#another ball and socket double ended joint for the wrist to hand

[nudibutch]

when i say articulated arms i want to be able to pinch a dollar bill from someones hand with it

[sylvanfreckles]

I’m Sorry I Didn’t Know (FebuWhump 10)

Fandom: The Witcher (mix of book and show canon, set after season one and based on events in Blood of Elves) Summary: Jaskier finds himself in the hands of the enemy, being tortured for information about Geralt's location. Unfortunately he hasn't seen the witcher since that horrible day on the mountain. All seems lost and hopeless, but he has an ally on the way that even Jaskier doesn't know about...Yennefer of Vengerberg.

(Yes it’s more of torturing Jaskier, but he does get comforted this time. Just not by the big lug. See the AO3 version for my full rant :D)

* * *

The first thing he was aware of when he pulled himself out of the spiraling blackness was the pain in his wrists. Pain that lanced down his arms to his shoulders, and even his chest and stomach when he tried to move.

The second thing was the burlap sack over his head. It smelled faintly of old potatoes and dust, and he  choked and coughed when he tried to catch his breath.

Then it was the taste in his mouth and the back of his throat. The faint remnants of wine and something like the odor of water lilies and incense.

Now Jaskier remembered. The pudgy little man with the greasy forehead and too many rings on his thick fingers. He'd offered to buy the bard a drink, claimed to be a patron of the arts, but he'd only asked about the songs Jaskier had written about the witcher.

“Oh, good, you're awake.”

The sack was tugged off his head in one swift movement and Jaskier found himself blinking in the hazy light of a few candles. There were two or three other people in the room, but they were nothing but vague shapes as he tried to shake the last of the muzziness from his head.

That was a mistake. The movement pulled on his shoulders and sent a shock of pain spiraling up his arms to his wrists, which he now realized were bound above him. No, wait...his wrists were bound together and he was hanging from them. His fingers were nearly numb but he could just feel the metal curve of the hook between his hands. There was just enough slack in the rope for his lower legs and knees to rest against the ground, but that was it...and the drugging had left him without the strength to pull himself up any farther to rest his abused shoulders.

Someone had asked a question. Jaskier tried to focus, but the terror pounding through his brain at being caught in this situation was making his blood roar in his ears. Oh, gods, no one knew where he was. No one was expecting him. He had an open invitation to lecture for the summer semester at Oxenfurt, but if he didn't show up they'd assume he just had other plans. He was utterly alone and at the mercy of men who had drugged and kidnapped and strung him up like a side of meat to cure.

The bucket of water flung into his face snapped him out of his panicked thoughts with a splutter. He coughed and spat and shivered, every movement agony on his wrists and shoulders. “Wh-what is it?” If he didn't think about it, maybe he could convince himself his teeth were chattering from the cold and not fear.

“We're looking for the witcher,” the man said, with the impatient tone of someone repeating himself. It wasn't the pudgy man from the inn; this one was taller and darker. Jaskier couldn't make out too many details in his woozy state, though his eyes seemed to fix on the red brooch on the other man's cloak.

“Sorry?” Jaskier tried to clear his head and looked up toward the man's face. “I don't know where he is. Haven't seen him for months. Not since...not in a long time.”

Red Brooch gave a simpering smirk and nodded to someone behind Jaskier. The rope creaked and Jaskier bit back a cry of pain when he was hauled upward by his wrists, the movement pulling on every joint in his body until...he stopped.

Heart in his mouth, he craned his head back to look at his legs. They were wrapped in heavy chains, one behind his knees and the other across his ankles, and the chains were staked to the ground to hold his lower body in place. Every haul on the rope pulled his body between two opposing forces, threatening to tear or dislocate his joints.

A slap across the face brought his attention back to Red Brooch. The man was obviously impatient. “Everyone knows you follow the witcher around like a simpering maiden,” Red Brooch sneered. “All you've done for most of a decade is sing his praise from one end of the continent to the other and you expect us to believe you just lost him?”

Jaskier swallowed and tried to work a little moisture back into his mouth. “I don't know,” he said, voice weak. “We-we haven't seen each other since the mountain, since the dragon hunt. He doesn't...I don't know.”

Red Brooch sighed and gestured again. This time the pull on the rope was sharp and fast and Jaskier tried to scream, only to realize his captor's upraised hand was glowing as he cast a spell that muted Jaskier's voice.

The stretch was horrible. The coarse rope tore at the sensitive flesh of his wrists and his left shoulder, which had been injured in a fall out a window a few years before, was already very close to being pulled out of socket. The sudden release of tension brought only mild relief, as the man behind him simply let go of the rope and Jaskier fell a few inches before he was caught by the bindings around his wrists. It was all burning and pulling, like he was being torn apart on the inside.

Closing his fist, Red Brooch released his hold on Jaskier's voice. “You wrote that ballad about the Child Surprise.” He leaned in, one hand on Jaskier's shoulder, pushing down just enough that a new spike of agony shot down his arms from his wrists. “So you know he found her. The Lion Cub of Cintra.”

Jaskier shook his head. That had been...that had been poetry. “Just a story,” he gasped. “I made it...made it up.”

Red Brooch opened his hand again, sealing Jaskier's lips, and nodded to the man behind him. The pull was slow and agonizing this time, the world around him erupting into bright explosions of pain as his left shoulder finally gave under the strain and dislocated. He wanted to scream, but the spell on his mouth made it difficult to even suck in a breath.

And through it all Red Brooch just studied him with a calculating expression. When the chains around his knees and ankles creaked, Jaskier was suddenly grateful Geralt had used such cruel words to send him packing all those months ago. He would have said anything, given up anything, to make the pain stop...but he had nothing to give.

Then the rope was released, and the sudden drop against his mangled wrists and dislocated shoulder was enough to make his mind go white for a few seconds, while Red Brooch went for another bucket of water to dash over Jaskier's face and chest.

“I don't kn-know,” he stammered, when he could finally speak again. “Please...”

Something rustled just outside his field of vision. Red Brooch glanced over his shoulder, then nodded at the man behind Jaskier, who lumbered off into the darkness to check. For the first time Jaskier realized they were in some kind of dilapidated barn or stable, which meant they couldn't be too far from civilization. If he was careful, he might be able to shout for help if Red Brooch got distracted.

The other man came back—a big, hulking brute with tangled hair and Nilfgaardian armor—shaking his head.

Nilfgaard. Of course. He could still remember all of Queen Calanthe's rather colorful insults during her daughter's engagement ball all those years ago. The night when Geralt had mistakenly asked for the Law of Surprise and wound up with a child of destiny he had no intention of claiming.

Jaskier was just trying to screw up the courage to scream for help while Red Brooch glared at his companion when the door blew in under a burst of flame. The soldier let out a cry of fury and charged, but another ball of fire caught him in the chest and knocked him back.

A lone figure strode into the darkened space. Dressed in a dark tunic and trousers, rather than the striking black-and-white ensembles she favored, Yennefer was no less intimidating as she released a second searing blast at Red Brooch. He had the sense to throw his hands up to ward off the damage, then he was diving behind Jaskier to put the bard between himself and the approaching mage.

Her violet eyes flicked up to make contact with Jaskier's, then a streaming gout of flame was arcing toward him, only to bend and flow around him without singing even a hair on his head. Red Brooch cursed and kicked Jaskier in the back of the legs, making the bard cry out in pain at the tug against his wrists and shoulder, then there was the warping twist of magic and the smell of ozone and Jaskier could just see a portal forming out of the corner of his eye.

“No you don't!” Yennefer hissed and fired another blast of flame at Red Brooch, but he was already diving into the portal. She started to follow but hesitated, eyes flickering at Jaskier for a fraction of a second, and sent another stream of fire after Red Brooch. For a brief, satisfying moment he thought he heard a man scream, and then the portal snapped shut.

The soldier was still moving, though his armor and part of his face had burned off. Yennefer stalked over to him, one hand alight with the glow of magic, and seized the front of his leather jerkin with her other hand. “Who sent you?” she demanded.

Jaskier tried to call a warning as the soldier lunged up with a knife, but Yennefer had seen it coming. She doubled back, retrieving her own knife from her boot, and dashed in to cut a long gash in the soldier's arm up toward his armpit, right in the unarmored space where his bracer buckled.

The man fell with a gurgled cry, and Yennefer stood over him for a moment with her face twisted in disappointment as blood spurted out of the man's wound to darken the floor beneath him. “Cut the artery,” she commented over her shoulder. “Damn.”

Too relieved to comment, Jaskier let his head rest against his uninjured shoulder. “Yennefer?”

She studied him, eyes going from the rope holding his wrists up to the chain binding his legs down. “When I cut this, let me take your weight. Don't try to catch yourself on your knees, got it?”

He nodded. She wrapped one arm around his chest, almost tenderly, and reached up with her other hand to slice through the rope connected to the hook he'd been hanging from. Jaskier collapsed against her, the hook striking a glancing blow on his hip on the way down, and fought down a sob of mingled relief and pain as his shoulders went slack.

Yennefer muttered something and the chains across the back of his legs went limp, letting him slowly drag himself up until he was standing, with Yennefer supporting most of his weight. She stared up at him for a moment, as though reading the map of his injuries, then twisted partly away to summon her own portal with a gesture.

“Two steps and you can lie down,” Yennefer promised.

“Why...” Jaskier coughed, the movement jarring his wounded body, and felt the sorceress pull him inexorably forward. “Why are you...”

“We'll talk later,” she promised. “Just come with me for now.”

He let her lead him through the portal, and the last thing he remembered before darkness flooded his senses was a warm, cozy room with a roaring fire and—most importantly—a soft, clean bed.

* * *

Waking up was much more pleasant this time. Jaskier slowly sat up, well aware that his clothing still stank of the barn and sweat and blood...but the rest of him seemed pleasantly recovered. He flexed his left arm, surprised and relieved that the shoulder had been reset and even the swelling abated.

“You're finally awake,” Yennefer called. She was sitting at the room's little table, a meal spread out in front of her in half a dozen dishes that smelled heavenly. “Come, join me.”

Jaskier slowly approached. The table had two benches that faced each other, but while Yennefer was seated on one the other was covered with what looked like the detritus of a night's spell work. Yennefer rolled her eyes and made a show of scooting to the end of the bench, patting the empty wood beside her. “I won't bite,” she teased. “At least, not after spending a day and a night putting you back together.”

“Ah.” Jaskier awkwardly sat on the edge of the bench. “Um, thank you. For that.”

She rested a hand on his arm in an almost tender gesture. “I've been looking for you.

He stiffened. He should have known...escaping one danger to fall into another. “I don't know where he is,” he explained slowly. Maybe she'd just let him go, they didn't actually have a reason to hate each other, did they?

“Oh, Jaskier,” Yennefer shook her head, one dark curl falling across her shoulders. “I was looking for you. If I wanted to find Geralt...I have my own ways.”

Jaskier nodded. His stomach was cramping, reminding him it had been at least a day since he'd eaten, but he just couldn't bring himself to fill his plate. “I haven't seen him since...since...”

“Since the mountain,” Yennefer finished. “I'm so sorry, Jaskier. I didn't know. If I'd known he'd said something like that to you, I would have come back. I'd have slapped him across his self-righteous face and taken you straight to Oxenfurt, or wherever you needed to be to get away from him.”

For some reason, her words made his eyes prickle as though he was fighting back tears. This couldn't be real—not the unfeeling sorceress, hero of Sodden Hill, the woman so powerful she'd nearly bound a djinn to her will—people like that didn't care about people like him.

“Poor Jaskier,” Yennefer sighed and scooted across the bench to lean her head against his shoulder. “I hate seeing you like this; you're no fun to tease.”

He laughed at that, and the sound almost surprised him. He hadn't had much to laugh about lately. Yennefer smiled up at him and reached out to fill his plate, piling it up with the delicate food the sorceress preferred over the rough meat and bread that was Jaskier's usual tavern fare. He couldn't complain, though. After the events of the last few days a few pieces of fruit and some light, toasted bread sounded a bit more palatable than a joint of mutton.

“You must know I don't hate you,” Yennefer began. “We don't see eye-to-eye, but I would never want to see anything like that happen to you.”

Jaskier gave in and let his head rest against hers, her dark hair soft against his cheek. “I think you're the only one.”

“Geralt was angry,” Yennefer replied. “For a man who claims to have no emotions he has a tendency to let his passions override his self control.”

She rested one hand on his arm and shifted her head so that she was looking up at him. “Don't let this break you, Jaskier. He blames himself for the harsh words he spoke to you; don't take them on as your burden as well.”

To his shame, her thumb brushed over a tear that had escaped from one eye. He cleared his throat and pulled away, taking his plate to stand closer to the fire to eat. “What are your plans now?”

Yennefer pretended not to notice the sudden change of topic. “I have a few things I'm looking into for a friend,” she lied smoothly. That was all right. Jaskier didn't really want to know the sort of things the sorceress got up to. For all he knew she was the spy mistress for an underground movement to liberate Cintra from Nilfgaard control. The less he knew about her life the better.

“I need to get back to Oxenfurt,” Jaskier said, though she hadn't asked. “I've been asked to teach for the summer semester, and walking those hallowed grounds would be a nice respite from life on the road.”

The mage gracefully stood from the table, her movements making even the rough tunic and trousers she still wore seem elegant. “I can send you there by portal whenever you're ready,” she offered, holding a hand up when he started to protest. “Please. I would be happier knowing I'd left you somewhere safe.”

Jaskier placed his empty plate on the mantle and gave a curt nod, emotions welling up in him again. He focused on the fire, knowing that a kind look from Yennefer would break him down again.

She seemed to sense his discomfort and crossed the room to throw a cloak over her shoulders. “I'll see if I can retrieve your belongings from the tavern where you were playing,” Yennefer said. “Eat your fill and I'll send you to Oxenfurt when you're ready.”

Yennefer had her hand on the door before Jaskier had pulled himself together to speak. “Thank you, Yennefer. I really...I mean it.”

The sorceress smiled, a soft expression that he'd never seen on her face. “Eat something. You've lost so much weight you look like a plucked chicken.”

The familiar, sarcastic bite to her tone hand him leaning against the mantle as he laughed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes rather than the pathetic, pitying ones he'd been fighting back moments before.

Well. Another plate or two wouldn't hurt.

* * *

I actually have trouble watching the show because Geralt is just kind of mean. He's so much better in the books...even if it is a lot of fun to send my friend pictures of Henry Cavil every time she complains that she's thirsty.

[themanicmagician]

Unravel - Jeam Ficlet

[AO3] Summary: Seam keeps falling apart, to Jevil’s increasing exasperation.

Seam poured out two cups of tea and set them on his desk. Jevil would be at his door any moment now, to go over their plans for next week. Little Prince Lancer’s birthday was fast approaching, and the royal scamp expected to not just be entertained, but dazzled by the joint performance of the court jester and magician. Seam picked up the scrap of parchment he’d been using to jot down his ideas. His best one so far was to have Jevil’s carousel creatures balance atop balls of his yarn. Was that too predictable? Had they done something similar before? His brows creased as he searched his memory.

Then, his button eye squeezed out of his scrunched socket. The connection to his magic fizzled, and then his world went dark.

“Shit.” Ears pricked, he heard the button roll off the table, and then onto the carpet, where the plush fabric unhelpfully quieted its movements.

Muttering more swears, Seam picked his way carefully around his desk. He crouched low, hands hunting around the floor. He’d felt his button eye (he used to have two, but the second fell off somewhere years ago) becoming loose the past couple days, but he’d ignored the sensation of his body unraveling. It happened more often now that he was older, and he was weary of the dull ache that accompanied stitching his body back together. He growled, annoyed, as his search of the area around the desk brought up nothing.

He went to stand, but without his sight, he misjudged his proximity to his desk and knocked his head against it. Seam heard tea slosh, and then he was wiping the hot liquid off his face. This was not his day.

“Oh my! What a chaotic scene I’ve entered.”

Of course, now he showed up.

“Jevil.” He gestured helplessly to the room around him. “Do you see my eye anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“…Well?”

“Well what?” Jevil giggled impishly.

“Won’t you tell me where it is?”

“Oh, where’s the fun in that?” Jevil did take a small measure of pity on him, though, because he added, “You’re fairly frigid at the moment.”

Seam pushed off from the desk and cautiously stepped forward, hands warily in front of him.

“Getting warmer~” Jevil sing-songed.

“I hate you.” Seam grumped, but there was no real heat in it. This was just another in their never-ending series of games.

He was beside the couch now. Seam let his hand slide along the cushions as he inched past it, really not looking to bang his knees on its wooden legs.

Jevil called out more hints, and Seam abruptly realized that the jester was just guiding him ever closer towards him. Did Jevil seriously just walk in and pick the button up to watch him fumble across the room?

Yes. Of course he did.

“Searing hot.” Jevil’s breath blew on his face. It smelled of the bowl of candy corn he’d eaten at lunch. “Well done.”

Then small, dexterous hands were tilting Seam’s head down. He felt the playful buzz of Jevil’s magic, and then his sight returned. Seam traced a cautious paw over the returned button. Jevil’s magic had sewn it back on flawlessly, painlessly. He blinked rapidly. It was attached better than ever.

Confident in the full restoration of his sight, Seam returned to his desk. Jevil trailed after. Seam picked up the tea cup that he’d knocked off, and mourned the tea that was now steadily soaking into the carpet.

Jevil prodded his side. “What, no thank you for my assistance?”

“Oh, right. Thanks. Here, come claim your reward.”

Jevil grinned, closing his eyes and leaning in for a kiss. Seam picked up the other cup of tea, and spilled it over Jevil’s head.

Jevil squealed and rushed off to clean his hat before a stain set. Seam chuckled quietly to himself, and went to put the kettle back on.

~*~

Their show was a success, of course. Jevil’s enthusiastic bedlam, accompanied by Seam’s finesse, always made for a fine display. Still, Seam was rather pleased with today’s performance in particular, and the birthday boy clapped louder than any of them. Once Lancer had his fill of magics and tricks for the afternoon, Seam and Jevil were free to meander about the party.

Using magic always left Seam peckish, and Jevil, puckish. And so, they split off, Jevil to entertain the nobles, and Seam, to help himself to the buffet. The spread laid out was suitably extravagant, considering the occasion. Seam piled a heap of shrimp onto his plate, along with slices of roasted chicken that were resting in a delicious-smelling pink sauce. He claimed a small table for himself, and sat back to observe the celebration.

Lancer had received his present from his father earlier in the day, and proudly rode his tricycle up and down the ballroom. The four kings were all present, and engaged in what looked to be amicable discussion at the table of honor. And it wasn’t hard to spot Jevil, his pealing laughter easily drawing Seam’s attention. Jevil was entertaining a few members of the court with simple card tricks, his tail bouncing with energy. Seam admired his counterpart’s endless enthusiasm for entertainment, and, not for the first time, wished he could muster up the same level of energy. Jevil was the only one who truly understood and shared in his need to distract the darkners from their gloomy reality; the need to entertain was what drove them, what kept them going.

Seam ate at a leisurely pace. Every now and then someone drifted over to praise the show, which he accepted with a grace won from experience. Seam ultimately meandered back to the buffet table, and helped himself to a cup of punch. He nearly dropped his cup as Jevil appeared right behind him.

“Missing something?”

Seam regarded him. “Are you fishing for a compliment?”

But Jevil didn’t rise to banter back as he usually would. There was a downturn to his lips. Something was off. Jevil reached behind Seam’s ear and produced a coin. He pressed it into Seam’s paw. Seam looked it over; it was double-sided, showing Jevil’s tail on both faces of the coin.

“Two more than you have, and equal to my collection.”

“…What?”

Jevil huffed, rolling his eyes. He raised his tail. It was coiled around Seam’s own severed one.

What? When had it detached? Seam felt around, and yeah, Jevil wasn’t pranking him. He’d lost his tail. Was probably trailing cotton everywhere, too.

“The prince was about to tie it to his bike handle as a streamer.” There was a peculiar edge to Jevil’s tone. His usual playfulness sounded strained. “You need to pay more attention.”

“Thanks.” Seam grasped for his tail, but Jevil’s own tail twitched back, pulling it out of reach. Jevil circled him and reapplied the appendage himself. Then, Jevil gave him a playful swat on the rear.

“Oi! Not here.” Seam hissed, flustered.

Jevil just winked.

~*~

The Knight unnerved him. He slithered forward from the darkness to the kings’ court. Out of his cracked mouth poured promises like tar, heavy and thick. He took the King of Spades behind a closed door and they spoke for hours. Every day, the king spent a little longer with the Knight. Every day, the king’s mood became darker, yet darker.

Jevil was fascinated by the Knight, for he was so different and outlandish, as if not from their world at all. The court jester kept entreating the Knight to speak with him, but the stranger brushed him off in favor of the king’s ear. Seam hoped, for Jevil’s sake, the jester grew bored of his unwilling quarry and moved on. Some conversations were best left unspoken.

“Stop that.”

Seam was jarred from his dour thoughts as Jevil swatted his paw. He’d nearly forgotten Jevil was here with him now, cuddled up on the couch of their shared office in Card Castle. Seam had been picking anxiously at the fraying threads that wove his forearm to his wrist. He’d loosened the threads to the point that his left hand was limp, and two tenuous strands of string away from being disconnected.

Jevil knocked his hand aside, and worked on reattaching the nearly-severed wrist. Glittering strings appeared in one palm, a needle in the other. Jevil deftly threaded the eye of the needle.

“Sorry.” Seam half-shrugged. “Claws, you know?”

The needle slid easily through Seam’s fabric, in and out. Seam never realized before how much easier wrist reattachment was when you didn’t have to do it one-handed.

“Honestly.” Jevil said as he finished up. He pulled the remaining string taut, and cut the fine thread apart with his knifelike teeth. “You’d fall to pieces without me.”

Jevil patted his arm, and Seam obligingly rolled his wrist. His work done, Jevil pressed back into his side, burying his face against Seam’s shoulder.

“Yes, I’d hate to deprive you of your pillow.” Seam remarked, wry.

“Fool.”

They both looked up at the third voice. The Knight loomed in the doorway, his aura sending a chill through Seam’s cotton. The Knight’s hands beckoned Jevil to their clutches.

“I will speak with you, now.”

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

And The Dragon Will Come When He Hears The Drum

Chapter 3 - rage alone isn't fuel enough to enable me to fly

Back to the Beginning <Previous Chapter / Next Chapter >  AO3

(TW: headaches, extreme cold, numbness, toxic family relationships, flashbacks, mention of a corpse)

(The title of this chapter comes from "Double Helix Kyrie" by Raymond Luczak)

Janus flew through the night without stopping. It had started snowing in earnest after the first hour or so, making his muscles stiff and decreasing visibility. He’d almost run into a snow-capped peak at one point, but the higher he flew, the more volatile the winds became. It was exhausting. Janus had to beat his wings twice as hard to go half as far as he normally would amidst the growing storm. He smelled the air often, on the lookout for any sort of static build up in the clouds. Dragons were notorious for attracting lightning while in the air.

When he at last arrived at the distant village, he couldn't feel his wings at all. Approaching the ground for a landing in the snow-covered meadow behind the healer’s modest cottage, Janus’s legs buckled beneath him and he hit the snow with a thunderous thud. He tried to fold his wings against his back, but the muscles wouldn’t respond, instead content to tremble and be useless. The icy wind slipped beneath his wings and, despite his best efforts, filled them like parachutes, sending him skidding snout-over-tail into the trees at the edge of the clearing.

“Janus?!” a voice shouted over the howling wind. Through the snow, he saw the disheveled healer holding a flickering lantern, shirt half-tucked and feet shoved shoddily into untied boots. Janus needed to shift, but he couldn’t focus long enough with the wind threatening to pluck him off the ground, and his mind threatening unconsciousness. If he passed out, he’d be stuck as a dragon until he came to.

Emile tromped through the knee-deep snow, one hand raised against the blizzard. “Did you fly in this? Janus, you could have been hurt!”

I’m not the one you should be worried about, he spoke to the healer’s mind. At last getting one of his wings under control by shoving up against a tree and crumpling it into place. The other caught another gust of wind and wrenched back, the muscles in his back and shoulders tweaking painfully.

Setting the lantern down, Emile scrambled up Janus’s shoulder—a foolhardy attempt that, with one fatal slip, could have ended with them both stranded out in the snow—reaching precariously far and secured his hands around the first major joint in his wings, dragging them down toward his body. With a lull in the howling winds, Janus at last closed his trembling wings.

Before he could succumb to unconsciousness, Janus made one last-ditch effort to shift. His form shrank instantly, and Emile let out a surprised cry. The healer landed on top of Janus, knocking all the wind out him.

“Oh no! Janus, why did you wait for me to—oh jeez, are you okay?” he fretted, scrambling off of Janus and brushing the snow off him.

“Inside,” he croaked, trying to roll over, to crawl, something. His arms wouldn’t listen to him. They just hung there uselessly, throbbing in the snow. The middle of a blizzard was no place to explain what had happened. Besides, Emile was starting to shake. He wasn’t even wearing a coat. Janus would be fine, the fire inside him more than enough to keep him warm all night if he had to, but the foolishly kind mortal had come out here in nothing more than day clothes.

“Right. Of course,” he said, hooking his hands beneath Janus’s arms and dragging him through the snow toward the cottage. Emile fell several times, slipping in the slush, but didn’t give up.

Janus passed out before they reached the house.

* * * * * * * * * *

Roman was an obstinate prince, and he knew it well. Enough, in fact, that it didn’t surprise him that his sister took advantage of him being sedated to pack up camp and start the brigade’s course back toward the castle. They’d traveled through the night—they must have, given the plush bed Roman was laying in and the faint rays of morning light streaming through gossamer curtains to his left. His head pounded worse than any hangover he’d suffered before, as if someone were driving a metal spike through his eye socket with every beat of his heart.

Squinting through the pain, Roman found himself alone in his quarters, dressed in clean, satin sleep clothes. The fireplace on the opposite wall was empty and cold. The pale stone walls loomed over him, coming together in ribbed vaults at their apex. On the left wall hung various swords and daggers for him to practice with whenever he pleased—and he often did.

His eyes finished their wander around the room at the grand bookshelf near the curtained window. Logan’s books. Roman tried to swallow, but couldn’t get past the lump in his throat. The warlock had been content reading in the palace library, but Roman had used any excuse to be around Logan.

You stole all the books on sorcery?

I didn’t steal them. Just relocated them.

Into your room?

Is that a problem?

Roman remembered Logan’s smile then. He so rarely smiled. It had become a sort of mission for the prince to bring a smile, however faint, to that studious face.

Roman heaved a shuddering breath, biting back the urge to dissolve into hysterics again. Why was no one around? Surely Patton, or even an attendant would be tasked with watching him. He was injured after all.

Who am I kidding? he thought, resigned. My parents would throw a ball if I dropped dead. One less thing for them to worry about.

As if on cue, the door to his chambers opened and a herald stepped through. Roman groaned and pulled one of his many pillows over his face in preparation.

“The Queen is here for an audience with Prince Roman,” the stuffy man announced. Roman flipped him off from beneath the pillow. The herald scoffed and left, the soft click of the queen’s shoes replacing him.

“That isn’t very princely of you, Roman,” she tutted before he could lower his hand.

“Apologies,” he muttered, feigning nonchalance. In truth, being around his mother in such a vulnerable state sent cold fear dripping down his spine. He had nothing to threaten her with.

“Oh, really,” she huffed, plucking the pillow away from his face and tossing it to the floor. “Don’t be so dramatic. Raila told me what happened. Warlocks die all the time. The fools are always overtaxing themselves in battle, leaving themselves vulnerable. It’s too bad, though. Yours lasted far longer than any of mine have,” the queen said, inspecting her nails.

Roman knew she was trying to get a rise out of him, but knowing her agenda didn’t make her words any less infuriating.

“What can I do for you, mother?” he asked, murderously pleasant.

She stroked his cheek with a sharp-nailed hand. “Is it so unbelievable that I wanted to check up on you, dear?”

Roman suppressed a shiver, meeting her gaze defiantly. She pursed her lips, hand pausing on his jaw, unimpressed by his silence.

“Right,” she said, giving his cheek a rough pat that Roman flinched against, despite his best efforts. “Don’t lounge around all day. I’ll expect you at dinner.”

With that said, the queen left.

Roman let out an explosive sigh, running his hands down his face. He swung his legs out from under his blankets and over the side of the bed, forcing himself up into a seat. The room lurched, his head pounding anew. It took several minutes before Roman figured he could stand without immediately collapsing.

There was a knock at the door. “Your Highness?” Patton called through the door.

“What do you want?” he snapped, leaning against his bedpost.

The healer opened the door and stepped inside. “I came to remove the healing sigil, Your Highness,” he explained, holding up his bag. “It should have done its job by now.”

“Healing sigil…?” Roman said.

“I inscribed one on the journey last night,” Patton said with an amused smile. “If you would remove your shirt, Your Highness.”

Roman unbuttoned his top and found an inky black symbol in the middle of his chest. “I’ve never seen you use one of these before,” he said curiously.

“You’d broken three ribs,” Patton explained, motioning for Roman to sit on his bed. He unclasped his medical bag and rifled through it. “I simply figured you wouldn’t want to be stuck in the castle for six weeks while they healed.”

Roman shuddered at the thought. Unable to escape his parents or siblings for a month and a half? He’d rather fight a hundred dragons. Patton took out a bottle of clear liquid and a small metal device that looked like a safety pin with a thimble attached to the end.

He paused, looking up. “How’s your head?”

“Terrible.”

Patton plucked a tiny vial from his bag and motioned for Roman to hold out his hand. He tapped out about a teaspoon’s worth of cobalt blue powder. “Let this dissolve on your tongue. It should help.”

Roman sniffed it quizzically. “What is it?”

“If I wanted to kill you, Your Highness, I would have done it out by the stream,” Patton sighed.

He has a point, Roman figured and downed the powder. Blueberry flavor exploded across his tongue and he almost coughed.

“I’m going to take your pulse,” Patton said, setting an open notebook on the side table. “I can take it on your wrist or neck. Which would you prefer?”

Roman held out his arm, not keen on the idea of letting someone’s hand that close to his throat. Patton took his hand and pressed two fingers into his wrist, just below his thumb, lips moving soundlessly as he counted to himself. Speaking of throats, the prince noticed Patton’s own was free of any sort of bruising or redness.

“How’s your neck?” Roman asked as casually as he could manage, as if he hadn’t literally strangled the man less than twenty-four hours ago.

Patton stiffened, ignoring him for a moment as he finished his count. “Well,” he said, dropping Roman’s hand and scribbling something down in his notebook without looking up at him, “I am a healer, so it’s doing better than it would have ordinarily.”

Roman squirmed a bit. “Right. Well, um, that’s good.”

“I need to listen to your breathing to ensure the ribs have healed properly,” Patton continued clinically. “May I place my ear on your chest?”

“Why do you keep asking me if you can do things?” Roman chuckled.

Patton still didn’t meet his eye. “Because you and your siblings have a propensity for attacking those who touch you without warning. May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The healer bent down and pressed his ear to one side of Roman’s chest, the skin-to-skin contact making the hair on the back of his neck rise.

“Deep breath,” the healer muttered. Roman obeyed, biting his cheek against the memories threatening to flood his mind. Logan and him laying in bed together, the warlock’s head resting against his chest, just as Patton’s was now.

“And another,” the healer said, shifting to the other side of his chest, right over his no doubt frantic heart. Roman gripped the blankets until his knuckles were white, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

Patton pulled away, glancing down at Roman’s fists. “Was there any pain while you were breathing?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll remove the sigil, then.” He uncorked the bottle and poured some into his palm. It came out slowly, a syrup of some kind. Patton spread the strange liquid onto Roman’s chest, careful not to smudge the sigil. He flinched, surprised by how cold it was.

“May I ask you something, Your Highness?” the healer asked softly, almost unsure.

“What is it?”

Patton paused, his fingertips hovering just over the prince’s collar bone. “Have you ever apologized for something?”

Roman snorted. “Of course I have. I apologize to my parents all the time.”

“Other than the king and queen.”

Roman thought back. “I think I apologized to Reid once,” he said. His older brother had had to break one of his fingers to force it out of him, but it was an apology nonetheless. “Why?”

Patton pressed his lips into a hard line. “Nevermind,” he muttered, holding the small metal device just above his chest. “Prepare yourself.”

Before Roman could even open his mouth, Patton squeezed both sides of the pin. Sparks flew from within the thimble-like bowl, and the syrup ignited with a sharp hiss and a flash of green flame. In an instant, it was gone, leaving his chest dry and bare of any markings.

Roman yelped, scrambling back over the mattress. Patton fought a smile.

“You didn’t warn me on purpose,” he accused, heart racing.

Patton blinked at him innocently. “Would you like an apology, Your Highness?”

“Get out.”

“Certainly.” The healer grabbed his things and went to leave, giving a stiff bow.

“Wait!”

Patton hesitated. “Yes, Your Highness?”

Roman swallowed, trying not to sound too desperate. “Logan. Where is he?”

Patton’s expression softened somewhat, his shoulder’s relaxing. “He’s safe and cleaned up in my office. I even put a preservation spell on him.”

“Move him to the dungeons,” Roman said, lowering his voice. “As discretely as you can. Don’t let anyone see.”

Patton’s brow furrowed. “The… dungeons, my prince?”

Roman tore his signet ring from his finger and shoved it into Patton’s hands. “Show this to the dungeon guard and they’ll let you pass. Please,” he begged—perhaps for the first time to someone of a lower social standing than him.

Patton nodded, taking and ring and exiting the room. Roman’s headache was almost completely gone, thanks to that mysterious powder.

It was time to visit his baby brother.

* * * * * * * * * *

Remus paced the cave for what must have been the thousandth time. Virgil lay in his dragon form, eyes half-lidded, panting slightly. The sword hilt still stuck out from between his ribs tauntingly. He’d figured pretty quickly that the blade hadn’t pierced Virgil’s heart. He wouldn’t be alive right now if it had. What was more likely, he’d simply been insanely lucky and only punctured one lung.

Morning light peeked over the mountain peaks, the sky empty. No sign of Janus. The snow had cleared up, at least.

It made Remus twitchy with rage at the thought of that snot-nosed prince injuring, and possibly eventually killing, his best friend’s partner. Janus would probably die of grief. And then Remus would be alone. Again.

Giving in, Remus started toward the cave entrance. “Don’t die while I’m out, Virgil.”

Where are you going? he asked weakly, his tail twitching. There was human blood still smearing its spikes.

“To capture a prince.” He didn’t want to leave Virgil alone, but it wasn’t going to change anything if he did end up dying before Janus got back. Remus would just have to sit and watch.

Instead of arguing, Virgil quipped, Capture? I thought you wanted to rip his head off.

Remus reached the edge of the cliff then turned back, shrugging. “I like to play with my food.” And with that, he tipped backwards into the air with a salute.