Volume I: Forged

Chapter 22: Wild-Blood

Tubbo cried.

He wasn't even ashamed to admit it.

He huddled in the too-small cage and cried till his soul felt as though it had been emptied and grated with sand. The wooden planks dug into his ribs and shoulder, but it was too cramped for him to roll over, over even stretch out. His knees were forced to his chest, wings too-tight to his back, his neck cricked at an odd angle.

He could hear the bounty-hunters laughing away around their fire at some joke one of them had told. Conveniently, they had made sure Tubbo was too far away to actually get any warmth from the flickering flames that was oh-so-familiar to Tommy's comforting heat.

Back when they were on the run, just the two of them, and it was cold like this, Tommy would curl himself around Tubbo and call on his fire. Just enough to make sure Tubbo was warm and could sleep. It wasn't till much later Tubbo would learn this drained Tommy, and forced him to stay awake all night.

Never once had Tubbo ever woken up because he was cold, and he hadn't ever thought it strange Tommy was always awake before him.

By the time he learned, it was too late and they were the Count's prisoners.

Tubbo discovered he still had tears left at the thought of Tommy.

Tubbo had been so close—he would have just had to make to the city and he could've disappeared long enough to find help for Tommy. It had taken him a week to make it this far, and it was all wasted.

He had made it to the field right outside the suburbs, was right there, then a weighted net had been his downfall.

Literally.

He sniffled, trying not to cry too loud. He had learned, quickly, through past experiences, that crying wouldn't do him any good. It often got him kicked in the head, if he thought about it—

But his chest hurt, and his elbow throbbed, and his head was all fuzzy.

I'm sorry, Tommy. I'm so, so sorry.

I tried.

...

Tommy tried his best not to flinch as Wilbur, the lanky teen with a fluff-top of hair and dapple-grey feathers, ran his fingers through his wings. The smoky fire tickled his nose, but he wasn't about to move. He didn't think Wilbur would let him. So instead, he gripped the grass beneath him in a killer hold, imagining it to be Wilbur's neck.

He didn't want his feathers preened, but they needed to be preened.

Tubbo had been gone for a week and Tommy's wings had suffered.

So had Tommy.

He had missed the gentle way Tubbo carefully did each and every feather and gingerly took care of the dead or snapped shafts. He missed doing Tubbo's baby-soft wings, making sure each and every feather was straight and perfect and oiled.

Now, against his will, he was seated on the ground in front of a warm fire, getting sleepier and sleepier as one of his kidnappers worked his way through Tommy's wings with an infuriating gentleness.

His head dipped for the fifth time in ten minutes, and he grumbled before laying his forehead on his knees. The hands didn't stop their ministrations, much to Tommy's irritation and relief, and he let his eyes slip closed.

He barely noticed when the conversation that had been taking place quietly became about him.

"He asleep?"

"I think so." A hand in his hair, soothing as it started at the roots and pulled through, lightly tugging at the ends before repeating the comforting motion at the base of his neck.