Kartane woke up shaking, a cry locked in his throat. He rolled over, wincing at the pain that spiked in his belly, and stared panting at the ceiling. He tried to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but that was far out of reach. He ached all over, feeling wrung out like a used rag. His ribs stood out like the timbers of a ship from his washed out, brittle skin. He shifted slowly, winging as he left behind a clump of hair.
He tried to remember what had woken him, though this wasn't unusual at all – just the peculiar feeling was that, a different kind of ache. It took him several moments to put a name to it. Yearning.
He took a deep, hissing breath through gritted teeth, curling into himself. He could feel himself dying, see his body wasting away before his eyes. But the worst was the vague yet persistent suspicion that somehow he deserved this…
Kartane sniffed, eyes stinging, feeling unbearably sorry for himself. Dorothea didn't care anymore, and the other witches look at him as if he were dirt or worse on their feet. The males shunned him for fear of being fouled by association. He could feel the tears of self-pity dripping down his cheeks.
He wanted Daemon.
He wanted Daemon to comfort him. Daemon had always made the nightmares go away. If he were here now, he would surely do it again.
But Daemon was not here, Daemon was not coming back, Daemon hadn't been seen or heard from in years.
And even if he did come back, why would he have any mercy for Kartane? All they had had in common for years was their hatred of each other, but weak as he was, Kartane could not find the energy to hate his bastard cousin.
Daemon was not ever coming back for little boy Kartane, and it was his own damn fault there was no one to make him feel better. He'd sacrificed the only good friendship he'd ever had for – what? For this?
He should have felt guilty, but all he could feel was bitterly sorry for himself.