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There is a rooftop training ground at the Hawks' castle; on other days Reyson has seen it alive with activity, the flurry of beating wings and the shouts of encouragement from the assembled warriors. This chilly gray day, though, he is alone on the rooftop, venting his frustration against one of the straw dummies. He hasn't taken full bird form—Herons are built for grace, not for power—and his hands ache from the cold and the roughness of the packed straw.
He isn't being reasonable. He isn't comporting himself with the dignity befitting his rank. And he isn't, hasn't been, crying.
He hears someone land lightly on the flagstones behind him but he doesn't turn to look. He doesn't want to encourage the lecture that he's sure is coming.
"There you are," Tibarn says, and Reyson's back stiffens. There's a beat of silence, and then Tibarn's voice is gentle when he says, "How are you doing?"
Reyson turns, the wind whipping at his hair, his hands still clenched into fists at his sides. "How do you think I'm doing? After being sold to a human by my—by someone I—someone I've held dear for years." He wants to sound angry, righteous with fury, and instead his voice comes out shaky and thin.
Tibarn doesn't offer him platitudes. Instead he says, "Let me see your hand," holding out his own.
Reyson can hardly refuse, though his wings start to mantle defensively in anticipation. His knuckles are red and raw from the abuse he's been heaping on the training dummy. Tibarn's hand feels so warm under his own.
"Now make a fist," Tibarn says. Reyson looks up at his face for a moment but there's no judgment there, only patience. He complies.
Tibarn folds his thumb around his fingers differently, molds his fist into a more compact shape. "You want to keep your wrist straight and lead with your first two knuckles. If you're not careful you can hurt yourself as much as your target." He takes a step back and holds up one hand, palm out. "Let me see you throw a punch."
Reyson hesitates. He knows he won't be impressive, even if he manages not to hurt himself again the way he did with Tanas. He's not a Hawk, however much time he's spent with them. "I can't..."
"Sure you can." Tibarn waits, hand held out. "Try not to overthink it."
It still takes another minute of standing brittle and nervous in the cold before Reyson can summon the will to move.
His fist smacks into Tibarn's palm, the impact stinging. It feels inadequate. Not enough.
Tibarn raises his hand slightly. "Again."
Throwing the second punch is easier than the first, and the third is easier than the second. Tibarn moves each time, so the strike is never quite the same twice. Eventually he raises his other hand, too, so Reyson can trade off throwing punches with either hand.
"Do you want advice?"
Reyson's pride bristles a little but he tamps it down. "Yes."
"Right now you're punching from the shoulder. You'll get a lot more power out of your strikes if the movement comes from the hip."
"What?" Tibarn thinking about his hips is distracting, and besides, that doesn't make any sense.
"Watch me," Tibarn says. He braces himself with his feet planted firmly, tucks his wings back and down, and draws his fist back. "I'm moving slowly to make it easier to see—most of the power in a really solid punch happens before the motion even reaches your arm. It's like the way a little shrug near your shoulders becomes a wide sweep of your wingtips." He moves, throwing the punch in slow motion, and Reyson can see what he means: his whole body twists before his hand even starts to leave his side, hips to waist to shoulders, propelling him forward.
"You make it look so natural," Reyson says.
"Just practice." Tibarn demonstrates again, then steps back and holds up a hand. "Now you."
It feels awkward but Reyson mimics him, slowly at first and then faster when Tibarn nods. He can feel how much more energy goes into the motion this way. The force of impact pushes Tibarn's hands back now.
"Here," Tibarn says eventually, "give me a minute." He turns away, opening up one of the chests of practice gear and searching through it. After a moment he comes up with two padded leather targets with straps across the backs for him to slip his hands through. "This'll let you hit a little harder without either of us having to worry too much about getting hurt."
"You're very thoughtful for someone who wants me to keep punching him," Reyson says dryly.
Tibarn flashes him a smile. "I like to think that's one of my better qualities."
He raises the targets, holding them out the way he held out his palms before, and he moves them between punches the same way. Reyson loses himself in the rhythm of striking out and drawing back, the ache of muscles rarely worked this hard, the way breath follows motion. It's hypnotic, and he doesn't realize how much time has passed until he looks up and finds the sky beginning to darken.
Suddenly he's aware of the pain in his hands, the chill in the air—the concern in Tibarn's face.
"I think... that's enough for one day," he says.
Tibarn nods. "Come on back inside."
Reyson waits while Tibarn puts the targets away, then lets himself be led back into the castle. It's warm inside, and noisy with the bustle of the Hawks going about their lives. It's a comforting sort of noise. Tibarn leads the way, not to the dining hall or to their quarters but to the infirmary. Reyson balks at the doorway.
"This isn't necessary," he says, his stinging hands pressed to his sides. "Nothing's broken, I don't—"
"Reyson," Tibarn says, that calm but implacable tone he takes when someone is unreasonable with him. "If any of my warriors hurt themselves during training, they are expected to take care of the injury. This is not special treatment."
Reyson still wants to argue, but he can tell there's no good reason for it. He huffs a sigh, unsure if he's annoyed with Tibarn or himself or both. "All right."
Tibarn opens the cabinets and takes out some bandages and a pot of salve. "Come here."
He's annoyed mostly with himself, Reyson decides as he comes closer and offers his hands for inspection. Tibarn could have demanded that he stop right away, and it would have been sensible, but instead he offered help. Being difficult after that is unworthy of him.
"Surprised you would keep going this long, on your first day training," Tibarn says as he inspects Reyson's hands. The knuckles are red and raw, smudged in spots with blood where tenderized skin abraded. It's a steady, hot discomfort now that Reyson is paying attention to it.
"I didn't notice," he says. "I wasn't thinking about that." Now he sounds absurd and absent-minded, doesn't he?
But Tibarn is nodding as he smooths thick salve over Reyson's knuckles. "Focused on your goal, and blocking out anything that would get in the way." The salve feels good, cool and soothing. Tibarn's hands feel good, too, sturdy and enveloping but still gentle with him.
"I expected you to chide me for being reckless," Reyson confesses.
"That would only make you reckless," Tibarn says as he picks up the roll of bandages.
Reyson smiles ruefully. "Fair enough." He holds still, letting Tibarn wrap his hands with the soft cloth. "I don't mean to be, you know."
"I know." Tibarn tucks the bandage in on Reyson's left hand and starts on his right. "You're not stupid."
Tibarn has always been more certain of him than Reyson is of himself. "Thank you," Reyson says. "I mean—for saying so, but also for offering to teach me. I know... I know I can't really fight. I know this doesn't change that. But..." He frowns at their hands. "It makes me feel less vulnerable. Less helpless."
"Good," Tibarn says. He's done with the bandaging now but he still holds Reyson's hands, cradled gently in his much broader ones. "I don't want you to have to feel that way."
"I know," Reyson says. He laces his fingers with Tibarn's. "One of many reasons I'm glad to be here."
They stay there for a minute in comfortable silence and then Tibarn squeezes Reyson's hands with a smile. "I know I always work up an appetite after a hard day of training. Shall we go see what's for dinner?"
"Now that you mention it, I'm starving," Reyson says. He hadn't really noticed, but the thought of food is incredibly appealing now that he considers it. "Let's go."
They leave the infirmary hand in hand, and there's a lightness in Reyson's heart that he'd missed. He's still angry at Naesala, but that's not all he is. He has the support of Tibarn and the Hawks. He has Leanne back, when he'd never even imagined that was possible. And he has his own strength, which seems less meager now than it used to. He's ready to face the future, whatever it might bring.