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The silence between them was deafening. Interspersed only by the poignant clacking of his boots against the expensive hardwood beneath them. He paced. Back and forth. The only way he could think of not storming into those cells to free Pyro and Amber.
How long had it been? Mere minutes? Hours? Time dragged impossibly slow in a manner he was unused to. It wasn't the tame, relaxing crawl of lounging near the hearth nor was it the determined slugging through a task. This was different. Harshly so. A feeling of betrayal swirling with otherworldly worry, clawing at his heels desperately. The anger was bubbling, molten where he usually ran cold—but this wasn't an issue he could fix by punching stone. Nor was it as simple as handling a pest problem in slaughtering bandits.
Nothing ever goes right. Every time they think things will be okay, a wrench is thrown into their plans, setting them all off course. He feels—reasonably—homicidal. The same way he felt when learning Pyro was kidnapped. The same way he felt when getting Amber back. The same way he felt then, surrounded by bloodied snow.
A sharp exhale leaves him, clearly visible in the way it curls, almost akin to smoke had it not been frozen air. He knows if he focused on it he would see the flakes of snow swirling around him erratically. A veritable condensed snowstorm that leaves a growing trail alongside patches of ice on the wood flooring. Bitterly, he hopes his actions damage the floor. A spiteful, karmic thought wishing to bring any inconvenience to the Crown that he could.
Scott knows what treason means. He knows. The possible outcome has his own treasonous thoughts swirling uncontrollably. If Pyro is sentenced, he knows what he'll do. He had just got his friend back, spent so little time with him—has it really been a couple months?—, the thought of losing him shatters something deep within.
"Scott," The other's soft voice drags him out of internal musings.
Sharp, violently lilac eyes snap into focus, an unconscious glare present. The look hardly affects Osteon, their own purple eyes meeting his gaze evenly. No matter their differences, no matter Scott's disappointment—the heavy, crushing weight of responsibility he thought he could share—, he takes comfort in their steadiness. Even with the uncharacteristically worried gleam in Osteon's own eyes.
What. He wants to snap. Instead, he bites his tongue to stifle spitting vitriol at her, Osteon was not the one at fault here. They did nothing to him—recently, that is, but he can still acknowledge holding a grudge. No matter how reasonable it is—and deserved no retaliation against them.
"Scott," He starts again, almost hesitant in tone. "I doubt I can encourage you to... calm yourself, but could you possibly control your abilities?"
Scott wants to do no such thing. He wants to spit and hiss and shout and scream about the unfairness of this all. He wants to free his friends. He wants to have a word with the Queen uninterrupted with no consequences. He wants to snap back at Osteon for even commenting on his inability to calm down. But, we can't all get what we want in this world. So, with nothing more than unintelligible grumbles—that, if translated, would land him in a cell next to Pyro and Amber—he attempts to reign in his powers. Something needlessly difficult in his heighten emotions.
Silence reigns once again. Thus, allowing Scott to focus on pacing like a predator in a cage. His body aches. Each step sends a spike of pain radiating down his spine. There's a throbbing jolt following every stomp—lucky hits from bandits during the chaos of ensuring everyone's safety. It doesn't matter whether or not they're lucky as they are significant enough to be hurting now, long past the adrenaline and numbing shock of seeing Pyro and Amber hauled off in chains.
He hardly noticed them when hastily treating Pyro and was more interested in pushing through the interaction with the Queen to get treated by Violet later. Achingly, he knows if Pyro sees him—and looks past the situation at hand—he would immediately be able to tell his condition. He would know and scold Scott as if he wasn't the most pressing issue at that moment, as if Scott even properly noticed his own injuries since things never calmed down. At least, in his anger, the ice helped somewhat numb the wounds. No matter how dangerous he knew that to be—it was important to know where one was injured, he couldn't even fully tell unless he sat down and examined himself. One of the downsides of being an ice mage.
"Scott," Prompts Osteon again, much more talkative than he's ever seen, really. Their voice is a little strained, near-cautious.
As if he would bite their head off for addressing him. He may be a... little wound up, but he would never act on his anger toward someone absolved of guilt. He's not uncontrollable. No matter how much his magic tries to make it seem like he is. He pauses his pacing to focus on Osteon, shifting his weight to what he thinks is the uninjured leg. They're both twinging enough that he can't parse which is which.
He continues in the face of Scott's undivided attention. "Are you injured?" They ask. Less a question and more of a prodding for him to confirm their suspicion.
It seems she knows, even if he confirms or denies it. So, he doesn't bother to omit the details of his condition. "Yes." Scott says simply, unconcernedly in the face of the issue at hand.
Osteon, on the other hand, seems far more concerned about his well-being. They lean forward, almost as if they want to draw closer before deciding against it. "Do you know the extent?" He prod instead, scanning his ruffled, admittedly still bloodstained outfit.
Even if he changed out of the disguise, it wasn't difficult for the blood to transfer when he hastily changed. Not that it seemed Her Majesty minded.
Scott shakes his head and Osteon makes another aborted motion toward him. It's decidedly odd. Not something he would really expect from their Head of Security. "Do you require medical attention?"
This question is paired with a knowing gaze tinged with worry. Scott hates to stress people and something about the way she looks at him makes him want to relent. But, that would likely result in him leaving and he can't do that. No, he could deal with his own injuries at another time. When Pyro and Amber are let out, hopefully. He shakes his head.
But, Osteon continues despite his denials, "Scott, I suggest you... patch yourself up—" He opens his mouth to refuse. Only, the other dragon rider interrupts. "—this is not up for debate. Do you have any medical equipment on you?"
It's clear by his non-answer that he doesn't, to which Osteon sighs before stepping forward. She pulls a well-worn pouch from inside her coat, gloved hands firmly pressing it into his grip. He takes it to prevent the object from falling, but moves to do nothing. Not out of some need to disobey or anything along those lines. It was more to do with the fact that he doesn't know where he was injured.
He knows a vague area—tantamount to the pulsing ache coming from parts of his body—but would prefer not to strip down to locate them. Maybe Osteon knows or maybe they don't, but another thing stopping him from doing so is his need to poke and prod his own skin to locate the injuries, revealing that he can't properly feel where they are. A fact he'd love to keep close to his chest what with the dangers that could provide. He wasn't going to reveal that willy-nilly in the middle of the castle. Who knew who was listening?
His stalling only seems to annoy Osteon for the man snatches the pouch from his hands before digging through it. This may be the most Scott's seen from them in terms of emotions ever since meeting them. Usually, their passing conversations are paired with dull, professional facades with only a twitching brow exposing their irritation from other's antics. That annoyance is usually amusing to see on their face, no matter how subdued. This? This version of it makes Scott want to retreat if only to not have that expression pointed toward him. It felt almost... vulnerable. It makes him wonder if this situation reminded the dragon rider of years past, when she, herself, was a new initiate.
Smoothly, Osteon couches down to reach what Scott now notices as a growing red spot down his left leg. At least that identified the worst one. They work in silence, easily locating the injury—as if they already knew where it was without looking—before gently applying a cream(?) and bandages. With that secured, he moves to the next one, spinning Scott around to gain access to some wound on his back he can't see.
"Why didn't you get yourself treated?" Osteon whispers into the back of his neck, focused enough on his wounds Scott doubts they would notice the way the hairs on the back of his neck raise.
He answers near-immediately, voice just as soft. "Pyro needed it the most—" He pauses, thoughts drifting to his friend's condition before snapping back into focus. "—and then Her Majesty requested our presence."
The snide way he says their Monarch's title has the gloved hands prodding his back pause before continuing their movements. He's thankful the other doesn't chide him for his tone. Scott thinks that would not end well, in the end, and he might do something he'd regret. Osteon almost seems just as... aggrieved at the Queen's conduct.
He keeps perfectly still as the wither mage works, allowing them to poke and prod all they want. Any time he moves, even a minute shift, Osteon stops or flinches away, as if she personally attacked Scott. It definitely allows him to see a more vulnerable side of Osteon and he doesn't know what to think about it. On one hand, it shows a deal of trust. On the other, it shows trust at the behest of his comfort. Both keyed up after the day they had and uncomfortable from someone he barely knew treating him at what would be his most vulnerable.
It takes a lot of trust on his end to allow the other to do this.
"There," The other throws out casually, pulling away only once they deemed him sufficiently treated.
Scott does his best not to watch the way Osteon retreats, keeping his gaze planted firmly on the doorway leading down to the cells holding Pyro and Amber. He does his best to ignore how he feels worse without them right next to him. Overheating rather than how someone would classically feel too cold without the person's presence. He fails to acknowledge it, adjusting his snowflake coat to properly cover where the wither mage treated him.
Thankfully, it appears their wait is finally over as, once they have properly separated, a pair of guards scale the steps and motion for them to follow. One even has the gall to gruffly order them with a tone that, had he been any less sane, would've ended in blood. Osteon, almost sensing his foul mood, moves accordingly to take the lead. He does not feel thankful but recognizes the mess him acting could incur. It was probably best for the seasoned dragon rider to take point on this.
Maybe after this was all over he could sit down and look back on this situation—as if.