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“Stay still, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Ashur ordered, and Caelestis obeyed without resistance. They didn’t think they could do much else, with the way the world was spinning lazily in their vision.
Ashur’s hand was firm, pinning them down despite their compliance. That was probably fair. They weren’t known for listening well to anyone but him, and Tarquin had dragged them in plenty of times while complaining to anyone who would listen about how they’d run around with a fresh chest wound and no intention of stopping. He might have had a point, but then, they’d had a job to do and it couldn’t stop just because of an injury.
They watched between slow blinks as Ashur dragged a glove off with his teeth. They loved his hands, made for blessing, offering absolution and condemnation at once. Scars littered his skin, and they wanted to worship them, but they couldn’t lift their head to offer their devotion.
His boot knife flashed, and his blood mingled with theirs, hot on bared skin. It felt like a brand, marking them as a supplicant, begging a blessing from his divinity as it flared with magic. Ashur only used his own blood for magic now, given freely. He used it to heal, their flesh and his blood, searing the wound shut. They leaned into the pain, hissing in a sharp breath as they relished it. It wasn’t the self-flagellation of their youth, the scars still striping their back, but it felt like it, a sacred ritual.
They brought his hand to their lips to kiss away the droplets of wine-red blood, and he closed his eyes, sighing in pleasure. The ritual complete, he took their hands in his, pulling them to their feet, and wrapped them in his arms. “Don’t do that again,” he ordered, and they could only smile. Any vow made would be broken, and they wouldn’t break his faith in them.