Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
On a hunch, I use my needle to push aside skin and peer into a wound. I see something that looks like tendon in a place that shouldn’t have tendon. Oh shit. I swallow hard, rinse my hands, and then dig into one wound, gagging the entire time. I’m glad he’s unconscious, because this can’t feel good.
My hunch is right, though. I pry his jagged wound apart and pull on the strange object, and as it unfurls in my hand, I realize what I’m looking at.
His wing. It tucks under muscle when he turns to human form, and that’s why I’ve never seen it. But it still exists, in a more delicate and far smaller shape than I expected…and it’s nearly torn to pieces. With gentle fingers, I try to straighten what I can. The cuts are terrible—I remember looking back as he carried me and seeing nothing but bloody ribbons as he stormed through the city in our escape—but they’re clean, straight cuts.
I…wonder if I can stitch these together for him.
I swallow hard at the thought. I’m terrified of making a mistake and crippling him further. I don’t know how dragon wings work….but I know if I don’t try, he’ll never fly again. His wings aren’t even wings anymore. But maybe…maybe they can heal, even a little, with stitches. If they at least heal straight…
I gently extend one wing, swallow hard, and prepare to make the smallest stitches I’ve ever made.
It takes all day to stitch Zohr’s wings back together.
It’s almost like working on a bird. There are tiny tendons and hollow bones that seem impossible and downright absurd on a dragon. But then I think about the fact that he turns into a human and maybe I need to throw “impossible” out the window.
I stitch tiny lines, sewing his wing back together into the world’s most delicate canvas. I make my stitches as small as possible, but that takes time and effort, and I grab a pair of reading glasses that I find that help me focus. They give me a blistering headache, but I can see closer, at least. Once one wing is done, I carefully fold it back into place and tuck it under the torn muscle before stitching everything closed.
Please let me not be making things worse. Let it help his wings. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like for him to lose the ability to fly. I’m going to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening.
By the time I finish his second wing and close up the last of his wounds, I’m exhausted and shaking. I wash my hands, get fresh water and gulp it down, and then move to lie next to Zohr on the sheets.
I wake up sometime later with intense thirst. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s not my own thirst.
It’s Zohr’s.
I touch a hand to his brow, and he’s scorching hot—hotter than normal. Shit. I crush a few expired aspirin into some water and dribble it into his mouth, then wipe down his body with cool cloths. The sun’s finally set and the intense heat in the apartment’s starting to fade. I open the windows more, even though it’s not safe, and soak sheets with water and drape them over his body, changing them out regularly.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. Zohr needs me.
This is my fault, too.
He wouldn’t have been imprisoned if it wasn’t for me. Now I have the added guilt of the destruction of his wings. He tore free from his bonds to save me, because he felt I was in danger. I’m horrified and sickened, and if he dies, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
So I’ve just got to make sure he doesn’t die.
I spend the entire evening swapping one wet sheet for a newly dampened one and dribbling aspirin-laced water into his mouth.
The sun rises, and the day promises to be another hot one. I consider trying to find an apartment with better airflow, but when I look out on the skies, I see red dragons in the distance. Shit. This is a dragon attack day, and the reds will be attacking until dusk all week long. There’s nothing to do but hide and hope they don’t nail the building we’re in.
There’s a breeze this day, at least, but with it comes the smell of ash and char. I nap for a few hours and then begin my process of wetting Zohr’s overheated skin down once more and trying to get some water inside him. He tosses and turns fitfully, and with every passing hour, I worry more and more that I’ve done more harm than good. I don’t know how to heal a dragon. What if I’ve done things all wrong?
I place another wet sheet over his body to cool him, and lie down next to him to catch a quick nap. The moment I do, a flurry of images fill my mind.