(no subject)
He makes it back to HQ. Limping, trailing blood and half-clinging to the buildings for support, Armand still makes it back to the warehouse that never looked so much like home. The winds were against him, too, which explained why, when he finally came across some of the Pack, they look surprised.
“Armand-”
“Don’t. They took Russ.”
One of the other werewolves starts to speak before her companion, lanky and blond and from New York, narrows his eyes and asks,
“Where?”
“South. I don’t know, Alistair. Just follow the nice trail of blood I left you.”
Perhaps luckily for all involved, that’s when Armand faints.
--
Pain. Spinning, jagged, up and down and fuck it hurts it hurtsfuckohDieu
“Please keep the torch still.” Heather.
Calm and quiet and it’s okay, it’s Heather and she pulls at something that twists and burns and Armand
SCREAMS
before the blackness crashes back down on his consciousness.
--
It’s dark. Cold and warm, cold against his face and warm on his leg on his chest at his side where she is curled, watching him.
Warm from pain, sick from pain, he forces a smile and says, “Hey, Jay,” and then shuts his eyes again. It’s easier, to fall back into his mind.
Journey just rests her head on her paws and says nothing.
--
The next time that he wakes up, it’s daylight and Journey is gone. Heather is there instead, but more importantly the pain is nothing more then ache. Of course, his mind is clouded, fuzzy, and he feels something like a drowning man trying to reach the top of the lake, the top of understanding.
“He’s not back, is he?”
“Armand-”
“Don’t. They took Russ.”
One of the other werewolves starts to speak before her companion, lanky and blond and from New York, narrows his eyes and asks,
“Where?”
“South. I don’t know, Alistair. Just follow the nice trail of blood I left you.”
Perhaps luckily for all involved, that’s when Armand faints.
--
Pain. Spinning, jagged, up and down and fuck it hurts it hurtsfuckohDieu
“Please keep the torch still.” Heather.
Calm and quiet and it’s okay, it’s Heather and she pulls at something that twists and burns and Armand
SCREAMS
before the blackness crashes back down on his consciousness.
--
It’s dark. Cold and warm, cold against his face and warm on his leg on his chest at his side where she is curled, watching him.
Warm from pain, sick from pain, he forces a smile and says, “Hey, Jay,” and then shuts his eyes again. It’s easier, to fall back into his mind.
Journey just rests her head on her paws and says nothing.
--
The next time that he wakes up, it’s daylight and Journey is gone. Heather is there instead, but more importantly the pain is nothing more then ache. Of course, his mind is clouded, fuzzy, and he feels something like a drowning man trying to reach the top of the lake, the top of understanding.
“He’s not back, is he?”