#enchiiridion — 003

[viladlind]

with her fingers impossibly tight around the material of the stretcher, fiyero stands at his side for as long as it's allowed. she looks for volo as he looks for her, and as he brushes his hand against her cheek, she wraps her own around his wrist, steadying him. pulling closer so that she feels the press of his fingers against her skin. she never thought she'd feel so helpless ever again. not once she got abducted, once she had to tap into the magic of her music more seriously. if there's anything that fiyero seeks out more in this world than love, it's her ability to control herself.

   her powers have been taken from her, without her having a say in the matter. her friend has been injured grievously, and this is all she was able to do. pulling at the broken shards of him to keep him together, call somebody else to take over. away from her.

   out of her control.

   the moment isn't long enough. she almost protests when she's shifted out of the way, into a corner of the vehicle too far away to touch volo. but she's spent far too long in the role of the healer to deny these people the space they need to work on volo, so she presses herself against the wall, takes whatever glances she'll get in between the people rushing about at his side. there's yelling, words she doesn't process. instruments she's not familiar with. more blood dripping down the sides of the stretcher, clinging to its metal. the vehicle is so fast, the voices are so loud, but none of it truly reaches. not when her gaze is stuck to volo's expression.

   she sees, when he slips away.

   he'd been moving, trying to get a look at what's being done to him. at fiyero, pressed against the wall. her eyes wide, her breathing shallow, she can't help the way her expression is entirely unguarded, open and vulnerable. all that fear on display. but then his head tilts back, uncoordinated, and his eyes look at the ceiling, and then they're not looking at all anymore. his chest caves into him with a last breath, a horrible gasp, and fiyero knows what that is. what that means. she's seen it in her friends many times, only that then, she had a scroll of revivify in her pocket as she was running over.

   ' baw— volo, gin iallon, no— ' she's scrambling. somebody tries to hold her back, and there's a yelp as fiyero drives her claws over their face. somebody else tries to pull her back by the shoulder, so she kicks. her hands tremble as she frames his face in them, the touch terribly tender, barely there. like if she'll actually touch him, she'll feel the coldness. like if she actually concentrates on it, she'll realize he's stopped breathing.

   ' natho den! ' she's not sure if anyone's listening to her. a few of them are still working on volo, the two she'd just pushed aside almost frozen in indecision. they're still driving. her gaze is fixed on volo, yet not looking at him at all, brushing the hair out of his face ever so gently. ' please, don't— '

don't stop. help him. please.

   volo's gaze doesn't focus again.

   (she promised that he'd get to see his son again.)

   an hour later, fiyero is cowering in the very back corner of the vehicle. she slumped onto the ground at some point, her knees pulled up to her chest, her head buried against them. both her tail and her arms are wrapped around her legs. she's made herself as small as she possibly could. there's shame, so much of it, clinging to her body, dragging her down. a buzzing in her head, cotton in her ears. she doesn't think she wants to move, ever again. there's a puddle of blood on the floor of the vehicle that had dried mere inches from the tip of her boots. everything reeks of gore and metal and death. she's covered in it. there's so much of it.

   she's left to her devices for a long time. she threatened and hurt members of the medical staff, so they don't really know what to do with her. they'd taken volo's body and fiyero had felt helpess and useless enough to let it happen. another reason for the guilt eating away at her. eventually, though, a new pair of footsteps clangs against the metal floor of the vehicle. fiyero only looks up when they drape a blanket around her shoulders, her face a mess of tears and snot and blood. there's a hand on her back as they mumble words she doesn't register. her eyes go to the empty stretcher.

   she can't breathe.

   they take her inside and explain what death means on this island. it's not permanent, they say. he'll wake up in his bed, in the next couple of days. with new scars, but as alive as he'd been before.

   but he still died, they say. he'll need time to recover.

   fiyero stays at the house of healing for a while longer. they're not comfortable letting her leave, not with the way she sways when they transport her to another room, not with the way she's clinging to her own arms, claws digging into her skin. she wants to leave, but there's nothing in her left that's able to argue about it. they give her spare clothes that aren't soaked in blood before she can cast prestidigitation on herself. they give her something to drink and she pukes it up in the next half hour. they talk to her.

   she doesn't want to talk. she wants to leave.

   and when she does, rubbing at her own hands in an attempt to get rid of the blood no longer on them, she immediately heads for volo's apartment. they'd given her his key, an impossible weight in her pocket. it's only when the door closes behind her that she pulls out her phone, texting gale. she knows she should be checking for food, talk to his roommates, tell his friends— what?

   that she let him die?

   she pulls up a chair by his bed and doesn't move again.

Fiyero has always done everything to the best of her abilities and beyond. She rescued a grove without raising any question. She gathered strangers and turned them into companions. She rescued the likes of Volo more than once ( and many would say that one time was already too many ). The gods should tremble at her feet; not a single world amongst all the realms in which Fiyero was not capable to survive and thrive. Not even here, in this city, where up is down and the arcane is out. Where all odds are against them, where the gods of this realm pride themselves upon joyous cruelty ( for what is crueler than to pluck someone from there home with no hope of return? )

They can barely hear it, a hazy blaring in their ears, eyes half lidded and body going limp. There's shouting- Fiyero's- and then a sound from the Hells itself wretched out of her throat. Volo doesn't recognise it.

All too suddenly, her hands are replaced by someone's so unfamiliar to him. Carted away in a vehicle. The last time Volo laid down on a stretcher was in Calimshan, because it had been left behind and made for a good temporary bed. Perhaps this one would be just as comfortable. There's Fiyero, by his side, a look of worry he's never seen before awash on her face. The light in the ambulance blinds him, the blaring of the siren fading in and out of their ears. A medic is injecting something into his body, another is assessing the wounds. They're talking, but Volo pays no mind to their conversation. For once, they aren't being nosy.

Instead, they turn their head to their savior. Weakly, a hand reaches up, holding the side of Fiyero's face. Just a light touch, barely disturbing the blood on his fingers; there's always a determination in those eyes. Neverending courage. A life so rife with trials and tribulations. Volo is one of them. He's always been one to the people in his life. "Terribly sorry... for the mess..."

In your kitchen. On your body. At your camp. In your life.

( ... too fast! ... ) Time moves so slowly. Was only some minutes ago that he was in the park, pulling a dagger out of his body, rushing over to Fiyero's, wasn't it? ( ... don't know if we'll ... ) Volo can barely feel whatever it is they're probing their body for, too focused on looking Fiyero in the eye. Too tired to have the will for much else.

( would Elminster be mad, if he died here of all places? oh, the nerve of you! he'd say )

The beating of his heart. He can still hear it, beating in his ears. Can feel it pulse at the open wounds, at their fingertips, stuck in their throat. Can hear it shrill and frequent. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Tick, tick, tick. A metronome struggling to keep pace. Volo feels a hand grab him by the wrist to put it back by his side. He'd fight back if there was still any energy left in his body. Something metal clatters to the floor, and Volo attempts to lift their head to see-- but that same hand gently pushes down ( ... don't move ... ).

It's all a bit much. The extra company, the bright lights, the blaring siren. And the look of his companion, so willing to tread Hell and high water for him. There is no alternative for Fiyero. Volo would will his eyes wider, to see past a squint, but fails to muster the energy. <DC15 FAILURE!> Just once more, he wishes to apologize. Bleary vision weak, skin going pale. Volo opens his mouth to speak, but it's already too late. If only just a moment sooner. If only a minute faster. But at least the pain has stopped, right? ( no it hasn't, and Volo would do well to remember that ).

He can't hear his heartbeat anymore.

[viladlind]

volo asks her for help with their touch around her wrist. she's already helping them. there's a desperation to it, that simple ask. for the pain to go away, for fiyero to make the pain go away. that horrible feeling of being torn open and pulled back together. she's intimately aware of it, has been on its receiving end plenty of times. the healer can't stay on her feet forever. she remembers being on her back on some patch of earth, covered in her own blood, listening to the panic in karlach's voice as the rest of her companions try to keep her in one piece until they can get a potion of healing into her. injuries aren't permanent, death isn't permanent, not for them, with their potions and scrolls. but every single time she's had to rush over to one of her friends, gasping for air as they struggle to hold on, she felt a churning in her stomach that she'll never get used to.

   there's nothing in the world she wants more right now than to rid volo of this, but she's already helping them. as much as she can. and whatever that is, it doesn't feel like enough.

   she keeps pressure on the towel, tries to keep volo engaged in a conversation that's repetitive, nonsensical. with the phone clattering back onto the floor, she has two hands now, so she keeps them both there. the towel makes a wet sound with every slight movement from either of them, and fiyero already knows she'll hear it again next time she dreams. the time stretches for too long, knowing that this is all she can do until help arrives, but she tries to focus on what she knows. the awareness in their eyes, the steadiness and depth of their breath, the strength of their grip around her wrist. as though keeping track of it all would stop them from fading away.

   and then she hears an awful, blaring sound outside, worse than standing right underneath the bell in a belltower as it's rung, and hurried steps towards the door that's still open. she hadn't closed it after the both of them stumbled through earlier.

   ' here— we're here, come quickly, please— '

   the people that must be medics find them, and fiyero slips back into a rhythm she'd repeated with shadowheart before, returning to camp with friends she hadn't been able to heal entirely. ' he has two wounds. shoulder and waist— i stuffed both of them, but i only had enough gauze for the shoulder. he bled a lot, ' as if that wasn't evident by the blood on the floor, on her dog, on fiyero. volo's shirt is entirely stained at this point. the cut doesn't matter anymore.

   somebody nudges her away from volo, and she only relents after seeing a different pair of hands over hers, ready to take over. not terribly far. a step back, where she can still see everything that's going on, the eyes assessing volo, the hands ready to take them away. and where fiyero was focused before, where fear hadn't managed to grip her entirely, a chilling rage washes over her now. as they're lifted onto a stretcher and prepared to be rushed outside, towards some type of vehicle, she steps up alongside them, too much distance between her and volo.

   ' i'm coming with. '

   one of the medics looks at her. she sees that same grim focus that she sees in shadowheart, when she takes over for fiyero. " sir, you can't— "

   fiyero hisses. it's not a pretty sound, fangs suddenly bared, and it must not make for a pretty sight either, considering all the blood on her. it's a volatile reaction, seeing some of the medics freeze in response, others still hurrying volo along on their stretcher. fiyero keeps up, fingers flexing around nothing with outstretched hands, as though she's getting ready to tear somebody apart. her blue eyes stand out unnaturally as they step out into the dark.

   she starts in infernal: something about fools and impertinence, nothing any of these people will understand. then, she repeats: ' i'm coming with. '

   and so she comes with.

If there was still any sense left in them, he'd tell her that he preferred the gauze. The towel is thick, struggling its way into the wound, but Volo is too busy breaking the skin of his inner lip to complain about it. Spine goes stiff as the pain is reignited, a match lit next too close to a smokepowder barrel, and for the first time, words get trapped in their throat. It comes out in a muffled scream, shocks him awake but just barely, chest heaving with the exertion. They should've asked her to be more gentle.

"Hells!" Monotone rings in his ears, a flat buzz that elevates the noise around him. Where before he couldn't sense enough, now it's too much, the kitchen light blinding and the sound of Scratch's pacing on the tile too much. His hand grips Fiyero's at the wrist, hold weak and shaky, as if to ask her to move. He wants to grab the towel out of him, to relieve the pressure, but he can't. Will too weak, the flesh even weaker, and he settles for just holding her wrist in his hand. A cry for help. It hurts.

Volo's eyes blink slowly, teeth grinding as he smiles and nods. Yes, they could manage that. Staying awake. For how long, Volo couldn't promise, but he can feel his heartbeat through the towel like the tick of a clock. Thump, thump, thump, thump. A bird helplessly flapping its wings against the cage bars, desperate to get out. The hand of his wounded shoulder lifts slightly when Scratch's snout comes from underneath, and Volo gently spreads his fingers over the fur. Barely petting him.

They should remember to apologise for the blood on his fur later, when... when more conscious.

Volo hasn't half a mind to wonder who may come to their aid. The room is spinning and Fiyero is on that peculiar little contraption like one would use a sending stone. The earlier shock therapy is beginning to fade, but Scratch's fur keeps him grounded. It's mostly soft, save for the spots where blood has begun to dry up, and he's warm too. Just the slightest bit, Volo's smile tugs on the corners of his lips a little wider. "Don't you worry. I'm not going anywhere either."

As he waits, he decides to take the first proper look at himself for the first time in a while. To his shoulder, a wound stuffed so deep with gauze that it aches to look at. His hand limply leaves Fiyero's wrist to gently touch its surrounding. All that blood, smeared across his skin, leaving stains on his cut-through shirt. That smile quickly morphs into a frown as he sighs, the movement sending another pang of pain throughout his body. Then he turns his gaze towards his waist. Volo can't tell what the original color of the towel was anymore. It's soaked in his own blood, red all over Fiyero's hands.

( keep awake, you fool! Elminster had told them once, casting cure critical wounds on them ). Perhaps if he'd kept a closer eye on that ring, he wouldn't be in such trouble, bleeding out in Fiyero's kitchen so late at night.

[viladlind]

there's too many things happening at once. with the arm lifted from the second wound by volo's waist, blood starts gushing, and fiyero scrambles to press her hands against it once she realizes that it's a lot more severe than she initially thought. it hadn't seemed as bad. any injury near the throat takes precedence, so she would've had to check the shoulder first anyways, and volo isn't spitting up blood, so his lungs must remain unharmed from the cut by his waist. trying to feel out whether or not any of his guts are hanging out, her head spins for a second. ' shit— '

   he spit the stick out. it's on the ground, alongside the phone. too far for her to reach, with her hands pressing into his skin. his skin is getting colder. red blooms from between her fingers.

   her focus slips. you seem troubled, my friend. part of her wants to hurl insults at him, tap into that anger left unused, simmering in her chest. it's been so long since she spit fire. there's a much larger part of her that's terrified to see volo die in her arms while she's unable to heal him, unable to bring him back. it's a sort of helplessness she hasn't experienced in months, and it rattles her. she's stuffed one wound. the other is so much deeper than she thought it was. she hasn't called help yet. the phone is on the ground.

   she brought towels.

   removing one hand to yank them from her shoulder, she immediately sets to halfway shoving it into volo's waist. he might bite his tongue, but his voice sounded so small, so distant, so unusual for a soul so large. she's hoping the pain will pull him back rather than push him further underneath. fiyero curses in infernal as she works, half-interrupted words and phrases that don't go anywhere. the towel doesn't quite fit, her grip on it not as efficient as the gauze, and she doesn't want to be too reckless, injure him worse. half of it reaches inside, and then she uses one hand to keep it pressed there. the blood's stopped dripping on the floor, but she can feel it soak the fabric.

   her other hand reaches for the phone. her hand is— it's slick with blood, and her talons are too long, and for a second her eyes refuse to focus. but then they do. she taps the number correctly after a few failed attempts. as it rings, she racks her brain for the address of this place, looks up at volo. his hand is on her shoulder, but his gaze isn't fully there, his neck lolling as he sways lightly. there's a smile on his face. she wants to kiss it, just for the sake of it, to make sure her friend is still breathing and here and not gone yet.

   ' volo. dear. stay awake. there's more help coming. i need you to keep trying until they're here. okay? don't close your eyes. you can feel me, yes? i'm right here. i'm not going anywhere. '

   then the person on the phone picks up, and fiyero's attention diverts as she prattles off her information.

It's just a scratch, he wants to say. Nothing too bad. Nothing is ever too bad for Volo. Nothing has killed them in the past four centuries. Why would it happen now? Both hands are too preoccupied to reach up and pat Fiyero on the head for a job well done ( a little thank you, but I would've been fine ). Nevermind the cloudy vision and the bleary light of the kitchen. Nevermind the stained clothes and torn threads. He'll be just fine. He always is.

Volo spits out the stick when the stuffing is over, watching it lay on the floor. Red smears across his face, a curl stuck to his cheek as he barely makes out a few words through the noise in his ears. Like cotton has been stuffed in them. He's always liked looking in Fiyero's eyes ( the shine of a silver coin under the gaze of the moon, he wrote in his draft back in the Shadow Cursed lands ), smiling back weakly, like a cat's slow blink. Volo can feel the way his shirt lifts from his waist, following his arm; cold and wet. And painful. But they can manage, half-lidded eyes watching distantly. The blood gushes freely, the wound deep, dripping on the floor.

"I'm not holding anything," voice weak and weary, confused, watching Fiyero's deft fingers. It's all he can really see, the contrast of red on pink, the white of Scratch's fur. His voice is distant; it sounds louder in his head than it does to Fiyero, like it's echoing in his skull. Better the sound of their voice than the pounding of their heart trying to compensate for all the loss. "A flesh wound. You seem troubled, my friend."

Almost unnervingly calm. Volo's head feels heavy, neck lax and swaying with every tilt. Too drunk on the pain to really feel it anymore. Against better judgement, Volo wants to take a nap. His eyelids heavy, exhaustion through every pore. He'd ask if he could move to a couch, but he wouldn't want to track more blood than he already has ( isn't it so amazing, just how much blood the average human has in their body?). A hand reaches up, freed from his waist, holding onto Fiyero's shoulder to keep steady. Volo blinks a few times, to keep awake. It's hard to tell if he's smiling for his sake or Fiyero's.

[viladlind]

volo holds blessedly still as fiyero starts stuffing the injury. there is a methodical rhythm to this that fiyero follows, no room for anything else. he can't afford worry, or worse, panic, when he's busy holding his friend together with his bare hands. there is only the wound, the blood gushing out of it, the gauze in his hand. it always goes so much further than fiyero expects it to, white disappearing in a sea of red. he keeps going, further and further, speed essential if he doesn't want volo to pass out from sheer pain.

   he could. he's standing his ground right now, gripping the chair for some semblance of stability. there's a sway to him that hurries fiyero further, wishing for another hand so that he may hold volo up with it. he only has the two, and he needs them for holding the wound open, stuffing the gauze into it. a part of his mind clouds over. the squelching sound of it, the sputtering of blood, the way he has to dig around inside of volo's body to keep him alive. for any other man, it would be enough to grow sick.

   fiyero is not any other man.

   he forgets to speak, though. to give volo something to keep him grounded in this world, not the ones beyond.

   most of the gauze is gone— the wound is filled, bloodflow slowed considerably. that's not the end of it. his hand reaches up, grabbing volo by the jaw to try and force him to make eye contact. the touch is gentle, but firm. he spreads blood across his beard. ' hey. don't pass out. you have to stay with me, volo. scratch— scratch, ' the dog perks up from where he's been pacing nearby, unnoticed by fiyero until this very moment, ' get my phone, please, it's on the— yeah. '

   a luxury they haven't been afforded in a long time, if ever. being able to call people, to call for help when they get hurt. for a brief moment, fiyero is glad that leonard gave him a thorough explanation of how to make the call, should he ever need it.

   scratch drops the phone on the floor next to them as fiyero kneels, gently peeling volo's arm from his waist. ' let me see. i might have to stuff this one, too. how are you holding up? ' a question posed, for the first time, looking to get some words out of volo.

Eyes still blinking. Heart still beating. Right. No problem. The ring. That's all he needs, Elminster's ring, the one he gave way back when... the ring that had been taken, one of the first things they'd noticed missing upon arrival. Oh, that's no good, no good at all. The landscape looks like it's spinning and his shirt is stained red ( that'll leave a stain, probably, that he'll have to clean up later-- if he can manage ). He can't seem to think, can't even remember why he's out here ( with his notebook, right, in the middle of the night, following not too far behind an unsavory fellow ). It was all a blur after that. A lot of shouting. Maybe a bit of stabbing. Volo couldn't really think of anything else to do or wherever else to go.

Nowhere else but Fiyero, as he trudged all the way to her home. Maybe the blood would scare her. He hoped not; she didn't deserve that. But there was little to do about it, being ushered away so quickly from the door's frame that he barely had the space to laugh about it ( and even if he did, that would just irritate all the wounds open right now ). Even with a strained voice, he can't ever keep quiet. Always talking, always somehow finding trouble when not ( it keeps him conscious ). "Don't cut too much, mending can only do so much--"

Fiyero isn't listening. Not a problem, it shouldn't be, because about three minutes ago Volo stopped being able to hear much more than the blades of the scissors through fabric and the pounding of his heart in his own ears. He didn't come here to be healed, not really. He wasn't even sure if she would, just that if he were to die on this godsforsaken island, he'd rather die by her side ( he's not even sure if death is possible here; he's heard stories of it, of people waking the next day, aching from the pain of death, and yet he still fears it, still doesn't want to face it alone like he'd always expected to ).

Fiyero handles him, and his body sways obediently, the chair feeling a little too comfortable and the lights beginning to look dimmer. Was it always this dim when he entered the room? He can see the gauze in view, like a warning, and opens his mouth to say something about it. But the stick makes its way between his teeth and they leave deep indents in the wood.

He can't even mentally register it other than pain. Hot and searing, flashing across his body with his eyes shut. His mouth barely makes out the sound of a whimper, the fist at his waist digging fingernails into his palms. There's the urge to hit something, kick his feet and struggle, <DC10 SUCCESS!> but he holds his ground, the hand of the wounded shoulder reaching under to the seat of the chair and gripping tight. Each and every nerve in his body, shocked awake; lean farther back and the gauze shifts in the open wound. Lean too much inwards and the one he's gripping tight pokes into every open blood vessel.