Spring’s weather barreled into summer in a fury over the following week. Lightning flashed and illuminated the town as it struck the lightning rods on the clocktower, and Sheeva smiled as the sight invigorated her senses. As the rolling thunder followed and shook the windows, she let go of a chuckle and squeezed her hand around the chemical flask that she used to make some tea.
She would get a much better vantage point from the hillside beyond the town and be able to revel in the feel of the winds as they tore through her hair and pierced the buffer of her clothes, but she was unable to walk that far. Yet, She fought to remind herself.
Walking distance aside, she would risk getting either her cast wet or her bandages. The latter might set her back if wet; her wounds risked getting infected since they were still healing.
Sheeva missed taking an actual bath and longed to soak for as long as she liked in hot water, scrub her own skin with a loofah and soap, and wash her own hair. Vincent had been assisting her with sponge baths, and while it was necessary, she could not wait to regain her independence. He assured her that she was free to do it herself as soon as she had the strength.
She held the flask under her nose and took a nice whiff of the dark green tea to replace the stuffy dust from the light rain that fell over Roussell’s rooftops when the storm started. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the smell of rain on cobblestone streets.
Instead, Sheeva preferred the scent of rain on grass or in the forest. It did not cause her eyes to itch and her nose to run. She took another sniff of the tea and sipped at it. When it passed her lips, the copious amount of honey and lavender that she added to it hit her taste buds, eliciting a small smile as the flavor tingled her nose. She hummed in contentedness and played with a flower between her teeth.
The rain fell hard enough that deep puddles formed in the street, and she watched the passersby try desperately to evade them. She cracked a smile as a child jumped into one, ignoring his parent’s groans and immediate scolding as he continued to stamp and splash with tiny feet.
She was thankful to savor the moment: the thrilling stimulation of nature’s rage and the contradiction of a cold night with warm tea and a blanket around her shoulders. Her stomach flipped as her brain reminded her that she was almost unable to.
Her gaze fell to a random rooftop, no longer fixed on the lightning, and the thunder faded as the shaking thought shattered her peace. She coughed as her throat tightened, and her jaw clenched as she saw Zakaraia’s face in her mind’s eye. Her grasp on the flask hardened, and she scowled as a pit of hate welled in her gut, unaware of tears that trickled down her cheeks.
As the blanket became too hot for her to handle, she shrugged it off and unbuttoned the buttons of her shirt as well as she could, and fanned herself with the loose fabric of the shirt. Sheeva forced a breath, sucking in the air and feeling it expand her lungs. It served as a tether, and she slowly let it out again as she searched the rooftops to count something.
A chimneystack became the first thing she latched onto, and she began the process Vincent had suggested for her to use, counting five similar things and taking a deep breath with each discovery. She could not believe how well it worked...when it worked.
A few times, it failed, and she paced the room as much as she could stand to alleviate her panic. Plus, there were few things in Tazaro’s room that varied, as he seemed to hide his accomplishments or ideas as opposed to flaunting them freely, as his mother had. He seemed ashamed and unsure of himself, whereas Mildred had been incredibly supportive and proud. Sheeva often found herself wondering why he shied up as he did.
Another lightning strike flashed. Sheeva blinked, staring at the blue glow of the lightning rod as it absorbed the energy. As she slowly returned to reality, she found her grip on the flask had faded, and it dangled in her lap, threatening to fall. She returned her hold on it and sipped, taking another inhale to imbed the scent in her brain.
Sheeva set the flask down on the floor and stood to lean over the balcony rail, sticking her head out into the rain beyond the shelter of the balcony roof. The raindrops were cool, then warm as they carried away the intense hot flash that had flooded her head. She let out a sigh of relief and looked up to the sky to feel it cry with her.
Thick, dark, billowy clouds that mourned with her and sympathized with her obscured the starry night sky and its two brimming moons. Still, she smiled at them as a bright, purple lightning strike illuminated the rough, drab, and grey clouds.
Resolve replenished, she formed some seals and rested her hand on her thigh to test her wound healing ability. The green light that usually shined brightly was a dull glimmer. Still, she told herself it was better than nothing. Hopefully, it would work well enough that she could at least walk to the hillside on the outskirts of town within a couple of weeks, still eager to see the purple lightning and hear the thunderstorms from a better vantage point.
If she could fly, she would have preferred to watch the storm from the top of the clock tower. That would have been a hell of a rush. The prospect made the hair on her arms stand as excitement coursed through her. If she ever had the opportunity, she told herself she would.
She turned her head as the balcony door slid open. Tazaro stepped out, carrying a chair under his arm, announcing his presence with a soft "Hey."
His chestnut hair draped around his head, weighted from its natural wave by dampness. She found herself mildly envious of his privilege to bathe in solitude, but it was short-lived, quickly replaced by pity; he had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, and Sheeva often heard him pacing in the middle of the night after waking from a nightmare. She had her nightmares, too, though apparitions of Zakaraia plagued hers, not a dead mother. Recounts of Rose’s death had not played in her mind for a while, and somehow, she felt a twisted sense of relief from the fact.
“May I sit with you?” He asked. Sheeva nodded in response. She looked back as a couple hurried across the street and into their home to escape the rain.
“How long have you been out here?” Tazaro asked. She heard the clink of a glass beaker as Tazaro set his tea on the floor next to hers.
Sheeva settled, sat back down in her chair, grabbed the flask, and rested it in her lap. Surprisingly, the tea was still warm, and it soothed her cold, numb fingers.
“Since it began.” She answered, struggling to get the blanket back over her shoulders.
“Want help with that?” Tazaro offered. She fought with it some more, then gave in with a nod of her head.
“Please. I think it has twisted upon itself.”
He stood and took it from her. Indeed, it had twisted on itself. Tazaro shook it straight and wrapped it around her shoulders. When his hand brushed her hair on accident, he found it was wet.
“You’re soaked.” He pointed out.
“I am aware.” She snapped. Sheeva took a calming breath, realizing that she had sounded unnecessarily rude, though it was merely fallout. “My apologies for my shortness. I...needed to cool down. I was having a moment.” She admitted, forcing a sip of tea.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt?” His apology was sincere, and she heard it in his voice.
She shook her head and leaned forward, then winced. The action still hurt her chest. She leaned back and lay her head on the back of the chair.
“No. It is better that you did.”
“Mm.”
They stared at the scene beyond the frame of the balcony. Another bolt of lightning struck the tower, and Sheeva listened to him count aloud to himself. He got to “eleven” when the rumble of thunder hit and smiled, his face alight with fascination.
“Heh. I always thought we were farther away from the clock tower than that. We’re only a couple of miles away.” He stated, watching for the next lightning strike.
Sheeva turned and looked at him in wonder.
“You know that just by counting seconds between lightning and thunder?” She asked. A sheepish grin formed on his face as he chuckled at himself.
“Ah, yeah. You can use it to figure out distance. I, uh, enjoy knowing weird things like that. I guess.” He answered. His stomach tied itself in knots as he wondered if he was coming off as really strange after she remained silent for a while. When he looked at her in nerves, she held a contemplative look on her face that surprised him.
“How do you do that?" She asked. He blinked, not expecting her to ask.
“There’s...a discrepancy between light and sound. You can use it to determine distance. Whether it’s totally accurate or not, I’m not sure, but it seems to work well if you’ve got nothing else.” He responded, apprehensively waiting for derisive laughter to follow.
“Is it an easy formula, or is it more of that bizarre math?” She pressed. It seemed like something she could use in the future.
He tilted his head in curiosity. No laughter? No...disinterested, judgemental scowl?
“No. It’s pretty simple. Divide the seconds between sight and sound by five, but again, it’s an approx–You really want to know?” He blurted, double-checking. She shot him an annoyed look.
“If I did not want to know, I would not ask.” She insisted.
Taken-aback, Tazaro silenced and leaned in his chair, arms crossed.
“Right, you’d said that before. I still can’t believe how blunt you are sometimes.” He stated, mildly impressed.
“You would prefer I waste time with idle prattle?” Sheeva huffed, crossing one leg over the other. She regretted the action, hissed from the pain, and dropped her leg.
“With ‘idle prattle,’ huh?” Tazaro asked, eyebrows raised at her choice of words. He let out a small chuckle, an amused smile on his face.
She shifted around on the chair for a moment, huffed in discomfort and annoyance, then settled on a sprawled position that Tazaro had to admit was not something women did. At all. Granted, most women wore skirts or dresses, not shorts or pants, so they lacked the liberty to copy this similar stance. He looked away as he realized her shirt was unbuttoned and found himself thinking that Sheeva did not give half a damn.
Another flash of light hit, and Sheeva began to count. She did the math in her head and voiced her answer. He confirmed it.
“Good. Seems easy enough. Arithmetic is...not a strong point for me. I prefer reading and learning about plants and animals.” She confided with a small gentle look on her face.
Tazaro hummed in response. Math was something he was decent with, though differentials and calculus had damn near rendered him insane.
He laughed as the words “idle prattle” resounded in his head. He felt his skin crawl with the icy, threatening What she sent his way.
“That was-that was just my horrible timing. Sorry–the idle prattle bit is still amusing.”
She tutted and tried to cross her arms again, forgetting that one was still bound to a sling underneath the unbuttoned shirt she wore. She subtly buttoned it back up.
“Why is that so amusing?”
Tazaro chewed on his lip as he thought of how to dictate his thoughts. They were not degrading in any way but could easily be construed as such. Mostly, they were just observations.
He reminded himself that she was unlike most other women and could not begin to compare the two or liken her to other men, either. What little he learned of her personality was so far out of the paradigm, it may as well have been an archetype of its own. Za paradigm vo Sheeva.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s embarrassing.” He tried to dismiss.
She shot him another look.
“Embarrassing to me, or to you? Embarrassment can be overcome. Do not be so quick to dismiss things without saying them. So, out with it.” She demanded, voice stern and still dripping with annoyance.
He stared at her for a moment, baffled. It was oddly groundbreaking and impressive. He blinked a couple of times, took a deep breath, and braced himself.
“You’re not like other Sferrans. You address things pretty harshly. You, uh, kind of don’t...behave with the same modesty of others. You carry around a sword and can kick ass, and even, uh, take a beating. It’s just...mind-blowing, really.” He answered. She took a sip of her tea.
“Other Sferrans do not speak their minds? Or act in ways comfortable to them?” She summed.
Tazaro nodded, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“Most don’t, no.” He muttered, taking a sip of tea. He held it in his mouth in awkward thought.
“They would rather suffer in menial continuance?”
“Mm. Yeah. Maybe.” He took another sip, feeling somewhat called out.
“Pfft. Then that is their loss.”
He snapped his head back to look at her again, choking on the drink he’d taken. She was dead serious.
“Tok za vilg? Wow!”
“What do you mean, what the fuck? You are...genuinely surprised?”
“Well, yeah!”
Sheeva stared at the flask still in her hand and forced another sip. Maybe, she really didn't belong in such a world outside of the temple.
“That is a shame. I imagine the world would be better if everyone gave basic respect to be themselves, no matter how hard or…odd it may be. You have a multitude of accomplishments, I gather. You should flaunt them more.” Sheeva found herself admitting. She looked at her tea again. Perhaps she added too much lavender. She chugged the rest of it, telling herself she would keep her mouth shut.
“I used to, I guess,” Tazaro mumbled. Sheeva snorted, annoyed with his humility.
“Just because you no longer entertain your accomplishments doesn’t mean they no longer exist. You still created things, created ideas. That’s something. A start of a legacy of sorts. That’s far more than I have done for me.”
Tazaro frowned, even more disturbed by her bleak outlook on life.
“I had been meaning to ask you: do you know what those symbols were on the banners in that clearing we stopped in? I have seen some of those sigils before, but I cannot...remember where.” She asked, breaking the cold silence between them, despite the warmth of the air.
“The clearing…” Tazaro mumbled, thinking back to what she was referring to. He tipped his head as it came to him. “Those are the symbols of the gods. Icons to resemble them and generally what they stand for...but it’s all just–just bullshit conjecture.”
“Conjecture? You don’t believe in them?”
Tazaro snorted derisively and waved a dismissive hand.
“Not anymore. They gotta be a bunch of hokey bullshit–I mean, Mom and Tyler worshipped them, every day–and they would just repay us by just–” He stopped here, teeth clenched together and an ache in his chest. “Why would I believe in them after everything that happened? After I prayed–and I don’t pray–Mom still died!”
Sheeva pursed her lips; whatever presence or part the gods actually had to play in things, the fact of the matter was that Zakaraia had ultimately ended Mildred’s life. While she had struggled to accept the seemingly unfair matter, it would be a while until Tazaro could, it seemed.
“They can go fuck themselves! They’re just a-a bunch of made-up things to make people feel better about their shitty selves or about unfair outcomes!” He growled, instantly irritated by the idea. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had struggled with the idea for the last three weeks, and while he’d slowly realized that it was a way for him to cope pointlessly, he pushed the understanding away in stubborn anger. “As if celestial beings would trifle in such...petty matters as us, anyway!”
Sheeva “tsked” in mild impatience, especially considering he seemed to deem the “made-up things” responsible for poor outcomes while simultaneously trying to renounce their existence.
“After all I’ve learned, I can’t say they don’t exist–I mean, I exist, do I not? I am tangible and have some intelligence–enough to learn about lightning strikes and...phonographs.” She answered with a small smile at her mild self-deprecation. It faded quickly, just in time for him to look up at her with his surprise showing at his slack-jawed expression.
“Okay, but you’re diff–
–I can fight...and almost die,” She continued, wanting to test out laughing at her trauma. The laugh it wrought from her chest was far too close to a weeping chuckle, and she awkwardly hummed at herself.
“Cut me, and I bleed.”
Her next phrase sent an encouraging rush through her bones and struck a well of appreciation for herself.
“I…still exist, and I am still alive,” She stated, serious. “Ta’hal-Sferran state and all.”
She cleared her throat, remiss of her original intent.
“Because I...am, perhaps there is truth hidden in the legend of the gods, though I’m still unsure what that truth is. We do not follow the Vivroan religion at Malfa Temple.” She explained. “Anyway…” She turned to face him, still taken aback by the mournful sadness now in his citrine eyes. “Need you more, if that is not proof enough? Suppose you could ask Bartholomew. I’m sure he could have a lot to say about this.”
Tazaro narrowed his eyes at the thought and curled his lip in distrust.
“I don’t want to ask that bastard anything,” He growled, still bitter.
Sheeva fought a tut at his statement, finding irony in the fact that he reminded her much of herself shortly after Rose’s death. Short-tempered. Moody. Though, she hadn’t wasted energy looking for someone or something to blame, having turned all of her focus towards training and holding Llyud wholly responsible.
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She thought of what Cassie and Kyle had done for her and genuinely smiled with a small huff, recalling an old winter day when they’d bribed her out of her room and into the snow. Cassie had been unusually adamant that day–perhaps, Sheeva had said something to her in a funk that rubbed her the wrong way, but as Cassie and Kyle pelted her with snowballs, the childish connection they shared helped snap her out of it. It reminded her of the support system that she still had.
Intent to show Tazaro that he had her inexperienced support now, Sheeva extended her hand for Tazaro to take with a small “hey.” While it wasn’t being pelted with ice-cold snowballs and laughing her guts sore at the way the snow stuck to Kyle’s bushy eyebrows, she hoped it was still something.
He stared at her hand for a moment in confusion, then hesitantly reached out to take it, finding comfort in the gesture. Her hand was warmed by her cup and small in his, and as his grip came to life, so did hers. It brought a funny, forgotten smile to his face.
“I think you should take Tyler’s advice to me and appreciate that you are alive. I’ve had much time to think about it, and I realize that…Rose would have wanted me to do the same, so I imagine Mildred would want that for you.”
The storm died down, and as the rain stopped its relentless assault on the rooftops, Sheeva calmed even more, no longer fueled by the rage of nature, though her hand remained in his while he held it tenderly.
It drove a deep urge to pull him into a hug, eager to wish his ache and sorrow away.
As she felt the phantom softness of his lips from her delusional peck, she cleared her throat, and made to leave.
“I am going to retire for the night. I should be sleeping, anyway.” She dismissed, using the rail to assist herself as she stood.
He stood, too, hand still intertwined in hers.
"Sheeva, wait," he asked.
She paused, met his eyes, then looked away shyly as the butterflies flitted in her stomach.
"What?" She asked, fully aware of the squiggly fluster of her face as her lips curled in a twisted sense of anticipation.
"I'm sorry. For everything I said. For accusing you of being the reason…" He faltered here, then literally swallowed his shame and forced the words to his mouth. "For accusing you of being the reason that Mom died. I know that's not true, and I wish I could take it back," He finished.
"Oh," Sheeva blinked, then avoided eye contact even more.
How naive and foolish of her to suggest he overcome his embarrassments when she could hardly master her own!
Sheeva pursed her lips as her face burned, still easily pissed about the fact. She sighed, and swallowed as her throat tightened with a lump. It did nothing to alleviate the rock of pain.
“Yeah,” She grunted, brow tightening as her stare hardened. “Me, too,” She mumbled, taking a step back and retrieving her hand from his.
“I’m going to bed,” She insisted.
Ignoring the flask and the chair she had set up on the balcony porch, Sheeva stepped to the sliding glass door, opened it, and slid through before hastily shutting the door. The door halted on a sticky spot in the frame and stuck open, covering Tazaro in a warm draft from the apartment.
Disappointed with himself once more, Tazaro sighed, then sat in the basket-weave chair to stare at the cloudy sky while he sipped his tea.
He wondered if things would ever come to a resolution between the both of them.
----------------------------------------
As Sheeva checked off the eighth day of the third week, she sighed. She had three weeks to go until the braces could be removed, or five, if Vincent deemed it necessary. Between her mass amounts of sleep, drinking far more milk than she was used to, and attempting to heal her injuries with magic, she hoped it would only be three. She could at least get up to walk around without too much trouble, and continuously reminded herself that it was progress–A small step, but still progress.
Her sigils still flashed and bugged her. Because she had not reinforced it for some time, the blue one corresponding to the workshop had begun to fade, though it still tingled at her once a day. The yellow one for Tazaro’s apartment flashed whenever Vincent would leave in the evening and return in the early morning, though also not as strong as it used to. She tried to refortify it but did not have sufficient energy.
The more that the green sigil flashed and tingled as the week went by, the more she itched–literally and figuratively–to get out and make sure that Josef and the others were doing alright. After promising that any time spent inside the house would be minimal, Micah had assured Sheeva that he was working toward getting the children settled into one of the barrack’s spare sheds. He felt it would be easier to keep an eye on them than dropping them off at an orphanage, and Sheeva gratefully agreed.
She picked at the scar of the pale red rose in misery, wishing she could scour it off somehow. While the unsightly mark had mostly healed now, it itched something fierce. When she caught herself scratching at it with a glance to the mirror, she curled her lip in distaste at herself, all too easily reminded of a Midna's Overlook captive suffering a hellacious addiction to Iphsium.
Bartholomew popped up occasionally, but only when Vincent was not home and just for a short while, wary of being caught somehow by “their friend.” They weren’t sure what constituted Bartholomew’s visibility by others, but from what he had learned in his travels, only a select few could. Typically, those of Pacemian descent, though, occasionally, Bartholomew noticed a couple of rare finds looking his way–then screaming as they ran to the hills.
He had been searching for Zakaraia, bringing the news of “ritualistic massacres” leading towards Cruinia–in which townhouses or, in some cases, entire farming communities–were laid to waste and ignited in a crude, black-flame funeral pyre. It seemed Zakaraia was indiscriminate of the poor souls he encountered, offing defenseless women and children in addition to the brave soldiers, fathers, and husbands that valiantly defended their families until their final breaths.
Bartholomew wouldn’t admit it, but he had taken to charter a course for the lost souls towards the funnel at the mouth of Fidelia’s river, holding faith that they were well received. His assurance that the “souls were being put to good use,” referring to a deduction of Sheeva’s repayment, did not seem to lighten her spirits as he thought it would have.
Sheeva and Tazaro decided to use the information that Zakaraia was a serial killer they were trying to apprehend as a cover if anyone ever questioned them, as Sheeva had done for Llyud. Once Sheeva was well enough and could retract her wing, she decided to ask the painter in the plaza to craft a fake “wanted” poster of the man, despite how little she knew of Zakaraia other than the marred scar across his alabaster face.
After testing her energy with a ball of light, Sheeva found she could keep it lit for a decent amount of time. She nodded as she closed her hand to dispel the orb and decided that she would at least be well enough to heal the wounds Tazaro would get from his winging. But, recalling her initial winging, Sheeva wondered how he would fare, and let her eyes drop from the newly added poster of a cathedral he’d sketched in college for “a thesis project” to him, currently driven and knocking out the daily regimen she’d assigned him.
As Tazaro did his daily set of push-ups, she found that his form had gotten much better than it had been, even though he continued to gripe about a couple of things–namely, the soreness of his muscles and the unrelenting knots he’d get from ignoring her instruction and pushing himself too hard. Still, as week three came to a close, he ended up doing them well and did not seem to complain about them. Perhaps he was now used to them, and she would not have to listen to his regrets.
“I think it is time for you to bare your wings.” She announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
“What? You think so?” Tazaro asked as he stopped and rested on his knees, not breathing as hard as he had when he first began. He grabbed a nearby towel and dabbed at his face, then chugged at a glass of water.
His efforts instilled a shred of pride, and she hoped it did not show, despite the curl of a smirk on her face.
“Tam. Go. Bring Vincent. I will need his help. Bring buckets of water and plenty of rags.” She ordered, slipping her arm out of its sling and grabbing the glass of water he’d brought for her, drinking deeply. She had become more used to drinking water on a timely basis, rather than only drinking when she felt thirst.
His eyes widened with thrill as he grinned and stood, bolting with a bit of pep in his stride. Sheeva caught herself smiling at his excitement, shook it off of her face, and stepped out of bed, wincing slightly at a twinge in her thigh muscle.
Figuring she would start by showing Tazaro how to unfurl a wing, she unbuttoned the navy-blue shirt Vincent purchased for her and slipped it off of her shoulders, keeping her back to the door.
“Hey! Hi! Whoa! I didn’t realize–Uh, Should I go?” Tazaro’s asked as he averted his gaze to one of his childhood sketches taped to the wall, something he only recently pinned up. The blueprint for the drawbridge that netted him first place in the contest he submitted it to was one of his first notable achievements.
Sheeva clutched the shirt up to keep her chest covered as she turned her head to look at him. Tazaro’s face was red from ear to ear, and the broad, shit-eating grin Vincent gave Tazaro did not go unnoticed, either.
“No. I am going to show you how to bare your wings.”
She turned her head back and focused, feeling a tingle in her shoulder blade as the second joint poked out from under the skin. The metacarpals followed and seemed to fall out as the limb reached. They watched the wing stretch out to its capacity and almost touched the wall, altogether something amazingly graceful. She bent it back and showed how it looked held correctly against her torso instead of strapped down like her other wing, then stretched it out again as she tucked the metacarpals in to fold it back into her body. They disappeared from view with a flash, and a small opening sat before it slowly shriveled shut.
“That was fucking cool,” Vincent muttered, full of scientific curiosity. It hadn’t seemed like any organs or bones had shifted around in her torso to make room, and it made even less sense than the shred he’d managed to scrounge together in thought.
“Thank you, Vincent.” Sheeva slipped her shirt back up around her bound wing and shoulders and buttoned it up. Tazaro shuddered in nerves. The idea that there would be a foreign slot forming on his body gave him the heebie-jeebies.
“Alright. Take off your shirt. You may want to bite down on it.” Sheeva stated as she grabbed a knife and blew a breath of fire on the blade to sanitize it. He gave her a confused look, and she rolled her eyes.
“Don't give me that. You do not want to tear your shirt, do you?” She explained, pointing the knife to the floor as she beckoned him to kneel at her feet once more. Tazaro knelt and took off his shirt, rolled it up, and stuck it in his mouth. She walked around to his backside.
“It may come naturally; I do not know. You should feel a pool of energy right about...here, yes?” Sheeva stated, circling an area on his shoulder blade with her finger. He nodded and focused as well as he could, what with the zing of excitement and fright coursing through his veins.
“Relax.” She ordered, and Tazaro drew in a shaky breath, held it, and just as shakily let it out. It did little to ease his nerves.
“Like a ketze bares its claws, wings are the same.” She continued. As he felt a pull and stretch of his skin, he squeaked, unnerved, and reached back. Sure enough, he felt a creepy foreign body protruding from his back beneath his skin.
“Brace yourself. Expel all the air in your lungs so that you take in a full breath.” She stated, holding the cold blade against the skin. He huffed everything he had out his nose, wondering why she suggested such a thing.
"Why?" He tried to ask behind the cloth stuffed in his mouth.
When she sliced his skin open, Tazaro immediately understood "why" as he inhaled through his nose so quickly it stung, then screamed into the shirt as his brain fully registered the pain.
Like an unloaded spring, the wing shot out of the wound, splitting it even more and eliciting a sob from the man. Sheeva stepped forward and grabbed the wing, giving it a gentle pull as she helped it unfurl. She held up the wing, stretching it out to its full potential.
“Vincent, hold this up. I will get the other.” She ordered. He did so in shock, grasping the bloody wing in his hands. The bone was sturdier than he expected, and the bloody limb was warm in his hands. He watched as she formed some seals and placed her palm against the wound around the bone, and with a flash of light, healed the wound. It scarred almost instantly. He was slightly jealous of the power, wanting to be able to do the same. He could save so many people.
“Ok, now the other side–quickly.” She continued.
Vincent watched as she did the same thing with the other one and held it out for her as she healed the other wound. Tazaro clung to the back of his wooden chair with a death grip, breathing raggedly. She gently set the wing down towards the ground, then stood back to check their work. His wingspan was about as long as his entire body, and when she reached out a hand and gripped the humerus, she found it would be sturdy enough.
“The hardest part is over now.” She assessed. Tazaro took the soggy shirt out of his mouth and panted for air, dizzied, wiping at the tears that had fallen from his eyes.
He looked to his side, and his mouth dropped open as his breath caught in his chest. There they were. Wings. Covered in blood and the tiny feathers matted, but they were there.
“Holy shit. Holy shit!” He swore, then cried out in pain as he turned to look at Vincent. Sheeva patted his shoulder.
“You should not move too much. You are still adjusting to the changes in your body. Here. Sit. We will need to clean off the wings before the blood dries. Vincent, let me show you how to clean them.” She offered, trying to support Tazaro as he stood shakily. He squeezed the cast on her arm in pain, and as she helped him sit backward on his chair, he leaned on it, exhausted.
He gave something between a whimper and a yell as she rolled the chair back against the desk. She grabbed his pillow and set it under his head, allowing him to rest his head on that instead.
She started with the joint connecting to his shoulders, ignoring his hiss of pain.
“Go with the direction of feathers. Most of them are down feathers. The adult feathers will grow over time. They are like scales on a drake, though, modified.” She explained. Vincent nodded and began to wash the other, wincing in apology as Tazaro groaned in pain again.
“Hey. Breathe, Tazaro. It’ll help.” Vincent reminded him, guiding him in the process as he would with a birthing mother, stopping to dip the bloody rag in water to rinse it out.
It took almost an hour, but after what had to be twenty buckets of water and a mountain of bloodied rags, Tazaro’s wings were finally clean. Any feathers lingering about were brown towards the center, turning a cream-white color as they neared the wings’ edges. They were smaller than Vincent thought they would be, but as he remembered that Sheeva said feathers grew, he waved the matter off.
“I-have...a-killer...headache,” Tazaro said weakly. Sheeva huffed softly with a look of pity on her face, but the expression disappeared when Tazaro turned to look at her.
“What now?” He asked, a pain-drunk look on his face. She stared at him for a minute, formed some seals, and pressed her fingers to his temple. He sighed in relief, and again, Vincent was envious of her power.
“Sleep. We will discuss that later.” She decided, grabbing his wings and some bandages. She restrained them, much like her injured one currently was. Sheeva and Vincent helped him stand, lay him face-down on his bed, grabbed the blanket, and pulled it over him.
“Thanks.” He said tiredly, closing his eyes.
“Mm.” She sounded, giving a slight nod, then crossed her arms in thought as she studied his face.
Despite all the pain, he managed to push through and do it. It was more than she expected, and she had to admit, she was impressed with his perseverance.
“Was that all there was to it?” Vincent asked.
“No, he will have to learn how to retract them as well. Again, painful, but it shouldn’t be as bad as baring them for the first time. Eventually, his body will adapt, and it will not hurt at all.” Spotting a bit of blood on his forehead, she grabbed a rag and wiped it off. She grabbed a fresh towel and dunked it, squeezed it with her free hand, then folded it carefully and rested it on his forehead.
Vincent noticed her calm, something out-of-place for the callous woman. He tapped his chin in thought as he watched her face fall slightly, thinking about something dark. No doubt, probably replaying their circumstances in her head again and the events leading to it. When she chuckled softly in amusement at something and moved a stray hair off of his cheek, it threw Vincent for a loop. Curious to know what it had been, he called her out on it.
She flinched subtly, and calmly directed her hand to straighten out a matted clump of growing feathers.
“I just watched the man go through something insanely painful. I...expected him to faint from it. I almost did when I first bared my wings, and I was much more accustomed to pain.”
“Uh-huh. Right.” He said flatly in his hunch that there was more to it left unsaid. “I have to admit; it looks painful. Now that you say so, I’m a little surprised too.”
Sheeva frowned and turned to look at him.
“I thought you were supposed to support your friends.” She scolded. Vincent shook his head.
“On the contrary, I support him a lot. I am truthful. Even when I probably shouldn’t be.” He mumbled as an afterthought.
“You’ve, uh...been good for him, you know, especially after, well, everything. You encourage him to push himself. Respect himself.” Vincent pointed out, enjoying the glimmer of the haughty stare she sent his way, learning that it was a tell of hers whenever he’d succeeded in getting under her skin. “Ha, don’t think I didn’t pick up on your disappointment during your little ‘double standard’ rant,” He stated with a knowing smirk. “One might even go as far as to think you have taken a liking to him,” Vincent teased.
The scowl turned and deepened into something unpleasant, and he knew that he’d pushed too far.
Sheeva scoffed at her thoughts. They too easily slipped towards the almost-kiss they could have shared. With a cleared throat to put such ludicrous fantasies aside, she sat back, attempting to cross her arms and legs, forgetting she could not quite do that yet.
“That disappointment was on his mother’s behalf.” She insisted.
“Oh, please. You can’t honestly say you don’t understand what I mean.” He prodded, though as he thought about it, she might. She silenced, and her mouth pursed in annoyance.
“I do understand. And no, I do not. Not in the way you propose. I don’t…see myself courting him.” She insisted, helping Vincent clean up the mess in the room to keep him from seeing her face.
Vincent paused, holding back a laugh. Maybe, she honestly did not understand.
“That’s not what I,” He snorted anyway. “I wasn’t talking about sex.” He pointed out, taking a bucket and filling it with bloody rags. Sheeva took a deep breath and sighed.
“I know.”
She stood, carrying a bucket of bloody water. Vincent traded it for the lighter bucket he held.
“There’s more to life than revenge, you know,” Vincent stated. Her expression softened slightly.
“I don’t think we have that liberty,” She attempted to dismiss. After all, she was, inadvertently, the reason why they were in this mess to begin with.
“Don’t have the liberty, huh? That’s surprising, coming from a warrior-girl like you. One would think you have all the liberty in the world to do as you please. Who’s stopping you?” He countered.
He caught a glimpse of her irritated blaze as she pushed past him and out of the room.
Unrelenting, Vincent followed her out into the living room, then to the kitchen as she grabbed herself some water.
“Everyone has the liberty to do whatever they want, so long as it doesn't infringe on the freedoms of others. So, you know, I think it’s you who’s stopping you.” Vincent countered. She hesitated briefly, then filled a kettle and set it on the stove to busy herself. She lit it with a breath of fire, then sighed impatiently.
“Then what would you prefer I do?” She snapped, aggressively turning over the beaker she used to steep tea. It thudded hard against the counter, and Vincent winced for his lab equipment. Acknowledging her temper, Sheeva stared at the beaker in her hands and sighed, taking a moment to calm herself down.
“Please–honestly–enlighten me," She asked, hesitating as she drummed her fingernails on the glass. "What would you rather I do, other than the right thing to do? Turn my back on the dangers we face and look the other way while behaving as carelessly as a, a gossip-girl? Risk hurting someone else because I haven’t upheld my vigilance? Risk Zakaraia hurting someone else because I’ve ignored the bigger threat?” She asked, giving that same, stern, yet pleading stare. At Vincent’s silence, she gave an exasperated sigh and turned back to the counter.
Hastily, she poured the bubbling water into the beaker over a packed tea infuser. The infuser bled a gentle blue as she poked at it with the edge of a spoon. The spoon clattered on the counter as she set it down.
“I no longer have just myself to worry about. Tazaro is in this, too, for better or for worse, and if I’m to be his guide, then I need to keep my head clear. I can’t…I won’t ail him any more than I have already.”
Eyebrow curled at Sheeva’s ranting, Vincent fought to find a good question to ask; one that might entice her to think about it a little more positively.
“Is opening up to someone really that detrimental of a thing? Just, a-a cut-and-dry factor between life-and-death?”
Although the tea was nowhere ready, Sheeva picked up the light blue-tinted water and sipped at it through pursed lips. Deciding that Vincent simply didn’t understand due to not sharing the same harrowing difficulties, she held her silence as she doctored up the tea with a sugar cube and a splash of cream.
As the beaker warmed her cold, numb fingers, she headed toward the table and opened up the window. This was the closest she could get to fresh air besides sitting on the balcony in the dead of the night since the balcony was far too public in broad daylight. Fingertips played with the condensation on the glass as she stared into the world below in speculation.
No matter the excuse she dredged to wedge between defenses and ideas, the fact remained that they were about to become training partners and that their inevitable reliance on the other was unavoidable, but still, she scoffed at Vincent’s suggestions.
Would “having the liberty to do as she pleased” truly mean that she could abandon her reserved, stoic front and give Tazaro warm praise of his dedication to his new role, as she had recently wanted to?
Say it fostered something that made her stomach ruffle with butterflies and her heart perform those ridiculous acrobatics in her ribcage. Would “liberty” also apply to her yearning desire to take Tazaro’s face in her hands and fulfill that curiosity of a kiss? Would she be able to handle feeling uncharacteristically...safe?
Sheeva looked up and across the table as Vincent sat down with a sigh, cradling his own cup of tea in hand.
Putting aside the fact that she hadn’t given him an answer, Vincent decided it may be too early to broach the subject.
“What do you think the meaning of life is?” Vincent asked out of curiosity to give her something else to think about. He often asked his long-term patients the same thing, finding each had a different idea, some incredibly optimistic and others extremely pessimistic. He was certain hers would be dark and dreary, but even if so, perhaps he could culture it towards something better.
Her eyes widened with surprise at the question, and she stared at her glass with a perplexed, nonplussed gaze. She settled back in her chair as she honored the question, disappointed with what she found herself immediately thinking.
“I–” She stopped herself, hesitant. Would Vincent understand her point of view if she told him that “life was meaningless, and there was no hope?”
She refreshed her tongue with a sip.
“I do not know if there is a correct way to answer that. No one has ever asked me," She refused.
“Ah." Vincent hummed, forcing a sip of his own tea. He "tsked" at it disapprovingly, then looked her in the eyes again. "Well, there’s not really a right or wrong. There just is. Think about it some.” He suggested.
Sheeva felt the chill of pessimism grapple down her back and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“Frankly, I don’t want to. It’s pointless to think about, and sad.” She voiced, squinting.
Vincent frowned.
It’s only so because you think it’s so, Sheeva.
“It's not pointless. What about a life with a friend or two in it? You and Tazaro are friends at least, right? Think about it. It’s ok to have people you can count on in this world.” Vincent stated, interrupting her thoughts.
There he went again, suggesting something she simply couldn’t risk doing. Sheeva allowed the “feh!” of disapproval. Apparently, being direct was the best way to go about the broached subject this time.
“That is generally how they end up dead, or I end up disappointing someone or hurt. I put Tazaro and his mother in danger and look at everything that happened.” She growled, standing and roughly shoving the chair back beneath the table while trying to quell her terrifying thoughts.
“I’m done with this conversation. Do not ask me again.” She demanded, heading into the living room to claim a space on the couch. Carefully, she lay herself down on it and stewed in frustration and embarrassment as she cocooned herself with the blanket draped over the arm of the couch. It did little to soothe her disruptive thoughts, and she eventually resorted to the cast of a spell to help her sleep, preferring the sweet caress of slumber to morbid, darkening epiphanies.