Light of Creation--Lehran

Damnation.

Pain was not something Lehran was unfamiliar with–although, generally, he was more accustomed to the emotional sort than the physical. Physical pain was usually fleeting–as soon as Lorazieh saw the blood, the bruises, the knife, he would step in. He was never forceful about it. Occasionally Lehran wished he would be. That he would at least make it seem like a struggle, rather than a simple matter of calmly placing his own hand over Lehran’s, cradling his head to his chest, and waiting for him to uncurl his fingers of his own accord. Once Lorazieh had control of the knife, he would place it safely out of reach, and begin mending whatever damage Lehran had done to himself. The pain never lasted beyond a dull ache of new healing the next morning.

This. This was quite different.

For one thing, this pain was not confined to his arms, the way most of the wounds Lorazieh tended had been. For another, it had not been self-inflicted. If it had been, he would not have been in an alley in East-Ashera-Nowhere in Daein, in the freezing rain. He coughed, flecks of red mingling with the slush and the mud.

The pain was everywhere.

His chest ached most insistantly, and the tang of iron on his tongue was a testament to the damage. That was the worst of the blows he had received–straight to the solar plexus, likely enough to crack bone. His head ached as well–bleeding, surely, where the stone had hit him? But he couldn’t find the strength to lift his hand to check. He could, with great concentration, flutter his wings under his cloak just enough to be confident that they had not been broken. That was all he dared do with them, in Daein. If anyone found out that he was a laguz here…he closed his eyes.

You’ve been chasing death for centuries, Lehran, would it really be so bad?

It was not exactly the death he had hoped for. Something quicker and more painless would have been ideal, but he supposed that beggars could not be choosers and he ought to be grateful that it was finally his turn. Finally…he coughed again, trying not to imagine the worried look on Lorazieh’s face as the weeks passed and he still simply did not return. Lorazieh was a worrier. Lorazieh…deserved better than that. Deserved to at least know…what became of him. Closure, if nothing else.

Perhaps death was not to be found here after all.

One muscle at a time, he tried to move. A twitch of the fingertips, a halfhearted attempt to curl his fingers. Even that hurt. His arm couldn’t support his weight, and he slumped back into the bloodied snow with a groan. What are herons made of? Spun glass? He could hear Altina’s voice as if she were standing beside him. Shattered glass would at least leave an attacker’s fingers bleeding. He wasn’t sure that he’d even managed that–the Reaper card he carried was not exactly a fast weapon.

Footsteps.

He was surprised he could hear them–surprised that his consciousness wasn’t taken up completely by the pain, and the sound of the sleet. Did he call out for help? He wasn’t sure he could. Would it even be wise? He forced his eyes open once more, trying to see who the footsteps belonged to. Perhaps…perhaps he could guess by appearances if the stranger meant harm. Pitiful, a heron who couldn’t tell by soul.

The decision was made for him. 

The footsteps approached. They were heavy–a soldier, perhaps. A little late to drive off the bandits, he thought dryly. Or, as dryly as one who had been laying in a puddle for Goddess-knows-how-long could. His eyes slipped closed once more. Heavy…everything was heavy. Footsteps, his limbs, his eyelids…

“What in the–”

He recognized the sound of armor, and guessed perhaps that the man had knelt.

“Can you hear me?”

Lehran tried to speak, but all he managed was another pitiful, bloody cough. Was that an answer? He wasn’t sure. He tried again, and rasped a “Yes” that sounded as if it had been drowned in a bucket and dragged over cobblestones.

“What happened?”

Bold of the stranger to assume that Lehran had the capacity to explain much, when it had taken a great deal of effort to even confirm that he was anything approaching conscious. He breathed as deeply as he dared, and wheezed on the exhale, “Thieves…”

More armor sounds. Suddenly there was a hand on his throat, and his eyes snapped open. He felt the pressure of his cloak wrapped around his wings, the instinct to flare them out foiled only by the way he’d fallen and pinned them in place.

“Calm down,” the knight said, one armored hand holding the gauntlet and glove that belonged on the other. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Who…” Lehran coughed.