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Davion had always hoped for a quick death. They always used to say that Dragonfire was so hot that it reduced a man to ash in a matter of heartbeats, snuffing him out before the pain had time to register. He didn’t know whether that was actually true, but that was what they told people, in the old days: Your husband, brother, father, son, favourite underling, died before he knew what was happening. He felt nothing. No pain, no fear.
He’d seen slow deaths too – knights who had managed to stagger back to their Keeps with blazing, festering wounds, addled minds or guts sloshing blood and to died slowly, agonisingly over the course of days or weeks - but he tried not to think of them. It was easier to look the other way, down a few mugs of ale, make a couple of irreverent jokes and pray that when his time come, it would be swift.
That was what he’d thought as he’d fallen from Terrorblade’s grasp, bruised and bloody and broken. One single, simple plea: Let it be quick.
He didn’t feel his collision with the ground, instead he kept on falling, sinking down and down into a pool of deep, all-consuming blackness. The darkness swamped him, filling his ears and blocking his eyes and dulling the pain radiating through his ruined body. It was strangely comforting, like falling into a warm bath and letting all his cares be washed away. Maybe death wasn’t so bad after all.
Somewhere up above him, someone was speaking and something was moving. Fingers, Davion realised distantly, on his neck.
Pulse is there. Kaden’s voice. But it’s weak. He’s lost a lot of blood.
He’s losing more the longer we wait around. Mirana. Angry, imperious, snapping at whoever was closest to her to hide the fact that she was afraid . We have to get him back to the Imperium. I have doctors-
He’s beyond doctors, Empress.
You don’t know that.
If Davion had still had control of his mouth, he would have smiled. Typical Mirana. She would have argued with death itself if she’d been the chance.
Which maybe she still would. It had taken Davion far too long to realise in his hazy, unfocused state, but he was still alive. Despite the injuries, the blood loss and his newfound inability to control his own body, his soul had not yet departed. Somehow, for some reason, he was still hanging on. So much for swift.
How about, Luna, insert ed herself into the conversation, as she seemed wont to do , we have this argument back in the Helio Imperium. It’s not like we’re leaving him here.
Davion felt someone- probably Luna, maybe Kaden- scooping him up and slinging him across one shoulder. It didn’t really feel like it was him being moved, more like being in the torso of a scarecrow who’s limbs were being manipulated. It did not hurt, which was probably a blessing.
More noise and movement followed. Mirana must have won the argument because Davion was loosely aware of fingers probing him, bandages being wrapped around his torso. An elf given a damning prognosis in measured, sympathetic tones.
But still death did not come. Davion was sure was he was just on the verge of it, ready to slip under the inky liquid that surrounded him, but there was something still keeping him upright, pining him in place.
More talking followed instead.
Bram was the most verbose by a large margin. He was rambling, the way he always did when he was nervous or uncomfortable. On the surface he was reeling a load of useless information, telling Davion things that he already knew- about the Dragon Knights, the Helio Imperium, about Terrorblade- and askign questions that no one cared to answer. Even, on multiple occasions, resorting to reading poetry. Davion knew what he was really saying, underneath all the chaff. I need you, Davion. Don’t go.
Kaden did not talk much and when he did it was rarely directed at Davion. It didn’t really seem like he wasn’t addressing anyone at all, unless it was the room at large, or maybe the gods. He was a good man. Good fighter. A shame when we’ve already lost so many. Whims of the gods will have us all.
Davion suspected that Mirana had been crying, but she never did it in front of him. Instead, she was tense and irratatible, picking at Bram and Davion and hounding the doctor for updates on Davion’s condition. She was never happy with the answers, never happy at all and her shoes clicked harshly against the floor as she paced angry, anxious half circles around the bed.
No one else spoke, apart from the doctors. But Davion kept listening, straining his ears in the gaps in between conversation, searching for the evidence of another, silent, presence. He wished desperately that the gods had let him keep his eyes instead of his ears, or at least the feeling in his skin, so that he could know whether someone was holding them and, if so, who it was.
More time passed. More inane rambling, more faux-stoic pronouncements, more fractious pacing. It was thoughtful of them to set up a rota, to make sure that Davion was never alone, but the constant noise was exhausting. Davion might have looked like he was sleeping but in reality he was fully awake, all of the time and he had never been more exhausted.
When the silence came it was so unexpected that momentarily Davion thought he’d actually gone and died, until he realised that he could not have given into the darkness because it was still there, tugging at the edge of his consciousness. It seemed even closer and more tangible now without the onslaught of words to drown it out and distract him. It would be so easy to just give in and let the blackness wash over him.
Silence. Peace. Rest. He could almost taste it.
A new sound sliced through his thoughts. Not more words – rambling, snapping, pontificating- but a soft, lilting melody. Someone was whistling, a sad soulful tune.
Marci.
A jolt of energy shot through Davion’s body. MArci was there, right there, just inches away from him. He had to get to her, to tell her everything was okay.
Like a man struggling through swampy water he clawed his way upwards, struggling against the dark tendrils that wrapped around his body and tried to drag him back down. Until, in a rush, he finally crested the surface, diving back into his own body and it – it hurt. Holy shit it hurt. The sensation was like being bludgeoned with a frying pan but apllied his entire body. Every single muscle was on fire, his skin raw and ragged and even his internal organs were howling with pain.
“Marc...” His throat was so raw that he could barely get the words out, “Marci... oh, gods…” The pain was so intense that for a moment he wanted to pass out again just to get away from it.
Immediately, Marci’s fingers tightened around his and her tune song from a sombre tune to a cheerful trill and then a piercing screech that sliced through Davion’s head like a blade. He gasped in pain, curling in on himself to try to drown out the sound.
Apology came next, a low gentle hum, that rattled in Marci’s chest wrapped her arms around his shoulders, cradling him soothingly against her chest.
The reason for the shriek quickly became obvious as Mirana materialised at the edge of his field of vision, looking groggy and dishevelled, “I’m here, I’m awake, what-” Suddenly her eyes snapped into focused as her expression jolted to full alertness, “Davion!”
Davion had no power to do anything but groaned again. Please gods, no more talking. His head was pounding as it was.
Marci’s arm protectively tightened around him, reassuring and stabilising him as she turned to her friend. Thankfully, now that Mirana had been roused, she was able to convey the rest of the conversation in a blessedly silent fashion.
“Of course.” Mirana was already moving towards the door, “I’m getting a healer.” She addressed Davion, “Stay with us.”
Davion lent heavily against Marci’s chest, letting her fingers shift in silent, soothing circles over his back, “Keep it down and I just might.”