11 for langlas & celeraint :D
11. clinging to each other
His world had shrunk down to a single point. He couldn't widen his awareness if he wanted to, if he tried. Though, there wasn't energy to try. He was a cornered animal to them. Lucid enough to fight, to claw, to kick, to bite, to panic. Any other sensation that filtered in was brief.
A steady drip. Footsteps echoing, somewhere. A scream, two.
He huddled in what might be leaf litter. Floundered in dirt. He took water when he could, for there was no food and no reason to think any was coming. The Falcons needed their provisions for war, after all.
The battle had seemed outside of time. It was over in a heartbeat, but the clash of blades and the sight of blood lingered for hours. Spectres of the dead chased his thoughts in circles but left plenty of room for whoever was next. The dead, the dead were everywhere--
Fighting once more overtook his thoughts and he bent double on the floor. Metal rang against metal, boots pounded on the cold stone, mail hammered against--
He sat bolt upright and nearly kept going straight back onto the floor. The Falcons wore no plate and mail. After all, the Company had helped make... As if out of his thoughts, a soldier in armor stepped around the blind corner and began to work at the cell door. It opened at this... impossible apparition's command. But the man did not enter the cell.
"I need one of them." He called back into the hallway. "I don't want to lose a hand." To Langlas, he turned and gave a grim smile. "No offense meant, my friend. You look a man horse-kicked with too much fire in your eyes."
Two figures in friendlier dress rounded the corner and Langlas was on his feet. Faeron. Celairant.
"Easy. We must go." Faeron's voice was low and urgent, but Celairant charged into the cell without fear. Whatever his young brother said was lost into his shoulder, but Faeron was right. They were both swept up into the escape. The race to the surface.
Next Langlas heard words instead of bleary noise, it was a question. "Celairant? Langlas, is he hurt?" Calenglad's words shocked him mind and body, but Celairant himself was able to answer.
"No, I am well." A little, delirious laugh bubbled up. "But Langlas as not seen fit to let me walk since he laid eyes on me. I think he may need--"
Awareness hit him in rapid stages. The air was crisp and fresh. It was quiet, and open with a breeze that raced down the side of the mountain. It was cold. Celairant wasn't cold, and he was talking, and his chest rose and fell with breath and life.
Langlas became himself again, and tried to set Celairant down. Celairant realized this too, and refused to go. The arms thrown about his neck in relief tightened with the renewal of the feeling. Langlas abandoned all thought of letting go.
When his knees became suddenly cold, Calenglad's hand was there on his shoulder.
"Langlas. Let us help you to stand."
Langlas tore his eyes from the top of his brother's head as reason threatened to go again. Calenglad's face was marked with their trial, and to his surprise, he found Faeron looking worriedly down at him. They had joked, often, to fear the thing that could worry Faeron. It was no laughing matter now.
He stood, and stood Celairant with him, but did not let go.
