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English
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Published:
2023-11-16
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1,487
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1/1
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Between the signs

Summary:

Scribes weren't supposed to show their emotions.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

It’s one of the first rules of the Scribe Quadrant: Don’t show excess emotion.

There’s supposed to be nothing more important than the written words they preserve and watch over in the Archives. But in this moment, as Violet hands her Lyra’s journal—a piece of priceless Navarrian history once preserved under royal wards—Jesinia couldn’t care less about the book. She shoves the journal into her robes.

“Why is Sawyer in the infirmary?” she signs, feeling her heart beat against the ribs of her chest.

Violet is stone-faced when she answers, drained perhaps from the battle so far. Or maybe Violet would have made a better scribe than she thinks. “A wyvern took his leg,” Violet signs.

Jesinia inhales sharply, involuntarily. Compose yourself, she says to herself. What would Markham say if he saw her reaction? He’d know that Sawyer means something to her, and a bigger strike against her she couldn’t imagine. Then she remembers she shouldn’t care what Markham thinks of her.

“Go,” Violet signs. “If we evacuate the wounded, Maren said she’d watch over him, so if we evacuate, that’s the safest place for you to be. She’ll get you both out.”

Instructions—yes, she needs those, because otherwise Jesinia fears she will remain standing here while the battle rages around her. Not Sawyer.

She nods to her friend. “Be safe.”

The corners of Violet’s mouth turn down in weariness. “You too.” She was there, when Sawyer was hurt, and horror washes anew over Jesinia. She saw it all.

Jesinia picks up her robes as best she can and takes off across Basgiath’s courtyard, Lyra’s journal thumping against her side with each running step. She wonders what her fellow scribes would think of her, running down hallways, her robes billowing as she sprints, revealing the standard cream-colored tunic and pants underneath. Would they think she lost her mind? Would they think she was running to safety from the attacks raging outside?

Both were true, she supposes. Jesinia is sure she’s crazy—enough to run outside to the courtyard in hopes that Violet would be smart enough to decipher the inconsistencies regarding the dragons needed to raise the wards. That was the only way to keep them all safe from the venin.

If only she had been able to provide that answer. Maybe they could have raised the wards hours ago. Maybe Sawyer wouldn’t be in the infirmary.

“I’ll be OK,” he had signed to her right before battle.

He’d come to the archives as soon as he’d heard she had arrived, his golden red hair tousled and windblown, as if he’d arrived to Basgiath on his dragon that very minute, and despite the war that awaited him, he gave her a reassuring smile. She’d never tell anyone, but she loved the way his skin was smattered with freckles. It reminded her of the faded inkblots on the old tomes, like a scribe had been in a rush to record the blueprints of his soul.

And she’d believed that he would be OK. Why wouldn’t she? He was a rider, one that had not lost his spirit even as he was forced to repeat his first year because he had been unable to bond with a dragon during his first go. He had done every death-defying challenge of the Rider’s Quadrant twice. He’d been chosen by a red swordtail, a temperamental species.

She wished she had said something different to him other than “You look handsome in your flight jacket,” knowing the signs would still be too complex for him to understand, and therefore bearing no risk. She had been right. He squinted, hazel eyes trained on her hands.

“I look…” he trailed off, mouth moving as he speaks the words he signs.

“Ready for battle,” she signed with a small smile. Three words he definitely could understand.

Sawyer had brightened at being able to understand. “I’m getting better,” he signed. “No blue turtles today.” His shoulders moved as he laughed.

She grinned at him, recalling that moment as they sat by the fire at Rhiannon’s sister’s house, where he meant to tell her that he could see her being chosen by a blue dragon if she had been a rider, the most ridiculous of notions. Her? Ride a dragon as terrifying as Sgaeyl? No, thank you.

For a long moment in the Archives, after their laughter ceased, they just looked at each other and Jesinia wondered if he would kiss her, and if he leaned in, whether she would kiss him back.

But then Imogen had shown up and they’d started talking about Lyra’s journal and comparing it to Warrick’s, and the fleeting moment was gone. Jesinia had felt dumb at the time, because what was she doing wondering about what Sawyer’s lips would feel like pressed against hers when the only reason she was at Basgiath was to help raise the wards.

And she’d failed anyway.

Jesinia pushes through the heavy double doors of the infirmary and nothing could have prepared her for the devastation she encounters. Wounded after wounded line the floors, mostly infantry, but there are enough riders in the room that dread settles over her like lead. Many are crying and others are unconscious. She scans the rows for Sawyer.

She finds him in the middle of it all, Maren at his side. He’s gripping her hand as a healer stitches up what remains of his leg.

Oh gods.

Sawyer’s limb is missing from the knee down.

Jesinia feels a gasp leave her lips, and she has no idea if it was loud or not, but it doesn’t matter because the wails of the injured likely override any sound she’s capable of making.

She hurries over to Sawyer’s side and Maren doesn’t seem surprised to see her there. She squeezes Sawyer’s hand, and Jesinia sees her lips moving. She’s never been a good lip reader, but she concentrates hard to try and decipher what the flier is saying.

Sawyer’s eyes open, hazed and unfocused. “Jesinia,” he says, and that’s one word she recognizes on his lips. Her name.

He lets go of Maren’s hand. Beads of sweat dot his temple and he looks horribly pale. He’s likely lost a river of blood, judging by the sheets on the cot under him and the drenched state of his pant leg on his thigh.

Sawyer tries to sit up and the healer chastises him, judging by his furrowed brow and tightness in his jaw.

“Is he out of danger?” she signs to the healer, but he looks at her blankly and Jesinia huffs in frustration. Out of all the healers, Sawyer gets the one that can’t sign.

She looks down at Sawyer, unsure of what to do. Maybe he sees that too, because he signs with trembling hands. “I’m OK. You see… other guy.”

Jesinia is confused for a split second until she realizes what he’s trying to sign to her. He’s making a joke. “Not funny,” she signs.

“A little funny.”

The healer puts down his needle and thread and begins bandaging the stump of his leg. An unreadable look passes through Sawyer’s eyes and she can’t help herself. She reaches over and runs her fingers down the side of his jaw, gently. His skin is softer than she expected.

Sawyer’s eyes flit through hers and she can see the pain he’s trying to mask. The uncertainty. In that moment, they don’t need to communicate with lip reading or sign language. She knows what he’s thinking and she hates that she doesn’t have an answer for him.

What’s a rider without his leg?

She’s a scribe. She’s supposed to have all the answers, if not in her head, then within reach of her fingertips.

“You will ride again,” she signs.

 Sawyer shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she signs, making her hand movements bigger than usual so that he really gets the point. “You are brave. You don’t give up. You will get through this.”

She’s not sure he grasped all of her signs, so she repeats, “You will ride again, Sawyer. I know it.”

He nods, exhaustion threatening to claim him once again, but he signs, “Thank you” before closing his eyes.

Jesinia stays until the healer is finished wrapping his leg with gauze. She stays until after Maren leaves to go bring in more wounded. She stays even after Violet somehow manages to raise the wards. She stays even as the lights are turned down for the night.

She doesn’t leave Sawyer’s side even if she’s the only one in cream robes standing stark against the dark infantry and rider uniforms and the bloodstains on the infirmary floor. With his head in her lap, Sawyer fast asleep in the darkness, she brings her lips to his forehead.

And for the first time in a long time, she knows she’s right where she’s supposed to be.

Notes:

Hi all! I just finished Iron Flame on Sunday and I couldn't get these two out of my head. When I checked AO3, no one had written a fic about them so I was like, "Welp... Guess I will" 😅