thewidewideworld | (no subject)

Entry tags:

athelstan,
ragnar

(no subject)

From here

Curled in Rangar's arms and clutching Athelstan's hand, Sinric keeps his face hidden as they enter their rooms. Somehow it's easier with his eyes closed. It seems to narrow down the visions.

He tries to steady himself enough to stand, wavering like a leaf. "I must smell terrible." He can't tell, still so disconnected from his own body. "I don't remember how long it's been since I washed."

He senses a turn of discomfort from Athelstan. "I can do it alone, it's alright."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sinric is limp as a doll in Ragnar's arms when they come in. Blood and spittle oozing from the corner of his lips from where he's bitten the inside of his mouth during the fit. His breath barely stirring the air, his narrow chest is almost still.

"He was wild, and now got quiet," Ragnar says, sounding very worried, the moment they both step inside.

The doctor walks over quickly, opens the bag, and starts examining Sinric, starting with a look into his eye.

"I think that can happen, when the seizure passes", Athelstan says, just as worriedly. "But he's still with us, so the doctor can help him."

His eyes are wide, his pupils blown and several shades too dark. They contract sluggishly to the light if at all.

Sinric does respond, far from himself in his pain.

"How long was he taking those drugs?" the doctor asks.

"We don't know. It's only a likely guess that he was at all."

It's clear to look at him that Sinric's own health has suffering badly and for some weeks. His bones stick out, his skin shallow and pale. The circles under his eyes dark and bruised.

"He was better for a bit," Ragar supplies, pain in his voice.

"And then he went to sleep, and that's when this happened."

Hannibal's sensitive nose may pick up that Sinric's liver and kidney functions aren't quite right. Especially the drugs have poisoned him and his system is fighting them.

"We need to get that stuff out of his system," Hannibal says. "It takes time, but he's not in immediate danger now. However, I will need to watch him and most likely put him on an infusion."

"Should we take him down to the infirmary?"

Sinric's eyelids flutter, not opening but more as if he's dreaming.

Ragnar holds Sinric in his arms and his lap, stroking his shoulders.

"What can you do for him?"

The doctor doesn't answer, concentrating on Sinric instead.

Athelstan doesn't press. Sinric is in a bad enough condition every second might count.

Sinric bites his lip, trying to suppress a little sob of pain. Still unconscious, still fighting.

"He is no longer seizing, so there is no need to give him rectal,diazepam," the doctor finally declares. "I am going to put him on a drip with Hartmann's solution and watch him overnight. As I am no longer welcome in the infirmary after my difference of opinion with Guppy Sandhu over the diagnosis of Javert, we should get some equipment for his room and watch him there."

Beat.

"Sinric? We are going to take care of you. We have you."

Athelstan nods.

"I'll go to Bar. Just tell me what to get."

Hannibal's words, Ragnar's touch and Athelstan's nearness help. He grows calmer, his eyes and fingertips stilling.

"May I have a piece of paper, then I'll write down what we need," Dr. Lecter says. "It's a long list of future technology and substances. Good thing that somewhere, this place has an elevator."

"Yes." He hurries to the desk in his own room and comes back with pen and paper.

While they are busy with that, Sinric slowly comes to, turning ever so slightly to bury his face in Ragnar's thigh for comfort.

Ragnar strokes him, bending down to be with Sinric while the other two are busy with their list, which seems to involve medical supplies, electronic machines, and a bed on wheels.

"We have you," he whispers to Sinric. "We love you, and your doctor friend is here to take care of you. Prophecy asks a high price, always, and I don't want you to pay it."

Athelstan is busily writing down everything Hannibal asks for, occasionally pausing to check he's got the spelling right.

Sinric tangles his fingers in Ragnar's, squeezing weakly. He keeps his eyes closed, his face turned away. "I'm afraid."