Vincent poured boiling water onto more than his usual amount of coffee grounds and stirred the foaming, steeping mixture while he gathered his fleeting thoughts as well as possible.

His hands shook as he filtered the coffee from finely crushed grounds into a glass beaker, hoping the sharp, rich bite would snap him awake. If this failed him, the next option would be a shot of adrenaline. Or, if he was out of the stuff and desperation called for it, a hellacious injection of medical-grade Iphsium. But, he reminded himself, I already promised not to touch anything like that ever again.

He brought the beaker to his lips and sipped, astonished when the coffee slapped him across the face. Blinking away his shock, Vincent looked at the glass in his hand, offended. Maybe, it was too strong.

After calming his coffee down with cream and sugar, he rounded the kitchen corner into the living room to face the chaotic mess of medical books and journals. Vincent had been so desperate to make sense of the anomalies about the woman sleeping in Tazaro's bedroom, he pulled every book from the shelf he thought might help him. He scowled at the unhelpful things, sighed, wiped at the tearing tire of his eyes, then readjusted his thin-framed glasses back onto his face.

He bent over to straighten out the scattered books, trying to organize them between texts that were remotely helpful and texts that offered no solutions whatsoever. As Vincent stared at the stack of three possible books versus almost twenty, he realized he would simply have to ask Sheeva and prayed she would be willing to answer.

He jumped and jerked around sharply at a gravelly “hey,” wincing at the twinge in his neck, stiff from pouring over books all morning.

Tazaro stood there, pale and unblinking, appearing even more disheveled and tired than Vincent felt. Though he had changed out of his bloody clothes, his hair was matted slightly and dirt and blood still caked his face. Even his hands were still stained with blood despite efforts to clean them the night before, held loosely at his sides as he stared in confusion at the cluttered mess of the room.

“Hello. Uh, how did you sleep?” Vincent asked. He decided to avoid asking how Tazaro was feeling, given the circumstance. He would recommend a shower later. Tazaro slowly shook his head, staring off into the space of the couch.

“Or are you still asleep?” Vincent called to him again, wondering if Tazaro was possibly sleepwalking. When Tazaro sucked in a breath and muttered an answer, Vincent gave a slight hum, mildly perturbed. He still couldn’t tell.

“No, I’m…awake.” Tazaro mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. The crushing weight of reality was taking its heavy toll on him. “I’m sorry I was a dick last night.” Tazaro sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets and hanging his head in shame. Vincent waved the matter off and shook his head.

“You both have been through a lot. I think everything you did and said last night is forgivable. Is she doing ok? I was going to check on you both in the next hour.” Vincent asked, knowing Sheeva would be sickly for a couple of days while her body fought off the remnants of infection in her leg.

“She looks miserable. Worse, actually.” Tazaro answered, staring at his hands, a guilt-ridden look on his face.

“I thought so. Sheeva will probably be sick and out of it for a couple of days. Was she stuck in the cold overnight?” He asked. The guilty look deepened into a distraught grimace, and Tazaro sighed, disgusted with himself.

“It was nighttime when I grabbed Mom and ran like Sheeva told us to. When she didn’t come looking for us the next morning, I carried Mom back to the abandoned fortress to look for Sheeva. I was…I didn’t know she was hurt.” He explained.

“Lady’s teat,” Vincent muttered. He bit his tongue; he wanted to sympathize by stating that it was not easy to carry a dead body, but it would have been too insensitive–even if his intentions were good. What a personal hell that must have been to carry your own mother. Vincent thought.

Vincent shuffled past Tazaro and back into the kitchen. He figured the best place for the both of them to start a healing journey would be a good breakfast, even if they had absolutely no appetite.

Vincent gathered a cast-iron pan, cluckatrice meat, and carton of cluckatrice eggs. Waiting for the oil to heat in the pan, he seasoned the meat and cracked two palm-sized things into a bowl to whisk them.

“Hey, Vince...would it have mattered if I had gotten to Sheeva sooner? Would it have made a difference?” Tazaro asked, seeming hopeful for Vincent's answer. Vincent kept a poker face as well as he could, hesitating just slightly enough that his whisking pattern fudged a beat. Yes, Sheeva may have been better off, possibly not fighting an infection in a leg and suffering from fever and delusions, but in the end, it was truly anyone’s guess.

“Don’t beat yourself up like this," Vincent dismissed, not offering a definitive yes or no. "You did what you could. With no actual experience, you administered some decent first-aid. You got the both of you here, alive.” He assured Tazaro, giving him an encouraging shake.

Tazaro didn't seem to want to listen, and shrugged off the comforting hand. Vincent sighed, slowly.

“I…assume you buried your mother?” Vincent asked, hopeful that they had gotten a form of closure.

Tazaro shook his head.

“We cremated her. There was no way I would have been able to carry both of them, and we didn’t have a shovel."

Vincent's eyebrows raised, surprised. Most Vivroans desired to be entombed, and as intact as possible, rather than cremated.

"I'm surp–well, I-I guess I shouldn't be. Like you said, you lacked the tools for a burial, so…cremation would probably have been your better option, anyway."

Tazaro frowned.

"I really had no other choice. Besides…” Tazaro trailed off and crossed his arms. “Sheeva suggested it. Called it a 'warrior's burial.' And, anyway, what was I supposed to do? Leave my mom's body to-to rot?" He asked, blinking back tears.

"Sheeva…gave us a fleeting chance. She fought like hell, and I wish it had been–he paused, appearing shocked with himself. "Worth it,” he finished.

Vincent watched the outrage, betrayal, guilt, and confusion flash and mix across Tazaro’s face, and ultimately, Tazaro turned his back on him.

"I don't know what's right to think, or say." Tazaro admitted. "I know–I should be grateful, but instead, I'm just–I’m just fucking angry!"

Vincent felt that anyone else in Tazaro’s shoes would harbor a similarly natural, albeit selfish, response as he thought of what to say to console him, finding that the slightest thing might set Tazaro off and either send him into a rage or a breakdown. Instead, he turned to the stove, grabbed a pair of tongs, and turned over the seasoned cluckatrice meat he stuck in the pan. It sizzled, and he stared at it, deciding avoidance would be best for the moment, at least until they both had food and water in their stomach to prepare them for difficult conversations.

“When I am done making your food, I’m going to buy some casting supplies for her arm and some more bandages. I’ll still have to talk to a vet about bird wings. Have no idea what I’m going to say—obviously, bluff. Say a cat brought a wounded crow to our door. Or… something. I don’t imagine you can put a cast on a wing because of feathers and all.” He announced, still wondering what he was going to tell his boss when questioned.

He supposed he could say it was for practice, but they both knew he got enough hands-on training in the clinic. He snorted a little as he thought about saying he was harboring a fugitive but then blinked. It might actually work if he brought up the fact that, as a doctor, he had the oath to treat people indiscriminately to uphold.

Speaking of fugitives…

“Hey. There was an incident where a bunch of people were murdered in the Westside, with black flames. No one can figure it out, and everyone’s been on high alert.” Vincent informed him. Vincent turned and stared at Tazaro, just now piecing together that Tazaro had disappeared that day. He hoped it was a coincidence, but there was no such thing if he were honest with himself.

“Was it her?” Vincent questioned.

By how quickly Tazaro seemed offended on Sheeva's behalf, Vincent immediately doubted Sheeva had anything to do with the incident.

“That’s absurd! It couldn’t have been; I was there the whole time,” Tazaro defended.

“Ok. I believe you.” Vincent nodded.

Tazaro sighed, and thought for a moment.

“Maybe, Llyud had something to do with it in an attempt to besmirch Sheeva’s name. He could do magic, too,” Tazaro pressed his palm to his chest, recalling the staggered flutter of his heart as the shockwaves seized his lungs.

Vincent checked the meat with a scalpel, removed the cluckatrice meat to rest on a plate, and then poured the beaten eggs into the pan. They sizzled as they cooked, and he seasoned them lightly. Once they were finished, he put everything on plates, organized them on an old medical tray, and handed them to Tazaro.

“Go. Make sure you guys eat. You both need protein. Get a lot of water down, too.” Vincent ordered, sending him on his way.

Vincent tidied up, then headed for his room to retrieve his medical kit. He waited for a while, then poked his head into the room to see how the two were doing. Sheeva had sat up, apparently given up trying to spear bites with the fork, and was daintily using her fingers to feed herself, though the meat lay untouched.

Ahhh. Right. That bruise on her jaw probably hurts like hell, he thought, making a mental note to cut big things into bite sized pieces.

Tazaro, however, appeared uninterested in his food and had set it aside, arms crossed and fuming as he stared into space on the floor. He was completely unaware that the ragora was snapping, hard, attempting to inch itself closer to the plate.

Tazaro, you gotta eat, but I suppose I understand. He thought, stopping himself from being too overbearing. If Tazaro had refused anything for the rest of the day, then Vincent would need to coerce him into nibbling on something.

“Sheeva, you should take this with plenty of water.” He started, holding up a soft, green cube of antibiotics and a chunk of pain medicine. “I’ll need to take your temperature, too, though it looks like you’re still running a fever. I will say I am grateful you have the energy and drive to eat.”

Tazaro glanced at Vincent, aware of the passive-aggressive statement, grabbed his fork to stab at a chunk of meat, and stuck it in his mouth. He felt himself become more hungry and eager to eat as the savory, rich, seasoned food registered in his senses. He grabbed his plate and took a bite of eggs. They were fluffy and moist and further drove his insatiable hunger.

Sheeva scrunched her nose at the smell of the medicine in Vincent’s hand when he held it out for her to take. He dropped his hand immediately, ready to reach for the soup pot she used to throw up into the night before.

“Feeling nauseous?” Vincent asked. She nodded slowly and grimaced as she tried to hold down her food, trying to breathe the nausea away. Vincent grabbed the pot anyway and set it beneath her, seconds before Sheeva spewed into it. She made a sound of pain at her quick movement and whimpered when Vincent held her hair out of her face.

Vincent waved Tazaro out of the room with his free hand, not noticing that he had already stood and was halfway across the room to give Sheeva respectful space. Vincent unraveled the loose ribbon around her hair and tied her uneven hair back, waiting it out. He glanced at the plate on the desk. It was merely picked at, so at least most of it had not gone to waste.

Vincent pinched the medicines in half and lifted the glass of water.

“Here. Quickly.” He insisted, popping the stuff in her mouth and holding the water to her lips. She sipped without resistance, lying back with an exhausted “pshew.”

“I’m going to run by my work and grab a few things. I’ll try to be quick. I also need to consult with a veterinarian about binding down a wing. I may be a doctor, but I’m not that kind of doctor.” He huffed, trying to be light.

“This is not the first sprained wing I have had. I will walk you through it, Vincent.” Sheeva pointed out.

"While it’s nice of you to offer, it's not sprained, it's broken," he corrected. “I assume Ivan usually treated you?”

Sheeva’s eyes briefly widened in fear before they hardened and pierced him.

“How do you know–

–you called me ‘Ivan’ and mentioned...” He paused, figuring she would refuse to admit to anything. Maybe later, when she was not in so much misery. “Said thank you for treating you.”

Vincent held out the thermometer for her to take, and reluctantly, she did. They watched the temperature rise, then waver, though thankfully not at high as the previous night’s.

“Suppose you two look similar, though he is older than you by...” Sheeva paused, trying to gauge how old Vincent was without flat-out asking. “At least twenty years.” She ballparked. Sheeva went to yawn, and as she inhaled sharply, cried out an Ach, vilg! She held onto the breath she had, clutching at the sheet.

“Your ribs are bruised, too. Quick movements are going to hurt for a while. You should try to get more sleep. Better to sleep it off than suffer.” Vincent encouraged her. Sheeva nodded, then sighed, uncomfortable about something.

“I have to pee.”

Vincent clicked his tongue.

“Alright. Let’s get that taken care of, then.”

Vincent helped Sheeva drape her legs over the edge of the bed, hook her uninjured arm around his waist, and looped his arm around her as he did his best to guide her to the bathroom. He had to admit, he was surprised to find she was accustomed to the dependency she now faced; she did not seem as embarrassed as other patients did with his assistance. He was unsure whether it was from determination or stubbornness, but it helped alleviate whatever awkwardness followed.

When they got back to the bedroom, Vincent lifted her with ease and set her back in the bed. He muttered an apology at her hiss of pain and offered her the other halves of medicine, hoping she could hold them down. If not, he would need to come up with a different plan.

“You must have ended up in his care often,” Vincent pointed out as a way to figure out how she really felt, covering her with the blanket and adjusting the mountain of pillows to avoid the giveaway glint.

“Yes, I did. He took good care of me,” She answered, sitting back on the pillows with a heavy sigh.

“Is that all?” Vincent arched an eyebrow. “One might think the two of you were…better acquainted,” He suggested, shuffling a glass of water closer within her reach. She gave a sharp pfft! before avoiding his gaze.

“Doctor Marx is just a man who is good at his job,” She deflected before sighing and pouting slightly at the wall. “You said you needed to get some things. Go. Do that. I…I will not be dying anytime soon.” She reminded him before laying back to sleep.

----------------------------------------

After gathering all the materials Vincent needed, Tazaro and Sheeva watched with interest as Vincent wrapped the cloth around her fractured arm, then spread a sticky white paste on it that he explained would solidify and create a cast around it.

“How long will it take to heal?” Tazaro asked.

“Too long,” Sheeva growled. Vincent paused and looked at her, a stern look on his face. He was used to stubborn patients, but this was the start of the third day, and he had a feeling she would fight him every step of the way.

“Six to eight weeks, but to be on the safe side, I’d leave the cast on for at least eight. Be sure you eat well, drink plenty of water and milk, and most of all, sleep.” He suggested. “Though, you really don’t have much choice in the matter.”

“He will be well into the wind by then.” Sheeva scowled. Vincent looked at her, then Tazaro for an explanation.

“Who?” Vincent asked.

“Zakaraia,” Tazaro answered, uncrossing his arms and standing up from his slant against the dresser. “Vincent, would you mind leaving us alone for a little bit?” Tazaro interrupted, giving him a look. Vincent gave a curt nod and obliged the request, figuring that they had a lot to discuss. Hopefully, Tazaro would be able to talk the stubbornness out of her, but he doubted so.

“Zakaraia told me he was going to Cruinia. He said that if you wanted to, you could chase him there. Why would he just give away his destination like that?” Tazaro admitted, the accusatory tone thick in his voice. The skeptical look on his face deepened as his suspicion grew. “Did you know him?” He asked bluntly.

Sheeva slowly shook her head as she thought about Zakaraia’s unfamiliar face; how his red eyes burned with malice and his long-lipped, half-cocked grin spanned his cheeks. She shuddered as the ghost of his touch drove disgust and paralyzing fear through her veins. She growled and sucked in a breath as she picked at her ear.

“Even though I saw his face, I did not recognize it. I have never met the man,” She admitted.

Tazaro scowled, dissatisfied.

“Well, you must have met him before. Are you sure you’ve never crossed paths? Looked at him the wrong way–pissed in his cereal?”

Sheeva curled her lip in distaste at the cursed mental image of deliberately urinating in someone’s food.

“I, I hope that’s another idiom of yours. I don’t make a habit of messing with people’s food–much less people I have never met,” She stressed, irritated at his attempt for a joke, if that was what he was intending to do. It was in poor timing. “Anyway, he said he knew my father, but didn’t give me anything else. Seemed to be happy that the man was dead.” She mused.

She sighed heavily at a thought.

If the man truly knew her, he must have known she would not step foot on Cruinia any time soon, though never would have been favorable. She shivered as she thought that that might have been the reason he was going there—more means of torture or to throw her off her game.

The more she dwelled on it, the more it pissed her off.

It is not fair. My journey was supposed to end with Llyud! I didn't even kill him like I had told myself I would! Unable to wrap her arms or wings around herself, she rolled a tassel on the quilt between her fingers. The thick twirled threads served as a calming tether.

And what of Tazaro? Sheeva looked over at him. He had his arms crossed, deep in thought, and with such a stern, fiercely angry look on Tazaro’s face, she imagined him also thinking about getting his revenge.

As Sheeva thought of Rose, she sighed. Rose would have wanted her to train Tazaro, just as she had trained Sheeva to defend herself. Besides, with their target roaming Sferra, how could he rest? How could she?

“When I am better, I will train you. We will go to the temple. I will bargain for us to stay there and teach you to fight and use your new abilities.” She announced. “And, however long it takes will not matter–we should be safe there with the veil to protect us.”

Tazaro was slightly surprised, expecting her to want to pursue Zakaraia immediately.

“You serious?” He asked. She huffed.

“Yes, I am,” She stated snarkily, then softened. “You deserve revenge for your mother just as much as I do–did.” She explained.

Tazaro thought back to what he’d seen of the fight, sure he’d noticed the second-guessing look on Sheeva’s face.

“You hesitated. I saw it. What happened? You should have just killed him,” Tazaro hissed, uncharacteristically cold.

“Excuse me?” She snapped, appalled.

“You were gonna kill him, but you didn’t. Why?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Oh, no reason–no reason at all!” He announced sarcastically. “I mean, I’m just curious, considering he kidnapped my mother, burned my childhood house down, got me possessed by a Ta’hal, and shoved a fucking crystal in my guts!” He listed, counting off the reasons on his fingers.

Sheeva scoffed so harshly that the rush of air hurt her chest.

“You decided to tag along, if I recall–so don’t make it like I forced your hand in anything, and don’t you dare go blaming me!” Sheeva defended. “You don’t know what it’s like to have someone’s life in your hands. You wouldn’t understand, so vilg ott!”

Tazaro blinked, shocked with her explicit insult and scoffed, frustrated. Even if he did “fuck off,” as Sheeva told him to, he stewed in anger. As his leg began to bounce with pent-up energy, he stood and paced the room, thinking with a deep frown plastered on his face.

“Don’t tell me to ‘fuck off!” He argued, then scoffed indignantly. “Please! ‘Force my hand,’ my ass!” He snapped, scowling in her direction. “If Mom hadn't been kidnapped, I wouldn’t have had to go anywhere!”

“Hey, I wanted you to stay, but you insisted!” She ordered, fighting to sit up and point at him accusingly. She couldn’t manage much, but thanks to her growing rage, she barely felt the twinges of pain in her wounds. “Besides, Llyud’s the one who kidnapped your mother, not me!” She yelled.

“Hey! That’s enough!” Vincent called from the door, stepping in and stepping between the two. “You’re both still too close to this, and you need to stop!” He barked, trying to push Tazaro towards the door.

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t been here, Mom wouldn’t have gotten kidnapped in the first place, and none of this would have even happened!” Tazaro barked, panting and trembling from fury. He gasped at himself and stared at her stricken, shocked, and hurt face, immediately twisted into agony as tears welled in her eyes.

She dropped her gaze from his, and stared at her feet, embarrassed and stunned.

“Get out,” She demanded in a harsh whisper laden with pain.

“I didn’t-I didn’t mean that, Sheeva. I…”

Vincent, fully shocked, struggled to gather himself, reached up to grab Tazaro’s collar, and forcefully shook him.

“Tazaro, what the fuck? I know you’re hurt, confused, and angry, but come on!” Vincent hissed. “The Tazaro I know would never say something like that!”

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“Yeah, no, I…I fucked up–I didn’t mean it,” He admitted, staring at his feet as he shuffled around and wallowed in his guilt and shame.

Truth be told, Sheeva hadn’t forced him into anything, and he had gone of his own volition. No, Sheeva’s right. I decided to tag along, so I have no right to pin any blame, anywhere.

He slowed as he realized the depravity of what Sheeva had admitted to about taking someone’s life. It wasn’t the same as throwing them in jail for life, or running them out of town, or ditching them on an island somewhere in the act of mutiny.

It was a chilling realization that snapped him to some clarity.

He crossed his arms and cleared his throat.

“Look, I…I’m sorry. I apologize for that. It wasn’t right, or fair, to blame you. Llyud did all those things, not you,” Tazaro clarified.

She scoffed.

“So you understand my predicament, now? What a surprise!” She grunted sarcastically, still avoiding his gaze.

Feeling that Tazaro and Sheeva’s spat had dwindled enough to hit a lull, Vincent let go of Tazaro and stepped back to stand off to the side, though slightly still between the two.

“What made you hesitate?” Tazaro asked. “I mean, I’m not–I know it’s none of my business. But something went through your head, and you stopped. What happened?”

Sheeva glanced at him, then looked away, still hurt. She dropped her gaze to the quilt covering her feet, and picked at the sewn-in tassels.

“Tyler told me–back when we first met–that there’s always a choice, and that if I stopped to think about what I was doing, I might find that those I’m doing it for would be disappointed, or that I might be dissatisfied with how I’d spent my life.” She admitted with a heavy sigh.

“Oh,” He managed, settling further. “So…which was it?” Tazaro asked, impatient.

The stern, stubborn pout she had on her face told the answer. Sheeva would have been dissatisfied rather than self-reflective. He tried to push the spot of indignance away–who was he to pass judgment, especially since he didn’t have firsthand experience?

Tazaro found himself unable to put himself in Sheeva’s dissatisfied mindset. If Zakaraia had dropped dead in the next thirty hours, Tazaro might have felt relief from the relatively instant karma. But...Sheeva had wanted revenge for years, not days, and she had been robbed of the opportunity. He shivered at the reminder of Llyud’s head exploding.

“Either way, Llyud is…dead. We both watched him die. He can’t hurt you; he can’t hurt anyone else. For that, I'm–He paused, wanting to ensure he really meant what he was about to admit. “I’m grateful. Forgive me, but I really hope this helps: I think you should be, too.” He admitted, waiting for another outburst. The statement seemed to have fueled another source of anger that left her frustratedly mute.

Sheeva grasped at wisps of thought beyond the exhausting veil of reluctance. Let go? Just like that? So...easily?

She scowled. Such a thing was not as simple as burning a piece of paper in a fire. She uttered a haughty “bullshit” and turned her face away.

“It’s not that cut-and-dry! How can I possibly forget–” Sheeva stopped. “Because of that bastard, Rose and Mildred are–” She stopped again, and groaned in frustration.

“You couldn’t begin to understand!” She snapped.

“Well, that’s not my prob–Tazaro began, then snapped his mouth shut. It was just as much his problem as it was hers, considering the nature of their current circumstance.

I pray I never do begin to understand how it feels, Tazaro thought, unwilling to become so hellbent that he wasted a significant chunk of his life. Frustration not assuaged, he crossed the room and hastily opened the door, stepped through the threshold, and nearly slammed it shut. He stood there, scowling.

Though he had rudely begun to shift blame onto Sheeva, the fact remained that, because of “that bastard,” his mother was dead. Hot tears slipped from his eyes as his heart ached, and the weight of realization that he would never be able to talk to his mother again crushed him. He slumped to the floor in a heap and began to sob.

Sniffling, he wiped at his face, scrunching his nose at the putrid, tinny scent of dried blood. Telling himself he needed to wash up, he pulled himself up off of the floor.

His gastly visage in the mirror mildly terrified him, and he tried not to chide himself as he did the only thing he could do in such a frazzled state: try. He stopped the sink and cranked on the hot water, and as the sink filled, he plunged his hands into it, finding himself somewhat numb to the burn as his hands instantly reddened.

With a hiss as it became too much to bear, he pulled his hands back, added some cold water, and grabbed the washcloth off the hook to suds it up with soap.

The heat was welcome, and the softly abrasive washcloth alleviated him of the dirt, blood, and sweat on his face. With the splash of water to rinse away the soap came a snap of the mental clarity that, while things could have been much worse, he was still alive. He stared into space as the drops from the tip of his nose plopped into the now-murky water in the sink, gave a heavy sigh, and pushed the lever to unplug the sink.

He went to the living room and sat down on the couch, then leaned back with a heavy sigh as he stared at the ceiling.

“I recommend you both stay away from each other for a while, and really take the time to think on things, especially before you go spitting awful things like that and shifting blame. That really wasn’t right, or fair, and you should apologize–

–I tried t–Tazaro began, then stopped as Vincent gave him a stern, fierce, and never-before-seen glare and held up a hand.

–you will apologize, again, and later, after the both of you have calmed down enough to listen.” Vincent finished, then sighed as he sauntered to his chair and sat down in it. “I’ll be there to mediate, but you two have to reconcile. And, take your time; don’t rush it, and it will mean more. It won’t do either of you any good to stew about the whosits and whatsits to blame,” He ordered, shifting to lean on an arm as he stared at the floor in contemplation of something. Tazaro waited it out, feeling there was more to be scolded for.

“I’m taking a couple of days off; told my boss I am taking care of a couple of patients. Runaways, from an abusive household. For anonymity’s sake.” Vincent answered. Tazaro’s eyes widened.

“You did?”

Vincent tapped and shook his foot in nerves, then ruffled a hand through his hair, unbound from its usual base-of-the-neck ponytail.

“Yeah,” He confirmed, still seeming to struggle with believing his circumstance. “I mean, I had to come up with something, considering I needed bandages, stronger medicine, and casting supplies." He listed, counting the items off on long, thin fingers.

With a light tch, he leaned back in the chair.

"Honestly: what else was I supposed to say that wouldn’t have aroused suspicion? That I’m sick with the runs? Had a heavy night of drinking–not that Fritz would even believe me on that one!" He laughed, wagging his finger at the idea.

He settled with a deep inhale and slow exhale, which Tazaro found himself copying out of habit.

"No.” Vincent heaved a sigh. “No, I didn’t say anything other than that. Thankfully, the boss didn’t press, either, so I’m just going to take that and run with it. We’ve decided to just garnish my wages to make up for, uh, ‘broken medical equipment.”

Tazaro’s appreciation swelled, though he felt bad for putting Vincent into such a tough situation.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to put you through this. If you need it, I have some savings I can pay you back with,” He offered. It wasn’t much, since he’d only just been able to start saving anything at all, but hopefully, it would be enough to make up for Vincent’s financial loss.

Vincent huffed at the offer.

“Don’t worry about it–have you seen how much I make? I don’t need your money. Besides…everyone thinks you’re dead.” Vincent pointed out, leaning over to retrieve a newspaper clipping from his messenger bag. He handed it to Tazaro, with an added comment.

“Might even be drafting your death certificate as we speak.”

Tazaro looked at the paper now in his hand.

Three Dead in Southgate Fire!

By Aismell Smohk

Late last week, a fire in a Southgate home claimed the lives of three unfortunate souls. Tazaro Chorea, 26, his mother, Mildred Chorea, 45, and an unidentified woman, tragically lost their lives. Firemen speculate the house collapsed, trapping the deceased in their home. Firemen also determined the fire to be caused by a leakage in the oil-line for automated lamp-light, though, upon arriving at the scene, “with such black flames, something must have been added to the oil reserve that wasn’t safe.” Chief Officer Jenneric Mann reminds others using the otherwise safe appliance to “only use oils recommended by manufacturers,” and that only “licensed architects add the installments to the home to prevent misfortunes such as this.” Medics remain skeptical of the fire brigade’s initial search and are stumped at the lack of bodies left behind, since “surely, there would be at least remnants of charred bones left behind?”

All Chief Officer Mann had to say on the matter was that he was “serious, and don’t call me–

The page cut out shortly, the rest of the tabloid sheared crudely by scissors, but Tazaro stared at it, trying desperately to digest the information. He sighed, and rubbed the tension from his face as he leaned forward.

“They think I’m dead?” He asked, still unsure.

“Yeah,” Vincent replied, then chuckled at himself. “Guess this must be what they mean by ‘you’re not dead until you’re warm and dead’.”

Normally, he would have laughed, but currently, Tazaro couldn’t appreciate the joke.

“But it’s only been a few days,” He countered.

Vincent peered over his glasses at him, eyebrows raised just enough to tell Tazaro he was wrong about something.

“It’s like I told you; there weren’t any bodies to find.”

Tazaro gave a soft “oh,” chilled to the bone as he began to wonder–if he and Sheeva had been caught in the flame, how hot would it have had to be to eradicate evidence of their bodies? Did it make a significant difference, considering the flames were cast from a spell?

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that, whatever the case, neither he nor Sheeva had perished in the flames.

“Plus, it’s better than the alternative; you, being kidnapped by a ‘devil woman with wings.’ At least no one’s…looking for you.”

Tazaro lifted his head to stare at Vincent for a moment, still in disbelief about what he was hearing. He shook his head, and slumped over again, wringing his hands through his hair.

“Hmph. It’s not often I have a patient come back from the dead,” Vincent muttered as though trying to make a joke of the situation, but with the evenness of his voice, Tazaro doubted so. He looked up at him. The studious look on Vincent’s face was familiar, and if the man had a mechanical skull, the gears would be working overtime.

“Are you getting at something or trying to make a poorly-timed joke?” He asked for clarification, though it was unlike Vincent to do so after critical information like that. Plus, Vincent looked far too tired to make silly quips...or maybe he was tired enough to make witty quips.

“Just wondering what we are going to do. Prove the records wrong? Keep this secret? I imagine if we break the news to people that you’re still alive and kicking, they’ll all want to stop by and see you. Considering winged-warrior-girl in there, we very well can’t have that, can we?” He mused. Tazaro shook his head.

“Not to mention, who would believe such insanity?” Tazaro added, a worried look on his face. The flittering thought that perhaps Tyler and Micah would believe surfaced but was quickly dejected at the question of whether or not they could keep a secret. Tyler most likely could and would. Micah, knowing that Tazaro and Sheeva were both alive, probably would.

Maybe, he reminded himself, considering the man had had enough of his own brother’s criminal acts and had arrested his own brother–though it was not without a heavy toll.

“Mm. Better yet, who could keep quiet?” Vincent asked.

“I was just thinking about that. Gods, I hope Tyler’s alright–have you seen him? Could you-would you check on him?” Tazaro asked, the worry evident on his face. “I mean, I’d go, I’d do it myself, but, uh…” He trailed off, looking at the page still in his hand. “I guess I…can’t.”

Vincent nodded, accepting Tazaro’s humbled request. It was the least he could do.

“I could...bring him here. You probably shouldn’t be going anywhere. At least, not anytime soon, and not during the day.”

Tazaro gave a relieved smile and nodded, but it faded once more.

“We should run that by her, first. What are we going to do about Sheeva? He’ll ask about her.”

“I would prefer to be left out of that. I am the reason Tyler’s wife is dead.” Sheeva announced, making them jump. She was leaning against the wall, a determined expression on her pallid face.

“How did you–Vincent began, then stopped himself and sighed. “Here, sit. You shouldn’t be walking around.” Vincent insisted, offering his arm for her to take as he stood out of his chair. She slowly nodded and shakily stepped forward, wincing with pain as she sat down in Vincent’s favored spot with his assistance.

“Mildred and Tyler weren’t married,” Tazaro corrected with an instant spot of bitterness at the fact that Sheeva would choose to refer to Mildred as “Tyler’s wife” and not by name. He turned around to shield the look of fury, then of immediate concern with himself–it wasn’t as though Sheeva was refusing to acknowledge his mother’s existence; she was simply stating an observation.

“They may as well have been, it seems. Besides, you consider Tyler to be your father, do you not?” Sheeva questioned. “I liken the relationship between you and Tyler similar to the one I had with Rose. They adopted and loved us.”

Tazaro softened and nodded. Tyler had been a father figure to him for about fifteen years, even if they had disagreed frequently. Perhaps the fact that they could disagree on things and still get past it was a true testament to Tazaro considering Tyler to be his father.

“I see,” Tazaro hummed, slightly humbled at another reminder that Sheeva “was Sferran, too.”

“About that: what are we going to do with you while Tyler’s here?” Tazaro asked her.

Sheeva’s face darkened. She wanted to point out that no matter what Tazaro tried to say, Tyler might still hate her for one reason or another. Whether for her failure to keep Mildred safe, put his family in unnecessary danger, or be something other than Sferran, it would all yield the same bitterness. She decided against it, as he would probably just counter with something that made her question herself and her demeanor, as they both seemed to do often.

“Currently, I cannot hide my wings. I think it’s best I stay out of sight, unless…” She paused, seeming hesitant. “Do you believe he can keep such a secret? Finding out we are alive is one thing. Finding out we are super-Sferran is another.” She pointed out.

“Uh, ‘we’?” Vincent questioned. Sheeva slowly nodded.

“I made a deal with a ta’hal, but not before the thing took over his body and forced a pair of wings out of his back, not to mention the…crystal I accidentally sealed into his body.” Sheeva answered. Tazaro was thankful that she had said it because he realized he would have sounded nuts the more he thought about saying it.

“What?” Vincent asked. He looked between the two and gaped, lost for words.

Sheeva frowned, apparently still upset about her mistake. Tazaro grimaced, not wanting to be reminded of the foreign object tucked inside his body.

“Llyud ambushed us. He pinned me, electrocuted me, and shoved a crystal in my stomach,” Tazaro began, lifting his shirt to show the pink scar stretched beneath his right lung. “I blacked out then. I don’t remember a thing.” He admitted, prodding at the spot experimentally. As he pushed, he felt the pressure of something wedged next to his stomach, but it didn’t hurt like it had before.

“The Ta’hal controlling Tazaro tried to kill me. I knocked him out. After seeing Tazaro was wounded, I healed him. I didn’t know he had something in there.” She finished, an apologetic look splaying on her face in an instant.

“Holy sh–how did I miss that?” Vincent asked, stepping forth and crouching to poke at the blob beneath Tazaro’s abdomen. Sure enough, in the space between his lung and his liver, something solid remained. With an uncharacteristic blegh! of disgust, Vincent quickly withdrew his hand and shuddered.

“It, it doesn’t hurt, if you’re worried,” Tazaro stated, amused that Vincent was finally grossed-out about something, and, to boot, something in regards to a body.

Vincent looked from Tazaro to Sheeva, then back between them again, then shook his head.

“Why are you so calm about this? We have to get that thing out of you, Tazaro! Now!” He barked, standing to rush to his room and gather his medi-kit.

“Vincent, there’s nothing you can do,” Sheeva argued, simultaneously talking over Tazaro.

“But, I can do magic, now!” Tazaro complained, twisting around on the couch to look after Vincent, who had already gotten to the arch of the hallway.

Vincent stopped, then turned to stare at Tazaro as though he’d grown a third arm while his medical brain fought to catch up with the situation.

“Wha–bu–It’s a foreign object, Tazaro! It’s not meant to be there! It could–It could kill you!”

“Yeah, well–so will the flu. So can man-eating plants. So can flying people, too, apparently!”

“Show him that fire spell I taught you. It’ll save time than trying to convince him with words.” Sheeva suggested.

Tazaro traced the sigils in the air and felt the tingle behind his cheeks and on his tongue, and with a gentle sigh, watched the tiny trail of flame follow his breath. He still could hardly believe that he was even doing it, but as he saw it again and felt the instant sap of energy and sheer chill of his limbs, it solidified his proof.

Vincent stared at the space where the fire had been, still dumbstruck.

“And you–you really have wings?” He asked. Tazaro nodded.

“Can you show me?”

“Uh...not exactly.” Tazaro looked at Sheeva for a more detailed answer, and she shook her head.

“The wounds healed over after they were retracted. Tazaro will have to break the skin again to bare them, I think. I suppose there is no safer place outside Malfa Temple to bare your wings for the first time, but until I can heal you, we will have to wait. I am still...” Sheeva paused, wanting to attempt gratitude. “Not well enough,” She finished.

“It will be longer still until you can actually take flight.” She stated, getting straight to business. It would distract her from uncomfortable thoughts. “As I said before, they are new bones, new muscles.”

She reached into the pocket of the shorts she wore, pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper, and handed it to Tazaro. He took it and smoothed it out, then scowled at the ink that covered his hand.

“Here. A list of strength-training exercises. When my wing has recovered, I will show you how to strengthen them, too. It should be good for me, as well. I will need to rehabilitate.”

He gave her a look at the messily scrawled lettering, and she frowned.

“I am right-handed.” She explained. Tazaro nodded and looked at the paper again. He would decipher it later.

“I gotta say, I’m surprised you’re standing, considering, uh...” Vincent trailed off, as he had not shared details with Tazaro about the sickly wound on her leg and doubted she had, either.

“Yes, well,” She began, apparently sheepish. “I…I wanted to apologize, at the very least. It is…There are things I know I should have done, and in false security, I abandoned–

–Look, no offense, but I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” Tazaro uttered, still fully embarrassed with himself and his harsh words.

Sheeva blinked, then averted her gaze to the fireplace, visibly frustrated. She struggled to stand, then teetered as she held onto the arm of the chair. Vincent approached her, ready to catch her if needed. Tazaro stood as well, but Vincent waved his hand. There were some things he wanted to discuss with her out of earshot of Tazaro.

“Here. Let’s get you back to bed.” He encouraged, offering an arm for her to take. Hesitantly, she did, shielding her reddened face from Tazaro’s gaze. He could feel her tremble with the effort to stand as she used his arm and the wall to walk.

“I’m-I…” She squeaked, fighting back tears and sniffling.

“Shh, Sheeva. Save your energy. You have to give it time,” Vincent assured.

“But he’s right. It is my fault.” She argued. “I ignored my own vigilance. It was an opening, and Llyud exploited it, as he always did.”

Vincent frowned, and felt that any consolations or advice would fall on deaf ears.

“I was serious about being surprised that you’re standing. That wound on your leg was pretty bad. I’ll need to check it to make sure it hasn’t split. How does it feel?”

She paused, breathing hard and fighting to stay standing. Vincent pulled her to his side and continued to hurry her through the hall. She leaned against him as he twisted the doorknob and led her inside.

He helped her lie back on Tazaro’s bed and bunched up the fabric around the wound on her leg, then peeled back the bandage. A mixture of blood and fluid had oozed, and while the sutures held well, the body’s clotting and scabbing had not taken enough root to be effective. Vincent scowled. She definitely should not have been up and walking about yet.

“Your stubbornness is going to kill you.” Vincent pointed out, examining the wound. It looked better than the previous day but would still take quite some time to heal–six to eight weeks, potentially.

“This will likely scar. The one on your chest, too. As well as the ones on your arm.” He guessed.

“I understand.”

Vincent tilted his head in curiosity. It seemed far too easy of a thing for her to accept. These would be on her body for life, and to be reminded of the brush with death on an everyday basis could take a heavy toll on her psyche.

“Are you ready to deal with the aftermath?” He asked bluntly.

“That the scars will serve as a reminder of my failure? I will have to.” She whispered darkly to subtly suggest avoiding the topic.

Vincent pursed his lips.

Definitely stubborn. He thought, noting the front she put up. She knew where he was going with it, but even the words she used in her dismissal served as hints to the demeaning mindset she caged herself in.

“Failure, huh? I don’t think so.” He called her out on her verbiage. “Instead of making you think of failure, make them serve you as a reminder of survival.” Vincent mused, grabbing a clean towel to wipe the wound clean.

“Unless…you were worried about something else?” He asked, wondering if she would answer. “Along the lines of how others might perceive you?” He reached for a mortar and pestle, grabbed a pinch of dusted herbs, poured some water into it, and began to mix it around to create a sticky brown paste.

When Sheeva scoffed, he glanced at her. She had an embarrassed scowl on her face.

“If a person were to find disgust in me for such a thing, they do not deserve my time or attention.” She decided, though she had never given it much thought before.

“Hm!” He grabbed the brush and began to dab the poultice onto her wound. “I’m impressed.” He admitted.

“Impressed with what?” She growled, annoyed. He hurried to finish applying the paste and set the mortar in her free hand so that she would be unable to grab for his throat again.

“Give me a moment to finish this, and I will answer.” Vincent asked, grabbing for the fresh dressings he set aside. He thought about it somewhat as he applied the bandage and wrapped the cloth around it. He sat back in the chair when he was done, a thoughtful look on his face.

“If that’s how you truly feel, then…when you find love, it will not be superficial. It will be deep, honest, and for your sake, I hope, liberating. Unless, you have found such a thing already?”

Sheeva instinctively looked towards the living room, then to her feet. Whatever chance she had to see where the relationship between herself and Tazaro might lead, she had likely blown it.

“Ah, my apologies–it was…It’s none of my business,” Vincent dismissed, the glance towards the living room not unnoticed. “While we’re here, we should change the bandages on your chest, too–once every few hours.” Vincent mentioned. Sheeva sighed and sat up while he pulled the shirt up and over her head.

“Perhaps a button-up shirt would work better for you. I’ll look for one tomorrow. Also, I had to discard the, uh...chest-wrappings? Do you not use corsets?” He asked. She coughed, then winced at a spot of pain.

“I tried them, once, out of pure curiosity. Those things are an annoyance. I cannot breathe or move in the damn things.” She answered.

Vincent chuckled; the fashion statement was indeed a troublesome thing to deal with.

“Hm. Fair–whoever designed those things should apply a tourniquet to their neck. Can’t tell you how many times those things have caused trouble in the emergency room.” He grumbled, recalling the common occurrence of high-class women being rushed to the hospital for fainting from the damn things being strapped too tightly. “But, back to shirts: Do you have a favorite color?” He asked. She had a slight curl to her lips as she answered with “yellow.” He took it for an honest answer.

He dressed the wound on her chest, remembering that he wanted to ask about the deep scar that raked across her back. He stared at the length of the parallel, jagged-edged scar while he voiced his question.

“Behemoth. They can use their tails as whips.” She answered with a sigh. “I apologize for attacking you the other night. I thought you were someone else." Sheeva changed the topic, watching as he gave an impressed look, piled up the bloody bandages, and discarded them in the trash.

"Believe it or not, it happens a lot in my line of work. You're not the first, and you won't be the last." He assured her.

"I see." She yawned and winced at a twinge of pain. Vincent reached for the block of pain medicine, pinched off a small chunk of it, and handed it to her.

"Here. And, some water, too." He offered. She held the medicine between her lips and sipped on the water, and he helped her to lay back on the mountain of pillows.

She stared at the ceiling, a tired, crestfallen expression on her face, no doubt swimming in self-pity and dissatisfaction. Vincent stood and headed for the door. He rested his hand on the handle and paused.

“I don’t know if they foster gratitude and forgiveness at that temple of yours, Sheeva, but a word of advice: try to practice some for yourself. You’ve been through a lot–more than I may ever know–and you’ve just been through a whole lot more. But, uh…it’ll take time, and patience.”

Her expression soured, and the emotional pain broke out on her face as she fought hard to hold back tears. Vincent bit his tongue and left. He either struck a nerve or a chord of sensibility, and he prayed it was the latter, for her sake.

He paused by the bathroom to wash his hands, then returned to his chair in the living room.

"How is she?" Tazaro asked, looking up from the list he was still trying to decipher.

"Hm.” He thought for a moment, wondering how to put it delicately. “Recovering. Brutally."

Vincent held out his hand for the list, curious what was on it. Tazaro handed it to him and watched as Vincent’s facial expressions changed multiple times.

“I’m surprised you can read that.”

Vincent smirked.

“I’m a doctor. I’m used to chicken-scratch.”

He handed it back to Tazaro.

“That’s a pretty extensive list. I think it covers just about every muscle in the body. Shame Micah can’t help you.”

Tazaro gave him a worried look.

“Did something happen to him?”

“You’re dead, remember?”

“Right. Not every day you, uh, learn that you’re dead. I still don’t know what I’m going to tell Tyler. Or when. Or how.”

“Maya’s been beside herself.” Vincent offered a shift of focus on who to tell, feeling somewhat sorry for the young, brown-haired intern at the clinic. “She likes you–er, she liked you? Well, you know. I haven’t told her you’re still ticking. I haven’t told anybody. Probably won’t unless they discover you or I have no other choice.” Vincent asked. Tazaro shook his head.

“Yeah, I know she does. I’m just not interested. She reminded me of Kirin." Tazaro admitted. Vincent clicked his tongue and nodded.

"I’m glad to find that Sheeva doesn’t."

Tazaro refused to dignify the comment with an answer.

“I’m going to try to sleep.” Tazaro insisted before Vincent could say anything else about the matter. Turning his back on Vincent, he grabbed the blanket and pillow and puffed it, then lay down to get more rest, a scowl stuck on his face.