#runeless

@writings-of-a-narwhal @elaynab-writing @writer-grandma  @cometworks @deadlyessencewhispers @nora-wrote-a-book @georgiacambrielwritblr @rmorada @simplelinesunfashiond

  “Can you feel this?” Aola digs his fingers harder into the thick rope of scar tissue on Bree’s shoulder. The skin is white with cold, mottled in a way that speaks of old bruises and new pains.   Bree makes a vague sound that doesn’t really give away anything.   “Come on, don’t be a dick about it.” Aola runs his thumb over the ridge where the cold metal of the port connects with skin. The fur here is short and stiff and a little paler than elsewhere, like it never grew back in quite right. “Can you feel this or what?”   “Aye, lad. I can feel it. Nothin’ you need to get all worked up over, Lannie.” Bree rolls his shoulder, leaning into the touch. His ears are pinned back flat, curled against the side of his head. “Somethin’ small as this ain’t gonna kill me, I can tell you that.”   Aola flattens out his palm, pressing it over chilled skin. He pushes his other hand against the back of Bree’s shoulder blade, just at the outer edge of the twisting scars. “That’s not the point. We’re trying to stop you from getting even more fucked over than this. Those parts are supposed to be here soon, but who fucking knows with this military.”   There’s a huff of air, but it’s more soft than anything else. Bree tilts his head, angling it so he can look at Aola with his organic eye. “And I’m not gonna keel over between then and now. The fact yer plannin’ on trying to fix up these hunks of junk is good enough, Lannie. All I need ‘tween then and now’s a good rest.”   “Dumbass,” says Aola, because a good rest isn’t going to stop frost bite from setting in. He runs his palms over the wiry fur, trying to soothe away some of the numbness. Even an ache, deep rooted and stifling, is better than losing what’s left of an arm.   Right?   Right. Of course it is.   Aola shifts, draping himself over Bree’s back. “You’re stupid.” And then, because he can, “pretty sure I’m the one that’s supposed to make stupid decisions around here.”   “Thought I’d give ye a break on that front,” says Bree. He chuckles, makes absolutely no effort to shrug away from Aola. “Since ye’ve been working so hard and all.”   “You know, most people wouldn’t be a dick to the guy about to shove his hands into their arms.” Aola lingers for a moment longer before pulling away. He makes sure to knock a knee against the small of Bree’s back on his way to the head of the bed. The mattress creaks under them, just as old as the rest of the base. “Stop being stupid and come get under the covers with me.”   It’s the middle of the day. Bree glances towards the set of maps and parchment rolled up on the desk, but only briefly. Then he sighs, long suffering, like the action’s being forced out of him, and pushes himself more firmly onto the bed. “Aye, lad. Now that’s something ye won’t see me arguing about.”

  “Take what you need.” Elise is always tight-lipped, but there’s something drawn about the look on her face now. For the first time since Aola’s met her, she doesn’t look in control, like the entire military is spread out at her fignertips.   She looks like a hard wind will knock her down, like the empty place on her right-hand side has grown to a point where it’s devouring her. Aola slips into the room, careful to pull the door shut behind him. “I’ve got to bring it with me.”   “I know.”   “You’re just going to – let me?”   “I told you from the start, Mister Lane. I was not taking that damned thing from you because I wanted it.” Elise tugs the chain that she wears around her neck up. A simple key hangs from it. “I was simply holding it for you while we tried to square things away.”   Aola’s stomach lurches. He follows her to the desk, watches as she fools with getting the drawer unlocked and there – there- there is the damned bit of crystal that started this whole mess. It’s still jagged enough to leave a thin cut on his thumb when he runs it along the side of the shard. “You know I’m going to use this, right?”   “It’s yours,” she reiterates, but there’s a distinct note of disapproval in her voice. “If you feel like – “   “They have him.”   “I know.”   “I’m not letting them haul him back there,” says Aola, and it’s the closest to admitting I’m taking down the military from the bottom up that he’s ever been able to get.   Elise doesn’t try to argue with him. She’s too smart for that, already knows that there’s nothing she can do to change his mind. Instead , she opens up another drawer and pulls out a handgun. “Here. You’ll need this too. In fact, I could come up with quite a few arguments about how you’re going to need this more.”   Aola knows guns by now. Has shot them enough, been shown how to clean them enough. He takes the one offered, hesitancy only born through concern for the General. “Isn’t this yours?”   “I would say that much is obvious,” answers Elise, already ushering Aola back towards the door. “If you’re concerned about it being tracked back to me, that’s the entire point. Trust me when I say that I’m about to make my presence here in Cenmih very well known.”   “Making an alibi for yourself,” says Aola, and he shouldn’t be surprised but he is. The smile he gives Elise is crooked and toothy and far more confident than he really feels. “Guess I’m finally proving useful, huh?”   Elise reaches out, curling a hand around the back of Aola’s head. She’s half a foot smaller and, for a moment, brief, fleeting, she looks more like a friend than a superior; looks more like a mother than a collared hound. “You have always proven useful, Mister Lane. I wouldn’t have gone to these lengths if I didn’t think there was merit in the action.”

  There’s a chicken standing in the middle of the road, and the sight makes something tight well up at the back of Aola’s chest. He’s spent his entire life hating this town, wanting desperately to get out, get anywhere that isn’t here – still war torn and barely holding on, where everyone knows what he’s done, how he’s fucked up, where people look at him and their lips curl up in distaste.   There’s a chicken standing in the middle of the road, with dirty white feathers and a comb so heavy it flops over the side of her face. She scratches half-heartedly at the dirt, looking for worms that aren’t there. Aola laughs, curls long fingers around Bree’s thick wrist and pulls him further down the path.   There’s a chicken standing in the middle of the road. As soon as Aola draws near enough, it starts running forward. The little beast moves surprisingly fast for being so fast, a sideways wiggling run that’s always been the best thing about this horrid town. And – what’s that say about Aola, really, that he’s spent so much time missing the chickens?   There’s a chicken standing in the middle of the road, and it preens happily when Aola reaches down to pet it. He scoops the chicken up, careful of ragged wings, and proudly shows her to Bree. “Welcome home, asshole. This right here’s the best fucking thing you’re going to find in this town.”   Bree laughs, too, the sound rolling out from somewhere deep in his chest. “I think we can both go for a bit’a quiet, Lannie. Nothing wrong with having some of that.”

  “Don’t ya have a spell for dat?” Bree frowns, even as he shrugs off his jacket.   Aola shrugs. “I mean, yeah, probably. But I can take care of this without magick, so what’s the point in using it? Besides, you hate that stuff.”  “I don’t hate it, Lannie. I just – “   “I get it,” says Aola, easily slipping between Bree’s spread legs. He taps the end of the wrench against the port, grin easy because this is his zone, this is what he’s good at. “I mean, I don’t get it, but I do. Magick’s great and all, but I was messing around with metal way before that.”  The prosthetic has been in bad shape from the start, but their most recent fight really knocked it around. Aola runs his thumb over warm brass, trying to map out the dents, the scratches, figure out which one’s are new and which one’s are old.   Bree makes a vaguely pleased sound. He blinks at Aola with one sharp gold eye. “Yer a good one, Lannie. Don’t ever let no one tell ya different.”   “I can list off about eighty people that would argue with you about that,” retorts Aola, cheerfully. He has no delusions about how most people view him, but there’s something about the way Bree says that – says most things – that just makes it seem a little more true.   “Don’t rightly care ‘bout what they think,” says Silver, cheerfully. He rests a large hand on Aola’s side, claws curling lightly against the fabric of Aola’s shirt. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, it’s dat most people keep their heads tucked under their arms. Dey couldn’t see a star shining if it was crashin’ down into their own front yard.”   Aola laughs. He tugs at a busted leather strap. “So I’m a star now?”   “Been tellin’ ya dat, Lannie. Brightest one I’ve ever seen.” Bree shifts, just a little, and Aola goes with him. He untwists the strap from either pincher, tossing it over his shoulder and onto the floor with the rest of the discarded paper balls and strips of fabric.   His cheeks feel hot, ears burning. Aola’s not sure how to respond to that so he doesn’t, turns his fool attention onto the busted prosthetic instead. “Let me know if something hits a nerve, okay?”   “Ain’t done that yet,” says Bree, and he just sounds so certain when he says it.   Like there’s nothing Aola could do to mess this up.   Like there’s no wrong that can be done trying to fix broken metal.   Like he could pull the pieces of most anything together and not have them break right down again.   It’s flattering, yes, but it’s daunting too. Aola doesn’t think even half as high about his own performance. Still, he laughs, because that’s the easiest way to deal with things, digs his nails into the covering of the top casing nodule. “Whatever you say, Bree.”   Damn, he hopes skipping out on the spells is the right way to go.