bakerstreet | I've got red in my ledger

[ The Redeemer. ]

.

[ Keegan is not a light sleeper; quite the opposite, in fact. Once he slept through a dust storm that almost took off the roof. Another time he slept through a hailstorm with ice as big as his fist. That happened, he supposes, because there wasn't enough of a threat to warrant waking. Whatever is downstairs, on the other hand, does. Which is why he awakens with a sharp inhale of pain, the serpents marked into his chest twisting and writhing beneath his skin. His eyes flutter open, hand pressing to his mark in annoyance — before the muffled sound of something thumping quietly to the ground a few rooms over catches his attention, seeing Keegan fully awake all at once. Silence, and then movement.

Someone's in the house.

Moving with quiet care, Keegan slips from his bed, heart hammering in his chest. A burglary? Way out here? Why? It's not like he keeps anything of particular value. Healing medicinals, mostly. But that's of worth to someone, he guesses. And the horses. Is someone getting things from the house before going to steal his horses? He curses silently, going to where his shotgun is kept in the corner of the room. He needs those horses, and he can't possibly afford to replace even one of them right now.

Making sure the shells are loaded, he steps quietly from the room, keeping close to the wall so the floorboards don't creak beneath him. He tries to mentally count back from ten, desperate to focus on anything but the way his hands have begun to shake. He just needs to scare them off. Send them on their way — with food, if they need it, if they're desperate — and then think about getting the locks redone. Easy-peasy. No problem at all.

Seeing a fallen canister on the floor, Keegan takes in a breath, then rounds the corner into the kitchen sharply, leveling his shotgun on the man illuminated in the moonlight through the nearby window who is currently rummaging through his medical cabinet. ]

Th-That's far enough! Stop right there, h-hands where I can see them!

[ Elsin is dying. Or, he will be, he thinks, if something isn't done for this bleeding soon. Already dizzy with blood loss, it spills from between his fingers, coating his front. Life is different in these parts, he knows, but is it really so difficult to keep a healing potion or two on hand?

Slowly turning, he raises one hand in surrender, the other pressed into the wound in his shoulder. His voice is low and rough, but still it manages to keep an air of culture uncommon out here in the wild plains. ]

Are you a doctor?

[ He must be. Only a doctor would have so many healing supplies and not one gods damned healing potion. ]

[ Oh. As the man turns, Keegan's eyes are drawn immediately to his grievous wound. The paleness of his skin isn't just from the moonlight; he's lost a lot of blood. The grip on his shotgun falters. That looks bad — really bad. ]

I'm... I'm a healer. Yes.

[ He's torn. His instinct is to put down the rifle and go to him, tend to his bleeding, see him cared for — but wasn't it just two days ago in the market that he overheard the locksmith chatting away with the barkeep about a fugitive? They didn't know what he'd done, just that he was a danger. And nothing about this fellow looks savory, fancy accent aside. Breaking into his house doesn't help. So he's left with his rifle half-turned, still partially trained on his uninvited guest, but not reliably so. ]

[ That's more than enough of an opening for someone with El's training. Before the other man can get a shot off, he's stepped into his space, knocked barrel harmlessly away while twisting the gun from his grip, stepping back again to train the weapon on the other man. ]

Turn on a light, if you will. Let me make it clear: I don't wish to hurt you. I only need a bit of healing and a few days to lay low, then I'll be on my way.

[ His breath catches with a choked gasp of distress as the shotgun is wrenched from his hands, the sound bitten sharply off when he finds himself staring down the barrel of his own weapon, wielded by someone who obviously has far greater experience with the weaponry than he. Lifting his hands, he freezes in place, trying not to show how hard he's breathing. He fucked up. Gods, he absolutely fucked up. Light? A light? His eyes dart to the table, then back to the fugitive. ]

I-I'm not hooked up to the city gas, I've just, I've got lamps, I'd need... I have to light it. I have to get the matches from the cabinet first.

[ Lay low? Here? No, no no no, that's not... Panic grips him. Is he going to die here? Is this how it happens? He takes a step back; towards the cabinet or towards the door is hard to say. ]

You can't... You can't stay here.

[ He glances between his captive and the set of cabinets, before motioning to them with the barrel. ]

That isn't your choice, mate. As I said, it will only be a few days. Cooperate, and afterwards we'll merrily go our separate ways. Or, don't, and I'll leave the consequences up to your imagination.

[ There's a tense silence before Keegan finally relents, moving to the cabinets with care and retrieving the matches from inside. Every step is measured as he goes then to the table, focusing on his task and not the gun leveled at his chest. With trembling fingers he lights a match and sets it to the lamp; his hands shake too badly, however, and he drops the match with a quiet curse. The second fares better as he sets the kerosene alight, adjusting the knob to bathe their half of the room in soft light.

This done, he turns to look at the man who is now his captor — and it's worse than he'd previously thought. He was definitely shot, and not cleanly. The man is pale from bloodloss, but tough as nails, it seems, as his hands hold the shotgun steady and his eyes remain clear. One false move from him and Keegan is very much sure he'll have his head blown clean off. And he wants to stay here? Hide out? What then? His hands clench at his sides as, for a moment, he feels the writhing of a serpent against his chest. He knows which it is without looking: the black serpent is threatened. It does not take kindly to threat. He could cast something, try and incapacitate his attacker — but he's stressed beyond measure, and even in the best of times he has less leverage over the dark half of his mark as compared to the light. What if the backlash is just as bad as the attack itself? What if he can't reign in its power?

What if he kills him?

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he purses his lips together, trying to look at least a fraction less panicked than he feels. ]

You're... You're wounded pretty bad. My medicines, they won't— they're not enough, I need to... to do something stronger. So I, I need to touch it. Y-You'll need to put down my gun.

[ He frowns suspiciously, doing an impressive job of pretending as though his vision isn't going dim at the edges. Sweat clings to his brow, however, and El is too aware of how short his time grows. He maintains his grip on the shotgun. ]

You're a cleric?

[ Oh, boy. That's not one that's easy to explain, so... he doesn't. ]

I'm a healer, like I said. But I can't do anything when you've got a barrel in my face, so it's... You need to put it down so I can stop the bleeding.

[ He lifts his hands again to try and show that he is unarmed and nonthreatening. In hopes of furthering things along, he adds: ]

I need to do something soon, the spot where you're hit, that's... you're going to bleed out. It's a miracle you're still standing, but that's not going to last much longer. Just... Just let me do my job.

[ Is it too much to ask just for a couple of healing potions? A few moments pass by where it seems as though he won't relent, until the barrel drops, pointing towards the ground. The strain of remaining upright begins to show in deep lines carved in his expression, but his eyes remain clear as he looks at his captive seriously. ]

Lie to me, and I don't need this to kill you.

[ Apparently the risk is worth the chance of survival, however. It's hardly as though El himself can get any more dead. ]

[ He doesn't hesitate. The second the threat is out of the way he moves forward, focus in his task dampening his fear if only for the moment. Lifting his right hand, he presses it to the wound — but rather than recite a spell or incantation, he frowns with concentration, brows furrowing together. Warmth begins to spread through El's wounded shoulder, the flow of blood ebbing to a standstill before the skin knits at least partially closed. It's not fully mended — he is not, in fact, a cleric — but it's stabilized. Enough to ensure he won't die.

Should El glance down in the process, he'll certainly notice something unusual. From beneath the healer's sleeve, movement; a white serpent, marked into his skin like a tattoo, slithers its way onto the back of his hand and across his knuckles. Keegan could hide it if he wanted — but the distraction is what he's looking for. The moment the warm glow from his hand begins to fade, his left hand swings down to grasp hold of the barrel of the shotgun, trying to wrench it away from the elf while moving to step back and put distance between the two of them. ]

[ Instinctively, El recoils at the sight of the winding serpent, the shotgun sliding from his fingers easily. Eyes widening in realization, in one smooth motion he pulls a pistol out of his belt, holding the barrel of the other man's gun down and away from him as he aims his own at the man's head. ]

What was that-- that thing on your hand?!

[ Oh, gods, he fucked up. What did he think he could do? Why did he try anything? The color drains from his face, his grip tight on his recovered shotgun, for all it did for him. The barrel of the pistol nearly touches his sweat-dotted forehead. He feels like he might throw up. On his chest, Dusk writhes, but he doesn't allow her to move beyond that; nothing she has is fast enough to stop the pull of a trigger. He is at the mercy of a man he's just made very, very angry. ]

Please—

[ His voice is weak. Small. It's hard to speak around the tightness of his throat. He swallows thickly, chest heaving. ]

Please, I-I did what you asked, you're— you're healed up as much as I can give you, you can just— I won't tell anyone I saw you, just, just leave—

[ He grasps his shoulder, still warm from the other man's touch. The bleeding has slowed, yes. If anything, the fugitive seems even more panicked by this; panicked that he can't name what was cast. ]

Answer the question! What did you do to me?

[ He flinches as the fugitive's voice grows shrill, frozen in place. God, he's going to kill him. How does he de-escalate this? Is the mark going to make it better? It sure as hell never has in the past. His eyes fix down on the ground, both in a gesture of submission and a general desire not to stare down the object of his demise, like a child looking away from a doctor's needle. Breathe. Just breathe. ]

It's—

[ He doesn't know how to explain. He doesn't know what to say to keep from making things worse. ]

It's a... it's a dragonmark, it, it helps me heal, that's it. That's all. That's all it did. I had to use it to save your life, I d-don't have anything else that could have done it.

[ No matter how hard he tries, he can't stop shaking. Tears well in his eyes. Is this how he dies? Begging? In tears? Pathetic. His father wouldn't be the least bit surprised. His voice is soft when he speaks. ]

Please. I'm sorry. Please put the gun down.

[ He stares at the human for an uncomfortably long time, before biting out an Elvish oath. Even if dragonmarks did manifest in such a way, which they certainly do not, he clearly isn't from the halfling line of healing. ]

An aberration?

[ The fugitive doesn't wait for a reply. He knows the answer, which makes the other man the most dangerous thing in the room. Still, the explanation eases some of the tension in the room. The pistol doesn't waver, but he at least eases himself down into a chair, grimacing. ]

Lay your weapon on the floor. I've already said I'm not interested in hurting you, and I despise repeating myself.

[ Aberration. Despite himself, he looks pained at the words, teeth clenching together. Aberration. It's not just what they called the mark. After it manifested, his name no longer mattered; he was only the sum of the serpents on his skin. He'd been fortunate here in the rural prairie, where the people knew nothing of dragonmarks, let alone what happened when they appeared on those that didn't deserve them. It's been years since he had to refer to it by name.

Aberration. Such a horrible word.

Hesitating for only a moment, Keegan slowly eases his shotgun down to the floor before straightening again. He watches his captor only with his peripherals now — out of much more than fear now, the shame of his mark rushing back to him for the first time since he ran away from home. He stares downward, brows knit together. ]

I'm a healer. I... I take care of people from town. I don't know when they'll come by. It doesn't make sense for you to stay here.

[ Surely that's sensible enough, isn't it? But there's the matter of his face, right? Doesn't that happen in his books all the time? His fists clench at his sides. ]

I won't tell anyone I saw your face. I-I swear.

Good. Now slide it towards me, if you would.

[ Scoffing, he rolls his eyes hard enough for it to ache. ]

That would only work if I hadn't been charged with a crime yet. Which I have been. For several, actually. And what wouldn't make sense is leaving while the men who shot me are still out there searching.

[ His eyebrows pointedly rise. ]

Particularly while leaving a trail for them to follow. So, are you going to finish or not?

[ Resigned, he uses his foot to slide the shotgun across the floor to the fugitive, lips pursed. He wants to argue, but he gets the strong sense that he's already pushed his luck far enough as it is; he needs to bide his time. Finally lifting his eyes to meet the other man's, he grimaces, exhaling through his nose. To be honest, just that much healing was a bit of a strain — Dawn is drained, having had to bring a man back from what would have soon been the brink of death — but he doesn't find himself in the position to press for more time to recover. There's no hiding the displeasure in his expression, both from having to perform the task in the first place, and from the elf's patronizing tone. He's not a fan of being talked down to. ]

...Fine.

[ Rolling up his sleeves reveals no mark, oddly enough. With measured care he walks to the fugitive, making no sudden movements. He doesn't ask for the gun to be put down this time, but instead points out another issue: ]

Your shirt is in the way. I-I can't see the wound.

kylo b̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶o̶l̶o̶ ren. STAR ☆ WARS. ota

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