Thomas
*Don't give up now / there's already so much at stake / if atlas falls / i'll rise up and carry us all the way / it won't pull me down / the weight of impossible days / i'll stand tall / i'll rise up and carry us all the way*

The first time that Valerian Barca wakes up, it is because he has been greeted by his father, and he is faced with an angel. Well, he's faced with Hazel, which is basically the same thing. He falls asleep again not much later, his body succumbing to the fatigue and the pain. The official diagnoses of all of his injuries haven't quite been put together yet, but the sight is grim. He lays there, underneath blankets and his clothes all but cut off of him to get to the lacerations — the left side of his face has a deep scar, his chest has a gash in the center of it that is violent, wretched, and as if someone has put a hole in his chest. His back isn't much better, though it has some slight cover from landing on his back when he was pounced on. His legs are the same - the front of them torn all to hell, the backs of them rendered painful yet not useless.

But he is breathing. The time of death has been redacted. He has been watched over with thorough devotion, and right now, his body needs rest... Alas. Valerian Barca isn't a quitter, down to the molecular level. Like hell he was going to lay here and be silent when he knew Hazel watched over him - when he knew someone would tell Florian and Olivia, and sure enough they would brace the cold to join their older brother down here. Something in his heart warms at that... Knowing that when he woke, he wouldn't be alone in a cold, clinical hospital.

_ _
His eyes open, one at a time - the right one first, then the left. Whatever damage has been sustained to the eye leaves him with a bloodied cornea. Whether or not he has sight in it is anyone's game. Still, his first breath is heavy, and he turns to the left to expect Hazel there, but he frowns when she is gone — turning to the right, then, that smile returns, if only because his baby brother is looking down at him, cursed with the expression of something broken. How Atlas has fallen, how Sisephyus has been bowled over by his boulder. How Prometheus has trembled under the weight of the hawk. He smiles, silently, and reaches up for Florian, a cold hand cupping his baby brother's cheek.

Are his hands still stained with coal dust? Or have they been baptised now in blood?

"Florian," He whispers, for he cannot make any sound stronger than that. "My baby boy." The expression sprawled across Valerian's face is ephemeral; without his glasses, he sees Florian just fine for now (he's far-sighted; you can't blame the man) until they inevitably get closer. How humiliating a thought, that he cannot see what is directly in front of him, but instead both the future and past have always been clear as day. His thumb moves gently over the artist's cheek before he lets go, looking down at his bandaged, bloodied legs.

_ _


If only he knew that he has broken promises thrice-over. If only he knew sometime along the way, Valerian's heart stopped, frozen in time for everyone to wait and see what's happened. He coughs, his hand moving to his rib - whether or not it was broken in the attack, or broken during the CPR, is unknown to him. He exhales, slowly, and returns his gaze to his brother's face. "You'll forgive your big brother... Won't ya?"
Dennis
The time between the attack and his arrival at the hospital was a blur. He could vaguely remember Olivia and Marianne's voices on the way there. Their words had been ones of comfort. He thinks he may have told them that he was fine, that he couldn't feel his injured leg anyways. He couldn't be sure.

_retract the time of death, Mr. Barca is alive!_

That sentence brought the world to a screeching halt. Mr. Barca... Only one answered to that name outside of Florian, and Florian had not been dead. 

 "Valerian!"
_ _
If his legs had worked he would have raced to that room, fallen over his own feet, unable to keep up with the speed his heart ached for. He pushed forward on his pushrims, but remained firmly where he had been when the world shattering news had been called through the clinic. Someone was holding his chair back, taking away his independence, _a knife to his heart_ a voice was telling him he needed to be seen to _no he didn't, he was fine, how many times would he have to repeat himself before someone would believe him_, that he would only be in the way in Valerian's room now _a kick to the bruised part of him that felt like he was always in the way_, to let the doctor get Valerian stable first _please..._ that he would not want to see him in his current state _I can handle it, I need to know he is breathing, I need to see that he is alive_. He lashed out, something he would come to feel shame for later, but could you truly blame him? The boy felt like a cornered animal, all he could think about was getting to his brother, God help anyone who got in his way.

"Get your hands off of me! Let go! I am not in pain, I am FINE. _LET. ME. THROUGH!_ Let me see my brother!" He was desperate, driven by raw emotions, by raw need. He didn't care about the damage he was doing to his reputation, to hell with keeping up a good name, to hell with the image of kindness, to hell with diplomacy, to hell with it all. When helplessness took hold of the youngest Barca, it left as hot, burning rage. He fought free from the hands of whoever had the gall to hold his chair back in order to pin him down, his own hands met pushrims and he in turn was met with the vision of his brother sprawled on a bed. The smell of iron hung in the air. A familiar horrible deep tone of red stained the sheets wherever he looked. 
_ _

His brother's body lay there, broken and ripped apart, just like it had in Florian's nightmares. His body couldn't choose between sobbing and screaming, both clawed their way up his throat, clashing into one another and resulting in a pained, strangled, haunting sound. Tears blurred his vision. Hands were on him again and he didn't fight back this time. 

At one point the combined efforts of Olivia and a nurse managed to convince Florian to allow them to see to his leg, tourniquet was replaced with bandages and the claw wounds cleaned, an exchange made easier by his lack of need for numbing of any kind. Maybe the illness had been a blessing, a boon reserved for this specific situation. He watched over Valerian, refusing to leave his side, and not for lack of trying. His constant watchful eyes on Valerian's chest, making sure it kept rising and falling at a steady pace. If one were to glance at the bed after some time had passed, they would see that Florian had fallen asleep by his bedside, his head resting on his folded arms, nestled in the empty spot of mattress by his brother's hip. The fatigue caused by everything that had come to pass had proven too much for even his monumental stubbornness.

When he woke up he was faced with the hospital bed again. It had not been a nightmare. It was unmistakably real. Hazel was no longer there either, she deserved her rest too, Florian would watch over Valerian for the both of them. Valerian still looked so frail, a long gash ran across the left side of his face, the side where Florian was sitting, watching intently for any changes in his brother's breathing, for any signs at all that the borrowed time he was living on had run out once more. He knew Valerian was strong, but he feared that even he was not strong enough to make it through this. The doctor had told him that they had done all they could to give Mr. Barca a fighting chance, at least for right now. And that it was mostly up to Valerian to push through now.

Florian hoped, no- he prayed, that his brother's headstrong character would prove victorious.

_ _

Something in his brother's breathing shifted and he opened his eyes, the right its normal hazel color, the left stained with red. Florian found himself unable to stop recoiling upon seeing the bloodshed eye. And Valerian smiled, how was he smiling right now? Florian didn't know if he wanted to cry or laugh in that moment. His breathy "Valerian" An answer to his brother saying his name. "Oh praise be, hi" He leaned into the touch, taking hold of Valerian's hand and letting out a relieved laugh. His brother's voice was soft, it seemed like talking was taking a tremendous effort. His natural accent slipped through the cracks, a further sign that he was beyond exhausted. It didn't surprise Florian, who was immensely grateful that Valerian was able to speak at all.

_my baby boy_ Was he brother? Was he father? Was he something else, something that defied defining, something nestled snugly between those two concepts? Whatever Valerian was to Florian, the young man knew he loved him. He knew that seeing him the way he was now tore his very soul apart. Valerian had always been strong and brave and seemingly invincible, how did he look so small, so decisively mortal in this moment? _At least I promised I wouldn't die..._

_There—do you feel that? That's a pulse—retract the time of death, Mr. Barca's alive!_
_ _

Would he forgive his brother? "Of course I forgive you Valerian. You're not to blame here." He didn't know what hurt more, the fact that Valerian could even think that Florian blamed him for the attacks, or the fact that the attacks had happened in the first place. "I'll _always_ forgive you." And for the first time that was wholly and entirely true. It was there he let go of the resentment he'd been holding on to for the years which his siblings had abandoned him. The tears that fell washed away the anger, the hatred and the blame he cast over them. When faced with the permanence and unending nature of death, those three years were just a blink of the eyes in the grand scheme of time. An incredibly insignificant blink. "Just don't..." ~~Die again~~ "Don't do that again. I can't-" _I can't lose you again, I can't see you like that again._ He couldn't get himself to say those words. He squeezed his brother's hand, gently, not wanting to be the cause of more pain. "I meant it when I said your ghost would come to regret it." He wiped his tears away, a useless action, more kept coming. "I want to hug you so bad, but I fear I'd hurt you."
_ _

Those words echoed in his mind: failed him on two accounts... It had been three. Valerian failed to keep himself from getting hurt, failed to keep Florian from getting hurt and failed above and most painful of all; to keep himself alive. Florian considered not telling him, to let his brother believe that his soul had not left, that his body had not been an empty shell, that his heart had continued its rhythmic drumming in his chest without pause. That he had not died. No, he deserved to know. "...But it was three, Valerian." He regretted the words the moment he said them. There was no taking them back now, he moved forward in that regret. "You left this world. Val you died." His voice broke, shattering into pieces like his heart had done, _d i e d_. "You were gone for two minutes." _I am so sorry Valerian,_ his face read, _please forgive me for telling you._
Thomas
There it was again. *You had died,* Florian said, just as Hazel did. How he embraced Hazel after, how he felt such shame: he had been a fool, tried and true. There was so little he could actually do in the face of chaos that it made him sick. Alas— he can't bring himself to vomit here and now, not when there was so much at stake. (He reaches idly on the other side of the bed. Where was Hazel... Where did she go?) "So I've been told," He laughed softly, shaking his head, "I suppose I can't even hide that from you, can I...? You've gotten so perceptive... Seeing right through your idiot older brother's lies..." 

*No, I'm sorry,* His face returned to his brother's expression, *I'm sorry for trying to protect you.*

"I'd ask if your legs hurt, but... But I know better," He says, reaching for his brother, to clasp a hand around one of his, to showcase some semblance of strength. *I can protect you, still,* This body tells him, just as he had come to embrace Hazel. When did he get to be so selfless? What happened to doing whatever it took to survive? Why is he so comfortable with the fault of his own death so long as Hazel and Florian remained upright? Surely, Olivia too is running around here, somewhere, helping the good doctor with whatever he may need so long as she is healthy... "But you should get those bandages done up right at some point... Keep you from gettin' infection."

"Dad's doing fine," He whispers, because that's all he knows how to say. His free hand - the one that Hazel held just a few hours ago - rests itself atop his chest, and he smiles softly. "He's happy. Resting, finally... He doesn't have to work to take care of us anymore. By God, he ripped me a new one, though, if you remember what he was like when he was right angry. Told me to get myself back together and get home to you... To Haze... To Liv..." He groans, again, and trying to think too hard causes him to want to pull his knees to his chest, but that hurts more than anything he's ever tried to do. It's as if just *Existing* In this moment causes him pain, and he can't bear to think about what that might mean for himself, for his future.

"Which one," He whispers, nodding to Florian's legs, "Which one of those bastards got you?"
Dennis
He already knew, that was good, Hazel must have told him. She'd been there when he first woke up. Fitting for her face to be both the last he saw before he died and the first when he made his return. "You're not in the best shape to be lyin' right now Val. I am sure when you get back up on your feet again you'll be quite capable of foolin' me once more." Perhaps he was getting more perceptive, or maybe he was just more aware of the fact that his brother could, and did, lie to him. 

"I can't feel any of it now, but I think I." He stopped, should he add more worry onto the heavy load he knows his brother already shoulders? It had been bothering him, he had long given up hope that he would ever feel his legs again, that he would ever stand or walk. But in that split second when those claws had broken skin, he had felt it. However improbable that was, he had felt pain. "I think I _did_ feel it, somehow. I could've sworn I felt _somethin'_, just for a second and then it was back to nothin'. Might've just been my mind playin' tricks on me, phantom pain or what have you." He knew realistically that it had just been phantom pain. But Florian was a sucker for hope in places where it shouldn't be found. If it had been real pain, did that mean his body was mending the connection between his spine and his legs? No, no that was a dream he had crushed years ago. "I'll get them redressed when you rest again Val, I promise. Liv already dragged me to a nurse to get the wounds cleaned." Right after he'd first seen how Valerian looked, right after the time of death had been retracted. After he'd been seen to, Hazel had been with Valerian. Florian had stayed out of the room until Valerian had fallen asleep again and Hazel had left. The two deserved their privacy, and he could wait with the knowledge that his brother was breathing somewhat steadily again. Florian had watched over the sleeping form of his brother until he himself had fallen into a restless sleep.

"Olivia's alright, as is everyone else who sheltered at Miss Marianne's. I am sure she'll want to see you after me."

_ _
"You saw dad?" Heaven then, not Hell. For all the wrongdoings Valerian had committed the Lord still welcomed him. Florian couldn't remember much of their father. All he had left were the framed pictures that watched over the estate and a handful of fading memories of things he'd said and done when he was still alive. He smiled as he listened to Valerian recalling the meeting. Their father was still looking over them from above, finally at rest. "I am glad he was waitin' for you there, that you weren't alone. And I am glad he kicked you out and back to us." Concern spread across his face again, his brother was clearly in a lot of pain in that moment. "Hey, _hey_, take it slow alright, I'm not goin' anywhere." He held onto his brother's hand, _God_ there was so little strength in that grip. How the mighty had fallen indeed.

"It was dark brown I think. It looked almost like it had clawed into its own shoulder? Lord only knows why it would do that though. It must have gotten to somethin' or, God forbid, _someone_ before it got to me. It was covered in blood, and the majority wasn't its... Own..." _No._ Gears were turning in his mind. A hypothesis was forming in his head. It couldn't be. He didn't want it to be, not for all that it would imply. No, nonono that blood was likely just some unfortunate deer's, or somebody else's, may God rest their soul. Werewolves didn't have agendas. Werewolves didn't target brothers. Especially if those brothers were in different places, separated by a long stretch of town. He swallowed, _gotten to someone..._ Nobody else had seemed as injured as his brother. Nobody else in the small hospital had been bleeding as much as him. No dead bodies had been reported during the night or the morning (not yet anyways). His expression had slowly shifted into one of fear again. His words came out hesitantly. "Val, how did the wolf that did this to you look? Please tell me I am crazy for thinkin' what I am right now."
Thomas
"Big," He manages to say, and he leans back, looking at the ceiling, trying to recall the moments before his own death. He remembers being between Hazel and the front door. He remembers the pain, the agony — a ghost pain courses through his ribcage, and he tries not to cry out in pain. He cannot worry Hazel or Florian like this; he can hear his sister's voice somewhere in the background, somewhere running around helping the nurses. What a good egg, he thought; what a kind soul. "Brown, I think. It was so dark, I can't quite remember, but it had these horrible eyes... If there was a man under all of that skin, I couldn't tell."

_ _


"We'll kill 'em," He whispers, eyes glazed and hazy, "We'll find out which one of those mu'fuckers did this to us... And we'll kill him." Valerian Barca is not a violent man—in fact, Florian has probably never heard his brother wish for the deaths of others, instead passively stilling silent as he wrote letters of condolences to impoverished miners. But for Valerian, a diplomatic man, to wish the death of another being, *Especially* A Briar Ridge resident... It's almost damning, how easily he has broken in the face of his brother's injury. In the face of his own pride. How *Dare* They do this to him. How *Dare* They break him in such a way.

He groans, his free hand holding the side injury. *Fuck,* That hurt. "Flori," He whispers, his eyes closing, "Did it hurt this bad when you got sick?"
Dennis
It had been the same wolf. For whatever reason there was a monster out there that wanted them both dead. The same murderous, horrifying eyes had targeted them both before sinking claws, and in Valerian's case, teeth into them. He knew deep down that there was someone under all of that putrid flesh, but he could no longer see that. All he wanted was for it to feel the same pain it had put them through. 

He nodded, that wolf had been marked for death the moment Florian found out that Valerian had almost been ripped from this world for good. They couldn't wait for a cure any longer. Both brothers abandoned part of their morality there. Both signed the death warrant of whichever one of their neighbors had done this. And they signed it blindly, seemingly with very little remorse. ~~For now.~~ "We will. They'll pay in blood, I promise you." He had not learned his lesson yet, not learned from the previous broken promises. He had never thought himself a selfless man, and maybe he was just selfish. He was selfish for only wanting death when his own kin was affected. He was selfish for breaking down when faced with the mortality of his brother and himself, yet wanting someone else's life to be taken as payment. Maybe selfish was what he had always been when it came to his family, what he always would be. "This won't happen again." Next time it decided to turn its hungry maw towards them, there would be hell to pay. Hell in the form of a silver bullet with that beast's name engraved in it. He needed death for it, and nothing less.
_ _

How those wolves had ripped Florian's gentleness from him. How they had stripped him of his kindness. Had he been a fool before? Had he been naive for trying to see the best in everyone? Stupid for believing that there was a peaceful way to resolve this? It was only through blood and death that he finally saw the world as it truly was, one where only those who fought tooth and nail could come out on top, one where violence was the only way to ensure survival. One where wishing death upon a neighbor was not unthinkable, and seemed the only option. 

He gently rubbed his thumb across the hand he was holding, hoping to be able to offer a small semblance of comfort. He hated seeing his brother in pain. "Towards the end, in my back." His illness had been an infection of his spine, the treatment required to have halted it before paralysis set in did not exist yet and wouldn't for years. He was doomed from the moment it had started. It had begun with fevers, light back pain, pins and needles and muscle weakness in his lower half. Towards the end of the infection the prescribed painkillers didn't work anymore, the pain in his back was constant and Florian had found himself thinking of death. And then it stopped, he felt nothing anymore, including his legs. "But this isn't that. You won't end up like me." _I won't accept that._ Maybe one day the Barcas would be forced to face the fact that the laws of God and nature would not bend just because they wanted them to. "You're strong, you'll pull through, but you'll need to rest. If it takes me havin' to force you to lay down when you get out of here then I'll do just that." It was Florian's turn to take care of Valerian, instead of the reverse. "Sleep if you have to, Val. You're safe here."
Thomas
*You won't end up like me,* Florian says, as if being like Florian would be anything to be ashamed of. Valerian tries to tell him that, but the words don't bubble to the surface. One of these days, Valerian Barca would be able to tell his little brother how proud of him he is — not just for surviving, but for living. The loss of his legs did not take his love of painting nor his drive to want to do more, nor his anger. (*If you need to be mean, be mean to me.*) 

His breath is heavy — in, and then out. In a perfect world, in a modern world, perhaps he would be still asleep, breathing in oxygen from a tank and placated with the sweet sedative of pain medication. But this is not that world. This is a rougher world, a world where men turn into beasts and hunt them for sport. How tired he is, already; how hungry for revenge he is. 

The laws of God and nature *Will* Bend for the Barcas, they just don't know it yet. *Valerian,* The emperor, underneath the boon of the god Mercury, messenger of the gods. *Olivia,* Wife of Augustus, eye of Rome. *Florian,* The emperor who rose after the death of his brother, the angry soldier who spoke not to Rome proper but their annexes. Just as they have changed history, those named after them refuse to bow to the status quo of anything. Of *Anyone.*

Valerian looks up at his brother, and the only thing written across his features is a gentle expression of fatigue. Soon, the withdrawals will kick in, and soon, Valerian will be sick with himself. Soon, he will need to fight his own body to survive in more ways than one—it is an illness, an injury, a trial that there is no one better to teach him how to handle than the man across from him. Just as Valerian has taught Florian so many things, it's Florian's turn to teach his brother. And this time, Valerian is listening.

With a nod of his head, and a closing of his eyes... Valerian is asleep.

He looks disgustingly peaceful.