An hour later, Wescherlie pinched her nose, ushering Cypur into the shower. "Your sweat is historically naturally stinky to ward off rivals or attract desperate mates. You go first. I can't stand it anymore."

Oh, shut up. He grimaced and sniffed his arm. Didn't smell any worse than he might have after a long day at school. He shook his head, but he was glad to go first. Showers were relaxing. It was just what he needed after all that.

A sigh escaped his lips as the warm water touched every nook and cranny of cold skin. Some deeper scratches on his arms and legs he caught healing. There was a small mirror at eye level and Cypur blinked lazily at himself. Droopy eyes shot up in surprise. How ragged he looked! His hair was frizzy like a mad person.

Damn, the world really hasn't been kind to you, has it?

He reached for the shampoo—some herbal stuff that had a floral scent he didn't care for—and scrubbed his hair. Taking long care to massage his scalp, he make sure all the hair strands were soaped and delicately rinsed. Even though his hair was being subjected to foreign soap, he hoped his normal hair-washing routine would still bring the same results.

Lucious golden strands. A love-hate relationship. He chuckled softly. The finer, softer hair of his needed care to make shine. On one hand, he didn't like standing out because of it. 'Goldilocks' was a nickname he loathed hearing. On the other hand, the same way other Sorcerers gushed over his golden magick, he felt similar about his golden hair. It was a point of pride.

Very Sorcerer-like, me. He tipped his head back to rinse the soap out.

When he finally stepped out of the shower, wringing his hair out, he found there was only one towel. He called to Wescherlie about it.

"You can use it. I'm going to shower bird style. Don't worry about me." Wescherlie's voice sounded muffled as if she were smothering her face in the pillow.

"Alright, if you say so." Cypur dried his hair and combed it out with his fingers. The floral scent wasn't as strong now that he washed the soap out and the body soap smelled like roses and made him grimace. How fitting that he had actual Rosie Buns now.

Four buns, he thought. A squeak of laughter escaped his lips. Filled up, washed up, he was refreshed and a little giddy. It was so nice to be away from everything. He never had that chance before, always bogged down with having to be the perfect Sorcerer. Always following social norms and always trying to keep his emotions at bay.

Really, he wanted to laugh and squeal, run and play, say jokes, and never have to be calm and composed all the time or stress about what others thought of him. But he would behave, of course. As long as he could be himself all other times.

"I'm coming out," he called, "in a towel."

"I thought as much." Wescherlie's voice was close to the door, making him jump. "I found this. Can you open? There was only one. Obviously, I'm not a registered visitor."

He thanked her for the bathrobe and closed the door. Of course, it was too big for him. At least he was covered. He opened the door to Wescherlie the Raven.

"Can you turn on the water for me?" The raven hopped into the shower. "Like a lukewarm temperature? Not on full blast. Imagine a soft rainfall type."

Once the shower was set for her, he closed the door.

"Holler if you need me to turn it off," he said, and she cawed. Her clothes, he guessed, somehow were part of her feathers. Maybe if she pruned them and dried them off her clothes would dry up, too?

Using her absence from the room, Cypur opened up his bathrobe and let the warmth magick in the room dry his skin. He combed his hair with his fingers, wincing at the snarls.

What a chaotic day it was. He bundled himself back in the bathrobe and sat on the bed, looking out the now frozen barren grounds. The slickness indicated the ice was getting pretty thick and the sinkholes had filled up.

"Cypur! Water off, please," The door rattled, "and the door please."

"Coming." He stood and opened the door. A fluffed-feathered Wescherlie came hopping out and he turned off the water. "Drying up?"

"Yep!" she said with a gleeful chirp in her voice. Then she sat in the middle of the room and began pruning her feathers. Cypur sat back on the bed and watched her with interest.

"Sorry, uhm, can you avert your gaze?" She ruffled her feathers.

"Sorry, I didn't know." He turned his head to the wall.

"Just this part. I'll say when you can look."

He felt magick tickle the air and Wescherlie called his name. She was fully clothed, dry, and smelled of roses like him.

"I guess we share the bed." She yawned and stretched, arching her back. Then she threw herself onto the bed, nearly bumping into him.

Cypur moved away to avoid getting poked or kicked by mistake. "How is it every part of you is dry?"

"Rauvuren transformation magick." She winked and stretched out on the bed. Cypur did, too, careful not to disrobe in the process. He had laid his clothes out on the floor to dry. He was too tired to work a drying spell right now. If they were still damp tomorrow, he would be ready then.

Wescherlie yanked out the blankets from underneath them and covered them both. "There now. Can you sleep?"

"I think so," he said with a yawn. "What a weird, long day. But," he turned to her, "we're still together."

Still together despite everything, he added to himself. He wanted to prove to her that he could be trusted. He was worth being with. Wescherlie tapped his shoulder.

"Listen, okay? What I said about trust issues," She sighed and dropped her gaze, "it's what happens when you can't trust anyone but yourself for a long time," she said, "But I learned, I didn't trust others because I was unsure of myself. Berate me, call me bird brain, tell me I'm stupid, now I don't give a damn, because I love who I am. I like being a flier, being a Rauvuren, being the youngest, too."

The youngest Rauvuren and only flier. He couldn't imagine how lonely that must be. He had a family. Maybe it wasn't ideal, but didn't his mother come to him for fashion runways? He could handle the stage, not his brother Jarvur. Jarvur had stage fright, or so it was rumored. And Cypur took the stand at aesthetic debate. Maybe they made fun of him, but he was proud doing it. He liked himself during aesthetic debate. No one could tell him anything that would make him step down.

"As long as I'm proud of myself and love myself," Wescherlie continued, "as long as I believe in me, trust in me, then what they say or do can't hurt me. Like a shield. I never give a damn, so it doesn't get me down if they walk away." She gave a small smile and shrugged. "If it hurts, I don't let it for long. I might be alone, but I'm not lonely."

A cloud of sadness pass over her face, but then there was the usual smiley Wescherlie again. To be proud, to love yourself, believe in yourself, to trust yourself—Cypur had a feeling he did some of those, but it didn't always save him from the thorns. Words cut through his shield. He paid for fake friends but allowed them to beat him up. Then his own words hurt. Not so much the others, but Cypur realized he was his own worst enemy.

"So, you don't feel lonely?" he asked.

She cocked her head. "Well, anybody feels lonely sometimes. But I don't let it go on. I go do things."

"What kind of things?" Cypur couldn't imagine putting himself out there during his most vulnerable lonely moments.

"A singing competition," She folded down a finger, "a fashion show model, joined a circus. Dare devil, the Humans called me. Not afraid of heights. And then I couldn't shut my mouth about politics, so I barged into a politically rally and shouted into the microphone," She laughed and sighed, "Oh, the looks on their faces to see a little girl with spunk. I hid my wings well."

The things she was listing, he could almost imagine her doing them. Despite they were strangers, she had immediately won him over doing her on-purpose mistake speech. Something he couldn't do with a complete stranger. No matter how nice that stranger was.

"How do you do it?" he wondered out loud. "You say you're not worried about what others will think, but you're not even worried a little bit?"

"Sometimes," She nodded, "it does. It gets to me. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so reckless or daring. Sometimes I hate the mistakes I make. I hate I still have things to learn. But then, I have an eternal supply of pie so." Holding out her hand, she made slicing motions with the other.

"Pie called slack," he said, understanding. Her purple eyes twinkled as she grinned.

"Exactly. It's part of my shield." She thumped her chest. "Tough cookie is me." She stuck out her tongue and winked.

I can learn from her, he thought. Her shield was almost impenetrable. A few scratches could easily heal. She accepted herself just the way she was. Not trying to change anything. Even things that might be negative. For him, that would be everything that made him who he was.

He was about to sink into the hole of negative thoughts when Wescherlie asked,

"What flavor is your slack pie?"

"I like apple pie."

Wescherlie scoffed. "Oh, really? Well, I bet you'll change your mind with this!"

And into the night, they talked about all the different pies in the entire world of Elgana, and Cypur wished to try mango pudding pie found in the Second Ring where Halfhumans lived. Maybe one day, when all of this was over, he could go with Wescherlie. She could show him around. After that thought, he yawned and Wescherlie echoed him.

"Tomorrow, Priviturn Lake. Goodnight," he said with another yawn.

"Primitive Lake, got it."

"Oh, starlights," Cypur cracked a smile, "that would be the worst place to visit."

"Yep! Night, night, Cypur," Wescherlie said in a voice heavy with sleep.

* * *

Some hours later, he woke in the night, dragging himself out of a dream he soon forgot. Wescherlie wasn't in the bed. He quickly found her as a raven outside on the balcony, perched on the railing and staring up at the moon. The frozen rain had stopped, and the moonlight made icy land twinkle and glow white and pale blue. A chilling breeze seeped through a slit in the windows where it wasn't closed properly.

Wescherlie spread her wings. Her black feathers glistened almost silver in the moonlight. A shimmering purple of sparkling magick rippled across the feathers. Then with a heave of a sigh she folded her wings back up again.

A high note of song cut through the silence. Wescherlie let out wordless cries in a melodic tune. Cypur listened quietly when words were added to the melody.

Hush my dear, the sun has now set

The moon is rising so don't you fret

Its quiet rays will carry a song

Telling a child the day was long

So,

Hush my dear, the moon is now high

Stars will appear now and brighten the sky

All creatures now quiet, a yawn will not keep

My dear little one, now go to sleep

So, hush my dear hush,

in my arms you are safe.

I'll be with you, dear,

until,

you,

wake.

Cypur stifled a yawn and closed his eyes. 

The image of a sad Rauvuren burned in his mind.