“That’s enough for today,” Soren declares firmly, putting his hands down on the grand table and standing up. His tone brooks no disagreement, but there is still a little grumbling amongst the various officers and adepts as they file out of the meeting room, until only Soren and Tacitus remain.
Tacitus is grey-faced, the effort of keeping his composure visible in the taut lines of his neck. He’s so focused and self-possessed during discussions, but he's grown paler and paler as the talking went on, and enough is enough. He smiles weakly at Soren and nods his gratitude. And then his eyes slip closed, just the whites visible beneath the flickering lids, and he slumps forwards over the table. The links between the cuffs clink as his head hits his wrists.
Soren is at his side immediately, hauling him up by the shoulders and laying him down on the floor. He’s unresponsive, skin bloodless and damp with sweat.
The ensign that comes to attend Soren recoils at the sight of the Admiral unlocking the handcuffs from the hostage traitor’s wrists, but he fixes the young officer with a glare until she regathers her wits and salutes, swallowing. He holds the handcuffs out towards her. “Get these out of my sight.” He hates seeing his friend in shackles. Hasn’t he been through enough? But it’s hard enough to get anyone in a room with Tacitus even with such concessions. Tacitus insists that it’s no problem, of course. But Soren has seen the tiny slump in his shoulders every time the locks click closed.
Bracing one knee against the floor, Soren slips his arms under Tacitus’ knees and shoulders and lifts. He weighs no more than a child. The borrowed robe is loose on his skeletal frame. There’s something ludicrous about the feared leader of a traitor fleet being this vulnerable scrap of a starveling. Throne, the boy is scarcely thirty. Soren would deem him a puppet without a second thought if he hadn’t heard him speak. Fate is cruel.
“Get the door for me,” he orders the returning ensign. The woman’s quick off the mark, he’ll grant her that.
“Should I call for a medic, sir?”
“No.” Tacitus just needs rest, or so Soren hopes. And he isn’t going to let anyone else put their hands on him while he’s helpless, not without a very good reason.
The young officer holds the rest of the doors between the war room and Tacitus’ assigned suite without needing to be told. Soren pauses on the final threshold. “What’s your name, ensign?”
"Martine, sir."
He smiles at her. "Thank you, Martine. Tell the galley to send dinner for our guest, please."
She nods sharply. “And yourself, sir?”
“I’ll eat later. That’s all.”
He can’t return her salute, but he nods, and she spins smartly on her heel.
Inside Tacitus' suite, Soren lays his friend gently down on the bed. He looks tiny and fragile atop the lavishly sized mattress. There’s a little colour returning to his face, to Soren’s relief, though he still shows no sign of stirring. The Admiral goes to the sink to fill a glass and places it carefully by the bed. He’s not sure what to do, honestly. What can one do in the face of the enormity of what Tacitus has done and had done to him?
He picks up a folded coverlet from the end of the bed, shakes it out, and lays it carefully over Tacitus’ body.
He ought to get back to work. There are adepts to appease, arguments to be had, letters to compose and logistics to review. But it feels too cruel to leave Tacitus sleeping alone and lock him in like the prisoner that he technically still is until Soren can engineer otherwise.
So Soren takes a seat near the door. Some of his work can be handled here, by dataslate. And this way he can keep vigil over his friend, at least until he wakes.
