#cant believe i said those words and meant jt

[jelzorz]

194.

So much of it happens in a blur. Opeli only remembers bits and pieces of how it started to begin with before the softer parts of her brain shut down to let her do what she needed to do. She remembers an explosion, the air filled with fire and smoke, a crumbling tower and Soren beside her, ushering her towards the nearest exit, his words in her ear—stay low, keep going, go, go, go—and then there was light, and screaming, and chaos, and the rest had simply happened, because there was no time to think about it and too many people to save. There were the guards, the civilians, the dragon circling in the air; the order to evacuate and then Soren leaving her in the stairwell with Hat trembling in her palm; more fire, more smoke, a spell? And now—

The magic that protected them from the fires is starting to wear off now. Most people look like themselves again which is a relief, but it gives Opeli a chance to survey the survivors better too. Raids and wars and attacks are brutal and terrifying in the moment, but the aftermath is almost always worse—and this is the worst is has ever been. The injuries look worse on flesh and blood; broken limbs and crushed legs and burns are so much more visceral now that she can see them, now that they're able to set them and bind them and dress them with gauze. Doctors are in short supply out here, so she and the other clerics have been helping with first aid as much as they can. It's not enough. There are still people who will not see the morning. There will be more rites to give before the sun sets again.

This is why she seeks Soren out, she thinks. He's seen it all. He knows how blood looks on his hands. He knows how to handle all this.

She finds him helping to settle a couple of kids. They are fine, thank the Five Sisters, and their parents are fine, just scared and a little hungry, and he is offering them his rations when she gets to him. They hurry away as she approaches, their smiles shy but grateful, but when Soren gets up, he looks just as wary as she.

"That was very kind," she says quietly.

He shrugs. "They need it more than me. Is everything okay?"

"They could be better." Opeli presses her lips together as she studies him, swallowing the emotion that rises when she remembers he is injured too. The gash on his forehead has dried, matting the hair just above his brow, and she almost can't tell if the marks on his face are made of bruises or soot.

She is so tired of blood. So sick of how red it is, how sticky it feels on her fingers. She likes it even less on him.

“You need that looked at,” she says at last, nodding at his forehead.

He waves her off. “It’s just a scratch. The other clerics have their hands full. I’ll be fine.”

Opeli sets her jaw. “My hands are free. I’ll take care of it.”

“Opeli, seriously, it’s okay—”

“I owe you.” It slips out before she means it to. She knows he doesn't want to feel like his bravery has to be repaid. It's his job to protect his people, just as it is hers—but she thinks of the window in the tower, the dragon in the sky, the glow of an inferno and of the heat of dragonfire as it blew the glass inward, right where she would have been standing if he hadn't—

"You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my life," she points out. Twice today, she thinks, when he tackled her out of the way of Sol Regem's attack, and then she was in the crowd by the bridge, trapped by the fires after he left her with Hat to speak to his father. There was a third time too, when Viren crowned himself King and would have branded her and Corvus traitors to the realm. "Let me stitch you up. It's the least I can do."

"Opeli—"

"Soren." She gives him a look, stern, unyielding, the same kind she uses at meetings when someone won't agree to doing something reasonable. "I wouldn't be here to offer if it wasn't for you. Let me help."

He chuckles, then relents. "Fine," he mumbles after a moment. "Let's get it over with."

x

They find a quieter spot, a little away from the crowd but still close enough to keep watch over them in case something else happens. Opeli picks up a first aid kit from one of the younger clerics as they pass, one whose hands are shaking with the shock and exhaustion of treating so many wounded. She is not the only one: Opeli has already ordered two others to go to bed and leave their kits with soldiers or civilian volunteers. One of the guards threw up when Opeli reset someone's dislocated shoulder. Another had her head in her hands and jumped at every sudden noise.

The cracks are starting to show in everyone, and it's not just because of the trauma caused by a dragon attacking the castle. They are all simply exhausted, and the work does not seem to stop. The soldiers keep watch in shifts but then have to assist the civilians with tents, with food, with moving the injured and the dead.

But Soren is steady. His resolve keeps her hands from shaking, even as he winces while she drags thread through his skin. The stitches are not as neat as they would have been this morning, but the gash is clean and closed, and he's not bleeding anymore.

Opeli clicks her tongue at her work, wishing it was better, wishing she could do more, but he catches her hand as she frets over it, the warmth of his fingers like an anchor to this, to now.

"You don't owe me," he says again.

"I owe you three times over," she says. "Three times now, I—"

"You don't," he insists. "It's my job."

"It's your job to keep Ezran safe. Keeping me alive is certainly not—"

"Do not finish that sentence."

"I only—"

"Opeli." His fingers tighten. Opeli's breath catches in her throat. "It's my job to protect my friends," he says. "My family. I've lost enough. Don't act like I can afford to lose more."

There's a pause. Opeli looks away, and then, to her horror, she starts to cry.

Soren stares at her but his grip is firm, even as she hiccoughs and hides her tears in the recesses of her hood. It's all so much. Too much. The smoke and the fire and loss of life; the windows exploding inwards, the wound on his forehead, the castle crumbling to the ground. And now this too? "Thank you," she murmurs.

"Opeli, come on, you don't even owe me that."

"Not for that. For—" Opeli sniffles. "For considering me your friend. I'm honoured."

He almost laughs at her, his fingers tightening that little bit more, a man clinging to what little he has left. "You're pretty well family now," he says quietly. "Don't thank me," he says again. "Just don't die or leave or whatever else. I don't think I can—" He swallows. "Just stick around and we'll call it even. Okay?"

Opeli twitches her lips despite herself. "I can do my best."