Takes place directly after With Great Malice.
Word Count: 968
Aquamarine figured he should consider himself fortunate. At least he wasn’t dead.
That didn’t lessen the panic.
His heart pounded within the cage of his ribs. For the first several minutes of solitude, all he could focus on was the pain. One shoulder bled freely; the other held his dagger. His rapier pierced his thigh, not so deep that it stuck all the way through, but deep enough that dislodging it would be a misery all its own. Moving his right hand was agony. He could taste blood on his tongue, but didn’t know if it came from his nose or his mouth; his face was sticky and warm with it. Every breath was a challenge, despite how fast and heavy they came.
The Knight left, or he seemed to. Aquamarine knew better than to trust the fading aura, even when it ultimately flickered out of existence. Sessrumnir seemed to appear out of nowhere. If the Knight was following him, he’d done so as a civilian, or had some sort of magical object that concealed his aura.
He could return — alone, or with friends.
Aquamarine felt around the dirt with his good hand, searching for his communicator. He soon gave up, hissing a curse when every movement jostled the dagger in his shoulder.
Perhaps he could summon it now. The smoke was gone. Common sense seemed to suggest that without it, his ability to teleport and summon his weapons should have returned to him, unless the effects were permanent.
Aquamarine hoped they weren’t permanent.
A rustling of foliage nearby sent Aquamarine’s heart into overdrive. He jerked his head around but couldn’t turn enough to see. Though the aura indicated that it was a youma, he couldn’t trust his senses anymore, not when he knew there were ways to obscure one’s aura. He wasn’t even sure he could trust his eyes.
“You’re crying,” said a familiar voice.
Aquamarine did not relax or breathe a sigh of relief, but at least he knew he wasn’t in immediate danger.
“You again,” he said.
“Yes…”
She stood over him, all pale skin, dark feathers, and musty, tattered fabric that looked like it might once have been fine clothing. Her feet and legs were that of a bird; the talons that crowned each toe looked viciously sharp. Her eyes stared at him, dark and vacant, but there was something intense about her gaze despite that, almost obsessive.
For a moment, all she did was watch him, still and silent.
“Don’t you have something to say?” Aquamarine prompted her.
Her blank expression fell. Mournfully, she asked, “Where’s my love?”
Aquamarine laughed bitterly, but soon regretted it. Individual sharp pains shot through his chest, his shoulders. He hissed and grimaced and writhed against the ground.
“Stop that Knight from returning,” he told her, forcing the words out, “and I’ll help you find whatever you’re looking for.”
“He’s gone,” she said.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes…” The youma cocked her head as she looked at him. She seemed to study his face. “You’re crying.”
“You said that already.”
Slowly, with a soft rustle of feathers, she lowered herself beside him, crumpling onto the ground like some forlorn damsel mourning her lost love. A single taloned hand came to rest upon Aquamarine’s head, gently stroking his hair.
The second she touched him, all of Aquamarine’s pain dulled to a tolerable ache.
He blinked up at her, tired and confused. He felt each blade in his body, each point where some part of him might have been broken, but he wasn’t overwhelmed by it. He could think clearly enough to assess his situation, to determine what he should do.
“How did you do that?” he wondered aloud.
“What do you mean?” she countered.
Aquamarine shook his head. He closed his eyes for a moment and let himself rest.
He summoned his communicator, and while that brought its own version of relief, he didn’t use it. Calling for help would bring Jet, but he didn’t want Jet anywhere near here, not with Sessrumnir throwing around all those threats. Jet was a target now; after his antics near the generator, offering the Princess a traitor’s head, how could he be anything but? If Ganymede didn’t come for him herself, she’d send her fawning sycophants to do it for her.
This was a warning. Sessrumnir made that clear. Aquamarine had been targeted, which meant they knew or assumed he meant something to Jet, and Jet was in danger.
Jet, who told the Queen he’d bring her the Princess.
“Where’s my love?” the youma asked, wiping a tear from his face.
“Go back to the Rift,” Aquamarine told her, without his usual animosity. “Don’t come here again. The Knight could return. Stay away from him, and don’t go near any Princesses.”
He opened her eyes to gaze up at her, and thought she might have inclined her head in agreement.
“You’re hurt,” she observed, as if she’d only just noticed.
“Yes,” he said, “But I’ll recover, and then I’ll help you.”
“Do you promise?” she asked. Her voice was small and quiet, almost childlike.
“You have my word.”
Her mouth curved into the smallest smile. Her eyes seemed to spark with some distant emotion. She tipped her head back slightly and looked up into the sky.
“My love is so beautiful,” she said.
Aquamarine laughed, weak and unamused, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed. Movement and laughter didn’t hurt as much as long as they maintained contact.
But he couldn’t stay, and he wouldn’t ask for more of her help.
“Go, once I’m gone,” he told her.
“Yes…”
Trusting her to follow the command, Aquamarine let his eyes close again. He took a steadying breath, prepared himself for the agony that would come without her touch, and vanished from sight.
