I will deliver.

Looks like someone’s going to lose their job,” came the deep growl of the bartender.

The man was standing at the corner of the tavern, walking towards them with his arms folded against his broad chest. He looked at them sternly, passing through the tables to see who exactly was lying on the floor of his bar. When he did see them, his stare turned into a scowl. He glared at the two as if they’d murdered the men.

“What did you do to them!” he questioned furiously, looking down to the unconscious bodies at his feet. “These were my best customers!”

“Relax, they’re not dead,” said Miraye smoothly.

The bartender knelt down, taking one of the men’s faces and slapping its cheek. “What did you do to them?” he repeated. He’d had men pass out in his bar before, but never four of them at once.

“They asked for the strongest drink,” Miraye said, wiping the blood from her hand onto her well-stained dress, “so we did our best to please them.”

The bartender rose and looked over his bar, his glance going over every bottle that had been misplaced. He huffed, his face reddening, his finger rising to point at the girl and the boy, ready to shout their renouncement. But as he looked at them, something changed in his mind. Something he’d thought about since seeing these two return from the Guardian. He lowered his hand, casting his gaze back down to the men on the floor.

“I suppose they didn’t pay, either,” he said, bringing his hands to his hips. “This will be coming out of your pay as well, you two. Now get to work.”

Tic breathed, feeling as though he’d been holding his breath the entire time. So they wouldn’t be losing their only way of making money and getting to The Sink, he thought, not yet. The rainstorms were passing over them, their roars low and rumbling for now. The boy’s eyes passed over the tavern door as it opened again, but the customers were readily tended to by the bartender, who made sure that Tic and Miraye would not be serving anyone for a while.

Tic looked away from the men, looking down to the bleeding hand resting on the countertop. He saw the blood leaking from it, dripping down her wrist and onto the dress that had already been so ruined. The red liquid suddenly stirred a feeling within him, and he felt compelled to touch the hand, to wipe it clean, to fix it. The feeling was deep; a realization that struck him so profoundly, he wondered how could’ve forgotten it. It was a knowing, one he could not quite yet understand. And it was simple; these were wounds that could be cured. By him.

He stood, staring dumbly for a second as he realized. But then, he shook it from his mind, wondering again if it had all been a dream. His own hands then searched for something below the counter, and upon finding it, brought the soft piece of towel up and held it for a moment in his palms.

“Your hand..,” he spoke softly, offering the white cloth to the girl.