@windchaser: the heart ( or is it a bell ? ) in his chest hammers in his ears , setting his teeth on edge , each pearl tremorous and sending vibrations outwards , shaking just beneath the first layer of his skin until that too grows quiet and still , not in peace or any true absence of sound or movement , but in the way that one goes deaf over time , or the way an inexperienced rider's legs grow numb . each breath is effortful , shallow when he tries for deep , more inhales than exhales , and it's silly , all of this comparison : after all , there isn't and hasn't been any life in his chest for a long time , no need to draw breath and risk someone hearing , and despite how real the threat feels , the walls seeming to enclose around both of them like a tomb , his tomb , any actual danger lies just beyond their only exit . it is all in his head .
he knows this . he knows this , and yet —
the edges of his vision begins to dim like the mouth of a tunnel , and with the slightest buckle of his legs , he slumps forward , head pressing into the wall just over talon's shoulder for support as he squeezes his eyes shut . this , however , is as effective as trading one closed space for only a slightly less closed place , but his hand , trembling against the wall , contracts , and it is almost grip-like , almost reaching , and is stopped only by the stone that claws embed themselves in . he will take whatever he can , he thinks , or at least it must be him thinking , for who else would it be thinking this thought , this thought that rises to the top of his mind like the air bubbles of one drowning . there's a something of a sigh , more like a quick puff of air , and he deflates ; his neck gives in to the heavy , weak lean of his head , slipping from the wall and lolling upon talon's shoulder . it is unclear whether or not he fully or at all registers this contact , a touch that would appear intimate if drawn from any other context . the way his claws dig further into the wall could mean anything .
Eyes alight with adrenaline dart about the confined crawlspace the unlikely duo had taken cover in. With the threats lurking just outside of the makeshift cover, not even the shadows seem trustworthy in their cool embrace. A worn boot gets shuffled further away from the band of light that acted as the border between false safety and hellish peril. The slow, even breaths moving their frame did not match the wild rhythm trapped behind their ribs.
It was eventual that their paths would cross with the worst creatures the bowels of Hell could regurgitate into this humble, dusty world. The gunslinger at least was smart enough to know when his match was met, seeing as he went for cover rather than try his luck with the mess of brimstone and bone that was making its way through whatever was left of this unfortunate settlement. And if the situation weren't so dire, Talon could have conjured some words to compare this fact to how not even that sense of his had helped the dead man from not being stuck with this state. Or how he should put the same train of thought toward this doomed quest to stop the Harbingers…
It wasn't the heavenly glow of their blasted feathers desperately trying to be hidden from sight, nor the stink of their brimstone, that worried Talon on the effectiveness of their hiding from the monstrosity that needn't fret over one haunted man and a poor excuse of a demon. When they're certain that there was nothing else creeping just beyond their vision, Talon's hat lifts so that their eyes of embers could next see what their soulful associate made of their situation, only for brows plastered with blonde strands and drenched in salt and grime to crease at his struggle.
But they know what it is; so close stuck between those cobbled walls they can feel the trembling and hear the hitched breathing searching for receding air. They know, because there was only one other time they've ever seen him in such a state. When the wooden beams had collapsed and there was more smoke than sense in the air.
The realisation feels like a veil lifted from their eyes, but it's of no help when Yone lurches forward. Toward them. Locked into place with lungs constricting and veins tensing, Talon waits for the blow that has been threatened all too many times before. The one given to the demons he's hunted down again and again, only waiting for the hellspawn's guard to drop even slightly to be his opening.
Trapped between his face and that reaching hand, they brace for the worst.
Only for the sound of scraping gravel, and a pitiful exhale, to wring them back into the present instead of their fearful, fictional scenarios. Strands of white settle over their shoulder and they dare not move - cannot move - as the gunslingers head finds their shoulder to lean on instead; Their protruding feathers, ruffled from the situation, act as a far softer pillow than their clammy skin or rigid brimstone. Eyes as wide and glistening as coins do not blink as he remains in this resting place. Every follicle of hair and keratin stood on end. Their own hands finding purchase in the wall to their back to help with the added weight upon them. Even as clear as it is, that he is in no state to scheme, there is still hesitance stemming from the demon's unease.
Focus ticks from features hidden away in cascading locks to the extended hand enclosing them, and finally to over the gunslinger's shoulders into that blinding light beyond their hiding spot. The grumblings of an old nature is cold to his woes of being stuck in such an enclosed space, urging Talon to save themself before he brings them down with his folly. And the thing with a pulse cannot help but wonder why he sought comfort in their presence. If it was even a passing thought...
Thankfully, time is of the essence, and as the rumbling danger quietens, Talon knows that the small, fleeting window of opportunity is an unforgiving one.
Their neck, which had craned away from the other's head, now leans their own toward his ear until the rim of hats meet.
Words as quiet as a blade through the air slither from their tongue, hot breath disturbing the fine hairs shielding the other from sight,
"Stay with me, gunslinger." Gingerly, their own claws find his shoulder and take a hold of his coat. Not to move him - in fact they aren't too sure why at all. This wasn't the time to help gather strength to push through his fear, nor resolve what clutched at his heart. But then, when would it ever be?
Certainly never if they didn't leave this cranny.
Talon holds then, expecting the very walls enclosing them to be torn through at any moment. But when their fears are once again left wanting, they return their focus to Yone with another attempt to rouse him. The bed of feathers beneath him being pushed upward, encouraging that he rises.
"You need to be here in the waking moment. This interstice ain't our grave." Their worn, silvered tongue promises no plan against the doom lingering just out of sight. But despite every dispute and argument against their chances, they were going to need to face it together to have any hope in hell.
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