[OPEN] I have never known peace

[ragweed]

WHO: Kit + you??
WHAT: Kit does what he can to help out the Inquisition during blue flu season, and reconnects with some friends (and lovers) along the way.
WHEN: Throughout February.
WHERE: Gallows + Kirkwall
NOTES:This will be Kit's last log before he goes out in a blaze of glory at the end of the month, so if you'd like one last thread with him, ping me @ ragweed on plurk or on discord and we can make it happen. Starters will be in the comments as I write them up. CW for death and violence in Kit's thread w/ the Medicine Seller.

I have never known hunger
Like these insects that feast on me

Comments

[meds4sale]

He knows before Kit hits the ground that it's too late; he knows he just wasn't fast enough, that luck just wasn't on their side today. There are countless ways death comes and no one ever expects it and he has long since accepted this as just another part of life.

It doesn't hurt any less when he kneels beside Kit, gathering what's left of the rapidly fading man into his arms, pressing their foreheads together. He wants to see the last bit of light in Kit's eyes before the inevitable. He doesn't want him to be alone.

"I am here," he whispers, the slightest hitch in his voice as he cups Kit's cheek.

He steels himself for what's to come. It's not the first time he's watched a person die, and it will be far from the last.

[ragweed]

Dying is a lot more straight forward than watching someone else die, Kit is realizing. He doesn't have to grieve, or to fight against it, or wonder over what to do next. His body has taken the reins away from him, which could be a kindness; death is coming, and he's just along for the remainder of this shitty, painful ride--but at least at the end of it, there will be a stillness, a quiet. An end.

It's what he wanted, wasn't it? ...Wasn't it? Ancestors, this was what Vandelin was always afraid of. He was right.

Then he's taken into the Medicine Seller's arms, feels the press of their foreheads together, sees the dark, bottomless blue of his friend's eyes so close--he's seen them like this before, spent long nights held in these arms, yet the cadence of that voice, "I am here," sounds so different suddenly, so foreign on his good ear. A hand, gentle on his cheek, warm against his clammy skin.

There's a wet rattle in the shallow breath he sucks in, and, "Sorry," comes out of him, slurred and unclear. He struggles to lift his bloodied hand from where it's fallen in the dirt, to touch the Medicine Seller, to give back some small measure of the comfort, the compassion, being given to him. But the strength in his arms, which had once wielded war axes and flung an ogre's head clear through an oncoming line of genlock raiders, is gone now. It's gone, and now the world is going too.

It's profoundly unfair, to die with so much left unsaid.

Kit stares up into his friend's eyes, watching him until the darkness enfolds him. Then it is only his eyes that stare, glassy and vacant, and he's gone.