Page 264 of A Dance of Water

Her limbs grew heavy and light, all at once.

And just before Luella was ripped away from sleep, she felt torn in two different directions—a part of her was still dreaming, sitting and watching the lake; while another part realized she was lying on her stomach, cheek pillowed by a soft silk as fiery pain licked up her spine.

A warmth pressed against her ear. Real. The crisp scent of winter permeated the serene scent of wildflowers and lakewater of her dream.

Tharen.

His voice echoed, cutting through the shivering treetops:

"I’m sorry, lamb," he said, over and over again.

She realized the rarity of it—his apology. Knew that the mage did not give such words freely.

The air shimmered, and she was finally pulled away from dreams and forced back into her body, where a medicinal herbal scent filtered through the air around her.

Pain welcomed her with thorny edges and aching bones.

Luella groaned low, fingers curling in sheets. She was lying on her stomach, a heavy weight against her back kept her immobilized. The air was cold, and she shivered.

Tharen’s lips against her ear stilled in the middle of a plea for forgiveness.

"You’re awake," he whispered.

Her wings gave a soft flutter at her back, and drowsy pain arced down the knobs of her spine.

Her eyelids hurt. She opened them with great effort.

To be met by the sight of icy eyes, shining an unnatural blue. The sharp, severe cut of his cheekbones was still crusted with blood.

She unfurled her fingers from the sheets and reached for him with trembling hands. His eyes grew wide, the light in them dimming until it was the same ice-tinged shade she was familiar with.

"Tharen," Luella croaked, "I have wings."

She weakly touched the side of his face, feeling his jaw tick under her palms.

"You do." The tone of his voice was soft, achingly so. He grabbed her wrist and laid it back down by her head, pulling away from her, making the threads inside her hum with sadness. "You’re still healing. Quit moving."

That wouldn’t be hard. It was growing increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open with every passing moment.

"Did you give me a potion…?" The wordagainlingered at the end of her question, unsaid.

"For the pain, and to help you sleep through the worst of the healing." The mage busied himself with uncapping vials that were placed neatly in line on the bedside table.

This room she was in… It was not her own. Her addled mind struggled to understand. She discreetly sniffed the pillow under her cheek, catching the faint scent of cedar and burning embers.

Oh.

She was in Vale’s room. On his bed.

Her memories of the King’s chambers were clouded with malaise—when he had forced her to sleep to watch her dreams. And now she lay amongst his scent with another male watching over her.

"What day is it? How long have I… been asleep?" Her voice was weak as she watched Tharen’s profile, cast in soft orange from the flames in Vale’s room.

Tharen kept looking at her periodically, as if he had to remind himself she was awake and—relatively—alright. "Not long. A few hours. It’s still night." His words were stilted as he used a cloth to wipe away blood on a thin silver medical instrument.

Her blood. She shivered.

The wings on her back were heavy and motionless, save for the occasional flutter, without her intent. It felt strange, muscles quivering in her upper and lower back, sending twinges of pain throughher body. She was weak—exhausted. Only wanted to sleep, but without dreaming.

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