At last, his second undershirt was free. Darshan hissed as the removal from around the arrow shaft also tore away a chunk of congealed blood. His magic hummed through him, resealing the wound. He shuddered, trying to prepare himself for what was to come.
Hamish returned his bracing grasp to Darshan’s shoulder. His other hand clasped the broken arrow shaft. “Ready?”
Not at all. He had only been a boy the last time he had suffered such a wound as this, but the searing memory of that extraction was not one to be easily forgotten. There was nothing else that could be done. Leaving the arrow in would only continue to nibble at his magic until there was nothing left to give.
Darshan gave his lover a curt nod and prepared himself as best as he could for the pain. At least the arrow’s downward angle would aid in its, hopefully swift, removal.
With his lips pressed into a tight, grim line, Hamish drove the arrow further in.
White-hot pain clawed its way through Darshan’s gut, tearing a cry from his lips. His body shook as he desperately fought the urge to pull away from the source. His magic battled to mend the barb’s slicing path even as the cuts were made.
Gritting his teeth, Darshan slumped against Hamish’s hand. He was grateful for the solidity found in that grasp even if the consoling squeeze the man gave did little to ease the agony burrowing its way through him. He wasn’t sure if the pain had turned the world to white light or his tears had.
There was only agony and that hand.
The pressure at his back grew. He arched involuntarily, desperately seeking to shrink from the barb breaking through his skin. A whimpering gasp parted his lips, his lungs too exhausted to breathe deep enough for more.
Hamish lowered Darshan, exchanging the hand that had braced him for one of those broad shoulders. He reached around Darshan’s torso to feel what Darshan already knew. The arrowhead sat just beneath the skin. “It willnae be much longer,” he whispered. “Just stay with me, all right? One more push ought to do it.”
Be strong. His father’s voice echoed through his mind. A memory of another time with another arrow.
He fisted his lover’s overcoat. Waiting. Dreading.
Be strong.
At first, he thought he could bear it. The pain was no worse than already, the addition of a mere pinprick. It grew with each heartbeat, tearing the skin with all the finesse of a mace. It burned through his senses like ice, stealing breath, voice and thought.
Then it was gone.
His magic rushed to fill the void, itching and prickling through his body. When the last minuscule nick was gone, the buzz of healing subsided to bone-gnawing exhaustion.
Darshan sat back on his heels, steadied only by Hamish’s grip, and delicately wiped his fingers across his cheeks. Unsurprisingly, they came away damp. He had to be halfway to crying himself to a husk.
Without the heat of pain and magic, the chill air ran icy tendrils across his bare skin. Shivering, he reached for his shirt before catching sight of the tear in the threads. Already, his blood had dried to a dark stain around the holes.
“Here.” Hamish threw a cloak over Darshan’s shoulders, followed swiftly by a second. “I ken healing takes its toll. Stay warm and rest for a bit, then we’ll see about getting you dressed again.”
Nodding, Darshan eyed the outpost’s door. How long had it been since Gordon had ventured inside? The archers must’ve been dead.
Uncertain his legs would obey him if he tried to stand, Darshan wrapped the cloaks tighter around him. There was nothing he could do but wait.
Gordon exited the tower. He shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin grim line.
Definitely dead. Hopefully, the archers had succumbed to the faster death of the lightning’s power rather than the debris his wild aim had created.
The prince beckoned his brother and the elf to his side. The trio conversed in hushed tones amongst themselves and then strode into the tower.
Darshan didn’t bother to move a muscle. Whatever they were about, they clearly didn’t think him up to the task.
He heard them before long at the top of the tower. Zurron’s booming exclamation of the sight did little to convince Darshan that the archers had met anything less than a gruesome fate.
The truth of it was only confirmed as the trio dragged a crushed body out of the tower and laid them beside the other two guards who had met a similar end. Of the charred remains lying not that far from him, none seemed willing to touch.
He didn’t blame them.
Sean had returned, the pony in tow, by the time the trio had brought down the second archer. “What the feck happened?” he asked, halting his horse at the edge of the road.
“Our resident spellster ambassador,” Gordon replied, waving a hand his way. “How else? Was it really necessary to kill them all?” That final question was directed Darshan’s way with an accusatory glare as if he were an unruly child new to his power.
Darshan gestured to the bloody arrow, then to the skeletal remains of the guard. “Was I supposed to let him lop off my head?” He returned his attention to the ruined overcoat and shirts, fingering each tear. A shame. Tossing the overcoat aside, he staggered to his feet. “I need to eat.” The tower larders should have something. Maybe there was a change of clothes inside or, at least, the means to wash and repair his attire.
And myself. His blood had congealed upon his front and he didn’t dare doubt his back looked a similar gory mess. Food first. He could bathe once his body didn’t feel like it was sucking itself dry.
“How can you think about food after doing all this?” Sean asked, incredulous.
“It is because I did all this that I need sustenance.” It
