relapses in the west wing (tw, day 2)

When the knight's disappeared between the swollen trunks of the trees, Lu still clutches the lance.

He white-knuckles it, through the sudden silence of the woods, nothing but the mournful croak of frogs, the unending hum of insect wings. The pools of water are unmoving again. The splinters of wood dig into his palm.

It's not over yet.

In the corner of his eye, the light of the ruby-hilted sword catches a beam of sun. His shirt sticks to him, the blood is going tacky down his front. Sharp, stinging rust-red. Lu turns to Tick without missing a beat, he has the lance, he's thrusting it towards his face.

The metal tip doesn't quite break his jaw off the hinges.

Because it catches in the blade, metal stuck in the wood. The movement squeezes his chest, another gush dripping warm from the deep cut. He pushes, but the sword is blocking him, the lance is blocking him.

He throws it away and dives for Tick.

For the third time in two days, Lu tries to kill him.

They don't slip into the pool this time, landing near a knot of roots, scraping against the moss. He's on top of Tick, he's got a handful of fabric, dragging him upwards by the collar, breathing heavy in the mist of the pond. The blood keeps pouring now, he's shaking a little bit now. The growing dizziness makes him suddenly sway, fingers loosening off Tick as he fists the wound instead, groaning.

You're very violent, Tick says.

Lucius breathes in slowly, against the grind of sliced muscle.

How else do you survive. 

A person learns about the law of life very quickly on a farm. Death howling like a coyote. Death wearing the frigid cold winter. The dry heat of the poisonous sun. Death in the shape of worms, in spores, in clusters of cells. Blotches on the feed crops. Patches of blight. He starts to see it everywhere.

There's a chain and saw wire kept in the barn. The belly is a warm place to die. The easiest place to die. Before even being alive. 

Lu acquiesces for once.

Only because he's holding the wound together, only because he has his fingers knotted into his chest. He falls forward a little, onto his knees, when Tick slips out from underneath him, tepidly staring at the blood streaming between his fingers. The sword stays by his side.

It doesn't slide between his shoulder blades. It doesn't touch the back of his neck with a cold edge. The sword is in his hand, and Lu is on the ground, but he isn't dead yet.

He heaves in another breath, spitting out blood. 

“You're very stupid.”