Page 66 of Captive
Sarah. The child had a name. Sebastian filed it away—another piece of information about this small person who'd somehow become important.
The child, Sarah, hugged her wooden doll tighter, but her expression held more curiosity than fear. "You told them to find me," she said. "You remembered me."
The sound of his name in her voice made something in Sebastian's chest ache. He breathed through the hunger, through the burning need that wanted him to see her as prey rather than the child he'd helped save. "Yes," he said finally, when he trusted himself to speak. "Iremembered what it means to stand aside while someone needs help. I didn't want to make that mistake again."
The child studied him with that disconcerting directness children possessed. "You're hurt," she observed.
"I am." Sebastian lowered his hand, his fangs finally retracting though the hunger remained. "But I'll heal. You should..." He gestured toward where the other children stood with their parents. "You should be with your people. Where it's safe."
Sarah nodded slowly, then surprised him by bowing her head slightly—a gesture of respect that seemed entirely too formal for such a small child. She turned and walked back to the orc woman, glancing back once before disappearing into the crowd.
The gathered orcs had witnessed the entire exchange. Sebastian could sense their assessment, seeing him warn the child away, seeing him fight his own nature, seeing him choose restraint when hunger would have been easier.
The shamans began their work, singing in patterns that made the Heart Tree's power pulse in response. Warriors formed a circle around Oakspear's body, weapons held in salute. Their voices joined the shamans', creating a sound that filled the clearing with weight and history.
Sebastian barely registered the specifics. The ceremony blurred around him—exhaustion and blood loss making everything feel distant, muted. He focused on staying conscious, on breathing through the pain, on not collapsing against the tree trunk.
But he watched Boarstaff.
The warchief stood apart from the others, composed but rigid with controlled grief. Sebastian recognized that posture, the way someone held themselves together through sheer will when everything inside wanted to break.
This wasn't political loss or tactical setback. This was personal. Deep. The kind of wound that would leave scars long after the body healed.
Sebastian didn't look for advantage in that pain. Didn't calculate how grief might weaken an enemy. For once, he simply witnessed another person's suffering and felt the weight of it.
The ceremony concluded as the sun climbed higher. Warriorssaluted one final time, then began to disperse. The shamans wrapped Oakspear's body in ceremonial cloth, preparing it for whatever final rites would follow in private.
Boarstaff remained, kneeling beside the body for a long moment. His hand rested on Oakspear's chest, over the heart that no longer beat.
Sebastian looked away, giving him what privacy was possible. Some moments were too raw to witness.
Eventually, Boarstaff rose and walked toward Sebastian. His face showed the strain of contained emotion; grief held in check by necessity.
"You need to see our shamans," Boarstaff observed, studying the blood staining Sebastian's side. "Those wounds still aren't closing."
Sebastian shook his head slightly. "This was more important." He hesitated, then added quietly, "I knew his scent. From when I caught it on you that night in the chamber. You were close?"
Boarstaff's composure wavered for just a moment. "Yes," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "For three summers."
Sebastian nodded, understanding more than he could express. In vampire society, such connections were weaknesses to be eliminated. But watching Boarstaff's carefully controlled grief, he saw strength in that vulnerability.
"Thank you," Boarstaff said after a moment. "For bringing him back."
Without thinking, Sebastian reached out, resting his hand briefly on Boarstaff's arm. The gesture felt natural despite everything, one person offering comfort to another in the simplest way possible.
"He deserved to be returned to his people," Sebastian said. "To you."
Their gazes met, and in that moment, something passed between them that transcended the boundaries of their peoples. Not quite friendship, too much history for that. But perhaps the beginning of understanding.
Sebastian withdrew his hand, aware of his limitations, of the hunger that still gnawed at him.
"The shamans," Boarstaff repeated. "They can help with those wounds. The poison—"
"After," Sebastian interrupted quietly. "Let me witness this properly first." His gaze moved to where warriors were building the funeral pyre, stacking wood with reverent care. "I carried him home. I should see it through."
Boarstaff studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Stay at the edge. Keep your distance."
"I understand."
