Aching to Pupate [Destyn, Flower]

[Destyn]

Aching to Pupate

10th of Searing, Year 122 Steel

Destyn smiled approvingly when Flùr was able to express his gratitude in Common. He looked expectantly to Sivan's face for his reaction. It was subtle, but such was Sivan. Destyn, for his part, was tearing up at the exchange and coming close to full blown sobs. It was only his duties as translator that took enough of his focus to stave off the impending torrents. He shared Flùr's question with Sivan, and then Sivan's answer with Flùr.

He tilted his head curiously at Sivan's foray into Valasren. He wasn't certain whether he misspoke or whether the studious Elf had read a text that taught a rival dialect. Destyn's encounters with other Fae outside his ill-fated clan were few and far between, and he'd only ever met the scions of Spring and those of Summer, like himself. He'd heard the Winter Fae were quite a different sort, and that their manner of speech was harsh as Wither- perhaps that meant even their dialect. Whatever the peculiarity, he would address it at another time, in the meanwhile it seemed Sivan was off to fetch them food.

"You could, I think, do worse than dirt and rain..." He informed the elf as he trod away, then turned his attentions back to his fellow Fae:

"Tá brón orm!" He knitted his brow and lowered his head and gaze slightly, "Níor thuig mé nár thug mé mé féin isteach." Lifting his gaze to regard the unfamiliar face, he added: "Ní gá duit Destynrael a ghlaoch orm. Ní thugann formhór na ndaoine ach Destyn orm." His eye caught the movement of an insect in flight behind Flùr, and he licked his lips absently.

"An itheann tú feithidí? Tá go leor ciaróga blasta sa ghairdín seo." His eyes darted back to the new Fae with a grin, "Ar cheart dom roinnt ciaróga a ghabháil duit?"

Aching to Pupate

[Flower]

For a long moment, Flower was perfectly still, his brows pinched in thought, and his eyes distant. The memory of the storm forced itself to the forefront of his consciousness. The voice. The chill. He reached up, fingers pressing to his temples. A fog crept across his consciousness, burning through him. It hurt. His teeth ground together, Destyn’s voice garbled as if through water. He could tell that questions were being asked, but it was difficult for him to make sense of what was being said, even though some part of him understood the words, or at least portions of them.

A low groan escaped his lips, and he forced his eyes open, head up.

“Too much,” he whispered. He was starving, but he did not even know where to begin with the notion of eating. He had reached the point of hunger where nausea takes control, and it was a difficult–nearly impossible–sensation to shake. At length, he looked up to Destyn and nodded. Beetles. Yes. Literally anything to satisfy his stomach at that moment. His hands dropped from his head to clutch over his stomach, as though the fog in his mind had cleared just as quickly as it brewed. “Le do thoil. Tá ocras orm.”

Why couldn’t he remember before the storm?

The mountain. The cold. Sivan bringing him here to be warmed. Sleep. He recalled those things with relative clarity. Even drifting into slumber. His chest hitched as panic filled him. He had to get away from the storm. What if it found him here? What if remembering the storm brought it crashing down upon his head?

No.

Hungry. He was so unspeakably hungry. No fear, no distant memory mattered more than finding some way to slake the crippling ache in his stomach. His gaze dropped to his muddied hands and feet, a body stained by the passage of a year enchanted in the core of a tree. How did such a thing even make sense? How did any of this make sense? He found his voice breaking from his lips in a shaking voice, one marked by exhaustion and starvation. The magic had sustained him, but it had not fully satisfied him. Such things could not undo natural desires, after all.

“Le do thoil…”

He almost laughed. A strange, twisted breath escaped him, and he drew his arms close to himself, shaking like a leaf. He just wanted to eat. To rest. To heal. These were things that suddenly seemed so entirely and overwhelmingly impossible and necessary.

[Sivan]

Sivan heard Destyn's rejoinder, but it didn't faze him. Flower would have dirt and rain, but he would also have cheese and honey, fruit and bread; he would have all the things Sivan's larder had to offer if they would only help him improve. Though it was Searing, Flower was shivering when he returned so he set out his copious bounty, then went back inside, calling out orders in Rivach to the spirits. The warm air began to grow noticeably warmer as Khal led the fire sprites in what they liked best to do: burn.

Sivan returned once more with a thick winter blanket, which he through about Flower's slender shoulders.

Looks were passed between Sivan and Destyn, and between the two of them, they managed to get Flower to eat some—perhaps he even absorbed some of the nutrients from the damp loam beneath his feet; Sivan didn't know—and eventually they got him bundled up. Destyn seemed to think the other Fae'ethalan would be more comfortable outside, and Sivan deferred to his racial expertise. Eventually, Flower slept, though it was honest sleep rather than the dormancy of magical hibernation, and they discussed things.

The elf was going to have to rely upon his friend moreso this time around with Flower as he seemed to have lost much of his ability to speak Common, which had only slightly been improving before everything went wrong. And, of course, he was going to have to renew his studies of Valasren. The spirits were curious about the one who had slumbered so long, as were the bees, which were new, and even the little squealmouse twitched its nose and sniffed at him while he slept.

"I wonder what this means..."

Time would certainly tell.

fin.

[Rune]

R E V I E W

Lore: 10 each

Points: 10 each

Injuries/Ailments: None

Loot: None

Notes: Good to see Flower back!