Chapter the Second: The Widening Gyre
The girl tells herself this, firmly; as though saying it again and again will make it any more real, will quash the guilty half-hope that somehow, perhaps, Numair has survived. No, Daine has no time for speculations or wild hopes: the most pressing matter right now, and the only thing she's currently capable of doing, is to figure out how to deal with the Stormwing-turned-man that has (as such things seem to have a tendency to do) fallen into her care. It's a task that isn't made easier by the fact that he's still dead to the world. There's only so much she can do until he finally regains consciousness.
If he regains consciousness.
Daine's nights and days are mostly spent at Rikash's bedside, waiting for him to wake up. It's not as though she can do much else; she's been firmly warned off trying to heal any animals, and confined to the tent for good measure. When they can, her friends-- all her friends, not just the ones that walk on two legs-- come to offer awkward conversation and sympathetic clucking for the condition she's gotten herself into. The pointed avoidance of topics such as the half-stranger on the bed and a certain recently-deceased friend is so blatant that her nerves always feel rubbed raw after such visits, and her temper shortens with every day.
Of course, from her perspective, Daine thinks she's due a little irritation, but not everyone agrees-- one squirrel scampers up her shoulder to rap her forehead sharply, questioning the state of decay of the brain within, after she lets loose a particularly snippy remark. The scolding prompts instant contrition on her part, of course, and manages to put a damper on her seething resentment for the day.
She admits that she's probably being just a little too unfair to her friends.
Once, Daine thought that taking such exaggerated care around the recently bereft was daft, but now that she's on the receiving end of that unasked-for kindness, she thinks she's beginning to see it in a different light. She appreciates that she's been given time to sort out her thoughts for herself; when she looks back on it, she realizes that she's never had this much time to brood on anything like this. Daine's beginning to wonder if it's for the better or worse.
While avoiding mention of Numair is understandable, even courteous, having people pretend that the unconscious man laid out in in Daine's tent doesn't exist is another thing altogether. She finds herself tired of it. She has fought Immortals with these people, demonstrated the mastery of her wild magic on more than one occasion, even managed to bring down a rogue king-mage, and they yet believe her incapable of dealing with something as relatively straightforward as this. At least the animals are franker about their opinions on the matter: one slightly-tatty looking sparrow that lingers after his flock has left tells her in no uncertain terms that he doesn't think much of helping the Stormwing, and if it were left up to him...
Daine listens in amusement as the sparrow lists some inventively painful-sounding methods of shortening Rikash's lifespan, but politely declines to take him up on the offer. Rikash is, after all, a friend.
You don't have very good taste in friends, the sparrow sniffs haughtily, flipping up his tail in unconscious disdain. It's not something she's seen sparrows do normally, and she wonders if this particular one has by some chance run into Quickmunch and picked up some ill habits. It wouldn't surprise her at all.
That's as may be, but you'll kindly notice that he's not the one telling me to bash folk's heads in with rocks and sink them into the river, Daine points out dryly. The bird doesn't have the grace or the capacity to flush, but he concedes her point. The tone of his voice makes Daine think that, had he been human, he'd be making a face at her the moment her back turned on him.
At least he can't fly anymore, the sparrow concludes, apparently his way of coming to terms with the situation. So long as he's not going to be eating my nestlings, I don't care if he's alive or not. Before Daine can respond, he propels himself off her shoulder and out of the tent flap, calling for the rest of his flock.
Even the badger drops by a couple of times (she's never sure if she's awake or not, but she knows by now that he's certainly real enough) to force his blunt, striped head under her palms for petting, humming reassurance that the Divine Realm's opinion of her is not, in fact, unanimously negative. When Daine confesses that she has not even the faintest memory of what exactly it was she might have done to offend the gods, the badger laughs, long and loud enough that she almost fears that he'll wake the entire camp up.
He doesn't, of course, since he's speaking only for her ears. When he finally stops, he gives her an almost-smile and tells her that everything will turn out all right, even if the two-legger gods think otherwise.
Daine can't think of anything to say to this, and the badger grunts in something like approval. She's learnt to listen to her elders at last, he remarks-- or at least, pretend that she's listening, and that's a useful enough skill.
When she takes a moment to blink, he's gone.
Onua comes to the tent a week after the battle, and the first thing the horsewoman does is take Daine into her arms-- mindful of the splinted arm-- and gives her a fierce, almost angry hug around her shoulders.
When the older woman pulls away, she's wiping the moisture furiously from her eyes with bandaged hands. "Oh, Daine," she murmurs, sounding strangely lost. "Oh my dear girl, you've certainly gotten yourself into all sorts of trouble now, haven't you."
The smile on Daine's face feels curiously frozen, caught between the joy at seeing her former mentor and the dismay at seeing her in such obvious distress. She settles for relaxing into a more neutral expression, eyes blinking wide as if she cannot imagine what Onua could possibly be worried about.
"I'm fine, Onua," she mutters, shifting on the cot with something like her old teenage embarrassment. There are some people she'll always feel like a bashful, thumbtwiddling teenager to, no matter how long she's known them. "I'm fine."
The look Onua gives her in return is enough to make her wince, but as someone who has worked with animals for most of her life, Onua knows when to take a hint from physical cues alone. Her hands squeeze Daine's shoulders one more time before they drop away, and she turns to face the other side of the tent, arms akimbo at the sight of Rikash laid out flat.
"Horse gods, but he certainly has changed, hasn't he?" she declares, loudly--Daine can't remember an occasion where the horsewoman and the Stormwing have spoken, but she's certain she's mentioned him to her more than once. The time in Carthak had given her plenty of stories to share when she returned to Carthak, both good and ill alike.
Onua's looking at her curiously, and Daine realizes that she's been starting to drift off. "Sorry-- what was that?"
"I asked," the woman says, feigning offense, "If he's really human now. No wings, obviously," she waves a hand vaguely at the other cot, "But I mean, is he human-- really human? Can bleed and cry and pi--"
"Yes." The girl is familiar with this litany from time spent with Buri, who possesses a mouth that would put half of the sailors in the king's navy to shame, so she cuts it off before it can get to the lewder descriptions. "But we don't know... how much he his. Human, I mean. He hasn't woken up yet." she shrugs, letting her fingers wrap into the sheets.
The horsewoman stares contemplatively at the man on the bed a moment longer before she turns back to fully face Daine, quirking a brow. "Are you sure that you want him to?"
She blinks in return. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't imagine he'll be happy about his current circumstances, when he's in a proper state to understand them," Onua muses. "That's all. Stormwings don't like anything unpredicted, in my experience."
"He's different." Daine thinks of steel wings and faces twisted in hate; mouths that spill insults and furious queens ready to kill for the sake of the slightest offense. "I think he'll be fine."
The look Onua gives her is unreadable.
"I hope so."
Unconscious, Rikash's face is as placid as a stagnant pond, smooth tranquility with a worrying hint of scum beginning to creep in on the edges. It takes a few days for Daine to realize that this is not just a subconscious impression her mind is attempting to superimpose on her; Rikash actually is starting to look a little grubby, and it's not for a lack of care. The healers generally keep him clean with the occasional sponge bath, and if her arm wasn't in the way, Daine would be helping. (Between her da and Numair, it's not as if the sight of large, naked men ever fazes her anymore.)
Rikash's looks are taking a distinct turn for the worse, and Daine begins to realize that this is in part to blame on the copious growth of dark blonde stubble over his jaw and upper lip. She doesn't know whether to be amused or not-- when she thinks on it, she doesn't know why the idea of a Stormwing (former or not) with a beard is an odd one. Even Ozorne had sported one of copious length done up in elaborate beads, though it had been singed multiple times since he'd become an Immortal. She's also seen other Stormwings sporting modest, well-trimmed goatees.
So really, Daine isn't certain why the sight of Rikash with (gods forbid) facial hair is such an uncomfortable one. Maybe it's simply because it reminds her too sharply of another fondly-remembered face she's seen covered in unflattering stubble, though she doesn't know how she can even find enough common ground to compare the two. Beyond the virtue of the fact that their features are-- were-- unmistakeably male, Rikash and Numair's faces were nothing alike.
Among other things, Numair had eyelashes like one of Onua's favorite ponies, long and dark and quick to flutter coyly for a treat; with his eyes closed, Rikash's lashes disappear against his skin, but Daine remembers them illuminated by the half-dusk light of the Divine Realms' sun, shimmering like tiny fans of gold. Numair's mouth was broad and expressive, quick to smile or frown, but even in sleep, the corners of Rikash's mouth are lined from years-- maybe centuries-- of life.
In the end, she realizes, that's what makes her uneasy: for what may be the first time since she's met him, Rikash looks his age, and that means centuries.
That particular epiphany seems to make her mind up for her, and the next morning, while she's getting her bandages checked, she asks one of the healers for a basin of warm water and a shaving razor. She gets an askance, concerned look for a moment, and she doesn't understand why until she realizes there must be something more than slightly suspect about a half-crazed wild girl asking for a blade. Once she clarifies her request, it's granted, if with some reticience.
"I don't know that he needs it," the healer murmurs as she passes the razor over, frowning at the lean man stretched out under the coarse linen they've settled on for sheets. "He's not exactly in a state to care about it, is he?" She waves a hand through the air, miming something that could be unconsciousness or constipation, for all Daine can see. "Not awake, and all."
"I'm awake, and I care," Daine says firmly, taking the razor in hand and flicking it through the faintly-steaming water in the basin, wetting its edge. "And I'm the one who has to stay in here and see his face the most," she adds. The joke falls a little flat, but it's enough to pry a rueful smile out of the healer, who gets to her feet and shuffles towards the tent flap.
"If you need anything more, you'll call, yes?"
"Yes," Daine responds, already examining the task at hand. Luckily for her, it's her left arm thats broken; still, this is going to be awkward without another hand with which to brace Rikash's face and chin upwards, prevent it from lolling around while she nicks at the stubble on his skin.
Unfortunately, it can't be helped.
She takes a breath and leans forward.
There are things worse than death.
When Rikash opens his eyes, he knows he has found one of them.
If you haven't guessed already, updating for this fic will be s-l-o-w, since I a) have no idea where I'm going with this, b) procrastinate like a... like a very procrastinatey thing, yes, and Kingdom Hearts has massively distracted me. : However, I must thank you all for the encouraging feedback so far. I'm more than ready to admit that I'm probably thoroughly shafting some of the characters in the characterization/screentime department, particularly when it comes to Daine and Numair, or more specifically, Daine re: Numair.
I don't write mourning particularly well, and I keep imagining Daine's the sort of person who'd internalize things, given a chance. Or rather, that she's someone who'd get on with business even if she was deeply hurt. If I'm remembering Emperor Mage correctly (I'm probably not!) she went and leveled half the palace instead of crying over Numair's death. And when her family died, she ran off with the wolves! So there's no real precedent as to how Daine mourns, I suppose, aside from the general idea that she doesn't mope around about it. But that's just me guessing, there. XD
I have a feeling the prose this chapter is loaded with way too many technical, detached-sounding words, which isn't really what I was going for -- but oh, well.