When it rains...

Thunder rumbled overhead, water splashed underfoot. Shaking hands brought a match to the end of a cigarette, its small flame a beacon of light beneath the dark clouds and starless night. One puff… two, three, trying to convince the end to light as he cupped his hand around the flame and tucked his head against the wall, willing smoke into his lungs. And finally, it did, a shiver running across his skin as warm smoke puffed from between his lips. He let the flame dance a little too close to his fingertips before he shook it out, welcoming the warmth amongst the storm.

With another rumble of thunder, the man turned to lean his back against the wall, hunching into his wet jacket as he flipped the collar snug against his neck. The wind whistled through the corridors, fluttering his coat tails and snaking into his sleeves. Another shiver, another drag of smoke. No amount of wrapping his coat tighter or curling in on himself would help. It was just damn cold.

He closed his eyes with another breath of warm smoke, tapping ash off to the side as he swayed where he stood, exhausted from a long day. Exhausted from a sleepless routine. Exhausted because no matter how many times he had complained about the leak in his apartment, there was still nothing to be done about it, and his carpets were soaked by the time he had decided to say fuck it all and brave the weather himself. At least water was supposed to be pooling at his boots out here.

There was sort of a melancholy feel to it all, and he mused quietly to himself as he brought the cigarette to his lips again. The sound of rain pattering on wood overhead was sort of lulling, the rumbling thunder like an old friend. He would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the scent of rain in the air and as chilling as the wind was, at least it was going somewhere. It wasn’t like an old relic, stuck in one place to simply watch as time changed around it.

Stuck.

He grumbled to himself at that thought, for he missed the times that were simple. When he would watch the rain because he enjoyed it, and not because he had been forgotten time and time again when it came to simple maintenance. He wondered how long it would be before they forgot about him entirely.

“Kerelas? Kerelas!”

He flinched at the sound of his name called over the song of rain, bracing as boots slapped the wet ground at a frantic pace. He thought he had been safe being out at such a late hour, in such nasty weather… and yet, they always managed to find him. Ailments knew no bounds when it came to time.

His eyes remained closed, his posture unchanging. He moved only to bring his smoke back to his lips as the woman stopped beside him, huffing and gasping. She must have been running for some time. Whatever news she brought was serious, and he let out a soft, smokey sigh before pressing the butt of his cigarette into the wall behind him. Already, he could feel his head start to pound.

“Witchfinders brought a mage in, he- ah- he’s injured pretty bad.” She paused, shifting where she stood when he didn’t react. “He's lost a lot of blood...”

“Alright, alright,” Keralas sighed with a wheezing cough of smoke, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose as he willed the ache in his temples to subside. He straightened his glasses - as if the damned things did him any good in the rain - and waved a hand in her direction before pushing himself off the wall.

“Thank you, I’ll handle it.”

“Do you-”

“I’ll handle it.” His face scrunched into a painful grimace, and he ran a hand awkwardly through his damp hair with yet another sigh. She was new. She didn’t know him that well yet. There was no reason to be rude. “Just… go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He did his best to soften his tone, offering her a faint smile before turning. Ah, well, she would have to get used to his moods eventually anyways.

He took in a single, deep, steadying breath as he prepared himself for the worst. Witchfinders were bringing in mages with injuries often, but he’d had yet to have one so bad that they had to hunt him down in the middle of the night. He dreaded the moment, and not just for the injured mage. What he dreaded the most was looking his fellow mages in the eye, his fellow Order family, and seeing no remorse.

Or maybe there was remorse. Regret. Perhaps even deep hatred for themselves. And yet, they made no move to change it. No move to leave or refuse. They bowed down and crawled on their knees beneath Miriam’s boot.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Fluffing his collar once more, he dipped his head as he stepped out into the rain, hurrying across slippery cobblestone towards the front gates. Thunder continued to rumble, lightning flickered once. He would blame the storm on his rising nerves; on the way his heart lurched in his chest and threatened to burst from his throat. His hands found his coat pockets and they clenched at the fabric, his teeth chattering against the chill. Now was not the time to let anxiety get the best of him.

He rounded the corner just in time to see a pair of witchfinders pulling a stumbling mage from the back of their wagon, the man crumbling to the ground the moment his foot hit the mud with a strangled cry of pain. One of the witchfinders reached to drag him back up, the other standing back, hesitant at the rough way his partner handled their catch.

Kerelas hated them both.

Straightening, he ignored the protest in his cold joints as he jogged up to them without even as much of a glance at the witchfinders, mud splashing up his boots and rain distorting his vision through his glasses. It would be pointless to do much out here, but he still needed to know what he was dealing with. His gaze expertly ran across the mage, taking note of the blood soaking his knee, the way his head rolled forward with weak breaths, the tremors that shuddered through his body- from the cold or blood loss, the healer wasn’t sure.

And as he drew his hands to the man’s face, tipping his chin to get a good look at him while he put his fingers to his pulse, he froze, a sinking feeling twisting at his gut.

Basileios Veres.

“He-”

Kerelas’ dark gaze snapped up at the taller hunter’s voice, immediately bringing his hand up to silence him with a violently cold glare.

“Don’t,” He said, hauntingly calm and demanding. Lightning flickered once more, illuminating the shadows under his piercing gaze and the twitch of his lips in a scowl. He was in no mood to hear witchfinder bullshit tonight. And despite any protests or returned looks of disdain, he looked back towards Basileios with a sharp breath.

“You-” He raised his hand again and motioned towards Malmr, refusing to call him by name despite being very aware of it. Witchfinders deserved less than the dirt they walked on. “Come here and catch him.” He waited a single beat before pressing his hand to Basileios’ forehead, and instantly, he dropped. Malmr was just in time to keep him out of the mud.

Kerelas swayed slightly on his feet, pressing his thumb to his temple as he took in another breath to steady himself, his eyes fluttering as his magic took hold of Basileios. And slowly, he turned, motioning for Malmr to follow. If he was going to bring him injured mages, then Kerelas would revel in every second the other mage had to suffer in the consequences of his actions.

There was a mutter of something about murder from his non-mage partner, but Kerelas simply ignored him, slipping his hands into his pockets as he hurried back to the cobblestone with Malmr in tow. The specifics were none of his concern; he only cared to save the poor man’s life.

Though a new life of imprisonment wasn't actually saving him at all, was it?