He’d heard those words several times over the last turn as wingriders dropped out from Threadscore and other injuries—and increasingly frequently, of late. Frankly, he was tired of it. But this time… they were talking about Yisketh.
He turned and stared into the bronze’s yellow-white eyes. The dragon’s pain was so much stronger than his own, and coupled with an intense dread. The fear of between. K’ienn was sweating and shaking with the effort of trying to mitigate as much of it as possible for his dragon, even as the queens worked to do the same. Among a myriad of lesser wounds all over his body, Yisketh’s right front foot and foreleg were mutilated beyond recognition, large portions eaten away by Thread within a few blinding moments of pain. A tourniquet had been tied above the elbow joint to stop the flow of ichor, but there was no knowing if any spores remained within the exposed cords of muscle and bone. The risk was too great; the entire leg would have to be removed.
Completely.
————————
In the dim light of the few glows that had been left open in the infirmary that night, K’ienn lay on his stomach on the ground with his arms cradling Yisketh’s face, gazing into one whirling eye. The surgery had been done, leaving him with only three limbs… but the pain was finally lessened, enough for a few sparks of green to return to the bronze’s eyes. If his man had shed tears from the relief of knowing he would live, no one else would know it but the dragon.
As the hours of darkness ticked by and his rider dozed, Yisketh thought about what had happened. They’d jumped between and come out into what they expected would be empty air, only to find it filled with an immense clump of Thread. The wind had been terrible that day, and many others who were also in the infirmary had been injured in a similar manner. Others whom they’d been responsible for.
K’ienn jerked fully awake as Yisketh let out a grieved mental moan. It was over. He’d ruined it. There was no way now that they would be able to continue their work as Wingleaders. But the man was quick to roll to his knees, cup the bronze’s face between his palms, and lean his cheek against the dragon’s.
It’s okay, Yisketh.
But our wing! Our dreams—
I don’t care, Yisketh. You’re alive. K’ienn looked over his dragon, eyes tracing the numerous scars that covered his hide. Threadscore, wounds from fighting during flights… those old scars would easily be doubled, once the fresh flourishes gouged by the living spores had healed. I might be mad about it later, but I won’t be mad at you. You are what’s most important to me.
A half-dozen faces flashed through K’ienn’s mind then; faces he’d wanted to impress; faces he’d wanted to destroy; faces he’d wanted to love. Faces of those whom he’d put first in his life in pursuit of his goals, while isolating himself from… from the one he should have looked to before anyone else.
The question that welled up from within shook the man.
Is he?
There was a look of expectation in Yisketh’s swirling gaze when K’ienn looked back at him, the dragon lifting his head just high enough to be at eye level with the kneeling man. Though he couldn’t feel the pounding of the man’s heart in his chest, he could sense the tumult of his emotions and wondered what it was all about.
…I’m sorry, Yisketh.
For the times I ignored your opinions. For the times I chased you away. For the times that I let your needs go unmet. For the times I forgot you.
K’ienn pressed his forehead to Yisketh’s face, clinging to the bronze’s neck as if afraid he would suddenly disappear. "I messed up. Faranth, I messed up." His voice cracked… and bronze’s wing descended to embrace him, pulling him even closer.
So you admit it… finally.
The sheepish chuckle that came from beneath his wing was small and damp. No more would pride come between this man and his dragon.