Calamari
Today we are Prince and bodyguard once more, publicly. It is a solemn
ceremonial occasion, with too many speeches from pompous old men in
elaborate hats, and Blaine stands fidgeting, confined in a
stiff-collared dark suit, while I stand close behind him in my most
neutral robes. A reception follows, with dull, stodgy food; I
dutifully taste it for him while he whispers suggestions to me about
what he might rather have me taste, so that I am soon squirming as
much as he is. Between murmured propositions, he makes polite
conversation with overdressed bureaucrats.
As we leave the reception, duties finally over, he's like steam
escaping a kettle. I can picture what he was like as a child, let out
of the classroom, running off to play, although the games he enjoyed
then were far more innocent than the kind he likes to play now. When
the last of the visiting dignitaries are safely left behind, we run
together down the hallway to his rooms, stifling laughter.
Behind closed doors, I shed my robe and outer layers, and I'm
unbuttoning his suit when he squirms out of my arms. And suddenly he's
off, through the doors that lead to the veranda -- he's vaulting over
the railing, and as fast as that the stiff suit is strewn across the
beach, and oh skies, if anyone else hereabouts was enjoying the view
of the sea they're now enjoying a different sort of view, as pretty
Blaine runs off nimbly, laughing, inviting chase.
Chase, I can do. Of course, if I were to use Force-enhanced speed, I'd
have him instantly, but that wouldn't be quite fair or fun, so I just
run naturally and enjoy the feel of the sea air and the sight of
Blaine and the thought of him pretending to struggle against me as I
take him down. My leggings and shirt join his suit on the beach. Soon
he's in the water, swimming, and as I follow him into the cool dark
waves, I see flashes of him by moonlight, a sweet slick dolphin,
heading for that rock just offshore, the one where he likes to sit and
bask in the sun or the moon. Through the Force I feel his elation at
being free, his joy in swimming, and underlying all of it his love,
which still astonishes me.
And then something else entirely replaces it all: pure blind black
terror. And I don't see him anymore.
It takes all my training not to panic, myself, as I sense the presence
of something else: just short of sentient, hungry, and very, very
large.
I dive downwards, letting my feet web as I go for speed, feeling with
the Force through the dark water for that bright terrified spark of
Blaine. After much too long searching, he's there in front of me,
thrashing panicked in the water. I take hold of his hand and try to
pull him up, and he knows it's me and holds on, but I can feel that
whatever it is has got him very firmly, and it's incredibly strong.
Much, much stronger than I am, Force or no Force.
Hells, every hell of every world from here to Coruscant. Of course my
'saber is back in his rooms. Of course I don't have a knife on me, oh
skies, I'll never not have a knife on me again, I know better than
that. And as I try futilely to pull him out of this thing's grip,
he's losing the struggle to hold his breath.
And then I catch it, the tiniest wisp of the Force. The thing. It's
not quite sentient, but it's just barely Force-sensitive, and I catch
hold of that, and concentrate on it, into it, and I put every ounce
of energy I have into sending it one simple, clear idea.
Suddenly Blaine is released, and he floats free into my arms.
I pull him up to the surface, get his face into the air, and hurry us
to the beach with all the speed I can muster before whatever it is
changes its mind and decides to take him back. It isn't until I've
laid him on the sand that I realize -- that I let myself realize --
that he isn't breathing.
I shake him gently and his head falls to the side. A little sea water
runs out of his mouth and nose. He isn't breathing.
He's in there, I can feel him, but the little spark of his being is
flickering.
Think, Kourt. You can't Force-heal worth half a credit, you know that
already, so you can't call his breath back that way. Something else
then, something they teach the initiates, something you never actually
tried for real.
I turn him over, and more water trickles out of his mouth, turn him
onto his back again, put my hands flat on his chest, and push hard.
Nothing happens.
Another push, a snapping sound oh fuck, Blaine, forgive me and still
nothing.
A third push, and suddenly he jerks and coughs and throws up an
amazing quantity of salt water, and those blue eyes flicker open, and
he's back.
I'm shaking so hard I can hardly carry him back to his rooms, and he's
shaking harder. Shivering in the most abject terror, barely able to
speak, and pale as -- I won't think it. I lay him in his bed and he's
so white against the white sheets, except for some marks that stand
out against his skin: two of them are my palm marks, very clearly
outlined on his chest. The rest are a tapered line of red circles,
winding around and up his left leg. The ones near his groin are the
size of large coins. The one at his ankle is the size of a dinner
plate.
I want to call the palace doctor -- I've broken at least one of the
poor boy's ribs trying to get him breathing -- but he won't have it.
He says it's not worth disturbing the doctor, and when his brother
broke a rib riding they couldn't do anything to treat it anyway, and
maybe he'll think about it tomorrow. It's all I can do to get him to
accept the pain patch I find in the bathroom cupboard. He hates them,
they make him sleepy, he complains.
It does make him sleepy, but it quiets his shaking, too, and when he
stops, I find I can stop. I wrap him in a blanket and hold him close
against me. It's strange, after his high energy of less than an hour
ago, to see him go all loose and blurry, blue eyes losing focus.
"Shouldn't have been there."
"You couldn't have known."
"No. He shouldn't have been there. You can't get them in months with a
W," he articulated carefully. "Out of season."
I laugh out loud. "Blaine, just because you can't get the little ones
in a restaurant right now doesn't mean they aren't in the ocean!"
"I must've been out of season for him. He didn't eat me."
"I told him you tasted really, really bad."
He considers this for a moment.
"Liar."
He smiles sweetly, and drifts off to sleep.
I listen to him breathe the rest of the night.
-end-
Feed Layna
Back to Layna's Lounge
Home