Mariel Dawnrider
Wing and a Prayer
Eira Pechal
The Praxeum
The unconsciousness was a blessing. When [member="Alden Belmont"] got her back from Lola Sayu, to the Praxeum and the infirmary there, the extent of the damage became clear. Knowing the limitations, Alden oversaw her care. Without the use of bacta, Harper's recovery would be slow and drawn out. But for the first forty eight hours, it was all done with her insensate and unable to explain just how she had come by the wounds her body held. Deprived of food and water, beaten, damage left untreated beyond the bare limits of keeping her alive. There were remnants of compounds in her blood, proprietary chemicals of the Sith Empire with no clear answer for how to safely neutralize them. The healers weren't certain at first if they would be able to save her left arm at all. Mangled, every joint left dislocated for however long it had been, numerous bones broken, tendons torn.
Alden, however, wouldn't budge.
They had to try.
Two days after arriving, Harper finally woke up.
Everything was a haze of white when she first opened her eyes. There was a weight, heavy and firm, cradling her left shoulder all the way down to her palm, but she didn't have the strength to look just yet. Her right hand curled reflexively, something there in her fingers.
Alden's hand.
It took far more effort than she expected, and that alarmed her a little, to turn her head to look over to that side. Everything was stiff, but the pain was duller, heavier than it had been before. She didn't remember anything after she had passed out in the lift, but it was clear where she was, that she was safe.
He was slumped in a chair next to her, his arms folded beneath his head where it rested on the bed. Either he was asleep or just exhausted enough that it was difficult to tell the difference.
"Al," she said, her voice quiet and cracked from from dryness and disused.