a/n: hey, thanks for checking out Starry Veins! This is the novel I
wrote for Round V of LMS, and it's still a first draft! While I don't
discourage any feedback, I prefer not to receive feedback on grammar!
I'm not polishing this draft up yet, so I'm not as concerned about
editing. I am, of course, open to all feedback, but I ask that you keep
this in consideration! Thanks <3
*
[Mishal]
Mishal
couldn’t remember how or when he’d slept in the time since they’d
come back to Luthera’s manor. He wasn’t even sure how long it had
been anymore. At some point, Gracia had attempted to get him
upstairs, but he couldn’t leave Isadora. He couldn’t leave her
here alone.
She
had woken, Isadora had, a few times now. Mostly, it was moments of incoherence and confusion. She had woken screaming once, in pain so
great Mishal could have sworn he had felt himself.
He
had tried not to, but for all his attempts he had still seen her
wound as Gracia tended to it.
More
than anything, he would choose ignorance. There was nothing worse
than what festered beneath the bandages. And it was clear that none of
Gracia’s magic had stifled the poison.
Isadora’s
skin around the gash, had gone a sickly grey-green, deadened as
though burned and ashen. It smelled of pus and sulphur and rotten meat.
The wound itself was blackened, and through the stitches it wept, all
manner of fluids that Mishal wasn’t entirely certain belonged to a
human’s body at all.
Her
eyes, too, had misted over. The normally ice-blue chips of her irises
had become grey, and her hair seemed near white now. It was as though
the venom was draining the colour right from her.
But
Margaretta had promised. She was going
to be all right.
His
eyelids were heavy as he sat beside her, staring at the opposite
wall, breathing in the putrid stench of the room. It had once made
his eyes water, but now he was used to it.
Isadora’s
breathing, which was wet and rasping, stuttered. He jumped and turned
to face her, as her eyelids fluttered up and down for a moment as she
came to consciousness.
He
scooted the chair closer and reached out, taking her pale, cold hand
in his own. Her eyes darted towards the contact, then slowly traced
up his arm until she met his own. She smiled and shuddered out an
ailing breath.
“Stormy,”
she whispered.
He
smiled, though it felt like poison had been speared through his own heart
to watch her like this. “Hey, Belle. How are you feeling?”
She
chuckled, then coughed. Her face twisted into a terrible grimace.
But she smiled at him, full of tension and agony, and he had to dig
his fingers into the edge of his chair so he didn’t crush her hand.
“Well,”
she said. “I’ve certainly felt better.” Her breath had slowed,
as if it caused her so much pain that she’d rather stop altogether.
Her fingers shifted in his grasp, flexing ever so weakly. “You look
tired.”
“Don’t
worry about me,” he said. “I can deal with a little
sleeplessness. Though I certainly feel for Cassius if he dealt with
this at times.”
At
Cassius’ name, her eyes brightened just a little, her smile
widening just enough to notice. She shut her eyes. “He dealt with
them more than he ever let on. He was so… crestfallen. The nights I
saw him like that.”
He
frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
She
nodded, though her eyes remained closed. “There’s a great many
things I suspect you don’t know about everyone, but him especially.
I think even I couldn’t tell, sometimes.”
Mishal
bent his head and swallowed. “I think I’d like to remedy that,
when we go home.”
Isadora
opened her eyes and coughed again. She rubbed at her face with her
free hand, then feebly attempted to shift and winced sourly at the
motion. Without letting her hand go, he helped move her pillows until
she seemed reasonably comfortable. As one could be, in such a
scenario. His heart thudded hard enough to be nauseating as he sat
down.
“Speaking
of our little rascal and the others…” She coughed again, harder
this time, and took a few moments to recover, her breath quick and
shallow. She faced him, gripping as tight as she had strength left.
“I want you to make me a promise.”
“Not
if it is with some morbid intent,” he said, wary, lungs seizing for
a moment. “You’re not going to die, so any promise you would have
me make on your deathbed can be reserved for much, much later.”
She
watched him for moment, then smiled. It looked wrong, somehow.
Cracked. Insincere. “Of course not. It’s the expedition. You can
see where it’s going.” Her expression grew grim, an ill and
haunting look on one as warm and kind as she was. “You cannot go
back out there, Mishal. I want you to look after the others instead.
All of them. I know Ori is skilled and smart and they’ll be fine.
Ember is as strong as you as, as capable, and as determined.”
“Sometimes
I think she’s twice my heart and strength already,” he said
quietly, his throat tightening as he forced himself to smile.
Isadora
laughed breathily and coughed again. “She’s certainly full of
both.” Her expression sobered again, but not quite so much this
time. “I know they’re both strong and capable, but it’s Cassius
and Alanna that worry me the most. Cassius and the trouble he gets
into, and he’s… he needs people. He needs love. Alanna is so
uncertain of herself and her place in the world, and she needs
stability.” She held his gaze, weak but determined. “Please.”
He
squeezed her hand and nodded. “I swear it. I’ll keep them safe,
I’ll look after them. And you’ll be there to see me do it, you
can watch me keep my word. I would take a blood oath if you wanted me
to. If that made you more comfortable.”
She
scoffed and their gaze broke as she glanced away, nearly rolling her
eyes but not quite. “Nothing so thrilling. I’d trust no one more
to keep their word.”
“I
can’t promise how much Cassius will accept my help, though,” he
said.
He
wished Cassius were here right now, to make Isadora smile. Mishal was
no entertainer, he didn’t have anything like the natural talent
Cassius had to make people laugh. Gods,
he’d been so ignorant.
All
of them, in fact. All of them would be good for Isadora. Better than
him. Ori could distract her with their stories and their mysterious
wonder, telling exaggerated accounts of what she had missed since the
expedition left. Ember would make her something to make her feel
better. She had always talked about wanting to make little clockwork
animals.
Not
Alanna. Isadora, he was certain, would agree. She was so young, and
this temporary state Isadora was in would bear her no good fortune to
see. No, it was for the best that Alanna wasn’t here.
Still,
it made her eyes glitter and her lips curl. Until she coughed again,
and that moment’s joy was dissipated. She settled back, looking…
satisfied. She exhaled deeply and nodded again. Her eyes looked
glassy again, and Mishal was struck with a fear that he would lose
her mind again, that she would start babbling about things that made
no sense.
But
Isadora just looked up at him warmly, as though she were not in
agonising pain. Something darkened behind the mist in her eyes,
something knowing. It twisted in his stomach.
“Water?”
she rasped.
He
nodded and stood, then hesitated. The longer he stood, the more
pleading her expression grew. She hadn’t had a drink since the last
time she’d woken, when Gracia had been forced to make her drink.
Feeling like someone was pulling him in twain, he let go of her hand.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” Needing assurance of his own, he
stooped over her, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was damp and
cold, and it sent a ripple of ice through him.
She
smiled, looking relieved, and nodded. “I’m in no rush.”
It
wasn’t the first time he had left the underground chamber since
they had come back, but he was glad for the lowlight of the night as
he made his way upstairs. He had grown so adjusted to the dim and
darkened chamber that even the crystal-white lights that cast a
sombre glow across the hallways made him blink.
The
shadows were lengthened and looming as he made his way towards the
kitchen. He felt strangely small, though he had walked through these
passages many times. They were white and blue painted with mock gold
trim and rich wooden floors, and there were exquisite paintings that
lined the walls, each heralded by dormant magic lights. One wall was
just an approximate map of Stellarsyl back when it was said the
Wilderlands were not so active and cartography might have been
useful. He didn’t believe many of those tales. Not many did.
And
still, even with the pale lighting and bright colours, he felt…
seen. As though stalked by an invisible foe. A rustle that clattered
a window made him jump and seize up, but he forced his muscles to
relax and his breath to come out long and steady.
He
got to the kitchen unimpeded, where nobody was awake at such an hour,
of course. He found a relatively shallow glass, as shallow as glasses
came, made of crystal, and decorated with a blue jewel he didn’t
know the name of that was etched into the crystal. He filled it and
the crystal cast prisms against the wall. He made his way back
downstairs, careful not to upset the balance of the cup or lose any
water, his pulse still erratic.
There
wasn’t much he could do for Isadora, but he could do this, and by
what gods did or did not exist anymore, he was going to do it.
As
he got to the bottom of the stairs, the hair on the back of his neck
prickled. From the chamber there was silence, and though he had sat
in a near-absence of sound since Isadora had been laid there, he had
always been able to hear her breathing.
He
entered the room, tentative. The ever-burning magefire lamps cast an
eerie blue glow over the chamber, and over Isadora’s face, which
was slack and shadowed.
Chill
crept through his veins as she approached the bed. He fought to keep
the glass steady, feeling strangely light-headed.
Isadora’s
eyes were closed, and her mouth parted ever so slightly. She looked
completely relaxed, unburdened and painless.
And
she wasn’t breathing.
He
realised he dropped the glass when the crystal shattered against the
floor, breaking the quiet and jolting him like the sound of a cannon
firing. He crouched next to the bed, ignoring it save for recognition
of the terrible noise, and leaned closer.
“Isadora,”
he said, whispering and feeling the desperation rise and claw at his
throat. “Isadora.” He pressed his fingers to her wrist, and when
he felt nothing, he moved to her neck. Everything he had kept pressed
deep within his cheat began to bubble out, as he put his head on her
chest and listened for her heartbeat.
Silence.
He
lifted his head and stared at her unmoving form, fuzzy spots blurring
his vision. He blinked rapidly to try to dispel them, wanting
desperately to see Isadora clearly. He had to, he had to see her
clearly or— Or—
“Mishal?
I heard a noise, what—”
A
sob rose in his throat and something broke. He wasn’t even sure if
it was a delayed reaction from the glass shattering, from
Margaretta’s voice, or—
No.
No.
No, this wasn’t going to happen, not like this. Isadora couldn’t—
She wasn’t—
She
will not die.
He
barely heard Margaretta’s footsteps as she came into the room, but
he did, and he thought of a thousand things he could say. This
is your fault, you brought her here, she wouldn’t be like this if
this stupid expedition had never been undertaken.
You
promised.
He
stopped blinking and sunk to the floor. Crystal crunched underneath
him. He slumped forward against the bed palette, face burning as
tears streamed down it, eyes feeling swollen as sobs tore his throat
apart.
And
through it, he managed to whisper, still desperately trying to make
out Isadora’s face.
“I
left her.”
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