@welsh-catgirl asked for Thorne and Please Don't Leave Me! @badthingshappenbingo
This takes place relatively early in Thorne's time with the Falconers, and it's probably canon.
TW for: whump of a minor (Thorne is probably the equivalent of like fifteen here); dehumanization/objectification; intentional poisoning; child neglect and endangerment; manipulation. brief references to Bugs.
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It is the third day of Thorne’s fever, and Morden is beginning to become impatient.
The insect—or arachnid, or whatever it was—that Harpy slipped into the boy’s bedroll has venom potent enough to kill or nearly-kill a grown man, according to Raven (who spoke of it with sparkling eyes, poisons being a keen interest of hers). Harpy is utterly unrepentant, of course, and has not given a straight answer as to whether she knew this or not when she caught it. Morden has expressed his displeasure, but has no real means to discipline her. He is aware that the obedience of his Falconers primarily depends on his not ordering anything they don’t actually want to do.
Well, the boy has not died, anyway. And Heron seems optimistic that he will recover. So there was no real harm in it, after all, except of course that it has been three days, and Morden has people to kill and cities to conquer.
Morden holds out his hand, surreptitious although no other Falconer will see what he is seeing. His aura glitters, still, around his palm, but not as brightly as it did a weak ago.
He has plenty of power in his own veins to kill a man, make no mistake. But to conquer a city…
Morden does not want the boy to die. It was two years of hard work to find him, and there is not substitute handy. (And the boy is charming, anyway, with his silver hair and his wolf’s teeth, still a little two big for his mouth; there is truly nothing like those golden Faery eyes turned worshipfully up at Morden, hanging on his every move and word.)
But. The boy has never fallen ill before, and the poison did not kill him straight away. And his heart—overfast and fluttery, now, burning with fever as he is—pumps so much magic through his veins; Morden has never seen the supply run dry.
And Morden has taken none of it, for more than a week now. He can feel his aura thinning. He is hungry.
Before the fever took him, and rendered him silent and shaking, Thorne kicked himself free of his bedroll, where the offending creature was hidden, and refused to return to them; he has been sleeping in horse blankets since. He has been swaddled in them, threatening to shiver himself apart; but when Morden kneels beside him now he has thrashed himself mostly free, exposing his shoulders, drowned in someone’s castoff night shirt, and his long narrow arms, tawny skin shiny with sweat.
Morden slides off one of his gloves, and lays his hand lightly on the boy’s burning forehead, smoothing back sweat-stringy silver hair, and licks his lips.
He’ll only take a little, Morden tells himself. He does not want the boy to die.
Thorne gasps when Morden tugs at the edges of his aura, his gold eyes flickering open, though Morden is confident he can see nothing. When Morden pushes his own aura into the center of Thorne’s chest and opens the channel, Thorne’s pretty eyes roll up to the whites, and his breath catches audibly, and Morden can feel his heartbeat stutter alarmingly, so he only keeps the channel open for another—two minutes, at most. Then he slams it closed again, with an impressive effort of willpower, and the boy goes entirely lip, the air whistling back out of him again. He twitches, once, his head snapping back on his neck.
Morden pats the boy’s forehead, feeling slightly chagrined, underneath the blissful satisfaction of the magic now curled up in his chest. He’ll get Heron to make the boy something better than bone broth, Morden thinks, starting to get to his feet.
A fever-warm hand flutters against Morden’s knee, weak as bird wings. Morden stops; moving closer to hear the words coming from the boy’s barely-moving lips.
“’m sorry,” the boy says, his voice thin and desperate. “Please don’t—please don’t leave without me.” He blinks, sending the tears collecting in his silver lashes tumbling down his cheeks. “Please don’t leave me, Master.”
Morden smiles, and settles more comfortably beside the tangle of blankets. There is magic warm inside his ribcage, and gold eyes searching desperately for his face.
“My Thorne,” Morden says, with perfect sincerity, and smooths the boy’s sweat-drenched hair back again with gentle hands. “My own Thorne. How could I ever think of leaving you behind?”
