Against the Wind

17.1 || Corvin

Corvin remembered running. There was a chaos spattered before that: a storm of fights and cries he wished he could wring from his ever-sensitive ears, and a mage girl's murderous gaze, her presence gilded in gold, clanging and bright and metallic. The running was most fresh, however, a cleaner memory, less shrouded in fog. Alongside it, he recalled a throbbing in his head, a snapping blow to his knees that brought a further explosion of pain, and then sudden, shuttering darkness.

Running, pain, darkness. They flashed through the back of mind in flitting, repeated fragments as his senses reported them in reverse. Faded black sheened the inside of his eyelids. Night's monotonous greys swept in when he peeled them back, though the stars were flares, needles of light that drilled into his forehead and awoke a pulsing ache beneath. Pain skittered to other places in softer, sharper whispers, flowing into the familiar shape of triplet rivers running down his back. Fingers picked at the raw skin pinched around his scars. Long nails skimmed their ridges, colder, delicately precise.

His heart sprinted. If not for the weight of his own body and the tight arms that ensnared it, he'd have fled.

He squirmed instead, shoulder scraping the abrasive surface below him as he twisted, hands seeking out the wrists of those clinging arms so he could force them away. It was torture. Every movement was, since it only tightened the grip holding him still and sent skin sliding against skin in grating, shivering trails.

With a hollow gasp, he finally tore free and scrambled back in a mess of flailing limbs. His antlers tipped forward on instinct to fill the empty space. His breaths continued to hitch, ragged and hesitant; discomfort was a mesh laid beneath his skin stretched just a little too taut, barbed ends scraping in all the worst places.

He blinked, clearing the last of the clouds from his waking vision. He'd know that touch anywhere. He knew what face he'd see, but still his gaze bounced, seeking out every last surrounding detail it could take note of in a desperate spiral.

It wasn't stars he'd been dazzled by. Instead of the sky's dome, a ceiling of sorts stretched overhead, sewn together by a drooping net of russet-shaded roots. Miniature buds hung from them, puffed out and sagging on long stems, glowing a cool, aqueous green. The lights paled the craggy sandstone that curved in every other direction. Pockets of red clay peeked through, tough but soft enough to give slightly where Corvin's fingers dug into it. Faint rays filtered through an opening somewhere beyond, too weak and far to have any influence over the flowers' light but a sign regardless that the sun still shone above.

The scent of the place—dry, woody, plucked at by the telltale sour notes of the glowing flowers—spoke of deep familiarity, the kind with roots buried in his core and coiled around all his strongest memories. The stale quiet pulled his ears downward, an instinctual sag of relief. He'd never lived in one dependable place, but whether it fit Raya's definition of the word or not, this was home. The cool air and soft lights whispered calming thoughts. They told him he could hide here, that he was safe.

Slanted eyes tracked him, paired with a grin. They claimed the same, and part of him longed to believe it, but he twisted that part into a tight, anxious knot. It was a lie.

He could feel his heart's hammer in his throat, stealing every breath.The cavern's sides began to swirl and blur. How could he get out?

Kyril's grin fell as pity softened his sharp eyes. He sat up, then leaned over on all fours, claws clacking against the washed-out stone. Corvin cringed back, but he couldn't maintain the distance between them. The ground seemed to flee at the slightest movement, spilling dark spots into his vision.

He couldn't get enough air, particularly not when Kyril touched his cheek, fingers tracing his jawline. His voice rippled, a tapping whisper that tickled Corvin's nose. "What's wrong, doe?"