Page 7 of The Prince's Mage

When there was nothing left but ashes, he looked up and around at the destruction he’d wrought in a few minutes. It was hard to see his face, especially as he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. But she thought she saw something on his cheek, sliding down from his eye, that caught what little light there was.

She opened her mouth, but the runes on her neck choked her voice so all that came out was a soft, pathetic whine.

Gavril immediately turned to face her, quickly using the hand that was in his hair to brush at his cheek, and she was left wondering if she’d imagined what she’d seen at all.

If what she was seeing at all was real.

But the fury was gone, and his mouth was parted as he stared at her, a flurry of emotions coursing across his face so quickly she couldn’t make out any of them. Any of them but one.

Hope.

He whispered, “Marcella?”

His tongue lolled over the ‘l’s the way it always did. The way her hallucinations had never quite replicated perfectly.

He was real.

She still couldn’t speak, so all that came out was another desperate, needy whine and she tried to push up to move toward him but in doing so just hit the table when she met the straps’ resistance. She whimpered as all her aches and pains came rushing back.

Gavril immediately rushed forward. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see his shaking hands fumbling with the straps as he muttered under his breath. Cursing, if she remembered the context of his words correctly from what she’d heard of the soldiers swearing under their breath on the road. He struggled with the straps and every second only increased his agitation, and she wished again she could open her mouth to just tell him it was alright. He could take his time.

He was there.

She was safe.

That was enough.

Eventually he swore louder and cast a rune. Marcella winced at the light as he quickly moved to her legs. When she recovered, she saw he’d cut the strap in half with vitae. More vitae lit up the dark room and blinded her until all the straps were severed. Gavril came back up to her head and then looked over her, his eyes tracing her back and her legs. She couldn’t see them but from the way she felt she was certain there was no inch of skin left unbruised or uncut or unmarred at all.

“Mea spes… I thought—dead—too late—” he whispered, voice breaking over the words. His eyes were wide and his lips parted as he gaped at the damage. “—I start?”

She couldn’t answer him. Even if she wasn’t silenced by the runes on her throat, she wasn’t sure she would have the strength to speak.

But he didn’t seem to be looking for an answer from her before he knelt down in front of her like all the hallucinations had. He reached forward as he stared up at her and gently cradled her cheek in his hand and she leaned into it, his skin too warm and his hand too solid to be pretend.

He whispered in her language, “I—I’m so sorry. I—I have failed you—But—I need you to stay still a little longer. I need to start on these wounds now. I know you want off, but this is going to save your life and decrease the pain. Can you do that? Can you hold on a little longer?”

Marcella nodded against his palm, her throat tight and her eyes watering as he pulled his hand away and rose again. She closed her eyes and just slumped against the table as his vitae filled the air and she could feel it begin to pour into the wounds that overtook her whole body. She just sank into the sensation slowly pushing away the worst of the pain and tightening her grip on her own life again. His vitae felt like him. When she had the limiters off and she could sense the energy of magic, if she focused, she could feel his vitae under her skin at her left wrist.

She’d memorized it.

Now she was overwhelmed by it.

She never wanted to leave it.

At some point she started to drift off, and the last thing she heard was a mixture of both their languages: “Marcella? Hold on,mea spes.Vivet.Marcella!—not lose you—amo—Don’t go—fight—an order, soldier—Do you hear me?—Fighting is not tired of you yet—Vivet.”

She couldn’t quite get her mouth to cooperate, to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere. She could feel it. She wasn’t fading. No. She wasn’t dying on that table. But she was exhausted, and for the first time in so long he was there, so why should she fight? Why shouldn’t she rest?

She was pulled back to consciousness when she heard the thud of something hitting the ground. She blinked her eyes open to see Gavril had fallen to his knees, barely catching himself on the table as he was bent over, sweating and panting for breath.

Marcella could feel a difference in the pain radiating through her whole body. It wasn’t gone by any means, but it was better. She could think a little more clearly. She was stiff and sore but she could move. She could breathe without the motion sending her into tears.

Gavril’s knuckles were stark white as he clutched the table, struggling for every breath. He looked up at her open eyes and huffed, “Need moment—Will finish in second. Hold on. Don’t go, please. I will save—just hold on.”

Oh. He thought she was still going to die any moment.

She shook her head at him and then she started moving. She started to push herself up, getting her legs under her. Gavril’s eyes widened and he immediately staggered back to his feet, reaching for something nearby. As she got her knees beneath her and started to push her front up off the table, fumbling for the front of her chiton pooling at her waist to try to cover herself, a familiar, warm weight settled around her shoulders and fell down her front.

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