heal these scars [c]

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[attr="class","cmonbody"]When Grimalde was young, he never remembered his dreams. Sleep had been a simple affair that started at the shut of his eyes and stopped at the peek of dawn, and it had been for many years before the fateful evening that upturned his life. Ten years later, he grew accustomed to these vivid nights.

It had been a while since he had this dream, though. It was always unnerving to find himself so small, stuck on four legs and a body that could scarcely jump on a kitchen counter. In this form, he wandered realms of twisting forests and infinite lakes, met figures of his past and his imagination, all of them towering over him to terrify, to fascinate.

But this dream wasn’t a spectacle. On the contrary, it brought him to the last safe place he’d ever been. The dormitory he shared with his partner was small yet cozy, with soft beds and their personal trinkets from old adventures. He opened his eyes to evening moonlight from the windows.

He knew, of course, what would happen next, and knew that no matter what he did, the Kirlia nearby would stir awake and ask him with that painfully soft voice what’s wrong. Too tired to fight, he’d crawl out of his bed to meet him and assure he’s fine. It took a few minutes before they’d hear the stampede outside, the screams of friends and family. His partner would try to teleport them but his mother’s Alakazam would disrupt any foreign psychic energy nearby. No one could run from the raids.

Clockwork. He’d cried the first few times, but now he only watched, as if the horrors that transpired were just shadows on the walls. And she’d watch him in turn, as he never failed to run to his partner’s side by the end, unable to help himself from checking for a breath, or a heartbeat. There never was, and he’d look up to meet her unwavering gaze, the fire spreading all around them and the heat seeping violently into his bones—and then the dream would end.

It usually did. But this time the terrifying symphony of crackling fires and falling homes was replaced with a loving hymn. His father? But his voice was nothing like this. The fire around him dimmed to a glow and it cradled him. He could almost feel a cool sea breeze.

He woke quietly, eyes opening as sunlight playfully draped his eyes. He released his hold on the sheets around him and was curious as to why his bed felt softer, and what in the air made it more pleasant than usual. Then came the realization that no, the sun should not be able to reach the sewers.

Someone was singing the song from his dream. He turned his head to the source and found his throat twisted into a knot at sight of the Gardevoir sitting by the desk. The ghost of his past by a candlelight. He stayed quiet for a little bit longer, just appreciating the song, soaking up as much happiness as he could.

He exhaled through his nose and mustered the courage to talk, his voice weak from fatigue and dehydration. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” The teasing slipped out naturally, as easily as it had been a decade ago.

He snorted at himself, turning his head to stare at the ceiling. His hands lay over his stomach, thickened with layers of bandages under the blanket. “And I’m guessing the bandages were your doing,” he drawled, as if reciting a manuscript. “Why is that?”

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Lavender Delacroix - 601 - PAIN

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[attr="class","cmonbody"]He’d had to turn away because he couldn’t bear the smile Lavender gave him. Why was he smiling? He should be furious. He should be handing him over to the police, let him rot behind bars. Lavender’s persistent bleeding heart made him want to tear his hair out. “Letting me bleed out in the cave was an option.” The words bit at the hand that saved him, and he regretted saying them immediately, shutting his mouth as Lavender settled himself on a stool beside the bed.

Gold eyes moved to observe the Gardevoir, the view clearer without the adrenaline and the looming threat of death hanging over his shoulders. He mused at catching the faintest glow around the stool before it was set down, remembering how fragile Lavender had always been. Physically, that is. Could barely push him when he was a Zorua, but he’d never been weak. Some things never changed, but so much already had.

He watched as Lavender struggled to speak, his mouth clearly trying to wrap the words that were forming in his head. The expression on his face made Grimalde dig his hands a little deeper into the sheets around him, his ears tucking back, as if waiting for the outburst, for the stream of questions he wouldn’t be able to answer—for tears. The faint chatter of the waking world sounded from the windows as the silence stretched on and on.

And then nothing. No questions? No explanation? Surely he wouldn’t be satisfied with that, and Grimalde’s stare only seemed to sharpen with suspicion, with a quiet challenge for him to just say it already. His mouth opened to tell him just that.

And then he was offered a glass of water. Again, he’s dumbstruck by the timing, mouth hanging before he did the strangest thing. He laughed. Still quiet and dry, punctuated with a wince or two from the pain of his body, shaking his head. How could he expect anything else?

“Sure, hand it over.” He made a ‘stop’ motion as the teacup floated towards him and took in a breath, knowing this would hurt like a bitch. He pushed himself off the bed, refusing to drink like a toddler, and after a wheeze and checking to ensure his stitches hadn’t come undone, he graciously accepted the cup.

Water had never tasted so heavenly. He cleared his throat and was faintly aware of how this all looked a little silly. Big dark wolf bandaged like a Dusclops and under what he’s fairly sure is a floral-patterned blanket that matched the curtains, sipping from a fancy little cup. “You… you look well.” He tapped the rim of the cup with a purple claw, keeping his gaze elsewhere but wanting conversation. “Are you still with the guild?” He knew the answer, but it was best to pretend he didn’t.

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Lavender Delacroix - 471 - sippy cup

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[attr="class","cmonbody"]“Nothing you’re not used to.” He exchanged the teasing with his own, his mind helpfully correcting it to you weren’t. No matter how much he could pretend, ten years was ten years. The weight behind Lavender’s tone was heavy on his shoulders. The little voice in his head still rejoiced - he still cares, he still cares.

Then came the dreaded answer. News of Jean-Claude’s disappearance had been quick to reach his ears; he was encouraged to take advantage of the opportunity and attack the guild before they could recuperate. He couldn’t bring himself to. He knew who would take the mantle, as the previous heir to the Delacroix household had been lost a long time ago.

He wanted to say something. Offer his condolences, but there appeared to be an odd injustice to it. What comfort could be taken from the words of a traitor? Before he could decide, Lavender stood, confirming what he already knew. “I see.” Despite having already overcome the initial shock of seeing him again, Grimalde still seemed a little struck, as if he couldn’t believe the Gardevoir standing before him was now a bonafide leader. His voice grew quiet, almost rueful. “It suits you, somehow.”

He seemed curious as Lavender moved to one of the ropes, blinking with bewilderment as his fur was pointed out. Looking down at the tufts that stuck around his neck, he was surprised to see it clear of the blood and cave debris he’d been rolling in prior to waking here. “Ah, uh—well, I do take care of myself, you know,” he said with some annoyance, and perhaps embarrassment. He wasn’t going to admit the truth to Lavender. He snorted, running a claw through the pristine strands as he asked, sounding amused, “Funny you should say that. Did you bathe me?”

The braid. He grasped it in his hand, relieved to see the gold bands holding it together on two ends. The hair was clean, but the braid itself hadn’t been tampered with, still looking like a clump of tangles that stuck in odd ways. Despite the thorough wash, it still had some dirt stuck inside. “No, it’s fine, it does its job. Lav, I should—I should go.” He shouldn’t be overstaying his welcome. He had duties to attend to. And who knew the repercussions of staying too long with the Guild Master?

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Lavender Delacroix - 397 - stand down