[Follows on from
this thread.]A body has been dumped on the steps of the Kashtta, hog-tied, dark blood oozing from one severed wingstub. The other wing is splayed limply on the ground beside her, the feathers matted and red. Her face is a mass of coagulated blood, crisscrossed with slowly healing wounds
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Comments 46
But he's been locked up in this Tower before, more than one way. He's been confined to its grounds. And he doesn't particularly want to relive that, even if only accidentally. So, he makes it a point to head out, every once in a while. Visit a few bars. Prowl a back alley or two.
Usually, he doesn't find someone trussed up and bleeding the instant he steps outside.
The reaction is instantaneous. He knows these tactics - he's used these tactics, and not so long ago, in a time he'd like to leave behind him but can't, really; never completely. Someone is making a point, and he's not sure whether he's worried that the point is for ( ... )
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Then, he has some experience with angels whose blood runs red.
The visible injuries might be horrific, but they're nothing he hasn't seen before, and nothing immediately life-threatening. They seem to have clotted, at least. And there's nothing to indicate she's been otherwise injured, so he scoops her into his arms and kicks the door behind him open.
Who she is would make this more than a little difficult if she needed serious surgical intervention, but he's confident in his own field skills to clean and suture the cuts and... handle the wingstub. Calling Owen in, given the fugue state she went into at the mention of his name, last time, is probably not an option ( ... )
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The thing about healing, he thinks, is that in an ideal world, it wouldn't become necessary ( ... )
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She's not sure why she's coming around. She doesn't want to be conscious. She was supposed to be dead. Death, at least, would have purged her of her problems: of her disorders of the mind, or the constant torture, or whatever this is that keeps happening to her, no matter where she goes or what she does, no matter how she tries to hide.
She won't face another day of that. She won't. She's not sure any of this is even real, any more. Why live trapped within a nightmare? She'd be better off dead. Dead, not dreaming, in the boundless eternity of stars, without body to constrain her, without physical pains, without red blood, or--
A cold sweat creeps over her as her body, followed by her mind, explodes into sudden awareness. Broke my wings took them cut they took me gone lost drowning falling broken not whole, not whole-- and suddenly she's sitting bolt upright, sedatives be damned, her one remaining wing wrapped tight and shuddering around her bone-chilled, half-dressed form ( ... )
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