Rune's Pocky Chain
Elderberry #8. Regenerate with Malt
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1250-70's
Word Count : 600 (6-part pocky chain)
Malt Prompt : Regenerate : Lyssa - The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most
Rune might just have to get two of these. Trying to cram everything into one seemed cluttered. The end result here seems a bit sparse but more unified.
All he has to do is close his eyes and there’s a broken body lying before him, tangled and twisted on the rocks. There’s a woman barking out orders, and he’d cover his ears, but the sound is coming from between them.
So he follows them. In his mind, he puts his hands on the man, just as he once did for real. The mangled limbs jerk and snap, and the body, which by all rights should have been dead, pulls itself to its knees.
That’s when he usually reminds himself that he can open his eyes. Sleep can wait.
With a nervous glance at the curtained window, another at the closed door, Rune draws the razor over the inside of his arm. He bites his lip at the pain.
The razor falls in his lap and, with a deep breath, he lays his fingers on the cut. There’s no need to think about it anymore; the magic runs its own course up the length of his spine.
The room spins, his stomach turns. The blood ceases, the wound diminished to the faint remains of a scratch, and Rune throws out a hand to keep from falling off the bed.
Ski’s deathly pale as she bursts through the gate, a cluster of men behind her, and…a stretcher. Rune’s chest goes tight. “Lyssa?”
“Her leg,” says Ski.
He pushes his way past the soldiers, who fight to keep the stretcher level while making room for him.
She’s unconscious, a mess of blood and mangled leather from the knee down. He has the urge to turn on Ski and demand to know what happened, why there’s not a scratch on her, but he’s too busy dropping to his knees and tearing what’s left of her boot from Lyssa’s foot for that.
There’s a baby in his arms. He doesn’t know it yet, he’s too small to understand, but he’s failed him. There’s a dead woman in the bed, back in the room, and all his screaming is for naught.
Ski’s fetching a nurse. Lyssa’s scraping Kairn off the floor. All Rune can do is hold the boy.
The room too tight, too loud, too full of death, he took him outside. His tiny body is so heavily wrapped in blankets he can barely feel his movements through it.
Beyond the walls, the darkness stirs. He can’t fail him a second time.
Rune runs a finger through the soot that clings to the walls. By any proper logic, they shouldn’t still be standing. He shouldn’t be standing. He coughs, the dust still thick in his lungs, and blinks, as if that might stop his eyes from burning.
His shoulder’s a mass of raw, charred flesh, healed to an angry, glossy pink. He glares at the pair of idols at the back of the temple, untouched by the blaze. “This is your doing, isn’t it?” he says, twisting the arm as much as he can, trying for a better look at the damage.
Rune is hunched over a child amidst the wreckage, tending minor wounds, offering words of comfort. He’s not really hearing himself, not really thinking about the flow of energy from his body to hers. It’s all become rote.
The laugh from behind him, that’s something he hasn’t grown used to yet, From her tone, Reida doesn’t approve of the script.
“What?” he says to his new companion.
“She’s not Life, you know,” she says, with the tap to her temple that has come to mean the god in his head.
“Oh? Then just what is she?”
Reida snorts. “She’s Death.”
Story : knights & necromancers
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1250-70's
Word Count : 600 (6-part pocky chain)
Malt Prompt : Regenerate : Lyssa - The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most
Rune might just have to get two of these. Trying to cram everything into one seemed cluttered. The end result here seems a bit sparse but more unified.
All he has to do is close his eyes and there’s a broken body lying before him, tangled and twisted on the rocks. There’s a woman barking out orders, and he’d cover his ears, but the sound is coming from between them.
So he follows them. In his mind, he puts his hands on the man, just as he once did for real. The mangled limbs jerk and snap, and the body, which by all rights should have been dead, pulls itself to its knees.
That’s when he usually reminds himself that he can open his eyes. Sleep can wait.
With a nervous glance at the curtained window, another at the closed door, Rune draws the razor over the inside of his arm. He bites his lip at the pain.
The razor falls in his lap and, with a deep breath, he lays his fingers on the cut. There’s no need to think about it anymore; the magic runs its own course up the length of his spine.
The room spins, his stomach turns. The blood ceases, the wound diminished to the faint remains of a scratch, and Rune throws out a hand to keep from falling off the bed.
Ski’s deathly pale as she bursts through the gate, a cluster of men behind her, and…a stretcher. Rune’s chest goes tight. “Lyssa?”
“Her leg,” says Ski.
He pushes his way past the soldiers, who fight to keep the stretcher level while making room for him.
She’s unconscious, a mess of blood and mangled leather from the knee down. He has the urge to turn on Ski and demand to know what happened, why there’s not a scratch on her, but he’s too busy dropping to his knees and tearing what’s left of her boot from Lyssa’s foot for that.
There’s a baby in his arms. He doesn’t know it yet, he’s too small to understand, but he’s failed him. There’s a dead woman in the bed, back in the room, and all his screaming is for naught.
Ski’s fetching a nurse. Lyssa’s scraping Kairn off the floor. All Rune can do is hold the boy.
The room too tight, too loud, too full of death, he took him outside. His tiny body is so heavily wrapped in blankets he can barely feel his movements through it.
Beyond the walls, the darkness stirs. He can’t fail him a second time.
Rune runs a finger through the soot that clings to the walls. By any proper logic, they shouldn’t still be standing. He shouldn’t be standing. He coughs, the dust still thick in his lungs, and blinks, as if that might stop his eyes from burning.
His shoulder’s a mass of raw, charred flesh, healed to an angry, glossy pink. He glares at the pair of idols at the back of the temple, untouched by the blaze. “This is your doing, isn’t it?” he says, twisting the arm as much as he can, trying for a better look at the damage.
Rune is hunched over a child amidst the wreckage, tending minor wounds, offering words of comfort. He’s not really hearing himself, not really thinking about the flow of energy from his body to hers. It’s all become rote.
The laugh from behind him, that’s something he hasn’t grown used to yet, From her tone, Reida doesn’t approve of the script.
“What?” he says to his new companion.
“She’s not Life, you know,” she says, with the tap to her temple that has come to mean the god in his head.
“Oh? Then just what is she?”
Reida snorts. “She’s Death.”