Page 67 of Fly to Fury
Fieran was already in too much pain to feel the shot he assumed he was given. A cloth smelling of something faintly sweet pressed over his nose, and a voice told him to breathe in deeply.
Within a few breaths, Fieran’s body felt like his aeroplane did right before takeoff. Slightly light, not quite on the ground but not yet in the sky either.
When Fieran got his eyes open again, Dacha was braced against the table, one hand on Fieran’s, the other on Fieran’s shoulder, both holding him down. There was just something so shattered in Dacha’s eyes that Fieran shifted his hand to get Dacha’s attention.
“Dacha.” Fieran blinked upward, trying to focus as Dacha turned to him. “I could never regret having your magic. Or being your son.”
That seemed rather important to say. Even if the cloth over his nose kept getting in the way, and he had an odd taste in his mouth. Kind of sweet. Kind of metallic.
Dacha opened his mouth, then closed it, as if he wasn’t sure what to say to that. He finally just made a shushing sound, as if he thought talking should be too much effort.
That was fine. Fieran could stop talking for a few moments. Maybe.
He tilted his head, trying to see what was happening better. He hadn’t noticed before, but one of Dacha’s sleeves was rolled up past his elbow. A needle was held in the crook of his elbow with a bandage while a tube filled with red liquid flowed down to a glass canister set beside Fieran on the table. Another tube connected from the glass jug to a needle in Fieran’s arm.
Fieran squinted first at the needle in his arm, then at the one in Dacha’s. There was something familiar about the contraption, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before. He peered up at Dacha again. “You hate needles.”
“You needed blood,” Dacha stated as if that explained everything.
Right. A blood sharing thingy. There was a name for it, but he couldn’t remember it. A team of humans and elves had invented it, and afterward Dacha had dragged all of them off to get their blood tested.
Fieran craned his neck to look down at himself. He seemed to be lacking clothes, except for a cloth draped over his middle. There was a tall but thin piece of metal sticking out of his abdomen. Apparently he’d been impaled, and he hadn’t even realized it.
“I want that piece.” Fieran tried to lift his hand to gesture, but his dacha held it down. His other hand had a brace of wood on it, preventing it from lifting.
Dacha’s brow furrowed as he stared down at Fieran.
Fieran twisted his hand and pointed as best he could. “I need to give it to someone.”
He wasn’t sure he could explain more than that.
Dacha sighed and leaned over to speak to one of the healers. The healer sent him a raised eyebrow look but reached for the piece of metal. As soon as his fingers brushed it, the healer hissed and jerked his hand away.
Fieran jolted at a pain so sharp that, for a moment, it banished the hazy, floaty feeling. His magic leapt inside him, threatening to sizzle out of his control.
No, he couldn’t let it. Losing control was bad. He couldn’t quite remember why it was so bad. Just that he shouldn’t let it happen.
There was some discussion around him, and Dachareleased Fieran’s shoulder long enough to press a hand to Fieran’s forehead. “Do not watch, sason. Look at me. Just breathe through it. Easy now.”
The pain flared again, then something yanked from him in an even stronger blaze of pain.
“Mustache, Fluffy, Munchkins, that hurts!” Fieran gritted his teeth over the words as he struggled to quash his magic.
“Are you using the cats’ names as alternatives to swear words?” Dacha’s tone rang somewhere between wry and bewildered.
“I can’t very well use actual swear words in front of you. You’re my dacha. You’d give me that disappointed look.” The pain was already receding into that numbing haziness, his muscles relaxing as he breathed through the cloth over his nose.
Dacha stared down at him, that furrow still there between his brows.
“And don’t blame Uncle Edmund. For once, I didn’t pick up this bad habit from him.” Fieran struggled to keep his eyes open under the weight of everything dulling his senses. Must stay awake. Must not lose control of his magic. “I’ve been in the army for months. Learned a lot of words I didn’t know before.”
Dacha’s mouth pressed into a flat line as he gave a small sigh. “A consequence of you joining the army that I did not foresee.”
“Probably because no one would dare use bad words around you. You’re a general. And a prince.” Fieran gasped as the healers shifted something inside one of his legs. “Sh—oot!”
And there was that flat, disapproving look, as if Dacha realized exactly what Fieran had almost said.
“You probably didn’t talk while being patched up. Tookit all silent and stoic.” Fieran twitched his fingers again, trying to gesture at the scars visible around his dacha’s wrist.
