Bird of a Flock (Bow 2)

Chapter 33

The grip Yerir'o had on Fetmar was tight, almost painful as he half carried, half dragged the man down the corridor. Either of them able to walk perfectly as they limped together, Fetmar thankfully not struggling. The Winglord's parting words still haunting his mind. Fetmar let out a grunt of pain as he was led to the bathing chambers and a particularly nasty bruise on his ribs was jostled. Yerir'o paused, letting Fetmar get his footing again before continuing the sound seeming to almost pull Yerir'o out of whatever daze he had fallen into as his grip lightened but shifted to be more personal somehow.

"Never do that again," Yerir'o ordered, his voice still shocked but now also turning to his more normal scolding when Fetmar did stupid things. "If you were anyone else, you would have been killed today. Why did you think it was a good idea to question the Winglord's authority in his own city?" he demanded.

"Why do you care?" Fetmar grunted, unhappily, looking to the side.

Yerir'o had a strong desire to drop the human there and make him walk the rest of the way on his own power. "You are an idiot if you don't know," Yerir'o growled, instead sitting the man on a bench and shifting so they were face to face. "Boy, I have fought you and with you for a long time now. I would have killed you many times over if I did not like you to some respects," he declared, looking Fetmar square in the eyes. Something was shining in them that Yerir'o couldn't read but Fetmar nodded and lowered his head. Yerir'o reached forward and pressed their foreheads together. "Fetmar," he murmured.

They remained in silence for a little while longer before Fetmar took a deep breath. "Thank you," Fetmar breathed in the end, pushing up and more firmly in the hold. "For defending me," he added softly.

"You have returned the favour many times," Yerir'o shrugged, a brief instant holding him closer, his hands holding Fetmar's head tenderly. "I will miss fighting against you," he admitted, "You were always a challenge."

"There will be others to fight," Fetmar replied, his own hands hesitantly reaching up to hold Yeriro's own head.

"Maybe," Yerir'o murmured gently. "But it's not the same." Yerir'o gently let go of Fetmar and pulled away. He offered his hand and pulled Fetmar back up to him and started the rest of the stumbling to where they could clean up. "Please, Fetmar, don't fight. Don't struggle. Not until you are branded and under protection. The Winglord's patience only extends so far," he warned, leading him into the room.

It was a preparation room before going into the main chamber. It was rather small and clearly a private room. It was hot and almost hard to breathe in, steam coming from a fire in the corner. Yerir'o placed Fetmar down on a stone ledge and started pulling some of glue and feathers away from his face, the heat making it easier to remove the muck before they went into the shared area.

"Fetmar," Yerir'o said sternly, as he unbuckled some of the armour straps Fetmar had on.

"I'll try but I make no promises," Fetmar said quietly, letting Yerir'o gently began to tug his armour off. The gloves and boots were now disengaged from his skin and easily removed. Yerir'o glared at them and threw them behind him. Fetmar helped pull the clothes off, chuckling at the look Yerir'o gave the alchemist boots. "Oira is very proud of those," he commented softly.