He's not even sure how they made it out, just that he knew that they had to get out. They had fallen into the sea, about a kilometer from the shore and he had carried her to a cottage next to an abandoned lighthouse.
By this point she is limp and quiet. She could have been sleeping, but for the fever.
The house is musty and seems to have been out of use for some time, but the furniture was still there and he lays her down on the small bed in the corner and rummages around in the cupboards for clothes, sheets, anything.
He should have thought ahead, he should have brought food and water and clothes and a bloody blanket, and he panics for a moment, looking back at Misaki's prone form, what have I done, and he feels the heat crawling up his spine and burning the back of his neck, what have I done
But then she shivers, and curls into herself. He checks the other cupboards and finds a few old blankets and a cupboard full of dusty old men's clothes and pulls out a nightgown and rushes to her.
"Misaki?" He attempts to manoeuvre her out of her sopping wet clothes, which is easier than it should be because her clothes are so tattered that they fall apart with a pull, and he quickly pulls the gown over her head, averting his eyes.
Soon she's laying on the bed again, three blankets piled over her and a wet cloth on her forehead while Sepulchure stokes the fire, attempting to warm the chilly room.
His clothes are drying on the floor in front of the fire, and he slumps in the armchair.
What now?
He knows he should try to wake her up, clean her wounds, get some help, because he is so way out of his depth here and hasn't the faintest clue as to how to treat wounds of this extreme, but who can he go to? Hasn't she successfully alienated all of her 'friends'? He shouldn't have healed the skin over without cleaning the debris out of the wounds in the first place, and he curses and slams his fist against his leg. What if the infection gets worse?
And more pressingly, what the hell is he even doing? Risking his life for the enemy! Everything he's worked for, everything he's wanted his whole life; he just threw it all away for the enemy, and for what? What's Misaki going to do when she wakes up, give him a pat on the back and a medal? Swoon over his 'bravery' and plead for his hand in marriage? What does he even want?
He walks over to her and stares down at her lying on the ratty sofa. She has two long cuts from the corners of her lips, forming a bloody, gruesome smile. His mind clears for a moment, and everything is quiet as he sits don on the floor beside her and cleans the cuts on her face and closes the gash with magic. There's a faint white scar left, but her skin is so pale that it's barely noticeable. He does the same for the rest of her body, and he feels something inside him twist in rage at Drakath and his deranged, sadistic ways.
Misaki's eyes flutter. The pain is considerably lessened now, he imagines, but the blood poisoning i still in her body and he doesn't know how to draw it out. Still, she should regain consciousness. And there, her eyes are opening.
"Hey." He whispers and brings a chipped mug of water to her parched lips.
"Whoa, slow down. Don't want you to choke now, do we?" She splutters and he helps her sit up as she coughs. It's dry and wracking, and sounds like something is ripping up her trachea, and Sepulchure strokes her back gently.
"You hungry? I could go get us some food-"
"Where am I?" She interrupts harshly. Sepulchure is still holding her around the shoulders and she isn't strong enough to move away, but she glares at him weakly anyway. He sighs and lays her down again.
"I'm not sure. Somewhere to the north-east of Popsprocket. This is a cottage near the shore." Misaki's brow furrows anxiously. Sepulchure stares at her, at her bright eyes, and is a little unnerved - because her eyes, they're not the same.
When he'd first seen her it had been at an inn in some tiny village. She'd been travelling, and he'd been told to follow her - to assess if she was really the one the prophecy spoke of. She had been wearing normal clothes at the time, and she was sitting at a table with a group of other warriors, nursing a flagon of honeyed mead. She'd been tired and subdued, but still so very vibrant and alive.
And the first time he had really gotten to see her eyes, oh lord, she had taken his breath away. When she'd pulled her hood down in the clearing on that god-forsaken day, she had looked at him with such calm determination, her acid green irises reflecting the moonlight just so. Her eyes held everything about her, all her secrets and all her emotions. He could tell why she kept them hidden most of the time, because looking into her eyes seemed like something so very intimate.
But now, they're flat. Dead. Empty.
Had Drakath really managed to break her?
"Why, Sepulchure? Why am I here? Why am I not dead?" She asks dully, squeezing her eyes shut.
"...Because I got you out." She turns to face him, and he fancies he can see a flash of that fire in them for a moment.
"What have you done?" She hisses.