deercountry | 🦅 🦅 🦅

[ falco’s fingers press into iron until the tips go white and he jolts in place, worried, frightened and unprepared for whatever it was that paul had just done. for a second, the boy began to assume he was hit with something, debris or a ricochet, rushes to his knees and runs on the instinct to check for bullet wounds, for blood, for first aid— there was nothing his knowledge would attend to. ]

What did you do—? You’re—! [ in pain. painful. but his eyes and the resolve in them speaks truth that falco considers himself a good judge of character for. they’d have to speak later, now wasn’t the time for him to ask questions or cascade his concern for this complete stranger who’s shown him the same care only his family ever has. it’s rare, and odd, but he accepts it with his heart open as he tips his head down and flips the helmet onto the crown of his injury. of course, he looks at him, face to face and eye to eye one last time with a shimmering veil tempting him to feel like crying. he doesn’t, swallows it dry, but adds, prepared and tucked into himself: ] Thank you.

[ he’s ready, and he’s ready to wrap his arms around paul’s neck, or at the very least grasp at the clothes he’ll soon find himself closest to to help the other’s grip. ]

[It hadn't occurred to Paul the boy would react like this, too focused on the steps he needed to take next for those thirty meters. He stares at him, shocked, as the boy flings himself at him in concern. And the look in his eye when he does makes Paul's stomach drop and twist fiercely, a fear that has nothing to do with his own safety welling up.

He reaches for the boy's shoulders with both hands, to prove he's all right, gently presses his thumbs underneath the boy's collarbones. It's something his father used to do to steady him; Paul doesn't realize that until he's already done it.]

Not yet.

[To thank you, it's no response, except that his voice is determined, intended to calm. Not yet, because there's going to be a later, because he's all right and they'll be all right.

It may not be clear what cues Paul to move when he does, what combination of sounds and impacts fall into the arrangement he's been waiting for. He wouldn't be able to precisely describe it, in so many words. It's just - time. He pulls the boy into his arms (and makes sure his arms are secure around his neck) and darts towards the trench in an explosive burst.

He doesn't think, the entire stretch. He doesn't see the bodies he weaves past. He doesn't hear the firing of guns. He keeps his head down and his mind in battle-clarity, a state of pure action and reaction, and he runs.

When they finally, miraculously slide into the muddy trench, Paul thinks he's never run so long in his life. He collapses against the wall, his body shaking, arms surely painfully tight around the boy, his shoulder a cold fire, and tries very hard to remember how to breathe.]

[ it was the type of sprint that felt too long, never ending even. falco’s grip is on him tight while he keeps his legs tucked and back curved. small as he could. the next loaded round of bullets fling right past them, always at paul’s heels and picking up dust; a second slower and they’d be taken out just as their retreating comrades are. the plunge into the trench is brisk and pitiless— much covered and hitting harsh, trampled spots of dirt below. falco’s breathing had only escalated from the adrenaline, but it was paul he was worried about, heaving and rattling under his hold and until now, a constructed one that would’ve never let him go out there, not even if they tripped.

the helmet is off, they’re safe now, even a small group of three children falco’s age come running to take him in, dump water on his head, ask if he’s drunk— ]

I’m fine, now! [ this man, he was the one who needed attention, stretching his limbs once more to get to the ground and check paul. ] Now, now I got you, please let me check you—

[ medical supplies, he calls for them, and a boy with glasses rushes to retrieve them for falco. their commander— mageth— steps out from the covered safety route of the trench, the “rooms”, and hardly seems to bat a lash at the fact that paul had just returned from the run of his life. he’d like a progress report, and seems even distasteful to be using his spit to ask. as if he were talking to trash.

if paul were to look past the commander, he may not want to waste his voice, either, and use his chance to breathe. the antlers of the soft-glowing mourning stag climb over the trench’s horizon line, and the more it steps over the battlefield as a ghostly observer, the more he’ll know it’s almost time for them to return.

 both must return alive. that was the accomplishment of this memory. ]

[Paul gives the commander a look that in a real army might rise to the level of insubordination and then cuts his gaze away dismissively. He sees the stag, and that means he doesn't have very much time. He ignores everything else (but oh, he'll remember all of it).

Paul lets the boy look him over, using the opportunity to assess him in return. He doesn't seem worse off than he was, at least. Paul, himself, is fine. There's more blood on his left shoulder than is ideal, but the nerve block held (he might have overdone it, but he can fix it later, and it's nothing the boy will be able to notice). His calf has opened up again in two spots, but those are old injuries. There's the lockjoint, of course. So all in all, he's fine.]

I'm all right. Hey, hey - [Paul touches his shoulder again with his right hand as he stays slumped against the trench wall.] I'm all right. Listen. My name is Paul Atreides. After we get out of here, I'm going to come find you, so I need to know your name too, all right? So my omen can find yours.

[ the boy’s hand rests on the other’s shoulder, his own glance drifting toward the invading presence of the stag’s hooves kicking gravel into the trench as it approached with more of its head above them, to catch sight of them. at least, falco finds his chest deflating with some relief, but that doesn’t chip off the worry he’s got with paul’s injuries. he listens carefully— after everything, he’ll attentively stop whatever he’s doing to, and to express that he’s listening, that he’s understanding, his head bobs. his eyes never leave, only going to the other’s injury and the sight of dark crimson smudging the dirt wall.

he had to find him, he had to make that he was okay, that this wouldn’t carry over, that if this was at most, a dreamscape, then he would be alright. but only if his own eyes confirmed it. besides that—

paul just carried him across a hazardous battlefield with his own injuries to grit through. he owed him for the act, as much of a memory this was for falco. now, it was a new one. ]

It’s Falco. Falco Grice—

[ paul may have barely heard his last name, a ring, or a shadow of a dream he’d be waking up to. and just like that, the stag’s frozen, crystalline horns chime; they’re back where they were supposed to be.

but falco, too, wasn’t the only one promptly on a search for the young man as soon as he was able. he was rested, felt better than he has in days. perle, a petite pygmy falcon, is in the sky. below her is the blond boy; cloaked, armed, considering what trench was, but keeping his sights up on her to follow suit. ]

[They find each other on one of the side streets, a dark desert mouse bouncing ahead of a young man dressed head to toe in practical black who stops at the top of the street and pushes back his own hood, looking at the boy - Falco Grice - with obvious, unfiltered concern.

He'd only paused before leaving his most recent bolthole to quickly address his wounds enough to be mobile, and there's a faint hitch to his walk that would only be noticeable to someone specifically looking for it, but he seems well enough as he comes down the street to Falco after a glance at his circling bird of prey.]

Are you all right? Did it cross over?

[He starts with the practical, not knowing where else to begin, scanning the younger boy with an incisive eye. He doesn't know precisely why his own injuries cross over both ways in the memories, if it's a defect in him or a byproduct of his approach, but he hopes it's not true of Falco.

He's still so young. Paul had thought that maybe the memory was older, that he'd find someone older, and the sight of him still this age - it's unsettling in ways Paul doesn't know where to begin articulating to himself.]

[ he’s found him. before long perle circled, and as falco brought his gaze down— paul was there with a small desert mouse omen, coming towards him. ]

—Mister Paul! [ what a meeting first— second? meeting this was, already. paul would find falco is clean of injuries, bright and alert with only perhaps a smudge of paleblood he hadn’t caught in his hair when he washed it in front of a mirror— too rushed. it had crossed over, but from awakening, gathering himself and walking off, falco had also regenerated the wound clean. a personal ability of his. searching for something off the moment he’d caught sight of the young man, falco notices something off in his stride. the concern is wholeheartedly mutual, especially when it had been his memory to start. ] I-It did, but I cleaned it— I’m fine, ah, [ his thoughts are racing all over again, but he’s learned to take a breath and calm down; they’re not on the battlefield anymore. ] Where does it hurt?

[Paul does see the blood, his hand rising at his side to reach out before he stops himself, but the fact Falco shows no other lingering side effects eases the constriction in his chest. The boy's concern for him brings it back.

The memory was a nightmare, but he knew what needed to be done. He doesn't know what to do here, except think of what he'd want in Falco's position.]

It's an old injury on my leg, not from your memory. You can take a look once we're inside. We shouldn't stay out here.

[He looks at the various empty houses on the street, picks a nearby one with a closed door and intact windows, and starts off towards it. He pauses to look over his shoulder, and say quietly:] I'm glad you're all right.

[ falco follows close by as he did, nearly right at paul’s heels and observing the aforementioned injury with a passing glance before it turned to staring. he’d prefer to be giving more of that attention to paul himself, and brings his eyes to him. he’d like that— even if everything’s fine, he’d like to check for himself. ]

Me too. [ mostly, at least. before they enter the building hollowed out for them to use for the time being, the pygmy falcon dives for the boy’s shoulder and easily plants herself there. for a bird of prey, she’s awfully small, perhaps not all that larger than paul’s desert mouse— and fits right into the crook of falco’s neck, milky white eyes on the mouse and then the man. ] I’m just sorry we had to meet . . . Like that, sir.

[ chaotic and hazardous, but it’s clear already, what the result of that memory and those actions has caused in falco— he’s looking up to paul with the utmost respect, and any lack of mister or sir or even whatever title they once held, captain or war chief or doctor. anything less just wouldn’t do to convey that. unless, he was asked to drop them. that may be the only exception, but it doesn’t take the glint in his eyes that’s there when regarding someone. ]

Don't - [His voice starts off too sharp, almost angry, and Paul pauses to readjust before he continues, softer again.] Don't apologize for that.

[He's surprised at how much he means it. He's surprised at nearly everything he's done in the past hour or so, such a brief span of time to have him thrown so completely off his balance. 'Sir', for one thing. He's been 'my lord' and 'young master', but sir is - sir is Gurney Halleck, who would know what to do with Falco.

The inside of the house is thick with dust, but no scent of blood or decay. Paul kicks a metal jug that has toppled to the ground and it clangs loudly down the grey wallpapered front hallway. Nothing stirs, and he judges it safe to move further inside. His desert mouse hangs behind, hopping at Falco's feet despite the presence of his falcon. Omens operate on different rules than flesh and blood creatures.]

It's what we're supposed to do, isn't it? Help each other. [Paul looks over his shoulder at the younger boy.] You're going to help me. So you have nothing to apologize for, and nothing you owe me.

[ falco remains with his back stiff and dares not to talk back. there was hardly much to argue in the first place, he thought, if paul was being as sincere as his tone. obedient thing he was, he takes in the young man’s words and nods, meandering over an emptied, tattered couch and some dusty cushions— that he does the honors of flipping over. at least they won’t sit in dust, that way. ]

Okay, Mister Paul.

[ his gaze goes down, to his side, but the little desert mouse catches his attention faster than the sash across his shoulder and under his cloak, causing his lips to turn up. hanging from his side was a small messenger’s bag, and on his hips— a knife on one side, and a pistol holster in the other. the bag’s contents were more valuable, in this case: the flap is opened to reveal a few vials and clean cotton fabrics. ]

I brought my things, too. Just in case.

[ that’s a little first aid kit, he has. ]

[Paul catches the not-quite-smile out of the corner of his eye as he examines the fireplace, shining his omni's light up the shaft after forcing open the vent in a shower of powdery snow. His mouse perks her ears and clambers up the couch Falco just attended to, bouncing onto the overturned cushion and then showily grooming herself with tiny paws.]

You came prepared. [He must have been trained, like the other ones were - Paul turns away from the thought as he works on building the basics of a fire with a few shattered sticks of broken furniture.] ...how far did you go to get here?

[As the adrenaline wears off, more rational thoughts are returning. For example, what is a child, even a capable one, doing out on the streets by himself after what just happened to him? Was he alone? If he was, why was he? Is that knife the only weapon he has?]

[ a simple observation, but one that has falco’s chest warm and fluttery with satisfaction that his efforts have been acknowledged. it doesn’t broaden his smile, per se, falco isn’t much sunshine, but you can tell in the way he takes a seat, prepares the bag open and off his shoulders and his waiting glance that he’s glad to do more. he’s helpful this way.

he’s careful not to disturb the mouse omen either, doing cute mouse things— perle herself has fluffed up her plumage and hopped onto the arm of the tattered couch to give her boy room to move freely. ]

Not far, [ he considers where he lives, ] I’m staying in Crenshaw.

[ he’s ready to get started, but since they’re on the topic— ]

Where’re you staying?

Nowhere specific yet.

[Once the fire is lit Paul comes to sit on the couch nearby, his mouse hopping up onto the opposite armrest. Paul looks between the two omens, thoughtful, and then bends over to roll up his left pant leg and unwind the hasty bandage over his calf.

It's not awful. The wounds were clean and healing well, so the popped stitches released mostly clean blood. The teeth of the bear trap had been slowed and blunted by his shield, so there's not as much bruising and crush damage as there should have been. It's still ugly, but it's not going to be difficult to restitch the two of the five that had opened. He sits up and nods to Falco - he can go ahead.]

I haven't decided where I want to. I'm new here. Are you?

[ it hadn’t been the worst of lacerations— but falco knew not to make faces, either way. his hands hover once the wound has been exposed, taking an amble look at what was missing and what was needed after carefully aiding in undoing the initial bandages keeping what was left of the stitches safe (and whatever was dribbling out could at least be soaked). first things was first: cleaning, so falco gets right to separating the materials he needs to begin. and begin he does, not overly gentle, but firm enough to remove any excess dirt or dried blood, and mindful of any sensitive bits. a healthy would was a lively one, and he’s glad that this was at least headed in the right direction. ]

It’s been a little over a month for me. [ he supposes he could be new— not brand new, but fresh compared to their long standing veterans who crossed over from deerington. ] I haven’t been staying in one place for too long, either— I check on a few people.

[ there was erwin, but then there was also rose, who he can’t help but to visit and stay with from time to time! the other children, too. paul might as well be one of them, now. ]

Did you get this . . . Here?

[ he asks treading carefully, because the wound was in fact fresh. he’d almost been expecting a battle scar, of sorts. ]

I did. I wasn't looking where I was going, and I stepped in a trap.

[That the trap was set deliberately for people isn't a necessary part of the explanation. There's mild discomfort as Falco works on his injuries, but he seems to have a practiced hand. Paul leans over slightly to watch, humming quiet approval at what he sees.

It helps masks his uneasiness at his growing sense that he should be doing something else beyond this. He thinks back, rifling through his own memories for a comparable moment.]

...do you want to talk about what happened back there? You don't have to, but I'm a good listener.

[ he was no doctor or nurse, but it was clear falco was given at least a basic sense of first aid. without the chaotic battle sounds flinging over their heads, he was also allowed the luxury to take his time and do a better job instead of rushing bandages or a splint. perhaps what added to his acceptable skill was the care that came from the heart— he really did want to do the best he could to make it better, and that showed, right along with the boy looking up at the sound given, and spreading a quick and meek smile whilst returning to his cleaning and applying natural mixes made from the base of vileblood.

they were lucky it wasn’t festering, and he may be mildly nervous of hurting him with the stitches— but they’re only two. he’ll do what he can, and properly prepares a needle and thread. ]

I don’t mind— and you were there, so, [ he nods and pricks the first edge of skin, and believes paul had the right to know. hopefully the numbing property rubbed moments earlier helps in dulling the entry and exit. but he pauses and glances back and forth to the wound and paul just in case it wasn’t. ] that was my final exam. It was a war that went on for four years at our borders.

[ he seems . . . impartial and hardly combative, though, about the sides that waged against each other, even if he was only on one of them. ]

Marley’s military power was weakened four years ago, so they decided to take advantage of the gap and attack— to defend home from expansion. It worked for a while.

[There's no distress on Paul's face, and he nods for Falco to continue his work - the clean piercing of a needle is more than bearable, especially with the prior treatment.

'Final exam' punctures more deeply anyway. He knits his fingers together and braces his elbows on his knees, tilting his head as he listens to the rest. It fits with what he saw, an army broken even as it struggled to fight on. Territorial overreach is a familiar enough story. He can fit it all into a framework that makes a certain kind of brutal sense.]

And then it didn't?

[No judgment in his soft voice, of the events or Falco's matter of fact tone. His mouse hops down from the couch and settles on all fours near where Falco is working, curling her long tail around herself. Paul keeps his leg almost perfectly still for Falco to continue his stitching and his story.]

[ can you believe it? he’s nearly finished his first. not the most beautiful, even though there wasn’t much to actually make neat, but it seemed functional to what it was supposed to do. as falco readies the next, perle preens her breast feathers. he nods at the correct continuation, though. ]

The side I was on, Marley . . . They may have been weakened, but they still have power the Mid-East doesn’t. [ a pinch; he’s got it in, pulls the thread to the knotted bud, ] You didn’t see it, [ and he may be implying that it was for the best, ] but they use Titans.

That’s what the exam was for— for rites to be a Warrior. My older brother was one, I was just a candidate.

[ just, even though it was a title only a handful would achieve. he didn’t care for it, didn’t like it or give it the patriotic flare everyone else did. it was just— oppression and manipulation, all the same. ]

Edited 2022-01-04 13:58 (UTC)

[The falcon catches Paul's eye again. She's the tiniest he's ever seen, even smaller than the desert hawks of Arrakis, but still a bird of prey. Paul wonders what it means that she's connected to this diligent, careful boy. He keeps breathing through the pinching tug of the stitches, humming softly at a sensitive spot here or there.]

So you were training to pilot a Titan? Operate it?

[He recognizes the way the word is stressed as referring to something specific, but he can't quite place the meaning by context. Whatever it is, it seems connected to the distant way Falco keeps referring to what happened, as if he was as much an unhappy outsider to it as Paul was.]

[He leans to the side to peer down at his leg and adds softly:] That's a neat stitch. Good work.

[ yes, and yes to actually describing the titan more like a vessel that’s operated than turning into something— paul may hardly have a clue about where he’s treading, but falco is sure to enthusiastically nod to show him that he’s right on the money, and no one usually catches the mark so fast. what a lucky guy.

falco’s lips pull a little harder at the praise, proud and beginning to glow— not literally, of course! but it’s what’s he’s more suited for than what they saw earlier. if he ever had a chance to choose his own path, he’d want to be a nurse. not even a doctor— a nurse. ]

Thank you, sir. I’ll just clean around it again and wrap it up. [ more cotton balls are on the way! ] Are you military, too?

[ paul knew a little bit about him, and he’s sure piloting titans will come up again eventually— but he’d like to know more about paul, and adds, to support his reasoning: ]

You can think and move quick when it’s chaotic.

[It must touch a nerve, the talk of Titans, and why wouldn't it? Paul will let the subject drop, though he notes the contrast of the boy's pride at being praised for helping, and he doesn't care for this feeling, the one that keeps catching at his ribs and tightening his chest. It's not directed at Falco, but somehow past him, or around him, a sense of - he falls short again, uncertain.

So a change of topic, then. Paul considers his answer, rubbing a thumb over the backs of his knuckles.]

I was trained to be. My House - that's what we call our families, where I come from, although they're bigger than most families - had a standing army. The best in the empire.

[He doesn't sound proud either. Paul is quiet for another long moment after that.]

How old were you?

[ that was a different system— but not unheard of. the closest falco can bring to mind comparing paul’s household power was the tybur family— closely tied to the country’s military and a keeper of one of their greater powers: another titan. it all came back to that, and falco realizes this just after he accidentally (partially) diverged from his earlier mention. ]

When it started? Eight. I was in the Warrior program before that. [ eldian children could be taken as early as four or five. to marley, if they could at the very least hold a rifle, then they were able and trainable. whether they’d handle it or even survive the process was another story.

(partially true, too, that the topic of titans was mildly unsettling, but being distracted by being approved of his work also hadn’t helped— poor paul wants the thick juice). ]

I’m twelve, now. That’s when it ended. [ there’s no relief; they’d gotten out of one war and started another. he decides to add, belatedly: ] There’s a family back home that sounds like yours— They had a Titan, too.

[It isn't Falco's age, then and now, that truly horrifies Paul. It's the way he adds trivia after that for Paul's sake, a little fact extended to him in offering. The reflex to please, even here, and the implications of that, the implications of all of it -

Paul reaches out intending to rest his hand on Falco's shoulder, watching the boy's face carefully for his reaction. He had been hurried in the dream, but he has time here. He'd make time, if he had to.]

I'm sorry that happened to you.

[He's getting better at saying that, with how often he has lately, but he's never said it so softly.]

[ the caring hand on his shoulder did not weigh more than paul’s words. falco doesn’t remember the last time, or if someone’s ever expressed such a sentiment to him before. it startled him, but rapidly mellows at the features from the corners of his eyes down to his lips: so, so soft. he tried to divert, and even then, was met with the very human thing he’s always tried to give, because it was the right thing, of course— and because it was something he yearned for, too.

a common understanding of what that was, and what his feelings were. ]

. . . Thank you, Mister Paul.

[ he doesn’t feel right to brush it off with an it’s okay, because it wasn’t. it never sat well with him. finally, someone gets it. he feels like he’s found something that’s always been lost on time and history, or a cruel culture. that the thought would continue to normalize. ]

I hope I won’t have to keep feeling sorry, too.

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