tampered | [Log] [Ongoing]

Namine bit her lip, a nervous habit she had fallen into lately. The boy, Mithos, had finally woken up, and for a while, things had looked up. She hoped to get some water in him, maybe give him another blanket, and then see him get better again.

But she had never been sick before, or seen people get sick. And now Mithos was talking about someone named Martel, and she didn't know what to do.

So she just bit her lip again, crossing her fingers nervously behind her back.

Please, she thought. Please let him get better. Let him be okay.

Watching her quietly, Kratos couldn't help but feel for the girl. sheobviously was out of her area, and rather upset. If it were another situation, if it wasn't Mithos, he would have taken her aside and tried to do give her at least some words of comfort.

But it was Mithos. The boy who he, in all their 4,000+ years of knowing another, had NEVER been sick. Not like this.

The reality of the situation terrified him on a base level. Angels didn't get SICK. Especially not Mithos. Not him, never him.

Eyes turning back to the small, deceptively frail body curled on the bed, he sighed. This...would be a long, long day.

Namine looked over at Kratos, her eyes uncertain.

"I should just...let him sleep, right?" she asked, hoping that she didn't sound simple, like she didn't understand the most basic of things.

Because if he wakes up, I'll hear about Martel again, she thought nervously. She wondered who Martel was, because Mithos had told her that someone had killed her. But she tried not to think about that.

Everyone had their secrets, things they couldn't talk about. And if she hadn't heard about her before, then she probably wasn't supposed to know.

Mithos opened his eyes, still hazy from the pain and unfocused. "Martel?" he whispered quietly when he noticed a blur in the distance. Yellow. Martel's hair was... was it blonde?

"Martel..."

Sucking in a silent breath, Kratos reached out to the smaller angel. So, he was awake.

"Mithos--" He tried, about to tell him whatever he could, to yell at him for getting sick, to tell him that he was safe, to say something, but his words were cut off by the sound of that name.

Of course.

"She's not here ...Mithos." Kratos kept his voice soft, trying to soothe even though he had no idea how. This had always been Martel's thing, she was the one who had the warmth, the kindness for this.

Mithos sniffed. That voice; it was so familiar, and yet, not. He lifted his hands to reach out, to touch something, to feel warmth because he was feeling nothing but the freezing cold.

"Martel...martel..don't die... don't die... she's not dead.. not dead.... with me... always.....why isn't she here...?" he began murmuring before thrashing on the bed violently. He wanted Martel. He needed to feel her beside him... needed to know that she was still with him...

Reaching to grab one of the boy's too small, almost delicate hands in his own, Kratos tried to remember how Martel had been, how Anna had been in times like these. When people needed comfort, needed support. He had never been good at these things.

His other hand went to carefully, ginger and hesitent as if the boy would turn to bite his fingers, settling on top of the fine blonde hair, stroking Mithos' head in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "Shh..."

It took him longer to get to the apartment than he had anticipated. The explosion, apparently, had done more damage then he thought. Still, there was no time to worry about that. The wounds, though severe, would heal. He did take the time to wrap up the worst of them (albeit sloppily), and his left arm was nearly useless at the moment, but he had greater concerns at the moment.

A stumble brought him to Namine's door, and he looked twice at the number to be sure it was the correct one. Kratos had told him this was where they were, but this City had a tendency to turn a person around. Left arm held to his chest, Yuan lifted his right hand and wrapped smartly on the wood, shifting his weight as he impatiently waited for it to be open.

Mithos began whimpering as he clung onto the warmth that had been offered to him. He began to calm down and though the pain was still unbearable, there was that tiny little warmth and it comforted him a bit. Reminded him of Martel.

And then there were knocks on the wooden door of the apartment. Not loud enough to the normal person, but in his state, it seemed loud, much too loud. He let go of the hand curled up into a tight ball, crying out as each knock seemed to be punctuated by a sharp hammering pain in his head.

He had almost smiled, then, when Mithos curled into his awkward comforting. It brought him some comfort, at least, to know that he could soothe the smaller boy when he needed to.

The knocking ruined the moment, though. Oh, he was going to THROTTLE whoever kept that up. Didn't they know people were sick and in pain in here? Stomping to the door, he threw it open, all ready to get out his sword...

Until he saw who it was, that is. "Yuan."

Yuan stopped knocking moments before Kratos threw the door open, a wave of vertigo washing over him that forced a halt to his impatience. His palm had instead moved to the door frame, head bowed as he waited for the spinning to stop. It took a second for the man to lift his head, hair falling haphazardly across his face as he did so. It did little to hide the bright bruise slashing his cheek, or the split in his lip.

"Kratos," He returned, as was expected, offering a small, wry smile. It didn't keep, though, and he pushed from the door, moving to step into the apartment. "How is he?" The question came immediately after, the angel not bothering with formalities.

Well, this was awkward. He hadn't really expected it to be any less, really. It still was odd, though, looking at his former-friend, beat up and cute up like nobodyies business, not knowing what to say.

"He's...in here." What else was he supposed to say? There wasn't much for them to talk about, not NOW. Formalities could wait until after the miniature crisis was over.

Little else had to be said. Once pointed in the right direction, Yuan took the intiative, as he always did. He didn't wait for Kratos to lead the way, instead moving passed him, beelining for the bed where the boy lay curled up.

Setting eye on him, though, Yuan's expression turned carefully blank. Mithos, curled up like that.. crying. He was this side of being a God. After seeing him high and powerful for so long, it had been easy to forget (convince himself?) that the blonde didn't have those kinds of emotions anymore.

It unsettled him, deeply.

The brisk of his step slowed as he moved to the edge of the bed and paused, unsure of what to do, what to say.

Eyelids pressed tightly fluttered open, and Mithos stared out sightlessly, confused by the arrival of a familiar presence. He wasn't even sure if someone had come, but he felt different. It also felt achingly familiar, moreso than that other one... that other...

His dried lips parted and began moving, forming soundless words at first. "Martel...?" he whispered quietly when he found his voice and lay there for a while, still as death as he waited for an answer.

Yuan's stomach did a backflip, the nausea he had been fighting since waking threatening to overwhelm him. He sounded so young like this. Asking for Martel, as he had been for centuries.

But she was gone now. Moreso than she ever had been before.

Yuan's uninjured palm went to the mattress, using it as leverage as he bent to kneel beside the bed. There he paused, blue eyes searching the still face of Mithos for so long that it almost seemed he wouldn't answer.

"Not Martel," He whispered finally, hand lifting hesitantly from the sheet to card gently through Mithos' hair. It was a gesture he hadn't used for many, many years, but a lifetime ago... A lifetime ago, this would have been normal. And for a moment, he only had eyes for the boy.

Kratos watched them silently for a moment, letting Yuan work himself out before acting himself. Though, it was good to see that he felt the same sort of pull from their former friend. At least he wouldn't be thought of as odd.

"He's been calling out for her since I got here," he whispered, keeping his voice down to a low hum, not wanting to disturb the little blond further. It was disturbing to see him in pain.

Reaching out his own hand, he once again wrapped his fingers around Mithos' hand; holding it gently as his thumb ran back and forth over the boy's knuckles.

Mithos' eyes closed and his body seemed to ease. Though still in pain, somewhere, far away, a part of him found what it had been missing for many a millennium. And it comforted him, somewhat. He curled up instinctively to the warmth, mumbling indistinguishably.

Mithos was still in pain, but his lips curved into the slightest of smiles. Content.

Yuan shook his head almost imperceptibly, the pain in his eyes as he watched the boy not wholly due to the injuries leaving his body slightly hunched. It was unsurprising, all things considered.

"Of course he has," Came the eventual mutter, directed to nobody in particular, but put forward anyway. As Mithos curled towards be and Kratos, Yuan winced just slightly-- but his fingers never stopped their steady trace through blonde hair.

Unable to take his eyes off Mithos for a moment, Kratos eventually peered over at Yuan, taking in his hunched, battered form. That couldn't be pleasant. And at least for this, he had something that could help.

Raising his hand to touch one of the Angel's arms gently, he closed his eyes and muttered under his breath softly, the words lost to the still air of the room. "First Aid."

A part of him was back in the past, a child once more, vulnerable, loving, caring and innocent. When the world was still as harsh as it was now, and though he had not been as powerful then, he had people to support him.

A part of him missed that and that part quietly crawled out of his subconscious to call, to yearn, to wish for that past.

Two names escaped his lips, spoken in a quiet, breathy whisper but carrying the hope and loneliness Yggdrasill could never allow himself to show anyone anymore.

The touch to his arm surprised him, stirred him from the half-focused stare at the child in the bed. Blue turned, landing first to the hand, then lifting to the face of his fellow seraphim. Of all magic, healing had never been Yuan's forté. But somehow, even if he had saved Kratos' life, he hadn't expected any favours returned.

He swayed a little as the magic flowed through him, leaning heavily against the bed for a moment as a wave of vertigo lanced through his head. Apparently his wounds had been more severe then he first realized. He blinked, slowly, taking a deep, cleansing breath-- but he didn't say thank you. He just looked to Kratos, held his gaze for a long moment until the soft voice called from the bed.

Only then, and his gaze lingered briefly, did he focus back to Mithos. Raising slightly on his knees, he leaned a little over the bed, resuming the pet of his hair that had briefly halted with the healing.

Turning away when Yuan looked at him, Kratos refused to meet his eyes. He had nothing to say, didn't have any real reason for the small dose of healing. He hadn't even though about it, really. It had just seemed natural, to heal the half-elf's wounds.

His inner thoughts were cut short by the barely audible sound of Mithos' voice breathing his name out. For a moment, Kratos wondered if he had somehow, someway over-exerted himself, if the healing had gone to his head and he was hearing things. It was a force of will not to pinch himself.

That would just be silly, after all.

But Kratos had definitely not been hearing things and in a matter of moments, Mithos began caling out softly out once more. He stirred slightly then, fingers tightening around the redhead's hand.

Yuan eased as he saw Mithos relax again, some tension leaking from his shoulders, newly-healed arm lifting to brace on the mattress. A slight cant of his head and he tangled his hand into the gold of his hair, palm flat to his skull, fingers tracing circles to his scalp.

As he called again, the angel winced once more, hushing the half-elf gently. He shook his head slowly once again, blue fixed to the boy's face. It was so unsettling, on the cusp of disturbing, to see him so weak like this. So far from the norm, from what Yuan had grown used to over the passed four thousand years.

"This..." He started, then tightened his jaw briefly. Swallowed. "He shouldn't be this way." The 'not anymore' lingered unspoken in the air.

Kratos had scooted a bit closer to the bed when Mithos started calling for him. Like the healing, it was an unconscious action, something he did on instinct. Just like it was instinct to give the boy's hand a gentle, comforting squeeze.

"You should have seen some of the curse days..." The words held a wisp of dry humor, only Yuan would know just how jarring it was to see Mithos act the way he did on some of those days.

Yuan glanced from Mithos as Kratos spoke, and again his jaw locked briefly. He wasn't sure he wanted to know-- and yet at the same time, couldn't stop himself from asking.

"How bad do they get?" He asked, his voice pitched low, almost to an intimate level in an attempt not to disturb the restless boy nestled between them.

Letting his eyes slide over to stare at Yuan, Kratos couldn't keep the bitter smirk from his lips. Oh, but his friend really did have no idea.

"He gets...at times, it's as if the whole thing with Martel never happened. It's..." He couldn't finish the sentence, because he couldn't describe it. The awkward, warm feeling he got when he talked to Mithos on a curse day, that little window to the past. It was on days like that when he started to think that maybe it could work; that they could work.

While the two talked, Mithos began to drift into a dreamlike state, one that mirrored the state he was in. A dream where the pain translated to the very same agony he felt upon his last moments in their world.

Death.

Though his hand remained curled against Mithos' skull, still moving gently, bright blue remained fixated to Kratos. There had been a time when Yuan could simply glance to the other man and know what he was thinking. It was no longer so easy-- so many lies there now. Between all three of them.

Still, that hesitance-- Yuan was familiar with it. But he couldn't bring himself to believe what it could mean. Instead, he slanted his gaze away, back to Mithos.

"I can't even imagine it," He muttered honestly. As if the ordeal had never happened... it was inconceivable to the angel.

Fingers flexing around Mithos' hand, Kratos tried to read the other man's actions. Back then he could have known what the other Angel was thinking, they had been so connected, it was easy to tell what each of his traveling companions had on their mind.

"He once--...He once asked for you, one day. He thought it was all a dream," Kratos murmured, eyes fixating on the mostly still, delicate form curled on the bed.

The half-elf couldn't stop the slight wince, hand not tangled in Mithos' hair fisting into the sheets of the bed, tension tightening his spine.

A dream.

If only it had been. Then none of--

His wrist lifted slightly, the stroking of Mithos' hair halting momentarily. The seraphim looked for a moment as if he might pull away completely. It had all been instinct, up until now. Seeing Mithos lying there like that, broken and weak, the sight familiar and foreign all at once. It had almost been too easy to forget everything that had happened. Too easy to slide into age-old habits he had forced himself not to give in to for centuries.

Yuan wished it could have been a dream. A nitemare. None of them deserved the fate that fell around their shoulders.

It took a second, one that seemed longer than it was, before Yuan could relax his palm back against the blonde's head again.

Turning his eyes away from Yuan, Kratos chose not to comment. He could remember when the curse had been lifted from him. The slight nausea, the confusion before it all came crashing back down upon him. Anna. Lloyd. Everything. The way they had slipped from him mind, his most precious people. Gone.

Closing his eyes, the angel watched the blond avidly, trying to keep his mind from that day. It was the past, he could do nothing to stop it, to make it go away. There was no use in lamenting over it, not now when he had other duties.

[Log] [Ongoing]

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