Against the Wind

6.2 || Raya

The boy's face hid from Raya, buried in the crook of a twisted arm, enough that he didn't notice her at first. His bony shoulders shrank in close to him and shook in shuddering waves. The curtain swept back into place behind her, and a melody of bell chimes finally called his attention.

His flinch stilled him. Eyes wide, he unfurled, feet scrabbling at the bed's naked surface as he clambered into an awkward sitting position with his back pressed to the headrest. His scarlet robe was striking amid her room's decor; adrift in a sea of blues and purples, he was a bloody stain, wrinkles in the rough-hewn fabric flowing like fissured rivers and tangling with his legs. Frothy, whitish tufts of fur littered his skin. Her gaze zeroed in on one particular clump that dove over his knee, one she'd had to hack at in order to dress the wound that slithered through it. Now, the fur looked like pearlescent grass cliffs, malevolently marred by the ugly red line.

Her mouth suddenly tasted of bile. Swallowing hard, she dragged her focus to his face. She'd convinced herself his eyes were as blood red as his clothes before, but they weren't. Their shade resembled packed clay. They glimmered, raw and wet with the sheen of fallen tears, ghostly shadows shifting in his pupil's dark reflection in a way that gave him a sharp, haunted look.

Afraid. He was just as afraid as she was.

Something jagged and hollow swelled in her chest, and it anchored her pulse. Part of her was terrified he'd scream again the moment she drew closer, but paralysation helped no-one. Stay calm.

"Raya," she said softly.

The slightest confusion creased his brow.

"That's my name." She took care with each syllable, resting on each without rushing by to—hopefully—allow him to keep up. She touched a hand to her chest to solidify the meaning. "That's me. I'm Raya."

He stared.

The quiet had a predatory edge, but his stare didn't. She held herself steady, though her voice developed a tentative slide. "Do... you have a name?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

The fluency of the question startled her. Though it wasn't the first time he'd spoken, she still struggled to adapt to the smooth stone of his voice, the way it cascaded like a flood of pebbles: rock-hard and clacking in odd places, but gentle as a whole, rough but not sharp. Foreign, but his words were human, and so was the tremor of his fear.

She shook her head, the opposing dark strand of hair that had escaped Yasmin's fingers sweeping to and fro.

"Why?"

It was one word, but it froze her. Her gaze slid to the fizzing burn mark on her desk, initially bright blue but now shaded as indigo as her eyes and as the face of Kel. It glared at her, dark and out of place.

If only to manoeuvre it out of sight, she dared step forward, shaking off the word's echo in the same motion. The boy filled her view again instead. His antlers cast forked shadows over the headrest.

"I saved you from death." This wasn't a proper answer, but she hoped it would satisfy. It was all she had to offer that could be put easily into sentences. "You were dying when I found you, but I brought you here to heal. And to hide." She stole a glance at the settling curtain. "If anyone else finds out you're here, they will kill you, but I swear you can trust me."

His clay-coloured eyes fell narrow, warily scrutinising. "You swear?" His head tilted. "On what?"

She grabbed that stare and held it. "On my own life."

It was a surprisingly simple oath to make.

"All you have to do is keep quiet and go unseen," she added. "I'll do the rest." She let the confidence she heard in her voice bloom within her, twining her bones and injecting them with thorns of steel. She would protect him. Conflict seethed in her gut, flames that she beat down until they cooled, casting aside the ashy flutter of wrongness, of fear. It might've been wrong, but it was what she wanted. The why didn't have to matter.

Jaw locked, the boy broke the connection first, gaze wandering to his curled-in knees and the scars that littered them. His voice was small and retreating. "But I am trapped here?"

She hesitated. The reassurance she wanted to give was a lie, and she'd lied enough today. Maybe it was guilt that sweetened the response she wove. "The city is a cage," she murmured. "It's made to trap. But I don't mean to trap you myself."

The way his glance bounced between his bound wrists wasn't subtle. Scepticism clouded his eyes, though the fog cleared as they widened with the closing distance between them. She took her steps slow, her room's air heavy as water to wade through, and her hand hovered with the same hesitance. Last time she'd touched him, he'd freaked out. She didn't want that to happen again for a myriad of reasons, but right now the most prominent one was the pearl-sheened sparkle that still traced his sharp cheekbones and criss-crossed his nose's older scar—the remnants of tears.

Someone had hurt him, and that pain meant more than blood. She recalled again that, if he truly was as human as he appeared, he couldn't be long out of childhood.

"I'm sorry." Leaden weights pulled at her voice until it ached in her throat. She flicked her fingers, their tips brushing a taut loop of rope. "I'm going to untie these, but I'll need to touch you. Is that okay?"

His breath hitched, but he gave a stiff nod.

"Alright." Wrapped in caution, she propped one knee on the bed's edge and leaned in. Her thumb wedged into the knotted rope—an act of paranoia, a cruel sliver of fear she should've never given into—and wriggled, teasing it apart. Her knuckles skimmed his wrist. She felt him flinch, his tension clamping down with metallic force, but he was otherwise soundless and still. His eyes scanned her progress with feverish intent.

As soon as his right hand was freed, it shrank into his chest. The left bind came loose much faster, Raya's fingers spurred by his compliance. She tossed the loops of rope over the other side of the bedrest, out of sight, disliking the very thought of them now. Regret rubbed coarse under her skin.

She turned to him with the intention of voicing that regret, but his expression stopped her. Painted in soft, open shapes, his features lost their sharpness, the corners of his eyes and his mouth upturned in the smallest of smiles. The way he reached out was shy, but there was an intense depth to his gaze that reeled her in and rendered her speechless. In this low light, its reddish gleam sank into muddied shadow, but the twinkle that remained betrayed a rich seam of thought.

It was more than a mage's rote and practised smile, much more than the dark, feral instinct she should've associated with someone so strange. It felt understanding.

He wavered as his hand brushed hers, but persevered, smile dipping and rising in tandem with the shard of fierceness that crossed his face. He twined their fingers and held on cautiously tight. In contrast with hers, his light skin was cream, gentle and sunny in shade. He drew in a careful breath, and she held hers, caught in webbed indecision that wouldn't let her move.

"Thank you for saving me, Raya." His smile grew more certain. "I am called Corvin."

"Corvin," she echoed, breezing over the name in her shock. It didn't live up to the jagged edges her tongue tried to shape. Her focus poured into the way he'd said her name; the way all its weight sat on that first, rolling syllable and offered barely a sound to the second, like the final a was to be discarded, hardly necessary at all, a dead end that led nowhere. She realised with a jolt how little she'd heard it spoken. She was Raya in her own mind, but the only other person to routinely call her by her name's shortened version was Hariq, and he spoke it with an entirely different air. She didn't know whether to like the newness of it.

Corvin watched her with patient curiosity. His white hair was ruffled, dusty snow that pranced around his antlers in wild tufts. On instinct, she squeezed his hand in return, and his smile flickered a touch wider.

She couldn't help but mirror that. "You're going to be safe with me, Corvin. I vow it."

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