(no subject)
Title: Ether
Rating: PG
Characters: Solomon and Karl.
Summary: In the early days of the Delta project, Solomon does all he can for Karl. It isn't enough.
Word Count: 843
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The bottle was dark and cool in his hand, with glass as thick as a child's thumb, and large -- 400 milliliters. What it held was strong, so strong, had been tampered with and refined to a level of potency that killed the stocky test Labradors when it was dripped into glass boxes with them, and he still had reason to believe it would not be enough. He was taking as few chances today as possible.
Bottle in one hand and a padded white cloth in the other, Solomon turned to the surgical table where Karl sat, barely covered by a flimsy hospital gown. It had begun to slip off his right shoulder, but the young man did not move to correct it, every ounce of resolve provisioned to fighting off the act of trembling.
Solomon knelt by the table.
“You're familiar with how to take this?”
Karl nodded. “Once. My tooth...when I was twelve.”
There was more to it than that, Solomon realized. Karl had been a medical student and had certainly encountered this particular chemical before, knew its symbol and solubility in water, the way it boiled at a temperature just below that of the average human body. Less than a month ago, he may even have poured it onto cotton and watched how easily it burned, flames lapping dangerously at the ceiling. But Karl was no longer a medical student and never would be, as surely as he would never be twelve years old again.
“Alright, then.” He poured out a small circle of fluid onto the pad, thought twice, and added a little more.
Karl started trembling.
Touching his arm, Solomon delivered the lie in the same smooth timbre with which he had told it, and would continue to tell it, countless times.
“Do not be afraid. Remember, this is for Diva.”
He could see it then, the wave of resolve that spread through the young man, as though Diva's name alone were a vessel baring a suit of impenetrable armor. It was the look of the soldier in the trench, clutching a letter from his beloved back home; the parent watching over a child whose only crime was being born into a world that made no exceptions when it chose to be cruel; the castaway catching sight of distant land, blue-black through the veil of night. At that moment, he knew, Karl had a reason to move forward into the darkness, and he did not allow it to slip away.
He seized the ether soaked pad and Solomon's hand with it, bringing it quickly up over his mouth and nose and inhaling deeply. His body gave a violent shudder as the cold, sickly-sweet fumes hit his lungs, but he never wavered. His thin chest heaved, working in rapid succession as he sucked in deep, desperate, hungry breaths.
It took longer than it would have for any normal human, and for a moment Solomon feared that all his calculations had amounted to nothing, that the concoction was simply not powerful enough to overtake the body of a chevalier. To his great relief, those fears turned out to be unfounded as Karl's eyes finally closed in a slow blink, the thin form sagging down onto the table. Lost to the world.
No chances. His hand was cold and damp with the chemical as Solomon gently unwound it from around the cloth, slipping it into his own.
“Karl?” he asked, loud enough for him to hear. “If you can still hear me, I'd like you to squeeze my hand.”
The younger chevalier remained still and quiet save for the slow rise and fall of his chest, eyes shut...then Solomon felt a faint but very discernible grip tighten around his hand. He added another dose of ether to the pad, replaced it over Karl's mouth and nose, and told himself that this was right. This was the only way now, the only thing he could offer him; one last chance to sleep some of the pain away. He took his hand once more, just in time to feel it go limp. This time, his questions elicited no response at all.
There was something obscene about it, he thought as he gathered up the bottle and soaking rag. To leave him lying there like a cadaver, a nameless thing to which any purpose in existence was fast dwindling away. He felt the urge to brush the hair from his eyes and pull the fabric back up around his shoulder.
Instead, he stood back from the table, leaving him to his elder brother who had been waiting less than patiently. Amshel snapped on a pair of gloves, frowning.
“I'm afraid I'm disappointed in you, Solomon.”
He made no reply, having anticipated this.
“We have a limited amount of time and funding going into this project, and cannot afford to have it compromised by your need for luxuries.”
Solomon turned from the table, away from the steel and the syringes, the bonesaw and forceps and specula, and the unconscious boy he could not save.
“Then I advise you to do what you will, brother,” he replied coolly. “Before your test subject awakens.”
Amshel started to cut.