Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One
Page 85
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She found him perched on the roof of her parent's home, crouched in the same leopard-like pose he'd assumed that night at the ship. The unearthly ice-blue glow still gleamed in his eyes as he watched her, muttering in the clicking Cherubim language.
With her gift of tongues, Ninsianna now understood the prayers he uttered in the clicking language, begging forgiveness from She-who-is for the lives he'd been forced to reap. Asking HER to guide the souls of his enemies into the dreamtime. Although he killed with frightening efficiency, his gift weighed heavily upon him. The fact that the Cherubim had instilled in him as part of his training mantras dealing with the aftermath of battle indicated that they, too, must be moral creatures.
“I will go inside to get supplies to dress your wounds,” Ninsianna called up to him.
She waited until he made eye contact, his eyes glittering with that internal blue light that she assumed must be every bit as eerie as the golden light that burned within her own eyes whenever She-who-is decided to speak through her. It was an emotionless gaze, but neither cruel nor inhuman. Mikhail gave her a nod.
Ninsianna forced herself to give him a small smile before stepping inside the front door of their house. The moment she got inside, her false sense of bravado shattered. Time. He needed time to go through whatever process these Cherubim had instilled in him to come down off of his blood lust and return to being Mikhail. How long had it taken him the last time? Several hours, perhaps a quarter of a day. She gathered her supplies, lit a lamp, and took a calming breath before going back outside.
“I'm ready for you now,” Ninsianna said. She instinctively knew it would be easier to reach that part of him that was still Mikhail in the Cherubim tongue, perhaps because that was the language of the masters who had turned him into a weapon. “You must come inside because it's too dark out here for me to see.”
Still muttering prayers for forgiveness, he spread his wings and glided down to the earth like a dark shroud, nary a feather rustling as he folded his wings against his back, oblivious to his own pain. His attention was still turned inward, in towards whatever deity he prayed to who was neither this emperor he served nor She-who-is. He didn't make eye contact, although she sensed he was more aware of her presence now than at any time since he'd known her. The energy was still Mikhail … but whatever source of power he drew upon, it was not the energy of She-who-is.
“Inside with you,” she feigned normalcy as she did her best impersonation of her Mama. “At the table. Near the light. Sit down so I can patch you up.”
He ambled inside and sat upon the nearest stool. By the eerie blue glint in his eyes, he was not fully back yet from wherever he went when he entered the killing dance, but she could see the beginnings of emotion. The blue light her goddess-enhanced eyes had seen stream forth like a sunrise during battle waivered, whatever source he channeled no longer necessary in the safety of their home. She had no idea what went on in the larger universe, but if this was how the Cherubim defended the Eternal Emperor, she could see how he'd reigned supreme for thousands of years.
She spoke to reassure him as saw the arrow to the wing wasn't his only injury.
“I must look at this shoulder wound first." She touched above a dark stain in his shirt. "This is dangerously close to where you were wounded before. I may need to put a few stitches in so it doesn't keep opening up.”
She watched the cold lack-of-emotion loosen its hold as the blood-lust drained from his body. Touching his shirt, she slipped the neckline far enough aside to confirm the wound was from an arrow which he'd torn out. This was the second time he could have been killed by an object that had landed dangerously close to his heart, but luckily whoever had shot the arrow had possessed little strength in the draw.
“You need to have to take this off so I can get at it,” she tugged at his shirt. “Let me help you?”
His lips moved silently in prayer, praying for the men he'd killed instead of prayers to ease his own pain. He sat passively as she undid the strange fasteners and slipped off his shirt. She quashed a curse as she realized the arrowhead had broken off and imbedded itself into the major pectoral muscle, but thankfully it had not pierced his rib cage. It would be less painful if she removed it now, while he was still under the spell of whatever he did to become an instrument of HER will, than later, when he would feel every awkward dig.
“I need to dig this out.” She touched his cheek to make certain he understood her. “Are you ready?”
Eye contact. The eerie glimmer was still there, but fading. The flowing blue spirit-light had settled inward, no longer visible to her goddess-enhanced eyes except for the glimmer of blue still glittering in his eyes. His prayers had changed, only the occasional word audible. He prayed now for the wisdom to use his gift wisely. She must work quickly, while the coldness of the blue light still shielded his ability to feel. It occurred to her that training warriors not only to kill, but also to dull their own pain, was masterful. These Cherubim must not only be formidable warriors, but also powerful shamans.
“This will hurt." She gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry?”
She pressed her obsidian blade into his flesh and pried out the flint as though she dug a tuber out of the ground. Mikhail exhaled and breathed into the pain. She could feel his muscles quiver beneath her touch, but he kept his expression otherwise blank. The arrowhead made a sucking sound as she pulled it from his flesh. His prayers stopped and started, no longer automatic as he fought to stay on the threshold of the killing dance long enough for her to finish.
“Souvenir,” she placed it on the table. “Now I'll stitch you up. This will hurt, too, but hopefully not as much.”
Mikhail grunted his consent.
Gently touching the old scar beneath the new wound, she suppressed the urge to kiss him. Allowing him to linger in that cold mental place he went after battle would spare him a small amount of the pain she inflicted upon him. Threading her bone needle with horse hair thread, she punctured thirty stitches into his pectoris major where it spanned his shoulder and chest. The muscle trembled beneath her fingertips with each of the thirty stabs, but while his flesh betrayed he was in pain, Mikhail's chiseled features remained distant and stoic.
“I must pull the arrows out of your wings,” she said. “The arrowheads have shot through. If I pull off the fletching, I can pull the shafts the rest of the way through your wings without needing to tear the arrowhead back through your flesh.”
She knew he was fully back by the way he flinched as she touched his wings. The Cherubim had taught him to suppress his pain, but as the coldness wore off, so did his ability to ignore it. He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled as she pulled through first one arrow, and then the other. He didn't utter a single syllable of pain, but by the tremble of feathers beneath her fingertips, the coldness of the killing dance no longer protected him from feeling what she was doing.
Even when not in a meditative killing dance, he had the highest pain tolerance of any person she'd ever met. Plucking out enough feathers to get at the two wounds with her needle, she sewed those up as well. Examining him to see if he had any wounds she'd missed, at last she was satisfied.
“Mikhail,” she placed the palm of her hand upon his cheek. “My parents will be bringing wounded here to treat. You will get no sleep down here in the common area. I want you to sleep in my bed tonight.”
Eye contact. Mikhail nodded, his eyes filled with the pain he refused to let show on his face. The prayers had stopped. He was now fully back. With a sigh, he pulled her into his arms and buried his nose into her neck, only the subtle tremors of his muscles beneath his flesh betraying the emotion he'd been suppressing.
"Ninsianna," he whispered her name. He sounded … exhausted. As if he might fall over.
“Come,” she led him up to her tiny room. “Let’s sleep.”
He curled up behind her as they spooned together in her narrow bed, holding each other as they fell asleep. There was nothing se
xual about their first night together. Just two creatures seeking comfort in the arms of the person they loved. Ninsianna sensed as she had that first day on the ship that what he needed more than anything in the world was for her to touch him and let him know he was not alone. Touch would succeed where words failed.
Snuggling her head onto his arm and whispering goodnight, she felt him shiver as he wrapped his arms and wings around her and drew her close.
Chapter 79