Boreal

Chapter Twenty-Two

Everything hurt.

Ptarmigan rolled onto his side, and immediately wished he hadn't. His entire body screamed for him to stop, but he continued to push himself upright. He was in his bed – back home, safe and sound - covers tangled around him. Ptarmigan scowled and pulled them down to reveal a chest heavily bandaged, dotted with spots of red. What little skin he could see was a dark purple, angry.

Shyam was curled up on the pillow by his head. Her leg was wrapped in the same kind of bandage as his chest, and patches of feathers across her back and neck had been stripped back to the black scales beneath. Her eyes were closed, head twitching in her sleep.

"Shyam?" he whispered; his voice rough. "Shyam?"

"Let her rest, Tarmy." Ptarmigan's head snapped around to see Siskin, making his way over from the kitchen. The man looked tired; his eyes held dark circles, and his hair was a mess, as though he'd only just woken up himself. Siskin sat on the edge of the boy's bed, holding out a steaming mug. Ptarmigan accepted, letting the scent of warm tea - lemons and honey - wash over him. He took a tentative sip. "How are you feeling?" Their instructor asked, face creased with concern.

"Sore," Ptarmigan replied.

"Do you remember what happened?" Siskin continued. The docks. The dragon.

Fulmar.

Ptarmigan almost choked on his tea as the memories rushed back. His eyes stung, and his throat was tight. Siskin was quick to take the mug from his trembling hands and wrap his arms around him, holding him close. The boy let out a soft whine, burying his face into Siskin's shirt.

"Is Fulmar alright?" He already knew the answer, and yet his was desperate for someone to tell him he was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Tarm." Siskin's grip tightened a little, as though he were bracing himself. "He's gone."

"It's all my fault," he sobbed. Siskin swallowed.

"No, Tarmy, no, it isn't," he cooed. The tears were pouring, now. Try as he might, Ptarmigan couldn't stop them from escaping, each accompanied by another, soft sob. Siskin pulled him closer, hushing him, whispering over and over it was alright, and it wasn't his fault.

"I shouldn't have gone," Ptarmigan insisted. "If I hadn't - then Fulmar - and the dragon-"

"The dragon would've attacked anyway," Siskin said, "She'd gone mad, Tarmy. She would've hurt someone sooner or later. She wasn't in her right mind, Ptarmigan. She was going to hurt someone anyway. It wasn't you're fault."

"He wouldn't have been there if I hadn't convinced him we could stop it."

"It's alright, Tarmy. You couldn't have known," Siskin assured him. It did little to help because he had known what they were doing was dangerous. What had he been thinking? It had been a doomed mission from the start. What would they even have done, if they'd faced the angel, tried to rescue Grebe? A single dragon had been enough to decimate them. The story had said these creatures had brought the Boreal to its knees, what chance would they - a group of children - have had against it?

But what choice had they had? The adults hadn't done anything. They had refused to listen, to take him seriously. They waved off his concerns like silly fantasies, asked for proof he didn't have. He'd wanted to save people, show the grown-ups there was a monster to be feared, lurking beneath the city. And now? He was lost. Ptarmigan's mind was racing, and yet, his thoughts were sluggish, confused. He didn't know what to do next.

"I...I just..." His words were lost in another wave of tears. Siskin reached into his pocket, pulling out a small handkerchief. He helped the boy wipe his eyes, and blow his noise, patient as he waited for Ptarmigan to calm down enough to speak again. "I just don't want you and Ciarran to get in anymore trouble."