𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 | 𝟏𝟖+

iv. tethers.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑, white wings splayed wide, her vision warbling as she looks up to meet Arion's pitiful eyes gazing down at her. Her training hasn't consisted for much offensive striking, but more so various ways to keep her alive. But, after a week of being trapped in the palace, she's had zero improvement in any area. She's still the same weak, measly wyng—possibly the scrawniest of anyone else in Tabrien.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen grits her teeth in frustration. "I don't know what's the use of this!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Believe it or not, bean bag, you're actually improving."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen still hasn't given any of them her name, so the betas that seem to constantly spy on her like watchdogs have come up with their own. Ronyn chose 'half-breed', Cordea avoids calling her by any title, and because of Elowen's weaknesses in self-defence, Arion has chosen to call her 'bean bag'. By now, she's not sure whether she should be insulted or amused.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion extends his strong hand, and Elowen takes it as he hoists her back up. "Let's just call it a day," he suggests. Sweat drips down her temples and causes her loose clothes to cling to her body. "Maybe get something to eat? Take a bath?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She scowls. "Are you saying I smell?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Just be glad you don't have wolf senses," he sneers. "Everything is ten times stronger, so yeah," he gestures to her armpits. "Go take a bath before the whole pack comes for your head."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A little miffed by Arion's insinuation that she stinks, Elowen leaves the training grounds and begins to ascend to her bedroom—the one place in all of Tabrien she feels she can let her guard down, the one place where the reality of the blight (which she's clean of) and mates can't touch her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen scrubs herself in the bath, ridding herself of the godawful sweat, before retiring to her bed. In seven days, she still hasn't grown accustomed to the sweet scent of fresh linens around her. The woods had become her comfort, her amenity. Earthy soil became her silk sheets, and treetop canopies brought a sense of home more than cathedral ceilings. The wyng were always one with nature. She adored the breeze between her feathered wings, the way the soil sunk beneath her bare feet. All those years of isolation would've been a burden for most, but Elowen never minded it.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Although, she won't say no to her access to a hot bath.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She wonders if her lack of sleep has become noticeable to the beta. Most nights, she lies awake, struggling to find dreamland when it remains so close. She knows this place isn't her home, and no matter how many promises of safety are made, it'll never be enough to take the constant edge off her nerves.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her wings still haven't fully healed from the iron, so fleeing in flight is out of question. The physicians allowed her to remove the bandages, while also instructing her to stretch her wings out. To her humour, the were physician also prescribed these exercises for her to regain her wing strength back. It must mean Morrow's found himself in a similar situation, but when she asked about it, the doctor gave no answer.