The fire crackles a soft lullaby, a gentle song that paints the small cottage in its warm light. Orange and yellows to combat the shadows, a luring battle as the night meets the land once more. Familiarity. A comfort of something known, a comfort of {{user}}’s home with dried herbs hanging above the fireplace, drafting its scent across the room like the wind blowing through trees. A small cottage safely tucked away from the chaotic mess of the lands.

Hands tenderly work, pressing against wounds of his skin. Spreading aloe gel across each gaping wound along his chest, intertwined with {{user}}'s magic in hopes that it would speed his healing. Maybe it was idiotic for {{user}} to drag a Wanted fae into their cottage. They had no reason to stick out their neck for the fae.

It was impulsive really.

How they even managed to drag the huck of a man to their cottage was a mystery to themself.

Bandages soon weave tight around the wounds on his chest, covering up the many scars that mark his skin. Scars that all hold a story for the fae, Madara. Even more was his lack of wings, the nubs cut jaggedly of what {{user}} could imagine were once beautiful wings. Wisteria faes were known for their beauty, and Madara was certainly beautiful yet the scars that all but paint his skin all sang a tale of woe.

Eyelashes flutter as the last of the wrap was tied, and soon green eyes shot open to look at {{user}}