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The car ride is awkward. Silent.
The scenery flits by but Rowan keeps his eyes away from the window, down and trained on his knees.
In the seat in front of him his father shifts, quietly saying something to Prophet Dewy. Rowan hates not being able to see his father's face. What is he thinking? The tail of the dragon sways mockingly from his father's lap.
Rowan very carefully doesn't shift and instead curls his wings up tighter against his back. It's already starting to ache. It will only get worse when they put on the bindings again.
Stupid. He'd been so stupid to think his father wouldn't come and get him. If only he'd given Xiao Ite to Peter or hidden them in his satchel as soon as he reached the gates.
It's okay. It's fine. Hopefully he'll be able to sneak out and grab them out of the trash pile before everything is taken to the burning hole-
"Who gave this to you?" his father asks conversationally. Rowan swallows down his anxiety.
"A teacher, sir," he answers obediently.
His father hums and picks up the dragon. The disdain in the way he runs a finger over their wings is the same Rowan could see in his posture whenever he had to touch Rowan's wings too.
Rowan resists the urge to yell don't touch. It never helps.
"It's beautiful. Good craftsmanship," he says. "They must be nice, mhm? The boys seemed…friendly, at least."
"They are, sir." They're nice and they care and they think his wings are cool -
Don't think. Thoughts are dangerous.
His father hums again and puts Xiao Ite back down. Rowan doesn't relax. Something's changed, but what? What's different?
They drive on. He doesn't miss the glance his father and prophet Dewy share. His anxiety grows.
----
Head Priest Lucien Draven's study looks exactly the same as it did almost a year ago.
The same light oak desk, delicate little suns carved into the wood, stands in front of the big window that lets in sunlight even as the sun is actively setting, dominating the room. The same pictures, some newer, drawn by the kids of the church, line the walls, proudly on display for all to see.
Rowan swallows down the hurt at the fact that his pictures never made it up there. It's okay. He understands. As the son of the Head Priest he couldn't be showed favouritism. His drawings were never good enough anyway.
A clatter draws him out of his thoughts and he flinches, his wings automatically tensing up.
His father pays him no mind as he feeds wood to the fire happily crackling away in the fireplace. Rowan continues to stand, even as his father sits down, Xiao Ite carefully placed on his desk. Their tail dangles dangerously close to the flames.
The room grows hotter. The two of them continue staring at each other. Rowan's played this game before, he knows the rules.
"Why did you run?" his father asks suddenly and Rowan blinks. There's a flicker of confusion but he smothers it. This isn't how it usually goes- Don't think, just answer.
"I was stupid, sir," he says.
I was scared. I wanted to get away. I was tired of hurting. I was hoping for something new. I was hoping to make it better.
His father hums, absentmindedly picking up the dragon again. He stands up, his chair scraping on the tiles, and Rowan obediently pulls his wings tighter against his back.
Hopefully his father doesn't tie it over the sword scar. It's been months but it still hurts. He doesn't think he'll be able to keep his wings still if he binds over it-
His father ignore him and goes to stand next to the fireplace.
The cozy warmth tips over into stifling heat. A drop of sweat trickles down Rowan's back and he shivers. Something's wrong. This isn't how it usually goes. He needs to get out, he needs to grab his things and run-
His father smiles (softly? gently? pityingly?) and throws Xiao Ite into the fire.
Rowan isn't sure what he yells. It tears at his vocal chords and the sound feels foreign in his throat and mouth, like they aren't sure what they're supposed to do with the shape of it. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters as he dives for the dragon.
The flames lick at his hands, sharp hot burning pain shooting through his fingers and palms, but he barely pays it any attention, desperately focusing on trying to grab Xiao Ite's tail.
He needs them please, he can't go without them, he can't lose them, Peter made them a shelf and everyone uses the correct pronouns and he doesn't know why it makes him emotional but it does and Xiao Ite's innocent and he can't let them burn, please don't let them burn, they did nothing wrong, they don't deserve it-
Sunburnt and blistered fingers make contact with singed and burning fur and Rowan pulls Xiao Ite out, biting back a sob as wooden beads, still flaming, trails over the sensitive skin on his hands.
It hurts it hurts, please make it stop-
There's a hand on his wrist, nails digging painfully into the skin, one settling over the bright red skin on his palm and cutting-
"Stop!" he croaks out, tears streaming down his face.
"What did you say, boy?" his father says, holding tighter and Rowan cries out as the skin finally breaks.
"I said stop!"
That- that wasn't English.
That wasn't human.
No. No. Nonononono-
He tries to pull away, crying out when the palm of his other hand makes contact with the floor, a wing brushing against the still smoking and burning dragon, but his father's hand only tightens.
Rowan's father stares down at him, disgust clear in his eyes. Without warning, he lets go, wraps his hand just under Rowan's elbow and thrusts his hand back into the fire.
Rowan's scream, an unholy mix of human sounds and raven crooning, echoes through the room. His father, impassive and with uncaring eyes, continues to hold his hand in the fire. Rowan tries and fails to pull away. The smell of burning flesh soon overpowers the scent of incense.
"I had hope for you," his father says, voice steady even as Rowan's scream tapers off into silence when his voice gives out. "It seems it had been misplaced. Instead of trying to climb out of the Darkness, you fell further. First their wings and then their tongues, a creature of Darkness so begins to fall."
Rowan tries to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a broken sob, garbled pleas trying to follow. It hurts it burns please stop let go don't touch he's sorry he didn't mean-
Oh Solra it's part of him, this is part of him, it's his curse, he's a curse, he's dangerous, he will be dangerous, he doesn't want to be-
Rowan finally finds his voice.
"'m s'rry!" he forces out, choking back croons and caws. "'m s'rry! 'll n'ver d' 'gain! Pr'mise! Pl'se l'mme g' - "
His lets go and Rowan yanks his hand back, curling protectively around both as he sobs, broken sorries and promises still spilling out. The skin is blistered and red, blood sizzling out of the cuts.
"You may have been cleansed," his father says, wiping his hand on his robe, "but you will always remain a sinner. May the burns be a reminder of that. I will send a healer to your room."
There's the thud of footsteps walking away before the click of a door opening and closing echoes through the room. Rowan stays curled up on the floor, sobbing.
His hands hurt worse than anything ever has, throbbing in time with his jack-rabbiting heart, the very air itself feeling like it's tearing at the skin, trying to flake it off, to burst the blisters.
Xiao Ite's glittering blue eyes slowly come into focus and Rowan tries to reach for them but it hurts, oh Solra, his hands-
He spits bile onto the floor, flinching and whimpering when it lands on the carpet. He's making it worse, he's always making it worse-
Heat licks at his back and wings as the fire crackles, mockingly cheerful, and he tries to crawl away. Rowan doesn't make it far before he collapses to the floor again, Xiao Ite's nose inches from his own. Something in him breaks and he presses his face into their body as he starts to sob all over again, trying to muffle the sound.
Will he still be able to embroider? To paint? What about his weapons? If he can't hold them, he can't fight and if he can't fight he'll be a burden during Playtime. He won't be able to protect Splashy, he'll be forcing him and all the other boys to look out for him and he'll- he'll be useless all over again and this time they'll notice-
Rowan whines and pushes his face deeper into the dragon's side, trying to ignore the smell of burnt fur. A croon pushes its way up but Rowan bites it back and forces it down. He can't, he shouldn't, he's falling further. If he turns into a monster he won't be able to look out for his brother. He needs to stop. He will stop. He, they, all of the boys, deserve better. He will be better.
Time passes slowly.
He isn't sure how long he stays curled up on the floor, crying into the dragon's side. Outside, the sun's finally set, the moon already starting to shyly creep up. Wiping his eyes on the dragon's fur, Rowan pulls back, careful to keep his hands away from everything and looks down.
Xiao Ite looks worse for wear. The beads that had been on their horns are all burnt away, leaving gaps. Most of their feathers are singed and the little bit that isn't, is soot-stained. The rest is in various stages of burnt and ripping. Rowan gives them an experimental boop with his nose and has to swallow down a croon when they don't change colours. Carefully, he picks them up with his elbows, making sure not to touch any of the obviously worst bits and wiggles around until he has them draped over his chest, his forearms keeping them close.
Somehow he makes it to his room, Xiao Ite, still smoking and singed beyond what he can fix, hugged to his chest, his hands held out in front of him. Everything's a blur if he's honest.
Nausea simmers low in his gut, ever present. It's almost enough to distract him from the way his hands are still throbbing. He swears the skin on his right hand is still bubbling.
Stumbling into his room, he collapses to the floor, kneeling on the cold floor next to his bed. With gentle movements, he awkward puts Xiao Ite down on the floor next to the bed before trying to drag his satchel closer without using his hands.
He's shaking. Why's he shaking?
It feels like hours have passed when Rowan finally gets it closer and gets the flap open. The right thing to do would be to dig around, regardless of how much it hurt even if it was just air pressing against his skin. Of course, Rowan has never been known to do the right thing.
Using his elbows, he tips the bag over, flinching when his darts and club hit the floor with a clang and clatters but not stopping as he tips it even further.
He needs the salve, he needs it, it hurts, his father won't send a healer, he always says he will but what if he doesn't?
Rowan bites back a sob when the jar of salve finally tumbles out.
Desperately, he grabs it, not caring about the pain anymore. It'll soon be better, he just needs to get it open, it'll help, it'll take the pain away, he just needs it open-
Stiff, sunburnt and blistered hands won't cooperate and he cries out as they slip off the lid. A few of the blisters and cuts from where his father grabbed him rips open and Rowan cries out, cradling his hand in his lap.
In frustration he throws the jar against the wall, watching in satisfaction as it hits a photograph of his father.
The jar shatters, glass and salve flying everywhere. The scent of marigolds, usually comforting, is now cloying and choking as it mixes with the arcid smell of burnt flesh and fabric.
Rowan gags but stumbles over, a wing coming up to try and block the smell. It doesn't help, the smell of burnt feathers only making it worse. Gently he scoops up some of the goop, silent tears streaming down his face when shards of glass dig into the already oversensitive skin.
Mercifully, the salve begins to work and Rowan almost crows in relief when his hands go cold and then numb.
Too tired to do anything else, he lightly brushes everything that had fallen out of his satchel and the bag itself under the bed, making sure Peter's shirt is hidden the deepest, and lies down on the floor, curling protectively around Xiao Ite.
Closing his eyes, Rowan falls asleep, dreaming of the day he can go back. Of the day he'll be better.
---
It's a troubled sleep, full of burning and smoke.
"Don't touch me!" Dream Peter yells and it is Dream Peter because real Peter would never say that to him…right? Right?
Dream Peter raises his sword and Rowan tries to scramble away but his wings are clipped and bound and there's a fire behind him-
The sword glints, a scared look in Peter's eyes and oh, oh, he put it there-
He doesn't try to run anymore, just closes his eyes and waits for the pain-
"I expected better," Elliot says and Rowan's eyes snap open.
There's a familiar-the-same-just-like-him disappointed tone to his voice and Rowan feels his heart clench.
"I'm-" he starts but he's cut off by Elliot snorting.
"Don't start. We both know you'll do it again."
He wouldn't, he promises, please believe him-
No words come out, only smoke. As he chokes, fire and flames licking at his wings, Rowan sees Peter and Elliot fall to the ground, a winged creature laughing as it's sword cuts through them.
Rowan doesn't need to see its face to know its him. He lets the fire burn.
---
There's a knock on the door and Rowan wakes up with a gasp. Out of instinct, he tries to push himself up while shoving Xiao Ite under the bed and he has to bite back a help when his hands, no longer as numb, makes contact with both surfaces.
"It's prophet Dalston," the knocker says and Rowan scrambles to stand up.
Prophet Dalston doesn't like waiting. He remembers the cane to this wings, not hard enough to break but hard enough to bruise-
Rowan doesn't even hesitate to touch the doorknob, just bites his lip until it bleeds as he pulls the heavy door open, glad this his hands are still mostly numb. It swings open agonisingly slow, prophet Dalston's scowl deepening when he sees him.
"Move," he says. Rowan obediently does, going to stand near his bed but not sitting. Unobtrusively, he kicks Xiao Ite under his bed.
Prophet Dalston lumbers in and sits down heavily on Rowan's bed. The frame gives an alarming creak.
"Give," he orders and Rowan holds out his hands.
The man isn't gentle as he manipulates Rowan's hands. He twists his wrists until it feels like they'll snap before prodding his palms and pinching his fingers, always on the spots that hurts the most. It takes everything in Rowan not to squawk and flare his wings.
He promised he wouldn't. He promised he'll be better. He knows he's a liar and a sinner but he will fix it.
Where Lenny's healing was quick and painless, a burden lifted instead of given, prophet Dalston's hurts. His magic digs down deep and drags out every inch of pain, slow enough that you can feel it catch on every layer it passes through.
Rowan is pretty sure he passes out at some point between the screaming, Hugh's salve doing nothing to help numb this pain.
He's just glad it's not his wings this time.
When he wakes up next, the sun is high in the sky, light streaming in through the large bay window.
There are boxes dotted around the room that hadn't been there before. His mother doesn't acknowledge him, just continues to fold his clothes and neatly pack them into one of the boxes.
Carefully, he sits up, keeping his wings out of sight as much as he can and his hands tucked close. They hurt almost worse than they had before. At least they're bandaged even if the fabric scratches at the still healing skin.
Will it scar? He can't let the others see.
"Mother," he greets hoarsely.
She doesn't say anything, just inclines her head.
Rowan toys with the bandages before forcing himself to stop fidgeting. He wishes he could pull Xiao Ite onto the bed with him.
His closet is shut with a loud bang and his mother moves on to his shelf. She regards the knick-knacks - a penny, a glittering rock and a safety pin - and sneers before moving on, leaving them. Rowan swallows a croon. Those are his.
"You'll be sent to live with the Coopers," his mother says suddenly and Rowan's heart clenches and then shatters.
"Why?" He asks before he can stop himself.
Shit shit shit-
He shuts his mouth with a click, ducking his head.
A gentle (had it ever been gentle?) hand runs through his hair before pulling slightly, just enough to make him wince.
"You'll need to bleach the roots again soon, dear," his mother says, ignoring his outburst. He relaxes a little. "Just until you get there. Then you can…grow them out."
He looks up, hopeful that she approves, only to see the flicker of disdain his mother's too late in hiding.
Very carefully, Rowan doesn't deflate. Instead, he respectfully inclines his head.
"Yes, mother. Thank you, mother."
She smiles, a thin and flighty one, the only one Rowan has ever gotten from her, and pats his head.
"It's no problem, dear."
They both know it is.
Nothing else is said as his mother continues packing his things.
Rowan doesn't bother asking questions and his mother doesn't bother attempting to answer them. The silence is deafening. At least this game stayed the same.
Outside, the sun continues moving.
Rowan lays on the floor, using his wing to try and sweep everything out from under the bed. He ignores how good the sun feels on his wings and stretches further, wincing when a twinge shoots down his back. Pressing his forehead harder into Xiao Ite's side, Rowan takes a few deep breaths.
He can do this. He won't leave this behind. It was a present. He doesn't want to disappoint his brother because he was stupid enough to lose it.
With another sweep, the last few of his darts are swept out from under the bed. The shirt Peter had given him is hooked over the tip of his wing and Rowan forces down a crow. He shouldn't. He won't.
Carefully, he tries to pick it up with bandages hands but they're bulky and lumpy and stiff and they hurt-
Giving up, Rowan gently picks it up with his teeth and lets it drop into the satchel. He does the same with the darts.
Once he's sure everything except Xiao Ite is back in, he lets himself melt into the floor, snuggling closer to them. If he focuses, he can almost ignore the smell of smoke that's probably part of them now.
Turning his head a little to the side, just enough for one eye to be able to see, he glances at the bare walls, one still covered in salve that his mother hadn't bothered trying to clean before shifting to look out the window.
In the trees a group of ravens are playing. He watches as they chase each other around before flapping down from the branches to collapse in the sun. A bitter feeling bubbles up and it takes everything in Rowan not to cry.
Why's he feeling like this? It's stupid. It's silly. It's just a bunch of birds playing-
There's a knock on his door.
Rowan scrambles to stand up, hissing when he uses his hands to haul himself up, the pain flaring brighter. He slips down to kneel on the floor again, his knees hitting the bare stone with a thud. Without thinking, he hits Xiao Ite under the bed with a wing, ignoring the feeling of the wooden bed frame hitting bone. There's a soft thud as it hits the wall.
He needs to stand up, he needs to get up, he can't risk doing more wrong-
"Yıldız?" Comes a low, warm voice and he almost collapses from relief.
Unsteadily, Rowan lowers himself to sit on the floor. He doesn't have to keep standing. The rules are different. He likes these rules.
"Morning Prophet Oriel," Rowan says quietly.
The door swings open and prophet Oriel peeks his head in, his smile soft.
"Morning, child. Can I come in?"
Rowan nods.
Prophet Oriel is nice. He's the only one who ever asked for permission to enter his room, he always complimented his art even if Rowan knew he was only being polite and he never had the glint in his eyes the others did when they saw his wings.
Shutting the door behind him, prophet Oriel lowers himself down to sit on the floor in front of Rowan.
There's a look of something in his eyes when he glances at the boxes that Rowan can't quite identify but it doesn't make him feel uncomfortable.
He lets his wings relax a little. He tries very hard not to preen at the happy smile prophet Oriel shoots him.
A small part of him crumples when he doesn't quite succeed. He's falling further, he can't fall further.
They don't talk about the boxes or the Coopers or his hands. Rowan knows prophet Oriel can't tell him anything without breaking his oath. And that's okay. Rowan's just grateful that these rules also haven't changed.
"Don't you want to take them with you?" Prophet Oriel asks, glancing at the shelf.
Rowan knows his mother wants him to leave everything else here. He should leave everything else here.
But Rowan has always been a selfish creature. He nods.
"Please," he says quietly.
Prophet Oriel smiles gently and stands up.
With careful hands he picks the knick-knacks off the shelf but before he can put them in a box, Rowan stops him.
"C-can…can you put them in my satchel?" He stutters.
He's being a burden. Prophet Oriel is being nice and here he is making everything harder than it needs to be. Will he finally realise why Rowan isn't worth it?
Prophet Oriel puts them into his satchel, smiling all the way.
"Is there anything else I can do?"
Rowan thinks about Xiao Ite, hidden under the bed, too far and too heavy for him to sweep out.
"No," he lies, his heart breaking into a tiny million pieces. "Thank you, sir."
I'm sorry, Xiao Ite. Forgive me.