The Cost

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Xelan woke up to the sight of Amara sleeping, her head resting on the edge of his bed, her braids covering her face

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Xelan woke up to the sight of Amara sleeping, her head resting on the edge of his bed, her braids covering her face. The warmth in his chest spread involuntarily to see her and he closed his eyes again in a bid to calm himself. The traitorous feelings of the Aftermath were the last thing he needed right now.

He rose with effort, his body no different from lead. Last night's events were hazy in his head, and trying to dig further only left him even more disoriented and nauseous. What he could remember clearly was Lyle in the chamber of penance. And Amara's stricken face to see him at the door. He sighed at the memory.  He didn't think she would have been awake. It was foolish of him to not consider the possibility of the Aftermath alerting her.

He sat up straight, his hands going instinctively to his back. The wounds were still there, not to his surprise. Larcic poisoning always interfered with magi's healing properties. And there was something different about the variant Lyle had used on him. His jaw couldn't help but tighten at the memory of Lyle's smug smile when the mode of his punishment was chosen. He cursed the day he had ever crossed paths with him. Or had overlooked the depravity he had seen behind those blue eyes.

Turning his head, his gaze met that of the family in the portrait, freezing in place. He was certain he had covered that up. Why was it out in the open? He stood from his bed, his aching body protesting at the movement. Looking around, he spotted the white veil folded and kept on the dressing table. He picked it up, unfolding it as he moved closer to the portrait. His hands shook slightly as he moved to cover the frame, the familiar haunting voices filling his ears.

Come play with me, Zee

I will always have your back, dimwit, we are brothers after all

Never forget that I love you, my little sunshine

You and your siblings are exceptional, and I know you will make our name a proud one.

In one swift motion, he draped the portrait, the voices stilling almost immediately. He couldn't bear to look into those bright eyes. Or let them see that his pathetic self was all that was left of their legacy. It would probably be for the best if he took it down. But he could never bring himself to. Even as they haunted him, he at least needed the reminder that they had once been a part of him. It kept him going as he went through this hell he was in. And on days the errands he ran stripped more and more of his dignity and humanity, it was the only that kept him tethered.

He turned away from the veiled picture, looking out his balcony at the grey skies. There were days he wondered if he truly deserved having an anchor after the things he had done. That may be his true punishment was to lose himself. A perfect retribution to those who were lost forever because of him.

His gaze drifted back to the woman who was still asleep sitting by his bedside. A wintry gust blew into the room, making her shiver. He moved closer to her, steeling his resolve against the Aftermath as he lifted her into the bed. The immediate burning sensation on his back was dulled only by her soothing presence as he rested her gently on the soft bed. Recollections of her earnest concern made their way back to his memory while he pulled the navy blue covers up her shoulders. Undeserving as he thought he was, she had been so shaken to see him hurt.

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