Chapter Two: The Translator is a Traitor
Scéaþ groaned softly as his eyelids flickered open, showing nothing but a blur of…something. After a few moments, the blurriness resolved into a cream wall about a meter away from him. The skin on his chest itched, but the burning pain in his blood and the searing agony from the aborted 'autopsy' were gone. Blinking, the bomb tech rolled over, squinting in the glow of overhead crystal light.
The room was simple: cream walls, two beds, a fully loaded bookcase against the far wall, and an extra wide nightstand pulling double duty between the beds. The beds themselves were long beds, with tan sheets and blankets paired with white pillows. If not for the stuffed, sagging bookcase, Scéaþ would've called the room utilitarian.
He sat up, reflexively grimacing at the twinge from his chest. A glance down revealed the cause; magic curled around where the subject had been cutting him open. The damage was healing, but slowly, hence the stitch-like pull on his flesh. Morose, the constable regarded his uniform; dried blood and gore decorated his front while ash and cuts decorated his legs, intermixed with bluish Crup blood. His feet were bare, but the boots themselves sat against the wall past the foot of his bed, gleaming as if freshly washed, though his socks were nowhere to be seen. They'd probably been a lost cause.
Gingerly, Scéaþ peeled his uniform top off, wincing anew at the objections from his chest and the blood spotting his white undershirt. Concern nudged at him; he was alone and had no idea where his partner was. The raven reminded himself that he couldn't help Wyrdig if he didn't help himself first and continued to take inventory. His sidearm was missing, but when he looked around, the weapon gleamed from its spot on the nightstand, just as freshly cleaned as his boots. Cautiously hopeful, Scéaþ left the gun where it was, dark eyes inspecting the rest of the room for any more surprises.
The door opened, drawing an instant tense, and a man stepped inside, moving sideways before directing a floating figure through the doorway and over to the bed. Scéaþ's eyes widened as his teammate was lowered down onto the bed, unconscious and barely even twitching. He scrambled off his bed and to Wyrdig's side, glaring at the unknown wizard in accusation.
"He's fine," the wizard remarked, smiling at Scéaþ's jump. "He pushed his core too far, plus the poison and the gas my diagnostic says got in his lungs."
Scéaþ winced, recalling Wyrdig's boneless collapse in the booby-trapped staircase. "But he'll be okay?" the bomb tech asked anxiously.
A centimeter or so taller than Scéaþ himself, with forest brown hair that ended just past his shoulders and was a mess of 'spikes' all over, the wizard nodded. Blue eyes regarded Scéaþ's hovering over his teammate with a touch of wistfulness before dropping to Wyrdig's twin bracelets and lighting with curiosity. He stepped closer, running a finger over the mithril one. "Curious, these runes. I've never seen their like before. Very elegant and well-done." He glanced up at Scéaþ. "They are for healing?"
Despite his double dose of relief at seeing his friend in one piece and finally talking to someone who understood him, Scéaþ wasn't about to explain the priceless, one-of-a-kind healing bracelet to a stranger. Wasn't about to explain that both bracelets were meant to keep Wyrdig's shaking palsy in check. So he shook his head in refusal and stayed by his teammate, suspicion glowing.
A wry, sorrowful smile curved the wizard's mouth. "Are you hungry? I have a meal downstairs."
Starving, actually, but Scéaþ shook his head again, tension rising at the thought of leaving his newly 'found' teammate alone.
The smile grew sadder and the wizard inclined his head. "I will return when he wakes, then." Without another word, he turned and left, closing the door behind him. Scéaþ remained by his teammate, determined to keep watch, but despite his growling stomach and awkward spot on the floor, it didn't take long before sheer exhaustion pulled the constable down into slumber.
As soon as Wyrdig groaned and stirred, Scéaþ snapped awake, eyes darting around the room before they focused on his teammate. It took another few minutes before Wyrdig groaned again and opened his eyes. The big constable winced at the light in the room and immediately closed his eyes again, even bringing one arm up to protect his vision. Worried, Scéaþ gripped his partner's wrist, earning him a startled yelp and wide gray eyes as Wyrdig snapped upright and around.
"Wyrdig?"
A soft, pained pant. "Hey, Spike," Wyrdig whispered, hunching over. "How you doing?"
Wishing, bitterly, that he could understand his teammate, Scéaþ opted to huddle close to his friend's bed, watching anxiously as Wyrdig's pants lengthened into semi-regular breathing. He was shivering and paler than normal, dark circles of exhaustion and stress under his eyes. Twin grumbles rattled the air and the constables traded chagrined looks.
"Ah, good, I see you are both awake."
Both men snapped around to see their host in the doorway, his expression amused. Scéaþ blinked once, then blinked again as the wizard wryly repeated himself in his language. Delight perked the bomb tech up. If the wizard could speak both languages, he could translate. Help Scéaþ really talk to Wyrdig, not guess, as best he could, what Wyrdig was trying to communicate using their combat hand signals.
Wyrdig glanced between the two men, divining the same thing Scéaþ had, but he didn't appear nearly as enthused as the bomb tech. Instead his expression was skeptical and more than a touch wary. When Scéaþ glanced up at his teammate, confusion plain, Wyrdig indicated his ear and chopped a hand across his throat.
The lithe constable froze. Compromised comms? But they couldn't talk any way… His head drooped as he put the pieces together. They didn't know this wizard, had no idea if they could trust their host – they certainly couldn't be completely sure that he would translate correctly.
Caution gleamed in dark eyes as Scéaþ looked up at their host. He glanced between them, confused, then his gaze cleared in unhappy understanding. "You do not trust me."
Scéaþ shook his head and Wyrdig followed suit seconds later as their host repeated himself in Wyrdig's language.
A flash of sorrow and resignation ran across the wizard's face, then he shook his head, sighing to himself. "Will you at least let me check your magical core, Constable?"
The bomb tech tilted his head, puzzled, then watched as Wyrdig nodded once.
With a flourish, the wizard drew his wand and stepped closer to the beds, casting a diagnostic spell. Light cascaded around Wyrdig for a minute, then flew over to hover in front of their host. He frowned, flicking his wand to make the results rotate and scrutinizing several dark areas. The wand snapped, turning the shimmering light once more. After several minutes, the dark-haired man glanced up at his watching guests.
"You've strained your core badly, Constable," he scolded, though there was no heat in his voice; Wyrdig reddened. "No more magic for at least a week."
"Or?" the embarrassed constable challenged.
"You could cripple your core."
One eyebrow arched. "It's already crippled," Wyrdig pointed out dryly; Scéaþ observed in bewilderment since their host wasn't translating.
Amusement glinted in blue eyes. "No, it's not, Constable." A wave of the wand rotated the diagnostic results. "I can see some old scars, but if your core was crippled, you wouldn't have been able to break one body-bind, much less two."
"I've been able to use my magic before."
The wizard snorted. "For something extremely small, I'd wager." His wand tip indicated the darker areas. "You've drained your magic dry and your core is pulling on its foundations. Any more magic use will overstress the weaker areas and cause new cracks."
Wyrdig flushed and nodded acceptance. "Anything else?"
Their host grunted, then explained, first in English, then in Scéaþ's still unknown language. "The scorpion poison is almost out of your systems. You'll need one more dose of antivenin each, then you should be fine. Fortunately, neither of you got bitten by the Crups, but that gas did a number on your lungs." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing to himself. "You'll have to stay here until your teammates find you."
"What? Why?" Scéaþ demanded; Wyrdig glared but held his silence.
"Your suspect was a Neo Death Eater," came the blunt reply. "And a fairly rich one at that. Better to keep your heads down until you've healed up and have your friends at your backs again."
Though neither man was pleased with the wizard's declaration, they weren't in any position to protest. Scéaþ fidgeted, feeling the pull of healing flesh and seeing Wyrdig's bone-deep exhaustion. A flicker of an idea shot through him. Turning towards the wizard, he asked, "Can you get rid of the curse he cast on me?"
A blue gaze darted between the two officers and the wizard licked his lips, but didn't respond.
"Please?" Scéaþ pleaded, his dark eyes pools of hope and fear.
Their host shifted awkwardly and finally turned away without ever answering.
Ducking his head, Scéaþ trembled violently, jumping when Wyrdig touched his upper arm, worry and concern evident. Having gained the bomb tech's attention, the brunet's hands flew into a familiar combination. Connect, respect, protect. The gentle constable finished by pointing first to his teammate and then to himself.
"Spike, easy, it's okay," Wyrdig added aloud, not even casting a look at the wizard watching them. "We're gonna get through this, you're gonna be okay. I promise." When their host cleared his throat and opened his mouth to translate, Wyrdig snapped, "You shut up. Come back when you feel like helping."
After a long minute, the wizard turned and left the room, but Scéaþ saw the look in the other man's eyes. Longing and jealousy. For what they had. And Scéaþ couldn't help but wonder…what had the wizard lost? Or maybe the question was who had the wizard lost?
Author note: Have I mentioned how much I hate waiting? Ugh. As of this evening, I suspect I will have most (if not all) of my latest story written - mostly in the paper notebook that I drag to work because there is nothing to do! Of course, then I really will have nothing to do because the next story on my list of stories to be written is an eppy twister that I really have to do totally on my computer due to my habit of using the episode dialogue. Double Ugh.
So, on Wednesday, we had a manager over by our little section telling us that the Pega Lead will be arriving Thursday and then we can actually start working. Whelp, Thursday came and went and about all that happened is that I finished one chapter and started on the final chapter of the latest story (which actually grew by a chapter during the course of being written). Frankly, the odds of this Pega Lead showing up on a Friday is somewhere between zero and zilch, so...whatever. At least we will probably be able to take Monday off.
The worst of it all is, there's literally nothing I can do to change it. I can't get off this project (and even if I did, hello more waiting) and neither the managers nor the client company appear to be any hurry whatsoever. Honestly, right now I feel like I'm the middle of one giant bait-and-switch because I was about to be sent to a totally different project (where I'd be working by now, I am sure) and instead I'm here! I know God is in control and I know all this whimpering and whining is probably a sin, but... Ugh... How much longer do I have to wait?
/End Rant - and thank you for listening (reading)