faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

Entry tags:

MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

WHO: Everyone (more or less)
WHAT: A trip to Rialto, in pursuit of convincing Antiva to give up its famed neutrality, just this once, pleaaaase.
WHEN: Cloudreach/Bloomingtide 9:48
WHERE: Rialto, Antiva
NOTES: OOC post here. Remember to use warnings in your subject lines for gore, sexual content, or anything else people might not expect to find while casually reading this log on a work computer.

YOUR DESTINATION

Rialto is Antiva's second city in importance and in population, but in many ways it is first in sheer Antivanness. When foreigners imagine Antiva, they often conjure images of graceful bridges arching over turquoise canals, lovers on a romantic gondola ride serenaded by a soprano's aria, fiery young men in vibrant leathers dueling for the honor of their houses in the piazza while down at the docks pirates share tales over bowls of seafood pasta. All of this is to be found in Rialto. While Antiva City is a teeming, bustling center of world commerce, with all the clamor and diversity that creates, Rialto is popular more with the city's uppermost classes than its vast mercantile middle, particularly the old aristocracy who prefer Rialto for its relative peace and its proximity to King Fulgeno's favorite residence. This is not to suggest that Rialto is a Hightown without any Low—like all major cities, for every palazzo-lined canal where the wealthy rest are ten more waterways packed with delivery boats and shops and taverns of every degree and description, from the broad spans edged with rows of fashionable tailors and jewelers to narrow, winding alleys of water overhung by leaning buildings of smoke-stained stucco. The docks, though neither as large nor as busy as the capital's or Kirkwall's, are still large and busy by any other measure, packed with merchants and sailors and fishermen, along with some who—uniquely common in Antiva, a kingdom founded by pirates—skirt the line between honest seamen and buccaneers.

Antivans will argue it's always a good time to visit their country, but everyone else agrees that spring is the ideal. The weather is consistently mild and pleasant, warmer than Kirkwall but without yet edging into the heat of summer the way it is in Tevinter to the north. In the city's parks and piazzas, flowers and shrubby add a few splashes of greenery and warm breezes send occasional showers of petals down from the cherry and citrus trees just finishing their blooms. Climbing flowers and arbors of grapevines are common adornments.

For the king's birthday celebration the city's elegant pale stone buildings are all decorated, with public buildings and bridges hung with bunting in the crown's favored purple and banners depicting the arms of Antiva and the royal house Campagna: a golden ship, sails unfurled, beneath a crown, the shield supported by a seahorse on one side and a stallion on the other. Along the grand canals every palazzo is bedecked in some combination of the occupant's colors and the kingdom's purple, and the theme continues throughout the city, every district finding some means to demonstrate its festive mood. The effect is only slightly diminished by the few areas where graffiti conflicts with the decorations, and Riftwatch, at least, will be pleased to see it mostly takes the form of anti-Tevinter sentiment, ranging from a scrawled FUCK THE VINTS to a few choice quotes from certain popular pamphlets and puppet plays, to a large and surprisingly skillful mural of a dragon and a caricatured merchant prince sitting together on a heap of gold playing with toy ships and dolls while behind them a fire rages.

The king's birthday is always an extravagant occasion, even more so when he hits any age ending in a 0 or a 5, as he is this year. A full week of revelry has been decreed, with each day marked by pageants and parades and games of all sorts, and every night new and fabulous parties in his honor hosted by various houses, guilds, and societies. Knowing the king's love of masquerades, many of these balls are masked, with themes ranging from House Campagna's most celebrated ancestors, to sea creatures, to all gold everything. (While fancy dress is of course always encouraged, many will simply attend in their best finery, with the intention of visiting multiple parties in the same night.) The city is lit with lanterns, torches, and even the occasional bonfire, as the bacchanal spills into the canals and piazzas each evening and continues long into the night.

YOUR MISSION

Riftwatch arrives on this scene by ship, which garners a few approval points from the merchants and pirate-descendants populating the city. The ship remains anchored in the harbor for the duration of their stay, reachable by tender and doubling as a temporary home for the selection of griffons who have accompanied them north.

Griffon riders will make the trip back and forth from the ship most often, as they'll be assigned to shifts that keep one or two of them in the air at all times, day or night. The outward justification for this is to entertain the Antivans below them; they're encouraged to fill some of the time with acrobatics over busy squares or particular parties, at times with banners and streamers to trail behind their mounts. Those with griffons who don't startle easily might be entrusted with a few fireworks to set off from the air. But the real purpose is surveillance, of course, and to serve as emergency back-up or ambulance for anyone who finds themselves caught in a tight spot and calls for help. Riders will be equipped with vials of antidotes to some common poisons, and particularly at night, anyone with healing magic or medical skills might be asked to ride along.

Meanwhile, down on the ground, a steady stream of influential merchants and socialites will want an interesting Riftwatcher or three at their dinners and private parties, each presenting an opportunity to impress upon influential people the importance of the war. These gatherings will range from stiff, formal affairs to wild bacchanals, depending on the host. Of note: a moonlit evening with a chamber quartet on Antonio Luppi's pleasure yacht, famously large enough to have a croquet pitch on the upper deck, a days-long Wicked Grace tournament with rising stakes where Marco "il Calabrone" Molinari defies anyone to beat him, and a race through the canals on gondalas owned by Antiva's who's-who. There are no rules, so finding ways–even magical or new-technological ways–to improve the odds of the more invested racers may win some favor, and a number of competitors are eager to see if Riftwatch has some arcane way to give them an edge.

Outside the city gates, on a grassy cliffside that overlooks the Amaranthine Ocean, there's a faire for the workers and peasantry. There's dancing, a series of field games (tug of war, footraces, horseshoes, wrestling, hammer throwing, blindfolded stick-dueling, mob football, and whatever the heck wallop is), a bonfire each evening, and young people goading one another into cliff diving and climbing back up, sopping wet, using stairs and handholds carved into the cliffside. While no single one of the participants is as influential as the better-heeled set hosting gathering elsewhere, it's still good politics to put in an appearance, play some games, and dispel any lingering perception of Riftwatch as a weird heretical sect or pack of wild demons.

They'll find similar opportunities scattered throughout the streets of Rialto: full tables at taverns who might listen raptly to their accounts of the war further south, minstrels and players who might be persuaded to change their tunes to whip up sympathy or anger for Corypheus' targets, and lower-level independent tradesman who might be persuaded to stop doing business with Tevinter or push for such an agreement within their guilds.

Riftwatchers who are especially active in outreach in these working-class quarters may find themselves approached quietly by representatives of I Figli Della Brace, an underground network of agitators that sprung up in the wake of Riftwatch's prior propaganda efforts and has been wreaking minor havoc by destroying Tevinter goods, carrying on the tradition of vandalism, and hassling those who do the most business with Tevinter and the Anderfels. They're loosely helmed by Vieri Fontana, who already trusts a few members of Riftwatch, and in exchange for Riftwatch's assistance with a few sneaky favors and quick but rowdy demonstrations of disobedience, they'll promise a strong showing of angry common folk outside the palace when it's most needed.

And through all of this, Riftwatch members will need to be looking over their shoulders, watching their drinks, avoiding dark alleys, keeping an eye out for snipers on rooftops, and staying wary of alluring strangers, because an untold number of Antivan Crows are out for their lives and/or anchors.

The purpose of all of this hobnobbing and sneaking around and dodging of murder attempts awaits at the end of Riftwatch's stay: King Fulgeno the Merry and all of the Merchant Princes have agreed to give a contingent of Riftwatch diplomats a moment, the day after the king's largest birthday feast, to plead their case against continuing to trade with Tevinter and the Anderfels. Winning them over would strike a significant blow to the enemy, already cut off from trade with much of the rest of Thedas, and bring Antiva that much closer to actively assisting with the war effort.

Should this meeting involve the support of a few more Merchant Princes, the dramatic unmasking of a traitor among the Princes and a conspiracy among the Crows, and shouts of support from people in the street echoing in through the windows, there's a good chance they'll pull it off.

YOUR ACCOMMODATIONS

The canal-side palazzo where Riftwatch is residing during its visit is the summer property of Merchant Prince Amancio Vivas. Unlike some questionable accommodations provided to Riftwatch in the past, Palazzo Vivas is roomy and lavish, brimming with expensive decor and labelled artifacts and comfortable seating. Anyone needing space to work or plan will find multiple nooks and tables in the library, and Riftwatch has collectively commandeered a secondary dining room (there are several) for meetings.

For those needing a break from work, actually, Palazzo Vivas is well-stocked with books and all of the necessary equipment for parlor games, plus an echoing ballroom equipped with a pianoforte. There's a cabinet of decent wine and spirits available, or a locked cellar full of the very good stuff for the particularly enterprising. The palazzo encircles a central courtyard garden with enough tall hedges and trees that someone might disappear into it. Currently it's in full bloom, including some rare night-bloomers, and at all hours bustling with some combination of insects, birds, and bats. Also featured: two small fountains and a canal-fed wading pool.

The beds, unlike most of the Gallows', involve feathers rather than straw. The sheets are soft. Everything smells like lavender. Everyone can have a bed if they're willing to share with at least one other person; those who are unwilling will find themselves on the floor or a settee.

Everyone will be asked to take on some additional tasks in the palazzo. Most important is guard duty, including some overnight patrols to make sure there are no intruders or disturbances. But as only a skeleton staff is present in the palace, idle Riftwatchers might be sent out to Rialto's bustling markets for food and supplies and/or pressed into making vats of porridge, pasta, or seafood stew to keep everyone else fed while the single cook is attending festivities elsewhere.

YOUR LEISURE

Between assignments, Riftwatch members may find moments–or even several consecutive hours!--to enjoy Rialto. Cautiously, on account of the assassins. But still. In addition to partaking in the merriment, entertainment, and games purely for fun, there are street performances to watch, gondolas to hire for leisurely floats, markets and shops stuffed with goods from throughout Thedas, bath houses, and, only a short hike or shorter griffon ride away from the city, a pristine white sand beach on a calm cove, littered with sea shells, without a single decomposing shipwreck in sight. It's not something they're going to find in Kirkwall, so no one can be blamed for wanting a peek.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

They went cliff-diving. Long dives into water that's still just a little on the cold side, dragging themselves back up for another go - it's a challenge neither Matthias nor Laura were about to back down from. The first time, Laura'd come up for air with her hair a wet mass covering her eyes, too exhilarated to realize she was grinning. Every other time, too. Something about the thrill of it cast all sense of self-restraint from her mind.

And then they'd wandered around the fair, Matthias' hand still clammy in hers, and eaten folded-over pastries a bit like the meat pies in Kirkwall. The bonfire that night had finally taken most of the damp from their skin, leaving them smoke-scented instead. Ostensibly, they're there to show the merits of Riftwatch's members, but little they do is for anyone but themselves. (There are other days and other missions. Even Laura can see that.)

By the time they're walking, leaning perhaps a little tipsily against each other, back through the streets of Rialto, it must be close to midnight. The night's settling coolly around them as Matthias talks and an arrow bites into the flesh of Laura's shoulder.

She makes a surprised little growling sound, straightening up sharply. The pain manifests as she shifts and realizes what's happened: a wooden shaft, fletched with dark feathers, is sticking out of her chest. It's a fraction of a second to figure it all out, and then her claws come out and she's saying, "Matthias -"

And there's a soft sound from the rooftops as another arrow's loosed toward them.

Matthias had been very busy talking. He is always very busy talking, when he talks. He could carry on a conversation with a wall. Laura is no wall, Laura is his girlfriend--has been for what, seems like ages now, but the word is no less thrilling to him--her hand is in his and it's dark except where they pass under strings of lanterns or come upon a torch. He can hear the city around them, snatches of conversations, bits of song, dogs barking, footsteps, and he's had a bit too much drink, and the air is cooler now but still warm and he feels very happy, now, at least until he realizes that something is wrong. Couldn't say what it is that he notices, really, not properly, just a feeling--familiar from the war--and it comes upon him just as Laura makes that little sound.

He looks over at her as she says his name. And there's the shaft of the arrow, sticking straight out of her, at an angle so stark and inorganic that it only looks wrong. Fear, surprise, and there's a sick pitch in his gut. He's seen friends felled by arrows. He knows how fast it goes. Laura's face looks pale, and the blood that has already bloomed around the arrow looks dark.

The second arrow hits Laura, again, the already marked target. Matthias grinds his heel into the ground too late, he can't get at his staff--the barrier thrums to life from that point, surrounds them in a pale orange light that gives the night the faintest glow. Laura's hands are full of her claws but he grabs hold of her anyways, heedless. Two arrows is too many. She can't fall. There's already too much blood. Another arrow meets the barrier spell and clatters to the ground. Rialto is dangerous and it was stupid to have as much fun as they did. There is always danger waiting to remind you how stupid and fragile you are.

The second arrow lands close to the first, but it nicks her collarbone. She makes an awful snarling sound, furious with herself as much as the person holding the bow. Surprise and pain and drink and a day lived for herself have all made her stupid in the way they make anyone stupid; she should have dived out of view as soon as the first arrow punctured her shoulder.

(Are they trying to kill her or trying to warn her? They could have gotten her in the heart. They could have shot them both and left them for dead.)

The next arrow is Matthias', or would be, but his barrier knocks it down. He ends up marked anyway - when he reaches for her, her claws leave two lines in his bicep. She feels it up her arm as her claws make contact, the way she feels anything she swipes at or stabs, but she can't make them disappear fast enough. In the darkness, she can't tell how deep she cut.

The fortified wine and meat pies lurch in her stomach. Her skin's too cold, the scent of her mother's blood in her nose. Here, she tells herself, you're here, but thoughts feel very far away compared to flesh bloodied at her hands. She tries to think, and all she can come up with is an urgent, "Shadows - in the shadows -"

Edited 2022-05-21 22:50 (UTC)

The slice of her claws is a hot feeling. Matthias doesn't realize what it is actually, not at first, not until the pain wells with the blood. The barrier wavers, its strength shook. Instinct twitches his arm away from the sharp edges of her claws. But the wound has already been dealt. He's been cut before, stabbed, sliced, all of it, a little insect under a heel, and nothing's ever been enough to kill him. This one is shocking but it isn't Laura's fault.

"We can run," he says. The barrier shimmers as another arrow strikes it, sent sailing from a bow and a hand and a will in the shadows. Surely they won't keep it up long. They'll run out of arrows. But they'll come, still, won't they? "Come on, we can run--"

He can heal her when they're safer. And himself. And he can just as easily incinerate this street, blast it away, burn off the shadows and make the nighttime day. And he wants to.

That's what she means, she knows on some purely instinctive level - but she's run out of words. Nothing in her thoughts will connect to her jaws or tongue. Everything in her is narrowed into a single point, stay alive.

But Matthias says run, and Laura does, grabbing his good arm with hers. It isn't a run so much as quick, wobbly darting, away into the darkness of overhangs until they can turn into an alleyway. It doesn't lead directly toward their room in the big estate, but it doesn't lead directly to death at the hands of Crows, either. One way and then another, all in the darkness of the unlit paths. The only things that feel real are her heartbeat and Matthias' shirt clenched in her hand.

When she stumbles, she doesn't know where they are, but if she doesn't, then the Crows don't. (That's how it feels like it works, right now, like covering her eyes would make the world disappear around her.) She doesn't fall. She must slither down into the dusty road, her back against a building and her knees drawn up to her chest, but she doesn't realize she's done it until she's sitting there with an arm lying limp on one side and her head drooping.

You can usually tell where you are in Kirkwall because of the sea. There is nothing so reliable to orient yourself, better than any map or word of mouth. Rialto is the same, but they haven't been here all that long, which makes the streets a maze less easy to untangle. And Matthias isn't trying to untangle them, really. Not yet. Later, they will need to find their way back to the palazzo. Right now it's the threat that moves him, as urgent as a hand pushing against his back. They must find a place to be safe. Like an animal running underground. He doesn't like that, and some part of him wants to turn around, raise his hand and burn the bowman down to his bones. But Laura doesn't need that. She could kill someone if she wanted them killed. So he fights down that savagery and they run, ragged, silent, until something says enough.

Then she's in the road and Matthias falls down to his knees beside her. His hand is slippery with blood. When he'd put on his shirt this morning it was white. The sleeve is dipped red now, and he pushes it back impatiently, ignoring the twinge of pain. The arrows are still sticking out of Laura and Matthias grabs his knife, cuts away the fabric so he can see. He tries to think of Derrica's voice, tries to imagine her hand holding his, guiding him. She is never panicked. He can't get panicked.

"I'm going to break them," he tells Laura, his voice low and quick, "the arrows, I'm going to break them. We can wait in between if you need it." It will hurt, of course it will hurt, and she might need the breath. He wipes his bloody hand clean on his leg. It will last a moment. He only needs that moment. He takes hold of one of the shafts. His other hand he has ready to press against her skin. Pressure. You always want pressure. "Ready?"

She nods, but there's no thought to it, just the smell of blood and the mixed pressure and pain of a hand on her shoulder. The sound of the arrow's shaft as it snaps is loud and distant all at once, drowned out by the way the wood grinds against her collarbone. It's a pain sharp enough to deafen without making a noise. If she could scream, she would - but they're only safe if they're quiet. (If they're safe.) She's too loud even through gritted teeth, but there's a strangulated quality to it.

When the first one is done, she sucks in a hard breath and leans her head back against the wall. There's a break - at least there's a break. Still the smell of blood and the unreality of it all, still the sensation that she's actually fourteen in the Nevarran countryside and her mother is dead, but she can breathe. She doesn't notice her hands are trembling.

After a moment, she nods again, her good hand closing tight around her thumb. It's as close to a do the next one she can manage.

There's pain in the trapped sound of Laura's cry and Matthias wants to tell her that it will be all right--and for once, it will be all right, that wouldn't be empty words. As soon as this is done he can dig the arrows out, and as soon as he digs the arrows out, he can heal her. This first. This first, now.

Matthias pulls in a breath, puts his hands to the second arrow, and snaps it. He's stronger than he used to be, and the shaft is slender. It breaks like the first, without a terrible amount of effort, and he throws it to the ground and swiftly lifts his hand again to catch the spill of blood with the side of his wrist. The arrowheads are in there, though he can just see the ridge of the first that struck her.

"It's going to hurt more," he says, "Laura--you're with me still, yeah? Look, it'll hurt more but then I can fix it. I've got to get them out or else I can't heal you properly. If we go for the palazzo, there's others that might help, but--" They could be followed, they might not be fast enough, he has to work out where the palazzo is and Laura is bleeding so much, and her hands are shaking like he's never seen-- "I want to do it now. You're with me. You trust me, yeah?"

Pain makes everything make more sense - it always has, for Laura - even when losing blood threatens to turn her senseless. It's become sharp enough to remind her that she killed her mother years ago, that she's in Rialto and not Nevarra - which makes it easier to notice that most of the blood is hers, not Matthias'. She hasn't killed him yet. She's not going to. She'll die before she does that.

And without Matthias' help, death might be closer at hand than usual.

She's still cold and growing colder, words so far beyond her that she doesn't even think to open her mouth. But he wants to know if she trusts him, and she nods. Right now, there's no one and nothing else in the world, trustworthy or not.

He nods, quickly. And then he gets to work.

First the arrows must be removed. He wipes the blood from his fingers and he presses his other hand against her shoulder, pinning her to the wall. With his knife, he makes a quick cut into her shoulder. It's Laura, it's not some stranger, but Matthias keeps his head bent and his hand steady, and when he sticks his fingers in her shoulder he does it with purpose. He pinches the flat of the arrowhead between his fingertips when he finds it, and pulls it out.

And then the other. He cuts, again, but the second is harder to find. The shot was true and sure and went deep, and Matthias has to remind himself to breathe, has to close himself off for a moment--but he can't, it's Laura--but if he loses his head then she might die, so he pushes his fingers in until he finds the arrowhead.

Once it's out he slaps his hand on her shoulder, covering the wounds with his palm like to hide them. The slickness of her blood makes it slippery. New blood is trickling out--he can feel it under his hand. The heart moves the blood around and Laura's heart is beating hard, he can tell. She is in pain and she is scared and she is angry, not at him, but she must be. He's angry. His heart is beating very fast. And Matthias thinks of the war, of folding away fear and pain and terror so you can survive this next moment. He lets his breath out, takes another. He imagines Derrica's hand again, covering his. Like this.

"All right," he says aloud. "It's all right."

The way to think of it is, healing someone is the inverse of burning them. The magic is the inverse, too. Fire is quick, and healing takes time. Fire you can grab hold of and thrust out, and healing you have to coax. The magic is cold, chill and numb and pale, pale yellow, like the first fingers of dawn light. Matthias closes his eyes and lets it work.

Edited 2022-05-29 16:19 (UTC)

She gets through the first arrowhead with the same swallowed-back sounds, but the other one didn't nick bone on the way in. Nothing slowed it. The knife cuts into skin and muscle, deeper this time, and Matthias' fingers push into her flesh, and Laura's caught between instinct and knowledge. She wants to get away, kick out at him and run like a wounded animal, and she knows she can't. Instead, she's squirming with the effort to stay there, spasming when the burning in her shoulder spikes hotter.

(Some part of her knows, someplace beyond words, that pain fades. This will end, and the fear and anger in her head will stay, but the actual, physical pain will disappear. This will end, or she will die, and that will be an end as well.)

(Matthias won't let her die.)

When the healing starts, it's so thoroughly a relief that she doesn't care about the magic of it. She slumps, her forehead bumping against his shoulder, eyes closing against the glow around his fingers. If she could have pulled the arrows from her flesh herself - and she could have, she'll think later - she wouldn't have been able to do anything except stagger back toward the palazzo drenched in blood. There'd be no reprieve from the blood pumping out of her.

Instead, firm hands press at her collarbone, leaving an ache where she'd been mad with pain. Her good arm lifts, wrapping shakily around Matthias, her face still buried in his neck.

It will take work, and magic alone won't heal deep enough, complete enough. Time, medicines, bandages, all that will do the rest. There might be scars and there will be pain and Laura's shoulder will be stiff to use for weeks, months, maybe, and when the winter returns it will get stiff all over again.

But she's alive.

Matthias keeps at it, healing and numbing, and when Laura wraps her arm around him he pushes back against her, meeting her in it. Everything smells of coppery blood, and even he can smell the itch of magic beneath it. He turns his head to kiss her--the side of her head, the top of her head, somewhere in her hair which also smells like blood but also like Laura, living and alive and healing. Even when the spell is done he leaves his hand where it is and imagines that she will understand the comfort he means by it. Whatever happens, he is here and will be here and he will always do this for her.

They're a huddled heap in the dark street, one the Crows have evidently left for dead - however long they've sat there, they've been undisturbed except by the occasional rat scurrying past in search of dinner. And they're better for it. Neither well nor whole, but better, at least. At some point, Laura's body will make more blood and knit her muscles back together, and the flint and fingers that dug into her flesh will be little more than memory.

She can still smell Matthias' wounds. If she could find the Crows who shot at them, she'd run them through with all six claws, and it wouldn't change the bloody lines in Matthias' arm. When she can feel the fingers of her left hand again, and her teeth are no longer gritted against the pain shooting out from her shoulder, she nudges his hands away from her. It's a light touch, hesitant, as she tries to move his palm to his biceps and the claw-marks there.

Fix this, she means, and I am sorry.

Matthias is focused so closely on Laura that it takes him a moment to understand what she's wanting when she touches his hands. He looks down, dully--lets his hands be pushed--and then he puts it together, takes his hand and presses it against his arm.

"It's all right," he says, "it's only scratches--it's all right."

(Only. There's knowing that Laura's claws are there and then there's seeing them, and how clean and easy they can slice through flesh. He isn't afraid of her, still. But it's a reminder.)

There's a particular tingle to being healed, something a little like getting sewn up. That same pull and tug, and then that same drawing together. Matthias pulls in a breath that he then lets out, as the numbing calm of the magic sets into his bicep. Now it feels better--and then it feels good, as the pain leeches away under the spread of the magic.

When he pulls his hand away, there are still scars. But they're pale and shiny and well-healed, and the blood smears and wipes away clear when Matthias rubs his hand against it. He turns his arm so Laura can see it.

"Better, yeah?"

Laura watches, frowning like she's trying to read something illegible in the glow of his hand, as he works. Magic is even more innocuous when Matthias is doing it to himself; she's grateful to it, and to him for having it, in a way she normally isn't.

When he finishes, she nods a yes - much better - and her hand follows his as it touches the scars. Smooth, silvery, disappearing into the night when the glow does. I've got loads of scars, he's likely to tell her, or something similar. Two more won't hurt. And he's right - she knows there's far worse covered by his clothes. He survived more than his share of pain before they met.

But even healed clean, as neatly as if he'd waited weeks, these particular ones make guilt rise like acid in her throat. They will for a while.

Raising both hands isn't without some pain, but right now, it feels earned. She cups Matthias' cheeks in her bloody hands, tipping her head close to his. From here, she can feel the warmth of his breath, not just the movement of his chest. They'll need to move soon, go in search of safety, but for just a moment more, she wants to remember that they're alive.

Despite everything, Matthias gives her a little smile. They aren't yet safe--safeer, yeah, but not properly safe--but he can't help himself. This is a moment of relief. They're alive. Laura's hands are warm (and sticky with blood), and she's been healed, and he's been healed and for this moment, that's enough.

"I love you," he says. Which is maybe weird to say, now--or maybe this is the best time to say it, after a close call, after they've saved each other. Life is moments like this, breaths in between things that could end you. That makes these moments as important as they are good, no matter what came before or what comes next.

"Yes." The part of her that speaks still feels distant, like a stranger she met once, but it's all close enough that she can make herself speak. (She wouldn't know how to explain it if she had to, how everything inside her head narrows down to sharp edges and instinct. She doubts she'll ever figure it out.) "I love you."

What that means is as overpowering and unspeakable as everything else inside of her right now. I would kill for you and this is safety and if you died, I might want to die and you are as important as my mother might capture some of it. She can't say any of it, but Matthias will understand. He supplies the words he requires.

Eventually, when she recalls that there are still objectives left to getting home alive, she lets Matthias' face go and pushes herself unsteadily to her feet. There are plenty of crooked streets ahead of them.

He smiles at her. It's dark, yeah. She can still likely see the flash of his teeth. This isn't a moment for smiling but for the fact that they're still alive, together, that they love each other and will keep on like this.

And next time, if there's a next time, they will be ready.

Matthias pushes himself to his feet as well, a bit more steady. After all, he didn't have two arrows in him. He offers his arm to Laura as soon as it's free so that she can lean on him if she needs it.

"We can keep to the shadows. I can do us a barrier, if we need it. If we're worried." He throws a glance up toward the rooftops around them. They look empty. A dog is barking somewhere. Surely that's a good sign. If there's noise, they'll be alerted to someone sneaking along after them.

Even if she felt like she could make it back on her own, she'd be tempted to lean on him. There's a scoured feeling in her throat, a sensation like she spent the last hour screaming. The late hour, the wine in her stomach, and the way her head is beginning to ache in place of her shoulder have all conspired to draw her near to comfort where she finds it. And that's Matthias.

As they walk away, Matthias explaining how they'll be safe, Laura wonders how much blood she's left on the wall she was sitting back against. Her thoughts don't want to stay as focused as they usually do, either - but she nods at Matthias' suggestions, and the road continues toward the palazzo.

Matthias will not expect her to talk. He never seems to mind when she doesn't. But she wants to make the effort, if only to say, "I'm sorry."

Matthias glances over at Laura. She's pulled quite close, the better to support her, so she's not entirely easy to see--but he isn't looking to see her, not really. He knows what she looks like. He's looking at her because he's trying to work her out.

"Why're you sorry?" he says, quietly, gently. "You didn't do anything at all. Neither did I. We only--" His little shrug jostles her a bit, and when he realizes it, he stops himself quick, nervous he'll have hurt her. "It happened. We didn't make it happen."

Laura swallows, letting her hair fall forward over her face. The next step is what really matters. She watches her feet, careful to keep up with him, and summons her voice.

"Your arm." And that, she thinks, should be answer enough. It's always been a possibility, hurting him; she'd warned him as much before they moved in together. He hadn't minded then, and he doesn't seem to now - but she does. Two cuts, through skin and muscle, could become more. If she had stabbed him, if she does in the future -

She doesn't know what she'd do.

"Oh," Matthias says. And he feels stupid. He looks over at his arm. In the dark, the bloodstains look darker, and the place where her claws cut through his shirt are clean slices, cleaner even than the sharpest sword might make.

He looks back at Laura. She looks small. Certainly not defenseless, even now. If something happened she could act and he knows it, the same way he knows he could.

"I used to feel like a little animal," he says. That dog is still barking somewhere, distantly. Their footsteps are a soft shuffling sound under that. He keeps his arm where it is, keeping her supported as they walk. "During the war, I mean. I hated it. Like I was always cornered. And sometimes I felt like a grenade. But I did like thinking I could defend myself, if I had to. And I was around loads of other people like that, other mages--my friends--and I knew they felt that way as well, and they could've--" His shrug this time is with his other shoulder, careful not to shake her. "I wasn't angry. Ever. I know what it is."

"I hate that feeling." Being an animal, being a weapon. The further she gets from the days when she always felt that way, to the extent that she didn't even notice, the worse it feels. Somehow, she lived sixteen years that way. She hadn't known there were other options. And now returning to it feels like agony.

I want to be a person, she wants to say - but Matthias is a person, unquestionably, and he feels it, too. He's cornered sometimes, and liable to explode into flames at others. Not as much, she thinks, but how can she know? He might hide it better.

She hid it for months, living out in the Marches. She pretended to be normal, and some people might have believed her. Today, too, she was as much a stranger as Matthias, and they were both accepted at the cliffside.

It doesn't all end up thought consciously, all these ideas of personhood and anger and knowledge. She's lightheaded with exhaustion and blood loss; it's enough to feel things, let alone think on them. But it's all there like an underground lake, and she doesn't say I want to be a person. "It...may happen again."

Only in moments like that one, when hurting him is beyond her control. But it seems likely.

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MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

> matthias.

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