The banther—or whatever had been a banther—busts through the Bookery door…and everything happens quickly.
In a flash, Rayla’s through all her arrows, and even with the way Callum’s magic sends them whizzing across the library, they’re no help. That…thing doesn’t seem to mind the arrows buried in its haunches or sticking out of its shoulders as it barrels towards the both of them, and speaking of barreling towards danger—
Callum must’ve been counting her shots, she realizes, because before she can shout out a plea or a plan, he’s sprinting full speed at the banther, staff in hand, fulminus on his lips, lightning sparkling across his clenched fist, and she’s not sure what exactly she’d been expecting, but Callum punching a banther in the face…hadn’t been it.
She’s not shocked, though, when Callum’s feet hit the ground and then immediately spring back up as he jumps and twirls and jerks around. He shakes out his hand, then clutches it into his chest, cursing the whole time…and Rayla knows what those moves mean.
That’s all in her periphery, though, for the moment, as she vaults over to the cursed, corrupted—now-crispy—creature, and puts it definitively out of its misery. Swiftly, her blade’s through its heart, its screeching has ceased, and she and Callum are both panting in the silence.
“Is it—?”
“Already was, I think,” Rayla answers, wrinkling her nose at the now-apparent stench of electrocuted banther as Stella scampers into her pouch, clinging to her leg. She leaves her messy blade in place for the moment and turns away just as Callum goes to pick up his dropped staff. He’s reached with his right, though, and she winces with him.
He hisses in a breath, then curses some more, cradling his wrist…and everything happens quickly.
In an instant, she’s at his side, guiding him by the shoulders to the clearest nearby table, and her hands are reaching for his.
“Let’s see,” she asks as Callum’s already laying his palm across hers…and it’s only then that she hesitates.
It’s just a second, though, that she’s frozen with his hand in hers: it’s selfish, she quickly tells herself, to stall in taking care of him with what he’s just done to protect her. It’d been stupid, it’d been reckless…and, yeah, it’d worked, but it’d hurt him. That twinges in her gut: she was supposed to keep him safe, and she hadn’t, and…
The least she can do is make sure that he’s okay.
…and that means ignoring the warmth of his hand, and how hot to the touch his fingers are, and how she’s missed his huge, heavy palm overwhelming hers…
Rayla swallows painfully around the lump in her throat.
She has to focus.
“It’s—ow,” he jolts, even just at her gently folding his fingers into a fist, but he leaves his grip closed like she’d intended, showing her he can hold it there on his own. “It’s my wrist.”
“Hand doesn’t hurt?” She runs her thumb across his gloved knuckles, looking for him to recoil if they’re bloody, sure already that they’ll bruise at least…but he shakes his head.
“Not as bad,” he answers, and Rayla slides her thumb against his palm, into the space his slackened fist leaves…and ignores how nice and inviting that warmth is—she has to focus—to help his hand to open instead.
It’s uncomfortable—she can tell from the grunt he hums and the way his hand tremors—but he does it without much more complaint than that, stretching his fingers open briefly on his own …and Rayla lets out the breath she’d been holding, pretty sure, at this point, that it’s nothing that won’t be better in a day or two.
“Never done that before,” he comments, letting his hand curl closed around hers again…and she looks up, frozen still again for another too-long second, thinking he’s actually holding it, but—
He opens his grip again, and it’s just him testing it out, she realizes with another twinge—in her heart this time.
“Really?” she teases, glad he’d been looking at their hands while she’d been gaping at him, hoping the moonlight is dim enough that he won’t see that she’s blushing. She pulls at his first finger, gently squeezing it, encouraging him to point, which, again, he does with a grimace, his finger twitching with the effort. “I’ve punched loads of banthers. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“Mmm, nah,” Callum answers with a half-hearted chuckle, “one banther punch is enough for me, thanks—ugh.”
Rayla presses at his second finger so it joins his first, and he cringes more deeply at that, so she lightens her touch with the third, just matching her fingertips against his.
As dumb it was to punch a banther…
“Lightning definitely did the job, though,” she shrugs, pressing their palms flat together too, letting herself fluster—just a bit more—in hopes that he’ll beam about it too. “Nice going, mage,”
His fingers are still straight against hers, trembling…but then they slip to the side, gently curling into the slots between hers, and—
She looks up, and—
He’s looking too, beaming just as bright as she’d hoped, and—
She has to focus.
Rayla clears her throat and untangles their fingers, pressing her thumb along that last little finger she hasn’t checked yet. “This one too?”
Callum doesn’t even flinch as he straightens out the last of his fingers. “So…what’s the verdict?”
“Well,” she says, returning him his hand and immediately missing it, “we’ve got two good wrists between us still.”
“Yours still?” he asks with a frown, and she shakes her head.
That’d been his takeaway? That old, well-worth-it ache of hers? With his own stupid recklessness swelling his wrist as they speak?
“Only sometimes,” Rayla answers, with a shrug and Stella’s already rummaging through her nearby pack for the bandage she keeps on hand. “You’re in luck, actually, because that means I have—” Stella finishes her sentence for her, plopping the roll of fabric into her open hand. “I think it’s just sprained.”
“Well, that’s good, right?” Callum rubs his own wrist, flexing and stretching his fingers.
“You’ll be okay,” she nods, halfway smiling…and Callum knows what’s next, clearly. She doesn’t even have to reach for him, but…she does need his glove off. “Um, probably better under—”
“Right, uh—” he starts, voice cracking…and she can definitely see his blush. He tugs the glove off first, then ditches the wristbands and rolls up his sleeve, examining the swollen joint before she can. “You know, I can do it, if—”
She really doesn’t want to explain—that she owes him this much at least if he’s going to do dumb stuff like that for her, that she honestly would just really like to hold his hand—and luckily, the sideways, skeptical look she gives him is explanation enough.
“No, yeah, you’re right,” he laughs breathily. “That was…dumb.”
Callum hands over his bare palm then, smiling in full…
She has to focus…and she definitely does—
—but not on the bandage.
It’s necessary, of course, to take a look at the swelling first, she tells herself…so, that’s where she starts, her fingers ghosting over the underside of his barely puffed-up wrist, finding his warm skin has quickly cooled. And she ought to make sure his knuckles are okay too, obviously…so, she carefully flips his palm, angling his hand to see the red, split skin without touching, barely pushing aside the thought that lips might be gentle enough for the tiny wounds.
She starts wrapping his wrist, then, pressing the end of the bandage into his still-warm palm, carefully winding the fabric over the swelling…and her throat is just as tight, she thinks, touching him for so long, so lightly.
Everything happens quickly.
Too soon, she’s tucking the end of the bandage in, marveling at the smooth, softness of his skin, tracing the half-covered lines of the rune above his injured wrist…looking for excuses to linger a little longer.
It’s unnecessary…but she straightens the wrap over the edges of volantis.
Last night was my last night in the Silvergrove. This is the last time I’ll wake up here in my own bed because—
I’ve been sold to the High Mage of Katolis.
Ugh.
