Once they got to her office, Desmond promptly tied him up to a chair besides Siren's desk, going so far as to tying his legs to the chair's. "You know, this is looking pretty bad," he said, standing somewhere behind Laurel, "You better hope he doesn't make a complaint against you." Siren didn't seem to care enough to look at Des as she answered: "Yeah, he'd be arrogant enough to do that." She unlocked one of her drawers and used both hands to pull out a huge, dark leather tome. She laid both books down side by side and, after taking a look at the one Laurel had swept away, started mincing some herbs. He desperately wanted to apologize and eventually thought he'd gathered enough will to say something, because he could feel himself start saying something; instead, what came out was "I'm Siren's good little puppy!" To his utter horror, Siren and Des looked at each other and the guard laughed. "I like some humiliation," she muttered, mixing whatever she'd done with black ink.

She loaded her pen and started drawing symbols on the dark tome; once she was done, she moved on to a paintbrush and dragged her chair over to Laurel's. With one hand, she cupped his face and pulled it towards herself. "Fuck, I wish you'd shut up," she said. It seemed like she wanted to sound angry, but all he found in her eyes was a hint of sadness. Then, she jammed her fingers along his mandible to try to stop him from moving too much when he barked. The wet paint was cold as she drew the brush along his cheeks. Relief washed over him as soon as he realized he'd stopped moving unwillingly. "Siren, I…" he started, despite her forceful fingers. "Thanks, Des," she interrupted, "You can untie him and go now." Des obeyed and Siren turned away, cleaning her materials as if Laurel wasn't there anymore.

Laurel regretted rubbing his at last free wrists when his blood stained his shirt and he felt the fabric on the exposed flesh of his fingertips. Despite the mind numbing pain, he wanted to say something. Anything. There had to be something that could settle the score. "Siren, I'm sorry. Really. I inconvenienced you." She sat a paperweight atop the tome's wet pages and ran her fingers along Alina's book, still not looking at him. "You really did," she said, "But what bothered me was that it was you." He got up, his knees weak from kneeling for so long. Still, he stood close to her, his disfigured hands hanging by his sides. "How so?" he asked. "Sometimes you're quite true to the nickname 'princeling', you know. There was ample warning of what would happen if you broke the rules," she finally turned to him, a stoic look on her face. "That's not… I just… Didn't want you to see me reading it. I wasn't thinking straight," he said, the desperate tone in his voice paining him. She looked at the book and smiled slightly, "Trenchwalker, huh. Why not?" In his yearning for approval, his hands shot up and grabbed hers, dirtying them with blood; it felt warm and damp and shot pain up his arms. Siren's pupils widened. "You said you were afraid of sounding obsessed," he said, "I don't think you do… But I thought you might think that of me. I… want to understand everything you tell me." Of course, he wouldn't tell her that he'd also been planning something. 

She bit her lower lip and looked at their entwined hands. It was a bloody mess, but she didn't pull away. "Honestly, that really messes with me. Deeply," she said, pausing to exhale slowly, "Which is why I couldn't believe that you'd do this and prove that you don't take my work seriously." He gripped her hands tighter and pulled them closer to himself. "No! Siren… I do. I just… Thought it would take longer to take effect. I don't know." She squeezed his hands too. "That's not even the point. Do you just think you're exempt from rules?" He sighed. "No. I fucked up. And I won't do it again." After a while, she looked up to meet his eyes. "I know." 

"I'll make it up to you," he said. "I just need time. It's fine," she replied, "And you should go to the healers." Noticing his puzzled look, she explained: "You know, the ones in white attire that come by sometimes. You'll find them in the main greenhouse." She let go of his hands, but he didn't let go of hers. Not yet, even though the touch burned so bad. "What did you mean when you mentioned Umbra's face?" he asked at last. Her cheeks visibly reddened. "You should forget that." He shook his head. "No, I want to know," he said. She chuckled, "I only said it because I know Umbra is not in the Ashen people's imaginarium." Laurel pulled her closer once again. Her eyes widened even more. "I care about every word that leaves your mouth," he whispered, raising a tainted hand to carefully adjust her crooked glasses. Her lips were parted and he could feel her choppy breathing against his hand as he paused. "Doesn't matter. I'm still hurt, you know," she pulled away and turned her back to him. "Yeah, I know," he said, keeping a soft tone, "I'll come back some other time."

He eventually found his way to the main greenhouse and, as soon as he was in there, whoever noticed his sorry state pointed him in the right direction. After a walk through the garden that would otherwise have been leisurely, he encountered some of the people clad in white. Though they seemed busy tending to the area, his arrival brought them to a stop. An older woman approached him and, after looking at his painted cheeks, said: "Siren?" Laurel nodded, a bit taken aback by her disgusted expression. She sat him down on a bench surrounded by tall plants; butterflies fluttered about without a care. After motioning for her colleagues to fetch something, she sat in a low chair in front of him.

"I take it it's not the first time this happens?" he asked, trying to sound sympathetic. Seemed like he was inconveniencing lots of people that day. "No, that girl's responsible for a good chunk of our work load," she said, grabbing his wrists to take a look at his injuries. "So lots of people get cursed?" he asked. "No." Before Laurel could ask her to clarify, another healer came by holding a cage. It was filled with rats. The woman tending to him gladly took it and set it by her side. "Um… What's that for?" he asked, a bad feeling overcoming him as he exchanged glances with the rats. All he received from the healer was a stern look. Then, she took his hand with one of hers and shoved the other inside the cage, touching whichever rat first came in contact with it.

Immediately, Laurel felt pin pricks all over his hand. It made him want to pull away. Still, he stayed put and, soon enough, his injuries started closing up — or rather, completely healing up, skin regenerating itself. Mesmerized by the process, it took him a while to realize that, under the healer's other hand, the rats died one by one. Of course. Nothing was free. There was a reason they didn't have that method in the Ashen Valleys, after all. Though he felt a bout of nausea, he knew he should have seen that coming. He held himself there, looking only at his hands until the healer was done. She sighed, locking the cage up. Examining his hands, Laurel noticed something. "My fingernails…" he muttered. Indeed, all the fingernails that had been chipped or ripped away still looked the same, his flesh exposed. "It will only heal what your own body has the capacity to heal. Fingernails are dead tissue. You'll just have to wait," she said, getting up, "We can bandage your fingers up." So she did, sending him on his way afterwards.

Once he got to his room and locked his door — considering the hole in it, privacy was an illusion — he realized someone must have scrubbed his blood out of the floor. Yeah, definitely inconvenienced a lot of people. The guitar was still where he'd left it, waiting for him to finish composing what he'd started. But… no fingernails. So it had all been for nothing. Before he started sulking in bed, he realized he could just find a fucking pick. Okay, everything was back on track. Even if it still hurt a little, he'd go through with it. He hadn't done all that and disappointed Siren in vain. In fact, he'd managed to read some of the poems in Alina's book before completely losing it. That would surely inspire him… after a long nap.