Work Text:
Amnesia-
1: loss of memory due usually to brain injury, shock, fatigue, repression, or illness
2: a gap in one's memory
Blood clings thick to his lips, head ringing like a struck bow, vertigo crawling up his throat like his guts want to follow.
Armored bodies all around him, grabbing onto him, caging him in, keep him propped up.
Words. So many words, shouted in multiple languages, it makes the throbbing at the base of his neck pulse angrily.
His body pulses along with the migraine, his empty hands, a thought that tries to shoot a thread of anxiety through him but is quickly drowned out, grasping useless at nothing, missing the weight of a weapon in them.
Those hands pull at him, this way and that, like they don't quite know what to do with him, now that they have him. Learned panic clogs his throat, ephemeral thoughts of 'don't get caught, never get caught!' flitter through his head.
Then, a presence.
It shadows everyone and the world, the sun itself seeming to dim around the edges, its shadow falling over Liano like an eclipse, leaving him chilled.
His eyes are finally able to muzzily focus on something concrete, his eyes traveling up from the hem of thick, opulent robes, over medals and jewels, until he reaches a large face, dark eyes hidden beneath a crown of gold, the figure before him drawing his weakened attention like a planet to a star.
"Oh, de'lan," the figure speaks, his voice light and deep, seeping into Rook's bones, "what has happened to you?" Power shimmers in the air around him, flowing outward to twine around all within his orbit, keeping them entranced, docile.
Golden eyes full of concern watch him, and Liano can't remember who this is or why he feels that he should be afraid, or angry, or something at him, but he knows the term he's called is an affectionate one, and with no harm coming to him, he clings on the solid anchor before him with all he has, figuring things out can come later.
"I…" he croaks out, licking his lips and tasting his own blood, "I don't know?"
And it's true, that much he's very certain of, his mind is a world of fog, like wildfire smoke has crept into every nook and cranny of his thoughts, obscuring everything from sight. A thought that should bring panic, but at the moment, he can't bring himself to care.
The figure frowns, leaning back in thought, gaze roving over Rook's battered body assessingly.
Alarm bells attempt to ring, somewhere in the far distance of Rook's mind, not liking being so penned in, so many hands still on him, at being the attention of whoever that is, a small whine leaving his throat, a sorry attempt at a growl.
That look he's being given shifts, the larger figure's face morphing into a look of fatherly worry, moving his hands to direct those around him, holding Liano up.
Liano tries to stay awake, to focus on what the one before him is saying, the person's lips are moving, but the words slide past Rook's ears with ease.
Slowly, Liano's world tilts and fades, body going limp, his last view is of those concerned, ancient feeling eyes watching him collapse, the last sensation of large hands scooping him up and away from the others, to be held against a broad chest.
His brain has one last, feeble thought: there's certainly worse fates than this, right?