milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Hel and her player have a lot in common. Not species, looks (thank God), size, or abilities, but both of them have hips that hurt like demons are sitting on them and prodding them with pitchforks.

The player is on drugs. Hel is not. Coherency may be skittish, but Hel is around to be spoken with, should people so desire. Even, one supposes, Desire, although the only real relationship with it that she has is that of interested observer.

I mentioned drugs, right? Right.

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"We all do what we have to."

It takes a moment, but she says it in the end,

"I will be here."

When you get back.

He relaxes a little bit, looks at his hands and nods.

'Si. I believe you. I don't know how long it'll be but I don't think too long - unless I actually manage to live. Could be longer then, I dont know.'

"I spent twenty four hundred years making you a sword."

She says dryly,

"I can wait."

'Yeah.'

He looks at her and wonders whether the dry tone of voice means that she would rather not have done it. And then tells himself that he's being stupid and is just edgy and tired.

'Think I'd better go Hel. I'm not enjoying the bar much at the moment.' He's tending to spen all his time with Random, perhaps understandably so.

'You're going to be OK though, right?'

She pulls him into another hug before letting go, reading the expression well,

"I just meant that I can wait as long as it takes."

And she works her fingers in a small movement,

"Bleßun, minn Ramon."

He smiles at her one last time, then kisses her cheek.

'Thank you Hel. You've done a lot for me, I appreciate it.'

It's about as effusive as he gets with friends, but it's no less heart-felt for its simplicity. He squeezes her hand once more and releases it, then straightens.

'I'll see you when I get back then. Look after yourself Hel.'

One last look at her, just in case - then he's gone through his Trump.

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