Diaval stared at his reflection intensely, his dark eyes reflecting the sunlight dancing on the water. The shimmering face stared back up at him, the corner of its lips tugging down, the eyebrows knitting together. The features of the face were almost unnaturally angular; the strong jawline, the straight hawkish nose less human and almost faerie. The brooding expression on the face was as dark and forbidding as a storm cloud. Diaval hunched closer to the water's edge, his fingers burying into the soft clay of the riverbank. The water rippled at a slight disturbance, then cleared. Diaval felt his breath catch.
Scars. That's what stood out the most about his appearance. The marred veins were a grotesque scarlet, still burning and pulsing from that beating he had received just days prior. They trailed like fine webs across his chest, his arms, his face.
At least he had escaped with his life, if only just. A lifetime or servitude and a disfigured appearance was better than death. Diaval shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself tightly.
The scars were healing remarkably well. His mistress took care of him, returning every evening to the jagged ruins of the castle.
Every twilight she would come to him, golden tendrils licking at her fingers. Without a word she would diligently set to work. The first time she had knelt next to him, he had been afraid. He was clumsy and slow in his new body, and had wanted to flee like a shadow under her terrible radiant light. Yet he remembered his oath to her and swallowed his fear. Yet he felt so helpless. Like a newborn hatchling unable to fly...
She approached him that night as she had every dusk since. No words. No eye contact. She would kneel by his side next to him, her eyes emotionless. Then cautiously she would slowly reach out for him. He had let her, hesitantly closing his eyes, his heart beating frantic his his chest.
Her fingers would trail across his shoulder. Always the shoulder first. A soft light would sink underneath his skin and into the wound, the puckered flesh glowing for a moment after. His pain would dull blissfully, and the muscles relax. Tension would ebb from his body as she worked. Her slender hands brought him overwhelming relief.
She had not given him a mission since his first night as her wings. Now he simply waited for her command. Waiting to return to his true form, if only for a brief moment.
Slowly, Diaval raised a hand to his cheek, tracing the pattern of a scar. He shivered, remembering how his mistress had made the throbbing go away. He stared down at his reflection with a frown.
Helpless.
Repulsive.
Pathetic.
A forceful splash shattered the reflection. A moment he was up again, hands buried deep in the pockets of his large trailing coat. He turned his back to the river's edge, quickly striding to his mistress's castle.
He longed to fly once more.
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