Eighteen – 03

[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]

Pain screamed through his limbs, nearly enough to take his breath away. Chills wracked him as Thom grit his teeth, watching as Paul turned away, grateful there had been no hesitation in following orders. Breath burned in his lungs as he got one leg beneath him, one arm helping push himself upright. The other arm was useless; his shoulder dislocated or worse.

Not good.

He took a step and nearly went down again, his left knee refusing to support his weight. Really not good.

Below, he could see Rory burning the body of the camazotzi that had nearly killed him, then watched his friend turn to face another swooping from overhead, trying to catch Rory off-guard as its fellow had caught Thom. Rory threw up a hand alight with barely dampened flame and thrust it toward the creature’s chest. Thom winced at the camazotzi’s shriek and the smell of charred flesh.

Effective, though. Damned effective.

“Thom!”

He flinched at the sound of J.T.’s voice, at the urgency interlaced with worry that he heard in it. “Up here,” he called, still on one knee, not quite daring to try standing again as waves of pain and hot and cold crashed through him. “In the tower.”

J.T. dropped from the wall with a far greater nimble grace than one would expect from a man of his size and build. He dashed across the gap between the wall and the watchtower, dodging one of the last camazotzi on the ground and leaving it to Rory to dispatch. Thom couldn’t suppress the curse that dropped from his lips. “Fuck-all, Jay, I’m fine. They need you on the wall.”

“They’re fine on the wall,” J.T. snapped, scrambling up the ladder, his words punctuated by Seamus’s order to the arches to loose another volley. “What the hell was that?”

“I got sloppy,” Thom said as J.T. reached his side. “Thing shouldn’t have gotten claws on me.”

“You’re bleeding,” J.T. said, his tone grim.

“That explains the dizziness.” Darkness was nibbling at the edges of his vision and he was hot despite the cold rain.

Going into shock, maybe?

“Dammit, Thom.”

It had gotten so cold. Thom’s eyes slid shut. He could feel the wounds now, in his shoulders, burning. “Get back to the wall,” he mumbled. “Take care of Marin.”

Thom didn’t hear whatever denial J.T. mustered. He slumped bonelessly into his friend’s waiting arms with his wife’s name still on his lips, unconscious before another word was spoken.

 

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