Chapter Text
Today is a good day.
Tonight?
A quick squint at the clock confirms: tonight.
It's always dark in the office. Even if he wasn't in a basement, wasn't in a place next to a room full of bodies in the center of a basement, it'd always be dark. A couple of tapestries hung on the wall, scriptures of every major deity easily viewable, candles lit in place of the electric lights above. He doesn't necessarily need to worry quite so much about keeping it sterile in here. It's not like the living patients ever come through here. What does it matter? It's comfortable.
“Paging Honoured Caelum,” chimes a voice he recognises as Winterberry from the emergency floor. “Honoured Caelum, room 113.”
The announcement plays on the little speaker on his desk at the same time as the magical device slung around his neck begins to heat his hide. That's - hm. Concerning. It must be urgent.
Aestel pulls himself up out of his makeshift cot (generous name for it) and hastily summons up his book. Amanueni sits by the door, tail curled around her paws, and disappears through the closed surface as soon as Aestel is moving.
It's not often that the various receptionists throughout Swiftreed bother with both pagers at once. The last time it was a particularly wrathful poltergeist, tossing things and knocking over IV stands and making a right mess of the place… Oh, he hopes that's not it.
Slipping out of the basement, Aestel dips his head at various staff members that he passes by. Dragons moving the dead, covers pulled gently over their faces, ghosts occasionally trailing behind. Aestel will have to deal with them in a moment - he needs to get up to the ground floor quick as he can.
“Oh! Aestel, is -”
“Sorry! Sorry, haven't got the time to chat!” he calls to the aether that he nearly clatters into. With a swift sidestep, he scurries along down the hall, into a door at the left, and barrels up the steps. Amanueni jumps up and disappears into the pendant hanging from his neck.
The ground floor large dragon emergency wing - of which houses room 113 - is bustling this time of year. Early August means there's plenty of traffic through Aergate, only a skip away from Swiftreed, and with that comes plenty of patients. Flight accidents, rough landings… sometimes dragons aren't used to the winds of the Plateau. The Aergate itself makes for faster travel down to the Ashfall Wastes. The times before and after festivals are always so busy. Aestel isn't surprised to find himself here. (Though winding through the legs of dragons significantly larger than him is always an experience… He's rather small for a pearlcatcher , of course.)
“Aestel!”
This time, he turns and follows the direction from which his name is called. Just outside of room 113 stands another rather small pearlcatcher, red and purple and black: the only other dragon on staff capable of seeing ghosts. He's up on his hindpaws, rubbing sanitiser over his scales on his forepaws. Aestel can't imagine anyone else would be calling him in.
“Dr Doran,” he greets, shuffling hurriedly under a ridgeback nurse's legs. “What calls?”
“There's a ghost hovering around the patient, he's -”
“Obviously those ribs are fine, they’re fucking fine, because they’re made of metal! You fucking imbecile! You are wasting time!”
Ah… So that’s it. Aestel hardly hears Dr Doran over the muffled yelling. Dr Doran can't hear the ghost, and as such he continues speaking.
“- making it's incredibly difficult to work when they're in my face all the d - all the time,” he concludes, grumbling.
Aestel nods. “Right, yes - I'll see if I can coax them out of the room.”
Dr Doran hums. “Please. The patient needs extensive care - we have to work quickly.” With that, he steps out of the way and gestures with a wing.
The strident voice belongs to a wildclaw, the only dragon in the room (save for the patient) not wearing scrubs - he is clad in elaborate clothes and several pieces of golden jewelry. He’s hovering near the patient’s head, form wavering with emotion, the edges shimmering like a mirage. He’s quite small for a wildclaw; true to his original self, or a result of his current state? Unclear.
“Stop. Fucking. Fussing about with the fucking ribs,” he snarls, at two dragons who are currently maneuvering a triangular piece of shale out of the sandsurge’s chest. They, of course, cannot hear him. “And - there’s a damn implant there to keep her breathing working, it’s probably damaged, you have to get it fixed because she won’t be able to fucking breathe - I don’t know why I’m trying to tell you this! You can’t fucking hear me! And your shitfuck buddy won’t watch where I - ”
His voice cuts off sharply as he catches sight of Aestel. “Wonderful!” the wildclaw snaps. “Now they’ve brought - fine. You! Listen to me!” one wing snaps out, pointed directly towards Aestel. “Do not fucking speak until I am finished. Mm? Are you listening? Nod to show that you understand me. Do not open that pretty mouth of yours and say a single word. ”
What? Oh, he's not used to being singled out like this. Normally it's him addressing the ghosts. Startled, Aestel puts on his signature professional gentle smile and steps over to the side. “Yes sir -” he says on reflex. Then, still on reflex, he adds, “my name is Aestel Caelum. And you are?”
The wildclaw narrows his eyes. “Did you not - what part of ‘do not say a single word’ did you not understand? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” He turns and strides over, with the characteristic shifting, floaty motion that ghosts have. He backwings in front of Aestel. He’s quite small - if he weren’t floating, he’d be just about the same height as Aestel, maybe slightly less. As it stands, he hangs above and before his face.
“You will not try to bind me,” he snarls. “You will not try to banish me. You will not try to untether me. You will not attempt to interfere with my connection to this sandsurge under any circumstances. If you try to take my Raz away, I will kill you and everyone else in this room. Do I make myself clear? You may now answer.”
“Oh,” Aestel says, somewhat stupidly. “Oh! No - no, I'm - oh dear. I'm not an exorcist, no. I'm not here for that. I won’t force you to do anything, though I'd ask if you'd step outside with me. I can act as a translator between you and the living.” He glances over to the sandsurge on the bed . “Raz is their name, you said?”
“No, you will not force me to do anything. I will not let you force me to do anything.” The wildclaw’s crest is fully up, furious, and his tail is lashing. The mention of the sandsurge diverts his attention, though.
He turns his head to look at the unconscious dragon. “Her name is Tarazedel Auritus,” he says. “She is severely wounded on top of being in possession of a lot of augments and implants that your doctors do not know about. I am trying to point them out so they do not break them further. ”
“Well, that's wonderful, actually I - one moment.” Turning, he catches Dr Doran's attention. As soon as the other pearlcatcher comes over, he relays the information that the wildclaw gives him.
Dr Doran nods once, curt, then faces the ghost. “You've got her medical history, then? Whatever you can tell us, we'll make a note of.”
“That is what I’ve been trying to tell you,” the wildclaw hisses, and raps out a shockingly long list of body parts that are either augmented or entirely synthetic. Only once he has made certain one of the surgical techs has it written down does he step back, arms folded, tail still flicking but calmed for the moment.
“Now fix her,” he demands, a hint of strain at the edge of that voice. “Save her.”
As soon as Aestel relays that final message, Dr Doran offers the wildclaw a smile. “That's my job. We'll do everything we can for her,” he says, then turns and marches back over to the sandsurge - Raz. He barks orders to the team around him as Aestel backs away.
“Now - would you please step outside with me?” he asks. “Dr Doran needs to concentrate, and your presence can be difficult for him. He's not a deathspeaker, you see - ah, and I have some questions for you as well, if you'll allow it?”
The wildclaw’s gaze is fixed on Raz, and he’s quiet for long enough that it seems he may not have heard the offer. But he speaks just before Aestel can repeat himself.
“Fine,” he states. “Fine. I will - yes. That’s fine.”
He tears his gaze away from the sandsurge and turns towards the door.
Nodding, Aestel gestures to follow and steps out into the hallway. As soon as the ghost reluctantly joins him, he says, “I can lead you to my office, if that would be alright?”
The wildclaw lingers, though. He glances back towards the emergency operating room. “How far away is it?” he asks. “I will not be removed from Raz’s vicinity. And I - can’t, anyway. I am - I cannot go too far from her.”
Ah, that's pretty common, isn't it…? Looking at the wildclaw, he seems like he's fairly put together. Aestel can clearly make out the bright red patterning on his body, the gradient of red to green on his wings, the way his feathers seem to shine. In life, he was probably a rather particular fellow about his looks, Aestel surmises.
“Well - it's down in the basement. I can lend you some of my energy, or perhaps we can sit in the waiting room? Is that within your reach? I have ways of making an area private, even in a busy space.”
“Waiting room.” The wildclaw’s tail lashes once. “Show me where it is, and we will find out if it’s within my range. Lead.”
“Come with me.”
Again waiting for him to follow, Aestel leads him right towards the smaller, less busy waiting area away from the main door. There's smaller breeds in this room, mostly those that seem to be waiting for large breed family and friends asked to step out. This will do just fine, provided that the wildclaw can join him in the corner.
The wildclaw seems a tad bit hesitant, but follows. It looks like he can reach this room. He mostly ignores other dragons, following Aestel until he comes to a halt.
He is a ghost; he can’t exactly ‘have a seat’ like a dragon could. Still, he settles himself down in an unoccupied chair, perched on the cushion, one wing draped over the back of it, the other hanging down to the floor. He settles himself and gazes expectantly at Aestel. “Go on,” he prompts, “ask your questions.”
Aestel smiles at him, and then with a flick of one wing, taps into his magic and summons a quick wreath of smoke to envelop the two of them. Flameless, tightly kept so as not to disturb anyone waiting that may have sensitive lungs. The wildclaw gives the magic an appraising, approving look. It obscures them, swallows up the sound that escapes Aestel's mouth.
“Well, first, I've told you my name. Do you know your name?” he asks. “Or something to call you by?”
“Of course I do. Foehn Wildland. But you can call me Flashpoint, if you’d prefer.” No hesitation.
Very good! This ghost has a solid sense of self, doesn't he? “What would you prefer?” he counters, tone good-natured.
“Flashpoint. I’m not working. ”
“Flashpoint, then.” He's tempted to ask more about him, but no, no. He's a professional. “Are you family to Raz?”
“No.” He pauses, tilts his head slightly. “Not by blood,” he amends. “But she is mine.”
Partners, then…? Aestel understands the concept. In as much as he's seen it, at least. He gets it. Nodding, he adds, “then would you have her medical power of attorney, or does she currently have any living relatives? Or other partners?”
“Legally? No. I don’t have any paperwork.” A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Something’s funny? “Living relatives, I don’t believe so. Certainly none showed up for her in the past. Other partners, also no. For better or worse, I am all that she has.”
That hint of a smile vanishes. He turns his head towards where Raz is, behind walls, gaze distant. For the first time he looks faintly translucent. Ethereal.
Hm. “Would you like to draw from me, Flashpoint?” Aestel tilts his head, whether or not the wildclaw glances his way. “I am a deathspeaker. My duty is to you, just as much as it is to Raz and my fellow hospital staff.”
“Draw from - what?” Flashpoint turns his head to the side slightly, eyeing Aestel out of one eye. “Explain. What does that mean.”
“Ghosts such as you do not produce your own magical energy like the living do.” He offers a smile. “They must draw from other sources. Dragons, leylines, charged magical batteries or talismans… As a part of my job, I can offer you some more energy from myself. It will stabilise you, and help keep you tethered to this realm.”
A hum. “If I had to guess, you've been feeding off of Raz without being aware of it,” he adds thoughtfully.
Again, Flashpoint’s attention snaps away, to distant Raz. “Really? Is that how that works?” he asks, and then, “no, of course it is, you don’t have any reason to lie. Mm. Fine. How?”
“That is how it works,” he confirms, then holds out a paw. “All you need to do is take my paw. I'll do the rest. Or - if you like cats more, you can pet Nini.”
Flashpoint hesitates for a few seconds, then reaches out and lays his claws in Aestel’s. His paw is quite small, slender claws and a delicate wrist. A mage’s paw. No rings, though. He’s faintly warm to the touch - a good sign. Aestel lets more warmth flow from his core into Flashpoint, bright wisps that dance along his hide in licks of warm, gentle flame. Through the connection, he feels as Flashpoint soaks up the energy he's been given, then he offers a little more. It's frankly remarkable how solid he is with how little power he has. The gift of a strong personality; it can do wonders for a ghost. Idly, he wonders how long Flashpoint has been dead.
“How does that feel?” Aestel asks without pulling his paw away.
“Oh,” Flashpoint says, drawing in a sharp breath and flaring his crest. His image solidifies back again - he could be mistaken for real if Aestel didn’t already know he was dead. “Well. Okay. That’s different . Good, don’t worry. Good different.”
“Good different!” Aestel repeats, ears perking. He gently pulls his paw away and settles it back on the ground. “I'm glad. Good. You were in dire need of energy.”
“Really?” Flashpoint examines his paw for a moment, turning it over a couple of times, flexing his claws.
“Mm. I gave you a bit extra - I hope it helps,” he tells him. “I have a feeling you'll be needed a few times to answer questions for the staff tending to your Raz.”
“Really? What sort? So I can be prepared.” Flashpoint finally folds his forepaws together and returns his gaze to Aestel. He’s much more solid, calmer, and the previously somewhat muddy color of his eyes has solidified and clarified. Pink, surprisingly. He looks every bit the Fire dragon. “I’ll answer whatever I can to help her.”
“Aside from her various augmentations, of course, anything you can provide regarding medications she takes, drugs she uses, whether she drinks, or has any allergies…” Aestel waves his tail, jewellery adorning it clinking. “Anything at all is useful so we can give her exactly what she needs and none of what she doesn't.”
“Mm. I see. Well, I’ll do my best. It’s not like I’m carrying her paperwork around.” He snorts. “Maybe they could request whatever records are still being kept at the hospital in the Expanse, but you’d have to get the name from her. I don’t remember the hospital very well.”
Pulling out a little notebook from a pocket, Aestel writes that down. “We'll see what we can do. That's very helpful, Flashpoint, thank you.”
“Of course.” The wildclaw cocks his head to the side. “Do you want to ask those now, or should I save that for when one of the doctors wants to hear it directly? Sort of directly. You know what I mean.”
“I can act as a translator, sir, provided you think you'll have the energy to speak with them directly. I'll lend you whatever I can, of course.”
“Good,” Flashpoint says, promptly, with a brisk smile. “Because otherwise it’s back to charades with the surgeon. And he’s shit at it.”
Aestel barks a startled, ugly laugh, then rapidly covers the end of his muzzle with a paw. Hell! “I - forgive me, sorry, that caught me off guard,” he says, still laughing a little.
“Forgiven,” Flashpoint quips immediately. He looks amused. “Is this not how things normally go with ghosts? For you?”
“Not - not quite,” Aestel says, shaking his head a little. No?”
“Normally, ah - well. Well, you're rather bold, I'd say. It's remarkable, really; most of the time I deal with the recently deceased. Patients, here. Fresh ghosts are rarely as… vibrant as you are.”
“‘Bold’,” Flashpoint muses. “Yeah, that sounds right. I am not… recently deceased. It’s been a -” he pauses, tipping his muzzle back for a moment to think. His throat works as he swallows; all the affectations of a living dragon. He exhales sharply. It does not stir the air. “I don’t know, at least a year. I don’t remember the start. But I’m used to it by now.”
“Well, is there anything that I might be able to offer you? Before we return to Raz?” Aestel tips his head, looking Flashpoint over.
“Unless you can somehow get me a stiff drink, no,” Flashpoint replies, a vaguely irritated mutter. “I’d like to keep an eye on Raz. Be near her. I won’t get in the doctors’ way, don’t worry.”
“No, no, not tonight. Can't get you a pint, I'm afraid. But I can bring you back to Raz. So long as you stay out of Dr Doran's sightline, you won't be in the way at all,” Aestel assures. If Flashpoint were living, well… things might be different. But the rules aren't the same as they are for the living. He won't be any trouble. “Shall I lead you back?”
“Yeah.” Flashpoint pushes himself up out of the chair, not that he technically needs to. He shakes out those huge wings. “Lead.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Aestel stands and the smoke surrounding them dissipates harmlessly. They go back the way they came, and Aestel makes sure to poke his head in before bringing Flashpoint in. The room is empty for the moment, the sandsurge likely rushed out to the operating theatre. Her information is still hastily written on the board. Good, Aestel thinks, she did look to be in a sorry state. He hopes for the sake of her and the ghost that she'll be alright.
“Feel free to wait in here,” he tells Flashpoint. “That extra energy I gave you should allow your tether to be somewhat longer than before. Should you need more, here -” he pulls off one of his many necklaces and sets it on the window sill. Out of the way. The nurses know what it is. “- it's enchanted. Activate the enchantment and it will call for me.”
“Mm?” Flashpoint, hanging weightlessly in the air, leans in and peers at it. He raises a forepaw and a wisp of magic follows his claws. He nods after a moment. “Got it,” he says, straightening back up. He takes in a breath and lets it out, leaning back against the wall. “I’ll be here.”
He doesn’t look particularly pleased about that. Frowning, tense, worried, arms folded, tail-tip flicking.
Aestel can't offer much in the way of reassurances, nor does he particularly feel inclined to do so. He doesn't like to give into causing false hope. That sandsurge was in rough condition, and Aestel is no nurse, nor doctor. He has absolutely no idea whether or not he'll be leading her down to his office late in the night. For her sake, and Flashpoint's sake, he hopes he'll never have to meet her under those circumstances.
“And I'll be around,” Aestel says, his final goodbye. With that said, he tips his head before ducking out of the room entirely. If he does need to assist Tarazedel later tonight, he'd rather like to be rested.