Another mystery solved, but with no sense of satisfaction; it just makes me feel ill.
“It’s the toxin he exhales,” he explains. “It’s in his claws and teeth, too, and the ridges along his tail. It was the tail that got me tonight.” He sucks in a sharp breath as he runs a hand along the worst of the new marks.
“And the old scars on your arms? They were caused by the same thing, it looks like.”
He nods. “Those happened during his first transformations, when he was smaller. Kestrel has a few lasting souvenirs from those days, as well.”
The molded, dragon-scale accessories she usually wears…that’s what they’re covering up, I suspect.
He picks up a small glass jar from the counter and starts to apply its contents to the wounds. “I developed this salve that seems to prevent any lasting marks well enough, so long as it’s used within a few hours. And the toxin seems more deadly to other dragons than to humans, luckily. Still burns like hell, though.” He speaks so calmly—as though this is nothing at all to him, just a part of his daily routine.
I guess it is, though. So how else could he speak of it? What else could he do? Complaining won’t change it. Nobodywantsto walk through any kind of hell like this.
Sometimes, you simply aren’t given a choice.
He pauses, clutching one hand against the edge of the counter and taking a deep, steadying breath. Routine or not, the twisting and turning to get to the harder-to-reach spots is clearly causing him even more pain. The realization loosens something in my clenched heart, like the firstclickof a lock coming undone.
I go to his side, wordlessly taking the jar from him.
I dip my fingers into the thick balm, smoothing it over the places he can’t easily get to. He recoils slightly at first, uncertainty clouding his expression. Then he slowly gives in, just as he did when I convinced him to hand his brother over to me.
He lifts his face to the ceiling as I work, so I can no longer see his expression in the mirror, or any emotions that might be welling up in his eyes—but I can stillfeelthose emotions. Every bit of anguish that tightens his muscles beneath my touch. Every trembling breath he tries to smooth into something stoic and unbothered.
After a few minutes, I feel him sway a bit, and I think of the way he crumpled in the forest.
I have a strange compulsion to make sure it doesn’t happen again so long as I’m standing here. A strange,foolishurge to set the jar down and wrap my arms around him from behind.
He goes very still as I do this, so tense that I almost change my mind and start to back away—until I realize how tired I am of standing up myself. How he’s holding me up, too, as much as I’m holding him.
We both relax into one another before long, his hand coming to rest on mine, pressing it to the center of his chest.
Breathing in deeply, he says, “He doesn’t even know he’s doing it. He doesn’t remember most of it. He just wakes up feeling sick, and drained, and with bruises that usually concentrate around his wrists and hands.”
“That’s why he’s always wearing gloves.”
“Yes. We haven’t told him the real reason he loses consciousness. The flashes he does occasionally remember are like nothing more than feverish nightmares to him, sothat’s what we let him believe they are. Though it’s getting harder to fool him.”
I lean back, studying his reflection in the mirror. His eyes are narrowed, hard and unrelenting. As if he’s assessing himself, even now, wondering if he’s done enough, what he has to do next, if he could ever,everdo enough to fix all of these things.
It undoes me a little, seeing his doubt, his vulnerability…and how willing he is to carry every nightmare, every hurt, every burden of the ones he loves.
I wonder if anyone has ever offered to carry his.
If he would even let me, if I dared to try.
Another slow, exasperated exhale escapes me, followed by a ragged attempt at a deep inhale. I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of a sea, debating whether or not to dive in. I don’t know how deep it goes. How dangerous the current underneath is, how sharp any hidden rocks might be.
But there’s only one thing I can think to say in that moment, even if it means plunging into a cold, drowning death.
“I want to help you, Reave. To help him.”
He doesn’t reply for a long moment. Then he lifts my hand from his chest, wrapping it up in his as he slowly turns around to face me.
“I mean, I at least want to try,” I say softly.
His fingers gently trace the contours of my hand as he tilts his head, as if he’s not sure he heard me properly. “It wasn’t fair of me to bring you here and expect you to fix all of this,” he says.
“No. It wasn’t.”
