“I did it as best I could, prince Levin,” a man garbed in brown robes spoke. He was short, and his skin green. He was one of the swamp folk.
“No, I can see that,” Levin soothed casually, staring down at the dead body of Magnus. Levin was dressed befitting a prince. He was thin and tall with a sinewy strength to him. He kept his hands politely behind his back.
A few days’ travel had made Magnus’ body somewhat worse for wear, but he deemed it would be good enough for the funeral. They would need ample perfumes, he judged. He stayed fixated on the hole in his neck.
“…but nothing came of it, my prince,” the man said anxiously. “I mean, beyond the murder itself… he is your younger brother, so the murder was not necessary for succession…”
Levin turned his head back. His rich blue eyes seemed like ocean water, almost innocent. “You’re trying to assume my reasoning for this,” he noted. “Don’t.”
The man lowered his head obsequiously. “Of course, my prince.”
Expression inscrutable, Levin turned back. “My father has commanded I make the funeral arrangements, alongside the investigation. He’ll need to be dressed better. A… a high collar, to be sure, to hide the wound. And something sleeved. Traditional Vasquer colors.” He turned to the man. “You’ll get it done?”
The man looked back up. His expression was obvious—he was no funeral director, his face seemed to scream. But he nodded. “I will take care of it to the best of my abilities.”
He made to leave and pulled the door inwards to step out. Four black-garbed men lunged in, stabbing him in the chest and neck quickly and efficiently. Levin watched them work. When they finished, the four knelt before him.
“Did you hear what I said?” Levin questioned.
The black-garbed men looked up, then looked between each other, confused.
Levin freed his hands from behind his back. “The clothes. Do you remember what I asked?”
“Yes, my prince,” the quickest among them said.
“Take his measurements. See it done,” he commanded naturally, then walked out of the open door.
#####
“Frankly, he’s lost enough blood that a normal man would surely have died,” Galamon said to Anneliese. As her heart dropped, he continued, “But… he’s no normal man. He’s black blooded. He still has a strong heartbeat, if a bit rapid, and none of his functions seem seriously impaired. Above all… he has vitality. I know this,” he looked at her, leaving ‘why’ unspoken.
Anneliese gazed down at Argrave, a mess of worry and thought. Though his wounds had now been healed, he still refused to rouse after hours. “Healing magic cannot replace his blood,” Anneliese said. “What should be done?”
“…all I know is first aid,” Galamon said cautiously. “But… well, we’ll have to tend to him constantly. You should use healing magic on a regular basis to combat organ failure, I believe. That’s what gets the men that bleed. As far as I know, healing magic combats that. All the while… he’ll need to be fed, hydrated, and his body allowed to work at self-rejuvenation.”
Anneliese held her hands out. “Fed? How?”
Galamon bit his lips. “Healers I knew… used honey on a cloth. I remember a few other things. I can show you how to administer it, but I’ve never done it personally. If we have no honey or anything like it, it’ll have to be something liquified. We might ask Silvic about the plants that are edible, or for something that resembles honey in the wetlands.”
Anneliese put her hand to her forehead, overwhelmed. Galamon said as tenderly as he knew how, “He’s strong and stubborn. I’ll give him a day to wake up, especially with magic in his blood. People tell tales of how resilient dragons are, and mages drink dragon blood for health and vitality. That’s because of the magic in their blood. Failing that… as much as I loathe him, Orion would not let his brother die. This I firmly believe.”
“How many times must this happen?” she asked quietly.
#####
Argrave grew aware of the sensation of something sweet in his mouth. It was like a patch of solace amidst nothing but an utter soreness. His eyelids stubbornly refused to obey his directive to open. He could not move his hands or arms. Even his tongue was weak, yet as he moved it, he realized there was a cloth barely in his mouth. He heard a voice, sweet and light, and then faded away.
His consciousness returned later, like the tide against the shores. He barely remembered looking at someone, saying something, and then going out once again. He had many of those memories—barely lapsing back into being, and then fading out just as quickly.
He didn’t know exactly how long this lasted, yet eventually, the world crystallized around him. He finally felt aware enough to make observations.
Argrave lied in a rather comfortable bed, but he was certainly not comfortable. He was well used to pain, and soreness, and weakness, and his present state brought back rather uncomfortable memories. He tried to move his arms and sit up… and succeeded, yet it was a tremendous strain. He fell back to the bed. The feeling was strange, and he laughed from the soreness.
Someone strode in, and he turned his head towards them.
“By…” Anneliese trailed off, then stepped towards him with a relieved sigh. “Thank the gods,” she said as she came to kneel by his bedside.
“I feel like… a bag of grain,” he confessed, his mouth far too dry.
She shook her head and chuckled, then stroked his hair with a gloved hand. “You don’t need to move. Everything’s been taken care of. The Jester, all of it—it’s dealt with.”
Argrave felt like a needle had been poked into his brain to wake him up. “Oh. I forgot about that.”
He tried to stir, but Anneliese needed only to put her hand atop his chest to utterly suppress him. “You will eat. And then you will sleep.”
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists,” he pointed a finger at her.
She gazed at him tenderly. “Wait,” she directed, before moving to get something.
Argrave found the command rather sensible, and so waited.
#####
After a hearty meal and a long rest, Argrave found his mind far clearer than it had been—clear enough to refrain from rambling nonsensically about negotiating with terrorists. Clarity brought with it a heightened awareness of his state. He could move, but walking would still be difficult. The black blood in his veins would make his recovery all the quicker, he hoped.
“You had half a dozen broken bones,” Anneliese informed him. “So many cuts… some of them left scars, because they were not healed fast enough.”
“Really?” Argrave asked with his hoarse voice. “That’s not so bad. Scars are… well, forget it.”
“Scars are a point of weakness in tissue,” she disagreed, knowing well what he’d refrained from saying on the matter. “They are not decorations like tattoos or jewelry.”
Argrave lowered his head, not having a response on-hand. “So… the Jester is dead.”
Anneliese nodded.
“The plague won’t end, but it’s stopped. It won’t spread at all anymore. Everyone who has it, has it. Everyone who doesn’t… got lucky, I guess.” Argrave turned his head to the side. “After this, both of us need to be registered as High Wizards in the Order of the… well, ‘after’ can come when we’ve left this swamp.” He looked to Anneliese. “You said that a day and the night passed.”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “It’s morning. And Orion has yet to return from his… hunt. He said he’d deliver judgement to Silvic then, or something to that effect.”
He heard a door swing open, and footsteps sound out. Durran stepped in, saying, “Hey, I—” he paused. “You’re up again,” he noted.
“Hey,” Argrave greeted hoarsely. Anneliese looked back to him.
Durran stepped in. “And not mumbling incoherently. Surprising, given how much of a knock you took. You put on quite the display, though. I thought Orion was the scary one.”
“He is,” Argrave nodded. “And—” he stopped, noticing something.
Durran knew what Argrave was looking at and hid his hand.
“You lost fingers,” Argrave noticed before he hid them.
Durran sighed, and resignedly brought his hand out once more. “It happens.”
Argrave stared, more than a bit horrified. “You only have your forefinger and thumb.”
“Sharp,” Durran said sarcastically. “Enough to cast spells with, enough to make a grip—it’s enough.”
“Enough?” Argrave repeated incredulously. “I can… we’ll make a visit to Vysenn right after, fix this. I’ve been meaning to go there, and—”
“Were you planning on going there immediately?” Durran stopped him.
Mouth agape, Argrave rebutted, “That’s beside the point.”
“I can wait,” Durran disagreed. “Don’t stop in your tracks to help me.”
“You lost fingers,” Argrave repeated. “Your spearmanship, your grip—everything will be way different, way harder.”
“It’s my problem. I appreciate the thought, but really, we’ll take care of it when it’s best.” Durran smiled. “If you’re worried about my performance, don’t worry—I mostly cast spells with this hand, anyway, and that’s not impaired in the slightest.” He stepped back towards the door. “I’m going. Just wanted to check in.”
Argrave looked at Anneliese as the door shut behind Durran, stupefied.
“He does not wish to burden you,” she explained. “And… well, I can vouch he is not hindered by the loss. Not in combat.”
Argrave covered his eyes with his hand, rubbing his face to dispel a growing headache. “I mean…”
“We succeeded, Argrave. Do not lose track of that,” she reminded him.
“By a thin margin,” he pointed out. “And once again, because I failed to predict the influence I have on things.”
She leaned in a bit closer. “Yet you salvaged things.”
“It wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t clean,” Argrave insisted.
Anneliese lowered her head, and her dirty white hair fell over her amber eyes. “Clean,” she scoffed. “This is not a place of numbers and variables, anymore, where the result is always success or failure.”
Argrave grabbed her wrist, shocking himself by his own speed. She lifted her head up, and they locked eyes.
“I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, after Orion took Durran away… and even before that, since Garm did that stupid thing he did,” Argrave told her quickly. “I don’t want to just ‘succeed.’ I want all of those close to me to make it to the end. I want to be happy. Whole and happy. That’s what I want,” he told her. “I can’t keep squeaking by. It maddens me. Any closer, ‘whole and happy’ is gone.”
“Never again,” she said. “You kept muttering that while you slept… and earlier, even. You think I do not know how you feel? You think I do not think the same way, about you, about Galamon, and even Durran, now?”
Argrave realized his foolishness and released her wrist, then placed his hand on her knee. “Sorry,” he shook his head. Quiet settled over them. “We couldn’t watch the suns set this whole week,” he pointed out after a time.
She chuckled lightly. “That is fine. Breaking a tradition once does not mean it needs to remain broken forever.”
“You know…” Argrave began, but his throat choked. These simple words were quite hard for him to say. “You know I love you, right?”
Anneliese looked at him with amber eyes as warm as sunlight. She didn’t need to say anything to convey her message, he found. “As I love you,” she said, even still.
“All of you. You’re my real family. I wasn’t just saying that for the sake of convenience back at the camp. I haven’t exactly determined how we’re related quite yet—Galamon’s an uncle or a dad, I know this much—but I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
“We have established one,” she disagreed. “I am your fiancée.”
Argrave laughed, then grew serious once again. “I mean it, though. Whole and happy. We will get through this. I have to make sure of that.”
“We have to make sure of that,” she corrected with a shake of her head.
