"Fiesi!" Sarielle screams, the name so sharp it shreds her throat raw. Her feet pound and skid through the undergrowth. Her head throbs at the wind's shrill whistle. Her heart beats at her chest like a fist, punching over and over, shattering anything logical until all she has is the blind, frantic urge to run. To sprint. To get Nathan to safety.

He's too light in her arms. Fragile, a bundle of brittle bones drained of heat. A trickle of blood warms her chest where she clutches him.

His blood. She races faster. "Fiesi!"

"Sarielle?"

Finally. Never did she think she would be so relieved to hear Fiesi's voice. "Fiesi!" she yells, whirling in the direction of the sound. "Don't move!"

"Why, am I about to get shot?"

His tone is just the same teasing jab as usual, only the slightest tinge of curiosity edging it. Clearly, he's run into no trouble, then. It would be the most powerful of them that would escape unscathed. Gritting her teeth, she tears through a mess of branches and breaks out into a broad clearing.

She locks eyes on him immediately. He stands in the centre of the open space, facing a slender black horse. Is that one of the ones they stole in Gefyr Bridge? She doesn't care enough to wonder.

"Fiesi," she gasps, stumbling towards him, hefting Nathan like a child in her arms. He's got heavier. Her own tiredness dragging at her limbs. "So glad you're alright."

"Oh." Surprise and delight merge in his voice as a smile creeps up his face. It vanishes as soon as he fully takes her in. "Oh. What happened?"

She doesn't bother responding. Her gaze trails to the horse. "Take Nathan from me."

Fiesi hesitates for the barest second, lingering with his mouth open as if to argue, before offering nothing more than a swift nod and carefully extracting Nathan from her arms. He inhales as his fingers brush over the dagger. Only the very top of its narrow blade and its white hilt stick out from Nathan's back, just missing his spine, the Neyaibet general's parting gift before they could speed away. The instinct to yank it out and throw it as far away as possible itches at Sarielle. She curls her fist.

She's eternally grateful the general didn't throw with more precision. She easily could have killed him. And she still can. Fresh fear drives through Sarielle's heart, spearing in each of her nerves.

Haste thrumming in her veins, she leaps up into the stirrup, swinging her leg around and into the saddle. It's built for one, but it will have to do. Whatever deity sent this horse after them, she has to admit that it's a blessing. Twisting, she reaches down, allowing Fiesi to lift up Nathan and pass him to her.

He stirs as she hauls him into position, just slightly, his quiet whimper quivering her heartstrings.

"It's okay," she whispers, shifting closer to him. She doesn't know whether or not she's lying. She never does, but what does it matter? He might not even hear her.

It will be okay. If she can get him back to camp. If she can get him to safety.

Her gaze snaps to Fiesi, shifting his feet awkwardly as he scratches at his hair. "Get on," she hisses. "Quickly."

"But there isn't room," he protests weakly. His eyes flick to the horse's head. It huffs.

"Get on." She pins him with a glare. "Or I leave you behind."

The latter option still sounds infinitely more inviting, but she has to force herself to remain civil, allowing him to scramble up. She grabs a handful of his ripped shirt and drags him up behind her. Without waiting to check if he's stable, she teases the reins out from either side of Nathan. They tremble. Shaking. She's shaking.

She clutches them tighter and gives them a harsh jerk. Fiesi yelps as they starts off, grabbing onto her from behind. He tenses, but doesn't let go. She can't entirely blame him. The horse's trot is unsteady, clearly unhappy with its additional load.

In better times, she might have attempted to calm it, but she's far too rattled for any sympathy. She urges it faster.

Nathan rocks, slumping. He's unconscious again. The dagger in his back swings with every pace. She can't imagine the pain he must be in.

"Hold on," she pleads, not sure who exactly she's speaking to. "Just hold on."

- ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ -

Many a time has Sarielle ridden back into camp, heavy heart briefly soaring with the respite, but never has it felt so much like a mirage on a desert horizon, an illusion from a story that lures one into danger.

Yet there's no trap awaiting her amongst the dirty white tents. Just Dalton, racing towards them, her own relief mirrored in his face.

He grabs the reins, and the horse jolts to a stop with a grunt. Fiesi lets out a startled sound from behind. He hasn't released her the entire journey, nor has he said a word. She doesn't begrudge the break the latter has given her ears.

Prising herself from his grip, she leaps down, carefully lowering Nathan back into her arms. Has he gotten paler? It's impossible to tell.

"I'll get him to Carlin," Dalton says. Worry and curiosity swirls plain in his gaze, but he says nothing of it. He knows the urgency. He knows she'll explain later.

She nods, passing Nathan to him. He looks even more like a child compared to Dalton's tall figure. Still so small. Her chest constricts.

As Dalton hurries away, a few more white-clad figures appear. She hopes he's explained her situation to them, or as much as he can. She isn't in the mood for telling stories. Her instincts beg her to race after him and stay by Nathan's side, but she resists, just for the moment. Dalton and Carlin can be trusted. Besides, she can't simply ignore the other issue she's dragged into the camp.

Turning, she watches Fiesi half-slide, half-fall off the horse's rump, landing on his backside. "Mikros," he mutters.

"I hope that wasn't some magical curse," she snaps as he climbs to his feet.

"Only if you're that stubborn beast." Casting a glare the horse's way, he dusts himself off as if that will make any difference. He looks every part the mess he's brought, scorched and dirty, the fresh clothes she wrangled for him already ruined. Thin, blue flickers of fire wind over his ripped sleeves. She fights the urge to flinch. It's going to take her a while to get used to seeing them.

The flames vanish as he moves to her side. Harper has reached them. His eyes immediately flick warily to Fiesi, his hand closing over his sword hilt. Hesitant fear flashes across his face, but he solidifies it into a hard stare. "You'll stay back here until our captain decides what to do with you."

Fiesi steps forward, lifting his chin. He's shorter than Harper by a good few inches, but he's certainly doing his best to hide that fact. "I'll go wherever I wish. Get out of my way."

Harper's eyes narrow. "As Captain Heathe's chosen lieutenant, I have--"

He's drowned out by Fiesi's raucous laugh. "You think I care about your petty ranks and so-called commanders?" His fingers dance up his spear shaft, flicking it over so that the point jabs upwards. "You're no lieutenant of mine. Get out of my way, or I'll be forced to make you move."

Parting his stance, Harper shifts his sword, the top of the blade showing. Behind him, Averil lingers, halfway through picking up the horse's reins. Valora has already drawn one of her daggers. Part of Sarielle might enjoy seeing them spar, but she hasn't the time nor the patience for an unnecessary battle right now. Stepping between them, she shoves Fiesi behind her, making sure to elbow him hard in the ribs before he protests.

"Don't rise to it." She holds out a hand. "And cut him a little slack," she adds, hearing her own reluctance. "He did save Nathan's life."

"Is that the sweet sound of you finally admitting how heroic that was?" he chimes in. She takes in a long breath.

"Believe me, I'm not asking anyone to trust Fiesi, but leave him be for the time being." Spinning, she turns her pointed stare on him. "Fiesi, until Dalton decides otherwise, you do as Harper tells you unconditionally. You got that?"

He frowns. "But--"

"Until Nathan recovers," she says curtly, "there's no-one here to vouch for you but me. Remember that."

He dips his head in defeat, although the mention of Nathan sparks something fierce in his eyes. "Then I better make sure he recovers fast." Shoving past her, he offers a mockingly deep bow to Harper. "Oh respectable lieutenant, may I watch over my friend to ensure he doesn't die at the hands of your healers?"

Harper drums his fingers over the top of his hilt. "I'm afraid I can't let you near him, given what I've heard."

For a moment, Fiesi looks ready to argue again, his jaw clenching. Then the fight seems to flood from his eyes all at once. He glances down at his boots. "Can I at least get something to eat?"

A brief nod. "That I can do."

That at least brightens his expression somewhat. Confident the situation has been successfully diffused, Sarielle gives the immediate area a quick sweep. Averil is busting herself with the horse, soothing his anxious shifting, while Valora has switched to checking her reflection in her dagger. Peace kept. Harper will keep it that way, as best he can. It's time she dealt with the more pressing matter.

She has to fight not to break into a dead sprint across camp, keeping her pace to a brisk walk. It speeds up along with her heart as she rounds the medical tent. The faint murmur of voices drifts out, although it cuts off as she pulls back the flap, preventing her from hearing any of it.

All eyes snap to her as soon as she steps inside. She's caught Dalton mid-pace, nearest to her. In the furthest corner, Nash hunkers into the shadows, arms folded, scowling at his feet. She pays them both nothing more than a fleeting glance before dashing towards Carlin, knelt over a familiar unconscious form.

The dagger has been discarded, much of its lower half coated in dark blood. Nathan lies partly on his side, tunic crumpled where it's been pulled up to allow her to press a thick cloth against the wound in his back. Falling to her knees beside him, Sarielle attempts to relax her racing heart, as difficult as it is. He's okay. He's alive. Thin, bleeding, vulnerable, but alive.

She's still reeling from that fact in the first place. Shakily, she rests a hand against his forehead, as if touching him is the only way she can confirm he's real. His skin is clammy, never losing its icy quality.

"He's been very lucky," Carlin says, the intrusion jolting Sarielle's head up. "Nothing major has been severed. As long as it doesn't get infected, he'll be alright."

She releases a long breath, forcing her hand to retract. "Thank you." Sitting back on her heels, she forces her gaze to tear from him to Carlin. An old friend and a new. The jagged edge of two worlds colliding ripples through her mind. It hits her in full force now. In the woods with Fiesi, it was simple enough to pretend she was living in the same dream she returns to so frequently, that soon she would wake up beside Dalton and all would be as it was. But now reality clashes before her. The past isn't just the past any longer.

Uncertainty squirms within her as she observes Carlin. "Did... did Dalton tell you who he is?"

She nods, lifting up the cloth to reveal the crimson staining it before pushing it down again. "It explains quite a lot, right?"

"Quite," she echoes absentmindedly, swallowing the real question she's desperate to ask. Her eyes drift over to Dalton, summoning it forth, hoping he'll guess what she wants to know.

He gives a minute shake of his head, paired with a flicker of a smile. She offers her own as silent thanks. He's kept her secret.

Perhaps the right thing to do is to tell them all, make them all fully aware of her entire situation. Yet it was enough of a step to extend the knowledge to Dalton. She isn't ready to expose that piece of herself to the whole world just yet.

"Pass me that," Carlin says, inclining her head towards a vial of clear liquid. Sarielle snatches it up and pulls out the cork before handing it over. Carlin glances up as she removes the cloth, lips pressed into a thin line. "This is going to hurt. If he wakes up, keep him calm for me."

As if on impulse, Sarielle reaches for Nathan's hand, curling her fingers gently around his palm. The leather of his glove is soft under her touch. Grabbing a clean cloth, Carlin wets it with the liquid and presses it against his wound.

Instantly, his hand twitches, tensing under her hold. He hisses in a quiet breath. Reaching forward, she runs her other hand down the side of his cheek. "It's okay," she whispers. "Keep still."

He doesn't move, but he returns her grip, clenching her hand more fiercely as Carlin applies more pressure. His eyes screw tighter shut.

Carlin finishes cleaning the wound and carefully wraps white cloth around his middle. All the while, Nathan doesn't make a sound, the only sign that he's still conscious his hand wrapped around hers. At some point, Dalton slides out with a promise to return soon. Nash follows not long after without a word, apparently bored of brooding in the corner. Eventually, Carlin ties the final wrap of the bandage and stands, brushing her single braid off her shoulder. It's a subtle sign that she's in her more focused mood.

"I presume I'm alright to leave him with you for the moment?" Her lips twitch with less mischief than usual.

Sarielle nods, not rising. She tries to find something to say, but all words have dried, scratching uselessly at her throat. Unable to look away from Nathan, she listens as Carlin crosses the tent and vanishes beyond the flap.

She shifts her grip on his hand, rubbing her thumb against his palm. He inhales sharply. His eyes flit open. They're black as coal, blacker, and hazy with pain.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, voice fractured, paper-thin shards of most brittle glass. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

"No." Shifting closer, she closes a second hand around his. "No, it isn't."

His gaze drops from hers. "I lied to you. I shouldn't..."

"I don't care," she whispers, pushing every essence of honesty into those words, hoping the warmth of it will chase away the tears gathering in his eyes. "I'm the one who left you." Guilt solidifies in her chest, digging into her heart.

He glances back up at her. "You had to."

"I didn't." The truth barely escapes, cutting like a razor. It was easier to hide it back then, better than the fear of him resenting her for it. But he has to know. "It was my choice. My father told me... he begged for me to stay, told me I'd do more good staying at the castle. But I still chose to leave." Dodging his gaze, she stares at the ground. Even now, she isn't confident whether that was the right choice. All she knows is what she thought at the time. "It didn't seem right for others my age to fight while I escaped it all. But I... I should have stayed to protect you."

Maybe if she'd stayed, Neyaibet never would have gotten to him. Maybe he'd be safe. Maybe he wouldn't be as hurt as he is now.

"You had to," he repeats. She realises he's smiling, just barely, softly. "You did the right thing. You're protecting the whole kingdom." A choked sort of laugh slips out. "That's worth a lot more than I am."

He's wrong, but her voice catches, tangled in emotion. Tears of her own well up, building in her throat. She squeezes his hand.

"It doesn't matter, anyway. You're here now." His eyes glimmer, the velvet ripples of a night sky. "It's okay now."

Above, the breeze toys with white material, the tent shivering at its faint whistle. Shadows play over its surface, seeping through, fading warmth and shaded chills dancing over the two of them. It doesn't bother Sarielle. The tingling cold is a thrill, an echo of the cool sheet forever settled in the castle's basement, whatever the season at the surface. It never changed. Something has now. She can't bring herself to release his hand, so encapsulated in the wonder of finally sitting beside him, outside.

No bars. No sneaking away. They're both meant to be here, in some way or another. There's nothing to prevent her from huddling closer to him, from touching him, from spending as long as she likes in the calm of his company.

She doesn't notice him reaching out until his trembling fingers trace her hairline, catching a single curl between them and sliding it behind her ear. He laughs again, gently, the sound more genuine this time. "Sorry. I've always wanted to do that."

Despite the chaos of the past day, despite how close he came to death such a short time ago, despite the looming threat of Neyaibet, she finds herself mirroring his smile. It's silly to feel such an overwhelming sense of hope at the sight of just one person, isn't it? It's childish to feel as if everything is right in the world, just for the moment.

Yet she can't help it. After all this time, all the taunting dreams and the late nights watching the stars, he's here again. It's a kind of miracle, really.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

What no I'm not trash, why would you say such a thing--

Nathan isn't dead :D And they're back together at last. Excuse me while my heart explodes because they so cute *bulbacries*

Seriously, too cute. Help--

- Pup