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Mage's scars had healed long ago, but he still felt the ache on occasion; an echo of the pain that seemed, at times, just as potent as the horrific ordeal itself.
He was aware, of course, that the pain was beyond physical sensation. At times it was an invisible phantom that drove its wretched claws deep into his back. At others it was a swarm, circling his head, muttering his lost name and reminding him, with a twisted, hushed voice, of his worst regrets.
Both kinds visited him tonight, seeping through the barricades he had erected and infecting his dream with their tainted presence. He saw the tendrils first. He usually did in dreams. The dark wisps were buzzing with a strange energy, blacker than any of his magics. They curled like tar-coated smoke up from the ground at his feet.
Despite his own lucidity, he froze, terrified of them even in his dream. He felt powerless, restrained and gagged as he had been on that day, and only watched as the tendrils twisted around his legs, their cold touch seeping into his skin, through his veins, until they found those cursed scars and set his back afire.
+++
He awoke with blankets twisted at his feet, bare chest exposed to the chill air that made him shiver despite the warm body along his back. He still felt the familiar ache in his shoulders, but the sharpest pain, pressing just above the scars, was new, and it took him a few moments of still fear for him to fully wake up and realize the cause.
Carefully as he could, he scooted forward in the bed and rolled, turning to see the top of the Prince's head. His antlers, the small adornments catching the moonlight from the window, were angled forward to where his back had been. Mage's companion was curled tightly into himself, shivering, of course. Autumn was settling in, and even Mage would soon need to find adequate bedclothes and nightwear despite the warmth of the magic running beneath his skin.
It was one thing they had found themselves at odds with, him and the Prince. His antlered guest frequently complained of cold and chills in the forest, even on days Mage found uncomfortably warm, and more than once had he removed his own feathered cape to place it over the Prince's back.
The first few times the Prince stubbornly complained, hating the way the cloak restricted his wings, but quieted after realizing the value of the cloak warmed by his host. The Prince had also resisted the idea of wearing heavier clothes, preferring that silky regalia of his. It was something Mage had on his mind constantly, knowing a prince from some distant, sunny haven would be ill-prepared for his first autumn. But if the Prince prefered pressing closer to Mage at night to heavier clothes, the magic-user wasn't too inclined to press the issue.
Now, though, with the blanket kicked to their feet and the distance between them, he looked pitifully cold.
Mage pulled the blanket up, careful as he leaned forward into range of the sharp horns. When he settled it over the Prince the blond sighed and relaxed, bringing a tiny smile to Mage's lips.
His back still itched, but the pain was almost gone for now. The limeflower he’d dried must be getting too old, this was the third night that week he’d woken from a nightmare. He knew he wouldn't be able to find sleep again, or didn't want to, so he thought instead of meeting his bedfellow, glad the Prince was a heavier sleeper than himself.
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The lands of the many bird kingdoms were far to the south of the human lands they rested in now. There were many different societies woven throughout the great and deeply magical forests, from the vibrantly-winged villages of the rainy, denser country, to the darker forests where ravens and jays rested amidst the aspens and conifers, to the dryer, sun-warmed redwood groves of the northmost kingdom ruled by the doves.
Though the kingdoms differed vastly in culture and appearance, most wove their homes into the trees, crafting stunning architecture complimenting the forest around them and spanning great bridges between the houses nestled in the trees. Most had a royal family, or a noble class. Almost none could fly, their wings more suited to gliding with the weight of un-hollow bones. And all practiced arts and magics in some manner; some passively, like the dove-winged Prince's enchanting songs, or scholarly, like the corvids, whose gifted few magicians gathered everything from poisoned berries to splintered bones to experiment with.
Mage had rarely seen any of the fey-like doves before the Prince. He lived close to the birds' vast forest, but he, like most humans, was wary of venturing too close. The birds, too, avoided crossing the border of their own designated territories, so they rarely were seen in other kingdoms or any place inhabited by humans.
But a hunting party had been passing through the forest near Mage's house and he was wary to let them run rampant. Hunters were usually too loud and careless, scaring away Mage's own hunting targets and trampling the rich herbs he used for his magic. So when he heard a wolf howl a warning somewhere in the trees he abandoned the hunting snare he'd been setting and followed the wolves' conversation best he could.
Most humans were afraid of the bird people and of magic, both too rare to them to be trusted in their minds. It would be little trouble scaring them and setting the wolves' minds at ease.
The wolves, from what Mage could tell, were congregating, but he knew they’d only hurt themselves fighting off the invaders. As he drew near he pulled a small ocarina-like whistle from his pouch, making his own warning cry with it near-identical to the sound of ravens' cries. The wolves here knew, well as the ones in the raven's forests, that the whistles would rarely lead them astray, and Mage caught a glimpse of silver fur moving away from the hunters soon after.
Satisfied they were out of harm's way, Mage had crept up on the humans, distracted briefly by a tiny, warbled noise that came to his ear, barely noticeable, but louder as he approached. There were four, riding horses all burdened with their spoils, with an extra horse training behind on a rope. Then Mage saw the beautiful Prince, tied to the back of the burden horse like a bear-pelt beside him. Dirtied wings strained weakly against the ropes that forced them into a contorted shape. Mage recognized the antlers as a symbol of the dove's royal family and wondered if the humans knew the extent of their idiocy.
The weak sound he'd heard was a song, breathed weakly past the Prince's lips, betraying his exhaustion. The doves loved to sing, their songs usually carrying as far as the ravens' whistles through their magic, but this young bird had clearly been mistreated. He was thin, weak, and Mage caught sight of blood staining one of his wings. His song was so quiet...
Mage wasn't much a fan of the bird people himself, but he didn't hesitate a moment more to raise his clawed hand and unleash hell upon the cruel hunters.
They had been terrified of him, with his winged cape flaring around him in his spell's wind, his skull-helmet's eyes burning blue in the darkness slowly swallowing the cleaning, and the bright flashes of purple and blue radiating from the ground pepper he threw into the wind.
The horses reared and screamed, bucking their owners or fleeing, save for the burden horse, who became enchanted by one of the magic lights: a silver orb born of a river-smoothed pebble.
The Prince had looked terrified of Mage’s figure as well. He thought for sure one of the crafty raven magicians was stealing him for randsom, or saw an opportunity to weaken the dove kingdom through royal assassination, but he mistook the skull, purposefully bowed for this reason, to be the assailent's true face. A horrible screech came from the form(Mage’s whistle) and the humans fled as quickly as they could, stumbling on rocks and roots in blind retreat.
The Prince trembled as the figure neared, even as the skull tilted up and a frowning face was revealed beneath it. But the hands that cut him free were surprisingly gentle, mindful of their own claws and the Prince's wings.
The figure didn't speak, and the Prince didn't have the energy to do anything but stare until a sparkling dust was scattered over him and he fell asleep.
The next few weeks had been hard, the Prince too weak to escape, but trying more than once in the first few days. Mage was gone much of most days, but he patiently carried the Prince back from wherever he'd collapsed and offered food as soon as he noticed the frightened royal missing. He knew doves were special among the bird people, making their homes higher than any but raptors because of their ability to truly fly. But they were frailer, small-boned to accommodate their weight, and tended to flee treats rather well and often.
The Prince's wings had been shot through with arrows on three separate places, sprained by the coarse ropes that bound them, and many of their flight feathers had been lost in his struggle. He couldn't fly even if he had the energy, and being captured by a nearly silent raven was terrifying, even if he treated him far better than the hunters.
After a few days the Prince was lucid enough to realize that the man's wings didn't move right, falling limply over his shoulders instead of being folded nearly behind him. He also realized that he lived on the ground in a human forest. He sat up against the headboard of the comfortable bed he'd been lain on, watching the stranger at his desk as clever fingers wove cord around crystals and bundles of dried herbs soon hung on the wall.
"Are your wings hurt too?" He asked quietly, granting Mage with a rare moment of surprise. The Prince hadn't spoken a word, and Mage's few attempts at conversation had been little more than a few words quickly abandoned.
"No. I don't have wings." Mage replied after a long moment. His voice was low and rough, precise, but not unfriendly.
The Prince didn't speak again for a long time after that, but he thanked him when a warm soup was pushed into his hands that night.
"Will I still be able to fly?" He had asked the next morning.
"I don't know." Came the low reply. Mage had coaxed him to the edge of the bed to change bandages and apply medicine the the wound's the in the Prince's wings, careful to sooth the feathers to fold comfortably. He sighed softly as the Prince tensed, disturbing his careful work.
"But I have to! Please, can't you help?"
Another sigh as the wing was tugged from Mage's hand and an antler hit his cheek. The Prince twisted to look at him with fear-widened eyes.
"I thought I was helping?" Mage, bewildered, was caught by the enchanting eyes at once. He hadn't yet paid much attention to his visitor before. He’d felt distant, mechanic as he'd tended to the Prince. But being so close, seeing the life in the Prince's eyes and the glow of his hair in the window's sunlight, feeling the softer hand that clutched his wrist, Mage's sense left him for a moment.
"Please, I have to fly." The Prince pressed again.
Mage swallowed and nodded. "You're healing well. Your feathers will grow back. If you exercise your wings, I don't see why you wouldn't be able to."
The Prince leaned in just slightly to put his other hand on the magician's arm. "What's your name?" He asked, sounding less timid than before."
"I don't have one."
"Oh..."
"Do you?"
"I'm Prince-" the dove cut off, the first syllable of his name dying before it could be fully voiced. Last time he'd tried to introduce himself, to ask for help, he'd been shot at by arrows.
"Prince?" Mage gave a quiet laugh. "If you only wanted a title then Mage will do for me." The Prince nodded, reminded enough of the danger he was in not to correct him. "May I finish binding your wing?"
"Do... Do you have to? I hate how they feel when I can't move them." The Prince shifted uncomfortably, his bound wing flexing against the bandage.
"Just for a few more days."
Relenting quietly, the prince turned his back towards Mage once again, this time far more careful with his antlers.
+++
When the Prince's wings were healed and Mage cut off the bandages he couldn't help but touch his hand to the silky texture of the feathers, searching for any remaining sign of the wounds.
The Prince closed his eyes, the wing pressing back just slightly into Mage's palm. He hummed a few notes from a simple melody and Mage couldn't remember hearing anything so beautiful in his life.
Days passed, and though the Prince had healed, he didn't leave. He started to go gathering with Mage, talking more each day and staying close to his new friend. He also started leaning against the stoic magician, or pulling his wrist towards an exciting new find while Mage smiled into the mess of fluffy wings he could barely see through, trying his best to keep the bird skull atop his head from clacking into the Prince's antlers.
The first time they kissed marked a month after they'd met. At some point they'd both silently agreed they were comfortable sharing the bed(Mage had been sleeping in an armchair), and the Prince was leaned against Mage once again. Friendly touches over the weeks had become common, even to Mage, who rarely thought about using his hands for much but his word. He'd discovered that he loved trailing his hand over the Prince's wings or running fingers through his soft hair.
The Prince usually leaned into his hand when he did, and was far more bold about dealing his weight over Mage or doing things like holding his hand.
Mage had been shifting a few phials on the bedside table, the clinking glass blending with the crackling fire in his hearth, when he felt the Prince stiffen beside him.
A familiar flash of concern made him frown as he turned to the Prince, who was looking up at him. They were both still as their eyes met, the Prince's wings tucked close to his back in uncertainty until they shifted up and back, like rolled shoulders, and the Prince pulled himself up on Mage's shoulders to kiss him.
Mage smoked openly for the first time since he'd met the prince, who was beaming as he pulled away. That night the Prince fell asleep in Mage's warm arms for the first time, nose pressed into his shoulder.
"I've never felt so safe." He's muttered sleepily before he drifted off to the gentle slide of Mage's fingers through his hair.
+++
Now, a few weeks later, Mage remembered the phrase and frowned at the smaller form beside him. He hoped, for the Prince's sake, that the words hadn't been hinting at something deeper. It had been painful for Mage to be cast from his home, banished for an incurable curse burning through him. He'd left his name behind, and his wings had been removed, as was custom amongst the ravens when someone left their kingdom, voluntarily or in banishment.
Had the prince been cast out? Lost? Running away?
He hoped not. But whatever the case, he would be safe here, and each in their own time would share their story.