Jamie's eyes opened, glazed with fever but somehow finding Azelon's face.
"Blue," he murmured, the word slurred. "Beautiful blue."
Azelon's markings pulsed brighter in response, as if preening under the praise. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
"This will feel strange," he warned, though he wasn't certain Jamie could understand him through the fever. "But it will help."
Carefully, Azelon lowered himself until his chest pressed against Jamie's, positioning the most active of his markings directly over the infected wound. The contact sent a shock through his system—heat from Jamie's fever-wracked body, the soft feel of human skin, the intimacy of the position itself.
He began the incantation, words in the ancient Tideborn tongue.
With each syllable, his markings grew brighter, energy flowing from them and into Jamie's wound. The magic sought out infection, neutralized it, encouraged healing—but it did more than that. It created a connection, a tether between them.
Jamie's pain almost overwhelmed Azelon. A sharp, burning sensation across his ribs, a bone-deep ache in his head. He felt the confusion, the disorientation of fever.
And beneath it all lingered Jamie's essence—his steady determination, his quiet strength, his deep capacity for care. It washed over Azelon in waves, foreign yet somehow familiar.
Was this how Corin experienced him? This solid presence, this unwavering center?
Jamie gasped beneath him, back arching slightly as the healing magic took hold. His eyes flew open again, clearer this time, fixing on Azelon's face with startling intensity.
"What are you doing?" he whispered.
Azelon didn't break the incantation, but he held Jamie's gaze, trying to convey reassurance. The human's hand moved, weakly grasping Azelon's forearm.
To Azelon's surprise, Jamie didn't push him away. Instead, his fingers traced one of the glowing markings.
"Your marks," Jamie murmured. "They're... singing."
Azelon faltered in his incantation, stunned. No non-Tideborn should be able to sense that aspect of their magic. The marks did indeed create a frequency—too low for humans to hear.
Yet somehow, Jamie did.
And the connection between them strengthened, magic flowing more freely. Slowly, Jamie's fever began to recede, the infection in the wound diminishing. Relief flooded Azelon, strong enough that his control slipped momentarily.
In that unguarded instant, the connection flowed both ways.
Jamie's eyes widened as he caught glimpses of Azelon's thoughts, his memories, his conflicts. The exile. The rescue that had earned it. The months with Corin. The desperate hope of someday returning home, fading with each passing day.
"You saved someone," Jamie whispered, echoing Corin's words from days earlier. "From your own people."
Azelon closed his eyes, completing the final words of the incantation. The magic pulsed once more, bright enough to illuminate the entire room, then gradually faded back to its normal glow.
He started to pull away, but Jamie's hand tightened on his arm.
"Don't," Jamie said, his voice stronger than before. "Not yet."
"The healing is complete," Azelon replied, his own voice rough with exertion.
"But you haven't told me why." Jamie's eyes searched his. "Why you saved that person. Why you accepted exile."
Azelon tensed. The magic had created more of a connection than he'd intended. Shown Jamie more than he should have seen.
"It doesn't matter." He carefully extricated himself from Jamie's weakened grip and moved back, closing his tunic.
"It matters to Corin," Jamie countered.
Azelon turned away, busying himself with arranging fresh bandages. "You need rest. The fever has broken, but your body is still healing."
