Corrival closed his eyes and sighed, and turned his head once to the side in an aborted shake. Too much moving right now was not going to be good for Wreath's wellbeing. "Damned fool. How are you doing, Wreath?"
There was a pause before the ex-Necromancer answered. His voice was a little more even, but just as bone-deeply exhausted as before. "Demand the rest of the day off." Another slow, one-two beat breath. "And a bed in my office."
"There's one in mine," Corrival told him. "You can have it where I can keep an eye on you."
"... I'm still too young for you, old man."
Corrival almost laughed out loud in surprise, and that would not have done Solomon any favours. "This coming from the man who's going prematurely grey. Hang on, Wreath. Here's your glass of warm milk before you go beddy-bye." It was actually a metabolising liquid developed by some healer in the past, only used in cases of extreme magic-exhaustion. Wreath would want to sleep for the next day, but this would keep him from falling into a coma or losing use of his magic while he recovered.
The ex-Necromancer lifted his hand to try and take the glass from the healer, but it shook so much that Corrival took it for him and lifted it up. From inside the interrogation room there came a gasping cry of pain and then the kind of explosive, gurgling cough no commander ever liked to hear. Corrival's head snapped up. Solomon groaned. "Dex. Idiot."
"What happened?" Corrival snapped at the healer who came rushing out for the chief, the man who'd been helping him with Wreath.
"He insisted on being told about Vile, and then he tried to get up," said the healer, his face ashen. "His lung's been punctured. We need a hand."
"I'll be right there," the chief healer said, and glanced down at Solomon. "Finish that, and then you can sleep, Elder Wreath." Then he was gone, bustling off into the interrogation room to take care of the blond idiot. Biting back a curse, Corrival looked down and tipped up the glass.
"Go on, then. Take your medicine."
"I'm glad you weren't my commanding officer," Solomon grumbled, but rather slurred. He didn't have the energy to resist, and the moment the glass was empty his head sank down against Corrival's shoulder. "G'night."
All at once the man's weight on him doubled as he gave in to unconsciousness, and Corrival caught the glass with a groan, putting it down on the floor. He looked up at Skulduggery. "Still with us, Pleasant?" he asked gruffly. He hadn't heard everything, low as their voices had been when the healer was present, but he'd heard enough. "Ghastly, Gabe, get him somewhere the armour isn't. Being held captive by a sadist like Vile would turn anyone's head." That was for the benefit of anyone listening. "We'll take care of everything else. Just let us know what you need, when you need it."
no subject
There was a pause before the ex-Necromancer answered. His voice was a little more even, but just as bone-deeply exhausted as before. "Demand the rest of the day off." Another slow, one-two beat breath. "And a bed in my office."
"There's one in mine," Corrival told him. "You can have it where I can keep an eye on you."
"... I'm still too young for you, old man."
Corrival almost laughed out loud in surprise, and that would not have done Solomon any favours. "This coming from the man who's going prematurely grey. Hang on, Wreath. Here's your glass of warm milk before you go beddy-bye." It was actually a metabolising liquid developed by some healer in the past, only used in cases of extreme magic-exhaustion. Wreath would want to sleep for the next day, but this would keep him from falling into a coma or losing use of his magic while he recovered.
The ex-Necromancer lifted his hand to try and take the glass from the healer, but it shook so much that Corrival took it for him and lifted it up. From inside the interrogation room there came a gasping cry of pain and then the kind of explosive, gurgling cough no commander ever liked to hear. Corrival's head snapped up. Solomon groaned. "Dex. Idiot."
"What happened?" Corrival snapped at the healer who came rushing out for the chief, the man who'd been helping him with Wreath.
"He insisted on being told about Vile, and then he tried to get up," said the healer, his face ashen. "His lung's been punctured. We need a hand."
"I'll be right there," the chief healer said, and glanced down at Solomon. "Finish that, and then you can sleep, Elder Wreath." Then he was gone, bustling off into the interrogation room to take care of the blond idiot. Biting back a curse, Corrival looked down and tipped up the glass.
"Go on, then. Take your medicine."
"I'm glad you weren't my commanding officer," Solomon grumbled, but rather slurred. He didn't have the energy to resist, and the moment the glass was empty his head sank down against Corrival's shoulder. "G'night."
All at once the man's weight on him doubled as he gave in to unconsciousness, and Corrival caught the glass with a groan, putting it down on the floor. He looked up at Skulduggery. "Still with us, Pleasant?" he asked gruffly. He hadn't heard everything, low as their voices had been when the healer was present, but he'd heard enough. "Ghastly, Gabe, get him somewhere the armour isn't. Being held captive by a sadist like Vile would turn anyone's head." That was for the benefit of anyone listening. "We'll take care of everything else. Just let us know what you need, when you need it."
Whenever that might be.