There's blood upon his throat, but Leto won't see that it's his; no self sacrifice required when he'll heal in but a span of minutes or hours depending on the depth of Petra's' clutching grasp, ergo there's no point letting it slip to the surface now, not when his darling half is hurt. Not when adrenaline runs thicker in green eyes than sense.
There is blood upon the fingers caressing at his cheek; he can smell the iron clearly, and it twists beneath his ribs into a knot of barbed wire rage. A twitch of all his muscle at the sight of Leto bloodied, calling him towards the streets. Towards the Upper City spires where he knows his master dwells, hungry for a death Astarion will damned well deliver after this—
But the moment that he starts to rise, he stops— sinks back those bare centimeters to his knees. Nothing more than a twitch.
He can't leave Leto like this.
(He can't leave him.)]
Arms up if you can move them. Hold fast to me. [It's not a question: Astarion lifts him into his arms without a second spared past warning, carrying him to the bed and its swath of expendable sheets— tourniquets or bandages yet untorn, albeit not for much longer now.
First: the familiar summoned from midair, whispered to before a flurry of flapped wings sees it off. Second, a cool hand at his shoulder, appraising wounds for depth. What he mutters in Tevene, he mutters to himself.]
no subject
There's blood upon his throat, but Leto won't see that it's his; no self sacrifice required when he'll heal in but a span of minutes or hours depending on the depth of Petra's' clutching grasp, ergo there's no point letting it slip to the surface now, not when his darling half is hurt. Not when adrenaline runs thicker in green eyes than sense.
There is blood upon the fingers caressing at his cheek; he can smell the iron clearly, and it twists beneath his ribs into a knot of barbed wire rage. A twitch of all his muscle at the sight of Leto bloodied, calling him towards the streets. Towards the Upper City spires where he knows his master dwells, hungry for a death Astarion will damned well deliver after this—
But the moment that he starts to rise, he stops— sinks back those bare centimeters to his knees. Nothing more than a twitch.
He can't leave Leto like this.
(He can't leave him.)]
Arms up if you can move them. Hold fast to me. [It's not a question: Astarion lifts him into his arms without a second spared past warning, carrying him to the bed and its swath of expendable sheets— tourniquets or bandages yet untorn, albeit not for much longer now.
First: the familiar summoned from midair, whispered to before a flurry of flapped wings sees it off. Second, a cool hand at his shoulder, appraising wounds for depth. What he mutters in Tevene, he mutters to himself.]
Brave thing, you'll be the death of me— again.