Post by rainstormamaya on Feb 3, 2010 21:50:42 GMT 10
Title: Remember?
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,068 words
Competitor: Dom
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: He only did it because he wanted her to live, and he wanted that because he loved her. How Domitan found himself leaving the King’s Own.
********
It was dark in the tent. Or no, it wasn’t the tent. They’d moved him, all the way back to Corus and Neal’s tender loving care, so this must be... the palace? The Healers’ Wing?
He remembered moving, he was fairly sure he did. He remembered Neal’s squawk and flurries of orders. Remembered the pain of being moved onto a stretcher, although Wolset and Fulcher and Lerant were trying to go easy on him; remembered Emmett, no, not Emmett, Emmett was long gone, some healer, anyway, fussing and cursing round him on the journey; muttering about stitches and blood loss and fever and constitutions and lucky to be alive.
Dom strongly disagreed that he was lucky to be alive. The appalling pain in his leg, and the lurking knowledge that he would probably never fight again, told him otherwise.
He opened his eyes, and tried to sit up, but his leg stabbed painfully and he lay abruptly back down again, just turning his head to look around him.
It was dark, yes. But his eyes were getting used to the darkness, and dimly he made out a shadow slumped in the chair next to his bed. He reached out with an arm that felt too weak, a hand that shook, to try and attract the shadow’s attention; he brushed its leg, and saw it sit bolt upright as if shocked. He caught sight of the profile, and felt an unexpected burst of warmth in his chest: he could relax now, everything was all right. Kel was here.
“Kel,” he croaked, his voice hoarse.
“Dom? Goddess be thanked, you’re awake,” Kel said, her voice sleepy but perfectly lucid. She got up and fumbled around in the darkness a little until a light sparked, and a lamp flamed, and she brought it over to Dom’s bedside. “It can’t be much before dawn.”
Dom looked at the window, which was slowly growing clearer, greyish light filtering through the shutters. “False dawn,” he said, tried to clear his throat, and realised he was thirsty. “Water?”
She poured some into a beaker, and held it carefully to his lips, supporting his head with her arm. He finished drinking, and let his head rest back on the pillow; Kel’s hand found his own, and gripped. “Do you remember what happened?” she asked.
He shut his eyes, the flickering lamplight casting ghoulish shadows over his face, the fever from his wound stealing the strength from him, flesh almost melting from his bones in those frightening few days when Neal had grown tense and intense, jittery with his brown hair constantly flyaway as he ran his hands through it, frustrated, afraid, looking for a solution they were both beginning to fear did not exist. The fever had broken, eventually, and Dom had fallen into blissful sleep, aided and abetted by a solid dose of poppy juice. Now he had woken, and Kel wondered- how much of his memory had the fever erased, and would it be better if it had?
“Yes,” Dom said, effortfully, opening his eyes and reading Kel’s thoughts from her face, picking up on the miniscule tells of anxiety. “I remember...”
He did. He remembered the raiders, remembered their uncanny organisation and the way they had chosen specifically to take Kel down, either in an attempt to strike a blow against the commander of the attack on them, or simply trying to kill the Protector of the Small (because, Kel could say what she liked about that nickname, but it stuck.)
He had got in the way of a stroke that would probably have killed her. He had barely survived himself, but he remembered thinking to himself as Kel screamed his name and smashed the head off the man who had caught him, it doesn’t matter now what happens to me. She was alive, that was all that mattered, and if being willing to die for her was some kind of twisted proof that he loved her, then, it now occurred to him, maybe he’d loved her from the start. There had to be some kind of explanation for going off into the Scanran wilds after her all those years ago, he reasoned.
“I remember,” he repeated, in case Kel was worried by his silence.
“Then you remember, Domitan of Masbolle, that you are a complete and total daisy-brained idiot!”
Dom blinked at her. Strong words and strong tone from private, calm Keladry.
She leaned forward, her eyes fierce and the rest of her face perfectly, disconcertingly blank, a sign of the control she was having to exert to keep her mask of impassivity. “How dare you? You knew you were going to get hurt. You nearly died! What do you think that did to me? To everyone else who loves you? We had to watch you drift away. Neal said you were so close to entering the Black God’s Realm, you might as well have bought your passage and arranged for lodgings!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and didn’t mean it. All that mattered was that Kel was safe. She was angry now, but that just proved that she was alive.
Her face softened, and she let a little more emotion onto it, as she reached out and brushed a strand of hair off his face, her fingers lingering on his cheek before she pulled them away. There were deep, exhausted shadows under her eyes. “No, you aren’t,” she said softly, and sighed. “Dom. You didn’t have to do that for me.”
Here was something he could disagree with fairly. “Yes, I did.” She still held his hand; he closed his fingers on hers, as tightly as he could- which wasn’t very –and banished the thoughts of losing the Own, returning home a useless invalid, living out endless days, because he knew Kel was worth the sacrifice. He would always have given his life for hers, because she was something greater and better and more vital than he was, and he loved her, and her living in his stead was no price to pay at all- and perhaps what he had given was a greater sacrifice even than that. “Because... I love you, remember?”
Kel smiled, and he thought that maybe that was a glitter of tears in her eyes (but he’d never seen Kel cry, ever.) “I remember,” she said, and kissed his cheek gently and gripped his hand hard. “I remember."
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,068 words
Competitor: Dom
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: He only did it because he wanted her to live, and he wanted that because he loved her. How Domitan found himself leaving the King’s Own.
********
It was dark in the tent. Or no, it wasn’t the tent. They’d moved him, all the way back to Corus and Neal’s tender loving care, so this must be... the palace? The Healers’ Wing?
He remembered moving, he was fairly sure he did. He remembered Neal’s squawk and flurries of orders. Remembered the pain of being moved onto a stretcher, although Wolset and Fulcher and Lerant were trying to go easy on him; remembered Emmett, no, not Emmett, Emmett was long gone, some healer, anyway, fussing and cursing round him on the journey; muttering about stitches and blood loss and fever and constitutions and lucky to be alive.
Dom strongly disagreed that he was lucky to be alive. The appalling pain in his leg, and the lurking knowledge that he would probably never fight again, told him otherwise.
He opened his eyes, and tried to sit up, but his leg stabbed painfully and he lay abruptly back down again, just turning his head to look around him.
It was dark, yes. But his eyes were getting used to the darkness, and dimly he made out a shadow slumped in the chair next to his bed. He reached out with an arm that felt too weak, a hand that shook, to try and attract the shadow’s attention; he brushed its leg, and saw it sit bolt upright as if shocked. He caught sight of the profile, and felt an unexpected burst of warmth in his chest: he could relax now, everything was all right. Kel was here.
“Kel,” he croaked, his voice hoarse.
“Dom? Goddess be thanked, you’re awake,” Kel said, her voice sleepy but perfectly lucid. She got up and fumbled around in the darkness a little until a light sparked, and a lamp flamed, and she brought it over to Dom’s bedside. “It can’t be much before dawn.”
Dom looked at the window, which was slowly growing clearer, greyish light filtering through the shutters. “False dawn,” he said, tried to clear his throat, and realised he was thirsty. “Water?”
She poured some into a beaker, and held it carefully to his lips, supporting his head with her arm. He finished drinking, and let his head rest back on the pillow; Kel’s hand found his own, and gripped. “Do you remember what happened?” she asked.
He shut his eyes, the flickering lamplight casting ghoulish shadows over his face, the fever from his wound stealing the strength from him, flesh almost melting from his bones in those frightening few days when Neal had grown tense and intense, jittery with his brown hair constantly flyaway as he ran his hands through it, frustrated, afraid, looking for a solution they were both beginning to fear did not exist. The fever had broken, eventually, and Dom had fallen into blissful sleep, aided and abetted by a solid dose of poppy juice. Now he had woken, and Kel wondered- how much of his memory had the fever erased, and would it be better if it had?
“Yes,” Dom said, effortfully, opening his eyes and reading Kel’s thoughts from her face, picking up on the miniscule tells of anxiety. “I remember...”
He did. He remembered the raiders, remembered their uncanny organisation and the way they had chosen specifically to take Kel down, either in an attempt to strike a blow against the commander of the attack on them, or simply trying to kill the Protector of the Small (because, Kel could say what she liked about that nickname, but it stuck.)
He had got in the way of a stroke that would probably have killed her. He had barely survived himself, but he remembered thinking to himself as Kel screamed his name and smashed the head off the man who had caught him, it doesn’t matter now what happens to me. She was alive, that was all that mattered, and if being willing to die for her was some kind of twisted proof that he loved her, then, it now occurred to him, maybe he’d loved her from the start. There had to be some kind of explanation for going off into the Scanran wilds after her all those years ago, he reasoned.
“I remember,” he repeated, in case Kel was worried by his silence.
“Then you remember, Domitan of Masbolle, that you are a complete and total daisy-brained idiot!”
Dom blinked at her. Strong words and strong tone from private, calm Keladry.
She leaned forward, her eyes fierce and the rest of her face perfectly, disconcertingly blank, a sign of the control she was having to exert to keep her mask of impassivity. “How dare you? You knew you were going to get hurt. You nearly died! What do you think that did to me? To everyone else who loves you? We had to watch you drift away. Neal said you were so close to entering the Black God’s Realm, you might as well have bought your passage and arranged for lodgings!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and didn’t mean it. All that mattered was that Kel was safe. She was angry now, but that just proved that she was alive.
Her face softened, and she let a little more emotion onto it, as she reached out and brushed a strand of hair off his face, her fingers lingering on his cheek before she pulled them away. There were deep, exhausted shadows under her eyes. “No, you aren’t,” she said softly, and sighed. “Dom. You didn’t have to do that for me.”
Here was something he could disagree with fairly. “Yes, I did.” She still held his hand; he closed his fingers on hers, as tightly as he could- which wasn’t very –and banished the thoughts of losing the Own, returning home a useless invalid, living out endless days, because he knew Kel was worth the sacrifice. He would always have given his life for hers, because she was something greater and better and more vital than he was, and he loved her, and her living in his stead was no price to pay at all- and perhaps what he had given was a greater sacrifice even than that. “Because... I love you, remember?”
Kel smiled, and he thought that maybe that was a glitter of tears in her eyes (but he’d never seen Kel cry, ever.) “I remember,” she said, and kissed his cheek gently and gripped his hand hard. “I remember."