ArtieFartie

Osmi was asleep in the chair in the corner of the room. It was the third day in Gillad, and the two of them were beginning to come to terms with this new, bleak reality. Wick’s wounds weren't closing. Not even Osmi’s healing magic was taking. The sutures were being rejected by the body of their partner, who lay awake on the stiff mattress on the other side of the room. 

Wick’s eyes drifted around the room lazily, exhausted and confused.  

“Why… why am I not healing?” She thought through the haze while counting the cracks in the creaking ceiling; her new passtime, as sleeping was now impossible. Wick’s wound on her chest burned when she breathed, pulling a hiss from between her gritted teeth. Between this fresh sting, the chronic ache her body had already been hosting, and the panic that sets in when her eyelids close, sleep was out of the question. 

To rub salt in the already gaping wound, wick is a side sleeper. She wished so desperately to roll over to her left, adjust the alignment of her legs and hips, and relieve the building pressure in his bones. But he knew he couldn't. He had tried already, and the pain sent him right back on to that table. 

That table. 

A surge of adrenaline warmed the tips of her ears. Her throat tightened. 

Fuck. 

Not again. 

She could feel her heartbeat deepening, each pulse sending a shockwave of pain through the already aching wounds, the frayed nerves crackling like wood popping in a fire. Wicks vision began to shift under her lulling eyelids. Colors swam. Colors faded. 

“S-Stop… what’s… where..” 

Wick’s skin clammy with sweat, they attempted to wipe their forehead, but her arms did not move. 

Wick’s blood ran cold with terror as she saw the unfamiliar ceiling again. The putrid, rotting air stifled their already labored breathing. The metal clang of chains on her wrist echoed through her skull, scrawling razor thin scratches on her psyche. 

“No… no no no..!” Their body betrayed them, limbs heavy as lead, back locked against the mattress. The jangling of metal became louder and louder, and her breathing quickened as she tried desperately to suck air into her aching lungs. “H-help-,,, d-don't-“

A gnarled hand pushed down on her windpipe. Hot tears began to form in Wick’s tired eyes, as a warm, raspy breath hummed against her ear.

Her eyes snapped open, and locked with the gaze looming above her. 

“Don't be scared, Little Fire. It will all be over soon..” 

A scream tore their throat raw as she lunged up in the bed. Her hands shot to her chest, her neck, as she curled in on herself.  

“Wick!! Shit shit shit, its okay! You’re okay, breathe!” 

Osmi gently placed both her hands on wicks trembling shoulders. 

“Please breathe, Wick, its me… you're okay, we’re okay.” 

The sudden movement of muscles and tendons in her body pulled a dry sob from wick’s lips. She gasped for air, each inhale more desperate than the last. A fine smoke poured from her mouth, and her pulse got slower, and slower….

“That's it, you're alright.. look at me, Wick.”

The cloud over wicks eyes dissipated as they blinked rapidly, and they looked towards Osmi. Her gaze was gentle, and scared. 

“.. Os…Osmi…?”

“Hey, there you are…” a warm smile bloomed across Osmi’s tired face. She wiped wick’s scarred cheek lightly with her thumb, careful not to aggravate the new abrasions on her skin. 

Wick crumpled into her arms as a fit of coughs rumbled through their ribcage. The taste of blood lingered in their mouth, and as the coughs subsided, wick pressed her forehead into Osmi’s shoulder. 

“I-Im sorry… I'm sorry….I'm..”

“Wick… i know..” 

Osmi ran a shaking hand through Wick’s hair, stifling a wince, remembering the fresh burn that brands her wrist.