hadriel_logs | The dead know better

Who: Lance Sweets and Maketh Tua
What: Chance encounters. Uneasy conversations.
Where: Outside the Guard post.
When: Forward-dated to June 3rd.
Warnings: Langue, mental health talk.

The sword has been hiding in the back of her closet since the incident with the doubles - perfectly cleaned and sharpened, of course - but out of sight, out of mind. A childish avoidance. Sometimes Maketh has dreams about finding it stuck through her chest again, the double laughing at her, that perfect empty pain. And then she wakes up and puts them away, because a dream is only a dream and means nothing if you are strong.

But the sword is a weapon and weapons must be used. There's no point in hiding this one away, not when it's perfectly serviceable.

Her skills are rusty anyway. And, far more importantly, her conduct has been found wanting.

That cannot stand.

So she takes the blade and goes outside the Guard post after her shift, and makes herself go through every sword drill she ever memorized. Over and over again until she no longer hesitates, until the tension is gone and only the motion remains. The blade is sharp and she must be as well. A clean, simple weapon.

Execute your purpose, soldier.

Time passes. She's stripped down to her undershirt and sweating hard, hair beginning to slip from her bun. But she's no longer afraid. If there are further nightmares, then she will conquer them.

Tomorrow, she'll wear the sword at her belt again.

It feels like an accomplishment of sorts and Maketh allows herself a brief moment of satisfaction. This, at least, she can do properly.

She snaps to attention when she hears someone approaching, moving into a ready stance. "Identify yourself!"

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So that's it, then.

Maketh watches him for a moment.

"You can go now. I'm not going to do anything."

Well that's not helpful. In fact, that's just vaguely annoying, like he needed permission to leave.

But fine. That's not a fight Lance is even slightly interested in picking at the moment so he just slides off the desk, puts all his weight on his bad leg, and immediately tumbles to the floor; he catches himself on his hands, knowing right away he's not actually hurt and it's just weakness from over-working the injury, but that doesn't help with the embarrassment issue.

Damnit.

Oh.

Maketh stiffness instinctively, but holds herself back. He won't want her help. Not now. It's bad to touch anyone immediately after an injury. She learned that in the Academy. It's not worth taking a blow over.

"Can you walk?"

She asks it quietly.

Lance is actually quite relieved she doesn't make a move toward him, because that means he doesn't have to be suddenly concerned she's going to take advantage of a weakness as she likes to remind him she could. Instead he just shifts slightly to sit on the floor, getting his feet underneath him and using the desk to help stand again, carefully keeping his weight on his uninjured leg.

The one that had been broken in the attack--which he's still not entirely aware is what happened--doesn't seriously hurt, but as he tentatively puts more weight on it the muscle trembles and he clenches his jaw. Damnit again; he probably can walk, but not without a little more rest.

He's just very uninterested in admitting that, especially since her not taking opportunity yet doesn't mean she won't, and he remembers very clearly what she's said--multiple times--about showing weakness. So instead he lies, albeit through nodding rather than through words and with his gaze focused past her instead of on her, but doesn't yet make a move to prove it.

Maketh watches him carefully, eyes narrowed. A weak leg. Broken bone, possibly? Or something in his knee? His ribs had been bothering him earlier. She marked that when they first met. This part isn't yet healed.

He ought to hide it better. It's not safe to let anyone see a weakness like that. She doesn't get anything from hurting him - there's no point - but anyone else....

No. Stop that.

Maketh thins her mouth and moves toward her desk. She has tools there, she can design something quickly. A brace if he'll actually let her see the injury. If not, she can fashion him a cane. "Sit down before you fall over."

Fortunately, at this point the bone is mostly healed, but a broken femur--especially when you've spent the last two months since it happened--takes some time to fully mend. He doesn't think he's done any sort of new damage to it, he just overestimated how much strain to put on it while exercising.

He does exactly the opposite of ordered, taking a few unsteady but certain steps around the desk as she heads for hers, keeping the furniture between them for the moment; he isn't sure what she's going to get, after all. "I'm fine. I'll leave in just a moment."

"Don't be foolish."

If he aggravates the injury, it will only make trouble down the road. For Lance and likely the Guard. Thus it's in both their best interests not to let that happen.

It's entirely practical, Maketh tells herself. She doesn't look up, busying herself with finding the bolt cutters and a length of rebar scavenged from an old attack.

"How tall are you? In centimeters."

Lance watches her for a few moments as she gathers bolt cutters and rebar and wow that's his cue to leave.

"I have no idea." He lies in response again--he does know how tall he is in centimeters, simply because that's what's used at the Jeffersonian and he's memorized a few heights--as he begins edging backwards toward the door.

That's not helpful. Maketh huffs, laying out her supplies. "Then I will estimate."

He's a full head taller than her. Something like six feet? Maketh begins lining up the rebar. It's crude, but if she binds them together and fashions something for the handle, it will serve.

She glances up suddenly.

"Sit down. You'll make it worse. And I assume you, neither of us will enjoy it if I have to carry you to the clinic."

"Maketh." Lance responds, forcing his voice to be patient and firm as if there is nothing at all strange about this situation, even though he's already halfway to the door. "I presume you understand what 'I don't need help' means."

He's not concerned about any sort of need to be taken to the clinic--he used to run track so it isn't the first time he's had a wobbly leg, and he's been dealing with this injury in general since he got here--and so is really not worried about that as a consequence of being stubborn. He'll just go sit by the lake a bit until he's feeling better and then walk the rest of the way home.

She almost snaps that he's being foolish - he is! - but stops. Yelling at him hasn't produced good results in the past. So she grits her teeth and starts hunting for duct tape.

"I am making you a cane, stubborn man. Sit down."

Well, at least it isn't a weapon--or so she says--but still.

"That isn't necessary." He responds in the same tone, still surreptitiously moving for the door. "It's nearly healed, I just overdid it with the jogging."

"Why are you being difficult?"

She's trying to help. Only it's not working and Maketh doesn't really understand why. Because she saw him stumble? He saw her -- falter. That's far worse.

"I'm not being difficult, I'm being factual." He responds immediately, voice starting to belie his agitation; he's been called difficult a few too many times to appreciate it. "You're just not listening to me."

Maketh glares down at her tools. Why does nothing work the way she means it to? She was trying to help. It was the polite thing to do.

"Fine. Go."

The gesture itself is... Nice enough, he supposes, if also weird, but that's not really the issue at the moment.

Lance doesn't have to be told twice, taking the three remaining steps needed to get out the door. At least this entire conversation could've gone a lot worse, right?

He needs a nap.

The dead know better

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