Light and Shadows

Keys for All Occasions: Cicatrix

"If ... you would be so kind," Renathal said with a gracious nod, as if it were he granting her a special favour.

Immediately, the Maw Walker's attention turned to Renathal's torso, her shining eyes roving over the sharp planes of bare skin. Renathal shifted uncomfortably. He had been reticent to take too close a look at the damage done by Remornia, but now he followed the Maw Walker's gaze reflexively. From his ribcage where his superfluous heart beat an odd, quick pace, all the way to his jutting left hipbone stretched a patchwork of vicious purple and red. Motes of tainted anima drifted thickly from the angry latticework of open slicing.

Renathal flinched, less from the grim reality of his injuries than from the sudden sensation of the Maw Walker's fingers pressed gently to his chest.

"This ... really ought to be healed," she said quietly, as if noise might further inflame the wound.

"The anima cannot be spared."

The Maw Walker looked up, one eyebrow raised.

"Even for the prince?'

"Especially for the prince."

This harsh pronouncement made the Maw Walker blink. Renathal was now confident this was how her expressionless face indicated surprise. He tried to draw himself up into a more regal stance, but, at the insistent searing in his side, settled for a dignified glower.

"I am not Sire Denathrius, and I will not take from the rebellion's scant coffers for my own personal use."

The Maw Walker's face did not change, but she cocked her head very slightly to the side. Renathal had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

"Very well," was all she said, which elucidated nothing, and returned her attention to Renathal's naked chest. She unwound an arm's length of bandage in one swift movement and rested the end carefully at the top of his ribcage. "Lift your arms."

Renathal obeyed, somewhat bemused at the careless order, but the Maw Walker's arms were wrapped around him before he could consider an appropriate response. She wound the bandage about his torso with an efficiency indicative of long practice. She was shorter than Renathal, and the top of her head brushed his goatee as she worked, her dark hair swinging against his collarbones with each sure movement. Her hands were exquisitely soft where they met his bare skin, inspiring that same tingle of anima Renathal had felt when she had touched him in the Maw.

It was pleasant. More than pleasant. And, without thinking, Renathal closed his eyes. When was the last time anyone had touched him like this .... so gently, so considerately? He had stopped counting the years.

And a stern voice in Renathal's head was quick to remind him why. The lesson Denathrius had tried so very hard to teach, and that Renathal had consistently failed to learn. So, he had learned to avoid it, instead. It was for the best. The Master thought so, too. Except...

A sudden, unsettling idea made Renathal's eyes snap open. What if the Master had lied about other things, as well? What if -

"Did that hurt?"

The Maw Walker froze, one hand on his ribs, chin tilted up at him. Renathal swallowed and shook his head.

"No, it's .... it is nothing. Do carry on," he said, when she continued to stare.

After a few more silent seconds, the Maw Walker's hands took up their work again, though Renathal thought she was more careful to avoid direct contact with his skin. Disappointment trickled down the back of his throat.

"So," said the Maw Walker conversationally, "is it out of your system now? Your Highness?" She added his title as an afterthought.

"I beg your pardon?" Renathal asked warily.