Deci

Your general tenets lead me to help those in need, but this particular one is in a particular need, and I am seeing Your hand in this coming to me. Isn’t it? Yes— I thought so. ‘Let’s make Martin confront his past, probably for the sake of building character or some such thing?’ I know, I know, I shouldn’t be glib at You. But You knew what I was when you chose me, Martin shrugged.

Looming beside him, wrapped in the largest piece of cloth Brother Martin’s meager funds could buy in place of a cloak or tunic, walked the huge tiefling, Alec. Those wide golden eyes stared around them so much that it slowed their pace. Martin didn’t mind. Alec had been underground for years, and freedom to see stars and lights and people again would probably feel overwhelming at first.

This was part of why Brother Martin had chosen to depart from the Watch House in the night hours. Bright daylight had hurt Alec’s eyes earlier, and at night fewer people were out and about. Those who were on the streets at night generally had some business they were intent on, and unlikely to stare too much at the great bulk of the tiefling.

Brother Martin was tall for a man, but Alec was slightly taller, and maybe twice again Martin’s weight. Hopefully there’d be enough food in Martin’s little larder to keep him fed, but if not, they could go to the shore or the markets to get more to eat.

Another thing to consider was bed space. Alec might barely fit on the bed Brother Martin kept and did not often use himself. Many nights he had a patient resting in that bed, and took his own rest on a thick reed mat by the fireplace. He could do that again.

Alec stared wide eyed at everything, the cobbles, the laundry hanging on lines that crisscrossed the alleyways, the geraniums in windowsill pots giving out soft fragrances, the forms of people in busier, better lit streets where lamps gave the night a soft glow.

“So many things,” said Alec. “So many people, and smells. It forgot how much there is in a city.”

“You lived in one before?” Brother Martin glanced up at him.

“Yes. When it was just the Boy. It was assistant to a merchant, and it used to take notes to other merchants, and they would give it an apple or a bun. But it does not remember much of that time. It must have been- There have been years, since then. It was small, then.”

“Did you learn letters, or a trade?”

“The Wife taught it to make bread, to help her at the bread making. It remembered, even in the brickyard, it remembered how and made the bread. That made the other workers not hate it, as much. They liked good bread.”

Brother Martin wanted to encourage Alec. “Do you like baking bread?”

“Like…? It is glad, to have fresh bread to eat, and the making…” He made motions in the air with heavily clawed hands, wide and strong. “It is… calming, to do the making. Kneading.”

“That’s what I think, too. We can make bread together, Alec.”

They were moving through a shabbier older part of the city, where there was more disrepair and the plaster of buildings was often crumbling or cracked by the sea damp, and the salt smell of the harbor wafted up the alleys. Lanterns were few in this district.

At length they came to where two streets and an alley met. The lettering in faded paint upon the walls at a tall man’s height read ANCHOR ST and TANNER’S ALLEY. The junction made a little open space with a covered city water well, and above that shone a lantern.

One tile-roofed building had a door set into its corner on its ground floor, overhung above by the other two stories. This gave the little corner some meager shelter. The windows were covered in slanted shutters that probably let in light but kept out alley cats and seagulls, or prying eyes. By the door frame someone had painted a numeral for 5 on the whitewashed plaster. In fresher, white paint on the wood of the door there shone a pair of white hands, wrists joined with a scribble of red.

“Here we are. My current home,” said Brother Martin, opening the marked door and stepping inside. “Please, come in.” He held the door open for Alec.

Alec ducked to get his head under the lintel, and went in, noticing how thick the walls were by the depth of the doorway. Inside was whitewashed more cleanly than the outer walls, and the lamps Brother Martin lit reflected and glowed in the small space.

Altogether it was hardly any bigger than Alec’s former cell; one chamber, floored in plain clay tiles. Almost opposite the doorway stood a broad brick hearth, with iron cooking gear in its ashes, and a half barrel of dried driftwood sticks nearby. To the right, a sort of hanging curtain made of patched sailcloth pieces divided off a space with a long cot bed. To the left, there stood a scarred but sturdy table, wooden seats made of barrels, and shelves full of bottles, boxes and little bags. From the ceiling hung bunches of herbs, a braid of small onions, and a few dried stock cod.

“It’s nothing elegant, but it suits me just fine,” Brother Martin was saying. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. I can’t always have the fire up as much as I’d like, but a hot brick at the foot of one’s bed does wonders for sleep. Tomorrow we can go collecting more wood for the fire. I daresay you could carry a good armload.” He shook out the blankets on the bed, checking them to be sure they were clean.

Alec turned where he stood, as if noting every detail. “It… is a good place. Not big- but good.” Scents of the leaves and flowers hanging so close to his head tugged at bits of memory he couldn’t place but they were happier memories, he nearly knew. Maybe he would dream of them, as he slept.

“Glad you like it.” Brother Martin raked at the ashes of his hearth fire, unearthing a brick which he wrapped in sacking, then carried to the foot of the long cot bed. “You can sleep here. It will fit even a tall fellow like you.” He tucked the brick into the linens at one end of the bed.

“But- surely it is your bed, Sir? Brother.”

Brother Martin shrugged. “I often let my guests use it. I’m often more comfortable on a rush mat by the fire, to tell you the truth. The bed is soft.”

From a barrel he drew out water for them both to drink, and the stew they’d had at the Watch House had made an excellent supper, so neither of them was yet hungry.

“Ordinarily I’d offer to make tea,” said Martin, “But you look as tired as I feel, and you have had a rough time of it. Go ahead and go to sleep, Alec. Get your rest. We can talk more in the morning.”

Having it pointed out made it hard to hide- Alec was exhausted, and as he settled himself with a creak into the bed, he found it was indeed soft, a rush and sea-grass mattress, luxury beyond any straw pile he’d slept on in years. The brick at the foot of the bed radiated a warmth that spread up from his toes and filled Alec’s whole body, soothing his tensions and worries away. As he fell asleep, he thought maybe he dreamed hearing the waves on the nearby shore.

to be continued

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“You’re just so cute when you’re out of it!” she cooed. “Aren’t you, baby boyy…” She was leaning in mere inches from his face, her short skirt pooling over his thin waist and pinning Seven in place with her thighs. 

She leaned up for a moment, perhaps to assess his expression properly, and Marquez could see the way she pinched at Seven’s cheeks when she spoke to him, as though he were a cute little puppy dog she’d met on the street. Seven whined at the treatment, weakly batting at her waist with his hands. He groaned in painful protest when she lowered her hand to press down on the bruises that littered his bare torso. 

“What’d you do to get all these, hmm?” She teased, pressing down harder at the purpled skin on his ribs and stomach. Seven cried out, weakly trying to push her away, and the sound seemed to snap Marquez out of his shocked daze.

“Get the fuck off him, Brie,” Marquez hissed, as menacingly as he could. He couldn’t exactly shout and shove her off of Seven—he knew that it would not go over well with Wes, if Marquez ‘mistreated’ one of his closest friends, but Marquez crossed his muscled arms and made a point to sound as irritated as possible to try and intimidate her off of him.

“Aww c’monnnn,” she chided in mocking protest, turning her head to look at him, her red hair cascading like a sunset-lit waterfall as she tossed it over her shoulder. “What’s the problem? He clearly likes it...” The snicker in her voice would be audible even if Marquez were not able to witness her expression firsthand. 

“He does not. Like it.” Marquez forced out through gritted teeth. “He’s sick. I'm supposed to be taking care of him,” he oozed authority now, knowing his purpose here was backed by Wes’ own desires—something even Brie wasn’t in a position to argue with. “Now buzz the fuck off.” He ordered. “Seriously.” 

“Aww, he does though!” She protested, challenging the certainty in his voice as she pressed down on a particularly awful bruise on Seven’s ribcage. “He does! Seven likes it.. Don't you baby?” Her voice dripped even further into nauseating condescension when she said it, and she squeezed both of Seven’s flushed cheeks tightly between her manicured fingertips, forcing another pained whine out of the boy. She smiled brightly and leaned in closer to his face, her pink glossy lips hovering inches above his own.

Seven blinked up at her with bleary eyes, “I… I.. um…” he was frozen in fear—he was never allowed to refuse them, especially Brie of all people. She could make his life hell for daring to speak against her—for resisting in the slightest. 

Marquez dropped a heavy hand to Brie’s shoulder. “Off him. Now,” he growled, and Brie turned her shoulder away and scoffed in mock disgust. 

“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed. “I just wanted to come say hi to him!” Marquez stepped even closer to her, looming down over her straddled form, his biceps flexing as his arms twitched in their position. 

“Get. Off.” Marquez growled, narrowing his eyes. “Or I’ll make you.” It was perhaps a bluff, mostly, but it seemed to work. Brie chuffed under her breath and climbed off of Seven. “Alright, fine! Fucking Jesus! You don’t have to be so fucking dramatic.” 

Brie huffed as she climbed off the bed and stormed out of the room in a whirl of fiery red hair, her flowy miniskirt swishing behind her. 

“Enjoy your little private time, lover boy. Hope you brought a condom!” she called behind her with a haughty sneer, and slammed the door behind her. 

The relief of her absence was instant, palpable between the two of them. “Sorry about that..” Marquez looked sheepish as he gazed back down at Seven, who was still panting slightly, his eyes wet around the edges. “I didn’t know she’d come in like that. Does this door even lock?” 

“It… It doesn’t, Sir…” Seven said quietly, confirming Marquez’ suspicions that Seven might have his own room, but privacy was a right he had to constantly earn around here. 

Marquez vowed to wring her neck along with Wes’ when the time came. He let out a heavy sigh, trying to shove the feelings down once again and right himself to focus on what he could actually control. He willed his brow to unfurrow, his expression to soften, back into that of calm gentleness—the one that Seven needed right now. 

“Okay, just come here,” he situated himself beside Seven once more, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s alright, just come over here with me,” he said gently, extending one arm and beckoning Seven to lean back with him and snuggle into his torso as he’d been before. Seven’s skin still felt so hot to the touch. Marquez spotted the bottle of ibuprofen on the bed side table.

“Did Wes already give you a few of those pills?” He said, nodding to the bottle. 

“Uhn-huh,” Seven murmured against his chest, not even looking up.

“Alrtight then, I’ll give you some more in a few hours. For now, let’s just be here together, okay?”

“Oh–” Seven’s voice caught in his throat. “Okay.. Yes, Sir..” Marquez felt the boy hiccup against his chest, but didn’t say anything, instead bringing a hand to Seven’s bare back and rubbing gentle circles into the feverish skin with his thumb. He tried not to take too much notice of the way the layered whip scars felt beneath his fingertips. Don't think about Wes. Don’t think about how much you fucking loathe Wes. Don’t think about how nice it’d feel to slam his face into the ground.. 

Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and shoved it down, vowing to channel the energy into soothing the subject of Wes’ abuse. His other hand lifted to Seven’s head, carding long fingers through the boy’s damp hair, absentmindedly undoing any tangles in careful, feather-like motions.

Seven didn’t know what it was that made him start crying. Perhaps it was the gentleness, the act of someone actually caring about him, for the first time in over a decade, that brought fresh tears to well up behind his pale, long lashes. He hadn’t felt actually, genuinely loved like this since—since her. 

And just like that, the floodgates opened, as the memories Seven had worked so hard to suppress over the many years began to bubble up to the surface of his consciousness, breaking through the confines of the mental walls he’d carefully built up for his own sanity. He tried never to think about the past—about her. It all hurt too much to think about—but perhaps it was the fever, Marquez gentle touch, his soft voice, or all of the above, that weakened the gates of the dam with crack after crack, little hairline fractures spreading into larger canyons in the concrete, until the whole wall collapsed into rubble and water flooded into the valley of Seven’s mind. It reminded him all too much of his mother.

Rosaline had been a gentle and hardworking woman—what she lacked in money she more than made up for in spirit. She worked herself to the bone to provide for the two of them, but it never cost her her smile—she would beam at her little boy every time she came home. She’d take Seven up in her arms, swinging him around with sore muscles and hugging him close. 

The way Marquez smiled at him, the way his hands felt like pure love itself, it all flooded his fevered mind with memories of her—of the last times he was able to feel gentleness, like he was truly worthy of love. His Aunt Beatrice had never loved him—that much was clear from the day he’d been moved into her house and was carved in stone the day she’d sold him. But Rosaline always had. Seven missed his mother more than anything in the universe. It ran through him like a wooden stake, piercing through his very heart in the place where every emotional nerve met at its highest sensitivity. 

He grieved the life he might’ve had if she hadn’t died when she did. He missed the way she would hold him, he missed the way he’d trusted in her—in the world itself, at the time—to hold him and lead him through it safely. The memory of her love always opened a hole up in his chest and sucked everything good in with it. It cracked his soul apart and it fucking hurt. It always did when he allowed himself to remember her gentleness. He’d tried for years to block it out mentally, for her memory only caused him more pain, but something about the way Marquez’ was holding him now made him unable to think of anything else. 

He cried into the pillow in his arms, feeling Marquez' gentle touch on his hair, on his back. He wanted to apologize for crying but he couldn't even get himself to speak, he was sobbing so hard. He remembered the little stuffed pig she'd gotten him one year, when he was very small. Whatever happened to it, he didn’t know. He wasn't even allowed to pack his own things from the house after she’d died—he was ushered to his Aunt Beatrice’s house so quickly and the house he’d shared with Rosaline had been cleared out by his Aunt before he could clutch anything for the last time. Aunt Beatrice, who had said he was ‘too young to know what he’d need,’ had packed it all up—what little she thought necessary—and must have simply thrown the rest away. Seven never saw the pig again, or any of his stuffed animals, or even any photos of her. He had nothing but the memories.

He had a feeling Beatrice had always hated her sister. His mother had never really spoken much of her, not that he could remember anyway. But after Rosaline’s death, Beatrice had seemed hell-bent on erasing her own sister’s very existence from history itself. Beatrice always grew angry with Seven whenever he tried to talk about his mother. He learned quickly never to bring it up. Rosaline lived on in his memories, though, and he remembered kneeling on the floor every night in Aunt Beatrice’s house, silently praying to anything that was out there to bring her back—to take him away from this new house where he was loathed and beaten down like he was some evil, wretched thing. He’d pressed his face into the hardwood and cried into the floorboards, praying over and over to have his mother’s sunshine back. 

Nothing ever answered him, of course. 

He was so young at the time, that he didn’t even recall that many conversations between them, but in his mind he could see her smile. He heard the sound of her laugh. He remembered the way she’d make pancakes for him in fun little shapes—hearts and dinosaurs—and put fresh strawberries on top. The songs she’d sing him—god the songs—sweet little lullabies as she rubbed his back to lull her young son to sleep. The songs especially hurt to think about—the melodies in his head. He tried to shove them down but the song started up anyway. 

‘Go to sleep my darling, hush now, don’t you cry…’

He had curled in on himself now. He bit down on the pillow he was clutching and sobbed, shaking with the pain of it. His head pounded harder with the fever. He'd give anything to hold her in his arms again. Seven didn't know how tall she’d been before she died, he had been so young and small at the time, but he imagined he might even be taller than her now. He thought of what it would be like to hug her, to pull her up against him tightly and rest his chin on the top of her head. He wondered if she’d still sing to him, the way she used to—soft and light, like the call of the morning birds. 

Birds—they made him think of her too now, in the thick of his fever, his mental walls demolished to nothing by the sick burning heat. There was a memory of him lying next to her on a blanket in the grass. The shade of sunlight-dappled branches cast wandering stars over their forms. The image was so vivid he may as well have been hallucinating. He lay with his head on her shoulder and leaned into her torso, her arm wrapped around him. Rosaline laughed, in that bright, beautiful way that felt like the morning light itself. She pointed up to a bird on a branch. 

“It’s a red breasted robin, dear, do you see it?”

“Yes, mama,” he’d probably said, nuzzling in close to her and gazing up at the little bird. 

Rosaline was not unlike the robin. She was light and free and peaceful. She hadn’t had it easy, certainly not, but she’d never lost that light that seemed to glow at the edges of her form. That music in her laugh, that carried on her voice with every word. Birds always brought Seven a certain bittersweet peace, when his guard was lowered as it was now—she must’ve given him that association before he could even piece it together. 

He’d give his life for hers, in a heartbeat if he could. She’d been too gentle, too sweet for a world like this one. It was only through some cruel divine wrath that her light would be snuffed out so soon, that Seven would be cast into darkness to face the world's cruelty alone—Aunt Beatrice, the facility, the McQueens. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye, to tell her he loved her one last time. He was so young the day Rosaline had died—she didn’t even get to see what he might turn out to be. 

Seven cried in Marquez’ arms until he couldn’t anymore. Though Marquez didn’t know what had suddenly overcome the boy, he never pried, and simply held Seven and let him ride out the emotional waves as they came. Marquez would be his rock—the one thing he could steady himself against amid the barrage of the storm—he was determined to be, to stay with him until the clouds parted and calm was restored to the seas of Seven’s mind once more. 

At last, Seven’s sobs gave way to little faint hiccups, the occasional sharp inhale, until even those faded into something slower, something akin to a calm sky with a still distressed, swirling sea below. Marquez kept rubbing slow, soothing circles into his scarred back. He pressed a soft kiss into the top of Seven's head. The boy had fallen asleep right there, no doubt spent from crying and fighting the fever’s heat. 

Perhaps, when he awoke, Seven would tell him what he’d been thinking about. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Marquez would listen if he wanted to talk, but it was up to Seven if he was willing to share it. Regardless, Marquez would be right here, still holding him tightly when he awoke once more. 

༻✦༺

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The way Asher feels about about Crane’s semi-frequent visits is—well. He heard about the White Crane and his Falconers for almost a year before seeing any of them. Now he sees Crane as often as three times a week, sometimes, though other times more than a week passes without a sign of him. Crane brought Asher a fresh set of clothes the day after his first visit, and last week he brought a small stack of books, with illuminated margins and even a few printed woodcut illustrations. In both cases Asher wanted to refuse, but Crane left them behind so casually that Asher could not find the right moment to do so; and Asher had been shivering in his threadbare shift, and—there is little enough to do in this one small room he is mostly not allowed to leave—so—

Anyway. His feelings about the Winter King’s Wolf are a great deal simpler: Asher hates him.

Asher heard stories about the Wolf before he saw him, too, and was almost scareder of them than of the Falconers. Even the strongest soldiers and cleverest assassins could hardly get a glimpse of the Winter King, they said, because of the fearsome Wolf that guarded him; with gleaming silver hair and yellow eyes like no man ought to have, and with all the slavering jaws and blind, bloody loyalty of his namesake.

None of that is true at all, though. The Wolf does have some Faery blood in him, probably; he certainly has silver hair and yellow eyes, and Asher’s first sight of the Wolf’s teeth did make him shiver. But the Wolf is only a boy, really; he doesn’t look any older than Andry, and acts even younger than that. The Wolf seems to have modeled his smile and the proud toss of his head after Crane, but really he has more in common with a too-handsome Courtier’s son than he does with the Winter King. He supervises all of Andry’s visits to Asher’s room, usually perched in the arm chair, occasionally rolling his eyes at them.

And—Asher tries not to think of this too often, because it makes him feel dizzy and shaky and sick with hatred—the Wolf is casual with Andry, laughs like they’re laughing together, bumps his shoulder into Andry’s, leads him with a hand on Andry’s elbow like his other hand isn’t on Andry’s—

Asher can’t think leash without tasting vomit in the back of his throat. Thorne might be Winter’s Wolf, but Andry isn’t a dog.

Anyway. Asher hadn’t thought about it before, but—he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Wolf look anxious before.

The Wolf throws the door open so hard that it slams into the wall—adding more pock marks for the sun to pool in, later—but then just stands there, in the doorway, panting slightly, like he’s run to get there. His silver hair is standing at odd angles, half out of its usual neat horsetail, and his shirt looks like it might be on back-to-front.

Asher’s heart has leapt into his throat. He swallows it.

“Where is my brother?” he says. He tries to sound angry, instead of frightened.

“Y...yes,” the Wolf says. He’s staring at Asher, like—like—like Asher doesn’t know what. He is still frozen in the doorway, the hand he used to shove the door open hovering lamely in mid-air. Asher can see the two guards posted outside his room exchanging confused glances. The Wolf, as though suddenly feeling their eyes on his back, steps stiffly into the room and closes the door, overcorrecting and using two hands to guide it quietly shut, except that he has clearly damaged it by slamming it too hard into the wall, and now it takes three increasingly noisy tries to get it shut. It would be funny, probably, if Asher wasn’t so afraid.

(Thorne realizes once he is standing in the young Prince’s bedroom that he has had the presence of mind to change out of his blood-stained clothes, but not enough to think about what on earth to say.)

(Thorne takes a brief pause, mercifully facing the halfway-broken door and not the Prince, to wish that he had never been born.)

“The Prince—” the Wolf begins, and then he turns back enough to meet Asher’s eyes again and stops again. He looks, if anything, even younger than usual. “Andry,” the Wolf tries instead, and Asher is suddenly very aware that he has never heard Winter’s Wolf use his brother’s name. His hands tighten into fists in his lap. He feels—as though he has been desperate to hear Andry’s name, to hear someone say it, and also like he wants to snatch it out of the Wolf’s dirty fanged mouth.

“Andry is,” the Wolf says, finally. “He’s—he’ll be alright.”

Asher empty fists tighten hard enough to hurt his hands.

“What do you mean,” Asher says. He doesn’t know what it sounds like, since he can hardly hear anything over the roaring in his ears.

“He’s—there’s—um.”

(There’s been an accident, Thorne wants to say, but that would be such a vacuous, bloated lie that he can’t seem to force it past his tongue.)

“I think he will live,” the Winter King’s Wolf says finally, and then sighs, as though relieved to have finished his job.

Far more than biting his fingernails, the thing for which Andry scolds Asher most often—the only thing, really, which Andry ever really snaps at him for—is acting before he thinks. Mostly he only spills or loses things, or speaks out of turn, and Andry only rolls his eyes; but occasionally, when Asher acts quickly in anger, there is a look on Andry’s face that Asher feels like lead in his belly, because it is too like the way Andry looks at their father.

Asher picks up the heavy oak night table—lifts it easily, somehow, even though usually he struggles even to drag it closer to the bed—and brings it down on the Winter King’s Wolf with every ounce of strength in his body.

(Thorne can move very fast, when the occasion calls for it; more than one arrow meant for his Master has been stopped by the quick blood Thorne inherited from his Faery mother. He has just enough time to see the blow coming and raise an arm to catch it.

Craetan woodwork is often blocky and severe, not to his Master’s taste at all, but even Morden would admit, Thorne thinks as the wood splinters over his wrist and elbow: Craetans can make a sturdy table.)

The heavy oak edge of the table cracks loudly over the Wolf's arm, raining splinters over his head. He stays on his feet, somehow, though he stumbles badly, flailing for the arm chair with his left arm to hold himself up. Most of the table hits the wood floor between Asher and the Wolf with an earthshaking thud, one splintered leg clattering down a half-second later, at about the same time as the sheer block-headed stupidity of what he’s done crashes over Asher like ice water.

The Wolf tries to flex the fingers of his right hand, and his immediate hiss of pain is mostly lost under the sound of the door flying open again—hanging from its hinges at an odd angle, now—and both guards burst into the room, speaking Leisevan in raised voices, with their hands on their swords.

“HOLD,” Winter’s Wolf snarls, and the audible teeth in his voice unhinge Asher’s knees so that he is suddenly sitting on the bed again, with both hands pressed over his mouth.

The guards freeze, looking almost as alarmed at the sudden ferocity of the Wolf’s voice as Asher is. The Wolf barks something Asher doesn’t understand

(“Outside, and don’t move until I tell you!”)

And maybe the guards don’t either, because they just stare at him; and they try to say something in response, speaking over each other, and then the Wolf bears his teeth and roars, more like a Lion than a Wolf. Asher hears the guards scramble back out into the hallway and slam the door as best they can, though his vision has gone white with terror.

The Wolf stands like that for a moment, left arm braced on the armchair and right arm tucked too-tightly against his side, fingers curled into a stiff claw. Asher doesn’t move, either. The Wolf is panting slightly; Asher might be holding his breath. When Asher gathers the courage to meet the Wolf’s eyes again, they aren’t flashing anymore.

“You idiot,” the Wolf says, still panting, but with no real rancor. “That would’ve just about killed somebody who wasn’t me.” The Wolf frowns down at his hand, tries to move the fingers, winces badly, sits down heavily in the armchair. “Fuck. Okay. Hold on.”

Then he reaches his unbroken left hand towards Asher. Asher feels the angriest and the sorriest and the scaredest he has ever felt. He's glad to already be sitting down, at least. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The Wolf’s hand lands on Asher’s shoulder. Asher jumps badly, expecting a blow, and feeling off-balance and frightened by the absence of one.

“Here, Prince,” the Wolf says. “Look at me.”

Asher, in an exercise of great bravery, does.

The Wolf still doesn’t look angry, only—serious, which looks even stranger on his pretty courtier's face. His eyes aren’t flashing anymore, but they do look a little brighter gold than usual.

“He’s going to be alright,” the Wolf says. “He was—hurt, badly, and he’s with the Healer now, and will be for a while. But he’s going to be all right. Okay?”

Asher wants—

Asher wants.

Asher wants to say something steely and brave, or to be angry, or to hit the Wolf again; he wants to keep his lips pressed firmly together and not feel them tremble; wants his eyes to blaze like the Wolf’s do and not prickle and burn and fill up with tears. He wants never to have laid eyes on Morden Crane or the black-coated Leisevan guards or the Winter King’s Wolf. He wants Andry.

Asher’s reaches out and grabs a handful of the Wolf’s shirt. He isn’t sure if he means it as a threat or if he is using it to hold himself up. There are tears burning down his cheeks, so if it’s a threat it’s probably a weak one. He pulls on the Wolf’s shirt, once; the Wolf winces when it pulls where his arm is still tucked against his side.

“Don’t—hurt him,” Asher says, and it sounds the way he means it: half plea and half threat and half promise and half curse. The Wolf winces harder, like Asher’s tear-thick voice hurts him, so Asher says it again, and again after that: “Don’t hurt my brother, Wolf. Don’t hurt him.”

“I won’t,” Thorne says, because he can’t say anything else, even though he knows it’s a mean and stupid and selfish thing to promise, even though he means it to be true.

----