God of Discovery [high fantasy, slow build, mlm]

Past mistakes, part 3

"Come. Let us get you cleaned up," Arehal said, stepping closer to him.

D'Argen and Arehal were never that close. And especially not since Arehal ended her relationship with Vah'mor centuries ago. D'Argen was much closer to Vah'mor than Arehal and it was easier to visit the general in Evadia than to go looking for Arehal out in the world. As much fun as it was in the past to try and find her in order to deliver Vah'mor's sickeningly sweet love letters to her.

She stared at him now, her brown eyes sparkling in the afternoon light and—

Afternoon. D'Argen startled when that thought registered and he whipped around to look out Lilian's windows. The sun was not visible but it was clearly high in the sky. D'Argen had left Vah'mor's chambers barely after the general broke their fast. Had so much time passed since he found Lilian? Or had the time passed while he held them down against their will?

D'Argen felt sick. He raised a hand to his stomach and pushed, hoping it would make the nausea go away. He had not eaten anything and there was nothing to throw up other than bile. It would be best to keep himself from getting sick.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he flinched. When he looked up, Abbot's hand was shaking in the air between them. The artist looked so scared.

"Sorry, sorry," D'Argen muttered the apology and looked down at his hand where he was trying to keep his stomach from jumping around. The pressure under his ribs increased and it took him a moment to separate it from the pain he felt earlier.

Lilian's pain. The mahee's pain.

He remembered the last time a Never Born died. They all did. They felt it. The mahee was one, even if it was separated into so many bodies. When one of those bodies died, the mahee in the rest of them rebelled. The pain of it was like being run through with a sword. D'Argen knew that comparison was accurate only because when he had felt that pain once, during battle, it had distracted him enough for a sword to sink into his stomach and pierce out the other side.

D'Argen pushed Abbot's hand away as he stumbled to the corner of the room where a waste basket waited. He collapsed in front of him and heaved. The bile was sour and stung at a cut inside his mouth and his entire body was shaking, contracting, trying to get something out that was not even there.

A warm hand started rubbing his back and the sour stink of bile was covered by a scent that could only be described as desert sands. D'Argen rested his forehead on his arms, crossed over the waste bucket.

It took him a few more heaves before his body finally gave up on trying to expel anything. The warm hand kept rubbing soothing circled on his back. When he looked up, Abbot was fidgeting, fingering the pouch at his belt that held his pipe and tobacco leaves. Yaling was pacing a tight circle behind him, her eyes never straying from D'Argen.

"Fuck me," D'Argen muttered.

A chuckle behind him had him looking at Arehal. She was smiling but it still looked sad.

"Let us get you cleaned up," Arehal repeated.

D'Argen nodded stiffly and let her help him stand. "Stay here," he ordered the two. "I will be back shortly."

Abbot visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping and his hand gripping the pouch loosely. Yaling stopped pacing and nodded quickly.

"Call for me if you need me."

"Of course."

Arehal waited until their brief exchange was done and then wrapped an arm around D'Argen's shoulders. She guided him to the doors. When they opened, D'Argen was surprised to see the crowd there. They parted for him and Arehal and the doors closed behind him, but it was their faces that made D'Argen stumble. There was surprise, pity, and even curiosity... but most of them were scared. The fear was so easily etched on multiple features that D'Argen froze on the spot.