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"Ay, so I am . . . " he took a vacant bed of leaves and settled down, taking the time to preen his bedraggled feathers. "Though . . . lay off a bit. I don't want to be Bloodywing anymore than I have to."
"Okay," Thorntalon pulled out the tube from his wing, "Looks like you got it all in. You should still rest though, the sudden blood loss and transfusion will make you a bit dizzy."
Rubbing his wing, he smiled. "I'll do that." Now that he knew no one was watching him, and now that he wasn't light-headed from the stress of showing off to the ladies, he dissolved into silence, staring at the far wall as he remembered his conversation with Blackthorn. With a chuckle he remembered his chickhood days, when he would sit out by the camp border, hoping that his brother would come for him. The chuckle faded when the loneliness of those nights stole over him like daybreak, and he fingered the scar that Blackthorn had given him. It was, he thought sadly, the only thing he had ever given to him. Although he wanted with all his heart to accept Blackthorn's apology, he knew that to do so would be foolhardy. In the end, all Blackthorn cared about, was himself.