44. The Patchwork Bird Can Stay
the patchwork bird can stay
—EDEN
Whisk. Whisk. Whisk.
I’ve been painting the same circle for the past ten minutes because the sound of my brush against the canvas has visibly made Sage relax.
Once his breathing evens out, I dip the brush into a jar of burnt caramel.
A color that feels like a ghost of a memory.
Tiny, silver peach fuzz covers the baby beastie’s small limbs.
It sparkles like fresh snow in the moonlight.
Delicate, antler buds have just begun to crown her forehead.
I lose myself in the texture of her hair, painting tiny ringlets of dark brown that frame a face so sweet it makes my own womb ache.
“Who are you?” I whisper to the canvas.
Beside her, the figure beyond the frosted glass is almost finished. As I thought before, he’s not a threat at all. A towering figure dressed in a suit of armor. I could almost swear, if I listen close enough, I can hear him whistling.
“Sage, look,” I murmur. “I finished—”
A wet thud from the quilt makes the words die in my throat.
Sage is curled into a tight ball with his wings shivering, and black ichor pouring from his eyes.
“Sage!” I scream and throw everything off my lap. “Sage, wake up. Talk to me.”
He lets out an excruciating howl, and the trees at the edge of the clearing begin to groan, their wood splintering.
My hands hover over his shoulders. His skin is feverishly hot. I knew something was wrong.
“Vaelí, please answer me.” I smooth my hands over his hair.
What do I do? What do I do?
The tincture!
“Hold on, Sage! I’ll be right back. I’m going to go grab the dust.”
The scent of crisp apple and damp earth hits me a second before a bulky shadow covers the quilt. Emerging from the grass is the man from the marsh, his left leg dragging heavily.
“Get back,” he rasps, dropping into a crouch that looks horribly uncomfortable with that injured leg.
He slides one of his massive, stitched arms beneath Sage’s shoulders and the other under his knees.
With a simple grunt, he lifts and straightens, his bad leg buckling for a second before it locks.
The sound of flesh ripping comes from somewhere on his body.
Sage’s wings drag through the clover beneath him.
“Inside?” Damien asks through labored breaths.
“Yes! Inside,” I gasp, running in front of them to open the door, only to find Nook has already done it for me. The vibrant wisteria and stove-eating hibiscus have all turned into nothing but brittle, gray husks. They crunch under Damien’s heavy steps as he carries Sage into the living room.
“On the bed,” I manage, pointing to the giant green palette of blankets on top of the mattress in the center of the floor.
Damien lowers Sage with a pained groan, his silver threads buckling before snapping completely.
“I’ll be right back; I have to go get his dust.” I run to the counter, grab the pouch, and collapse onto my knees beside him.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly. “I’ll wait outside to make sure everything is okay.”
“Don’t go!”
He stills beside me.
“I can’t be alone right now. I won’t know what to do if he gets worse.”
The threads at his shoulder are gaping from where they’ve popped, and one of them is bleeding something thicker than blood.
He notices me looking and closes his hand over it to hide his wound.
“What do I do?” he asks nervously.
“Just stay,” I fumble with the drawstring on the pouch. I can’t get my fingers to do what my brain is screaming at them to do. “Just until I’ve given him the tincture… then I can help patch you up.”
I sprinkle a pinch over his nose. Within seconds, Sage’s wings begin to ease, the flush in his cheeks pales back into the green I’m used to.
The black liquid around his eyes recedes, drawing back into the corners of his lids.
His breathing slowly begins to even out, and his pained whimpers cut off into tiny snores.
I let out a sob and press my forehead against the back of his hand.
“Oh, thank God you’re okay.”
A soft scrabble of claws crosses the floorboards, and Droot appears at the edge of the blankets. He climbs Sage’s arm and presses a small paw against his forehead.
Big Bird is cooler now, he chirps, pulsing a slow, worried blue. Droot will watch over him.
“Your mate is sleeping,” he murmurs, staring at Sage with a bittersweet expression. “How often does this happen to him?”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “This is only the third time, and it’s already so much worse than the first time.”
“Three times in how long?”
“A couple of days. The first time it happened, he tried hiding it, but I knew. I left to find the healing herbs. That’s when I found you by the marsh.”
His hand hovers over where Sage’s wing is still dark.
“That’s a hard thing to live with,” he says. “Loving someone who hides their pain to spare yours.”
“It is,” I whisper, my thumb tracing Sage’s sternum. “He thinks he’s protecting me… but this is not protection.”
Damien’s jaw flexes.
“He seems to be a protector by nature,” he rasps. “But protectors often forget that they are part of the world they are trying to save. If he breaks, the meadow and everything inside it will break with him.” He gestures toward the kitchen, where all the flora has turned into ash.
Something tells me his words have nothing to do with Sage.
“You carried my mate. You ripped yourself open to help two people you don’t even know. Please. Let me help you.”
Healing herbs, bandages, and a bowl of cool water appear on the floor between us.
“You can’t,” he whispers.
“What do you mean I can’t? I have everything we need right here. It’ll only take a minute—”
“I mean, you can’t,” he repeats. “I won’t let you.” His posture has completely changed. The quiet, stoic giant who cradled my mate has been replaced with the mannerisms of someone much more sure of himself.
“I don’t understand. Why won’t you—”
“We’d rather fall apart than have your fingers on us,” he rasps. “We don’t do touch. Not from you. Not from any woman but our mate.”
“Jack, stop,” a softer voice cuts in. His head gives a tiny, pained jerk to the side. “She’s trying to be kind.”
“Only one woman gets to touch this skin, and she isn’t in this room, Lucifer.”
“I won’t touch you,” I murmur. “I understand now. You need your mate to fix your wounds.”
He nods once.
“I’m sorry,” the softer voice rasps. “We’re sorry. My body—these bodies—” he gestures at the patchwork of silver threads and mismatched limbs. “We’re barely holding together as it is. The only thing keeping us from falling apart completely is her.”
His pale eye meets mine through his long black hair.
“If another woman touches us, no matter the reason, the bond… it screams. Like we’re betraying her.” He starts running his fingers through his hair obsessively. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know you’re just trying to help. But I physically cannot let you touch me. Only Winnie.”
“Winnie,” I repeat.
He nods. “My mate. My… everything.”
“It makes perfect sense,” I say. “You don’t have to say anything else. I can feel how much you love her, and I think it’s beautiful that you are so loyal to her.”
I grab the supplies and gently slide them across the floorboards until they stop just a few inches away from his good knee.
“I won’t press,” I murmur, moving to the opposite side of Sage. “But you can’t leave that shoulder open if you want to make it back to her.”
His eyes track the sliding bowl with hypervigilance before his posture subtly shifts again.
He stares at the water for a long moment before reaching out a massive, trembling hand.
He dips the cloth into the bowl, his knuckles white as he carefully presses the damp fabric against the gaping seam at his shoulder.
He flinches, and a low grunt escapes him, but he keeps his eyes trained on the floor, away from me.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “And I am sorry for Jack. He is… very protective.”
“He’s protecting your bond with Winnie,” I reply, pulling my knees to my chest as I focus on Sage’s chest. “I can’t fault him for that.”
“My name is Damien,” he murmurs.
“Hello, Damien. I’m Eden.”
He continues cleaning his wound.
“Why did you do it?” I ask. “You’re in so much pain. You can barely keep your own pieces together, yet the second you heard me scream, you ran to help. You carried an eight-foot stranger into his home, even when it meant ripping apart your own body.”
The wet cloth hovers over his shoulder. He looks toward Sage, a wistful expression settling into his hollow eyes.
“Because I am too much of a coward to face my fears. I don’t know which way is home anymore, and my legs won’t carry me back to the only woman I’ve ever loved. But I could still carry yours back to you.”
Droot slips down from Sage’s chest without a sound, stopping beside Damien’s good knee. He settles against the outside of his leg and dims his glow to a soft amber.
Damien stares down at him for a long moment before a single massive finger lowers and strokes once down Droot’s back.
The Patchwork Bird carried Big Bird home, Droot chirps. The Patchwork Bird can stay.