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[ open ] when you're barely breathing; while your heart's still beating
Who: Adrasteius; perhaps you
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
no subject
Light! Setsuna, are you okay?
[ He kneels down beside the other man, frowning. ]
Did you injure yourself?
no subject
And when Setsuna does move, he lifts his head first. He positions his forearms below, pushing himself to sit up afterwards. How embarrassing. This isn't how it should be... He didn't go here to add to the worries already present. So he pulls himself together and nods reassuringly; it's at least true enough that something of a little stumble wouldn't hurt him. ]
Sorry... I am fine.
[ He says, peering through those dark hair fringes. He looks calm all for two or three seconds before he perks in surprise when he remembers about the box. Where did it fly off to...! He looks left and right quickly, then sees the present on top of the grass further away.
Oh, no... He hopes that nothing broke. Although his face is the same as ever, his eyes show distress. He stands and hurries to the box, picking it up before returning to the elf's side. It's afterwards that he, still a little embarrassed, offers it. He doesn't say anything else, but words are probably not needed. ]
no subject
Sorry--Gil's not here.
[ A beat, and he leans forward. ]
Are you sure you're okay? That was quite a fall.
no subject
Setsuna's eyes grow a little upon the mistake, then quickly shakes his head to indicate that it's not for Gilgamesh at all. Well, not specifically anyway. Knowing Adra, he would always share his blessings. But that doesn't matter right now, what matters is that it's for Adra!!
He doesn't get a chance to say anything about that though, instead finding himself blinking more as he's closely observed. ]
I really am fine...
[ He's more than familiar with the sensation of crashing against the ground; that's what being a pilot does. Though... even if he's used to it, it doesn't change the fact that his body still has limits.
His nose suddenly drips a small, thin line of— blood— ... Guess who landed on his face. ]
Ah.
[ Within less than a second, Setsuna moves up one hand to tighten a hold against his nose to stop it. ]
no subject
[ And, indeed, Light comes quickly to Adra's palm, though he looks otherwise exhausted. Fortunately, it's a minor injury, so he casts a minor spell--something to stop the bleeding, to repair the damage. As ever, Adra's healing magic is purifying and hot; it feels like a sweet cleansing, comforting and safe, like summer rain. ]
We're such a ridiculous group of people.
[ Because he's not so self-involved as to fail to see the parallel between what Setsuna's just done and what he, himself, has been doing. ]
no subject
[ Before Setsuna could ask what Adra means, he's quieted down when the healing spell washes over him. This is the first time that he's actually felt it before, so he's a little surprised at the unfamiliar sensation. Every healing spell always felt so different... But he can tell, can feel the concern flowing through. It's hot enough to make him flush a little.
Setsuna slowly lets go of his nose after a while, then takes a handkerchief from his pocket to attempt wiping the mess off his face. As he does so, his big eyes keep watching the older man... It's then that he notices how tired-looking the elf really is. ]
Thank you, and sorry for the trouble. But... are you all right?
no subject
[ In his present condition, it was a little trouble. Not that he considered it as such, or would ever entertain that thought. He liked healing. It's what he was born to do, and if he had infinite reserves of energy, he'd devote every last waking minute to it. As it stands, he only devotes most of his waking minutes to the cause. ]
And I'm fine.
[ He waves his hand dismissively. Hypocritically. A few more minutes standing like this, and he's actually liable to collapse. ]
Was there something I could help you with?