A thudding noise drew Bastian’s attention to Graves, whose head had fallen against the wall behind him. Tension lined his shoulders, drawn up close to his ears, as if he could block out the sound of her piercing revelations.
"I wouldn’t have blamed you," she said, still talking, softly and quietly as if she had forgotten they were all there. "I’m not worth it, and I… didn’t mean to, didn’t mean to do any of it."
Fresh droplets of blood seeped from the wounds on her back. Tharen’s hands stilled on her, and Bastian had never seen the Prima appear so disgusted before. His Mind magic whispered against the mage’s thoughts. Flashes of feeling cascaded over Bastian.
Self-loathing, mixed with anger.
It’s my fault she’s like this. I made this happen to her. She must hate me. I know she hates me. I hate myself, too.
Should’ve never touched her.
Bastian’s eyes narrowed the longer he stared at the quiet mage and listened in on his thoughts. He was unraveling, slowly but surely. Their Vincire plucked at the threads that tethered them all with her delicate, soft fingers, making them come undone by her will.
Knowing that Tharen was probably already aware of the fact that he was inside his mind, Bastian allowed a thought to flow freely between them.If you want to make this right, you can start by reassuring her we would never leave her.
Luella had grown quiet, and Bastian watched as Az silently rubbed his thumb over her ankle. She was seeking their validation, desperate for it. It clouded her body language; the way her shoulders bunched up closer to her ears the longer they were unspeaking, and how her lids fluttered whenever any of them praised her.
The mage didn’t speak, so Bastian tried again:
From your lips, it would mean much to her. She thinks she is not worthy, especially in your eyes. Tell her.
Tharen resumed attending to her wounds, expert hands soothing salve into her skin, while gently cleaning away the dried blood and new droplets that coated the pale flesh of her midback.
"Little lamb," Tharen crooned, forcing his voice into a cajoling murmur, "Vale made you a promise, didn’t he?" She didn’t answer, so he growled out lowly, "Answer me. Use your words. I know you know how to use that pretty tongue to speak. So let me—let us—hear it. Did the King make you a promise?"
Her wings shivered as the fire crackled in the hearth. "Y-yes," she managed, "he did."
Tharen continued:
"Has he ever broken a promise to you?"
"No."
"Then what made you think in that head of yours that he wouldn’t return with us?" The mage made the words sound so demeaning, praise wrapped in teasing taunts.
"Because I-I hurt people." A soft sob crawled out of her throat.
Bastian kept counting in his head, anything to keep himself from focusing on the white of her shivering wings, the red-soaked cloth that Tharen used in gentle circles against her flesh.
"So? You hurt people, I hurt people, the King has hurt people. And your demon?" The mage glanced up at Az, who gave the tiniest nod at whatever question he saw in Tharen’s eyes. "He’s definitely hurt people."
"Az, what does he mean?" Luella tried to crane her head to look at the demon who sat on the furs by her feet, but Tharen stilled her.
"Lu, when I made the vow to you from the moment I saw you, it was knowing I would, one day, have to hurt someone—kill someone—for you," Az explained. "It’s a vow I would make again and again. For you, always. Just because you hurt someone, doesn’t mean you’re bad or need to be abandoned."
Tharen and Az make a good team, Bastian thought to himself.An unlikely one, however.
With their words, they chipped away each bit of her shame and fear, building her back up with praise. Tharen, in the teasing, cold way of his, made her see reason; and Az, in that sweet, protective tone he only used with her, let her know that it wasokay.
She released a shuddering breath. Tharen finished cleaning her back, wrapping a fresh set of pure white bandages around her middle. He paused when he started to fold them underneath her breasts. "Azgorath, hold her up for me?"
Az gently braced his hands under her shoulders, helping her upper half off the bed. Her bare breasts were soft and small, her nipples pink and pebbled—not from chill, but from awareness.
Bastian only saw flashes of them before Tharen methodically wrapped the bandages around her body, hooking them over the tops of the wounds on her back, around her middle, then the final section back underneath the wounds, bundling her wings as best as he could without actually having the bandages touch the feathers.
When that was done, they laid her back down on her stomach. Tharen used a clean cloth to press upon her sweat-soaked brow, holding her chin as he did so.
"She’ll be okay." Tharen stared down at her. "She has a mild fever, and we must wait for it to break. As her body works to cool itself, she will sweat more and shiver—it’s normal."
