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Not much has gone to plan, as of late.
Not that it ever has, dangerous missions handled by a squad of “criminals” have a tendency to go awry, but this particular undertaking has proven…challenging.
At best.
Cithis has grown used to complicated matters, one look at their beloved Captain could show as much, but no amount of foresight could account for where The Canaries find themselves now.
Beaten, broken, dragging their people down a seemingly endless hallway toward the end, with bodies thrown across shoulders and strangers watching over their backs. It’s messy, risky, but at this point, there’s no other choice but to trust.
She huffs, carefully clinging to a by tall-man’s back, and her body throbs with every step as they lumber through the cluttered corridor. But she can't look away. From him.
From them.
Dark, loose curls. Worn leathers and plate metal. The posture of a man with three times the confidence he actually possesses. And over Kabru’s armored shoulder lies Captain Mithrun—arms slack, damp silver hair swaying with every step. A tanned thumb traces circles against planes of battered golden armor, soothing, despite the fact The Captain is most certainly unconscious.
A fact that does not seem to matter much to Kabru, as he continues without as much as a hint of depleted strength.
Any other man, elf, or otherwise would have dropped him already, but Kabru keeps him secured. Unwavering, such as his loyalty to Mithrun appears to be. Kabru has upturned their lives in more ways than one; but despite circumstance, Cithis is grateful.
If it hadn't been for Kabru’s insistence, The Captain’s curiosity, and a series of admittedly inconvenient circumstances, it may have been too late.
Would have.
She is unsure if it’s well-hidden genius, sheer luck, or some combination of the two and an unknown third, but the truth remains: Kabru has made himself important to them. He’s made himself indispensable.
He handles The Captain with a care and understanding that not only rivals, but exceeds…everything.
And The Captain seems to accept.
Reciprocate.
Cithis feels her chest pulse, a bone-deep discomfort, hopefully nothing more than a delayed reaction to recently sustained injuries, and she finally looks away. Her eyes fall shut, teeth grinding as she bites back the pain, and with a controlled groan, she drops her forehead between the blond tall-man’s shoulder blades.
Laios, she thinks he’s called.
He’s been mumbling since they left that room, nothing more than white noise as she's attempted to form plans for their collective next step, but as Laios’ low voice rumbles between their skin, her consciousness begins to drift.
Eyelashes flutter open briefly, enough to catch a glimpse. Of Kabru’s turned head, furrowed brow, and the faintest trace of a dimple on his cheek. Then her vision tunnels to comfortable darkness. For now, at least.
She has no fewer questions than before, but with the warm relief that pools in her gut, Cithis can rest.
The Captain is in good hands.