Wings
Wings
Steve swallowed thickly. The area just behind his eyes suddenly burned, his vision going just the slightest bit watery, and he realized with abject horror that he might actually cry in this tent full of enemies. He’d managed to remain dutifully steady and unruffled by his new circumstance, but perhaps that had been the shock of it all. He was reaching the limits of his discipline; his capacity to keep his wild emotions at bay was now so worn and frayed that he was held to reason by a single thread.
He’d been taken from his home, forced into a new life, a new country, a marriage that was not of his own making. He’d been attacked by bandits, threatened, almost killed, and now he stood before his conqueror, his husband to be, in such a pathetic state that he was raw from it.
What a sight he must’ve made, damp and muddy, his clothes ruined and torn, his body worn and most likely bruised. Had James meant for this when he’d demanded Steve’s presence? Had he meant to humiliate Steve in front of his men? He’d known about the bandits. Why would he ask for an audience before giving Steve the chance to clean up?
The air was thick around him as King James moved past his physician and guard to approach Steve. Was it Steve’s imagination working against him or had the room gone silent with his nearing?
“My prince,” said James, stooping to bow more formally than a king should to someone in Steve’s position. The cold, guarded expression that Steve had first seen was firmly back in place when he straightened again. “You honor me with your presence.”
Steve swallowed; Was that all a ploy to humiliate him further? It took him a second to realize that he hadn’t replied. Steve opened his mouth to answer, but the words were taken out of his mouth by a burning in his back. Steve exhaled instead of answering, squeezing his eyes shut, whimpering as the pain in his back increased.
“Oh gods. Not now, not here.” Thought Steve, sinking gracelessly to his knees as he felt the skin on his back begin to tear and split, blood starting to drench the cloth of his shirt. His fingers scrabbled for the hem of his shirt, eventually getting a grasp on it and lifting it up above his head, exposing his bloodied back to everyone.
A bitten off whimper of pain escaped Steve as the tears in his back grew in size, massive feathery wings doing their best to emerge. He was faintly aware of Helen and King James, each kneeling by his left and right side respectively, Helen doing her best to help him through the pain, and of King James ordering soldiers to get items such as warm water, washcloths, and bandages.
A cry of pain escaped Steve as the cuts on his back were spread by the wings fighting to emerge from his back. Blood stained the floor, more running down his back because of the cuts being spread.
Suddenly, his wings pushed all the way through, burning white-hot agony ripping through him, spreading the wounds on his back even wider and splitting the skin at the edges even more. And then, it was over. The white-hot agony retreated as fast as it had come, leaving a burning pain in its wake. Steve slumped over, muscles going lax as he leaned on something. When what he was leaning on shifted, he realized he was leaning against King James, but was too exhausted to care or move.
Gentle hands touched his back, warm, wet water cleansing the wounds and soothing the ache in his muscles. Steve cried out in pain as a disinfectant was poured over and into the wounds on his back. A numbing cream was rubbed over the edges of the split and torn skin before it was sewed up, with enough room for the wings to move about. A bandage was wrapped around the worst of injuries. Everything was extremely hazy. Someone lifted him up, carrying him to his tent and laid him down on his front. Furs were pulled up to his waist as a pair of lips brushed against his cheek.