Nothing To Do With Actual Religion But The Religion Of Love Between Two People Who Gave Up On Everything Found Everything And Once Again - Tumblr Posts

Ugh. Darling. I literally typed these up immediately after your first post about angst/tension. My submissions for Broken Heartstrings:

One that would kill me is the build of MC working themselves sick. Only to find out it gave way for another, more serious illness. And if that was with Arthur or Sariel.

As for accidents, especially if it was MC protecting her love (and that if she hadn't, they would be in the same position as her), my brain dies a little at how Theo would react. Or Chev.

I'm so ready for the angst 😈

A/N: here you are, @yarnnerdally ! 💜

cw: sickness, injury, violence, blood

WC: 1421

Arthur

Why is getting out of bed so damn hard? Your bones feel like they are made of lead, your muscles barely able to lift them. You’ve been working so hard, but you always managed to push through. Until today. You’re tired, you admit to Arthur. Even those few words are difficult through a throat dry as the desert steppes. And they're thorny. This admission of weakness scrapes against your teeth, digs into your tongue. You don't want to worry him….

But his blue eyes are bright with worry, endless oceans of worry when he notices the lethargy of your movements, the hand pressed against your chest. His concern is chasms-deep because this is not the first time he's seen this, this deflated version of you. It's been happening over days, weeks. It's knocked at the window of his medical mind only to be shuttered and kept out by his apprehensive heart.

It’s nothing, you say. Your words are hollow. He hears the gray exhaustion that colors them, he sees the pallor in your cheeks, the dimming of your bright eyes. It’s nothing you repeat to his retreating form. He knows illness when he sees it and he can't deny it any longer. He wants a second opinion to quiet the riot of fear that flies through his mind.

It’s nothing, you say, shooting Arthur and Comte a weak look of annoyance even as the doctor they’ve brought around presses the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope against your back. He shushes you to silence and if you had the energy to glare, you would. He listens to your breathing, your heartbeat, his wrinkled fingers wrapping around your wrist, counting under his breath. He examines your body with astute eyes, his expression professionally inscrutable, chiseled in stone. And then he leaves the room, taking both vampires with him. 

You strain to hear what they are saying but the door is only open a few centimeters and their words float away from you like smoke.

When he re-enters the room, Arthur's face immediately tells you more than any of his words ever could: The lines of worry etched into the sides of his mouth, the press of his brows, the unnatural gleam in his eyes, a sky on fire. The way he sinks into the chair by your bedside like Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. His two hands find yours, clasping that thin appendage, tenderly. Devoutly.

Words are delivered with a voice that does its best not to shake and often fails. Winding through affirmations of love you hear the soft, off-key clang of anxiety, you hear things like “blood sickness”, “Dr. Virchow”, “bruising”, “fatigue”, “rest”. He does not need to say it. There is an unmistakable undercurrent of sorrow, a whirlpool of abject uncertainty and misery in his voice. He brings your hand to his lips like a prayer. Anyone else could rise on a tide of false hope, could use their lack of medical knowledge, their ignorance, as a buoy to keep them hoping for a miracle. But not Arthur. He knows the truth, he sees its ugly maw in the distance, wide-open and waiting patiently while the disease runs its course and ultimately delivers you into its jaws, taking you from him forever.

Your eyes are closed. His voice, so beloved to you, has lulled you to sleep. The words you'll deal with another time. When you're not so tired. For now it's enough that he's with you, head bowed over you, a blade of grass yielding to the winds of an oncoming storm. Bending. But not breaking. As long as you draw breath, he will find the strength to stay whole, to hold the pieces of his soul together. For you. 

Theo

It starts like any other day. Another opulent mansion. Another patron looking to make it even more opulent by hanging an eye-catching painting. Theo in his smart business suit, strategically flashing his dazzling, white-toothed smile; you offering a gentler version of that smile whenever the patron you're persuading turns his curious gaze in your direction. 

In a wood-paneled office surrounded by rich furnishings and a massive mahogany desk, with sunset's warm colors washing over all of you through crown glass windows, you do not hear the sound of the heavy front door opening, the thud as the butler falls to the Italian marble floor, the dull footsteps heading straight towards the office.

The embellished wooden door to said office is ajar and opens with a wild swing, slamming into the thick walnut bookcase with a heartstopping bang. You jump and then your mind goes blank as the sight of an armed gunman strikes your brain like lightning. 

And then time slows. The world blurs like a hand swiping across a freshly painted canvas. The gunman demands money. However he's not staring at the patron but Theo. He's mistakenly assumed Theo, in his expensive suit, is the wealthy owner of this villa. The gun shakes in his hand, aimless, not focused on anyone but rather acting as a threat of what could be. His voice trembles when he demands money. Sweat drips down his temple, soaking into the frayed edges of the worn rag tied around his lower face.

Suddenly your patron makes a run for the door and chaos explodes. All you see is the gunman turning, the gun now steadily pointing at Theo, a target in his addled mind. 

And you fly, wings on your feet, body reacting automatically. The gun spits out its bullet from a mouth full of sound and fury, and what would have lodged itself in Theo's stomach strikes your back instead. A blossom of red. A spray of crimson droplets. And then your world narrows, darkness closing in until it has taken you completely.

……….Theodorus……..

He refuses to leave your bedside. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t changed out of his bloodstained clothing. Whose blood it is, he isn’t sure. Yours, when he cradled your limp body against his chest, heavy with the anvil of disbelief and shock. The gunman’s when he turned, a monster born of fury and pain, and exacted the toll for daring to hurt you. 

Never has he moved so quickly, never have his legs swallowed the earth as fast as when he brought you to the mansion, his deep voice ringing throughout the vast rooms, singed with panic, raspy with fear. Comte goes to remove you from his arms but he will not let go. His blue eyes are nebulous, bright with the force of every shaking breath, every shuddering heartbeat. Arthur motions for him to follow and he does, only letting you go when Vincent’s gentle voice, in the softly spoken language of their homeland, breaks through the fog: Het is oké, broer. Laat haar gaan. Laat Arthur werken.

Never has Theo been more grateful for his friend. Arthur has done his best, assessing the injury, cleaning it, sewing it closed with steady, razor-sharp precision. Now those hands clamp down on Theo’s shoulder. There is nothing more he can do. Theo reaches up, his hand covering one of Arthur’s for a moment, the gesture saying more than any words could. Arthur nods, subdued and then quietly leaves you both..

And now Theo is alone with you, you so pale and small in your bed. Even the warm light of the oil lanterns cannot bring color to your cheeks.

He falls forward in his chair, runs his hands through his hair, elbows resting on his knees. It is because of him. He should have been the one to take the bullet. He would heal just fine. Why didn’t you just let him? Why did you have to throw yourself in the way, you a mortal, whose life is the delicate dance of a spider’s web in the wind. There was no reason….no reason….his breath quakes within his broad chest. He would close his eyes, he would let the tears burning behind them fall but then……then he would miss looking at you. The tears would blur his vision of you and that, nee….that is not acceptable. 

He will sit here, keeping vigil, searching your face for any signs of life. All night if need be. And all day. He will not move. Because it isn’t just your life hanging there in balance…..it is his as well. 

Because, he thinks as he raises his gaze, presses his lips to your cold hand, without you…..Ik heb niets. I have nothing.

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