The revelation came as a shock to Anther. It came as a shock to all of them, but to Anther most of all, who, up until Líala’s supposed curse, had no knowledge that he might be anything more than human.
The words had buzzed around his head and bled from dazed lips all the while that Thæon sat with him in the baths, perched on the edge of the stone tub with Anther’s head in his hands as he washed ash and dirt and dried blood from his hair; Anther’s questions and half-formed, his words still layered beneath whimpers, whines and the odd growl when either his mind thought too fast or Thæon’s mindlessness held them in silence for too long.
Thæon wanted to fill the silence. He wanted to ramble and he wanted to talk, but his own mind was a torrent of thoughts that could be as sharp as hailstones, were he to cast them from his tongue without thought; choosing to keep them to himself for the time being, until it was that he and the others could sit and discuss while Anther slept.
It wasn’t because he wanted to keep the truth from him, but that his dragon was already burdened by so much, and having to endure three consecutive transformations, he more than deserved to sleep away the remainder of the day, wrapped up in heavy furs and free from nightmares. And Thæon wanted to get a chance to be able to give Anther definite answers when he inevitably asked questions.