#oryn

 Galen gave him a concerned look at the noise, "Are you going to be alright? You don’t normally seem to strain like that." 

"I don’t normally have to strain like that,” he muttered, giving the sleeping Fae a considering look. “I'll be fine. I'm just glad I waited until he let me, and I didn't try to force the knot on him." 

The human cocked his head at him with confusion, hands stilling, “You know I don’t know magic, especially your magic, what do you mean?” 

“I mean if I had tried to force him, I wouldn’t have had the power to follow through.” A shrug, “Would’ve knocked me out of commission for a few days, trying to battle it out with him.”

A frown, "I've never heard you put it that way before, lad. Usually, you just do it and everything is fine." 

"Usually, our patients are human," Emrik leaned forward in the chair that he had drug to the bedside, "or lesser seelie. Greater seelie are a whole new game, their grasp of magic is unparalleled. Their access to the weave of lei lines in the world is literally a part of their body, like an extra organ." He sighed and shrugged, "I don't understand all of it. I just know my magic cannot trump his. You humans have found ways around it," he tapped at the cuffs around their poor charge's wrist with a dark look, "for certain things. But I can't." 

Galen gave an equally dark look at the cuffs and collar. “Guess I’ll take your word for it then.” He came over with his bag and pulled the blankets back from his charge’s chest. Black bruises crawled up his sides, equally matched by red welts and stitched cuts. The tube, made from the hollow roots of an astor plant, in the Fae's chest wall had been quickly stitched in place, held against his side with blood tacky bandages and lead down to a glass bottle on the floor. 

His hands were gentle as they could be, but the Fae whimpered as the older man searched for air pockets or other injuries from his fall. “I know, I know, pup, it hurts.” Galen’s voice held a comforting baritone gravel that settled their charge, his weak breaths smoothing into a softer rhythm. 

Emrik shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning downward. “You said Melisandra is coming in the morning, right?”

“Mmmhm, why?” 

“I think she speaks better Saethe than I do, she might be able to talk to him if he wakes up again. He seemed to respond to some of what we said, but I don’t know how well he understands us. Even if he understands us, I don’t know how well he would speak Common.” 

Galen grimaced. “He knows the words ‘please’ and ‘no more’, I can tell you that. He woke up for a few minutes earlier tonight, begged me not to hurt him.” 

“They really did a number on him,” Emrik murmured. He shook his head again, pushing away the melancholy as he stood. “He’s stubborn, hopefully stubborn enough to recover from this. I’m going to go and get you more water.” 

“Thanks.”  

*** 

Oryn woke to the low murmur of voices nearby. There was a cold wet weight over his eyes and arms that caused him to shiver weakly. His bones ached and the slight weight that covered him was too much. It hurt, everything hurt, and he couldn’t stop the quiet whimper that pushed through his chapped lips. The voices near him quieted, and he did his best to breathe normally through his fear and confusion. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew that the people in the room weren’t actively hurting him. That could change quickly if they knew that he was awake. 

A cool slender hand pressed against his hot cheek, and the Fae flinched, automatically turning his head away, a burbled moan caught in his throat at the spike of pain through his spine. The wet weight—a towel?— slipped from one of his eyes, but he kept it closed. 

“He is so warm,” an accented feminine voice whispered, not appearing to notice that he was awake as the towel was eased back over his eye. “How long has his fever been like this?” 

“The fever started last night,” a gruff vaguely familiar grumble answered, near his hip, “it’s still climbing. Emrik and I are doing everything we can for it, but it’s up to him now.” 

The woman hummed, slender fingers pressing over the wet towel, making cold drops of water track down past his ears. “Did he wake at all?” 

A choked laugh, and he heard the rasp as the man ran his hand over his beard. “For a few minutes. By Tala, he was so scared.” The gruff voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “The pup toppled off the bed when I went to get water for the fever and split some of his stitches open falling on the floor. Punctured his damn lung. Poor Emrik had to help me calm him.” 

”I saw Emrik when I came in, he’s dead asleep in your foyer.” The woman’s light touch moved across his forehead and carded through Oryn’s still matted hair, catching on the tangles and knots. His fevered skin ached where her fingers touched, hypersensitive to the pull of his hair against his scalp, and he couldn’t suppress the hitch in his breath.  

“Hmph, he said he used a lot of his reserves last night, tried to explain some of the magic to me. Not that I understood it. Meli, I know Emrik is exhausted, but is there anything you can do?” 

Fevered confusion clouded the injured Fae’s thoughts. What?

“I don’t think so, Galen. Our magic doesn’t work the same with them. I haven’t figured out why yet.” The woman‘s chair skittered over the floor as she stood. “Even if he was human, he is very weak right now. I don’t know that he would survive my attempts at healing.” 

“That’s basically what Emrik said,” a thick fingered hand took Oryn’s limp one and covered his swollen fingers with a warm, rough palm. Oryn’s fingers twitched around the larger hand, the hard splints under the manacles causing a twinge through his arm, and the stranger smoothed over them with a soft murmur. “He’s been tortured to within an inch of his life, Meli. Where did your men say they found him?” 

Her men? Who were these people?  Were they Soren’s friends? A dim memory of yelling men with authority in their voices welled up, but it was too tenuous to grasp and examine. 

A quiet rustle of papers across the room marked the woman’s location. “Soren’s, apparently he was searching for some seelie runaways. You know about his fascination with their magic.” 

Oryn felt his insides throb at actually hearing Soren’s name, a sharp inhalation making his ribs tug painfully, and an insistent voice started up in the back of his mind. They’re Soren’s friends. They’re going to hurt me too. They’re just waiting for Soren to come back.

 He barely noticed the other’s fingers stilling over his own.  “Run aways?” the questioned response stressed the plural. “By Tala, will he never learn? Someone needs to teach him there is a reason that the seelie are illegal to own. He is going to cause another war.” 

A sharp sigh.  “I’m not sure he hasn’t. The run aways were, apparently, on the border of the Leander Ridge when this one was captured. I don’t think the Queen’s forces were able to find the others after we got our report from Soren’s informant.” 

Oryn felt his heart start to drum against his ribs, a spike of dread lancing through his gut. They were hunting the other seelie too. That’s why they were treating him, because Soren hadn’t gotten the information from him. 

She continued with an ironic lilt to her voice that made Oryn tense further. “Besides, and I have no idea how he did it, but this little pup killed him as my Inquisitors broke the door down. So I guess we don’t have to worry about teaching Soren any lessons in the the future.” 

“I’m sorry, he what?!” Shock colored the male’s voice as Oryn’s hand was placed back on the covers.    

The Fae felt a wave of alarmed confusion start to roil and churn within him. Dead? A fog of pained memory boiled up, the sharp press of a knife against his abdomen, a brief, sweet flash of hope. But nothing else. He killed Soren? 

Meli laughed as she answered, and the Fae’s frantic mind turned it into a sharp, cacophic peel of noise. “You heard me, Galen. Soren cracked his head on the floor, and it turned his brain to jelly. The only reason I know it was your dark haired charge, and not some sort of freak stroke, is that one of the lesser seelies could feel the knot.” 

“But, how? This has to be one of the most magically restrained seelie I’ve ever come across, how did he even manage to scrape together the magic to form a knot?” 

“I’m not—“ she cut herself off and there was the soft slip of fabric against fabric. Oryn felt the woman’s presence leaning over him again before there were slender fingers at his throat, over his collar, over the pounding pulse in his throat. “Galen,” she murmured, softly, “I think he’s awake.” 

Oryn’s chest hurt, and he realized he’d forgotten to control his breathing, small wheezes for air making his broken ribs scream with pain. Panic flared, and he choked on a whimper when he sensed the male leaning over him as well, the masculine presence strong and looming. Celünie, please. Please, don’t hurt me. Soren was going to hurt the boy. He was so young. Please. 

“Oh, lad,” Galen murmured, “shhhh, easy, it’s okay.” 

It wasn’t okay. Oryn didn’t know who these people were, and they were touching him, and he didn’t feel good, and everything hurt. He gave up playing at sleep and tipped his head back into the pillow, shifting, gasping as a throbs of pain pounded through him. Wanting to get away from the hand at his throat, the potential punishment. He tried to move his legs, needed to flee, but he moaned weakly when a jolt of pain crashed through his body like lightning. Traveling from the broken bones and into the shorn muscles in his abdomen. 

“Shhh, myonik, shhhh,” the woman soothed in Sæthe, “we are not going to hurt you.” Her fingers moved from his throat to brush against his hair in a deceptively gentle caress, another hand trying to cup his cheek.  

Oryn didn’t believe her. Didn’t believe any of these humans with their promises and gentle hands. They’d been gentle before too. But he’d killed Soren, and they wanted to punish him. Hurt him. Make him scream. 

His body was so heavy, and it was agony to move, every tiny muscle contraction telling him to stay still. But he didn’t want them to touch him. The damp cloth slid off of his face when he shook his head, rejecting the hand against his cheek, dull pounding starting up behind his eyes. The heat of the fever flared without the coolness of the cloth, and he whined, eyelids sliding open to search the blurry shapes over him. 

Two people hovered, the bright light making them dark, indistinguishable shadows to the brightness of the room. He flinched back with a tight gasp of air, trying to raise his arms in a defensive posture, but the heavy appendages were easily caught in strong hands. His wrists throbbed even in the light grip, and the square, broad hands controlled him without any trouble. Ignoring his whimpers of protest, the man crossed his wrists across his stomach so that Oryn could be pressed back into the mattress by his other hand.  

“Don’t move, lad,” Galen ordered, false kindness in his voice, “you’re very sick and very hurt. You need to stay still.” 

Oryn’s struggles weakened, and he shuddered, the fear of disobeying overcoming his trembling limbs. His tongue was heavy and unwieldy in his mouth, but he swallowed thickly, trying to force his eyes to focus. “Dä. . . därog. . .il. . .il a.  . . “ His voice was a hoarse, thin rasp that wavered on the plea, and his dry throat closed on any additional words as he panted for air. 

“Shhh, be calm,” the woman said in Saethe, the lilt of his native tongue falling easily from her lips. The woman leaned further in, the hand in his hair sliding back to cradle his head as a cup was placed against his lips. “Drink, myonik.” Her angular face finally came in to focus, but her expression was unreadable to the exhausted Fae. 

Blinking his gritty eyes fitfully, Oryn turned away from the sloshing liquid in the cup, an incoherent croak all he could manage. His throat was so dry, but these humans would hurt him, wanted to punish him for Soren. Wanted to know where his friends went. He didn’t know what was in the cup. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want it. 

He couldn’t stop the hiccuping sob that slid out of his mouth as he squeezed his eyes closed. Please, I don’t want it. 

“Shh, shh, shh, okay, okay.” The cup left his lips, and he sobbed harder when something skimmed across his cheek softly. “I know you’re scared, shhhh, it’s okay.” 

“Oh pup, don’t cry.” Galen’s hands softened their restraining grip, his thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. 

Oryn exhausted himself quickly, his breaths coming in hitching, shaky sobs and gasps as the woman continued carding through his hair, murmuring softly. “You aren’t going to be hurt, I promise. You’re being taken care of; you’re safe, now. Shhh.” His eyelids fluttered weakly, unable to fully unshutter themselves, and he swallowed past the dryness in his mouth. 

“This is just water, we aren’t going to hurt you, but you need to drink, little one.” The woman raised his head again as she pressed the cup back to his mouth, and Oryn couldn’t fight against the cool liquid as it poured past his chapped lips. Pure, sweet water touched his tongue, and it soaked it up like a sponge in the desert. Swallowing fitfully, he sighed as the water soothed his parched throat, and she helped him drink until she pulled the cup away. 

The Fae was drifting on fatigue, the rattle of things in the room making him jerk and whine, as the woman lowered his head back down. “Galen, is that too much water?” 

“That should be enough for now,” Galen murmured, making Oryn shudder as new cool rags were drawn down his arms and across his neck. “He needs all of the fluids he can get, but we can’t have him drinking too fast.” 

“Okay. . . “ Fingers carded through his hair again before she continued in Saethe, “Sleep now, myonik, we will talk when you feel better.” 

Oryn whimpered, head ticking to the side as he forced himself to stay awake.  He wanted to explain, maybe they’d have mercy if he explained. “D’rog. . . “ he slurred, wavering “. . .S’ren. . .” 

“Hush, you don’t have to worry about Soren. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you here. Sleep.”