Audemus Dawnspark

Melisande's Visit

In his more lucid hours — between the bouts of restless sleep and shivering cold sweats, the long prayer sessions he spent worshiping at the foot of his provided bucket with offerings of bile and half-digested meals, the periods of time where he could scarcely do more than press his face against the cool stone floor and count his shallow breaths in an attempt to distract himself from the debilitating migraines — he had little to amuse himself with. Not that the time amounted to much.

He felt more caged beast than elf. He supposed it was appropriate — he had acted quite ferally, hadn't he? Serazyth was taking the necessary precautions, a lesson learned about exactly how far he could trust his sullen Sin’dorei captive. Not that he felt anything that was even nearing forgiveness towards the presumptuous long-limbed prick for what the other had been — and currently still was — subjecting him to. But, understanding? Viewed from a detached perspective, perhaps. There was no way to feel detached from the sounds of life occurring overhead, though, a reminder of everything that remained just out of reach.

The shuffle of feet against creaking wooden boards. Domestic sounds from the kitchen and carnal ones from the bedroom. Quiet laughter and low conversation that seemed to drift through the empty stone around him and settle in the weariest part of his bones.  

Has Serazyth told anyone about his whereabouts? Doubtful. Perhaps Shade, but what would she do? He hardly knows her, doesn't exaggerate the place he holds in her life when compared to her Nightborne inamorato. What is (was) he but a convenient meat shield? She doesn't visit either way. Nobody does.

Doesn't keep him from hoping, from bounding to his feet and ignoring the outcry of his pained limbs and mind at the sudden movements when there's suddenly Melisande's voice filtering through the oaken slats.

It's not a long visit, but it's plenty of time for him to scream himself hoarse in a desperate attempt for rescue. I need him, she says, and he needs her just as much, if only she knew.

He thinks of the perpetually untamed strands of copper curling around her freckled ears as his voice shifts from clear to croaking. Thinks of Mathias and a reunion that had been guided by his hand but was not his to witness as he's bludgeoning the arcane barrier with his fists. Thinks of all the mother henning he'd willingly endure as he feels a sudden flare of pain in the knuckle of one of his littlest fingers and the swell of desolation as she takes her leave. Leaves him.

It only takes a moment to evaluate the state of his purpled and swollen hands. He’s broken enough bones and poured over enough ‘borrowed’ anatomy texts that he can recognize the telltale pain of a fracture. With his teeth, he worries at a line of thread on his blanket until he feels as if he’s grinded down his incisors like a rodent, and then rips swaths of cloth using his molars until his jaw is aching. With nothing rigid (Serazyth, in his ultimate wisdom, has provided nothing with sharp edges) to support a splint, he instead binds his injured finger as tightly to his ring as he can without cutting off the circulation, then wraps up the rest of his wrist tidily. What’s another injury? He’s just hurting himself, after all. He uses the back of the cloth wrapped hand to wipe away the salty streaks running down his face and curls back into his miserable corner.

No one cares, anyway.