FOR THE GREATER GOOD | open + news / injury

[BASTILLEPAW]

AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT

[ tl;dr: chaboy shows up on the border without a pulse
also we're pretending this occurs on saturday afternoon thnx ]

There was no recollection of how he got there. Teleportation might be the logical answer, seeing how he clearly didn't walk there, and he hadn't been there moments before -- but there was no conscious decision to do that. Later, he wouldn't be able to say if he had gotten himself there or if it had been Beck; later, he wouldn't really recall much of those fuzzy in between moments where he was in Tanglewood one moment, everything fading to black, and on the Ascendants' border the next. "Tomorrow," he could swear he remembered, though he had no idea if that would have been before or after he got there, before or after he forgot how to breathe, before or after the flickering darkness started to settle in -- there was little to no recollection of the last 60 seconds or so, between the burning of his lungs intensifying and everything slowing down.

There was... nothing.

No movement. No pulse. The Seraph was limp on their border, seemingly having gotten there on his own, but it was clear that he likely couldn't have. At some point he must have passed out, the rope pulling tight on his throat when he couldn't keep his weight steady, when he was losing too much oxygen to resist the lulling darkness. Beck's voice was just a wash in the background as his senses had dulled and faltered, and there was no way to tell how long it had been between he initially passed out and when he wound up here. Long enough for his body to give up, surrendering to his screaming lungs and the burning in his neck. 10 seconds without a pulse, maybe 30.

The only sign of damage was the matted fur around his neck, though there was no blood. There was simply nothing.

--

Generally speaking, Bastille didn't dream unless he dreamed in memory. Now, however, he sank and sank through the darkness as his body burned and prickles shot along his nerves. There was no sensation in the darkness until he jolted all at once, and found himself standing in the middle of a clearing, dark indistinct trees all around. Mist rolled through the trees, coated the ground, climbed high to his belly as he stared straight ahead, thoughts sluggish. He had been here before, maybe, though he couldn't say when. It was all so... vague. A half-forgotten memory of a dream.

They were there, though. Directly in front of him stood Echo, and he knew without looking that if he looked over either shoulder there would be Pollutedsoul and Zaniel, completing the triangle piece of a five-pronged star; somewhere to his right, Grimmkit, and his mother used to be to his left. He knew how it should all look, but somehow, he couldn't quite say he was used to it. That he had been here before. It was more akin to deja vu, and he was momentarily at a loss.

Everything was numb. He could feel and remember nothing, was nothing, and when he instinctively made a move to step forward, he found that he couldn't. He was trapped, rooted to the spot, staring into blue eyes colder than his own. He opened his mouth and there was nothing -- just the chilling sensation of not being able to breathe, his throat constricting and burning as his neck throbbed.

"Well shit, boo," Echo drawled, looking vaguely amused, "I guess we see if he killed you or not, huh? Didn't they ever tell you that leaders don't [i]really get nine lives?"

Bastille stared back at him, blank, unmoving, uncomprehending. He? Who was he? Was he dead and did he care? (Was there anything that he cared about? He couldn't call on any memories of his life, any suggestion of existence, beyond this clearing. Only the faint burn in his throat, the rawness of his voice.)

"My money's on you fuckin' dying, kid. I don't think you've got much of a survival instinct," someone -- Zaniel -- said, lazily, over his shoulder. "Is there a limit on how long you can go without air? Tick, tock, yo." A snort of agreement from Echo. Bastille just looked at the stealth-walker, and considered.

Should he be alarmed, and if so, why wasn't he?

[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGS

[Margaery]

[color=#b14767] ❁  ❁  ❁

This had been the farthest she had strayed from her room in days.

She couldn't hurt anyone if she confined herself to the Observatory, staring at walls and ignoring the sharp stabs of hunger that were now practically threatening her life. She was a mess and she knew it - hell, everyone knew it - but Bastilleprisoner had been right when he called her a monster. She ruined lives, there was no denying that. It was for the best that she locked herself away, that she saved everyone from the trouble that was her and her vampirism. There was only one blatant issue in her otherwise flawless plan- she was pregnant. Where her soul was cursed to endless reincarnation via means of eternal damnation, her body was not nearly as durable and neither were her unborn children. She wasn't a real mother, that had been asserted loud and clear to her, but she was tasked with protecting the leeches at least for Suiteheart. They deserved a chance to live, even if she felt she was only going to fail them.

And that brought us to now.

Trembling paw steps carried her closer and closer to the border, her eyes long since faded to copper in anticipation for the blood she was about to spill. Somewhere between her current location and the Observatory, her claws had escaped their sheathes, her lips pulling back to reveal her fangs. She appeared lethal, even in her state of decay, and had it not been for the form of Bastilleprisoner, the monster that lurked within her would have assumed complete control. Instead, thoughts of feeding were shoved aside as she realized that the seraph lacked a pulse.

Dead.

Was he dead?

She stopped in disbelief, unable to process the sight before her. Just days ago, he had been spewing hateful things at her... just days ago, he had ruined her. Now, he was ruined himself. Had Margaery been any other member of her family, perhaps she would have gained some twisted satisfaction from this, relishing in the fact that karma always paid its dues. But she wasn't any other member of her family- she was Margaery and underneath her lifelessness, she still cared for him, maybe too much. That showed as she generated her remaining energy to run to him, tears forming in once-more gray eyes as she scoured him for injury, for blood, for anything that would signify a struggle. [color=#b14767]"Basty," She said softly, her voice hoarse, breaking again because of him, [color=#b14767]"Wake up! Bastille, wake up, now!"

This couldn't be happening.

He couldn't be dead.

He hated her. He absolutely hated her. But she could never reciprocate those feelings, especially not now as she attempted to cradle him in her shaky arms. [color=#b14767]"Wake up..." Tears fell freely now, [color=#b14767]"Wake up... Wake up... Wake up, please..."

"Wake up."

[Suiteheart]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 530px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 20px"]Suiteheart was drenched in anger, but what else was new? The white feline stalked the borders, so deep in her thoughts that almost nothing could shake her. Her paws fell heavy on the ground, and if she had fire elementals, the grass would be scorched before she could lift her paw. She hated being so fucking enraged, but she could do nothing to stop it. The peaceful creature that ruled half of her soul was slumbering, pushed down by discord and strife and the need to break everything. She perhaps would have continued on this way for the remainder of the day had she not felt a disturbance in the bond she shared with Margaery.

All at once, an absolutely horrific emotion washed over her, freezing her in place. She felt hollow. Her back felt as though it might break from the heartache, and a confused grunt escaped her before a look of realization blanketed her face. No. No. No.

A thousand different thoughts raced around her mind, and she had to force herself to look through the bond to see who it was. When the familiar face drifted into her thoughts, the Ecliptic Admiral thought her heart would beat out of her chest or explode or both. All the air left her lungs, and tears burned her eyes. She trembled violently, and on unsteady paws, ran for them. She was blinded by tears, blinded by sadness, but she did not stop. She could not stop.

She cursed herself in her head. She had been horrible to him. She had called him an asshole and ripped Hazel away from him as if she were afraid he would hurt her. She had yelled and chided and pushed him. She had been the exact opposite of everything she was supposed to be as a deputy, a friend, an a maternal figure. Guilt stabbed at her chest. She had been mad, she wouldn't deny that. But she had never hated him, not truly. Hating him would entail giving up on him completely - and she had not done that. Anger, though a terrible emotion, meant she still felt something. It meant she might one day find it within herself to forgive and forget and forge a better relationship.

And now? Well, now, she would never get the fucking chance. It was gone. She felt herself crumble; she was folding inward and breaking down. This, though not her doing, had to be her fault. She had caused this, hadn't she? His death was because of her terrible actions. Her mind placed the blame on herself. This was her fault, and she wouldn't forgive her wrongdoings.

"B-Basty Boy?" came her voice, soft and shaking, as she called him by the nickname she'd given him upon joining. Her tears were hard to see through, but there was no mistaking this for what it was. She could not see his chest rising and falling with breath and, in turn, life. "Margy d-do something!" she pleaded, an other worldly type of desperation in her voice. She could not lose another son. God, no... please.

Daring to rip her eyes off the presumed dead body of Bastilleprisoner, she looked at few gathered npcs and screamed, "Get a fucking healer!"

[Warringkingdoms]

  [font=trebuchet ms]The feuding between Bastille and Margaery (and by extension, Suiteheart) had gone on for long enough. Rin had already started working on helping Margaery, but Bastille and Suite were going to be tougher to deal with- the former for being a stressed-out leader, and the latter for being naturally defensive of her lover. Still, she had to do something soon, before the conflict resulted in violence.

  Yet, Rin never would’ve thought it would end with Suite screaming for a healer.

  At the very least, she was thankful that she had her bag of supplies ready as she bolted towards the sound of Suite’s voice. She couldn’t smell any blood, strangely enough, but there was still the possibility that someone was suffering head trauma, or was choking (or had suffered an injury that she had no idea how to deal with, but she hoped it wouldn’t be that last one). The most she could tell from here was that the victim’s body was probably mostly intact, given that Suite thought they could be healed, so she probably didn’t have to deal with any decapitations or incinerations. She had to be prepared for the worst, though.

  Once she got there, her senses were assaulted with the stench of what she could only assume was Tanglewood, and the sight of Margaery cradling a motionless Bastille, with matted neck fur suggesting that he had been strangled. In spite of herself, she unsheathed her claws and dug them into the dirt- he intended to negotiate peace with these people, who had been willing to strangle a child?

  He didn’t reek of death yet, though- there was still time. She wasn’t about to let another leader slip through the cracks. ”Put him down,” she ordered, marching over to Bastille and Margaery. ”Set him on his right side. Hold his mouth shut and start breathing air into his nose in short bursts.” Swallowing, she continued, ”I’ll take care of the chest compressions.”

[radeken]

“[color=black]Again? That’s a shame.” Radeken wasn’t plagued with any dawning sense of rage on behalf of Bastille or fear for what this meant for the rest of them - his body on the border could only mean a threat, right? Maybe?? - , only a cool sort of curiosity as to how his corpse had gotten there. Granted, there had been a rush of something as she approached, just moments before she realized she was looking at a dead body, the same thrill she was bathed in any time she came across something broken and in need of repair. 

There was no fixing death, though. At least, not if he had been out here for while, and to be fair, Radeken didn’t care to check. She wasn’t that kind of person. The healing kind, itonically enough. The Halo lingered back idly, allowing for Rin to go forward. Maybe she was more of an optimist, more willing to try and beat life into this dead horse. “[color=black]What is asking him to wake up going to do? Do you think begging is all it takes to resurrect people? If you want someone to really try and help, do it yourself or give Warringkingdoms some space and go cry somewhere else.” She shot sourly, peering at Suiteheart and Margaery disapprovingly, picking a spot to sit as if she was here for a show. Maybe it was her lack of emotion in general or maybe it was just that this wasn’t the first time she had seen him without a pulse, but Radeken could only bring herself to watch blankly even as Rin carried on on what Rad was certain would be a pointless endeavor. Will I have to start testing on myself? ...No. There’ll never be a shortage of self-destructive dead ends. She swallowed that brief moment of trepidation. No shortage of guinea pigs. In a way, she hoped he was gone for good. She’d make sure she would have first pickings from his library. She sat as attempts to resuscitate Bastille were set into motion.

“[color=black]I hope you’re not out of time.” She didn’t feel either about it, honestly. Radeken got something no matter what happened to him - continued test subject or ownership of books she was already stealing nonstop anyway.

[Pele N. F. I.]

[align=center]

Pele explored often, but the commotion happening, both healers and then her aunts crowded around someone, caused her to come closer to the border. There was yelling and the air seemed to crackle with sorrow and anger, it almost made her turn away, the way emotions plagued the air and pressed on her chest.

Yet she dared to stray closer, the air becoming heavier and heavier with each step. She tried to peek through legs, the commotion was about a he, but she'd been too late to hear the cries of her aunts. She saw grey, but grey toms were more common than her own coloring, but then she saw the scars and the coin.

They were operating on her uncle, something had gone wrong...and she could only rely on Rin and Rad to do something. Pele didn't even know what was going wrong, healers shouting meant someone was dying or might. Healers yelling could just as well be the summoning of the reaper, come to steal some poor soul away from their family.

She didn't know what to do, whether to cry or help her aunts calm down when she wasn't even sure she was calm herself. She didn't have the same broad history with Bast as everyone else but he was still family and seeing him like this, she could almost imagine the dead white walls of a hospital like in her books. He was family and she didn't know if she'd lose him without telling him goodbye. If they'd all lose him without saying goodbye.
[align=center]"SPEECH"『♡』"THOUGHTS"

[Character Graveyard.]

LUNAFREYA N.F.

✯ — take these broken wings and learn to fly

space

Lunafreya was often seen patrolling the borders. Today was no different. She had stopped by all of the borders and was on her way back to her room when a group of her Clanmates had caught her attention. She had seen Pele sitting down and she approached her daughter, protectively standing behind her before she realized what was going on.

Luna would run around her child and rush to Margaery's side, concern in her blue-eyes as she stared at Bastille's limp body. "Rin, do you need anything else to help him?"

space

✯ — Luna. The Ascedants. Easy. — ✯

#psychosocial.

[★ HAZEL]

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★  WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD

If this was Saturday, then this was one hell of a birthday present for Hazel.

It wasn't like she was used to presents on her birthday; Mother never acknowledged the date with the exception of laying on more chores, telling Hazel she was old enough now to do this and that and remember a whole new set of rules. Hazel couldn't do much but nod and obey, eager not to have certain scars reopened. But ever the dreamer, Hazel had always hoped for some sort of gift and small "happy birthday!" one day. She thought she might find that in the Ascendants.

She was wrong.

For the entirety of the day, she had spent tracking Arion down and convincing him to let her groom his tail while he took a nap, hoping to give herself a distraction from the exhausting emotional rollercoaster she rode wherever she went. Arion hadn't agreed quietly, having been busy searching for Bastille and O himself, but he caved in the end after she offered him carrots. Quick was the girl to busy herself in the task of brushing away the burrs and knots in his tail and mane.

She tired quickly, her body and mind exhausted with the spontaneous cycles of anger and fear and confusion. Every time she saw Bastille, her anger started low, hovering just under the surface like the hum of a motorcycle, knowing that he was driving himself closer and closer to an edge that they couldn't save him from. Knowing that he was doing it to himself, doing it to them, and that one day he would break and lash out. Knowing that one day, he would turn on them all, and then Hazel would just be reliving the nightmare she had worked so hard to run from.

And this went on, every day. Every day, there was the fear and hurt and anger of him turning into Mother, of him going to far, of her not being able to do anything because she was, after all, just the golden girl.

Just everybody's little ray of fucking sunshine, She thought bitterly, not caring that the voice inside her head wasn't hers. Just a child, just an asset; unable to fight or heal or even get close to someone else because you're fucking weak and useless. Hazel yanked the brush through Arion's tail on a particularly stubborn knot, and the colt's head shot up with a snorted complaint. But she hardly spared him a second glance; just kept going, kept working, kept feeding the anger that was driving her mad. She couldn't help Bastille because she was pushing him away, and she was pushing him away because she was scared he'd turn into Mother. She couldn't get close to anybody because all she could feel was pain and pressure and suffocating heat every time she made contact. She couldn't fight because she'd been locked away in her room all her goddamn life. She couldn't even read because her teacher was inebriated and high over half the time and couldn't stand to be near her.

Couldn't stand to be near her...except for when he could. When he was so out of it, so gone, that he didn't have any sort of voice or feeling telling him no, don't, and he reverted back to his factory settings. And Hazel knew, in those little moments, that somewhere, he did care, and he wasn't numb, and he wanted help but couldn't figure out how to ask. But those little moments came and went so quickly that she hardly had time to figure anything at all, and it left her right back where she started: frustrated, scared, and a fucking coward.

So when people started rushing past, and someone screamed from the border, Hazel was on her paws in seconds, livid from the fury she'd worked herself into. She was sprinting, going as fast as her legs could take her, partially because it felt like she wouldn't vibrate out of her own skin like this and partially because whatever was going on at the border sounded serious. But when she reaches the border, she stops.

Just - just fucking plants her paws and skids to a halt, because she could see the limp form and she could smell the foreign scent of Tanglewood and she could hear Margy and Suite crying and see Rin and Rad working and feel everybody else there and -

And it didn't matter.

It didn't fucking matter, because "He's gone." She croaked. "He's already gone." It doesn't matter how she knows. She doesn't care how she knows. Doesn't care that she can tell his pulse is gone and his heart isn't beating and he's not breathing because fuck, how did this all go to shit so quickly? How did she not get to him sooner and when the hell did he even visit Tanglewood and why didn't Hazel know?

Hazel stood there, drowning out every other sound and word around her with such a torrent of anger and despair that she goes deaf for a moment. There's a heartbeat, where she wants to murder everything alive and find Tanglewood and crush Beck's windpipe into the ground, and then the heartbeat passes.

And she sucked in a strangled breath.

And doesn't register the tears. Shoves it down, deep down, like she did as a child, trying to avoid the punishment the tears would bring.

"Happy birthday to me," Hazel whispered.

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

[sup]c) miithers[/sup]

[BASTILLEPAW]

AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT

30 seconds.

"I wonder if we'll get stuck with you again, or if we get to actually die," Echo commented, bored. He had no desire to keep living, contrary to the other two; he didn't believe in powers or resurrection or necromancy. He would have been content to stay dead, let his soul rot, waste away with his unfulfilled potential and incomplete plans like most spirits. He'd walked with Death on his heels all his life -- who was he to protest when it claimed him, too? "Because I've got to tell you, boo, I'm real fucking sick of hanging out with these assholes. They're terrible company."

"I can't wait to see you in Hell," Zaniel chimed, towards Echo, sounding cheerful, "I don't think he's got it in him to make it out of the spiral. I mean, he can't even escape memories." Nothing. Still nothing. Bastille just stared at Echo, silent, head spinning as he struggled to breathe, to function. They continued to chat idly, back and forth, snarking and betting on his survival rate. "I give it... another minute, tops."

40 seconds. The clatter of movement, voices.

"I don't know," Echo commented, after a beat, "Grimmkit is a freaky little fucker. He might not let him go, yet." Three sets of eyes turned towards the little black smoke kitten, who stared straight at Bastille, impassive. Bast stared back, their voices washing over him, distant, vague. His eyes were so green -- vivid and bright, apple-green, luminescent through the mist.

"Hey," Zaniel said, mild, "That's my kid. Show some respect." A snort from Echo's prong of the star.

Their words fades and fades as he stared straight at Grimmkit, and when he blinked, he found that he was now facing that corner. The pickering souls carried on, as they did, and Bastille just... stared. And stared. And tried to remember what it was that Grimm wanted him to remember, because that bottomless stare was lost on him. He could feel nothing, do nothing, be nothing. He felt numb and the mist was steadily rising, cool on his belly as it swirled slowly upwards.

50 seconds. Rustling, contact. More voices.

What do you want? he thought, transfixed. His throat burned, his lungs burns, his body burned. Everything burned and felt numb at once, a wash of sensation and apathy all at once. Grimm was unwavering, unmoving, somehow telling him with his eyes along that he was forgetting something, neglecting something, failing, somehow.

But wasn't he meant to fail? That was the whole goddamn game Fate was playing here, as far as he was concerned. His lives had only ever failed, and it seemed to be a given that it would all spill over, eventually. What else was he supposed to do, with a combination of souls like that? Who was he supposed to be if not a failure like the rest of them, crashing and burning before he could realize any of his so-called potential?

Grimm knew this. Grimm knew this all ended in failure. Didn't he like his morbid stories, his sad memories? Why was he looking at him like that, as if he didn't know and he was waiting for Bastille to do something else? He couldn't do anything else. He was immobile, frozen, staring, lost, losing. He couldn't complete anything. Couldn't carry out any unfinished business. Couldn't achieve anything on behalf of his restless souls.

He wasn't the key. He wasn't the answer. He was no one's anti-hero, recovering from their sins and doing good. He was... nothing. Nothing.

Grimm's eyes were intent, steady, staring. Waiting. Waiting waiting waiting but Bastille couldn't breathe. He could just look back and wait for his time to run out.

60 seconds. Golden radiance, warmth, vanilla and honey. The light. Voices, louder now, running together.

Silence. Seconds ticking by, the clearing was silent now, Echo and Zaniel having faded into the background. The faint thump-thump of someone else's heart beating, echoing quietly through the clearing. Mist, climbing high and high as his throat constricted and tightened, his own chest stayed still. Grimm's green stare, always focused on him. Tick, tock, Zaniel had said.

Faintly, the impressions of vanilla on his tongue, bringing back a wave of... something. Something. What did vanilla mean to him? Did he have memories beyond this place, this clearing, these souls? Silence, as he stared and pondered and waited. Silence, as it trickled through his thoughts slowly, a faint coil of memory.

"Baby boy," his mother has said once, perfectly composed as she stood at his side, pale fur glistening and shimmering in the light. Her voice was soft and wispy, barely there. He couldn't remember it happened, and yet, here was the memory now, at the tip of his tongue. "Why are you so cold? This is not who you are, not even if they tell you that it is."

She had never carried any warmth, not in her spiritual form, but somehow, he'd always gotten those phantom flames -- heat flickering along his side, a comfort. Heat raging in his chest, his souls, his existence, screaming with his anger and his turbulence and his frustrations. He had glared at the ground and muttered, petulant, "Yes, it is. I can only be who they were. I can only be what I'm made out of." Bitter, rotten. So angry at such a young age, consumed by their anger and chaos.

A pause. Silence. Silence, both in the clearing, rebounding through the mist, and in his memories. Then, soft: "You know, they all had their potential, too. They all started somewhere and lost their way. You are made of good, baby, good that was lost. You get to make that choice for yourself, too. You're made up all of their potential, and it's your choice if you fail or not. I think you're here, and they're here, so that you can do what they didn't -- so that you can be the good and redemption."

Vanilla, seeping through the mist, his memories overriding his senses, and then... nothing, gone. Grimm's eyes, staring into his. A faint flicker of something, of acknowledgement, of reminder. He wasn't going to let Bastille go, he realized; Grimm had been waiting for him to remember, to realize, to feel, to be something. A stir of warmth. Vanilla and honey, golden radiance, the light. The thumping of someone else's heartbeat, filling the clearing.

For it is the redemption that saves the soul, a murmur in his head, and then darkness.

Bastilleprisoner jerked forward with no notice or warning, his heartbeat coming back online from perfectly stillness as he gasped in a rush of air. His lungs burned and his throat burned and for a moment there was nothing but the darkness, clouding his thoughts and senses, the groggy sensation of having been lost for a long time and recently returned home. He remembered, in an offhand fashion, what it had been like to wake up from that coma: confusing, startling, instant, like drawing the blinds back on a dark and dusty room so swiftly that the light was at once blinding and awe-inspiring.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was that light: golden and radiant and all-encompassing. Too bright too look at, too intense to see clearly, blinding him as he looked away from Hazel in a daze, shook his head, inhaled another unsteady gulp of air as his body struggled to recover, to tell his heart to keep beating, to function. Warmth. He was warm all over, and it hit his sluggish mind a moment later that he was surrounded by warmth, by contact, by others. He blinked when he realized he was staring back at Margy, closer than he'd seen her in a while, but there was... nothing.

Silence. Stillness. Nothing. No flicker of annoyance, of anger, of frustration. Nothing. A slight glimmer of confusion, those first 60 seconds of processing as his body worked in reverse so disorientating and distant that he himself had no idea what the fuck was going on. Slowly, it was dawning on him that there were others here, auras sparking at the corners of his vision, and the first thing out of his mouth, sluggish, dazed, his voice raspy and hoarse: "Beck said yes."

Clearly, he hadn't entirely caught up to the situation, and he had no idea why that was the first thing that came to mind. A problem for when his thoughts started functioning properly in the next few minutes.

[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGS

[Warringkingdoms]

  [font=trebuchet ms]Rad's words faded to the back of Rin's mind, along with the sounds and scents of everyone else who approached. The only one who stood out was Lunafreya, and even that was only because Luna had directly asked her what she needed. "I- just..." she muttered, watching Bastille as she worked, checking for a pulse repeatedly. 30 seconds, 60 seconds passed, with not so much as a fluttering heartbeat from the leader. What she needed was for him to wake up, and that was something she had to make sure of herself... if she even could make sure of it. CPR wasn't 100 percent reliable, but it was the best chance she had.

  He had to live. For Hazel, who Rin could still hear struggling not to cry in the back of the crowd; for Suiteheart and Margaery, who really did care about him despite his mistakes; for the Ascendants, who couldn't afford to lose another leader; she had to save his life. She had to, despite all odds, despite everything she knew screaming at her that she couldn't do it.

  When he jerked forwards, his lungs sucking in breath and his eyes snapping open, it took all that Rin had not to shed tears in relief. Taking a deep breath, she carefully pressed a paw against his neck, checking to ensure that his pulse was normal- nothing seemed especially irregular about it, but she would still have to monitor him for some time. Just because he’d come back from the dead this time didn’t mean he was here to stay.

  Then his first words spilled out.

  ”Beck said yes?” she repeated, in shock. ”You almost died, and that’s what you have to say?” Narrowing her eyes, she continued, ”Were they not the ones who tried to strangle you?”