Devero nods, and takes the weight of the woman as if he barely notices it, and turns into the river. From this side, there's not much to see: Devero steps into the light with his burden and seems to freeze there, his outline partially obscured by flickering rainbow light.
In the river, he fights. The flow of voidstuff is hard enough to navigate with another conscious mind-- without the focus of a person to soothe and keep calm, he has no distraction from the images that batter him as he carries her across. Voices call out to Caerlyn-- the woman in his arms?-- screaming her name in fear, in ecstasy; hands reach from the river to pluck at her, trying to pull her from his arms.
Just let go, the chaos whispers, as colors move sickly under the woman's skin. She is no one. She is unimportant. She doesn't matter. Let us have her. She belongs to us.
"She belongs to herself," he snarls, "and she is going home." Has he spoken aloud, through gritted teeth? Or is the sentiment just a furious mental bulwark against the pull of the river?
He puts his head down and he forges on, holding the woman tightly in his arms. His muscles are cramped and burning as he approaches the far side of the river but he holds on-- holds on-- holds on, until he reaches the far side and tumbles her indelicately out of the rainbow light.
He has a second to hope that she's home before he's abruptly back on the far side, staggering out of the light himself as if he's been pushed. He stumbles into the riverbank and his knees buckle and he starts to fall, but what hits the ground is not the man but a massive white dog, blinking dazedly.
no subject
In the river, he fights. The flow of voidstuff is hard enough to navigate with another conscious mind-- without the focus of a person to soothe and keep calm, he has no distraction from the images that batter him as he carries her across. Voices call out to Caerlyn-- the woman in his arms?-- screaming her name in fear, in ecstasy; hands reach from the river to pluck at her, trying to pull her from his arms.
Just let go, the chaos whispers, as colors move sickly under the woman's skin. She is no one. She is unimportant. She doesn't matter. Let us have her. She belongs to us.
"She belongs to herself," he snarls, "and she is going home." Has he spoken aloud, through gritted teeth? Or is the sentiment just a furious mental bulwark against the pull of the river?
He puts his head down and he forges on, holding the woman tightly in his arms. His muscles are cramped and burning as he approaches the far side of the river but he holds on-- holds on-- holds on, until he reaches the far side and tumbles her indelicately out of the rainbow light.
He has a second to hope that she's home before he's abruptly back on the far side, staggering out of the light himself as if he's been pushed. He stumbles into the riverbank and his knees buckle and he starts to fall, but what hits the ground is not the man but a massive white dog, blinking dazedly.