Birthday thing

[emo_viking_jil]

For my dearest Siribird, hope your birthday was great and my silly lateness (even though it's still the first here----!) is over looked! Likewise, I hope you like it uwu

               There’s something remarkable about dying, he thinks.

Dimly he can feel the pain in his body, the slick feel of blood and the too warm but not warm enough cradle of familiar arms holding him up. Masrur, he’s sure, the finalis’ neutral look tugged down into something closer to desperation. In the background is the too fast, too rough, panicked tone of Ja’far. Dimly Sin catches the pale color of his hair, meets his wide eyed glance for a second before his head flops back down on a metal-clad shoulder. He’s dazed, colors and noises fading around him. It’s like he’s underwater and somewhere in the back of his mind he’s alarmed; this was not supposed to happen, not this early, not like this.

Somewhere along the way he blacks out and it’s only when they get back, to more sounds and a press of hands, the heal of magoi crackling along his body that he's jostled back into the land of the living. But it’s much too much damage to heal and he knows it, golden eyes flickering open to the devastation in front of him. He pauses to draw in a rattling breath, shakingly reaching up to catch Yamuraiha’s face in his palm, leaving a smear of blood as he tries to wipe away her tears with clumsy fingers.

“It’s too much.” He whispers, coughing up blood as he smiles reassuringly.

He winces as there’s a roar of noise, adamant and furious. How dare you give up, Don’t leave us, Please, and Sinbad startles at the tears trailing down his own face. He doesn’t want to leave them, this group of strays he’d taken under his wing. His family.

He’s aware enough to feel the way the magoi keeping him alive flickers and fades, to hear Pisti’s wail of distress and feel her press her forehead to his chest, hands grasping to keep him there. He jerkily soothes fingers through her hair, head lolling as he tries to catch everyone’s gaze with his own. He touches his free hand to Masrur’s wrist and notes the blood caking his arms. Drakon catches his hand as it falls, the proud man dropping to his knees to brush a kiss to knuckles, “My king”, and he’s gone, draconian face filled with human grief. Ja’far wipes blood from his mouth and murmurs insults that are really pleas, back hunched under the force of his grief and the steady hand of Masrur on his back. Sin’s smile hitches wider, catches and crumbles as Sharrkan and Spartos try to comfort a crying Yamuraiha.

 Hinahoto follows Drakon’s example, dropping to his knees to ease the burden of looking up and rests a heavy hand on Sinbad’s shoulder, smile warm and teasing despite the sorrow in his eyes.  “Guess I won’t have little welps of yours running around to spoil, will I?”  A ruffle of hair, a bow and he’s gone, replaced once more by his ever present guardians. There's the quiet wave of noise, of people crying and speaking to him in words he should understand but can't seem to wrap his mind around. Sinbad coughs, his breathing labored, and it’s with an arm around his smallest general and hand in his oldest friend’s that he lets the dark take over.