story - part 41 - action - 1366 words

Gradually, I win control over my life again. I spend my nights with Calidris settled warm in my arms, and after a little over a week I lose my novelty, some of the stares fade away. This is not to say that they disappear entirely - there are still sideways glances, people who do not know what to make of the broken wings, the fact that I am not a priest.

Tumaire loses his petulant edge and does as he as told, in classes. We no longer have any closeness between us, whatever feeling of brotherhood had been growing has now disappeared entirely. I am his teacher, I am an annoyance at his court, at his meals. Some part of him wants to be rid of me, but some other part wants to prove that he is as good as I am, if not better.

It is nine days after our argument that I realize how unwell he looks. His cheeks are pale, almost the color of a sheet of paper. There are dark shadows under his eyes, making him look sunken and tired. He cannot sit up straight at his desk, but hunches in over it, shoulders caved forward and downward. He hurts, I can tell, but he has not said anything.

If he does not want to admit to it, I do not want to pry. I continue with the lesson, putting paper in front of him and opening the book to an exercise, settling back to watch him work. He fumbles with his quill, his hand shakes as he struggles to get the words down, his lips pressing tightly together.

I cannot sit back and watch as he makes it worse. My instincts take over, a hand splaying across his forehead and across his throat, sliding behind his ears to check for infection. His skin is burning beneath my fingertips, his neck swollen, and he leans gratefully into cold hands as they settle against his cheeks. Something is seriously wrong, beyond mere aches and pains.

This is no longer my job, but I cannot help myself, I need to know what is wrong and to help him. Even if I hated him, I doubt I could keep my fingers from wandering to the buttons about those golden wings, to strip cloth away from sticky skin, and to run fingers across the angry bruises on his back. It is a motley of purple, black and blue, and he makes a tiny whimpering noise as I touch him.

I need to ask him what has happened, why his new physician has not helped get rid of this, but I do not know how to put it into words. As my mind races in search of something to do to fix this, I let fingers wander up to the back of his neck, a comforting little touch. He leans into it, he is desperately in need of this contact.

"Tumaire, you need to explain to me what is happening. If you would like, I will take you back to my rooms, and I can put something on your back to make it stop hurting." No matter how angry I have been, or how much I have snapped at him, or how cruel and cold my tone has become, I cannot let him hurt. Either a physician's or a brother's instincts kick in.

"Can we go to your room? Please?" His head still bowed beneath my fingertips, voice coming strained between his teeth. He has been trying to hide how much this pains him, but now that I know he drops the pretense. He needs someone to cut in and take control, to fix things for him.

"Do you need to be carried, or can you walk?" Serious, concerned. He struggles to stand on his own, taking that as a challenge, perhaps - and he pulls it off, standing shakily with the support of the desk and blinking up at me. He is not quite able to suppress the tiny, pained noise.

Before he can protest, before he knows what I am doing, I lean in and scoop him up into my arms. He is light, too thin and small - those wings weigh more than the rest of him, I believe, they drag him off balance. It is awkward to settle him in my grasp, to keep him curled in against my chest, but he helps by wrapping an arm up about my neck. Hurting too much to argue.

I move as quickly as I can down the halls, slipping past curious servants who almost certainly will go and inform the King. He will be furious, but it does not matter. He can rave at me all he likes, he can yell and glare and I will still be in the right. He is the one who hired that physician, who has proven as dangerous or as unreliable as I expected.

In my room, I settle Tumaire gently on that unused bed, and he immediately sprawls out on his stomach with a sigh. This feels familiar, in a strangely pleasant way. I move to mix herbs and perch on the bed beside him, fingers smoothing that sharp-smelling salve across his shoulders and over angry bruises. I do not give him anything for the pain, not yet; it would put him to sleep, and I want him to explain himself.

"Has she not been treating you? Or have you been refusing her potions, the way you refused mine?" A hint of frustration in my voice, now. It slithers in there despite my best attempts, this is upsetting me. Perhaps I care about the young Prince, about my brother, more than I am willing to admit.

"She makes my head go fuzzy. I do not trust her. Sometimes, when I look at her, I imagine that there are two of her, and they look different." Staggered and hushed. It is a strain for him to speak, to tilt his face out of that pillow to blink over at me. Already there is some relief in his eyes. I am not sure if it is because I have treated his injuries, or because now he knows that I will help, that he has an ally of sorts.

I mull that over for a moment, trying to decide why it is so familiar, and why it makes my heart skip a beat. The answer is obvious, but it is something I do not want to admit to; if I voice my fears, will that make them come true?

"What does the other one look like? I imagine that one is her, correct?" Fingers still splayed across the back of his neck, reassuring. His head shifts in a tiny nod, and he starts to sit up - but then obviously thinks better of it and sprawls flat on his stomach, wincing at the shooting pain up his spine.

"Older. The other one is older, and she has black hair and grey eyes. She looks angry all the time, and...and her chin is sharp." Fumbling for some way to explain an elusive face, something he has never had a good view of. He blinks up at me, hoping that it is enough, unsure how else to describe her to me.

I believe it is more than enough. A fine tremble has set into my fingers, my mind has gone foggy with an old terror. With a nod, I force myself up off the bed, across the room to mix something that will put him to sleep, that will drive away that lingering fever. He does not protest, not today, but downs it immediately, in a rush.

"I am going to go find Corbin, I need to speak with him. I will send Calidris in here to keep an eye on you, to make sure that nothing happens." Panic has settled into the pit of my stomach, now, but I try to keep my expression calm and my voice clear. He is too distant, drugged and tired, to notice what flashes of fear are in my face. He merely nods and lets his eyes drift closed, he slips away into much needed sleep.