driftfleet | Eleasis 13 1370 dr

Entry tags:

Eleasis 13 1370 dr

Who: Syeira and YOU
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Red Fish, other ships, Iskaulit
When: Beginning 8/10 and ongoing

[Red Fish]

Hello Red Fish. Here she is. Again. Clean as a whistle, in her clothes that should be less than dust, all neat and tidy. Even her hair is brushed. But somehow she still looks like a wreck. Probably due to the all over flush and the sweating due to her raging fever. And also the fact that she feels as weak as a newborn kitten. She stumbles, leaning heavily against walls when she can't keep to her feet.

[On your ship, her first week back]

Somehow, she's there. Feverish, very likely still dressed for bed. Because that's where she ought to be. But no, she's on your ship. Wandering around, maybe looking for someone, or something. Talking to herself softly, deliriously. How did she fly a shuttle in this condition? Probably very poorly.

"Here...Here? Wrong place. Or the right place?"

[Iskaulit, first week]

She has a stick of charcoal in her hand and she's chosen some spot, a wall or floor, perhaps in the garden or the gym, or one of the bars or even a hallway, and she's furiously drawing. It's just lines and smudges in black on black. The more she tries to make it make sense, the less it seems to, and the more her obvious frustration grows.

"I saw...I saw but it won't come out..." There's black streaks across her face, her hands and on her shift. She's still a weak, feverish mess.

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Fingon frowned in concern when he saw a young woman he did not recognize. She did not look well so the Elf stopped in her path, hands held out non-threatening.

"I know not where you are to be. But you are welcome here, on the Paisley. Are you hungry?"

It seems like it's been weeks and weeks. He hadn't trusted them. Didn't think it was really possible. How a man can be involved with something like dream sharing and be so skeptical is crazy, but it's how he is.

He still looks awful. He's carrying himself like he's sore, and he's a sickly pale, looking like he hasn't gone out in the sun since she died. At least he's shaved, though he missed a tiny spot on his jaw. It's easier this way, to shave and dress in his suits. People don't notice you're broken when you tape up the cracks.

She looks like a ghost when he first sees her, a specter that's been haunting his mind from the moment she turned into that creature and ran from them. When she stumbles, something clicks in his mind. This is real. She's here. She's here. He moves toward her, a step at a time. And then suddenly, he's holding her up, and she's there and warm and safe.

"Syeira, God-" he chokes out before he leans forward, pressing his lips to hers, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the threat of tears.

"Hell." It sounds like an answer, but she's not looking directly at the speaker. Until she does. Her hairline is soaked with fever-sweat and her green eyes have pupils gone down to pinpricks, but those widen as they look up.

"Shining elf...Arda." And suddenly she grows anxious, afraid. She reaches out and grabs him buy the shirt sleeve. "Finrod! Maglor! I have to go! I have to find them! I have to save them!"

And then in confused delirium, she tries to rush past him. Though it's clear she has no idea where she is or where she's going.

This woman knew his cousins! Fingon gently rest a hand on her elbow, supporting. "My cousin Maglor is well. I have not seen Finrod yet." He didn't know what had happened to them, but it was clear she needed reassurance.

He tried to restrain her, without hurting her. "I will gladly take you to Maglor, if you will come with me?"

She's warm in his arms. Extremely warm, like your could cook eggs on her skin. And when he takes her weigh, it's heavy, as she doesn't have the strength in her to help him at all.

She makes a muffled "mmmf" sound when his lips press to hers. She parts her lips mostly to relieve the sight pressure and give her room to breathe. It's really not the best time to kiss her. She's most assuredly not in property condition to appreciate it.

Okay, something's definitely wrong. He pulls away and holds her steady when she's not holding herself steady.

"Syeira," he breathes out questioningly. He wipes a strand of hair out of her face, checking her forehead and cursing. "You've got a fever. Come on."

And he's just going to haul her up in his arms bridal-style, petting back her hair. "Hold on, okay? We'll get you in your bed."

She doesn't resist being picked up, and her head flops onto his shoulder. "Arthur," her voice is a tired rasp, as if she hasn't used in a tenday. "You're okay?"

Her energy disapates as fast as it came, leaving her more drained and tired. She half stumbles, leaning against the elf heavily. She barely keeps her feet. And where her face is hot enough he would feel it through cloth, and even where he holds her arm her skin is over-warm.

"Maglor...need to find him...please." That is as clear a yes as she can probably get.

Arthur smiles softly, an edge of despair to it. "I'm okay. I'm just amazed you're okay."

He pushes her door open, carrying her inside. It's just the way she left it, except that the bedsheets are changed. He sets her down on the bed gently, tucking her in. "Hold on. Wait here."

Dashing out of the room, he's back in a minute with an arm full of things: Extra pillow and blanket, a wet cloth, a container of food, and a glass of water. He goes to work setting everything down. "Are you thirsty? Hungry?" Don't mind him as he puts that wet cloth on her forehead, frowning over her.

It is probably terrible of him to spend so much time at the bar (Fingon is here, Maedhros no longer needs him, Father is gone, Syeira is... )

Sometimes, Maglor thinks that Finrod is going to kick his arse when he realises how much his cousin is drinking. But. He likes Tyrion's company, too.

So he comes often to the bar here, and he walks the decks and considers a little half-heartedly the plans he had for a music shop. He isn't expecting to hear Syeira's voice (but why not? All his ghosts are his victims, in one way or another, why not her, too?), and wistfully, he follows it (stupid, Makalaure, you know you can never actually find...

.............. )

"Syeira?"

She's on her knees, rubbing charcoal furiously at the wall, trying to make a shape, but it's just scribble. She exhales a harsh, frustrated noise, slapping her hand over the markings that make no sense. Then she hears her name and turns her head.

"I'm not mad! I saw it!" There's a fine how-do-you-do. But she's still sick with fever and exhaustion. She likely has no idea what ship she's even on, let alone she's seeing her dear friend for the first time since the forest.

"I see it, but I can't-" She attacks the wall again slashing at it with her charcoal.

Edited 2016-08-11 11:22 (UTC)

[Laura is in the cargo hold with her fuzzy slug things, and she smells Syeira before she hears her. That faintly, off-putting sense of someone clearly ill. She's just putting the slug she was holding back into one of the tanks when the door opens, and she turns, frowning at the taller woman. Hmm. She knew of her, but hadn't really met her...the problem of spending so much time alone.]

You are ill.

[So helpful, Laura.]

She's not well, and he puts aside the "how can she be here" question for the more immediate worry.

"Easy, Easy." He is by her side in moments, catching her arms gently, but firmly.

"You are burning up, little fire-hair. And I know you are not mad. But you are exhausted, you need to rest!"

She gives him a forlorn look, but there's not enough strength in her to resist even his gentle touch.

"I see it in my sleep. New dream, but still evil. Why can't I remember?"

[Incredibly helpful. It strikes her as funny, prompting a moment of clarity through the fever haze.]

Is that what this is? I hate it.

[The little chuckle costs her, and she needs to drapes about 3/4 of herself against the nearest wall.]

This isn't Hell.

[The observation is mildly puzzled.]

The cloth is a balm; she groans gratefully at the contact, settling against the pillow. She closes her eyes, clearly exhausted.

"Don't feel right." She's never been sick before, so this is a novelty. One she could have done without. She reaches for him blindly, one handed.

"You're not hurt?"

He draws her into his arms and shushes her, the same way he once comforted brothers and cousins and frightened peredhel twins.

"I do not know, dear one. But perhaps some things we are not meant to remember."

Questions can come later.

"No." She shakes her head, even as she leans heavily into him. Her dirty hands curl into fistfuls his tunic, leaving smears behind, no doubt. It's so hard to stay upright all the time. "It's important. I know it is."

He doesn't mind the smears, rocking her gently and running soothing fingers through her hair as he starts to hum, a low background sound of noise that soothes and comforts and coaxes.

"Maybe." He agrees. "But you might find it easier to remember when you are rested."

He goes still for a second, surprised that she noticed until he remembers she's talking about that day, not the fight with Zhas.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Taking her hand, he sits beside her, rubbing his hand over hers. "Do you get sick? It feels like you have a fever."

Her hair is damp at her hairline and along the nape of her neck. He'll be able to feel the heat of her fever radiating off her skin, as she skins more and more against his supportive hold. At least, this might be evidence that she's real. Would a ghost be burning up with fever?

"I don't know. I've lost memory before." Her voice is thick with growing exhaustion. She spent a lot of what energy she has already. And he's comforting and solid; it's hard to keep putting in the effort to even sit up.

She hasn't focused long enough to actually notice his bruises. Or maybe she has no idea how long she's been gone. Probably both.

"No. Everyone got sick on the cold planet but me." Well, at least she remembers things before she died. That's a good sign, isn't it? "I made soup, but I'm a poor cook."

He nods. "Ah, yeah... I think you're sick. I have no idea if your body regenerated itself or what, but it probably took a hell of a lot of effort on its part. Give it a week and I bet you'll start feeling better."

That would be great if it were true. He takes the washcloth and adjusts it on her forehead, ever worried about keeping her comfortable. "Do you want to sleep?" He'd like to ask her a million questions, but she might be tired.

[well, well, well. here he was, set to mope it out for the next couple of months... until he gets to the top of the cargo bay stairs, turns into the hallway, and sees an incredibly familiar figure at the other end.

and for once he looks shocked, the dark blocky shapes around his eyes stretching wider as his hand instinctively reaches towards the knife he keeps holstered at his side.

you can't blame him. she's supposed to be dead, and he's spent an astounding amount of his life destroying dead things that have come back to life. he wants to believe it, but he's been tricked before. he waits, hand hovering over his side, not blinking or breathing for fear of dispelling whatever moment he's stumbled into.]

No, it isn't.

[She should know, she's been there. When the woman slumps, Laura moves over towards her, not quite close enough to touch, but if she fell, the teen could catch her.]

You are on the Red Fish.

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Eleasis 13 1370 dr

On the S.S.Paisley

Red Fish

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Iskaulit

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