The Return - 5. Chapter 5

Burian’s soft voice caught on a word, hesitated, and stuttered to a stop.

Dmitri looked up from his soapy bucket and tossed his head to flip wet hair out of his eyes. “Take your time,” he encouraged, giving the child a smile. If someone had asked him, he couldn’t have said what Burian was reading, but reading kept the boy’s mind active while keeping him out of trouble. He supposed that the laundry he worked at was a similar task.

“Uncle ‘Mitri,” said Burian after fumbling over the unfamiliar word. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Burian. Just tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“Read, Burian.”

“I’m bored!”

Dmitri rubbed his aching, gritty eyes, blinking furiously as he fought through another dizzy spell. Burian was right; he was always tired. Lately he just didn’t have the energy. Here he was, kneeling in the garden next to his sister-in-law’s laundry tub muscles trembling with fatigue as his head spun. Some days even the littlest tasks felt like insurmountable obstacles. He would have liked to stay in bed, but Burian got restless and someone needed to keep their eyes on him.

“Uncle ‘Mitri?”

He jerked at the light, tentative touch on his arm, slipping along the edge of the tub where he’d set his head for just a moment. At first he didn’t know where he was, staring at the soapy water in shock. He had helped Ania many times with laundry; they both worked all day in the bakery and it only seemed fair. His first instinct was to look for her, share a smile, laugh, or joke about how tired he was. Then she’d dribble water on his face, he’d splash her back, and they’d end up playing, the laundry forgotten for another day.

He didn’t see her when he looked up, and the hurt crashed upon him again. Taking a quick, deep breath, Dmitri closed his eyes a moment, barely feeling his nephew’s hand tugging on his clothes. The sunshine felt warm on his back and face, combining with his fatigue to make him drowsy.

The little boy looked at his uncle’s pale, waxy face uneasily. He couldn’t yell for his papa; his father and Mordred were at a town meeting. This left Dmitri’s care wholly up to him, and he didn‘t want Mordred mad at him. Burian wanted to fetch help, but leaving the house still scared him. Was it safe?

Then the decision was taken from him as he heard his father’s voice sail over the wall. “Burian? Dmitri? Everything all right?”

“Papa!” Burian called, standing quickly and trotting over to the gate.

Dmitri stirred, but raising his head was too much effort. He just wanted to lie there a moment, just a moment longer. The voices in the distance were lost in the birdsong and swishing of the trees overhead. He didn’t realize they’d come closer until he felt a palm against his forehead. Fingers opened one of his eyes and he winced and pulled away, falling sideways into big hands with long fingers, the calluses almost more familiar than the ones gracing Dmitri’s hands. Mordred hissed in displeasure and Dmitri almost laughed, but he had strength enough only to smile a little.

Mordred’s hands smelled like leather and horse, comforting, warm scents. They were alluring and Dmitri did not fight; he relaxed completely.

He was dimly aware of being lifted and carried indoors. His bed was welcome and familiar and Dmitri settled there with little fuss. With the windows all closed and barred, the air indoors felt stifling after the gentle, clean air outdoors. After a time he became aware of a cool breeze against his face and of hands propping him up, a voice bidding him drink. He balked at first, and then a second time with a swallow of very bitter, cold tea.

There followed a peal of sharp laughter. Something about that laughter felt familiar. Dmitri focused on remembering, listening to the cajoling syllables and obediently drinking his tea. Slowly the voices and clatter in the background faded.

Dmitri came awake suddenly and completely, blinking his eyes open in a room bathed in candle light. He rubbed his painfully itchy nose. Someone sat on the bed beside him, placing a cork back into a small, smoky-gray bottle. Dmitri recognized him immediately.

“Gavin!”

The healer smiled, showing the gaps in his teeth. When he leaned forward to pat Dmitri’s cheek, all the bits of stone and bone beads attached to his clothing jingled a merry melody.

“Well, this is a right mess, isn’t it?” he asked. The bottle disappeared into the folds of his tattered clothing.

“You came back.” His stomach and chest felt different, stiff and irritable instead of hot and swollen. Looking down, Dmitri saw that he wore fresh bandages, which indicated to him that Gavin had tended him. “Thank you.”

Gavin patted his hand warmly and glanced towards the open window. “I saw in a dream that the time had come.” The blue eyes that turned once more on his patient made Dmitri shudder, for in them he thought he glimpsed mysteries far beyond his ken. They searched him, looking deep into his eyes, and Dmitri forgot for a moment that he knew this man. He grew afraid.

A palm gnarled with age came to rest on Dmitri’s forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they were as they’d been before: two old friends reunited after many years.

“Where have you been? You never sent word,” Dmitri burst out. He clasped his friend’s arm in a firm grasp. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You don’t look any different,” Gavin replied. He tilted his head sideways a little.

“And you look like an old man,” Dmitri teased back. “It’s been, what? Eight years? Nine? You could be my father and yet you’re no older than me.”

“Everyone else around here has grown up,” the healer continued as if talking to himself. In a louder voice he said, “And you! Still getting into trouble, I see.”

“Any trouble I got into was all your fault.”

Teeth flashed by in a smile. “True indeed.” From somewhere in his clothing he produced a small pouch. He tucked a pinch of herbs between his gum and the side of his mouth. The pouch then disappeared once more.

Dmitri grew unsettled again under Gavin’s unblinking stare. “Where did you go? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I had not. Now I have.”

“I hate it when you do that,” muttered Dmitri with a scowl, nearly missing the words as Gavin continued, “I do not wish to frighten you.”

They looked at each other for a moment before Dmitri rolled his eyes, grinned helplessly, and shook his head. “You’re still speaking in riddles.” They laughed and began talking about other things.

When Mordred came to summon them both for supper, Dmitri beckoned him closer, saying, “Mordred, come and meet my friend Gavin.”

“We’ve met,” said Mordred shortly. “He came looking for you at the inn.” The look he sent the healer spoke plainly of his distrust, but Gavin only shrugged.

“It was a good place to start.”

“You were looking for me?” asked Dmitri. “Why? How did you know to come back, and why now? We needed you a couple weeks ago!”

“Dmitri.” Mordred stayed by the door, crossing his arms in front of his chest and glaring at the strange healer. He didn’t like coincidences.

Gavin returned his stare evenly.

“I’d like to just eat here,” Dmitri broke in, plucking fuzz off the woolen blanket.

Mordred nodded, and then turned away. He left the door open.

“And who is this Mordred?” Gavin asked as the tall, lanky man disappeared from view.

“He’s the only one who doesn’t treat me like a freak,” Dmitri muttered bitterly. He turned his face away from Gavin’s return look. “He’s a friend.”

“I see.” The healer rose and walked to the window where he spit the wet herbs from his mouth into a cup.

With his back turned, Dmitri couldn’t make out what he was doing and anyway the scent of broiled fish and hot bread distracted him. His stomach growled noisily as Mordred reappeared with a laden tray. Saliva filled his mouth.

Mordred smiled. He set the tray across Dmitri’s lap. “There’s a girl to cook and clean now,” he explained. He frowned when Dmitri set down his fork. “Eat, Dmitri.”

“Then what am I supposed to do now?” Dmitri hissed, ignoring him. He’d been trying!

Mordred frowned and sat on the edge of the bed. Taking up the fork, he lifted food to Dmitri’s lips. Said lips pursed tightly as Dmitri scowled, and Mordred found himself smiling almost happily. Whatever the healer had done seemed to be working; Mordred hadn’t seen such fire in Dmitri’s eyes in days.

“With that poultice,” Gavin’s voice slithered over to them, “the infection is reduced, but you won’t regain your strength if you don’t eat.” A spoon chinked against the side of the tea cup he held.

Dmitri snorted, looking at the wall. He was cursed, haunted, a freak. What difference did it make? A braver man would have thrown himself from the cliffs once he realized the wounds weren’t going away.

“Such a baby,” drawled Gavin. “Guess I shouldn’t have expected that to change.” He ignored Mordred ignoring him and walked to Dmitri’s other side. “Here. Drink this.” After a moment of tense silence, he said, “So you’re not the town’s beloved anymore, so what? You’ve more important things to do. Now, drink.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“He said --”

“Those wounds aren’t just poisoning your body,” Gavin interrupted. He kept his gaze firmly on Dmitri. “Can you honestly tell me that you’re fine, here?” he tapped his head.

“Of course not! I survived the plague, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Now, drink your tea.”

Mordred glanced warily between both men. Spots of fever rose on Dmitri’s cheeks. His body moved restlessly. Gavin sat calmly, cup of tea proffered as if this were normal. He looked unfazed -- no, he looked intent. His eyes bored into Dmitri’s eyes, leaving Mordred to feel superfluous in this battle of wills.

“Drink the tea,” he urged Dmitri, nearly wincing when those fever-bright eyes lashed at him. Still, Mordred’s heart leaped when Dmitri snatched the cup and drank, gagging as he swallowed the harsh, thick liquid.

“Ugh!” Dmitri shoved the cup back at Gavin. “What was in that?”

The healer smirked. “Herbs. Took me a long time to find them.” He patted Dmitri’s shoulder and rose. “Glad I did.”

Dmitri grimaced, his body twisting in response to the cold tea hitting his stomach. “Bleh, tastes like piss.” He tossed his head back on the pillows, swallowing reflexively. He had to close his eyes, grateful for the breeze which cooled the sweat on his brow.

“You need to eat, Dmitri.”

“Shut up, Gavin,” he panted, nose and stomach both twitching as if just now recognizing the odors of pepper and fish, yams and honey butter. He kept swallowing, gritting his teeth and twisting his fists into the blanket.

“All this good food,” Gavin went on. He shouldered Mordred aside, plucking the roll off the tray and munching loudly. “Tastes so good, Dmitri.” He held the remainder up to the pinched lips. “Here, have some.”

Dmitri smacked the offending hand away, and then clutched at his stomach as his whole body rebelled. The next thing he knew Mordred’s arms were around him, holding him upright. Dmitri blinked tears out of his eyes, gasping through the painful burn in his throat, spitting again to clear the last bits of chunky, bloody foam from his mouth.

Mordred muscled Dmitri back into bed, laying him flat and wiping sweat from his face. Dmitri’s body trembled and he seemed dazed, for which Mordred cast a scathing look in the healer’s direction. He had it in his mind that a healer could just, well, heal, without all this invasive, cryptic muttering and mucking about with potions and charms. Dmitri looked even sicker than before.

Gavin ignored them, using a stick to poke at the contents of the basin he’d quickly grabbed for Dmitri to retch into. As he’d expected, it smelled much as had the pus leaking from Dmitri’s wounds. He nodded his head, satisfied, and set the basin on a table to be disposed of later.

“Dmitri.” He moved back to the man’s side opposite Mordred, and picked up one of the limp hands. “Dmitri, listen to me.”

One brown-gold eye inched open to glare feebly, and then the other. “What?” he rasped. Even to his ears his voice sounded different, as if it came from somewhere far away. Actually, his head felt distant, too. He winced at Mordred’s tight grip on his shoulder, but didn’t scold him. The pain was a welcome respite from everything else.

“Dmitri,” said Gavin again. He waited impatiently for Dmitri’s eyes to focus on him once more. “Dmitri, you have to fight this. I can help, but it’s all up to you. You have to fight back.”

Dmitri groaned, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to fight anything. Can’t I just sleep?”

“I know. I know you don’t, but you have to. You have to, Dmitri.”

“Leave him alone,” Mordred growled. He dipped the rag in more water and wrung it out to keep from ripping Dmitri’s hand away from the crazy old healer. He champed at his possessiveness, knowing such feelings were wrong but unable to resist them.

“I can’t,” Gavin whispered, the conflict in his voice breaking through Mordred’s anger. They looked at each other.

“Neither can you.”

Mordred looked away, looked at Dmitri, the man’s face still pale but gaining back color. He brushed back the thick hair, looking away as Dmitri felt his gaze and looked back at him with those gorgeous, tormented eyes.

“Eat,” said Gavin abruptly. He patted Dmitri’s hand briskly and rose. He paused in the doorway. “Eat, and then we’ll talk.” The door thumped closed behind him.

“He’s mad,” said Mordred softly. Dmitri surprised him with a low chuckle.

“Yes.” The amusement died. “But aren‘t we all?” Dmitri plucked the damp rag from Mordred’s hand and held the cloth to his forehead. He pressed his lips together, and said, “I’m frightened, Mordred. I think he’s going to tell me that my dragon’s real.”

“Do you think it’s real?”

“I don’t know,” Dmitri replied, but he turned his head, rolling his body over onto his side. He smiled a little as he felt Mordred pull the blanket back up to his chin, patting his shoulder awkwardly. For the first time in days he didn’t get that zing of desire in his nether regions and sighed with relief. It had just been a phase after all. Probably something to do with the plague. “Thank the Gods.”

Mordred paused in cleaning up. “What?” he asked, but there was no response. He thought Dmitri slept and sat down beside him again. For long minutes he stared at the strong jaw free of stubble and ending in a cute cleft chin. Awkward, shy, confident, and strong; Mordred wanted that time at the forge back. Heedless of the desire he awoke in the other man, Mordred let his fingers drift over the wide, full lips, the nose just a shade too long to be really cute, the smooth expanse of his forehead and eyebrows. He ran his fingers through the thick hair and the thought came to him that his current hair color, a deep green, would look rather fetching against Dmitri’s skin color.

He sighed and stood, gathering the discarded food, the used cups, the kettle, and bunched soiled clothes and bandages under an arm for washing. While Lel had contracted a young woman with no family to work for him, Dmitri was his responsibility. He didn’t like Gavin’s interference, but he’d be a fool to try and prevent it.

They did not actually sit down to talk until the morning. Gavin gave Dmitri more tea, to which he gave a suspicious stare but swallowed anyway. He was right; Dmitri retched up his guts again. Afterwards he lay still, panting, while Gavin worked off the old bandages.

“They look better,” Mordred commented.

Gavin grunted, grabbing a wineskin and dumping the contents on Dmitri’s chest.

The liquid hit like quenched iron. Dmitri screamed and thashed. He wanted to curse, fiercely, but breathing won out.

Mordred had no such compunctions. He seized Gavin and threw the healer bodily to one side. “What are you doing?” he yelled. He reached for Dmitri, but could not hold him without hurting him or getting hurt in the process. In the end he stood back, alternately glaring at the healer and glancing worriedly at Dmitri.

“I‘m getting rid of the dragon‘s poison,” said Gavin calmly. He laid out strips of bandages.

The healer had Mordred‘s full attention. “Poison?”

“Yes, of course. You didn’t think wounds naturally leaked like that, did you?” One eyebrow arched upwards.

Mordred’s hands curled into fists. “No, but those plague creatures --”

“Dmitri was attacked by a dragon,” Gavin interrupted, speaking firmly. His lips thinned. “You know this.”

Mordred blinked. “I know I told you Dmitri said that.”

“Think about it. Did you actually see him get attacked? Was there any sign that anyone else had been there? Those taken by the plague don’t just attack and then leave, and how would they even cause these slashes? They might come from a cat, or a bear, even, but no human can scratch like this.”

“Would you two shut up,” Dmitri grunted, still twitching but beginning to think clearly once more. “By all that’s holy, Gavin, that hurt like all the devils.” He kept his eyes closed, still curled up on his side and shaking. His teeth chattered as he tried to relax his muscles.

“T-tastes like a ‘79,” he panted, licking his lips. “Lel’s going to kill you.”

Gavin chuckled. “You must be feeling better.” His hands opened a small packet, dumping the powdered contents into a small bowl filled with water and stirring with a finger.

“Um,” said Dmitri. “Um, actually, I think I am. A little.” He grabbed for the blanket but his fingers wouldn’t hold on.

“Mordred,” said Gavin, making the tall man jump. The healer smiled to himself, knowing full well where the other man had been looking. He handed the bowl and a small brush to Mordred, directing him to smear the paste onto Dmitri’s wounds. He busied himself with the bandages again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mordred asked, helping Dmitri straighten out again. He pulled the blanket back up to cover Dmitri’s hips, for once more fascinated by the color in Dmitri’s cheeks than the shape of his body.

“I will be if you quit staring at me!” the baker hissed. Tremors still wracked his body and he didn’t think he could hold a glass steadily enough to drink, but he forced fists around the edge of the blanket. He’d played and fished in the sea as a boy, but nudity had never affected him like this. Being nude around his wife hadn’t bothered him, either.

Mordred sat down at his side and placed one hand by Dmitri’s ear for balance. He whispered, “I will when you stop being so beautiful.”

Dmitri gaped. Luckily, his muscles spasmed again, hiding the effects of Mordred’s words. When he could hold still again, the mud-colored powder brushed aside the lingering embarrassment. Dmitri groaned, tossing his head back and biting his lip against the awful sting.

He was exhausted by the end of the whole ordeal, too tired to even scowl at Gavin when he re-bound the wounds or jerk away from Mordred as the other man bathed his face.

“You’ll have to do this twice a day,” Gavin instructed Mordred. “Soak the bandages in wine, and then let them dry overnight. That will help as well.” He straightened out the items on the small table he’d appropriated for his things and ignored Mordred’s ‘What?’ in order to begin explaining their uses.

“If his fever goes back up, put a pinch of this in your cheek to soften. Take it out when it starts to burn, add water, and serve cold. Make sure he vomits, understand?”

“I’m not doing that!”

“This makes the paste,” Gavin continued, hefting another sack. “Put this much in the palm of your hand, to measure, then add to water, stir until it thickens.”

Mordred stood. “I tell you I’m not doing that!”

“Come, come, Mordred, I can hardly go with you. You need to know how to do this, or do you want Dmitri to die?”

“What are you -- Go? Go where? I’m not going anywhere!”

“For pity’s sake!” snapped Dmitri. “Shut up! Both of you. My head is pounding.”

“I will make you some tea.”

Dmitri groaned. “Not more tea, Gavin.”

The healer smiled and gently patted his patient’s hand. “For your headache. I’m afraid it’s a side-effect from the potion I gave you.” He looked up at Mordred. “He’ll need fresh meat, every day, and lots of water to drink. Or tea, but no wine. Or beer.”

“You’re the healer! You can --”

Gavin shook his head. “No, Mordred. I cannot go with you. My place is only to help you understand. The gods have sent this task to you.”

“Task, what task?” Dmitri unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth with effort. “You don’t believe in the gods, Gavin. That’s why you left.”

“It is true that I did not, once, but I do now.” He gathered up his friend’s hand and squeezed it gently. “My friend, have you not sensed that Mordred does not belong here?” He looked over to the suddenly still man. “I wonder if Mordred is really your name.” The man in question remained silent. “Anyway, I saw his arrival in a dream and knew it was time to come home. Do not worry about Whispering Cliffs, Dmitri. I’ll look after them. You must go with Mordred. He came here for you. It can only be so; it all adds up: the herbs I traveled so far to find, the gods’ mark upon you. You were always special; everyone knew it, and now we know why.”

“Why?” Dmitri asked, wetting his lips to get the word out. “No. No, Gavin.” He shook his head. “I’m not special. I’m just me! Just a man. Gavin.” He held his friend’s hand with a strength born out of desperation. “Gavin, please. This is my home.”

“No one gets visions anymore,” said Mordred roughly. “The gods are dead.”

“No!”

To his surprise, it was Dmitri, not Gavin, who responded thus. Anger masked his face. “Don’t you way that! How can you say that? No, no, no.”

“Gods’ mercy,” said Gavin, making the gesture that made Mordred want to smack people. Then he leaned over to soothe his patient before beginning his medical instruction once again.

Mordred sighed, frowning in frustration, and crossed his arms over his chest. He paced, wanting to yank the crazy man away from Dmitri, wanting to wad up cotton for his ears, wanting to deny, deny deny! But Gavin’s words rang true in his ears.

He’d come for Dmitri. He’d come to Whispering Cliffs to find this one man. All the years he’d been traveling, it was all to find Dmitri. Why? Why why why why why?

This was madness!

He wanted to throw the powders and herbs and all else out the window, desisting for Dmitri’s sake. The dragon, what about the dragon? If this was all some plot of the gods, why? Why give their chosen one a deadly disease? Didn’t the harpers sing about birth marks and prophesies and signs of the gods? He wracked his memory but couldn’t think of any tales that involved killing people just to get their attention.

The gods were dead. He was certain of it!

Mordred paused and looked back over at the bed. Dmitri was settling, apparently dozing, while the healer held Mordred in an unblinking stare, still talking. Mordred scowled. His scowl fizzled into an anxious frown.

Dmitri had faith. Mordred did not. The town of Whispering Cliffs should not, but he’d heard that undercurrent again at the meeting the day before. Faith was an infection here, in this town. The drought had stirred up doubts and the plague confirmed them, but the people still believed. Mordred thought they were idiots, but he could not argue against blind faith.

And now Gavin. He’d seen how the townsfolk saw his reappearance as a sign. They’d all but thrown him at Lel and Mordred, a last-ditch effort to save their local luck charm. They would support Gavin’s claims.

A task sent by the gods? This was insane!

On the other hand, Dmitri was sure to go along with it, too.

Mordred stopped by the window and looked out facing South. He still wanted to go there. The town meeting had only emphasized how strange the town had become since the plague. The people were still determined, if also quiet and fearful. They had thought themselves immune from the bad luck of their neighbors and still reeled from the shock of being mortal after all. Only one-third of the population remained alive. The ease and joy Mordred recalled from his first days were absent. He didn’t know if that comfort and welcome would return. All he really knew was that he did not feel comfortable here any longer. All that had been keeping him here was Dmitri, and if Dmitri left …

Mordred looked over his shoulder to the man he’d been caring for the past weeks. He nodded to himself: if Dmitri left, he would accompany him.