The Return - 6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

“What are you doing?”

Mordred looked up, brows furrowed and clearly distracted. “Hm?”

Dmitri scowled. He clung to his saddle with both hands, shifting uncomfortably as the horse’s movement pulled at the wounds across his belly and chest. Carefully, he twisted around to look behind them. The road curved up along the side of the cliffs and Dmitri could just see the rooftops of his town in the distance. A pang of longing struck him with the force of a blow and he clenched his teeth until it passed.

“Can we just go?” he demanded shortly. He closed his eyes to avoid Mordred’s searching look.

“For someone who didn’t want to leave, you’re certainly in a hurry to go,” Mordred remarked.

“I just don’t see why you’re wasting time with all those flowers!” snapped Dmitri. “We could’ve been miles from here by now.”

Kneeling in the grass clutching handfuls of dark purple flowers, Mordred pursed his lips, considering. The horses were fine, cheerfully munching grass. With the sun and a light breeze off the ocean, the day was about as pleasant as a summer day could be. Rain from the night before kept the road dust to a minimum, so what was the problem?

“Why are you picking daisies?” Dmitri continued to whine.

“I want to dye my hair.”

“What? Why?”

The strands hanging over Mordred’s shoulder looked and felt dry and brittle and dull. He threw back the sloppy braid in disgust. “The color’s wearing off,” he told Dmitri. He held up the bouquet in his hand. “I’m going to use these to give my hair life again.”

“And just what is wrong with the way your hair looks?” Dmitri demanded. “Why do you have to be such a … well, to do such a bizarre thing? People don’t have purple hair.”

“I know.” Mordred almost laughed at the frustrated scowl his words inspired. “Besides, when I’m finished with these, my hair will be blue, not purple.”

“Blue, purple, what’s the difference? It’s not right!”

Mordred did laugh then. He stood and caught the reins dangling from Dmitri’s horse. “There’s no hurry, Dmitri.”

“No hurry!” Dmitri’s knuckles turned white. “Of course you’d say that. You don’t have a dragon trying to kill you!” He grunted as the horse threw up its head when Mordred tugged on the reins. “You weren’t thrown out of your home! You didn’t kill your family!”

“Dmitri …!” gasped Mordred. He yanked the flowers out of the horse’s reach and stepped to Dmitri’s side. Mordred put his hand on his knee and felt Dmitri’s trembling. “Hey. The plague is not your fault.”

Dmitri’s jaw trembled, but he stubbornly turned his head. “Isn’t it?” He hunched his shoulders as if to hide the marks on his torso, the wounds that set him apart from everyone else and had turned his whole world inside out.

Words were tricky things and Mordred couldn’t think of a reasonable reply to that bitter question. So, he pressed his lips together in disapproval and said nothing. The pack horse was tethered to Dmitri’s horse and came along quietly as Mordred started to lead the other two horses back along the road.

They didn’t go far. Mordred wanted to camp for the first night within Whispering Cliffs territory. There was a slim possibility that Dmitri would change his mind about following his old friend Gavin’s advice, but what really worried Mordred was what would happen when Dmitri left -- really left -- his home for the first time.

Despite the grumbling, Mordred stopped to make camp beside the little stream he’d spied earlier tumbling from the cliffs. They were not far from the main road, but the cliffs blocked them from casual view, even if their camp was a bit on the drafty side. Still, Mordred could clearly recall less favorable camps he’d had during his travels. The horses were new, though. He’d learned all he could about their care from Dmitri’s brother-in-law but he still worried. What if he did something wrong? Dmitri was the one who would pay for any mistakes.

Thoughts of the man enticed Mordred to glance over at him. Dmitri knelt awkwardly by the fire, stabbing at the coals with a stick. Mordred sighed. Life was so much simpler when he was alone, without the horses and the gear and the pouting, depressed man he’d inexplicably become attached to.

Several times he tried to say something, to break the silence, but the silence only grew heavier as the sun set and they settled down to sleep. There was little rest to be found next to the hushed sound of the tides. The wind swirled sand against the cliffs in a gentle, shushing rain that should have been relaxing and wasn’t. Mordred found himself staring up at the stars, watching the moon’s progress across the sky and listening to the noises Dmitri made in his sleep.

That alone was enough to raise the hairs on the back of Mordred’s neck. Eventually, he gave up on sleep and sat up; thus, he was right there when Dmitri screamed.

“Dmitri!” Mordred grabbed him and rolled him over. He bit back a curse as he saw blood soaking through Dmitri’s shirt. “Dmitri! Dmitri, wake up!” The screaming made Mordred’s skin crawl. “Dmitri!”

Then it was over.

Wide, brown eyes stared up at him. Mordred opened his mouth, but he saw a glint of coppery-gold in those dark eyes, and he lost track of what he’d been about to say. His palm cupped Dmitri’s cheek, feeling the cold sweat on his skin and the fluttering of his breath.

“Dmitri,” he whispered.

Dmitri sucked in a breath and startled at the soft touch and even softer whisper. His arm darted out to thrust aside the body hovering over his. He rolled to his side and was on his feet a moment later, running. Tripping over a half-buried piece of driftwood, Dmitri hit the sand hard. His arms went protectively around his middle and gasping for breath over the sharp pang in his chest.

“Dmitri! Dmitri!”

Strong arms gathered him up, plucking him from the cold sand. Dmitri held on tightly, beyond noticing the tears staining his cheeks. He flinched as the fire crackled and flared brighter. Dimly, he was aware that Mordred was speaking, but the only sound in his head was the echo of the dragon’s laughter.

Why was he being haunted? What had he done wrong to be punished this way? Why him? Why a dragon, a thing from children’s tales? How could this be happening? It hurt! It hurt so much. Why? Why! Why!

The plague had left them alone for twenty years, only to reappear and destroy everything. No one in Whispering Cliffs had been left unscathed. Three in four people were dead, and everyone had their scars. What was he going to do? Why had the Gods forsaken him? What had he done? What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t listen to the dragon in his nightmares -- would that he could believe that it was all in his imagination, but just like the terrors of his youth, these dreams felt all too real.

“Dragons aren’t supposed to exist!” he cried, his voice catching and startling him into awareness. Mordred’s shoulder was hard where it pressed against his cheek. Salt and dirt filled his nostrils, chasing away the scent of oily steam left over from the dream. Rough fingertips snagged in his hair, a counterpoint to the soothing little circles rubbed into his scalp.

Dmitri hiccupped, and snagged his bottom lip in his teeth. He turned his face into Mordred’s neck for just a moment, stealing himself against the humiliation creeping into his face. Then he forced himself to pull away, pushing so hard he fell out onto the sand and almost rolled right into the fire.

“Hey!” Mordred blurted, grasping after him, but Dmitri shoved him away.

“Leave me alone!”

“Like hell I will! Hold still!”

Wrestled to a halt, Dmitri glared up at Mordred. Why did he have to be there? Mordred the blasphemer. Reflexively, Dmitri started to gesture. “Gods’ m--“

“Stop that!”

Those large hands curled around his shoulders slammed Dmitri into the ground so hard he lost his breath for a moment. He tucked his limbs in tight, groaning at the renewed pain filling his body.

“Why can’t you accept that the Gods are dead?”

“Shut up!” Dmitri howled. “They are not! Shut up!”

“They’re dead, Dmitri! Wake up before you’re dead, too!”

Rage blasted through Dmitri like the dry heat earlier in the summer. He threw Mordred off, following him with a fist. “Don’t you say that! Don’t you ever say that!”

Mordred stared, one hand cupping his jaw. He was speechless, staring into Dmitri’s eyes and searching for the spark of something he’d seen again, if only for a brief second. Dmitri was panting and flushed, the shadows from the fire dancing along his skin like a caress, and what a caress it’d been! He’d held Dmitri in his arms, felt the strength of his body and the beating of his heart. Mordred’s heart still beat in quick counterpoint, desire so strong and yet so foreign begging to be fulfilled.

The accusation and anger in Dmitri’s eyes, however, had to be answered. “I’m not a believer, you know.” He watched as Dmitri’s eyes widened again. Shock, no doubt, though over the content or the calm delivery, Mordred wasn’t sure. He smiled sadly. “Look around you, Dmitri. What are these Gods you believe in who punish their followers like this? Look at you! If they were really real, why wouldn’t they protect you?”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything!”

“Neither do you!”

Dmitri swung again, but this time Mordred was ready. He caught that fist, swallowed it inside his larger hand, and threw his weight forward to pin him down. His sleeve smoked and Mordred could feel the heat from such close proximity to the fire. He was straddling Dmitri now, hands wrapped around his upper arms to hold him down. Golden light shone off his skin, his eyes bright and furious, his lips twisting as he exhorted Mordred to reconsider and save his soul.

Mordred wanted to laugh. Instead, he followed a sudden impulse to lean forward and capture those lips. They, and the rest of Dmitri’s body, instantly stilled. Just for a second, there was a slight tremble, as of repressed desire, maybe, but then Mordred saw stars.

He gasped and fell over sideways, curling up with his hands pressed to his groin, which now throbbed for a different reason entirely. “Oi,” he groaned.

“And keep your hands off me!” Dmitri spat. Putting one hand out for balance, Dmitri got to his feet. He swayed for a moment, and then staggered away from the fire to the waterline. He wiped his face while he stood there, ignoring the way his hands shook. Just nerves, he told himself. It was just nerves, and the panic leftover from his nightmare.

The breeze cooled his body and Dmitri stared up at the stars while the water lapped at his feet. Just when he was beginning to shiver, his heart easing back into a normal rhythm and his breathing steadying, he sensed movement behind him. He didn’t have to turn and look to know who was there. Dmitri’s heart kicked up its pace.

“Dmitri --“

“Don’t!” he cut him off. “Just don’t.”

“Let me take care of you. Of that,” Mordred hurriedly added at Dmitri’s sharp look.

Dmitri’s hands went to his torso, looking down as he abruptly recalled the re-opened wounds. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, steeling himself to agree.

“Okay,” said Mordred, and then Dmitri followed him back to their fire. He watched Mordred move, so certain and calm even after everything that had happened and he wanted to be angry, but he wasn’t. He was aware of Mordred’s presence as he hadn’t ever been before.

His heart thumped loudly against his ribs when Mordred peeled back the blood-soaked shirt and he had to dig his fingers into the sand to stay still as Mordred bathed the slashes with saltwater. Though Dmitri braced himself for more of that inappropriate contact, Mordred’s hands didn’t stray. He didn’t even look up. Was he, perhaps, embarrassed, too?

Dmitri licked his lips, tasting the salt air and tasting something else that he knew was Mordred. He shivered. Mordred looked up; Dmitri was sure he was about to say something, but all he did was smile. Then he went back to work, leaving Dmitri wondering if he’d missed something. He certainly wasn’t upset!

“Try and get some sleep now,” said Mordred, breaking into his thoughts as he tied the last knot.

Feeling uncomfortably exposed, Dmitri crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. The fire seemed colder without Mordred kneeling in front of him. His eyes followed the smith, watching Mordred as he picked up Dmitri’s shirt and the soiled bandages and headed out to the water.

“Mordred,” Dmitri started, but his head spun as he stood. He lurched sideways a step and fell to his knees with a groan. Giving in, Dmitri crawled over to his bedroll and flopped down. He listened for Mordred, but didn’t hear him return.

*   *   *

Mordred had decided that they were going south. He’d take Dmitri as far away as possible. To do that, they needed a ship, and so when the dirt road split, he reined his horse to the western fork. The northern route may have been clear and rutted from countless wagons, but the western road led toward Monykom city, the only real city left. They’d be able to find what they needed there.

Over the clopping hooves, he thought he heard a something. He twisted in the saddle to look back.

Dmitri’s horse plodded along with its nose against the rump of Mordred’s horse, and the pack horse brought up the rear. They were all tethered together, with the pack horse’s reins tied to Dmitri’s saddle and Dmitri’s horse tied to Mordred’s saddle. It was perhaps not the wisest arrangement should they need to run for some reason, but Dmitri lacked all knowledge of horses. Even if he had the knowledge, he didn’t have the strength to manage the animal.

Normally, Dmitri rode stiffly, body shouting out his uncertainty and discomfort. Dmitri had his fingers tangled in the horse’s mane as usual, but his arms were braced against the horse’s withers, his head dropped low between his shoulders. Mordred couldn’t see his face.

“Dmitri?” he called, slowing his horse so they could ride side by side. He reached out to touch Dmitri’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” His only answer was a low moan as Dmitri collapsed forward. Mordred cursed and grabbed him to keep Dmitri from falling. The sudden move made the horses throw up their heads and dance sideways, in opposite directions of course.

Mordred picked himself up out of the dirt with a groan. His horse was prancing like an idiot along the edge of the road held back by the pack pony burying its head in the long grass. Mordred sighed and brushed himself off.

“I hate horses!” he told his mount.

Up until this point, Mordred had avoided looking back. He stood for a moment at Dmitri’s knee, wondering if leaving Whispering Cliffs had been the correct thing to do. He had liked the town’s charm. There was something innocent and joyous there, at least before the plague, but there’d also been certainty that the people would recover and be just as they’d been before. After all, Mordred had seen that happen countless times before. How else could people stand to live here? All over the country was the same story: fear and anticipation, death, and then recovery and new life. Something about humans made that possible. Was it faith or hope or resourcefulness? Some combination? Mordred shook his head. Some people lacked all three of those things, and yet they lived while others died young and gruesomely.

He shivered in the morning sun and turned his head resolutely back to the chosen path. The road now curved away from the ocean, following the pockets of fresh water. Here the grass seemed duller somehow, the air dryer and more isolated. Far off in the distance was the western mountain range, those peaks continuing north until they met the eastern mountains along the Icy Rim. Cold, that, and the people so strange. There was absolutely nothing so lonely as the high, snow-covered mountains bathed in blue twilight and not another living thing around for miles and miles and miles. And it was cold, far colder than here.

Something cold plopped heavily against Mordred’s forehead. He looked up to see dense, gray clouds billowing angrily above. He frowned. Where had the clouds come from?

There was another drop, and then another and another, falling thickly by the time Mordred secured Dmitri’s oilskin cover around the unconscious man. Minutes later the rain turned the world gray and cold, obscuring the path ahead. The horses hung their heads in misery as Mordred urged them forward.

With every step he took, the memories of Whispering Cliffs grew further and further away.

Mordred never called a halt; instead, the horse he led stuck all four feet in the mud and refused to budge. Mordred stopped when the horse did, blinking. It was still raining, the countryside around them dreary and cold. He could hear the ocean, off to his left. Gratitude filled him; he wasn’t lost. As Mordred untangled his hand from the reins, water dripped off his hat and down his neck making him shiver. All three horses stood with their heads down, feet splayed, and sides heaving as they blew. Mordred thought that was probably a bad sign. How far had he travelled? It couldn’t have been too far, because he didn’t feel tired, and he’d walked just as far as the horses, right? And when would this infernal rain end?

“C’mon,” he clucked to his horse, tugging on the bridle and urging her forward, step by step. Mordred wanted to get out of the wind at least. The ground seemed too level for caves, but the sand dunes should be able to block some of the wind down on the beach.

The exhausted horses followed unwillingly at first, but they perked up a bit as the grass disappeared beneath their hooves to be replaced by sand. Then they stopped, turning their butts into the stinging wind. That was good enough for Mordred, too. Grass clung stubbornly to the edge of the bluffs, hallowed out beneath from the passage of wind and water. If Mordred had the patience, he could dig deeper into the bluffs and be both dry and warm, but, now that he was warm, all he could think of was how tired he was.

He woke to the uncomfortable sensation of something crawling over his face, sitting up with a shout and an outflung arm that sent his hat flying and scraped sand off his cheek. Shaking his head to clear it, Mordred blinked into the sunshine. The tide was an overpowering roar, the waves crashing into each other and against the rocks he could dimly see jutting out from the water. Occasional spray wet his skin, carried to him on the breeze.

One of the horses whinnied; he looked and saw them above him, grazing, of course. The things were glutton. Why did he have them again?

Oh.

“Shit!” Mordred scrambled up the dune, swearing as his horse crow-hopped, kicking up her heels and snaking her head sideways as if to bite him. He smacked her on the nose in self-defense, shouting at the wretched animal. She looked far too smug, if affronted, and dropped her head back down to tear up mouthfuls of grass.

Mordred sidled past her, keeping an eye on the twitching back end until he reached the second horse. The knots holding the oilskin secure were swollen with water and caked in sand. Mordred fumbled with them for a few minutes before giving in and using a knife to slice through them. Dmitri lay as before, still held securely to the saddle by the ropes around his legs and waist. He was still unconscious, and his skin felt hot to the touch.

Questions filled Mordred’s mind, but he pushed them aside so that he could think. There was some driftwood down on the beach, but the day was so nice he’d hate to waste it sitting by a dying man’s side. Long ears poking up out of the grass here and there, and the swaying of the tall grass indicated ground birds. Mordred could make a nice meal out of those, if he wanted to take the time to catch them. Or there was the road and the promise of a home or a village nearby.

He’d promised to help Dmitri. They were headed for Monykom City. Mordred had teas and tisanes, but he was no healer. He was headed south, and the city was on his way, and he had promised. Mordred sighed. If they left now, he could get in ten, maybe fifteen more miles before they had to stop. That might be far enough to find a village or at least a homestead, if the horses cooperated. Mordred was no expert, but they seemed rather tired still, not that he could blame them, he supposed.

Again he chaffed at the extra burdens brought about by his ill companion and the horses. Blowing air out of his nose, Mordred fetched his hat and set about transferring the baggage between horses. He couldn’t shift Dmitri on his own, but his horse seemed less worse for wear than the others, so Mordred thought good thoughts and climbed back into the saddle.

He found a village not that day or the next but the day after. He rode around a bend in the grassy road and there the village was: a half-dozen homes clustered tightly together. The buildings all leaned to one side, just like the trees. There was no welcoming party, but he hadn’t expected that. One of the houses along the road had a corral and what looked like a dead dog lying in the shade of a post. Flies buzzed in the heat and even after days of travel, Mordred’s horses looked fat and healthy in comparison to the sickly-looking things in the corral.

Shuddering, Mordred pulled his gaze aside. He dismounted, shaking out the stiffness in his back and legs as he approached the porch.

“That’s far enough!” shouted a woman’s voice from inside. “What do you want?”

Mordred kept his hands at shoulder level to show they were empty. “Just passing through, Ma’am,” he replied cautiously. “My friend is hurt, and I --“

“We’ve no healer here. Get yourself gone before you get more than you bargained for.”

“Haven’t bargained for anything yet.” The joke fell flat and Mordred took a deep breath. “I’m willing to trade. Food, supplies, a place to sleep for the night.”

“No! Go away!”

Mordred frowned. For the first time in his memory, he had items worthy of trade. He was healthy and a stranger, with more wealth than it looked like these people had ever seen. So why the hostility?

“Just a place to sleep, then,” he pressed. “We’ll be on our way in the morning.”

“Are you deaf? I told you to leave!”

There was something not quite right about that voice, something awkward, or out of place. Mordred glanced back at the horses in their corral, at the dog, at the empty street and emptier houses. His hand dropped to the knife strapped to his hip, his mind darting toward the sword fastened to his saddlebags. This town was dead, most likely due to an outbreak of the plague. Was this woman a survivor, or a squatter?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tried again, surprised by the dark chuckle his words set off. “Are you okay?” he asked next. “Do you need help?”

“No man can help me.” The words were bitter, cold, hopeless. Mordred shuddered.

“I tell you what,” he said, swallowing hard and backing up a step. “My friend and I will go to that house across the way, the one with the barn? We’ll stay there. You stay here. Everyone all safe and sound. All right?” There was no reply. “Okay, then. We’re going.”

Mordred slowly walked backwards until he reached his horse. Only then did he dare turning his back on the mad woman. He could still feel her eyes boring into his back as he led the horses to the barn.

The barn doors were open and the hinges were in bad shape. Mordred could see sky through parts of the roof. The hay inside smelled musty and rotten. Mordred did what he could to clean a place for the horses. There were burlap bags, anyway, and some gear he could use to make the horses more comfortable. Jack, the name Mordred had given the pack horse, remained docile, lipping at Mordred’s fingers when he fed him a handful of grain from the saddlebags. Doofus, the mare Mordred usually rode, proved yet again how much of an idiot she was when she bit him. Mordred shouted and punched her nose, shoving her into a stall without finishing the grooming.

This left only Jill, poor, exhausted Jill who’d had a man strapped to her back without respite for the last three days. With a glare for Doofus, gazing balefully at him from her stall, Mordred gave the third horse all of his attention.

He untied the ropes holding Dmitri to his saddle, easing the man into his arms. He wasn’t a particularly small man, but somehow Mordred had expected him to weigh more. At the same time, he reproached himself, because he should have known. He was sure of it. Holding Dmitri in his arms and looking down into his slack face, Mordred wondered.

Strain pulled the corners of Dmitri’s mouth and pain lined his forehead. Even closed his eyes looked sunken and bruised, and yet he was still undeniably attractive. The fog of travel smothered everything, but as Mordred propped the unconscious man against their packs, his fingers caressed a clammy cheek and he knew that something was very wrong here.

A shadow fell across them and Mordred yanked his fingers away. Standing in the barn’s doorway was what looked like a child, if the face wasn’t so drawn and old. She was on the tall side, for a woman, thin and angular and almost boyish in the baggy trousers and jerkin she wore. They were obviously not clothes made for her, being far too big, the belt looped twice around her narrow hips. Shoulder-length, dusty-brown hair fell limply to her shoulders.

Her mouth twisted into a sneer at Mordred’s stare, and her plague-blue eyes fairly blazed at him. “Still interested?” she demanded, laughing harshly.

Now Mordred could see the bottle in her hand. Great. A drunken mad woman. Wary, he got to his feet.

“You should’ve stayed.”

“And let you kill those gorgeous horses?”

He blinked.

While he stood there speechless, the woman came closer, shaking her head and muttering something unintelligible. What words he did hear made no sense at all. She was definitely mad, this woman, but it still felt safer to keep his distance than to confront her.

Jill felt none of Mordred’s concerns. Her head had come up, her ears perking forward at the mad woman’s soft croon. The other two horses lifted their heads over their stall doors and made various noises, kicking the planks and gnawing at the tops.

In no time at all the mad woman had all the horses rubbed down and fed. From the way she moved around the barn and knew where everything was, Mordred thought the mad woman had to have lived there. She scooped out grain from some hidden source, found buckets and fetched water, and rubbed fishy-smelling liniment into the horses’ legs. Mordred managed not to frown when Doofus didn’t even attempt to bite, but it was a near thing. He scowled when the woman saw him and laughed.

“There,” she said, surveying the drowsing horses with something akin to satisfaction. “I did it. Now, shut up already.”

Mordred raised an eyebrow. The mad woman laughed, but quickly turned serious.

“What’s wrong with him?” She seemed uneasy again.

Mordred shifted slightly, as if to block that accusatory finger. “He’s hurt.”

“He’s sick,” she contradicted him. “You’re not from around here.”

“Neither are you.” It was a guess, but apparently a true one, for the mad woman smiled thinly and shrugged.

“Not like you, though.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re both too fat, for one thing. It’s rough country hereabouts. Empty. That’s why I like it.” Her smile made Mordred shudder. She grinned again, as if she’d noticed and found Mordred’s revulsion amusing.

“You’ll not get any help around here,” she continued. “People’ll more likely to kill you, take everything and fight over it.” The way she nodded to one side made Mordred question who she was in fact speaking to. “Okay.”

That sounded unnervingly like an agreement to something. “Okay?” Mordred echoed.

“You win, okay!”

“Uh ….”

“Shut up. I need something to drink.” She tottered off, waving off something and snapping, “Leave me alone!”

The urge to leave at once was strong. Mordred stood there, hands clenched into fists, long after the mad woman was gone. Finally, reason intervened. The horses were tired and Mordred was tired, and it was going to rain again. He wanted to get dry, have a warm meal, and sleep in a real bed, but first he needed to take care of Dmitri.

Mordred scooped his friend into his arms and strode into the nearby house. The place was a single main room, cluttered with the remnants of the family who used to live there. Attached to the main room was a small bedroom with an actual feather mattress. Mordred set Dmitri there and went back outside. He quickly found the well and the woodpile. With water heating above the fire, Mordred fetched inside the packs and saddlebags, and then set about pulling away Dmitri’s damp, dirty clothing. He draped the oilskin over the back of a broken chair and left Dmitri’s boots by the door, but the rest he tossed into the wash basin.

He came back with a pot filled with the warmed water. He sat by Dmitri’s side and dipped a cloth into the water. He rubbed in some of their precious soap. With trembling hands, Mordred gently cleaned away travel grime and blood and peeled back the dirty bandages. His fingers lingered over the firm chest and muscled shoulders. He touched Dmitri’s smooth stomach, mindful of the jagged slashes, and felt something shift inside him. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but the sensation of having done this before assailed him.

His head jerked up, expecting Ania to come sailing in that door any minute, and then had to shake his head to clear that thought. Ania was dead. How could he have forgotten? This was no time to stare at a helpless man -- just what was he doing, anyway? -- It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before. He’d cared for Dmitri when he’d been sick with the plague. Now he needed a different kind of help, and Mordred had been the only one willing to do that. He caught up Dmitri’s jaw and turned his face from side to side. The dragon attacked when Dmitri was asleep, and he’d been unconscious for days.

Mordred focused on those dreamy days in Whispering Cliffs. What had Gavin said? He rose and found wine in the packs, lots of wine. He found clean bandages and jars of cream and bags of scented tea. One by one he set the items on the table, picturing the strange old healer, Dmitri’s friend, standing by his side and walking him through everything, just like they’d done before he and Dmitri left Whispering Cliffs.

With Dmitri as comfortable as he could make him, Mordred flopped down on a corner of the bed and nibbled on some dry bread. There were clothes to wash and things to do, but he just wanted a moment. Now that he was no longer concentrating on what he needed to do, conflicting desires tugged at Mordred. A finger traced the line of Dmitri’s smooth jaw giving him a clue as to the man’s irrepressible, boyish looks. They were no longer close enough to the ocean to hear it, but Mordred could still taste the salt in the air. When the seagulls called, he wanted to race after them, down to the ocean and to continue south until he could go no further.

Dmitri moaned softly. Mordred swiftly sat up and eased closer. He brushed hair back from his face.

“Shh,” he murmured. His thumb slid across Dmitri’s cheek. “It’s just a dream. Shh.”

Those brown eyes eased open a crack. “Mordred …?”

“I’m here.” Mordred was so close he could feel the echo of his breath on Dmitri’s skin.

“Mordred.” Dmitri’s head flopped back to the side and he frowned in his sleep. His body twitched. Mordred reached for that grasping hand as Dmitri called for him again.

He squeezed, throat too tight for words. Stretching out alongside Dmitri, Mordred pulled him close.

~ TBC ~