sunburn and fever dreams

"Only if you can be patient with me. I don't know the limits of that power yet."

The Keeper stared at the ground, stood still as the other left him to begin building the well. His magic is strong, familiar, and for a moment Chip forgets how to breathe. His fingers curl into his palms, as he tried to stop the trembling.

He had no idea that Carasson, and Inala, had left. He had no idea that his clan had been left in Arlathan without a leader to guide them. If he had known, he would have left the clan center they now stood in to retrieve his people.

After a second, when he felt like his vision was darkening, things going tunnel, one of the members of the clan distract him.

His vision cleared.

He took a deep breathe, forcefully making himself breathe. And settled into conversation with a clanmate. A pretty woman, she'd once vied for his attentions. They'd had but a night or two together, before he'd moved on.

They'd had another night together, when she'd brought him supplies in the past few months. She'd come alone, sought to calm a harrowed man's soul.

Nothing could fix this. Could fix him.

But she was a good distraction, green forest eyes and sun-dappled skin. Hands calloused from years of fishing and whittling.

Xochipilli was distracted by the progress of the well, a divot was forming but not much more. He excused himself from his distraction, and moved towards Carasson.

Slowly, hesitantly. The pendant glowing as he used his magic helped ease his fear. And eventually, the Keeper stood behind the other man. Here, fingers reached for Cara's hands, to reposition them. You need to make circular movement, or the well won't stand on its own. He did not have this particular ability, but he had taught many who did.

His voice was steady, as he shared some of his power with his First. He wasn't certain that title applied to Carasson anymore, but... he'd always be his First, in his mind.

Keep doing that motion. He'd release the man's hands now, and step just beside of him. He began to will the water underneath the ground to follow him, and eventually between the force of his hydromancy and the gentle creation of the well from Carasson's geomancy, they'd start to see a proper opening with water bubbling at the bottom.

They'd continue until the well was mostly full, and Chip leaned into it, tested it's stability.

Good job. You... you did well. He murmured, bit his lip. He'd usually praise Cara with enthusiasm, but now...

He just couldn't find that enthusiasm right now.

Someone from the group handed a bucket over, and he scooped the bucket into the water, a vine manifesting and tying itself around the handle of the bucket.

Thank you.

Without another word, Chip focused on the clan, Well... since you're here, and there's more of you than before, the shelters I've rebuilt won't do. We have water, hunters can find food. His voice echoed through the clearing, though he did not speak loudly.

Children and supervising adults can fish, while the rest of you help to rebuild the clan. He flashed the group a smile.

And don't whine, or act as if you've never done this before, Varahel. Help your Arlathan counterparts, as we do not know their stories. He had no idea if the elves that had come through were alienage refugees like he'd been hearing rumors about, or other Dalish.

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The clan would be rebuilt, and perhaps it would mean more because they helped. He couldn't say, right now. He was too busy watching Carasson. Not... in a fearful way. The long the other man was near, with no issue, the easier Chip found it was to breathe. He kept his distance, and was reminded of a time before he'd ever made a move on the First. When he'd not wanted to hurt Inala (look how well that went, Chippy). 

Eventually, he slipped towards the man and the current project he was doing, hands in his pockets. He'd join him, silently, for a while. They had nothing to talk about; except that they had a lot to talk about. After a long, drawn out silence, Xochipilli settled against the half-built shelter. His head in his hands. And his voice, it sounded small, quiet: I'm... sorry, that I didn't listen to... to you. If he had, none of this would have happened. 

I'm... He was sorry. He'd made a promise and then he'd manipulated that promise into something he could handle. Or he thought he could handle it.