Chapter 45 Gentleness
GENTLENESS
LUELLA
"Iwant to learn how to fly."
Tharen’s hands stilled on Luella, and her lids shuttered closed as tension blanketed the room.
She knew she should not have said it—or at the very least, waited until the torment of being taken had worn off.
She sat in the cozy bed, the curtains pulled snug, blocking out the dimming sun.
Her gown had long since been removed, replaced by a comfortable shift that reached her upper thighs, the back of which was open to accommodate her wings.
The blankets pooled around her waist, and cool air teased her nipples, soft zings of pleasure rippling down her chest as she kept her eyes shut.
Tharen’s calloused fingers dug into her shoulder blades, utterly still in the wake of her declaration.
She breathed, feeling the coolness invade her lungs.
Vale’s voice rippled through the room like the soft whoosh of the curtains as the air rustled them:
"Why?"
One word, and she tensed.
Luella didn’t open her eyes. Her head hung low, fingers curled in the sheets around her waist. The action made her swollen fingers pulse with pain.
Tharen broke from his stupor, reaching down to untangle her hands from the sheet with a soft tsking sound. "What did I tell you, lamb? Try not to move your hand much. You’ll only aggravate it further."
She opened her eyes then, attention trained on his large, scarred hands, where they covered hers. His fingers flexed against hers, and she lifted her chin to meet the Prima’s eyes. She remembered their last words and deeds, etched into his face and the way he held her hands—precious, yet strained.
There was no judgment in his eyes, but a similar curiosity that she felt niggling in her soul from their bond. Each of her five felt so vastly different. She could recognize them by feel, alone. There was no mistaking the iciness that clung to the thread stretched between them.
She couldn’t ignore the ash drifting from the fiery thread between her and Vale, where he stood by the headboard, fist against his mouth, smoke drifting through his fingers.
Graves was perched at the foot of the bed. His wings trembled faintly behind him, and she wondered if it was from exhaustion. He had saved her, even after lying to her… after she had dismissed him so cruelly on the cliffside.
Graves had still come for her.
Az was missing, as was Bastian. Inside her, their anger was punishing. It made her shake with slight tremors.
Vale rested a hand on the headboard, leaning over her where she sat. "Say it again, Luella, for a part of me wonders if I did not hear you right the first time you spoke."
She shifted to face him. Her back twinged from the scrapes.
It had nothing on the tingling of her upper arm, where Tharen had spread a cooling salve over her skin after cleaning it, then wrapped it in a simple white bandage, with a stern order to limit movement with that arm.
The salve worked to numb her skin, turning the throbbing lance of the cut into a strange buzz.
It had not needed sutures, blessedly, but Tharen had said it would take a while to heal fully.
When he had first told her that, she had held her tongue. But a part of her wished to say she was glad—for the reminder of what she had endured. Those words would never fall from her lips. A secret for her, forged in the lonely sea.
Something had shifted in the wooden cradle when she had been cast aside, left to die.
Did they feel it, too?
The resolve inside her to change.
"I want to learn how to fly," Luella repeated.
"So, I did hear you correctly," said Vale. "Let me repeat my earlier question. Why?"
"What do you mean, why, Vale?" Was it so far-fetched that she wished to use the wings on her body for what they were meant for?
That sharp coil of anger unfurled inside her, built up by the twin echoes of Az and Bastian, wherever they were… whatever they were doing.
Agitation simmered within her, and she shrugged off Tharen’s hand, standing quickly. She wobbled only slightly, something which she was immensely grateful for. Her cotton shift tickled her upper thighs. Cool air cascaded over her scraped back, teasing her matted feathers.
The three of them stared at her like she was the force that kept the very world spinning—the air blowing.
The stir of magic inside her welled, and the curtains billowed with eve-tinged drafts.
Her hair was lifted and swept off her shoulders as she stood there, facing them.
Her fingers flexed by her sides, the swollen digits throbbing.
It hung just as heavy as the salt-soaked air wrapping around them:
Luella had control over the weather.
Somewhat, at least—or at the very minimum, the propensity to control it once she trained. As Emarelia had mentioned, Luella had to want it, but she did.
"I am so sick of this," she said into the room, backing up until the ends of the billowing curtains brushed her calves and she was able to stare at the three of them at once. "Of feeling helpless."
Electricity raced in her veins. Did they see it crackling atop her skin?
She certainly felt it, currents of lightning simmering.
Thunder boomed outside, and she jolted.
They shared a look she couldn’t decipher, then Vale stepped forward, tone softening. "You misunderstand my question, darling. I am not angry you wish to fly; I am angry you feel forced into this."
She couldn’t even feel resentment that they were calming her; she was only grateful. She didn’t want to ruin the warm haven of the Fallen Isles.
Luella took a steadying breath. "I am not forced into this.
I needed this—a push." She coughed, throat dry.
"I want to learn how to fly so I never feel h-helpless again.
It was awful." She wrapped her arms around herself, aching and messy.
"To be stuck like that with no way out, knowing that if only I could fly…
I could have saved myself instead of waiting to be saved and wondering if you would ever find me. "
Their feelings grew inside her until they overtook the anger she felt from Az and Bastian. A trinity of dolorousness.
"Luella, I want you to stop right there.
" Vale held up a finger. "There is nothing wrong with being saved.
We would save you endlessly. It is not a failure to rely on someone else for help when you need it.
" He held up a second finger. "And we will always find you.
Make no mistake. If you are taken, we will rescue you, and ash will rain down upon the ones who dared to steal what is ours. "
It was a verbal claim, and she shivered from the possession lining his every word. When had it happened… When had Vale begun to see her as something to protect instead of something to use?
And when had she begun to hang onto their every word as if it were the only thing that held truth?
Her eyes lifted to Graves; his quiet dominance belied her submissiveness. In his hushed eyes, she heard a voiceless command: Say you understand, sweetheart.
The words were so intelligible that she gasped.
"I-I understand," she echoed, belly flipping at the pleasure in Graves’s eyes.
"You say it’s not weak, but I see you, I watch you all, and I notice things.
How none of you seem to rely on the other.
You do things on your own, without asking for help.
If I am to be… with you, then am I not to be held to the same standards? "
"We would never expect you to do the things we do," Graves rasped.
She huffed, and the curtains rippled from the wind. "That’s the problem, though. I don’t want you to view me as weak."
Vale took a measured step closer to her, imposing, but it was an imposition she treasured.
She ran her fingers over the bracelet on her wrist. "You are not weak.
Your strength manifests in other ways—not all strength is physical," Vale said.
"I have never known another to endure what you have and still maintain that gentleness that clings to you like smoke. "
Did they truly see her that way? Gentle? Because Luella felt tainted.
Still sitting on the bed, Tharen spoke. "You don’t have the experience we do. We’ve been alive for centuries. You’re barely two decades. When I was a youngling, I thought I would never master my powers. Within a few centuries, I was named Prima."
"Really?" Luella questioned, voice soft.
"Really." Tharen’s tone dropped, and his brows furrowed as he comforted her. "You have… time, little lamb."
But she didn’t. And from the looks they shared, they knew it, too.
"See—that name. You call me a lamb because you think me naive," she said, ignoring the comment about the time she didn’t have.
"Aren’t you? Do you not want me to call you my little lamb anymore?"
Her cheeks warmed, body flushing. She didn’t say anything.
The furrow in Tharen’s brow smoothed out, as if this was what he was used to—teasing, not offering solace. "Say the word, and I’ll stop."
She ignored him pointedly and turned to the others. "Graves?" she beseeched. "You have been quiet. Tell me, what do you think?"
Graves scrubbed a hand over the hair on his jaw. "I think you can do anything you set your mind to. If you wish to fly, I will help you."
She smiled dully. "Thank you."
Maybe it was because he’d come to her rescue, but something had shifted between them.
A knock on the doorframe broke her from staring at the Fallen Prince.
"Come in," said Vale, still staring at Luella.
The curtains parted, revealing Queen Samil and Sorill.
Sorill smiled brightly as she met Luella’s eyes.
Her feet stalled as she took in the terse air, and Luella stepped away from Vale, moving to perch on the edge of the bed.
She loosened her shoulders and patted the spot beside her in invitation.
Sorill sat by Luella’s side, her dark wings almost brushing the edge of Luella’s.