#fullfic

They're so annoying, loud and stupid that if they actually need something from her she'll find out sooner rather than later, and they almost never actually need anything important. They're trudging through Three's stupid wood labyrinth and it's way too hot and way to humid for what isn't a jungle, so she really isn't paying attention to them. They suck, they really fucking do. Which is what she tells herself when she finally sees the pink flower stick out of Decadus' neck. That's the justification. Not being so naive that the thought never even occurred to her. That would be stupid beyond belief, and she's not Actually stupid right? Of course not. It's in the middle of a fight, bad time obviously, but there it is, pressed thin against the mesh, and her brain really does just shut off for a second. Octa's there, quick to decapitate the solider that almost got to her, but fuck him, she has bigger problems. Massive ugly problems- ugh.

Right, course of action, course of action, course of action- She yells until Mikhail wakes up from whatever the fuck he was doing and boils whatever soldiers are left alive in their stupid tin suits. Okay. Okay. Don't panic. Nothing to panic about. Really, if she has to cut her loses, Decadus is sort of a tragedy. He's a decent cook, if nothing else. And he's such a good pack mule. Annoying, sure, but he's the only one with any real muscle and variety is nice sometimes. “Take your shirt off.” “Wh-” And then quickly, “My Lady-” Before she draws her sword and rips through the mesh. “How long?” She hisses, staring at the way it just blooms from the skin. Creepy fucking bullshit. “Someone's in trouble-” Dito's cackling somewhere far away and when Decadus groans and doesn't answer, she grabs the petals and yanks, hard enough to get an actual yelp of pain out of the man. And then another groan because he's nothing if not predictable. It does give, which is maybe worse then if it stayed put, petals crumpling out of her hand and onto the forest floor, leaving the vine exposed. He's bleeding, and so is she because the piece of shit flower has thorns on it because of course it does, because nothing is ever easy. “Lie down.” She says once, and he pretty much falls forward. She digs her heel into his back to get a better grab of it and then pulls again, the sound of skin ripping loud enough that some birds fly off from the near by cluster of trees. It likes that, practically curling around her wrist as she pulls and trying to dig into her body. “Stop standing around, get your ass over here and help me.” The other two grab her waist and pull with her. It whispers to her, whispers to her in Michael's voice, about how comfortable she is, how homey, how lovely, how pretty, how warm, and she just pulls harder. There are hands on her arms, fingers that feel like thorns or claws, and massive shade over her head. “Let me in, Zero.” It purrs, stupid deep. She pulls harder, until something cracks- she doesn't know where, but it's loud. So loud. “I miss you Zero.” There's a lot of pain now, in her side, in the arm that the flower is coiled around. Maybe it's trying to join the one already rooted inside of her. “Of course I am, Zero. We belong together, Zero. I love you, Zero.” Maybe she's yelling, it feels like she's yelling, like she should start yelling, but the only thing she can hear is Michael's voice, and the only thing she can see is more and more red.

It's so hard not to get angry. Really, every time she thinks she's hit the maximum threshold, some bullshit like this has to crop up to remind her that, no, her life isn't over being atrocious. Everything can always get worse. Everything will always get worse. And it's all her fault anyway. There's a sharp pain in her shoulder and then she's falling back, stumbling, until her heels are slipping in the mud and she's on the ground. Her arm isn't attached to her body anymore, blood pooling under her, and as soon as her vision clears and she sits up again she can see it, stuck completely rigid with the vines out of Decadus' back. Her ears are still ringing. The vine, her arm, and Decadus' spine lay in the mud. She's getting light headed.

She still hasn't pulled all of it out though, is the thing. She can see more of it, thin red sticking out of the cavity of his now still body. Her own flower is starting to open, prompting a regeneration, but she still has her other arm, still has time to get it out- to cut it out from the root.

He always has, he always will, it's only somewhat of a character flaw of his. If he was maybe six (four) tankards down, he'd admit that it was maybe a tiny bit of a problem for him. There are dozens of hundreds of ports all across the world where Orimar Vale, The Orimar Vale, yes ladies, yes gentlemen, yes assorted personages, That Great and Fantastic Orimar Vale, Legendary Corsair, unparalleled in all of the skies and seas and lands, undoubtedly broke at least one heart. He loathes to do it, of course, but his greatest love is the skies, the adventure, the faint smell of salt and the strong smell of iron. That's just the way it is, darlings, there's nothing he could do about it. He's charisma on legs, and adventure calls him too sweetly for him to deny it. And he didn't have favorites, of course not. (And not at all anyone one specific Queen hidden at the edge of the world. Of course not.) Some people could call that sort of this dishonest, or that he was only interested in the more carnal aspects of a relationship, which was, honestly, the funniest thing he's ever heard. What's the point of sleeping with someone if they can't look you in the eyes and just know your entire life story from just one glance? It's true, he's a romantic. Guilty as charged. Lock him up and throw away the key. And anyone who said otherwise was obviously paid to slander his name. He loves his ship too, and all of his gold, and his feather weave. He loves all of his crew, even the sicklier orphans who are most certainly on their way off of the mortal coil already. He picks up a scrawny nervous kid from a tiny monastery because he needs a doctor, and so does his crew, and so does his ship and not for any other reason at all.

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Orimar loves deeply and unapologetically. It's not all romantic, or horny. Sometimes he can understand that people aren't into that, and Orimar Vale is nothing if not respectable, and if anyone tells you otherwise point them in his direction because he has a slander charge he'd like to raise against them. Dref Wormwood, as he prefers to be called, is a slim tiny thing with maybe seven separate anxiety disorders that Orimar Vale adores. He's so sharp and so clever, give him a problem of any kind it'll be solved in a day or two. Sure, the kid might have worked himself up into thirty different states, but he'll get you a solution. Signed sealed delivered, there it is. He gives him an office, gives him tools and texts and lab coats. Robs several churches and doesn't ask questions. Whatever his doctor needs, Orimar will get for him, because it's Dref. If he wants something, it'll just help him out later. Orimar's pretty smart, actually. He has to be to stay alive for so long, in his line of work. He does get hurt sometimes, mostly when he's robbing churches, or when he's running away from the fucking Red Feathers because he was robbing a church, and hey- it's not like they have any proof he was doing that, they weren't there. He sinks most of them, some he doesn't bother with, because he's nothing without his legacy. Someone has to be around to tell everyone else that it was Orimar Vale, greatest corsair alive, who sunk them like an excited child sunk a paper boat in a puddle. Regardless of the military's ineptitude, and back to the infinity more interesting point. He would give his doctor relics and then watch as he worked, spinning profane miracles like they're nothing at all. Dref would always get this smile, it would spread over his entire face like the prettiest bloom, and he would take notes and shout 'yes' to himself whenever he something worked out just right. Orimar gets his arm shot off at some point. Who actually cares how it happened. (Fucking Red Feathers) He sits on Dref's examining table and watches his poor sweet doctor try and not vomit at the sight of all of the exposed muscle. It's a good thing he wears a red coat because otherwise, the staining would be way more obvious. Dref stutters through an apology, and Orimar gives him a wink. "Full faith." He says and means it, and Dref Wormwood gives him his arm back like it never even really left. "What a saint you are." And he'd blush all the way up to his ears, and Orimar gets to marvel at him all on his own.

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Orimar loves deeply and unapologetically. Being dead isn't actually going to stop him from doing that. What is he, an amateur? His wonderful, brilliant, talented doctor fixed him, just like he always did. Things are stiff, and his body is not his own, not fully, and he can barely, really, barely move at all without Dref's wonderful distortion of magic coursing through his veins. Well okay, not his veins, cause he's not really using those anymore. Through the meat of his arms and his legs and his spine. Would you believe how hard it is to stand upright with non-functional nerve endings? Significantly harder than one would think, it turns out. It is a bit embarrassing, and not at all how he hoped Dref would end up in his bedroom one day, but he's here regardless, sewing foreign muscle and real and true magic into his body. He gets to enjoy Dref's excitement when he gets the wink right for the first time, gets to enjoy Dref's confused face when he can only begin walking with his left foot, gets to enjoy Dref's exhaustion, so wiped from all of the godhood in his body that he falls face-first onto the bed and passes out for a few hours. He cherishes every vague and distant moment, just vaguely aware of his doctor at the best of times. Death isn't so bad when he's got someone to share it with.

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