Maledictus Aether (17 page)

Will it be enough?

I put my elbows to the table, holding my head in my hands
and gripping my hair tightly. My skin hurts where it meets the
metal connected to it, throbbing painfully, and the one at my chest
feels even worse. Letting out a deep sigh
, I am startled only slightly when I feel an arm
carefully wrap around my shoulders, the other snaking around my
collarbones to clasp his other hand.

He has an uncanny ability in
moving quietly when he wants.

“It's going to be okay,
Kennedy,” he says quietly, trying to reassure me, and I nod
shallowly. My eyes are riveted to the object sitting between my
elbows, the copper and insulated wires of the mass of ore no bigger
than my fist. They snake around, connecting the ESD sitting in the
middle to the four small compartments, the hollow tubes connecting
with nothing at their end. “You're a genius; it's going to
work.”

Nodding again, I do no
t move, and my Quarter Master does not shift either, simply
holding me and trying to reassure me, that it is all going to be
okay. Then, I finally pull away from the object of my discomfort
and look at him, still in the circle of his arms – that keeps my
mind calm despite what I am about to do – and he returns my gaze,
the concern he feels evidently painted on his features.

“You're positive that there is
no other way?” he questions, and I shake my head, offering him a
tight-lipped smile.

“Sorry I have to ask this of you,” I say, looking towards
the harmless object on the table. T
he elephant in the room. “I cannot even imagine how
difficult this will be for you, but I appreciate it fully, my
friend.”

Laughing, the man pulls his
arms back and pushes me lightly.

“What kind of friend would I be
if I refused?”

“A sane one.”

He allows me that, and with a sigh I take the fragile
object in my hands and bring it over to a pa
rt of the workshop where it will not matter if
we get it messy. After setting it down beside the chair I will be
occupying, I lean my father's blade and the sash the sheath is
connected to against the wall, and unbutton my tailcoat.

“How do you know?” he asks, and I look at him briefly over
my shoulder, looki
ng then to
the array of tools I have brought for him to use during the
procedure itself. They shine ominously in the light of the room, a
dull yellow hue.

“Sometimes I canno
t
breathe at all,” I remark, slipping one of the final heirlooms my
father has left me and leaving it safe from harm, at a distance.
After slipping off the shirt I wear beneath and leave it there as
well, I face the man and shrug a shoulder. “Other times, I cannot
move and I know that my blood is not moving in my veins. I can feel
the poison lurking within.”

With that said I take a seat,
and the man sits down on the smaller stool beside the chair,
frowning as he looks at the thin layer of skin stretching over the
heart that was grafted into my chest so long ago.

I a
m lucky to have
survived this long.

“Please tell me there's – no,
no there isn't,” he mutters, pushing a hand to his forehead and
carding it through his fringe, biting his lower lip. When he looks
up at me, his eyes speak the volumes he cannot utter. “It could
very well kill you, what I'm about to do for you.”

“Then how about this?” I start, leaning my head back
against the headrest and closing my eyes, forcing my lungs to slow.
Licking my lips, I try to focus on the darkness behind my lids as I
speak through the
fear. “When
I wake up again, I will make it worth your while – all you will
have to do will be name your price.”

Laughing dryly, he reaches for
a scalpel and holds it up to the light, frowning.

“Oh, don't worry about that
captain,
” he starts
with a smirk, shooting me a look, “I fully intend to be repaid for
this mentally scarring experience.”

Then he turns to the task at
hand, taking a deep breath.

“Alright then; sit back and try
not to hate me, and try not to die.”

“No promises,” I laugh, taking
a breath of my own and trying to relax as much as possible. With
one hand pressed to my right shoulder, the man holds the blade near
the skin stretched over my artificial heart to the point where I
can feel the whispering chill coming off it. I trust him.

I explained to him what he has to
do to properly fit it so I do not die, and how much of
an interval he has to work with before it is lights out for me. I
have known this man for a little less than a month, but I trust him
enough to let him hold my life in his hands.

I hear the small whisper of his apolo
gy and a quick prayer to the Ecillian gods
before he presses down on the silver blade held in his hands, and
in that moment I learn what true pain is.

The stab of agony goes right to my eyes, and my stomach
goes right up to my throat.
Unfortunately for me, I could not find any anaesthetic on
the ship.

Gritting my teeth against the
pain, the burning fire cuts along the skin over my artificial heart
and my head starts pounding in time to its predestined rhythm. I
breathe out harshly, screwing my eyes shut as the blade removes
itself from my skin and clutching the arms of the chair I sit in
with enough force to make the metal of my left hand creak in
protest. Without stopping and without giving me a chance to change
my mind – thank the gods – he starts again, leaving me to suffer
through the hell and force myself to remain silent, to not scream
out in pain.

My ears are ringing and I
am vaguely aware of the fact that he is talking to me, but
I cannot for the life of me hear the things he says. A swear forces
its way through my clenched teeth, and he continues with the
procedure with a quiet apology I catch.

Please bear with the pain for
now, Kennedy. It's going to be okay.

Then he actually starts the procedure of
removing
the artificial heart, and I feel a stab of pain for a
split second before my mind shuts down. Cephas Kennedy Watkins II
has officially checked out of the hotel. Sorry.

Years later, the dull throbbing in my chest forces
me from the sea of numb pain I had
fallen into, a stuttering beat fluttering in my chest. There is a
cool pressure against my face, the chill of the cloth bringing
comfort, and with a shaky inhale I force my eyes open a crack, to a
vast ceiling high overhead with hanging bulbs shining a dull
yellow, the shine reflected on the metal strewn about the room, and
a pair of very concerned blue eyes hiding the majority of the space
I am lying in.

“The floor is cold,” I say – or rather, I
try
. My voice cracks horribly, but I still see that relieved
smile stretching across his face, and his lips moving in a silent
thanks. “How...?”

“After the...” he struggles for the words, and apparently
loses the battle, “I figured it'd be better if you were lying down.
Had I been able to, I would've brought you somewhere more
hospitable.” The cold pressure on my face and neck, I
realise, is his hand holding a thin
cloth and running it across the skin there, cooling my overheated
flesh. Unconsciously, as a wave of exhaustion blankets me, I lean
into the comforting touch and close my eyes again, sighing. As my
body relaxes, so too does the heart beating in my chest, following
the rhythm one would expect of the actual organ and the patterns
that it can take.

It took a hell of a lot of
engineering to get it to that point, and I doubt I could
reconstruct it if I tried.

“How are you feeling?” he
questions, and I smile. My arms lie against my stomach, no doubt
where he put them after bringing me to a position closer to being
in a bed – with my head on his lap to substitute a pillow, his coat
bundled beneath my head – and I weakly reach with a hand to press
it briefly over his own still offering sweet cold water against my
skin.

“I a
m flying,” I
remark, and he laughs lightly in response, a breathy thanks to
Aebrea leaving his lips. Flashing me a relieved smile, the elder
man bites his lower lip as if to contain the joy written across his
face, failing miserably. “Thank you, Lucian; you have the makings
of a brilliant surgeon.”

“Great, you're cracking jokes now,” he scoffs, rolling his
eyes and leaning away. “Now I
know
you're
okay.”

“You love it,” I shoot back,
relaxing. Honestly, I could sleep right about now and die happy. I
miss his next words, the veil of sleep snatching them away from me,
but I hear the ones that follow afterwards.

“Can you wait until you get to
your quarters before you pass out? Alright, so you're going to have
to help me out here, then.”

The man gets up carefully,
pulling me to my feet by my hands and holding me as I sway, unsure
as my legs threaten to collapse. Crouching with his back to me, he
looks over his shoulder and tells me to clamber on, of which I do
so carefully. When he stands again, I grip him around his shoulders
even more tightly, not liking how the ground beneath me is shifting
without my consent.

“Relax, princess,” he teases,
and I press my knee into his side a little more strongly than it
currently is, making him wince. “I'll come back down to clear up
the evidence; for now, let's get you up to the first deck.”

With that said, the man
carefully walks us out the door and down the hallway of the third
deck, the lowermost one. When we reach the ladder he asks me to
wrap my legs securely around his waist, freeing his hands from the
backs of my knees so he can climb up the metal rungs.

It i
s the same
procedure for the next one, and afterwards we reach my quarters
without a hitch, I slowly succumbing to the lull of sleep trying to
wrap around me in a fashion similar to a blanket. He brings us into
the secondary area, the area reserved for my sleeping area –
complete with a bed, wardrobe and private study area – and gently
lowers me onto the surface, taking the cloth he had brought along
to wipe away the blood that is no doubt on my chest,
frowning.

“I'm going to go clean up
downstairs and find some bandages we can use to keep that clean,”
he informs me, and I nod weakly against the pillows, the darkness
of sleep quickly catching up with me. “Get some rest, Kennedy; I'll
be back soon.”

I'm already dead as far as the
world is concerned before he even finishes.

When I wake up
, I
feel oddly refreshed. There is a bandage wrapped around my chest,
and a spot of it is darkened with blood; even so, there is just a
slight discomfort as I sit up carefully, combing my fingers through
my fringe and glancing around, stifling a yawn. The door to the
main room is shut, and the window along the left side of the room
has the curtains drawn shut, the hints of light peeking through the
crack.

At the desk's chair, sitting
with his head bowed forward and chin on his chest, Lucian sleeps on
quietly. His hands are limp between his legs, his forearms resting
on his thighs, and when I carefully walk over to him and peer
curiously at the man, bending down a little so I can see his face
partially hidden by the black curtain of hair cascading over his
features, I see his eyelids flutter slightly in his sleep, a small
smile on his lips.

Crouching on my toes and
grasping the wooden armrest of the chair with a hand to help keep
my balance, I watch him for a while as he sleeps on, completely at
ease. A smile tugs its way onto my lips without my being able to
really help it.

What time of the night did you force yourself to stay awake
to,
I wonder to myself, my
eyes catching sight of a book that lies half-open on his thighs,
probably having fallen there just as he fell asleep. Curiously, I
peer at the cover.

The
Iliad
.
Huh.

Looking back at his sleeping
face, I let out a light, airy chuckle.

Never picked him out as a
classical literature kind of man.

Now that
I think
about it, I really do not know much about him save for the things
he has told me – about his past and family history in particular,
but never once have we spoken about who we are
now
.

At the very least, he is a good
man; he saved my life.

Eve
n though I know I
should not force myself just yet, I carefully take the book from
his lap and place it on my desk, and once I have that done I
somehow manage to pick him up without waking him once I pull off
his boots, bringing him over to the bed I just vacated and placing
him under the confines of the warm sheets. It is rather cold at
this altitude, and it is perfect for catching your death if you are
not careful.

I am also well aware that it i
s viewed rather poorly, one man sleeping in another
man's bed under practically any circumstance, but up in the
Skylands, the only rules you have are the ones you make yourself,
and all others are meant to be broken.

So if I decide to let my Quarter M
aster rest in my bed, then that is my rule. My
decision, and damn it this is my ship and I will do what I damn
well please.

Satisfied once he i
s
secured beneath the warmth, I hunt down a warm sweater I can pull
over my bandages and relish in the warmth it provides me, sighing
blissfully. A quick peek at my father's pocket watch, resting on
the table near the book he was reading, informs me that it is only
three in the morning, and it is confirmed when I glance out through
the curtains a moment before pulling them shut again. After
shooting one last look to the elder man sleeping as if he is dead,
I slip into the main room and shut the door quietly behind me,
massaging the skin around my new wound gingerly. It is sensitive to
the touch.