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Entry tags:

athelstan,
ragnar

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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."

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Dr. Lecter peers through his instrument.

"Sinric," ha asks, gently. "What is it?"

"The tree!" Caught between his eyes and eyelids are tiny, tiny ash seeds, winged to spin as they fall.

"I will pick them out," Hannibal promises, calmly. "I will give you a sedative first so you won't panic when I toch your eyes."

He inserted a syringe into the drip and pushes the plunger.

"We might need a magic handler," he adds to Athelstan and Ragnar.

Sinric goes limp as the sedative enters his blood.

Slowly, Hannibal goes about picking the seeds out of Sinric's eyes with a deft and minutiously skilful hand.

"This was magic," he says. "It's not something I know how to deal with. Do you know anybody who can?"

He looks at Ragnar, and at Athelstan.

The seeds out, Sinric drifts into a deep and dreamless sleep, all monitors showing he's relaxed.

He doesn't wake till dawn, surfacing slowly and waking naturally, far calmer and quieter that before.

Edited 2016-12-01 15:16 (UTC)

"Master Elrond, perhaps", Athelstan says hesitantly. "He's a healer."

"He uses magic for his healing?" Ragnar asks, rubbing his eyes.

"That would help," Dr. Lecter adds, from his chair.

Sinric is quiet and restful now, passing the night without further trouble.

The fluid does it's works and he looks like gaunt by morning.

Their voices, talking over him help. They keep him grounded.

He smiles up at them when he wakes, still pale but looking a little more alive. "Go, get some rest." He says to Ragnar and Athelstan. "I'm alright now, the tapestry is fading." He pulls their hands to hid lips, "I've kept you from your beds too long. Leave me with the good doctor a while and I'll join you later."

He and Hannibal need to talk. And it's best Athelstan and Ragnar don't hear.

Edited 2016-12-04 14:11 (UTC)

Athelstan nods, letting his fingers brush Sinric's face.

"You know where we are if you need one of us."

Ragnar gets up as well, stretching, then bending down to unashamedly kiss Sinric's lips.

"We will be in reach."

Hannibal gets up from his chair. "Do get some sleep, and some time by yourselves," he says, smiling.

Sinric answers Athelstan's touch with warmth and wordless gratitude that flows over his skin as he brushes the back of Athelstan.

And Ragnar's kiss with a soft sigh. "My beloveds." He smiles to them both, putting on a show of a smile as they leave, glad they're close.

He waits for the door to close to let himself fall back into the pillows, fatigued even at that. "I can feel your curiosity like an itch, my good Doctor."

"I do wonder what you saw," the doctor says. "Unlike some, I won't disdain any edge on my future I might get. But first, it's much more important that you get well. Do you have the makings of tea in your room?"

"There's some teas in the cupboard on the left there. And a kettle in the bathroom." He answers, gesturing weakly. Green tea and apple powder mostly and a bottle of mead.

He lays back, eyes closed a moment as he regains his strength. "You already have plans for the future. I saw them over and over like a revel play. Who is the woman with the blonde hair?"

Hannibal goes about making apple tea, and talks with his back to Sinric.

"Bedelia DuMaurier," he says. "She used to be my own therapist."

"The patterns that bind you with her are beautiful, and terrible. As they are with so many in your life."

He covers his eyes, careful of the drip. "Will Graham especially. He's..."

"Yes?"

He shakes his head, lowering his hands. "I don't have the words. I don't think there are words. What he is, what you are to each other is so rare no words have ever been chosen. But I see. And I understand, at least in part."

There is no fear, no revulsion in his voice. A slight note of perplexed wonder perhaps.

"I am sorry," Hannibal says. "I am sorry he is so inhumanly much to me, and I can't be more to you. I do love you, Sinric, but what he and I are transcends love so far, it is indeed so rare no words have ever been chosen."

Sinric cocks his head, reaching a hand out to Hannibal, confused by his reaction. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I see you, all you have done and will do and I love you."

"I know you're not so shallow that one love diminishes another. The threads that bind us are beautiful and I'm grateful for the strength you've given me. You belong to Will. That is as it is meant to be."

"And one day, he might have all of me -- but not yet."

"Not yet." Sinric echoes, adjusting the bandages around his throat a little before sitting up with an effort and a small groan of pain. "But when the moment comes, it will be perfect."

"It might just be one moment," Hannibal says, quietly.

Sinric holds a weak hand out to him, his fingers trembling with exhaustion. Sympathetic and loving. "On the cliffs of St George, a moment will be the world."

"You know where we are if you need one of us."

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