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starswornoaths · 4 years

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For the Wicked never Sleep - Commission!

Another commission for the lovely @anorptron! Thank you so much for your patronage!

Following the finale battle at the Steps of Faith, Edmont and the rest of Sage’s family take shifts watching over him, have important and difficult realizations regarding their treatment of their friend, and resolve to let him rest. Lots of familial hurt/comfort here!

Word count: 5,026

Commission info!

Ever since the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, the members of House Fortemps found themselves in a struggle no less arduous, though one of a much more personal nature: the struggle between needing to give their wounded brother the space needed to recover, and the desperate need to ensure that he was well and truly alright.

Would that it was only a matter of entrusting the chirurgeons to do their job— that would have been a simple enough thing, though the waiting would doubtless be no less agonizing for them— though there were whispers of other factors needing to be considered, things that had to be taken in to account considering who it was that was being tended to.

Sage had laid the dread wyrm Nidhogg to rest, at long last capping off a millennia of war and strife, and leaving the chance for genuine peace between man and dragon to be achieved. The battle had been fierce, fearsome, and fateful, leaving losses on both sides thus far innumerable and insurmountable. That he was not among those slain in the line of duty was nothing short of a miracle, though his wounds were grievous.

With Nidhogg slain and Estinien restored, Sage had tried his damndest to posture and insist he was well enough to make it through Foundation under his own power, though he scarcely made it long enough to ensure Aymeric had left with Estinien in tow before promptly collapsing into the stone of the Steps of Faith. For a blessing, none presumed him truly well, and the field medics reporting in for duty had already been ordered to see to him as Aymeric had passed them, not fully trusting that Sage would have permitted them to see him if it were not under direct order.

Sage had lost consciousness before the chirurgeons had even gotten to him.

Thankfully, Ishgard housed the best and brightest chirurgeons available outside of the Shroud, and so he was brought to the Congregation for immediate treatment. Though the Fortemps family had been notified of what had befell their ward, by the time they arrived, the chirurgeons were already ushering them out before they had even entered the medical wing, citing a need for space. Given the spacious nature of the rooms, one could only guess at how many of them were needed to stabilize him, and how desperately they had to work to heal him.

For the first stretch of the chirurgeons working on him, they would not let even the Lord Commander through to check on him. By all accounts, it was touch and go enough that they could not afford the lapse in focus. Despite wanting to pace a hole in the stone floor for how anxious Edmont felt— he, and Sage’s brothers, all— Aymeric managed to talk the rest of the family down from doing so. With the promise that Aymeric would stay behind and work through the night besides, but would also work from the office beside the chirurgeon’s ward to be available for any updates as soon as there were any to be had— “For he is my brother, too,” he’d said— the remaining Fortemps men had agreed and ultimately relented, and waited for news at home.

Just as the Lord Commander had not slept, nor did they, even back in Fortemps Manor, though given the runner that was sent to notify them around the first bell past midnight that Sage had been stabilized but not yet regained consciousness, they considered their restlessness a blessing. It hadn’t mattered that Artoirel had his own minor wounds to have care for, nor had it mattered that Edmont’s bad leg locked up something fierce in the cold. When they received word, they had ran to the Congregation.

Aymeric had been the one to meet them at the entrance, and had managed to calm them enough that by the time they had made it up to the chirurgeon’s ward, they were sufficiently quiet, and with a reassurance that they would behave satisfactory to the chirurgeons handling Sage, they were given clearance to be granted entry. His wounds are deep, but pain medication has been administered, said one of the chirurgeons. He’s stable, and he’s expected to make a full recovery, but he needs to rest, emphasized another.

A sentiment they all agreed with, even before they had laid eyes on him, though the moment they saw him, bandaged and bruised and battered, lying unconscious on his bed, they agreed all the more vehemently. There was a fever that had yet to break, they had been warned, though seeing how significantly his skin had paled made him look all the more sickly. Despite the sheen of sweat that stubbornly clung to him, he shivered beneath the blankets. Shivering that further exacerbated what stitches and wounds he yet bore.

Seeing their brother in such a state, Artoirel and Emmanellain shared a look, nodded amongst themselves, and took point. The elder brother fetched a blanket from the storage cabinet and passed it over, and the two of them worked to unfurl it and cover Sage with it, movements slow and careful. Even before the heat of the blanket had fully settled over Sage, the worst of his shivering had already noticeably improved. While Artoirel took to searching for a bowl to fill with water, Emmanellain gathered some few cloths to use, and when the water was thus procured, wet one of them himself and brushed the sweat from Sage’s brow.

Once Sage had quieted, they all took it upon themselves to take the vigil over him in shifts. Aymeric had already taken the first, the Fortemps men reasoned, it seemed only fair that he step out and continue working for the time being. Reluctant though the Lord Commander was to leave his brother in such a state, he ultimately agreed that it was more sensible to take shifts to avoid spreading themselves all too thin. It would do none of them any good to wring their hands together and wait, when it was much more productive to have one of them tend to him at a time between the chirurgeons coming in to administer medications and check his bandages.

Aymeric stepped out to return to the spare office— “just the next door down, should you need me,” he made a point to reassure them all. Changing of the guard, and all that. Edmont knew it well, as did his sons, and thus promised to notify him if aught changed before it was his turn to take watch within the next few bells.

“Be sure to get some rest, lad.” Edmont called out, catching the Lord Commander at the door.

Aymeric offered him a wincing smile on his way out. “...I will. As much as one can, given the circumstances.”

The rasp of Sage’s breathing sounded loud in the somber quiet of the room. Emmanellain had taken his respite in a chair in the corner of the room, the sleepless night prior at last having caught up with him. Artoirel, sat in another stool beside his father, looked to be stubbornly clinging to alertness, eyes not leaving the rise and fall of Sage’s chest. Edmont could hardly begrudge him not retiring for the night to at least try to get some sleep; none of them were going to truly rest until they could at least speak with Sage. Having him awake would be a greater reassurance than anything else, anything that the chirurgeons could say to them, even if, by all logical standpoints, they knew that he was stable.

Tataru had joined them as soon as she could, though her shift at the Forgotten Knight had been particularly grueling for the volume of people that had been in desperate need of something to drink to cope while waiting out the battle, and then in celebration of their victory. She’d looked infinitely more wrung out than most of them, though stubbornly remained for want of being close to Sage. Alphinaud, similarly, had managed to fall into an uneasy rest in a chair off to the corner at some point, though between Sage and Estinien, had refused to leave the chirurgeon’s ward for more than what was absolutely necessary. Aymeric had taken the time to notify the other Scions via linkpearl of what had transpired, but otherwise they were as glued to Sage’s room as the others, wondering at how best to watch over him and what could be done.

But Artoirel, Aymeric, and Edmont were all old hat at taking watch in shifts, in the turning over of the guard. Edmont insisted on taking first watch, citing his newfound availability that came with retirement, and that both of his sons had other duties to attend to, even if they would not rest. Though they had been reluctant to acquiesce, they inevitably conceded that his argument had merit, and left to give the room more space. Guard rotations were a familiar sort of routine, however, and the three of them had managed to fall into a rhythmic cycle between themselves to ensure both that Aymeric was able to tend to his myriad duties along with checking in on the other wounded, and to more or less force each of them to take the time to step out to stretch their legs, to have something to drink, something to take care of themselves while they waited over Sage.

He needed rest, needed time to heal and people who cared enough about giving him that time to ensure that he actually got it.

What he got was one of his friends in the Scions awaiting permission to enter Sage’s room in the chirurgeon’s ward, nervously thumbing at a letter written for him, judging by what Aymeric had told them when he slipped back through the door unexpectedly, well before it was his turn to take watch again.

To anyone who did not know them, it should have been no concern of Edmonts, nor any of his children, adopted or no, what missives Sage might or might not have awaiting him. Had any of them loved Sage any less than family, it would have been just that, and the message would have been left without preamble for whenever he was well enough to be the Warrior of Light again.

They all loved him immeasurably, however, and thus closed ranks with silent, unanimous agreement that Sage needed time.

“I am certain that if we but explain that he is indisposed due to injury, they will be satisfied,” Aymeric spoke up again in the ensuing, incredulous silence, attempting to be the voice of reason, as he always did. “Nevertheless, I would speak with them in the hall, rather than Sage’s room. His rest need not be disturbed.”

Another thing they all agreed upon. The Lord Commander stepped outside of the room, and the guard changed back over to Edmont for his absence; though it had been many years since he had last been able to fight afield, a knight was ever a knight, and Edmont kept track of their rotation with that same sharp focus he had in younger years.

That did not preclude him from listening in, however. As much as the closed door would permit, at least.

Discussion seemed amenable, at first: though it was little more than muffled conversation, though the tone of it grew tense, the volume raised ever so slightly before the clear words of, “You will keep your voice down.” came through the door as Edmont approached it.

The guard changed again, as Edmont stepped outside to see who would want to debate Sage needing rest.

“I don’t mean to raise my voice,” The man conceded, though he had darted his bright eye toward Edmont when he stepped out into the hall. “Truly. I apologize. If it could wait, I wouldn’t even be here— we just received word on Sage’s injuries.”

“If it absolutely cannot wait, I would suggest you find someone else suited for the task—”

“It’s not a task. Not yet, anyroad.” The man’s uncovered eye hardened as steel, his mouth pullin back in a grimace. “I can say little more than that out here, I’m afraid. What’s that saying— discretion being the better part of valor, and all that?”

“Master Thancred, if you would prefer to speak plainly, we may do so inside— though I insist you keep your voice down. Sage has not yet awoken.”

With a nod from the Scion, Edmont reluctantly opened the door again and ushered both men back inside. Tataru and Alphinaud looked up at the additional person, eyes widening in alarm. Leaving them to rise and greet the newcomer, Edmont moved back to Sage’s bedside.

It was Tataru that broke the silence to greet him, her arms gesturing in frenetic sweeps as she bounced on the balls of her feet, fretting. She seemed to struggle to contain herself, but managed to do so with a firm stomp of her foot and a deep breath before she attempted to speak.

“Thancred! Did you not receive our message? I spoke with Y’Shtola, but—”

“We did.” He reassured her, hands motioning in a calming gesture to encourage her to be still. “But…”

His eye drifted over to where Sage rested, and Edmont swore he could see the moment the words died on his tongue.

“Though it had been hard to believe when you told us, I can see your report was far from exaggerated.” Thancred said quietly. “He’s certainly seen better days.”

“Now that you have ascertained his condition for yourself, I presume you mean that you intend to bear a message to the Scions on Sage’s behalf, given the extent of his grievous wounds.” Edmont spoke up before the man could so much as utter another word.

To his credit, the man looked genuinely remorseful that he’d been sent on the errand at all, wincing at the borderline accusatory tone the retired Count had taken with him.

“I don’t want to be here like this, either, to be clear.” Said the man, and the hand not still holding the letter ran through his ashen hair. The one eye not obscured by a bandana glanced away. “He’s clearly in a bad way. I’d much rather be here just to support him as his friend, rather than a runner for urgent news. But we received word that—”

A sharp crack of Edmont’s cane knocking against the floor startled even him, but he made a point not to show it. Instead, he let his anger and indignation on Sage’s behalf boil over, just a little, just enough for it to show. Incapacitated as he was, Sage could not fight for himself— and even if he was, all present knew that he would follow orders without complaint, even wounded as he was.

The outburst rang in his ears, all the more in the silence that ensued. All eyes were on him. In any other circumstance, he might have been more comfortable, might have been able to at least feign an air of political neutrality and good cheer, in particular for well meaning allies that were naught but the messenger.

But this was his son. And if the realm was not going to stop long enough for him to recover from near death, someone had to speak up on his behalf and say, “Sort it out without him just this once.”

Edmont intended to be calm, cool, and collected, as he always had been when leading his house through the ever shifting landscape that was Ishgardian politics. Perhaps if he had not already passed the mantle on to Artoirel, he may yet have that composure. As it stood, retirement had made him more of a father than he had ever been permitted to be for his duties— to Ishgard and then later to his family in the wake of his infidelity...and grief made him all the more protective of what sons he had not lost.

“Master Thancred,” Aymeric spoke up from further away from Sage’s bedside. When the Scion turned to address him, he seemed almost reluctant to do so. “If I may be frank, what is so urgent that the Alliance must have Sage available at this moment, present circumstances considering?”

“Imperial and Ixali movement both, I’m afraid.” Thancred said quietly. “Right now, we’ve adopted a ‘wait and see’ approach with the latter to avoid antagonizing them into potentially summoning a primal, but then that still leaves the Empire—”

“And this has to involve Sage, when he has yet to even regain consciousness, does it?” Edmont asked in a low, gruff snarl. “When his wounds have not even had a chance to mend?”

“At the moment? No,” Thancred conceded almost immediately, hands held out in a placating gesture. He looked like a man attempting to negotiate his way out of being a lion’s next meal, metaphorically speaking.

At least he was aware of how thin the ice was beneath his feet, Edmont thought darkly.

After a moment, Thancred tried again, “I only wanted to let him know to stand ready in the event—”

“You did not answer my question.”

The rogue took a moment to swallow, eye searching the retired Count’s face. Edmont met his gaze with an even but heated stare. After a tense moment, Thancred allowed himself the span of a careful breath to consider his words.

“I will be blunt: while we have other Echo bearers in the wings that might assist in handling Garuda, Sage has usually led the van against primal threats, and our numbers aren’t what they were before the bloody banquet.”

“And that means that it must needs be Sage? No one else can rise to the occasion?” Edmont pressed in all ways but physical.

“We don’t have anyone near his caliber.” Thancred attempted to reason, though even he seemed to flounder on it the longer he looked on at Sage, lying all but broken in his bed. “I’m hoping it doesn’t have to come to that at all—”

“If you start spreading your hopes out more evenly, then they will not all inevitably fall on Sage’s shoulders.” Edmont snarled, and turned his body to gesture with emphasis at his sleeping son. “Look at him, and tell yourself he is ready to handle such a task.”

Thancred had, to be fair, been doing little else but looking. Sage was reluctant to speak on how close he was with those Scions outside of Alphinaud and Tataru, though Edmont had to imagine there was at least enough camaraderie between them that the rogue could at least understand the position Sage was in and want to protect him as much as he could. Edmont had to believe that. Little else made sense, and it was the least that Sage deserved.

“Though I only have the one, my eye does work.” Thancred replied in a low, sarcastic drawl.

“Then how could you expect him to do aught but convalesce in his condition?!” Edmont demanded.

He barely recognized his own voice for how anger had warped it. When he realized his hands were shaking in rage, he made a fist with his empty hand and tightened his hold on his cane hard enough the leather of his gloves creaked in protest. It was a struggle to recall the last time he felt this sort of anger before, burning in the pit of his gut, clawing at his ribcage, demanding to be let out—

A tentative weight laid itself heavily atop his clenched hand, still gripping his cane. His head snapped down, shocked to see that it was Sage reaching out to him, weakly hanging onto his hand. With a pained noise in the back of his throat, the Bard’s head lolled toward Edmont, and he cracked his eyes open, just barely. His lips parted on a shuddering breath, and in the quietest, most lost voice Edmont had ever heard from Sage, he croaked only one word.

“Da…?”

As quickly as the anger had engulfed his chest, its fires were doused, and he was gently shushing the beleaguered and battered man.

“All is well, Sage. Rest. We are here for you.” He murmured in the most soothing voice he could manage for how heavily it trembled.

“But...they need—”

To the horror of everyone in the room, Sage made an attempt to sit up, though he barely got farther than managing to raise his head and shoulders off the bed some scant few ilms before he dropped back into the pillows with a strangled grunt of pain. Weakly, he writhed in agony, shifting ever so slightly from the pain, only further exacerbating his wounds in the process.

Edmont moved before anyone else had the chance, his cane clattering to the floor as his hands came up to usher Sage into stillness when he tried to struggle to get up again.

“Shh, shh, you need to rest, Sage.” He said, shaken to his core, and hoped it wasn’t obvious to his son how hard his hands were trembling as he moved the blanket to settle back over the Bard’s shoulders. “I promise you that your only obligation is to rest. You’ve done enough. More than enough. 'Tis our turn to care for you. Let us. Please."

It took little coaxing for Sage to nod off again; between the myriad of medications and healing magic that had worn him down from the constant treatments and his own overwhelming exhaustion besides, he had barely opened those brightly gleaming eyes of his before they were drifting shut again. His head fell back once more, his horn and cheek sinking into the pillow. It was obvious in the way his pained expression went slack that his consciousness had fled him rapidly.

Even with how seriously he was wounded, Sage still wanted to fight. Still wanted to do what was right and protect those that were closest to him. Edmont grappled with the pride and worry that tangled in the back of his throat. His eyes faintly stung with the threat of tears, praying desperately to the Fury that there would come a time where the Warrior of Light was no longer needed. When he wasn’t quite sure he would be able to swallow down those tears, he took an extra moment to collect himself. Smoothing back Sage’s sweat slicked hair away from where it clung to his forehead, Edmont took a deep, shuddering breath as he bent to retrieve his cane, using the time it took to straighten again to steel himself before turning back to the group of them, all looking down at Sage’s fitfully unconscious form with varying degrees of horror and sorrow.

No one seemed to know what to say for a long moment. The air in the room was heavy with tension, thick with dread and the scent of sickness, antiseptic, and the copper scent of blood. The only sound that could be heard was Sage's faint, wheezing breaths, steady but shallow. Time seemed to hold its breath for how still everything had become. Even the gods themselves were reluctant to break this oppressive silence, it seemed; Edmont swore that the very wind blustering beyond the window had quieted in the wake of what had transpired.

“I do hope,” Aymeric spoke up in the lingering quiet. His voice was hesitant, as if he was even reluctant to breach the silence at all. "This suffices as evidence that he is not sufficiently well."

"More than. I'd thought so the moment I came in." Thancred replied in a tone that matched the Lord Commander's. His eye lowered in admonishment. “Admittedly...we hadn’t realized it was this bad. We never do. Sage is always so reserved and hates showing weakness. I don’t...I don’t think he’s ever come to any one of us with an injury that needed tending.”

Horrified realization dawned over Thancred’s already clouded expression. He bit the inside of his cheek, hands clenching into fists and flexing out as far as his fingers could stretch intermittently as if to work out anxious jitters that had suddenly overtaken him. When Edmont focused enough on them, he realized they were trembling, ever so slightly.

“I’m not sure he’s even ever trusted us enough to tell us when he’s vulnerable...and we never really asked.”

“Sage is a private person,” Alphinaud stammered in an effort to comfort his fellow Scion, breaking the weighty silence that had again ensued, until then only punctuated by the Bard’s shuddered breathing. “Even with those he's close to, he tends to hide his wounds and weaknesses—”

“And we’ve never pushed.” Tataru spoke up sadly. She fiddled with her hands, her gaze locked on them as she did. “I think we were scared of them, too. I know I certainly was.”

"We should have done better by him. I'm not too proud to admit that." After another long moment of studying Sage's sleeping form, Thancred looked up at Edmont directly again. "...Thank you. For caring for him where we didn't."

"'Tis because of us that he is in the state he is now." Edmont softly replied with a shake of his head. "We have, all of us, asked too much of him. The thought that we will yet ask even more, even knowing the lengths he will go…"

Again, his grip tightened on his cane. No one dared to interrupt or attempt to console him with empty platitudes. There was no making this better, save for working toward building a realm where heroes like Sage had no call to action that they must needs answer. They had but one course, it seemed: to find a better path.

For those they had lost. For those they could yet save. And that included Sage.

“I’ll route these concerns elsewhere.” Thancred said after a long, uncomfortable pause. “I can do little with regard to primals, but the Adders are still monitoring the situation. I can keep an eye on the Imperials in the meantime, see what I can do to mitigate anything that might come up along the way. Give Sage time to rest.”

"You need not tackle either task alone, Master Thancred." Aymeric said, tone more firm and formal and much more like himself again. "As Lord Speaker and Ishgard's elected representative in the Eorzean Alliance, 'tis the least I can do to coordinate surveillance of Garlemald— and your own tutelage in the known ways of primals may also yet be put to use. There are other Echo bearers, yes?"

"Plenty. Many within the ranks of each city-state's military, even." Alphinaud supplied, and Edmont could see the gears whirring to life in the boy's mind. "We must needs confer with the Alliance regardless for what should be done with the Imperial activity— surely they could also put the call out for those able bodied Echo bearers to stand ready for the impending threat of a primal?"

Aymeric gave a single, enthused nod of encouragement. "I can arrange a conference anon. I would need but confer with my counterpart in the House of Commons first. We will find a solution, Master Thancred."

"It'll keep Sage safe and resting, at least." Thancred said, and some exhausted relief tinged his words. "Would that we had done better by him sooner."

"The best time to have done so would have been from the very beginning. But the next best time to start would be now. For all of us." Aymeric reassured. "Now then,” he turned to face the retired count. “Pray, do forgive me Lord Edmont, but if I might forfeit my shift at the watch for the moment—?"

"Take as long as you need. Artoirel and I have things well in hand.” Edmont reassured, gently shooing them toward the door. “Master Thancred, was it? ...I was unduly harsh toward you. Forgive me, you deserved more respect than that.”

“You were protecting Sage. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Thancred reassured him, and the smile he gave felt more genuine, more relieved than the faint, wincing things he had barely been able to muster before. “I should thank you. It was much needed. You lot have given me much to think on.”

Alphinaud, Aymeric, and Thancred all left without delay, quietly but excitedly chattering as they did. The trio were scarcely out the door before Tataru let out a quiet gasp.

“I should contact the Scions, let them know what the plan is!” She said more than half to herself, fretting and bouncing on the balls of her feet again. “I can see if there’s anything we can do to coordinate our people— oh, and maybe I can ask Arenvald if he’s up for keeping an eye on the Ixal, just in case—!”

Edmont could not have gotten a word in edgewise if he had remotely attempted it, but he couldn’t help smiling with pride as she, too, rushed out the door in an enthused bid to help Sage rest and recover.

And then it was only him, standing in the room, silence settling in save for the Sage’s shallow breathing. He took the time to pull the chair he had been using back closer toward the bed. Ignoring the creaking pop of his bad knee, he eased himself into the chair and took up his watch again. Artoirel would be back within the bell, perhaps he might get a nap in before his next shift.

He leaned back into the chair until the knot of tension in his back popped with release. Straightening back up, he relaxed into his seat with a heavy sigh and contemplated Sage’s sleeping face again. Though the Bard was still clearly in pain, the pinch in his expression had eased, and the rise and fall of his chest came more smoothly than before, less shuddering and painful. The sight eased some of Edmont’s worry.

“I hope you know just how loved you are, my boy. By so, so many people.” Edmont said softly, fearful of waking him, and picked up the cloth at his bedside to begin blotting away the sweat once more, all the while praying to the Fury that all of this would be enough.

#ffxiv #writing commissions #anorptron #Sage Bradley #Edmont de Fortemps #Aymeric de Borel #Alphinaud Leveilleur #Tataru Taru #Thancred Waters #familial bonding #mention of injury #minor 3.3 spoilers

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sgrayonderii · 5 years

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next time

Sasusaku Month 19, Day 11: Chills

He feels chills when he remembers something he shouldn’t.

The sound of birds. The taste of chasu ramen. The sight of cherry blossoms. They aren’t perfect memories, but he lives in a constant state of deja vu.

Whenever he encounters a reminder of his past life, chills run down his spine like flashes of lightning. He supposes it is equal parts blessing and equal parts curse that he remembers his life as Sasuke Uchiha.

He isn’t sure why he, and he alone, remembers his past incarnation. However, he does know that Sasuke Uchiha lived a life full of regrets. Perhaps that karma bled over into his life now, a form of cruel punishment for all the wrongs he committed as another man in another time.

But perhaps, more likely, Sasuke Uchiha had wished more than anyone for a second chance.

---

In his first life, his brother murders his entire family.

It is a strange appendix to his otherwise warm recollections of his brother now. Because the brother he knows now is nothing like the calculating man he remembers.

Instead he grows up with a goofy brother who is more teasing than sinister. Who steals his snacks and jokes about silly things and blushes bright red when he sees the neighbor girl. In a way, he is glad that his brother gets a chance at a childhood without war.

But sometimes he still hates his brother. It a seething ancient anger that in no way makes sense in current context. Like those eternal black flames Itachi was famous for, Sasuke Uchiha’s hatred burns steady.

---

He is not one bit surprised that Naruto finds a presence in his life again.

Unlike last time, they are no longer lost children starved for affection. And without the jealousy, the curse, the loneliness, they finally are able to grow up surrounded by the love they both always craved.

Even though there are no memories of other times, he knows that Sasuke and Naruto have been reincarnated many times, connected by an inescapable chain of fidelity. In a way, it is comforting to know that no matter which time or universe, his best friend will always be by his side.

---

But there is one person who haunts him more than others. Like a call from the abyss, he remembers a woman he kept waiting.

He cannot remember her face. Nor her voice. Or even her name.

But in the vast collection of nonsensical memories, he does remember her tears. After all, Sasuke Uchiha had made the woman he loves cry more than anyone.

He remembers that though their lives had been long, their time together had been so short.

Their life was one of separation and sacrifice after all. One where they spent more time apart than they ever had together.

For the greater good. For the child he never saw grow up and left behind. For his family, the only family he had left, to be safe.

But most of all, Sasuke Uchiha remembers himself as a man who must have never made her happy.

After all, hadn’t he promised her countless times? Next time. Next time. Next time.

Next time, he would finally be home for good.

----

That promise eats away at him because that “next time” might never happen.

Even though when he feels chills he knows with certainty that the source must be from Sasuke Uchiha’s time, reality does not always line up perfectly.

Indeed his brother slaughtered Sasuke Uchiha’s family in his past life. His brother had committed so many grave crimes on misguided ideals, it would not have surprised him that Itachi would want to be reincarnated to atone.

But it was not Itachi that was reborn.

When he first lays eyes on his brother, he could not stop crying. First from fear but then from overwhelming sadness. Because when he feels the chills, instinctively he knows that it is Obito not Itachi staring down at him. So Sasuke Uchiha never gets a second chance with his beloved brother.

Even though Naruto is still Naruto and their souls will always be intertwined in a never-ending bond of brotherhood, this time Naruto is born a woman.

They are still best friends, Naruto still understands him better than anyone. But sometimes, he thinks that their past familiarity is no longer there.

It is an adjustment trying to consolidate the Naruto now with the Naruto from Sasuke Uchiha’s memories. And sometimes he wonders if not for those chills, whether they would have even been friends in the first place.

---

Maybe like Naruto, she is in another form.

If that’s the case, he simply has to continue to search for her. He just needs to wait patiently for their paths to cross. Because surely, surely they will meet again if he continues to hope.

He doesn’t care who she is in this life, just that she is in his.

But perhaps more frighteningly like Itachi, she chose not to come back at all. That no regret of hers was worth being reborn for. That the pain of their past relationship was just too much to revisit.

---

He meets many people from Sasuke Uchiha’s life.

Mentors. Friends. People he can barely remember. Caricatures of long dead warriors in new roles. But he does not meet her again.

At first, he waits. Next time is his mantra. Next time is his prayer. After all, waiting and pining and longing is a staple of their past.

A decade passes. And then another. The years march on and his heart begins to break.

He tries to love. He tries to forget. He tries to move on. But this woman he technically has never met, and maybe never will, has already fermented deep in his bones.

Because no matter how many times he is reborn, even hundreds of years later and millions of universes away, Sasuke Uchiha’s soul (or is it his own?) continues yearns for her. And he just isn’t sure if he can handle never seeing her again.

Sasuke Uchiha lived a life full of regrets. But he never regrets spending his life with her. Even if their time together was a transient bloom, it was no less precious. Like cherry blossoms wilting at the end of spring, it was beautiful while it lasted.

Ah yes, that was her name. It was Sakura.

Eventually he accepts that in this life, spring might not come.

Maybe next time.

---

He finds himself sitting alone in a hospital cafeteria waiting for his brother to finish his doctor’s appointment. His dumbass of a brother had gotten a concussion messing around at a construction site while trying to impress the neighbor girl and their mother had insisted he be examined.

So on one of his precious free days, he is sitting alone in an uncomfortable chair at a sticky cafeteria table drinking horrible stale coffee while trying to finish his thesis. His bad mood wards off any potential occupants, and for that he is grateful.

That is until he hears the chair scrape across from him.

“Excuse me, but do you mind if I sit here?” the voice asks. Intending to tell this annoying voice to leave, he looks up.

Chills.

And he can’t help but think to himself that this time for sure he will to make her happy.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Hopefully I will be able to churn out something else before the end of the month. Happy SSM19!

#sasusaku fanfiction #sasusaku #ssm19 #ssm19d11 #sgrayonder #now sgrayonderii #my fics #sgrayonderii

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trivialqueen · 5 years

Text

Shy

Here’s the next section of that original story. Still currently, and creatively called, Hospital Romance Drama. As always, I’m neither a doctor, nor British. I’m just a girl who fancies herself a writer and likes slow burns, smart women, and tall men.

Tiny, sparkly boots caught his eye, pink glitter a marked contrast from the dull grey laminate tile of the hall. A small girl sat between the corner and a stretcher, back against the wall, short legs kicked out before her, stuffed animal in her lap. “Excuse me, young lady,” He crouched slowly, not wanting to give her a fright. She was not one of the junior doctors or a patient that needed to sit down and shut up for their own health. She was at best four years old. “Which ward are you a part of?” The little girl hid her face in the stuffed bunny she was holding, eyes peering up at him and then darting away only to look up at him again. They were striking eyes, for one so young, intelligent and the color of Baltic amber.

“Mummy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

“Ah, well your mother is entirely correct. My name is Felix Magnusson and I am the Director of Surgery here. It’s my job to make people feel better.” He handed her his ID card, which she took, giving him a weary look. His name seemed to mean something to her. She stared at his ID for a long moment before handing it back to him.

“Mummy makes people better.” Which probably meant this was not the child of a patient, which helped narrow down things considerably.

“You must be very proud of her. Is she a doctor or a nurse?” He had a fair idea of how many members of staff had families now, although he had not yet organized them in his mind based on age of their child. There were, however, only so many Black doctors or nurses on staff and of them about a handful were women.

“She’s a nurse. She had to work today.”

“Did you escape from the crèche?” In that case someone would be looking for her and it would be easy enough to contact them, he had all the extensions for the departments saved in his phone.

“Matilda and I were playing hide and seek, but she hasn’t found me yet and I’ve been hide-ed for ages.” It didn’t answer his question, but he sincerely doubted the child care center would permit their charges to play hide and seek on the wards. There was only one Matilda on staff as far as he knew, and she was not employed as a childminder, she was a nurse on Irene.

“What’s your name, Sötnos?”

“Adelaide. Mummy calls me Addie.” She was slowly warming to him, no longer hiding behind the stuffed bunny in her lap.

“I think I might know where your mother is.” If his hunch was right about Matilda, and Adelaide’s mother was her same race there was only one Black woman who was a nurse alongside Matilda who would have a daughter roughly the same age as this little girl. Phillipa Gardiner, ward manager on AAU.

“Really?”

“Yes, we’re on the right floor. The nursing station is just down the way. Would you like to walk with me or stay here?” She stared at him for a long moment, almost a full minute, he could see the wheels turning in her eyes.

“Will you carry me?” She asked it so sweetly, complete with doe eyes. There was no way he could say no. None.

“If you like.” She carefully stood up, bunny dangling from her hand.

She was a light little thing, only about three stone and she fit easily in his arms and on his hip. Like riding a bike there were some things muscle memory never forgot, carrying a child was one of them. Her curly pigtails brushed his cheek as she looked around.

“You’re so tall. You’re probably the tallest person in the world!” He couldn’t help but chuckle at that pronouncement. It was perhaps the first positive comment he’d gotten about his height in years. Usually people found his height intimidating, even adults.

“Far from it, my dear.”

“I’m the tallest I’ve ever been.” She said brightly. Then, more quietly, “I can see everyone’s flaws.” He felt himself choke on air.

“What?”

“Matilda says you eat children, is that true?” Ah. There it was. An unoriginal slander, it ranked up there with the rumors that he was a vampire (despite the fact he was actually quite fond of sitting beside a sunny window if given the chance).

“Is that a baby?” It was such a non-sequitur that Sofia Grace looked up from the file on Mr. Jacobi. Marcus Xavier had asked her to consult on a patient. Although Gareth Morris was technically the lead consultant on the Acute Admissions Ward, he was by training a General Surgeon, and in general more invested in spending time in the private care ward rather than providing leadership on AAU. Marcus had really stepped into the void, but he was only a registrar, and a young one at that. His instincts were good, however, Mr. Jacobi had something very wrong with his lungs. Marcus was pointing down the hall at Magnusson, impeccably dressed as always, but with a new accessory. She almost did a double take. Magnusson was carrying a child. Not only that, but he was carrying the child as easily as anything else. Like he was made to. A natural. It was unnerving. Björn the Slasher was good with kids.

“No.” the surgeon answered dryly, a little girl was secure on his hip, face tucked into his collar under the stares of strangers. She had pink, glittery Ugg’s on, they cast dancing sparkles of light across the tile. Her natural hair was drawn up in curly pigtails that reminded Sofia Grace of Cindy Lou Who. She was the most adorable little thing she’d seen in ages. And she clung to Magnusson like he was her father.

“Ummm…” Marcus stared at the girl.

“Miss Adelaide here is three years old, which I believe makes her a toddler, not a baby.” The little girl pulled back slightly to whisper something in his ear. He chuckled warmly.

“Excuse me. Her birthday was last week, she is now four years old.” Adelaide settled back against his shoulder, one hand reaching out to trace the pattern on his tie.

“If one of you would please page Sister Gardiner?” Marcus started immediately, still staring at the child and the surgeon.

Since his arrival Magnusson had made two nurses and an F1 cry. Yet Adelaide wouldn’t even look at anyone else. He kept her close on his hip and was admittedly, very good with her. Moreover, it was the most relaxed she’d ever seen his posture.

“Addie!” Pippa Gardiner went immediately to the girl, who allowed herself to be transferred to her mother without complaint. She smiled up at Magnusson, who visibly softened and smiled back.

“You were supposed to stay with Matilda!”

“This is still a hospital Sister Gardiner,” His tone was still soft and kind, but his words and eyes were thunderous. “Why didn’t you take Miss Adelaide to the crèche?” Marcus quietly slipped away, avoiding the confrontation. Sofia, however, couldn’t bring herself to abandon Pip to the Jötunn, even if he wasn’t half as fierce as usual in the presence of a toddler.

“They wouldn’t take her short notice. Addie’s pre-school closed this morning. Their watermain broke.” Magnusson’s jaw clinched.

“And so you asked one of your subordinates to become childminder in addition to her other duties?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Pip sounded like she might cry. He was up to three nurses now. “My mum lives too far away and can’t drop everything to come help. It was this or call in sick at the last second.”

“You could have come to me.” Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not what she expected.

“You?” Sofia Grace didn’t mean to butt in but when she was surprised, she had a habit of just blurting out her thoughts as she had them.

“Yes.” He looked a bit insulted. “I have a fair bit of authority here and a fondness for children.” He shot a glance at the little girl in her mother’s arms, his smile soft and amused, “And no, Miss Adelaide, not on toast.” The girl giggled. Giggled! “Now, let’s see what we can do about finding you a place in the crèche so that we may all get back to our jobs.”

It was a kind gesture and yet he still managed to make it sound terrifying. Sofia Grace watched as he headed down the hall, Pippa and Addie rushing in his wake. She did not envy the crèche today.

Back in his office Felix sat down heavily in his desk chair. Fleur Gerald, the daycare manager was a canny old bitch. He was surprised she worked with children. She’d refused, again, to take Addie because they didn’t accept walk-ins. Not even for employees. It took him promising funding for another two minders and formal revision of hospital policy for her to agree to let Adelaide join in the story hour going on behind them. How the hell did this hospital not have proper childcare? It made him wonder after the maternity/paternity leave policy if they were so unaccommodating. He rubbed his temples before opening his eyes and gazing at the photo on his desk. He was not a picture person, as a general rule, nor was he interested in much clutter on his desk. This photo was an exception. Magnus was five, his Byronic curls spilling out from under his colorful earflap hat his Mormor had knit him. It was his first time on ice skates without assistance and he was positively radiant. Beaming. Glowing. Ice skating was his favorite hobby since Felix had first brought him to a rink. It was something he and his son still had in common, fifteen years later.

He would not have survived as a divorced father without the help of the hospital crèche. He’d taken for granted, it seemed, how blessed he’d been at his first hospital. They’d had some of the finest child care providers, even a pediatric nurse on call in case something happened. He never had to worry when he went into surgery or was otherwise unavailable, if something happened to Magnus there were structures in place until he could get to him again. Saint Sebastian’s had none of that. The budget needed to be trimmed, considerably, he couldn’t afford to be rearranging and expanding departments, but the crèche, as it was couldn’t continue.

“You?” Most people were unaware he had a son, since Magnus had been old enough to not have to stay at the crèche when he visited. But she seemed incredulous at even the thought of him liking children or be willing to assist a parent. He was fine with his reputation as a hard ass, after all, he was. But perhaps he should at least appear less anti-family.

“Matilda says you eat children, is that true?”

#Hospital Romance Drama #Cait writes #original fiction #Felix Magnusson is the Big Friendly Giant #I don't know Swedish but I do know Google translate

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