The Heart Of Asariel

5 || Kindness

The dizziness had subsided by now, and so Micah had little difficulty darting across the room. The problem came when he reached the door. Even folded, his wings knocked into its frame, sticking when he tried to shove his way through. With a growl of frustration, he pulled back, rested a hand on the wall as he readjusted, and then edged through sideways, deliberately ignoring the way her gaze drilled into him.

"Those wings are going to be rather inconvenient," she said on a sigh.

He spun to face her, squaring his shoulders. "You're the one who made a stupidly narrow doorway."

She ignored him, turning aside. This room was a good deal bigger than the first, if still rather cramped: a cluttered wooden table accompanied by a single chair occupied the centre of the space, with a makeshift kitchen taking up the entire right side and cupboards crowded in above. The floor was no longer carpeted, but roughly tiled, leeching what little warmth there'd been in his feet. He shivered. At least the cuts seemed to have stopped stinging.

"I might have a coat big enough to hide them," she added, jerking his attention back towards her. She'd begun rummaging through the wardrobe leaning against the left wall. He caught only a glimpse of the array of fabrics piled up inside before she snapped the door shut, drawing out a beige bundle. It dropped out into a long coat similar to hers as she held it out to him.

He stared at it for a moment, curling his fingers around the single white strap of his tunic. "Hide them?"

She gave an impatient exhale, withdrawing the coat as she stalked around him. He stiffened as she thrust the sleeve over his arm, too late to pull away. "Unless you want a repeat of earlier?"

Micah gritted his teeth. He certainly didn't want that, but the sensation of fabric closing over his wings, pinning them uncomfortably against his back, was an unwelcome echo of crushing himself between slabs of marble ceiling. Although at least he'd chosen to do that.

Then again, that choice had led to him being dumped here, forced to squeeze inside a human coat, staying hidden in a different way. Maybe he needed to start considering his choices a tad more.

Had that really only been this morning?

The girl shoved on his other sleeve, wrestled with the buttons, and then stepped back into view, scrutinising him. "It's hardly perfect, but you're at least passable at first glance." Her eyes flicked downwards. "Mostly."

He followed her gaze and winced. The coat was very nearly long enough to conceal his tunic entirely, making his bare legs all the more obvious. Perhaps it was the way Duine's air nipped at his skin, the bitter breeze sweeping in a cold far greater than he was used to, but he longed all the more that he'd remembered to grab his trousers that morning. It wasn't a problem back home, when a simple tunic was all he really needed. Another reason to feel starkly out of place.

A pair of mud-coloured trousers were thrust into his hands, and he didn't hesitate to put them on this time. They were loose and baggy, roughspun fabric itching as he pulled them up under his tunic, but he at least felt a little warmer.

He glanced up to find the girl drawing another object from the wardrobe. Its shape was instantly recognisable. Black, stunted barrel, primed trigger. A pistol.

He stumbled back, hissing in a breath when his pinned wings bumped into the wall behind. He braced his hands against it instead, fear swelling in his chest, the vague shape of a defence clogged in his throat. Was she turning on him? Had he really been so stupid in trusting her?

She regarded him with narrowed eyes, then made her brisk way over. He shrank back, fingers curling over the doorframe behind as they shook.

She held the pistol out between them. Her finger wasn't even slotted into the trigger. He stared at it, dumbfounded.