Breath

Osthryn stares at the offending pendant, sitting innocently and pretty on the mantle. A safe distance from both her and Silovar. No more than an hour could have passed. Tomas, the servant, keeps assuring her of that each time she asks.

Her mind is a whirling storm of contradicting and concerning thoughts. As soon as they settle on Silovar’s condition, they flit to who could have poisoned him. Scarcely do they rest on that topic before they fly to the priestess and her motivations behind the offending piece of jewellery. They cannot rest on even that topic for long, however. Like a magnet they are pulled back to Silovar’s condition, and compelled also to consider what Tomas knows about the “fae".

There is no way to ask that delicately, certainly not in any way that would accidentally betray Silovar or herself. If that would be betrayal. She does not know how much Tomas knows. Not that Osthryn could think of any way to phrase the question at this moment -- if she could think of anything clearly at all.

However much, or what, Tomas knows doesn't matter -- so far he has been considerate and competent. Osthryn shifts her weight on the stool he had brought closer for her. Levitia had barely left the room before Tomas had Osthryn seated next to Silovar's bed and ran to fetch the cup and pitcher of water now sitting on the bedside table. Ceramic, mind. Pewter would have worked too, but Tomas must be especially cautious now. She is grateful for his wordlessly intuitive assistance.

Osthryn tears her eyes away from Silovar's too-still face to the bottle of charcoal suspension she holds in her hands. Her eyes fixate on the swirling black particles, boring into them, as if searching to see any magic out of place. So far, there was none.

 It was charcoal. Mundane charcoal suspended in a rendered tallow and acid solution. It is not far off from what she would make herself in the many poisoning cases she routinely saw in Bettramon.

A desparate gasp for breath jolts her from her thoughts, and she springs to her feet. Silovar is awake. Without a word, Tomas appears at her side, helping her prop Silovar upright. Silovar's eyes are drawn wide and stare in the distance while he gasps for breath.

His hand finds Osthryn's. She suppresses a wince -- he might be weakened by the silver, but the firmness of his grip is a good sign.

"Silovar, breathe. Slowly."

He shudders, squeezing his eyes shut, "...Burns. My throat..."

Silovar folds forward in a fit of coughing, squeezing Osthryn's hand yet tighter.

The coughing subsides, and Silovar lets go of Osthryn's hand, slumping against the headboard with slow, pained breaths.

Osthryn uncorks the potion bottle and lifts it to his lips, "Here, drink."

Silovar shakes his head at the bitter taste, some of the suspension running down his chin, "What is that?"

Osthryn holds him fast with a hand at the back of his head, "Drink."

He obeys, languidly swallowing the black liquid. Osthryn lifts the bottle intermittently to allow for breaths, but does not let his head twist away. Slowly but surely, Silovar drains the potion.

"You are... a difficult... nurse," Silovar complains.

"That is the only kind that gets results," Osthryn retorts, relinquishing her authoritative grip. Exhausted, Silovar's head helplessly lolls to the side, but she quickly props it up with a cushion.

He falls uncannilly still while Tomas dutifully works around him. Osthryn could not ask for a better impromptu nursing assistant. Whatever adrenaline was coursing through Silovar's body or combination of spells cast on him has clearyly waned during the potion-drinking. His arms hang heavily over his lap, and the fingers that so fiercely gripped Osthryn's hand a moment ago curl inward.

It is all Osthryn can do to hope that the charcoal does its work. There is no telling the damage the silver could have done in the time Silovar spent unconscious.

"Would you like some water?" She asks after a moment.

"Real water?"

Osthryn laughs through a relieved sigh, "Yes, real water."

She reaches for the ceramic cup. Silovar's eyes widen, "Your hand."

Osthryn meets his gaze. Her hand, though healed, is still showing signs of the pendant's sting.

"It was an attempted fae-branding, master Silovar," Tomas interjects, nodding to the pendant sitting on the mantle. Silovar strains to follow Tomas' gaze.

"A topic for later," Osthryn insists, reclaiming Silovar's attention. Gently, she weaves her fingers at the base of Silovar's neck and lifts his head, holding the cup to his lips. She needs far less firmness to steady him this time. Silovar takes a sip, and pushes his head back. Osthryn removes the cup.

"Did you see who did it?" Silovar asks eagerly. "Did you see who put the silver in my wine?"

"Drink first, you just woke up."

"And you immediately shoved a mystery potion in my face."

Osthryn's brow arches, "It saved your life."

Osthryn puts the cup back to his lips, watching him in the hopes she will compel him to take a second sip. Silovar does so begrudgingly, his eyes screaming his impatience for her answer.

"With the charcoal potion in mind this should be enough, but you will need to drink more soon," Osthryn muses when she sets the cup down.

"Osthryn, did you see who did it?"

"No," Osthryn frowns, "And how did you know it was silver?"

"I saw it. In the wine," Silovar whispers conspiratorially.

Tomas throws his hands in the air with exasperation, then immediately retracts, composing himself with his hands folded. He bows his head to Osthryn, "I shall take my leave, and fetch for Scribe Oswald"

Osthryn nods absently, barely registering him leave the room.

"What did you say?" Osthryn asks slowly.

"I saw it in the wine, the shine was unmistakable. Someone purposefully dusted my wine with silver powder," Silovar confirms proudly.

Osthryn clenches her fists in her lap, "And yet, you chose to drink it."

"Well, besides having to in the King's presence, I have a very good reason."
"No reason is as good enough to justify dying."

"You know that we can never truly die," Silovar says. He shrugs his shoulder as if to bring his hand closer to her, but frowns when his arm fails to respond as well as it should.

Osthryn makes no move to take his hand or acknowledge his confusion at his arm's disobedience. She sits with her back as rigid as a board.

"Have you ever confirmed that fact for yourself? Have you ever come back from the dead?"

"No, but ..."

"Seeing it happen for someone else is hearsay in my mind. Until I die and come back myself, I will treat every threat and danger on your life and mine as real as it is for any mortal. Do you understand me?" Osthryn practically growls.

Silovar falls silent, his expression sobering, "I thought I could shake it. I had to draw out whoever did it."

"You thought you could shake it," Osthryn rolls her eyes, "You drink a substance that only we are inherently vulnerable to for aeons-unknown  reasons..."

"Osthryn, just... by blood, take my hand and listen!" Silovar bursts out in frustration. Silovar turns his wrist out, his hand still far from the edge of the bed.

Osthryn shifts the stool closer to him and takes his hand into hers.

"I knew drinking the silver was not a good idea, but it was a split-second decision. I could either fake a sip and have the culprits never out themselves, or I could take just enough to have a genuine reaction and pull them from the woodwork."

"How would you know if the culprits would show themselves? Could it just have been random?"

"Think about it, Osthryn," Silovar shifts uncomfortably, she straightens a cushion behind his shoulders with her free hand. He continues, "It is silver powder. Practically harmless glitter to any fathomable humanoid creature, besides Dragons. If the intent was just a shiny drink, and I had a reaction, the culprit would think something like actual poison or an illness were the cause. If the intent was to poison or mark a Dragon, however ..."

"You would have confirmed their suspicions."

"Yes. And if they wanted me dead, they will try again. If they wanted to mark me for some other purpose, they will begin to act on it. Either way, I figure out who they are."

Osthryn lets Silovar's words sink in for a moment, unconsciously tracing shapes on the back of his hand while she listens. She tilts her head in confusion, "If you just wanted to trigger a reaction, couldn't you have faked one?

"I thought about it, as dramatic as I tend to be. But," Silovar turns his gaze to the pendant glinting on the mantlepiece, "I doubt that any priestess involved would have been fooled."
Osthryn looks at the slowly-fading pendant scar on her palm, "Then she tried to mark me too."

"Seems like it," Silovar agrees, his eyes fixating on the scar.

"How do you feel at the moment?" Osthryn asks.

"Like my limbs are cast from lead, acid has been poured down my throat, and a hummingbird has taken residence in my chest." Silovar lists off with a sarcastic grin.

"Sounds like the effects of a nerve toxin. Like I saw when I tried to stabilise you," Osthryn muses, "Hopefully the charcoal adsorbs enough of the silver so that we can actually begin healing you properly."

"A nerve toxin? Now that sounds fascinating."

"You stopped breathing," Osthryn emphasises.

Silovar gives her hand a squeeze, "At least you caught me."