Rowan dug through his trunk of clothes, looking for something to put on the naked and unconscious man in his bathtub. He didn't want to touch him skin to skin, but also didn't want to leave him there, with nothing but a sheet on top of him. At the bottom of his trunk he found a baggy linen nightshirt that he hadn't worn since his days at the Core Compound. This would have to work. The best thing about it was that it wouldn't require Rowan to figure out how to get pants on his still slightly warm, yet otherwise peaceful ward.
He planned on taking care of the young man, since clearly he'd done something with his magic to bring the garnet-soul back in this form. It wasn't like he could just drag him out into the woods and leave him there. He didn't want to think about what would happen when the man awoke—if the man awoke. For now, he would pour his energy into nurturing his unexpected ward back to health, and hopefully awareness.
In fact, his magic thrummed through his body in excitement about the new task ahead of him.
Rowan's routine had been to sing to the souls in the garden first thing in the morning, but they were doing so well, surely it wouldn't hurt to leave them until later. Instead he marched purposefully to his shed, picking up the basket he'd dropped the night before along the way. Inside the shed, he pulled a pair of suede gloves from a hook on the wall. He normally wore them when tending to his roses, which for some reason always grew extra thorny with even the slightest use of his magic.
In the bathroom, Rowan put on his jacket to cover his arms, then pulled on the suede gloves. He shook out the nightshirt and knelt by the tub. The young man slept on. Rowan reached for him, planning to lift his upper body long enough to get the nightshirt over his head. He stopped with his hands inches from the young man's shoulder.
Rowan's stomach twisted and his heart began to pound. Words of derision flooded his mind, the warnings about uncleanliness and danger taking the voices of Ciprian and Alaric and anyone else who ever looked at him. Rowan's hand shook. The loudest voice of all was his own.
Yes, he was wearing gloves, but a touch was still a touch. What if he killed this reborn soul before he'd even opened his eyes to the world. Rowan sat back on his heels. His chest grew tighter and tighter until he couldn't draw a full breath. With the exception of last night, which seemed like a matter of life and death at the time, he couldn't remember the last time he'd intentionally touched another person. Suddenly, he wasn't sure he could do it.
He could face creatures of Disorder, absorb the black sting of their energy and hold their very souls in his hand, but the thought of doing this one thing terrified him.
Rowan did the only thing he had faith in. He sang quietly to himself, and when he'd managed to shape his panic into a manageable form with the magic of his own voice, he slid a gloved hand under the young man's back. The man's head fell against Rowan's shoulder, black hair brushing his neck over the collar of his jacket.
Rowan worked as quickly as possible to pull the nightshirt over the head, then struggled with the arms, one at a time. The young man's flesh was smooth yet hard, his fingers long and graceful. A finely-shaped nail crowned the tip of each finger. They were almost pearlescent in their sheerness and gave the hands an overall appearance of cold perfection.
With his work done, Rowan eased the man down, a gloved hand protecting his head from hitting the back of the tub. He felt a twinge of guilt looking at the unconscious form of the person who'd been thrust into his care. What kind of Caretaker allowed someone in such a precarious position to recover in a bathtub?
Before he could talk himself out of it, Rowan grabbed the man under both arms and lifted him from the tub. He staggered back under the weight as the man fell against him. His head landed once more on Rowan's shoulder. Deciding it couldn't be helped, Rowan did his best to half-carry, half-drag the man to his bed. Last night had passed in an urgent haze, but now he realized his new ward was most definitely taller than he was, not to mention deceptively sturdy for having such long and elegant limbs.
Rowan dropped the young man on his bed, cringing when his head flopped roughly against the mattress. Taking care of the dead with magic was one thing. Clearly he needed to work on his skills when it came to taking care of living beings without magic. He lifted the young man's legs up and managed to get the body mostly straight, though the feet hung about a foot off the bottom of the mattress, and the head was much too far from the top. Rowan wedged a pillow under his ward's head and silently apologized for all the abuse it had suffered.
He closed his eyes for a moment while the panic that he'd locked away with a song dissipated, then let out slow breath and pulled off the gloves. Touching, even with the protection of gloves, could not become a regular occurrence. All along he'd believed it to be only because he was afraid he'd hurt the other person, but now he realized the pain went both ways.
Rowan had done his best to make sure his ward was physically more comfortable, or at least, less uncomfortable. Now he needed to see what was going on beneath the surface. Singing softly, he sat on the edge of the mattress and allowed his vision to slip away from reality as he extended a hand over the young man's chest. The top of his scar stretched in a puckered line over the loose neck of the nightshirt. Instantly Rowan was met with an energetic wall of resistance. He frowned.
He infused his song with more magic, but that only seemed to agitate the man's soul and intensify his resistance. Rowan paused. His magic rustled in his heart. The next thing that came out of his mouth was the melody that had only appeared to him yesterday as he sang for hours to the garnet-seed in the pot.
Instantly, the young man's soul relaxed, allowing Rowan to sweep around it with his spirit. It kept its secrets hidden, but it grew peaceful at the sound of Rowan's voice. He tried to draw it into awareness, coaxing and pulling with his song, but it was locked in slumber.
Eventually he released his magic and shook his head to bring himself back to the reality of order. A slight pain throbbed behind his eye. He'd overreached, yet again.
Rowan stood and arched his back, stretching out the tension that had wound around his spine. With the young man asleep, there was nothing else he could do right now.
He picked up the broken pieces of the pot he'd used to tend to the garnet-soul, and grabbed a broom from the patio to sweep up the dirt. As he scooped a pile of dirt and clay shards into the dustpan, a glimmer in the debris caught his eye. He brushed aside the dirt with his fingers to reveal the garnet-seed.
Rowan wiped it off on the hem of his shirt and stared at the glistening surface. A quick scan with his magic revealed that the seed was empty, transformed into nothing more than a strange, blood-red jewel. He pulled his locket from within his shirt and placed the jewel inside the walnut shell.