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Entry tags:
closed.
WHO: Bastien, Derrica, Edgard, Flint, Julius, Marcus, Tiffany, Tsenka
WHAT: It's a lovely day for a rescue mission
WHEN: Vaguely late Justinian
WHERE: A day out from Val Chevin
NOTES: Viiiolence
WHAT: It's a lovely day for a rescue mission
WHEN: Vaguely late Justinian
WHERE: A day out from Val Chevin
NOTES: Viiiolence
no subject
It's of a pair with a thought she's had before. (Benedict Artemaeus handles all the Ambassador's mail, keeps all his appointments, manages all his paperwork.) Fitcher had placed herself well. And the scope of what she might have accomplished in her time with them—
"We know now. We can start sorting out what she might have done."
Pray that some of it can be remedied.
Her hands flex around his. Gentle still, drawing in a step closer. All that has been done to him, all the lies, culminating in this violence, it is no wonder he's angry. He's entitled to it.
"We'll find her, Marcus."
no subject
Derrica steps in nearer, holding his hands, makes her reassurances and promises, and perhaps if it were anyone else, Marcus would give into his current mood and shake free from soft grasp and placation. Makes a conscious effort, instead, to not do that.
Nods, and then slips a hand from hers to touch his palm to her cheek, a mutely grateful gesture for more than only her rescue and healing.
no subject
She so fiercely wants to make this alright, but knows it is not so simple as a reassurance. It is even perhaps beyond her to do anything other than what she already has done: healing, and heartfelt words. There is blood in the road and it is not enough. Not enough to repay all of this.
"You're alright," is a different reassurance, imparted as her fingers grip his own. Highlighting something she has learned over time: it is an act of stubbornness and spite and defiance to continue living, when those who imagine themselves arbiters of such matters will it otherwise. He is alive and safe and whatever waited for him at the end of this journey will never come to pass. That is a kind of victory.
bow time
His hand drops back over hers again in a last rough clasp, some offering of reassurance in kind. Yes, he's alright. Stubbornly alive, spitefully, defiantly. And the singing choir of various aches and pains at every little movement is a testament to exactly that that, as he feels it next when he breathes in deeper.
Right. All that, still. "I'll sit for the rest," he suggests, now allowing a little curl of dry humour to enter his tone, grasping less tightly onto his own sense of pride as he moves for somewhere shady.