A Court of Blood and Feathers

15

*** Author's quip: KEEP COMMENTING, IT'S WORKING!!! I'm turning these chapters out quicker :D

-Dragoness

Branwenn

"Clean yourself off," snaps Devlon, clearly disgusted as he curls his upper lip at me. Nose turning upward at the smell of sludge and almost a week's worth of grime layered onto our clothes and skin.

We must truly reak.

I swivel to Rhysand and Cassian. Their faces showing the confirmation of Devlon's words, try as they might hide it, their eyes watered at the mear stench of our presence. Delwyn coughs in embarrassment, my cheeks tinging pink slightly. Hopefully hidden by the cool evening.

"And once you're done with that, drag your sorry ass down to the high lord's cabin, we have something to discuss with you," he finishes with a sneer, lips tight with rage as if he can't believe he's saying this to me. I can't help but the small spark of victory that ignites in my chest before flickers and dies as my exhaustion comes crashing down on me.

I nod and stand shakily. Ianto groans as Delwyn helps me lift his dead weight up and off the ground, his wounds seeming to have stunned and weakened him. Rhysand, bless the high lord, merely waves hand the bindings on the base of my wings, along with Delwyn's and Ianto's as well, dissolve.

"And for the Mother's sake!" calls Cassian from behind us, "get that soldier to the medic's cabin."

***

After dropping Ianto off to be patched up, Delwyn trots off, not before giving me a bleary-eyed, but none the less, cheeky grin. I watch my comrades swagger off with enough of a gait that I can tell that the soreness is hitting him as well, my own eyes starting to droop as I feel my own muscles ache. I wobble to my own ramshackle of a tent. The same damned piece of cloth that I have had since the moment I got here. But since then I couldn't help but have made some of my own additions to it. I have since added two layers of insulated leather coverings around the tent to give it more warmth. Saving up enough money over the years over fights, I had also purchased sheep-skin bedding and a few other luxuries that I kept carefully hidden in my "sad" little hovel so the other Illyrians would not come sniffing. I don't need another excuse for more attention. My wings and gender did enough of that for me already.

I finally reach the edge of the camp, winding my way around the frosted pine trees and other snow-covered tents to my stand-alone home: a pariah amongst pariahs.

Making quick work of the simple wards that I had discretely placed on my tent a few years ago, I slipped into my home. Another element that I must be secretive of, my power. Despite having four siphons, hopefully, a fifth soon, I have found that this sizable power amounts to small protective magic that I can orchestrate. But with great concentration and many failed attempts, may I add.

It feels like a weight lifts off my shoulders as soon as the flap of the tent swings shut, my ward locking into place. Contrary to Illyrian belief, and any winged fae for that matter, I let my wings sag, dragging on the carpeted, but still chilly floor. The muscles in my back and shoulder blades screaming as I force them upright once more and then flexed outward, straining. I can not fully flare them within the confined space, but even halfway extended, I embraced the aching pain.

I am disgusted with myself as I look down and begin peeling back the clothing that has now plastered its self to my body this past week. I am covered in blood, mud, and Cauldron knows what. I do my best to wipe down with a wet rag, knowing I will bathe later for ceremonial purposes. Despite my bed luring me with its soft blankets and sheep-skin lining, I change into thin linen clothing, leather plating overtop. The gold underside of my beautiful wings catches my eye. I nibble on my lip as I force my wings back at my side as always. The black-feathered side will be as close as I will ever come to fit in with those Illyrian brutes. To be leather instead of feathered.