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Gaius knelt on the floor of Uther’s bedchamber, his head bowed and his back bare. A pair of black-and-white mottled wings jutted out from his shoulder-blades, half-unfurled and trembling a little despite the physician’s best efforts.
Behind him, Uther sat on his royal bed, gazing inscrutably at Gaius’s bare back and the feathered wings sprouting from it.
“You should have come sooner.” It was meant to be a reprimand, but instead his deep voice curled fondly at the edges.
“Yes, my lord,” Gaius agreed, eyes on the floor. His wings shivered. “I should have.”
“You know the rules, Gaius.” Once again, Uther’s voice failed to carry his intended admonition. Instead, he was quiet, and a gloved hand came to rest between Gaius’s shoulder-blades. It didn't move, it just rested there. “It must be done. There's no need to shake.”
There was no response from Gaius. His eyes remained trained on the floor, tracing each knot in the wood, and his breath was even. The only indication that he even heard Uther was the way his wings unfurled a little more, nearly to their full extent.
“There.” Uther’s hand moved. It left Gaius’s back and instead began to slowly make its way up his left wing, starting at the shoulder and smoothing each feather as he touched it.
Gaius exhaled. His eyes closed, and he almost allowed himself to relax into the touch.
Then Uther paused, removing his hand. There was the sound of him slipping his leather gloves off, and the sound of those leather gloves hitting the floor. And his bare hand returned to Gaius’s wing as if there'd been no pause at all.
“You've been taking good care of them,” he noted. The feathers were glossy and well-aligned, and soft under his touch, even if the wing itself did tremble.
Gaius said nothing.
Uther stroked the wrist of his wing, and then the thumb.
“Don't shake like that, Gaius.” The wing was still shaking, trembling under his touch. “There's no need to be afraid. You know it must be done.”
“Yes, sire.” The physician wasn't usually so reticent– but then Uther could understand. Just because this was necessary didn't mean it was pleasant, no matter how much he stroked his feathers and tried to soothe him.
His bare hand left the flesh of his wing and wandered out to the feathers. Soft and smooth to the touch, the king let his hand wander through Gaius’s mottled feathers, naming them under his breath. Alulae… coverts… primaries… it was almost like falconry again. But these weren't the feathers of a falcon.
His loyal physician bore the wings of a woodpecker. All sorcerers grew wings along with their powers– a useful tell for Uther, back in the days of the Purge. All he had to do was capture those he suspected and have them remove their shirts. Those with wingless, unmarked backs could go free, of course; but those with wings, or the scars where they'd amputated them to avoid detection, would be executed.
“Are you ready?” Uther murmured when he reached the wingtip, a single finger stroking absently along the uppermost feather.
“Yes, sire.” There was a slightly ragged exhale, and his wings twitched as if he longed to tuck them safely against his back, but otherwise Gaius remained still.
“Good.”
He stroked along the feathers for a few moments more, and then–
-yank-
He pulled one out. It was mostly black at the tip, but was evenly spotted with white further down.
Gaius exhaled again, and his wings twitched once more. Uther placed his other hand between his shoulder-blades to soothe him.
“You know it must be done.”
Yank. Another, and it went into the cloth sack next to the bed. And then another, and another. All the while, Gaius fought to stay still, knelt at Uther’s feet.
Uther tried to be gentle. After all, Gaius was a loyal friend and ally. But his hands weren't made for gentleness, so with every feather plucked, there was another wince, another flutter.
“You're doing well,” said the king, his voice low. His hands continued their work, one carefully removing feathers and the other pressed against Gaius’s spine, and he pretended not to notice the physician shuddering under him.
He heard Gaius swallow as he moved on to the other wing. Slowly, carefully, his flight feathers were plucked and went into the cloth sack, which was beginning to fill. Perhaps they'd leave the smaller feathers for another day, if there was insufficient room in the bag. (Or perhaps he just didn't want to see his friend in more pain.)
Uther rested his palm flat on his old friend's back, watching a bead of sweat roll down it.
“We can leave it here for today,” he offered, swiping that droplet away with his thumb, “if you can't take any more.”
“No.” It was almost impressive how steady Gaius’s voice was, despite the rough edge to it. And it was impressive that he'd managed to remain on his knees for so long, on the hard wooden floor. The old physician was tougher than he seemed. “I'd rather get it done.”
“Good. Brave man.”
The hand remained on Gaius’s back for a few moments more, and then he returned to the job at hand. These feathers were shorter, closer to the wing and much more painful to remove, and every so often the half-plucked wing jerked involuntarily. Each time, Gaius would hiss through his teeth, the only crack in his stoicism, and Uther would pause, giving him a moment to recover.
“Brave man,” the king repeated, as if he were soothing one of the royal falcons. “We're almost done. Just a little more.”
“Yes, sire.” Gaius’s voice shook slightly, despite his best intentions. He almost sounded fragile– but that couldn't be right. Despite being decades older than Uther, and despite knowing practically that his long-time friend lacked the physical strength he'd once had, he'd never once thought of him as fragile.
It made his stomach twist. He refused to name the feeling.
Once more, Uther paused, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself as much as Gaius.
“We're almost done,” he repeated. “You're doing well.” And now he moved on to pluck the smaller feathers from the other wing. They were soft, almost downy, under his hand. For just a few moments, he stroked the feathers, their soft white a contrast to the pink, raw skin of the rest of Gaius’s wing.
The wing shuddered beneath his hand. He returned to work. Gaius kept breathing, only the occasional hiss and involuntary twitch betraying his pain. It was almost over.
And then it was. Uther removed the final feather, discarding it in the cloth sack, and tied the strings shut.
“All done, old friend.”
Gaius finally relaxed. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, shuddering exhale.
“Sire,” he said, but nothing else.
Uther kept one hand on the physician’s back for a few moments more, watching his shoulder-blades work and his naked wings fold away. Then, carefully, he withdrew, allowing Gaius to get up– his knees creaking ominously as he supported himself on the bed– and don his tunic once more. He didn't look at his face. He never did on these days.
“Take the afternoon off,” said Uther. And that was all. Moments later, Gaius was gone, steps a little slower than usual.
Maybe next time, he'd put down a rug for his knees.