Against the Wind

8.2 || Raya

Her relief was distant and short-lived. A new sound teased her ears, slipping like a wriggling thread into her senses and binding her shoulders tight and high. She whirled, barely saving the plate from toppling out of her hands, and plunged through her bedroom's curtain.

The clinking of beads and jewellery slipped limply around her, skirting her focus. All her attention went to the light-hued figure perched on her bed. Though pain's stiffness riddled his posture, his lips were curled in a serene smile, one that softened his aura and somehow pulled in the stream of sunlight so that it glowed in his skin. His sand-shade fingers pranced in a swift, lilting jig, clambering across the length of what appeared to be a wooden pipe ridden with holes. The pipe's end was pressed to his mouth. He swayed, eyes closed, pale lashes fluttering. With every hop of his fingertips from one hole to the next, the instrument's drifting melody leapt, each breathy note just beginning to wane before wind captured it and swelled out a fresh, bright rhythm.

It froze Raya in place. Sense meandered, ducking in and out of view to form a jittery undertone to the music, before finally latching hold. Her heart felt like it plummeted straight through her gut as it dropped back to reality.

She hardened her wide-eyed stare. "What are you doing?"

The instrument jerked from his lips. His eyes flew open, richest brown and near-slitted with surprise. Around him, the faux wind his music had gathered fell flat, like a tree's worth of leaves dumping all at once and leaving him pooled by bare-boned silence.

Pipe clutched in both hands, he worried his lip. "I was..." His brow sank as he searched for the right word.

She couldn't give him ample opportunity to find it. "You were dangerous. Anyone could've heard that noise." Flustered, she shoved her plate onto her scorched desk and marched past him, grabbing a fistful of the curtain to yank it across the window. The light cooled, the sun's rays watered down by the fabric's fine indigo sheen. "And we need to keep this closed."

He cringed into himself in sync with the waning light, dewdrops of longing shining in his eyes. "I like the sunlight."

His voice was only small, turned thinly sharp by the beast-like whine that threaded its centre, and it pierced her heart. Any flapping wings of annoyance in her chest fell still. "I'm sorry," she murmured, shifting to sit on the bed beside him. Her gaze fell to her hands, folded in her lap. "But I can't let them see you."

She felt the sheets wrinkle beneath them as he squirmed. A word flicked off his tongue, low and rolling and utterly foreign, but she felt the protest balled within it. Her head snapped up, and when he started to speak again, she cut him off.

"They'll kill you."

His shoulders hunched inward, sharp edges forming his entire body as he hugged his pipe, but he nodded.

Pooled silence rose again, lapping at their toes. It was even more potent this time; she could feel it thick and tense in the air like moisture. Drawing in a slow, strained breath, she rose to her feet again. "I brought you food."

His elongated ears, previously drooped in limp arcs, pricked up. His tongue flicked across his chapped lower lip. "Food?"

She offered the plate to him. When he'd adjusted his knees, she set it in his lap. He placed his pipe gingerly by his thigh and peeked up at her, burnt hue of his eyes speckled with question.

"Yes," she confirmed, flashing a smile. "For you."

He returned a shy grin, then scooped up a handful of rice and shovelled it into his mouth, swiftly followed by another. She fought a wince and quickly averted her eyes, skittering her way to the furthest end of the bed to feign interest in her sandals. There might've been human warmth and wisdom in Corvin's face and his movements, but he ate like a starving beast.

The thought spun a new twist in her gut. Jaw set, she stole a sideways glance of him as he gnawed at a sticky strip of meat. There was a feral glint to his gaze, an explosive display of desperation glittering like hot rubies. His joy swayed up and down, fragile, as if viewed through glass. She swallowed.

It hit her in a cold, hard wave that she had no perception of the life he'd led up until now. She knew her own life—the rigid structure, the repetitiveness, provisions always waiting whether she wanted them or not—and could imagine little else. What did his mealtimes look like? Were they truly so infrequent and so fleeting that he felt he had to rush through them in this frenzied, nervous way, fingers coated in sauce and crumbs hastily captured by his flicking tongue, as if the food could be taken from him at any moment?

He took another ferocious bite, the meat's hard, spindly centre crunching as the softer coating scraped under his teeth, and Raya's stomach made a noise of complaint. She pressed the heel of a palm to it as subtly as she could and pulled her gaze away again, but his attention had already found her. He stopped.

The intensity of his gaze bored into her, shiveringly soft. One corner of his lips tweaked. Without a word, he broke off the end of the stick of meat and held it out to her.

She blinked. Her head was heavy and difficult to shake. "I—I'm fine."

"You are hungry."

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. "I'm not."

"You lie." The words didn't fit the light in his expression. She writhed under their undue weight, fingers drumming on her leg.

"You need it more," she mumbled. "It's fine. I brought it for you."

"You like that word: fine." Edging closer, he snatched up her hand, closing her fingers around the strip before she could do much more than stiffen in response. Flimsy cloth wrapped his palm in one half of a glove, faintly rough against her skin. "You are not fine. We can share."

The remainder of her argument withered on her tongue. Limbs feeling heavy, she reeled the strip in towards herself and took a tentative bite, somewhat ashamed by the pleasurable relief that rushed through her at its spiced, hearty tang. There was nothing regretful or jealous in Corvin's face, however. Satisfied, he went back to digging into the meal, though she noticed the purposeful flick of his fingers as he brushed a heaped line of rice to the edge of the plate nearest her.

She watched him as she chewed, somewhat bewildered. If he'd lived the harsh life his gaunt face and nervous twitches implied, where had he learned such simple, genuine kindness?

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