Touched by the Flame || Azriel Shadowsinger

Chapter 44

Soraya poked her head out from the flaps of her tent, looking all around camp to ensure nobody was around. Everyone had tucked away for the night hours ago. The night patrol had already switched out, and if she estimated correctly, they should be out for a few more hours before switching again. She tied off the bound cloth at her hip and slipped from her tent into the night.

Tree frogs sang in the distance. A cricket chirped from somewhere behind a stack of pallets beside her tent. Wind rustled softly in the tall meadow's grass and whistled through the boughs of the willow by the creek. Toward the willow she started, avoiding the fire in the center of camp to keep from casting a shadow.

She was a ghost through the makeshift camp. Seen and heard by none. Upon finally reaching the outskirts, she let loose a sigh of relief and allowed a fraction of the tension in her shoulders to ease. 

Soraya slowed, her heart growing heavier the closer she came to the willow. The haggard face there come into view beneath the full moon's light. She swallowed thickly and stepped forward once more. Until merely a few feet separated she and the faerie staked to the tree. Bloodied and bruised. Beaten beyond recognition. Some of his wounds were fresh, making it apparent that he was a frequent stop, even still, for many people at camp.

A sick feeling rose up her throat. Soraya barely managed to choke it back. Many of his wounds were visibly infected. His stench alone made bile rise up from her stomach. He simply hung there by his pierced hands, entire body slumped with defeat. Soraya drew in a shaky breath while for a long moment, she stood frozen before him. 

Was this how the faeries Under the Mountain had felt about Clare? This hatred that the rebels felt for this faerie? Had there been a single person aside from Feyre and Rhysand to look upon her sister with more than disgust and hate? Was there a single person who felt bad? Who felt pity? Regret?

Soraya steadied herself and stepped forward again, kneeling at the base of the tree. She brushed her hands through the trampled grass and down into the dirt. Searching. Eventually, she found two fist-sized stones, and set them aside.

She untied the bound cloth at her hip and set it down in the grass, unwrapping it. Inside she had stuffed the extra rations she had won from Galan. A stale hunk of bread and a strip of dried, bland meat. But what she took up first was the crumpled plant that she had miraculously found growing beside the river earlier. 

A plant with a pink flower, whose medicinal properties she now knew included neutralizing the effects of faebane. She was glad she had read that book on medicinal herbs after the incident with Azriel. Glad that she had known where to look for the plant in the wild.

Soraya bit her lip in concentration as she struggled to see through the dark of night. She plucked the pink petals from the weed and ground them between the two rocks she had found until they resembled an ugly looking mush. With the empty cloth in hand, she stood and stepped forward once more.

"I'm really sorry," she whispered, "but this is going to hurt."

She cringed in preparation as she swiped the cloth along the deeper of his wounds that had been covered in faebane. The faerie jolted with a gasp, eyes popping open at last as he opened his mouth to cry out. Soraya jerked forward, clasping a hand over his mouth to silence him.

"Shhh!" She looked quickly back towards camp, but nobody emerged from their tents. 

A sigh rolled through her and she shook her head, turning back toward the faerie. Speaking softly to him.

"I need you to be quiet, okay?" Soraya grimaced, pressing her hand tighter over his mouth when she wiped away the faebane from another gash.

It felt cruel, asking him to be quiet when he was in such agony. But the alternative was to let him scream and wake the camp, and that wasn't a risk she cared to take.