Prompt: Keeping a Secret (plus yet another Jureeya drawing, surprise surprise)
Characters: Reynir, Emil
Warning: Lotsa character death in this one, plus some gore/injury, blood, and infection. Oh yes, and there's always the Obligatory Google Transgarble Warning. ...could someone who knows what they're doing please check my Swedish?
Staggering back to the tank seemed like one long nightmare.
He was taking more of Emil's weight than Emil was, but then again Emil was in no shape to walk on his own. Reynir might have looked scrawny but he was strong; on more than one occasion he'd hefted an injured sheep over his shoulders and carried it the full hour's walk from the pasture back home. He could do this.
Now, his world was Emil's ragged breathing (how could a hunting trip have gone so wrong?), the burning in his arms and legs (Sigrun unmoving, glassy-eyed, staring up at the sky where she had fallen), the wheezes his mask produced every time he grunted in exertion (Mikkel's frantically struggling legs suddenly not kicking anymore), and stains of hot blood on his clothing (Lalli, gone for days, absent from the Dream World no matter how frantically Reynir called).
The tank was dark and silent; even the cat darted to the nearest dark corner as soon as Reynir opened the door. They should have known they'd never be able to make it back without the driver. Stuck in the middle of the Silent World with a tank that none of the survivors had the first clue how to drive: first no driver, then no scout, no captain, no medic…
Emil collapsed into a chair as soon as Reynir got him back inside. Reynir let him; there was blood soaking all through his uniform and what if he was bleeding to death, there'd be nothing he could—
Calm down. Focus. Take a deep breath. Could he remember where Mikkel had kept his kit? Yes—it was up on that shelf. Gently, he slid it down, opened it. Yes, all of the basics were still in here: antiseptic, needles, suturing thread, bandages…
"Emil." Emil's eyes had slid closed, but they cracked open again at the sound of his name. Reynir held up the bag.
The injuries might not have killed him, but they were severe: he'd been so clawed up that even after they got him out of his shirt, Reynir could barely see any skin that wasn't bloodied. He used up almost all that was left of the antiseptic just cleaning the wounds.
"I've never done this on a human before," he apologized as he threaded a needle—he knew Emil couldn't understand him, but then again neither could the sheep or dogs, and it had always seemed to help them to listen to his voice. "But it can't be that different."
The very worst injuries were a couple of long gashes that ran almost down the length of Emil's back. He had Emil sit backwards on one of the office chairs, and started with those.
Reynir worked in silence. He'd tried to talk, at first, but his own voice had come back at him flat and too loud in the tank that was far too quiet, so he'd stopped. His hands remained steady: he'd have thought that he'd be a shaking wreck at this point, but somehow, he seemed to have found some degree of inner calm, and his fingers did everything they were supposed to do, passing needle through flesh and knotting sutures with no jerks or mishaps.
The mask, he'd discarded a long time ago: it was a distraction; it got in the way.
As Reynir had worked, he'd noticed Emil trembling. At first, he thought it was pain. (They were out of painkillers; there was nothing he could do.) After a few minutes, though, he started to hear Emil's shuddering breaths, noticed the way Emil had buried his face in his arms as his shoulders shook uncontrollably.
"Sigrun," Emil whispered now. "Mikkel. Lalli…"
Reynir found his own head jerking from side to side at the mention of those names, and just for a moment, he paused in his work to reach out and gently rest a hand against Emil's shoulder.
Once Emil's wounds had been fully stitched and bandaged, and Emil settled in his bunk, Reynir stepped outside to get cleaned up.
Emil's bloodied uniform went straight into the washbasin. Reynir's would have to as well; by the time that he'd finished, his clothes had been covered with nearly as much blood as Emil's. Before he stripped, however, he took a pause to examine the tear in his sleeve—and the matching one in the skin underneath.
It was laughable, really. The wound was minor, a scratch—something that could be fixed with a Band-Aid.
The second it had happened, he'd felt it: that one claw that had slipped past the others' defense. The injury itself might not have been serious, but it had broken the skin. As far as the Rash was concerned, he was already dead.
He wasn't panicking, though, or crying, or curled up in a ball somewhere begging the gods to end it already. There was something to be said, he supposed, for knowing that the Silent World had already done its worst: his days were now numbered, better not waste them. Besides, Emil still needed his help.
Reynir stripped off his shirt and put on a Band-Aid before he got started with the laundry.
It was touch and go, those first days. Emil showed no signs of infection (not the kind that could mutate a human into a bloodthirsty monster; the ordinary kind, the kind that only got into your blood and left your body cooking itself from the inside out), but he was silent and listless, spending all of his time in his bunk, staring at the roof.
After what had happened last time, Reynir did not dare venture out to hunt again. Instead, he set snares, and gathered what edibles he could from within sight of the tank.
He didn't wear his mask.
Was this what it was like, he wondered, to be immune? To not have to be afraid all the time?
The spring breeze played around him as he skinned and cooked the squirrels and rabbits he'd caught, carrying with it the scent of new growth and black loam. It was beautiful, in its own way, the Silent World: beautiful, and sad. Here, without the interference of humanity, nature was free to run rampant in all her glory: but it was a hostile beauty, one that few humans would ever get to see.
When Reynir was done cooking, he took a bowl back into the tank and made Emil eat. Sometimes, he had to sit there for hours, but he didn't mind.
"You need to get some food in you if you want to heal," he cajoled, using his foot to nudge the bowl a little bit closer so that the enticing smell would drift up to Emil's nose. Emil stared dully at the stew for a few minutes, before rolling over to face the wall. Reynir frowned. "You do want to get better, don't you?" He nudged the bowl again, and when that got no response, picked it up and lifted it so it was on the level with Emil's head.
"Jag är inte hungrig." Emil roused enough to push Reynir's hand and the bowl away, but his arm fell limp back onto the bed immediately after.
"You should eat," Reynir repeated. "You've still got a chance to get out of here, after all. Don't you have anyone waiting for you back home? Friends? Family?"
He'd known, of course, that Emil couldn't answer. Still, the silence that followed his question was like a punch to the gut.
"You have to get back alive," he continued, more softly. "I know I'm never going to forgive myself for never getting to see my family again. Hey, tell you what. I'll write them and tell them about you. I think my parents have been pretty lonely after all of my brothers and sisters left home; maybe you could visit them sometime? I know it won't be your own family. And I know it won't be like they'd have me back." As he considered the possibility, his voice broke, and Emil turned to look at him in surprise. "But maybe… maybe you could both help each other somehow."
Eventually, Emil picked up the bowl and began to eat.
Reynir hadn't been making idle promises, when he'd said Emil should contact his family. Whenever he had some downtime, he sat in the office and worked on the letters he was penning to his parents and siblings.
It was harder than he expected; he didn't know what to say. Or rather, he had so many things he wished he could say, and didn't have the time or the ink to put them all down. I'm so sorry, he wrote, over and over on every piece of paper. I'm sorry, you were right, I should have stayed home, I love you, forgive me.
There was one thing, however, that he made sure to add to every letter:
Oh, and my friend, Emil. He almost got himself killed trying to save me, but I think he's all alone, so I told him he could come around sometime. I don't know if he will, but if he does… please welcome him.
As Emil got better, Reynir started to notice the first symptoms.
When he made Emil get up and walk around a bit, he noticed a persistent itch on the side of his face. He did not reach to scratch it, though: he already knew what it was, and he did not want Emil to know just yet. Right now, Emil still needed him.
Once he was alone again, he took a moment to look in the mirror. Not long; after he'd found what he sought, he didn't want to look anymore. So I guess that it's starting, he thought as he put the mirror away.
He noticed another itch on the back of his hand as he prepared the graves. Not real graves—going back for the bodies would have been far too dangerous. Still, he found what he could of their belongings, and used his pocketknife to carve their names on two convenient pieces of wood. Sigrun Eide. Mikkel Madsen.
The third one… now that was a real grave.
The meadow where he'd dug it was beautiful and serene, the flowers just beginning to bud out now that it was spring. As far as final resting places went, he supposed, he could do far worse.
Only Tuuri and Mikkel had known how to use the radio—the last time Reynir had tried it, he had attempted to adjust it and gotten nothing but black noise. After many nights of restless sleep, however, he finally managed to contact Onni in the dream plane.
It was the first time they'd seen each other since before what had happened to Tuuri. Now, even here without his physical body, he'd visibly lost weight, and his eyes were rimmed with red. When Reynir walked into his haven, he didn't even stir.
"Finally come to finish the job, have you?" he asked, eyes closed, at the sound of Reynir's footfalls. "Well get it over with al—"
"Um, it's me."
Onni cracked his eyes a bit, stared at Reynir without seeing him for a few seconds before recognition dawned. "Oh." He didn't say anything more.
"There was another troll attack," he said into the silence. "Most of the others are gone."
Onni didn't respond. He only buried his face in his hands.
"I've figured out where we are," Reynir added. "If I tell you, do you think you could arrange for a rescue?"
"I'll do what I can." The statement was dull, emotionless, but somehow Reynir knew that he meant it. "How many people need to be picked up?"
Reynir took a deep breath. "One. Just one."
By the end of the second week, the itch on his hand had spread all the way up his arm, and there was an entirely new itch on the back of his neck.
Still, he didn't let Emil see. He wore gloves, and was careful not to roll up his sleeves unless he was sure he was alone. He let his hair hang down low over the back of his neck.
His face, he left alone. Unless you were actually looking for it, the spreading rash barely stood out from the rest of the freckles.
Kitty had begun to hide whenever he walked into a room. Once, she had even hissed at him, her fur standing on end and her tail puffed up until it was almost as big as her body.
"Okay." He'd had Emil sit down in the same chair, shirt off to once again reveal the claw marks that covered his body. He'd have scars—ugly ones—but he was on the mend.
Reynir had had to remove his gloves for the delicate work of taking the sutures out, but Emil had his back turned and his eyes closed. He was not going to see.
"I know, it's not fun," he soothed as Emil gritted his teeth, breath coming in short even though he was pulling the threads free as gently as he could. "But it's better than dying, right?"
What was he saying?
It must have been the fever; he'd woken that morning feeling too hot yet too cold, his legs sluggish and heavy as he'd dragged himself out of bed. Soon there'd be no more hiding it. Even so, however, his hands remained steady.
"There." At long last, he patted Emil on the shoulder after taking the last of the stitches out of his side. He was swaying on his feet. "All done."
For a moment, Emil didn't move. Then, however, his arm lifted, and his fingers ghosted gently over the torn healing skin. A shudder went through his body. Then, however, he lowered the hand with a shake of the head. "Tack." He was actually looking at Reynir now, looking for the first time in days, and there was a frown on his face. "Reynir? Är du sjuk?"
Reynir couldn't answer. His vision was swimming. Emil's eyes widened as they settled on his face.
He led Emil out to the graves behind the tank.
Emil spend a few minutes staring at the two Reynir had prepared (Sigrun Eide and Mikkel Madsen—Lalli and Tuuri they'd already done together, as a team) before his eyes drifted slowly to the third.
The hole in the ground.
As Reynir looked at it now he suddenly felt something fighting to claw its way out of him, but it wasn't panic or even infection. His chest constricted, his eyes burned, and before he knew what he was doing he'd spun around and thrown his arms around Emil's shoulders.
These past weeks, he'd managed to keep his mind elsewhere by keeping busy and doing what needed to be done, but now, there was no longer anything standing between him and his grave. He was sick. If left alone, he would either die horribly, or go on to a fate that was far worse than death. The "cure" that they'd sought had been a failure, and wouldn't produce anything with even the slightest chance at working for at least several years, never mind the next few weeks. Whatever he did, Reynir was done for: better to go now, by his own choice and at the hands of a friend. In the end, though, even that didn't change anything:
He didn't want to die.
He was only twenty. He'd never been off the farm in his life. He'd only just discovered that he was a mage. Maybe he could have gone to school, learned to use his powers as he was meant to instead of constantly stumbling around in the dark. He'd wanted to see a bit of the world—maybe not this bit, but something other than the Iceland that he was used to. Fall in love, get married, maybe even start a family—things he wasn't even sure he wanted yet, but now he'd never know.
"Det är inte rättvist." Emil was rubbing his back now, saying something in Swedish. Eventually, however, they had to pull apart.
There was no more reason to put it off. He'd set his affairs in order: Emil had all of the letters he'd written, and the addresses to send them to. He was getting sicker by the minute, and didn't know how much longer his mind would be his own. As if reading his mind, Emil hefted the rifle. "Färdig?"
There was no need to ask what he meant. Reynir nodded.
The last thing he saw was the tears gathering in Emil's eyes as he pulled the trigger.
