Page 66 of Fly to Fury
Instead of trying to stuff down what was already unleashed, Fieran let it go, trusting Dacha to prevent that magic from hurting anyone. That left only the magic coursing within him, and he pulled that back into his chest the best he could.
As his magic left, the full force of agony crashed into him again, a strange exhaustion filling him. He couldn’t hold his eyes open. Couldn’t fight the darkness dragging at him.
A hand pressed to his chest, and a jolt of healing magic—more pain than the usual warmth—flared through him as if taking hold of his bones and blood in a fist.
Fieran gasped in a breath. He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped breathing until precious air filled his lungs again. His magic sparked within him again, and he struggled to hold it back.
He had a sense of elven plant magic, and something wrapped around his body. Then he was lifted and placed on a stretcher, some kind of wooden splints keeping his bones from shifting.
He tried to hold on to that thread of consciousness. But as the stretcher swayed, shouts and orders swirled around him, and his dacha’s voice echoed somewhere above him, the darkness carried him away.
“Fieran, sason.”
The order in that tone dragged him from blissful darkness into staggering pain. Fieran gasped as he opened his eyes with monumental effort.
He lay on a table, bright lights set in a wooden ceiling above him. People in white coats with red spatters—elves and humans, both men and women—bustled about him. Yet all of them stayed back, a few halting what they were doing as if they didn’t dare move.
His dacha stood at his side, his hand over Fieran’s where it lay on the table. Magic laced over Fieran’s fingers, his and also Dacha’s stopping him from lashing out.
“You need to control your magic, sason.” Dacha’s voice rang with a gentle sternness, even as the look in his eyes wasfar less controlled and more wild than his tone. “The healers need to be able to help you.”
Fieran struggled to withdraw even that tiny tendril of magic. Despite what he’d expended, his magic still coiled in his chest as if agitated by the pain filling him.
The healers approached again, and several set their hands on Fieran’s wounds again. Healing magic flooded inside him, digging deep into his body. His own magic flared again at the intrusion, as if the healing magic was a threat to be destroyed.
Fieran gritted his teeth and breathed through the agony as he held his magic back. He couldn’t lash out at the healers. They were just trying to help.
A female elf healer stepped closer to Dacha, speaking to him in a low tone Fieran couldn’t make out. But after a moment, Dacha nodded, a grim set to his jaw and a bleakness in his eyes.
When he turned back to Fieran, his head bowed slightly. Something in his tone seemed extra weighted, as if he blamed himself. “Fieran, because you are my son and inherited my magic, you will need to remain awake. Understand, sason? For the safety of the healers, you will need to stay conscious.”
Fieran squeezed his eyes shut as the healing magic inside him prodded at something painful and shattered. For a long moment, it was all he could do to breathe and clutch his magic with a death grip.
When the crashing pain eased somewhat, he met Dacha’s gaze and gathered enough breath to speak. “I understand.”
Normally the healers would send a patient to sleep before such extensive and painful healing. But not Fieran. He had to remain awake—remain conscious of every shattering,shredding moment of pain—so that his magic didn’t lash out and hurt those trying to help him.
As if taking that understanding as permission to continue, more of the healers and nurses clustered around Fieran. Even more healing magic poured into him. It wrapped around something deep inside his chest and wrenched.
Fieran cried out, and he would have arched against the table if Dacha hadn’t placed a hand on his shoulder, pinning him down. And yet that steady, firm pressure was as comforting as it was unyielding.
“Dacha…Dacha…it hurts…” Fieran gasped the words as tears trickled unbidden from his eyes.
“I know, sason. I know.” Dacha held Fieran down. The white scars around his wrist, visible where his sleeve had ridden up, proved exactly how much he knew about such pain.
More healing magic. Something else crunched into place inside of Fieran, stabbing pain into his chest as surely as if he’d been shot. He couldn’t stop the cry of pain, the tears that still flowed from his eyes.
“He is in pain.” Dacha glared at the healers, as if he might just fight them if they didn’t stop hurting Fieran.
“His whole body is still…infused with his magic.” The elven healer spoke through gritted teeth, as if she were in just as much pain as Fieran. “It is clashing with our magic. All the shrapnel in his body is particularly laced with his magic.”
Healing magic gripped his bones and yanked. Fieran couldn’t help his scream.
So much pain. He lived it. Breathed it. Drowned in it.
“Do something,” Dacha snapped, a sensation of his magic brushing Fieran’s hand.
The voice that spoke this time had Escarlish accents instead of elven ones, saying something about morphine. And ether.
