Note: For a Tumblr request for Owain/Brady where Owain is confined to bed.
He tries to sit up in the darkness and two fingers touch his windpipe.
They barely brush his skin but the intent is clear: move any more and it'll be really uncomfortable for you. Owain flops back. Presumably, he'd been pre-clotheslined because the other option to keep him down, a hand pressed down to his chest, would send bright rivers of fire through his newly-stitched and quite impressive wound.
Leave it to Brady to find a gentler way.
"I thirst after surviving my newest trial," Owain complains. Brady's fingers touch his mouth instead. He pulls them past his lips unthinkingly, but Brady yanks them out and his tongue swirls around nothing.
"Are you joking?" the priest snaps.
Owain is no longer sure what's happening. He's just woken, disoriented and thirsty and with his entire torso aching. Before passing out he remembers thinking the wound halved him, stretching from shoulder to hip, like a sandwich neatly cut into triangles.
"Naga," Brady's muttering, "the medicine made you loopy. I want you to open your mouth so I can put water in it."
That does sound a little better, at the moment. Owain obliges. Brady has a canteen ready and only spills tiny drops onto his tongue, so that he can swallow without choking. It takes a long time. Brady is ever-patient.
"What time is it?" Owain finally asks. It's still too dark to see anything, even his darling's face. Brady sets the canteen down before he answers.
"I dunno. Middle of the night, I guess."
"You should sleep, my love."
"Yeah." Brady laughs bitterly. "I'll just drift right off."
Owain thinks about this, flings an arm out. His hand collides with Brady's knee and he gropes for a minute before their hands find each other.
"Huzzah," he says blissfully. He feels a lot less confused with their fingers intertwined. Brady has very gentle hands for someone so big, and a very strong grip for someone so gentle. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, that one! "You should rest at least a little, though."
"Nah. This is my job."
"Ah yes." That made sense. "As a priest."
Brady's lips press briefly to his forehead. "Something like that."
"Have I upset you very badly?"
"Yeah. No use in killing you for being so reckless if you're already almost dead, am I right."
"Hah! Death holds no sway over the Great Owain!" The Great Owain decides it would be great to prove that. He tries to sit up again, and again finds soft pressure against his throat.
"Don't even think about it."
"But Brady," he complains. "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."
"Says the man who can't walk yet. You know you were carried here, right? After the battle?"
"Aye. I remember it well! Breathing my last ragged snatches of consciousness there on the battlefield, when lo, glinting in the sun's bright rays, the Dame Kjelle knelt beside me and—"
"Do not make light of this." Brady sounds so suddenly angry that for the first time in his life, Owain just shuts up. "This was not some grand adventure you had. You were dead already. Kjelle was bawling her eyes out and all covered in—look, don't make me talk about it! You had no heartbeat, nothing. Ma had to do something crazy with a lightning tome to make you breathe again."
"Did it work?"
"Gods damn this medicine!" Brady flicks his ear, hard. Owain screws up his face. "That feel like Heaven to you?"
"Nay, verily! Tis the Hell I've always known!"
"Hell is right. We got you stable, healed your insides, stitched you up, healed you again after dinner. You've got another one due in the morning. Or at least," his voice is shaking now, "Ma said you'd get another if you lived 'til morning."
"Ah, well!" Owain squeezes Brady's hand again. "I've made it, you see."
"It's not dawn yet." Brady is definitely crying now. "We've got hours to go, and look at you. You're not right in the head—worse than usual, I mean."
"The medicine will fade, will it not?"
"It's for your fever. Your bad fever. I'm gonna lose you, Owain."
"Let your fear not wrest control of your mind!" Owain nodds sagely. He doesn't feel close to death, not the way he'd felt on the battlefield earlier. He hurts like he's been trampled by a flock of Pegasus, yes. Hurts like he wants to drift back to sleep and not come up for days. And, perhaps because of this fever Brady mentioned, he does feel quite foggy and itchy. It is all awful. But it isn't fatal. He is no cleric, but no one can feel each sluggish pump of his heart better than he. "Every warrior worth his salt knows that. You must let your panic flow through you, and emerge enlightened."
"Yeah, well. I'm no warrior."
"Sleep, Brady," he says softly. "I was in your hands and you saved me. My destiny is within my power once again. I shan't be going anywhere."
"I'll sleep if you sleep."
"In my arms?"
"Yeah, I'll let you figure out why that's a bad idea."
Owain is spreading them already when there is another searing pain. He quickly relaxes. "Ah, yes! That wound of mine!"
"But I'll be here," says Brady. There is a rustle as he gets off his stool and sits in the grass, resting his head against Owain's cot. Owain scoots as much as he dares so that their heads can touch.
But then a thought occurrs to him.
"Wait. No. I must rise. We must tell Cynthia of my glorious victory over Death, Watcher and Keeper of us all. She must know that it is I, the true Scion of—"
"Owain. Try to get up one more time and I'm punching you in the chest."
"Yes, dear." Owain puts his head back down obediently and drifts off to sleep.