isolt griffin
In some dark and despondent place beneath the steadily burbling stream of methodical calculations and self-guidance was an axiomatic certainty that glimmered and shone as a diamond trapped beneath the cumbersome swell of a wave. This, all of it, could have been finished in moments; Davante's suffering could have been eradicated entirely with but a few drops of her own mystical blood. She could have spared him the lick of her blade, the prick of her needle and the suffering that would inevitably come as an unwelcome and yet wholly necessary surge in the dusk of this self-inflicted poisoning. She could have pilfered away the turmoil that was razor wire ripping through the tubes of his veins; she could have offered him a high unlike anything he had yet to experience with his own cache of powders and potions.

And it is for this reason, this purpose, that she abstains.

Davante was, as Aaron had been, the fumbling prey to his own ravenous and hardly-sated predator. He was victim to his whims and nearly helpless to the seductively coy whispering of the opiate mistress as she sought so proudly to lead him astray. And so it would have only hindered him, would have only dug the spires of addiction deeper for him to have sampled her blood, for the auburn-haired girl had grown quite familiar with the addictive nature of the substance that lay innocently still within her veins. It was sweet, heavenly like a sea-faring breeze... highly alluring, and just as generous in the taking as it would have ever been in the giving. To see him healed this way would have been a fallacy, a medicinal lie that would have damaged him far more than any scalpel ever could have.

And so she takes the sharpened edge of her blade to his skin in the same manner she had done countless times prior, her delicate hands steadied by practice, by training. Isolt feels him whince beneath the kiss of the scalpel, a twinge of guilt clutching vice-like at her heart though she is fully aware that there existed no time within which he might have been properly anethestized. It was her fondest hope that herion might do him this singular service, some small penance for all that she had taken from him. As the thick, viscous sludge of infection seeps from beneath the slender curvature of her blade, Isolt's eyes swivel momentarily to Davante's own... the telltale gloss of tears welling there and sewing a deep furrow into her brow. "Slow, deep breaths, Davante. It's going to be alright... just breathe," she instructs softly, calmly, as her eyes return to the weeping lesion at his side. She works swiftly, expertly evacuating all traces of the infection from his wounds, her deft fingers making short work of the closure and bandaging of the damage he had, himself, sought out in his desperation.

Purposefully does she move to gather the now-tainted accoutrement of her craft, disgarding the soiled towels that had acted as her makeshift bed dressings beneath his gushing wound before retrieving a single cool, damp cloth. Gingerly does she perch her slender frame beside his own, dabbing at the beads of toxic sweat that speckle his handsome brow in a manner that speaks to her empathetic proficiency. The glacial blue of her eyes meet his in a moment of pregnant silence, the questions left unanswered flickering there but never do they make the journey from mind to mouth. Instead she simply soothes him in silence, the methodic dabbing of her cloth meant to wipe away the dregs of his overdose as the antibiotics continue to do their own diligence. She is here for him in the way she had always hoped to have been there for Aaron, a silent hand to guide him through this deepest dark.