First in the story arc concerning Wyldon and Neal as a couple. Darn it, I KNEW I wouldn't be able to leave this alone! Anyway, hope you enjoy this. If people like it, I might develop the first one-shot a little more as I flesh out their relationship. "Fireflies" will come after this, and then "The Edge of Glory" (the old "Threats," renamed) and "Born This Way." Go read 'em :D.
How to Save a Life
"If you die, my lord, Kel will never forgive me."
Wyldon barks a laugh, and blood spatters across Nealan's tunic front. "We certainly don't want that, do we?"
The healer spares him a glare, eyes burning in his pale face. He's used too much of his Gift today. "Please don't talk, my lord. It's not doing you any good, and I need to concentrate."
Wyldon's eyes fall shut, and he tries to push the pain aside. The only thing he can feel besides the arrows that pepper his body are those cool, deft hands that flit from his brow to his chest to his shoulder, seeking the places where fire threatens to consume him.
"I know what you did," Nealan says, breaking his own rule as he works feverishly. "I would be dead if you hadn't thrown me from my horse. These arrows should have been in my chest."
Wyldon's eyes flicker open, watching the young healer as he works. "If I had let you die, Queenscove, Keladry would never forgive me."
The boy's mouth flattens into a thin line. "At least we both have our heads screwed on straight."
It takes a moment, through the haze, for him to comprehend what Nealan is saying. "I'd be a fool –" He stops to cough, and this time the blood leaves a gruesome sprinkle across the young man's face. "I'd be a fool if I let those arrows take you, boy. You're a fine knight and a bloody good healer. In the prime of life. They need you more than they need me." Blackness threatens to swallow him as Nealan cuts his tunic away from the arrows and presses cool fingers to the bloody flesh where the shafts have sunken deep. "Besides," he whispers, too far gone to care that he's joking with a man who despises him, "your father would hunt me down and kill me if Keladry didn't beat him to it."
Nealan doesn't reply, but thrusts a leather gauntlet at him. "Bite this." It's dirty and coated in blood, but Wyldon obeys. The boy doesn't have enough magic to take away the pain, so he'll just have to bite down and fight it like he always has.
It hurts more than getting shot. Scanrans are clever with their arrows, if nothing else. Small barbs angled backwards from the tips tear at his flesh as Nealan draws them out slowly. Three arrows, one in his good shoulder and two in his chest. Wyldon's teeth nearly bite through the leather as he fights the urge to scream, his entire body shuddering in an effort to keep still.
"They're not poisoned, my lord," the boy announces in a poor semblance of good cheer as he inspects the arrowheads. "Just hold still. I can't finish the job now, but I can keep you from seeing the Black God for a little while yet."
Those cool hands move over the fire, banking it, coaxing it down to coals that burn with a steady inner light instead of leaping in flames that rip at his body from the inside. For the first time in what feels like a long time, Wyldon gasps for breath. The air is foul, tainted with death and smoke, but it refreshes him all the same.
The boy, looking vaguely gray, moves away and tries to stand. But his legs betray him, and he collapses onto the forest floor at his district commander's side. Wyldon grabs his hand as the fool boy makes another attempt.
"Sleep," he orders, meaning to sound fierce; but it comes out sounding more like it belongs to a dear friend. "You've done what you can do."
Queenscove opens his mouth to protest, but his body makes the decision for him. His green eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against bone-white cheeks, and the grooves of worry and strain in his forehead become smooth. Wyldon sighs, feeling slumber approach, and gives in the darkness without a struggle.
He falls asleep still holding Neal's hand.