIE ON ME!” she shouts desperately, looking up at Braham. “You’re a guardian too, do something! Please!”

“Ainsaph, get a hold of yourself!” Bjornsdottir yells, pushing her away to medics can pass. Deborah is shaking, staring up, begging repeatedly, but the warmaster’s arms are relentless. “Listen, I’d lose my shit too if my sister was in danger, but you have to calm down! Eirsson, use your magic!”

“I can’t heal!” Braham shouts. A medic signals for him to put Nyra down and Deborah is there in moments, moving hair from Nyra’s head, and she’s so pale, so pale, so motionless, but a little breath is there, Dwayna’s mercy, breath is there, and Deborah is sobbing out in both desperation and relief.

“Please, Nyra,” she begs, “please, please. Don’t die on me.” She presses urgent kisses to the side of her sister’s head, stopping only to help remove the broken armor to let healing magic in. “I can’t lose you too. Please. Dwayna, please.”

“Ainsaph,” warmaster grits out and Deborah looks up to see her aiming magic to the gaping wound, “we’ll have to move her soon! We can’t do much here!”

“Promise me she’ll live,” Deborah shouts, staring at Nyra’s face. “Promise me. Promise me!”

“I can’t promise you if you don’t let us work!” Bjornsdottir cuts her off and Deborah moves her hands from Nyra’s body. “Medics, move out! We can’t lose the Commander!”

Somewhere beside her, a sylvari shouts. She recognises a mindless threat that he’ll make someone ashes between the screaming, but it becomes background noise as she watches them move Nyra to the nearest free tent. Prayers leave her lips before she registers she’s saying them, kneeling on the ground.

Trahearne is dead. She suddenly remembers the sap on Nyra’s fingers. “Six, have mercy,” she says breathlessly. “Not her too. She’ll survive the aftermath if she survives this.”

Deborah will make sure she does. If nothing else, she’ll do that. But now she has to keep praying Nyra makes it through this.