Aftershock

Okay. Okay, it’s fine, it’s fine, The prince is down, but Draz can feel new strings of magic winding it’s way between his fingers, and he’s sure that if he can just pull the right one the prince’s mouth might move, and Draz isn’t sure if he has enough power to hoist him back up just from these strings, but raising the dead can’t be that far away. Maybe he just needs to figure out a way to preserve the body and then-

Oh. Wait. Right. Just finished combat. Prince can wait. Should probably check on his friends. See if anyone needs a healing charm. Draz drags his gaze from the stump of the prince’s neck, leaned on his throne as it slows its gush of blood. The silvery-ichor, instead of steaming as it touches the ice, freezes solid. It stains the high fur collar, turns the pure white shiny and frost covered.

Aiden seems fine, still positioned in the cover of Draz’s shield. The heat rolling off of him warms Draz’s side, a smoldering spot in the freeze of the cave. Felix is positioned towards the back, dagger still raised, as if the headless body might keep fighting. Draz honestly feels that might be a possibility, so appreciates his caution. Draz eyes finally land on Eric, poised in front of the prince. Let’s his gaze fall to the head clenched in his hands. Subconsciously, Draz raises a hand to his throat. Feels the claws against it.

And then he drops his shield and walks forward. As he reaches him, he sees that Eric’s eyes are unfocused, his hands shaking. As they shake, he sees the blood oozing out from the. The head. And winding it’s way through Eric’s fingers. They must be growing cold, the frosty ichor freezing them up. Maybe that’s why Draz has to pry each finger back, carefully, pull the head from his hands and place it gently on the throne, in the prince’s own lap. Maybe that’s why he’s shivering as Draz pulls him to the fire Aiden started.

Hypothermia sets in quick, he knows. He notes the stumble of Eric’s feet, the lack of coordination another symptom to the list. As they sit, Felix carefully wraps one of Draz’s spare cloaks around their huddled forms, because Draz can’t pull away from Eric until he’s sure that the freeze hasn’t set in. Draz carefully pulls Eric’s hands into his own, subtlety checks along the wrist for his pulse. It’s rabbit quick, and strong, much stronger than it would be if Eric was hypothermic. But he still seemed very shaky, and cold. So Draz settles in and pulls Eric closer to his side, and is reminded a bit of how much smaller Eric is. He seems. Young. Younger, like this. Eyes vacant on the fire instead of the usual hardened glint.

Draz pulls out his canteen and warms it over the fire, then pours it over Eric’s hands. Washes the silver-gold ichor. There’s so much blood on his hands. More than there ever should be. More than Draz should have let there be.

He looks up around the group again. Sees the worry rolling off of Felix, Aiden’s hardened eyes, Eric’s haunted look.

Draz thinks he would be a bad king.