In the time it took them to reach the outskirts of the forest, Sheeva had begun to look even worse. Her face grew even more pale and clammy, despite Tazaro’s efforts to keep her hydrated, and of all the random things she packed in her bag, antibacterials did not seem to be one of them.
Tazaro had managed to wrap the emergency blanket around Sheeva in a way that it bunched around her back, covering the bump the arch of her wing made. He hoped that the end feathers were not peeking out from underneath it. It was hard to tell; he could not turn his head to see when her head blocked his view while it rested on his shoulder. Hopefully, it was dark enough that no one would notice once they made it into the city.
Rather than risk trouble with the guards at the gate, Tazaro detoured from the main road leading towards the edge of Roussell’s crater and to the shortcut over the mountains that would take one towards Whiteshore Inlet; a seaside town in the south-western corner of Vivroa. Instead, he made his way towards the old well at the edge of the western cornfield, then turned towards the western wall. Weaving between tightly-grown corn stalks, he kept his movements as slow as possible to avoid shaking them and making too much noise. Kursu eclipsing nearly three-fourths of Celeste bolstered his hope that it was dark enough that anyone on the watchtowers wasn’t paying too much attention.
Of course, they were likely far enough away that any guards looking their way would hardly be able to discern what they were looking at. Even with a spyglass, with Sheeva riding piggyback and the blanket wrapped around the both of them, anyone would probably mistake them for a small bearog standing on hind legs.
“Where are you going?” Sheeva asked weakly, voice light and mouth dry as cotton. “Why not…through the gate?”
“I used to sneak in and out of the city with my friends as teenagers. I’m hoping the passageway is still here. It's part of the castle's old secret pathways out of the city,” He explained, relieved to see that the scarecrow they had moved to block the line of sight from the farmer’s house down the way to the well was still there. Maybe, in the eight-or-so-years it had been since they’d first moved the unsightly thing, the farmers that owned and worked the land never noticed.
She chuckled, then choked from her dry throat.
“And you call me the troublemaker,” She mumbled.
He didn’t feel like responding to that.
“Anyway,” He sighed. “After what happened the night we left, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve been labeled as fugitives, somehow.”
“Oh. I see.” She hummed.
“You should try to get some rest; save your energy,” He suggested in lieu of telling her to “stop talking; talking makes you die.”
Sheeva took his word, and all too easily, her head flopped onto his shoulder, too exhausted to really want to hold it up any longer.
He kept a careful eye on the dimly-lit guards in the watchtower and, though he’d done it frequently in his youth, Tazaro couldn’t recall sneaking around in the fields as being so high-stress as it currently was with his heart pounding in his chest or stilling in place every time someone turned to look at the horizon. As he watched a guard closely, they seemed to be paying more attention to the skies instead, and his worries somewhat subsided.
Of course, this was before he had a “record,” and even then, he wasn’t currently trying to smuggle someone into the city who might also be a wanted target. He tried not to think about what had happened to the likely stumped guards after he and Sheeva’s high-dive off the clock tower, and pressed on.
As he neared the well, he paused, realizing a major flaw in the plan. Even though there were grooves for footholds so that escapees could climb out of the well, with Sheeva barely able to walk, there would be no chance in hell that she could make her way down the stone ladder. And, with her broken arm, there wasn’t much of a chance she could simply hold onto him while he climbed them both down towards the grate halfway down the well. Not to mention, the damn things could be slippery, and send them both to their watery graves.
Ah, shit, he thought as they approached the well. Hopefully, the bucket is still there, he hoped. Maybe Sheeva could push through long enough for him to lower her toward the halfway point.
Hesitant, he paused at the edge of the large stone well and peered down into the abyss, slowly realizing that perhaps this was where his morbid fear of heights stemmed from–who knew how deep the endless pit was, other than those who’d made it?
He looked up in curiosity at the gates, wondering if they could possibly sweet-talk their way in.
“Mno, Micah’s more the smooth-talker,” He audibly dismissed the idea.
Sheeva lifted her head off of Tazaro’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” She asked.
Tazaro sighed, shuffled her carefully off of his back, and helped her to sit on the edge of the well. Lowering her in the bucket would likely be their only bet.
“We’ve got two options. Option one: I put you in the bucket, let you down into the well, and you get out and onto the ledge that’s halfway down, or, option two: we take our chance at the gates, and I…” He paused, looking her over once again, just to be sure he wasn’t thinking too harshly. The wing throwing a wrench in their plans stuck out like a sore thumb. “I don’t think we’ll be able to hide that wing of yours. It’s barely hidden as it is, even with the blanket.”
Sheeva frowned and looked over the side of the well. Summoning a bleak ball of light, she threw it down the hole. They watched it with tired eyes as it fell, fell…and fell some more before it eventually fizzled out. Still, Tazaro saw the outline of the bucket and was grateful he at least had half of the means necessary to get them into the city.
“Ok,” Sheeva stated, though sounding uncertain. “If this is the way we must go, then so be it.”
If he were the one being lowered into a well, Tazaro might be more than a little uncertain, too.
Trying not to waste time lest either of them change their minds, Tazaro reached for the rope to the well and began to pull, raising the bucket. After dumping the water out, he helped Sheeva swing her legs over the edge of the well and stick her feet into the bucket. As she slowly slipped off the ledge, she gave a nervous squeak as the rope spun slightly and swung like an off-kilter pendulum.
“Oh, son-of-a-bitch, I don’t like this!” She groaned.
His hesitation hit its high point, and he chewed his lip while racking his brain for an alternative.
“H-hey, if anything goes wrong, I just want to say–
–Can you possibly say it later when I’m not dangling at my death?” She snapped.
Tazaro couldn’t fault her curtness and began slowly releasing the slack. As she lowered into the darkness, the pale face illuminated by dim moonlight slowly faded away.
“Do you see the ledge?” He called after a few yards of slack, the tinny squeak of the pulley grating on his eardrums and making him more nervous by the second.
“No!” She called up.
Tazaro held back his groan, slowly realizing that the well only seemed as short as it did when they were younger because they rarely used it to get back in. As long as they had their papers, they could come and go through the gates as often as they liked.
He slowly gave a few more armfuls of slack.
“How about n–
–Yup…I see it,” She called up, sounding frustrated about something.
Tazaro squinted, suspicious.
“Ok. I feel like there’s a ‘but,” He replied, wondering what kind of stop the gods had put to their poorly construed plan. Had the entryway actually been sealed off after ninety-ish years?
“I can’t reach the ledge!” She called up.
Tazaro sighed, relieved, then began to look around the well in search; generally, most wells had a shepherd’s hook that one could use to bring the water bucket closer.
“Alright, hold tight, I’m gonna–He stopped, then looked up as the metallic squeak, followed by a creak of wood, sounded out.
“Sheeva, stop! The rope’s–
Before he could finish his sentence, Sheeva had swung enough that the rope slipped out of the curve of the metal wheel. As the rope still held tightly in his hands tightened, the sudden force jerked him towards the well. He barked out in pain as the stone edge of the well met his sternum. The rope now felt far too slacked for comfort.
Terrified, he searched the darkness.
“Sheeva?” He managed in a scared whisper. “Sheeva, are you ok?” He asked with his heartbeat pounding in his head and stomach clenching in worry as he listened hard for the sound of splashing, disturbed water.
Halfway down the well, a weak glimmer of light shone, and Tazaro sighed heavily, then gritted his teeth in frustration.
“You’ve never dealt with a well before, have you?” He barked to vent his vexation.
“Can’t say…that I have, why?” She called, sounding worn out.
“Gee, it shows,” He grumbled lowly, locating the hook he had managed to spot seconds before Sheeva started swinging. Hastily, he snatched it off the ground and used it to return the rope to the wheel of the pulley, then sighed the rest of his frustration away, trying to psyche himself up for the rest of the task.
Getting himself to step over the edge of the well and climb down the way was a different story.
However, realizing that he had already been much, much higher off the ground than the depth of the well in the last three days, Tazaro worked it into a strange boost of confidence. He grabbed the rope, cut the bucket loose, and tied a makeshift harness around his waist and between his legs, as they had taught those to do as they walked around the roof of Hyles’s church to survey the structure's integrity.
With one foot in front of the other, he climbed down, hopped off the ladder and onto the ledge, then squirmed out of the harness.
Sheeva had apparently given herself a moment of much-needed rest, though still shivered and sucked in a breath as he stooped at her side and shook her.
“Are you ok?” He asked, squinting at her in the dim light streaming down as the moonlight beamed overhead. Slowly, she nodded, then took his hand as he offered to pull her to her feet. He didn’t hesitate, nor did she–as much–to stoop and allow her to climb onto his back.
He broke into an awkward, shuffling run, fully worn-out, though confident of the path they were taking, assisted into seeing where he was going by the help of a dim orb of light that flickered behind their heads. The catacomb was musty and earthy, and his boots clicked as his panting echoed on the empty walls.
Eventually, they came upon the five-way split, and as Tazaro peeked at the fading cornerstones, the pale-blue and pale-yellow tiles had him contemplating which path would be quicker–the path that would lead them to the Eastern Quarters, or the path that would lead him towards Southgate.
Figuring that most people would be asleep in the Eastern Quarters at this time of night and that they would be less likely to be spotted, Tazaro headed down the pathway noted by the pale-blue block. When he saw the ladder at the edge of the corridor, hope gave him a boost of strength.
“We made it. Just a little bit longer, now. We’ll get you some help soon,” He called over his shoulder.
“No hospitals. No doctors. They would not understand.” She warned. Tazaro shook his head and stepped up to the ladder.
“Mno, I was wasn’t gonna. I’m gonna try to get to my apartment. Maybe, we can hide there.” He explained, attempting to tie the blanket around himself as a supporting tether for Sheeva. “Hold on to me as best you can. I’m going to try to climb up.”
Sheeva mumbled something against his shoulder but tightened her hold on him anyway. It wasn’t much better, but he hoped it would do.
“What about Vincent?”
Tazaro grunted as he pushed, then pounded on, the wooden cover for the passageway. It popped up and out of the grooves in the floor, tucked away beneath an overgrown hedge that had once been kept neatly trimmed into an even, spiraling topiary. As he brushed the debris that fell on his face off, he sputtered at the flakes of leaves and dirt, then snorted as he pushed on, fully aware of the weakness of his legs as they trembled from exertion.
He crudely shuffled the board back in place, then popped out from beneath the rampant foliage. Sheeva attempted to blow a leaf out from his hair, but with no strength, it did nothing.
“Save your energy, Sheeva. You need it,” He stressed, powering on.
The gardens of the abandoned castle stretched around the perimeter of the castle grounds, and as he poked his head out to survey the plaza, found it to be empty. He shuffled Sheeva higher up his back, then ran, beelining for the nearest sidestreet. He hurried towards the street his apartment was on, stopped in the alleyway facing it then peeked out into the street. It was just as desolate as the plaza had been, and no one’s lights were on in the buildings.
“Hey,” Sheeva called, tapping him on the shoulder. “What about Vincent?” She asked.
Tazaro paused briefly.
“He's…”
He can help, right? He thought, then scoffed at himself. Pfft–of course he can. He has to; he swore an oath. He’s got no choice!
“He’s a doctor; he can help, and if need be, I’ll make him keep his mouth shut.” He threatened.
With that, Tazaro scampered across the street, then hurried up the steps. The blanket dangled, no longer covering the wing. He shuffled in his pockets for his keys, jammed them in the lock, then twisted and pushed the door open to hustle inside.
He had just finished fastening the deadbolt before a voice sounded out in the darkness, causing him to blurt out a noise of surprise.
“Tazaro, is that you?” Vincent called out, flicking on the gas lamp in the living room. He watched Tazaro spin around, dirty and frightened, with Sheeva riding piggy-back. Vincent stood, relieved, and hurried to assist.
Spooked, Sheeva formed some signs, hissed something, and outstretched her hand, where a weak cloud of mist, like condensation on a cold morning, spewed towards Vincent’s face. Vincent stumbled backward a few steps, surprised.
“What was that?” He asked, pawing at his face, which was now wet and cold.
Sheeva fainted, becoming deadweight against Tazaro’s back. He leaned forward as well as he could to keep her from falling backward and to the ground. Vincent shuddered and blurted a noise shortly after, looking around.
“What-what the hell was that?” He asked again.
Tazaro didn’t answer and tried to shuffle further inside the house.
“Look, can you just help me?” Tazaro asked. Vincent gaped at them, and when he saw blood on Tazaro’s clothes, he sprung to action and reached forward to take her from him. As he felt feathers, he stopped and looked.
“W-what is this?” He asked. Tazaro shook his head and finished transferring her to him, then grabbed his room key out of his pocket, leading the way to his door.
“She’s–she’s so–she’s not heavy at all!” Vincent blurted, pointing out the third strange anomaly learned in the last few minutes.
Tazaro didn’t acknowledge and instead finished unlocking the door. He threw it open, then hurried to the closet to grab an extra pillow to prop her up with.
“What happened?” He asked, pulling himself to action as he noticed the dark, cherry-red dried blood on both of their dirty clothing.
“Let’s get her taken care of first. I’ll explain everything I can then, I promise.” He said, taking Sheeva back from Vincent’s confused hands. Tazaro set her in the bed and adjusted the pillows to rest behind her head.
Vincent hurried to his room to return with a stethoscope and a first-aid kit.
“Are you hurt, too, Tazaro?” Vincent asked, worried about the way Tazaro collapsed heavily in the chair. With a determined shake of his head and wave of his hand, Tazaro denied it.
“No, no, just her,” He panted, finally feeling the overwhelmed state of his body as sweat dripped down his neck and his legs felt like lead. “She tried to stop him while we got away,” He added. Vincent didn’t know what Tazaro was talking about, but figured he was about to learn one way or another.
He shuffled the stethoscope into his ears and stooped, pressing the cup to her chest. Her heartbeat was as slow as a sleeping person’s but strong–a good sign, all things considered, and he confidently dismissed the worry that she would slip into cardiac arrest. Her breaths were even, and though she had fainted, Vincent had little reason to believe she would be at risk of apnea. To ensure she hadn’t suffered a head injury, he pulled open her eye to look into one.
Sure enough, they were red, but as they dilated and contracted as normal in response to light, she hadn’t suffered a concussion–at least, as well as he could tell from that. There were other, more important matters to attend to, and until she was conscious and he could gather more intel, further questions could wait.
“Alright,” He announced, sitting back as he initially surveyed the rest of her body. Two serious wounds stuck out to him, one wrapped in bandages, though with a blood spot, and the other, unwrapped, though given the location, perhaps it had been missed, if Tazaro had not been too embarrassed to tend to it.
“Tazaro, I need you to grab a clean towel, cut it up, and bring me some containers of warm water,” Vincent ordered, rolling up his sleeves. He reached for a pair of thin, bladder-skin gloves and slipped them on, then paused as he realized Tazaro hadn’t moved. “Tazaro, now!” He urged.
Tazaro jumped and rushed out of the room to gather the things.
Vincent had just laid out his stitching equipment and filled a syringe of diazepam in case Sheeva woke mid-fix and gave him trouble when Tazaro returned with the requested items, set the bucket on the desk, and began shearing at the towel with scissors.
Vincent carefully cut the bandages around the wound on Sheeva’s leg and slowly peeled it back. It would certainly need stitching.
Before assessing the wound on her chest, Vincent paused, then looked behind himself.
Tazaro wasn’t paying attention, still cutting the towel into bits.
“Tazaro, you should leave.” Vincent announced. Tazaro paused, mid-cut of the towel, and by the scared look on his face, trying to figure out whether or not he’d done something wrong.
“I need to tend to her wounds, and her clothes are in the way of this one on her chest.” With a deliberate tip of his head towards the door, Vincent announced a silent invitation for Tazaro to leave.
“O-oh. Right,” Tazaro obliged as he left and shut the door.
Vincent unwrapped the twine and bandages around her chest and cut away her tattered, bloodstained clothing. He had just peeled away the layer of her shirt when she began to stir, and he hoped she wouldn’t hold it against him, considering he was simply trying to do his job.
“Welcome back,” He murmured, fully into work-mode as the greeting was warm, but automatic.
“I-Ivan?” She asked. “Are…Is it really you?”
After understanding she was mistaking him for someone else, Vincent shook his head.
“Vincent,” He corrected, caring less about semantics and more about treating what looked to be some deep, painful wounds.
“Sheeva, take a deep breath, and try to relax. You’re safe now, and we’ll get you warmed up as soon as I’m done. You’re injured, but I’m gonna do my best to help, ok?” Vincent assured, trying to instill a sense of “warm and fuzzy” to keep her calm. He turned, and grabbed a towel, then dipped it into the warm water Tazaro had brought. It was a little hotter than he needed, so he waited a second before pressing it to Sheeva’s skin.
Sheeva did as Ivan suggested, and lay back against the mountain of pillows, registering his fingers as they examined and wiped down her mostly naked body. To avoid awkwardness, she avoided looking at him, and instead, fixed her stare on the bedposts at the foot of the bed. She winced and hissed as he prodded the bruise on her right side from Llyud’s claw. Her uninjured arm’s hand clutched at the sheets beneath her, and as she felt a pool of liquid, she realized that her thigh had started to bleed lightly again.
At least she hadn’t thought she’d wet herself this time.
Vincent swallowed hard, trying to gauge which wound would be the most pressing. Aside from the gash on her thigh and chest, there were many cuts, some short and superficial knicks, others long and slightly deeper gashes. He was grateful that they had started to congeal and clot; otherwise, she could have easily bled out. The damage done was something he had never seen before, and it shook him.
What is this, “death by one-thousand cuts?”
In addition to the multitude of cuts, a handprint coiled around her neck, wide bruises wrapped around her ribcage, and a swollen spot sat just above her hip. Upon uncovering the bandage around her arm that held the sigils, he shuddered as he imagined what might have happened to cause these, and he hoped the morbid fright didn’t show on his face. When he realized the disturbingly artistic designs of flowers, Vincent wondered if someone had just sat there with a knife and tortured her but kept the horrible curiosity to himself. It would be something to discuss later if need be.
His primary examination over, Vincent struggled to place himself beyond his growing anger, and worked fast to tend to her, skillfully threading a needle with medical-grade material.
“Here, bite,” He ordered, offering her a clean rag. Sheeva frowned and stuffed the fabric in her mouth.
Unable to see what he was doing, she stilled as Vincent’s fingers touched the gash on her thigh.
“Sorry.” He murmured, noticing her wave off the incident through the corner of his eye as he pressed around the skin to see the wound that had been crudely bandaged. It was a gnarly gash that had begun to fester and grow pus.
“It’s infected.” He explained, turning to the bowl of hot water. He dipped a clean rag in the water and wrung it out, then wiped away at the dried blood. Once clean, Vincent scowled as he noticed how precise the cut was, as though done by a surgeon. Whoever the person was, they were skilled. Experienced. It solidified the idea that she was subjected to actual torture, and his jaw clenched tight with rage.
“Who the fuck…” Vincent grunted through his teeth. Not wanting to let his emotions cloud his work, he forced a deep breath and hissed it out in a calming “pshoo,” then plucked his tweezers from the kit and returned to the gash to search for debris.
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As he began to clean the wound itself, Sheeva gritted her teeth and groaned in pain, panting sweatily behind the rag still stuffed in her mouth. Desperate for a full breath of fresh, clean air, she took the thing out and drew in a satisfying breath, only to lose it to a whimper of pain.
“Almost done, Sheeva. Last bit’s going to be tough. Gonna have to squeeze out the pus. Brace yourself.” He stated, prodding the area around it to feel where he needed to start from. Thankfully, it was small; the infection probably did not have time to spread far.
“Do it. Whatever you have to do, Ivan, just do it.” Sheeva ordered before biting back down on the cloth. He stared at her, amazed by her adamance.
Sheeva scowled and told herself this pain would be nothing compared to the beating she’d received from Zakaraia. It would not instill itself as profoundly as his laughter or taunting, demeaning words had as he simply kicked her ass across the cobblestone courtyard.
Sheeva huffed and exhaled as much as her lungs would allow, giving him a curt nod, ready. He pressed around the wound and, bracing himself for the oozing mess that was about to follow, squeezed hard.
She breathed in sharply, then screamed in pain, trying her best to hold still. He used the moment that her brain was in overdrive to get as much of the gooey pus out as he could, ignoring the outbursts of muffled swear words and sobs of pain.
He grabbed the rag and wiped away the mess, reached for the needle and thread, and began to stitch the wound closed, trying to work accurately but fast.
Unable to take in a breath of air fast enough, her muddled brain quickly grew sluggish, aiding in her senses’ shut down. Her eyes closed, and she attempted to focus on how attentively the doctor worked, warm fingers now assisting the invasion of the needle and the trailing of thread through her skin. The unfamiliar pressure and distressing tug of the thin silk made her shudder as it rippled through her thigh and into her foot, but she dared not move for fear of screwing up his method somehow.
Her pain-drunk brain tethered to the rhythmic mechanics of his suture, and she swam in a brief moment of overwhelmed lax.
Up, cross over; up, cross over. As she put faith in his capabilities, a wave of assured peace washed over her, allowing her to sigh and sink into the bed.
The serenity was short-lived as the numbed sting and the joining of flesh as he pulled the wound together made her tremble and pulled her body out of the mattress. Beyond fast, panicked breaths, Sheeva felt the sour of her mouth and willed away the churn of her stomach, wanting to wait until he was done with the suture. As she registered him applying a poultice and gauze, she pulled the fabric out of her mouth, a line of drool draping on her chin as she set the soaked rag on her stomach. Her lungs filled with fresh air, and she slurred.
“Throw up,” She managed. He looked up and grabbed a large soup pot that one of them must have brought in while she was unconscious. His hands tenderly snaked across her back as he guided her into sitting up and held her hair back as the streams of watered-down lime-green bile spewed from her mouth.
“At least there’s no red or black. That’s a good sign. I’ll make you some food when I’m done patching you up. I’ve got to stitch the one on your chest, and that’ll be the last of any suturing.” He stated, patting her back lightly. She groaned, spit out goopy, foamy vomit residue, then rested her forehead on the steel edge of the pot. It was cool against her heated forehead.
She looked up at him as she lay back again, vision swimming. As she focused on the dark, long hair and spectacles, a gleam of teal eyes stared back at another wound on her body as fast hands fixed another gauze to it, sticking it in place with medical tape. Calmed, Sheeva let her head flop back on the mountain of pillows with a relieved sigh as her body relaxed, and she chuckled at herself.
“Ivan, thank you for taking care of me.” She whispered. “I’m in good hands, now.”
“It’s Vin–um…you’re welcome,” He murmured.
Whoever the doctor was, it was apparently someone she could easily mistake him for, and to try to correct her would only be a waste of time. Besides, if the confusion kept her calm and assured, he supposed it would help his situation more than if she were being treated by a complete stranger.
Soft, pliable pads of fingers held a hot, wet rag as it wiped away the dried blood from her chest, and Sheeva drew in a sharp breath from her nose as she floated in her pain-ridden stupidity, though the pain was no longer a frightening, unsure thing.
Ivan was efficient and trustworthy; never had he steered her wrong. The most “harm” he would do when done would be to offer words of warning or scold her for “recklessness,” and, considering how much she had “wrecked herself” this time, she would be in for an earful when the morning came.
When he apologized for his light, medical touch of her breast as he continued to clean away blood, dust, and dirt, she went to shake her head, freezing as a twinge of pain shot up into her neck from her shoulder. She forgot that her wing was bound in a splint.
“It’s alright, Ivan. It’s necessary. I, I’m safe.”
She hissed again, and her eyes squeezed so tightly that she saw specks of white as he poured a solution on the wound he was working on. Sheeva groaned in pain as she felt the sting through her skin, and as she felt something cold and metallic prod into the wound on her chest, she froze, snapped her eyes open, and grasped his arm to stop him. Vincent stopped, currently holding a pair of tweezers to retrieve a small rock that had embedded itself in the wound on her chest.
“Sheeva, I need you to let go of my arm, lie back, and keep still. Close your eyes. You, uh, probably don’t want to see this.” He ordered.
She did as he asked, choosing to grasp at the sheet beneath her instead. As the invasive object resumed to pull out something unfamiliar, Sheeva shivered and sucked in a breath.
“Tell me what you are doing, Ivan.” She requested, voice wavering and choked with fear. “Please.”
Reminding himself she seemed to think he was someone else and that he shouldn’t waste time correcting the issue, Vincent cleared his throat. Usually, he would suggest she dive into something pleasant, but she was not the average patient.
“There’s debris in the wound on your chest. I have to clean it out before I can suture it closed.” He explained, turning to drop a small chunk of rock into a nearby rag he was using to collect stuff in.
Sheeva relaxed...some. She listened to the chitter of the ragora they kept at the bedside tables for patients to interact with, and as she heard the squeak of the wheels on his chair, she smiled softly to herself.
“You must be too tired to do magic. My apologies for bothering you at this hour,” She said through pained breaths.
“Dr. Marx?” She called, glancing at him. Teal eyes behind half-moon spectacles didn’t look back at her, too busy clearing away the stuff in her wound. She followed the bloodied object pinched in tweezers as he turned and dropped it into a rag.
“Ivan?” She called out to him.
Going with the delirium, Vincent gave a nervous “yes?”
Sheeva huffed, and her eyes squeezed closed again in pain as he returned the tweezers to the gash on her chest. His voice was an octave deeper than she remembered. Perhaps it had matured in her absence; maybe she simply forgot its timbre after five years of traveling in search of Llyud.
“The man that brought me here, Tazaro: is he alright?”
Vincent paused briefly. He hadn’t yet done an examination, but he trusted Tazaro’s word that he was fine.
“I believe so. I’ll check him when I’m done with you. I’m about to stitch this one, so we’re almost clear.” Vincent stated, attempting to distance himself. He cleaned the wound gently with another rag, then paused to thread the silky material through the needle.
“Good. I…I owe that man my life,” She sighed, and sat back, frowning. “I hope that someday he can forgive me for what I’ve done. It’s–it is my fault we are in–
She winced and hissed from a twinge of pain as he set to stitch the wound.
“Whatever it is that you are faulting yourself for, I’m sure it’s not, but you can talk about it with him. Besides, you–Vincent began firmly, then softened as she seemed to stare at him in surprise. He sighed, and continued. “You fought for them, didn’t you?”
“It was a losing battle, but I fought anyway. I had to,” She answered, face turning red with embarrassment. “They’ve been–they were so…” She babbled as she struggled to find words. “They were good to me, and if any harm were to come to them, it would be over my dead body,” She finished with a wry chuckle.
“Literally, it almost seems,” Vincent huffed, applying a poultice and gauze to the spot before securing it in place with tape.
“I wish-I wish it had been…I failed them. It wasn’t enough, Ivan!” She began to sob, strained whimpers of pain sounding amid sniffles and hushed cries.
What would have been enough? Death?
He clenched his tongue between his teeth to hold back his reprimand.
Vincent did his best to soothe her, feeling awkward in comforting an almost stranger when he didn’t know the full extent of the story behind her courageous charge. He settled with wiping away the pain sweats from her forehead while she settled.
“Ivan, you have always treated me with kindness, and it made me so…happy. Happy, that I could come to you without judgement, without fear. You challenged me to face up, and push myself, and…” She trailed off, then chuckled at something. “I liked that.”
“But…you were only doing your job.” She paused again, then laughed derisively at something. “Still, thank you, Ivan.”
“Um…” Vincent murmured, feeling odd and unsure how to play this one off.
“I am not afraid. Should I die, I know you’ll have done everything you can.” She muttered softly, a look of peace careening over her face.
Vincent blinked, alarmed, studying her expression for faintness or sluggishness.
“Sheeva, you’re not gonna–He began harshly, then reigned himself in and softened.
“You’re not gonna die.” He assured.
Diving back to business, Vincent checked the splint Tazaro had applied around her arm. He had to admit, it was decently done, considering Tazaro had only had about a week’s worth of practice years ago. A purple bruise originated on the radius bone, and Vincent squinted his eyes at it in anger. It was something he’d seen far too often and wished he didn’t.
“How did the broken arm happen?” Vincent questioned. Perhaps she’d actually taken a bad fall compared to the lie so often told by nervous, battered house-wives or children.
“He twisted it. My wing, too.” She answered. He nodded and sighed with disappointment. That had been his guess, considering the rough bruise of a handprint wrapped around her wrist. He reapplied the splint in better manner, then helped her to lean forward as he examined her wing. Sure enough, it was attached to her body, much like a bird’s would be. He wondered if there were joints and connective tissues. Using his fingers to feel it, he was amazed to find three bones in a series along the inside of the wing.
He sat back, amazed, dozens of questions firing rapidly in his brain.
Had the wing been surgically added? Was she born with it? Was it a curse by the gods?
Vincent stared off into space for a moment as he tried to wrap his brain around the existence of the sixth appendage.
Sheeva fell embarrassedly mute and stared at the ragora on the bedside table. The realization that she was still bare to him prodded at her demure, and she felt her face redden as she struggled to cover herself, futile as it was after the fact.
“Ivan, are you done?” Sheeva managed in a light whisper, still struggling to drape her sling-ridden arm over her chest.
Vincent blinked and looked up, then realized her state.
“O-oh. Yes. Here,” While fighting back a sheepish laugh, he grabbed Tazaro’s sheet to gently cover her with, carefully lifting the slung arm to tuck the sheet beneath her arm, not forgetting the thing still needed to be looked at.
To distract her, he put her arm back in its sling and held up a finger, signaling for her to wait. Hoping Tazaro would not mind, Vincent grabbed a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Getting the shorts on was easy enough, but as he looked at her torso, he wondered how to cover her chest, wanting to help her maintain a shred of decency around Tazaro.
If she did not have the bound wing, it would be as simple as slipping the shirt on over the sling and putting her other arm through the sleeve. Vincent looked at the t-shirt in his hand and clicked his tongue as he thought of cutting the thing. Slipping it on as far as it would go, Vincent guided her uninjured hand through the sleeve. Grabbing the scissors he used to cut away her clothes, he cut into the shoulder of the fabric and finished pulling the shirt down and over. The wing peeked out awkwardly.
“Is that comfortable?” He asked. Sheeva gave a slight nod and settled back.
Vincent left her to her thoughts, packed up his things, and gathered the bloody rags. As he headed for the door, he heard her softly say, “Thank you, Ivan.”
“You’re...you’re welcome.” He answered, opening the door.
Tazaro had sat down in the hallway and had apparently fallen asleep as he became startled awake. He stood and watched Vincent walked out, covered in bloody handprints and sweat, then looked in at Sheeva. She looked like death and had lied back, eyelids closed as she began to sleep.
“She’ll be good. I think.” Vincent muttered.
“You think?” Tazaro asked, not feeling confident about Vincent’s choice of words.
Vincent coughed to cover his laugh, certain his cheeks were cherry-red with a blush.
“Physically, she’s good. Mentally, we’ll see. She, uh, thought I was someone else.” He answered, not keen on disclosing some of his terrible discoveries or working theories. He looked at his bloody hands, where the ghost of her hand lingered.
“I’m going to wash up. Keep an eye on her.” Vincent ordered, then continued to the bathroom to wash off the blood. He splashed water on his face in an attempt to cool it from its awkward blush as he recalled the delirium Sheeva had just been through.
Whoever Ivan was, he'd certainly won Sheeva’s favor.
But, Vincent thought to himself, let's not go airing that around. Tazaro certainly doesn't need to know any of her pain-addled confessions.
Slowly, Tazaro headed in and sat down on the chair again, then grimaced as he recalled the muffled screeching, and as he noticed a spot of blood on his sheets, he sighed and sat back. He would need to buy new ones.
“Are you sure you’re okay? There’s a lot of blood on your shirt.”
Tazaro looked up and over at Vincent, then down at his tattered shirt.
“I…”
He wasn’t sure where to begin: I have a crystal sealed in my body? I have wings hiding somewhere? I got possessed by a mythical creature?
As Tazaro stared blankly back at him, Vincent sighed heavily and crossed his arms. It was evident that the both of them had been through something hellacious, and it hadn’t yet sunk in that they were in a safe space.
“Seriously. Can I at least check and make sure?”
Tazaro began to worry, suddenly self-conscious about whatever changes might have happened to his body with Bartholomew’s possession.
“C’mon, man. You and Micah pretended to be patients so I could pass my exams. It’s nothing I haven’t already–
–Ok, fine,” Tazaro grumped, standing and stripping off his shirt. He held out his arms and turned around. “Happy now?”
Medically, he wasn’t, but perhaps he’d have to have a more serious conversation later, once all of them had some rest. Either way, Tazaro was back, standing, and apparently alive enough to crack sassy comments.
Vincent’s brow furrowed as his brain slowly pulled itself out of its medical mindset before the friend mindset took over, and finally allowed himself to ask questions.
“Tazaro, I…” Vincent began, feeling suddenly sheepish. “I was beginning to think you were actually dead. You’ve been gone for days. Your old house burned down, and Tyler, Micah, and I thought you all had gotten stuck in the fire. The fire department couldn’t tell; there weren’t any bodies to find.” Vincent began, standing in the middle of the room. “I mean, that’s the story we’ve been trying to tell people since it sounded better than some ‘winged woman kidnapping you.’ None of us could believe it, but after seeing…”
He shook his head. Though he had met Sheeva only once, considering that Tazaro had apparently assisted her this much was enough proof that she hadn’t kidnapped him, at least.
“It’s a really confusing controversy right now,” He dismissed, deciding he would set the story straight with Micah at a later time…though, how would he even begin to explain? “So, what actually happened? Did she…really kidnap you and fly away?”
Tazaro stared at him, blinking sluggishly through fog as he tried to recall. Truth be told, it was a struggle, considering it all seemed a hazy blur.
“Uhh…” He drawled, trying to spit words for the flashes rapid-firing in his mind’s eye: diving from the clocktower; a brief moment of daylight amid the clearing for the gods; the sight of his childhood home ablaze; Llyud’s head bursting like a melon.
“Wait, wait.” Vincent blurted. “What about your mom? No one’s seen her since. Where–He paused, then braced himself. “Tazaro, where…is she?” He asked, trying to will away the terrible gut feeling he had.
Finally, the full-body dread as he recalled his mother’s violent death made his forehead scrunch into misery as his face heated and vision became blurred with tears.
“Mom’s…Mom’s dead.” Tazaro said, and at this, he cried harder, leaning forward and sobbing into his hands.
Vincent’s mouth popped open with a surprised, empathetic “oh, gods,” and he stepped forward and crouched at Tazaro’s side.
“What? Was it really the fire?”
Tazaro shook his head and grabbed a fistful of hair in his hand as he tried to gather his wits. It didn’t help, and only smeared sweat into his already greasy hair.
“No, Zakaraia. Zakaraia killed her. Sheeva fought him,” He stopped to raise his head and gestured at Sheeva with his hand, opening and closing his mouth as he searched for words. “He did this to her, and then he came after Mom and me.” As Tazaro began to tremble, Vincent did his best to pull the shaken man into a hug. Tazaro flinched, shaking so fiercely with fear that Vincent wondered if he would need to drug him instead. “Bastard tied my hands behind my back, snapped her neck. I couldn’t–” Vincent consoled his friend as well as he could as the heart-wrenching wails sounded in the room.
“He made me watch, Vince!” Tazaro’s voice was small and taut with pain. Vincent’s eyes flared at the information, and he looked down at the broken man as he wept. “He just–with his hands, he just–twisted, and she was–He stopped to wail.
Vincent bit his tongue to hold back the lengthy medical knowledge he had about victims with snapped necks and how they might have been able to survive, but chances were–since the man had likely tortured Sheeva, he knew what he was doing and Mildred’s death would have been instant. He waited out the mourning man’s understandable outburst, wiping at a few tears of his own, pained for Tazaro’s loss.
And, to witness her death in such a violent, sudden way? I’m surprised you’re even able to function this well.
“I, I didn’t know what to do, so I fixed Mom’s neck and carried her to where Sheeva was.”
Vincent stilled, then stared in amazement, processing the information and feeling even more sorry for Tazaro. Vincent himself had needed to set plenty of bones in place and was no stranger to the sound the sickening squelch could make. Still, he’d never had to set the bones in place of someone he knew, let alone handle a corpse.
He broke away to hide his shudder with a cross of his arms and a clear of his throat.
“Then what?” Vincent asked. Tazaro looked up, eyes puffy and red. He wiped at his nose with a spare rag and sighed.
“Then what?” He repeated, thinking. “I patched Sheeva up.”
Vincent looked to Sheeva, thinking back on the rough patch job Tazaro had administered. It wasn’t the work of a novice, but it was still better than nothing. It might have been the turn of tide between life and death.
“I hope-I hope I didn’t make it worse, or do anything wrong.” Tazaro mumbled, concerned. “I tried to do as you taught me. It’s…it’s not the same, with so much…blood.” He finished softly, staring at his hands. They were still caked and dirty.
Ketchup didn’t even come close to large amounts of real blood.
Vincent shook his head and intervened, grabbing a clean towel and dipping it into the clean bucket to wet it before trying to wash Tazaro’s hands.
“No, no, there was nothing wrong!” He assured. When Tazaro didn’t look, and didn’t seem to believe him, Vincent paused his cleaning and shook Tazaro gently.
“Hey, look at me,” Vincent called.
Tazaro stared at him, morosely, but it was enough that he wouldn’t be staring at bloody hands in pointless guilt anymore.
“You did a good job, Tazaro–really. She, uh…” He paused, then tsked. As he and Micah had when confronting him about Kirin, there was no point in sugar-coating it. “Well, to be blunt, she might not have lived otherwise,” He admitted, grabbing another rag and wetting it. It turned up less pink than the previous one as he wiped at Tazaro’s hands a second time.
Tazaro only stared, still blank, though a shadow of relief crossed his face.
“I don’t know who Zakaraia is, but he must be some sort of sadistic psychopath. He, he...uh, never mind.” He stopped himself, as Sheeva would disapprove of him disclosing her tortured state. He pulled away and dropped the bloodied rag into the pile of others, then paced the room as more questions fired rapidly, urging to be spoken. He couldn’t hold them back any longer.
“Why does she have a wing? Is she some sort of...unfortunate experiment?” Vincent asked. Vincent could see the worry in Tazaro’s eyes as the battered man looked back at Sheeva, then back to Vincent again, debating what to say.
So, he knows, whatever the reason. Vincent thought as he waited for an answer. When Tazaro shook his head in defiance, sat back, and crossed his arms, Vincent continued his questioning.
“What did she do earlier? With that cloud…uh, thing? How has she kept all of...this," He gestured to the giant wing in its sling. "Hidden from everyone else?”
“I’m not going to tell you.” Tazaro decided with a determined, fierce look on his face. Granted, even he didn’t know the extent of it, but he still had his honor to consider.
“What do you–well, you’re gonna have to give me something! She’s technically a patient now!” Vincent argued.
Tazaro scowled even deeper.
“I said ‘no,” He growled.
Vincent sighed, took his glasses off his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, then leaned against Tazaro’s dresser. Feeling the exhaustion settle into his being, he slid down the side of the dresser to sit on the floor and dropped his head, dangling his arms off his knees.
“Man, she’s literally asleep, and I don’t want to wake her. Can’t you just–
–No. I promised–on the dead man’s grave. You can ask her when she wakes up.” Tazaro insisted sternly.
“Ok.” Vincent agreed in surrender; a promise like that was a promise, and while it rang true when they were children, it rang just as true in adulthood.
“I’m...I’m still trying to figure it out. I mean–medically, it makes no fucking sense. It’s a wing. With-with feathers, and-and bone, and connective tissues. Can she actually fly? Will you at least tell me that?” Vincent bargained, his medical mind proverbially blown.
Vincent blinked as Tazaro slowly nodded and looked back at the sleeping woman. The first shred of positivity spread on his face, and his eyes began to glow with wonder.
“It’s–heh–it’s really something,” He chuckled. The cheer didn’t last long as his face fell into a contemplative look.
“Do you think–No, no.” He began, shaking his head at whatever it was that he wanted to say. “Is it possible for–No, that’s insane,” Tazaro warred. “I’m insane!”
“Possible to…surgically add a wing to someone’s body?” Vincent offered. Considering Sheeva’s abnormal state, perhaps anything was possible.
Tazaro stared at him for a moment, thinking hard about something.
“...Sure,” He finally answered.
While Vincent doubted that was what Tazaro was thinking, he also doubted the man’s ability to comprehensively convey whatever he was actually thinking.
“I mean…I’m no expert, but that thing–wing–is…on there pretty good.”
Vincent witnessed Tazaro fall back into silence to contemplate whatever it was that would have the man finally considering he might be a little bit bonkers.
“Honestly, I haven’t got a clue how to bind a broken wing, and if that th–” Vincent physically pinned his tongue between his front teeth. “Wing,” He stressed. “Is broken, I-I’ll need to consult with a veterinarian. I have a friend that owes me a favor.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Tazaro stated sternly.
“Trust me, man, my lips are sealed!” Vincent promised.
“They better be.” Tazaro threatened.
Vincent scoffed and gave an exasperated “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” at the situation.
“What the hell am I gonna say? Honestly!” He asked, still holding his glasses in his hand. They flopped about as Vincent waved his hands at Tazaro’s understandable ridiculousness.
“Here–I’m sure this one will go over wonderfully at the next conference: ‘Hey guys! Tazaro’s back from the dead; he brought a beaten and bloody girl to our apartment who can do magic–Oh, and by the way, she’s sprouted a fucking wing–No big deal, though, it’s not contagious!’ D’you know how fast they’d have me committed?” Vincent countered, his hands waving about and shoulders shrugging as he animatedly made his point.
This brought out a chuckle from Tazaro, and his demeanor softened. Vincent huffed from his nose, lips curled in his own smirk as he settled and pushed his glasses back onto his nose.
“Wings, actually.” Tazaro corrected.
“What?” Vincent asked, pausing and tilting his ear, just to be sure he heard what he thought he’d heard.
“Wings. The other one is, uh, hidden.”
Vincent stared at him some more, trying to figure out how a wing could be hidden. His face scrunched in horror as he imagined all of her bones and organs shifting around to make room for something that was as long as she was tall. The crunching, grinding, and squelching he imagined made the imagery even worse.
Curse his medical mind, sometimes.
“I’m...I’m gonna get us some water.” Vincent offered, standing and heading to the door.
Lingering in the doorway, he opened his mouth to say that Tazaro owed him big-time but closed it. The statement could wait. Plus, he had no intention of meaning it. If anything, maybe chipping in for the price of bandages and materials for casts would be enough.
Tazaro listened to ensure Vincent wasn’t heading out of the front door, then relaxed enough that he could slump back in the chair as he heard the cabinets in the kitchen open and close.
Vincent returned with a tray with three glasses, apples, and some crackers. Tazaro sipped disinterestedly, then almost chugged the whole thing. As the water settled some and stirred hunger in his gut, he shoveled a couple of crackers in his mouth, thankful for something other than energy cubes and jerky. Though they were simply grain crackers with flakes of salt, it was ambrosia to his tastebuds, and he salivated even more. He polished off the apple, grabbed the second glass of water, and chugged it down, groaning a satisfied, guttural "argh!" as he wiped the water off his lip.
“Holy–How long has it been since–
–gotta be days. Feels like days. I don’t know,” Tazaro admitted. “Probably gonna stay away from jerky for a while,” he groaned.
As exhaustion set in again, Tazaro leaned against the arm of the chair as he stared off in thought, a thousand-yard stare on his face. As his eyelids drooped and he began to mutter something to himself about “can’t sleep,” Vincent reached out and shook him gently, giving pause when Tazaro flinched and let out a frightened gasp of alarm.
“I was-I was just gonna say, you should sleep on the couch, man.”
Tazaro sighed, turned toward his desk, leaned on it, and stared out the window, searching for something...or someone, Vincent feared.
“I...don’t want to. I’m not sure it’s safe to.” He mumbled. Vincent arched an eyebrow.
“Why would it not–oh, because of Zakaraia?”
Slowly, Tazaro nodded, still searching the skies. He reached for Sheeva’s sword and leaned it against his leg to keep it handy.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Vincent asked, wondering if he should call upon Micah for help–Tazaro’s behviour reminded him much of a war-battered soldier, though considering all that he had been through in such a short amount of time, he could certainly be categorized as such. Tazaro thought for a moment, and, unable to place a time, shrugged for an answer. Vincent shook his head, not accepting the ambiguous response.
“Answer me, Tazaro,” Vincent demanded. Tazaro took a deep breath and gave a “pshew” as he sighed again.
“Two days, maybe? Broken sleep. Once because I...I fainted. Needed to keep an eye out in case he came back to finish the job.”
Vincent stepped forth to open the window, reach out, and draw the shutters closed. He then slid the window shut and locked it dramatically to prove a point.
“Look, I’ll keep watch. You gotta sleep. I-I have no reservations about making you sleep if I have to.” Vincent bluffed. Tazaro scoffed and sent him a knowing look.
“Please. What are you going to do–drug me?”
Vincent silenced and frowned. He considered bolting for his kit and plunging the diazepam into Tazaro’s neck, but by the time he even got to the door, Tazaro would have likely already stopped him. He sighed.
“No...” He admitted. “Look, just try. I locked the window. I work the night shift, so I’m used to being awake right now anyway. You’ve been through a lot, and you need to process it.”
Tazaro scowled and squinted, then calmed and slowly nodded his acceptance. He crossed his arms, lay them on the desk, and buried his head in them, head turned away. Satisfied, Vincent hurried to the living room, grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the green-and-blue plaid couch, and draped it over Tazaro’s shoulders.
Vincent waited, making sure they were both asleep and comfortable. When Tazaro’s leg jerked, Vincent caught the sword leaning against it before it slipped off and clattered to the floor. He draped the strap to the scabbard around the back of Tazaro’s chair and dimmed the lanterns before closing the door.