Thank you. For caring and reviewing. Really. Part of the character insight in this chapter is from Filosofie. And Pilyarquitect? Your review gave me more feels than my actual story.
Beneath the moonlight, the villagers were still gathered, clustered about Asterix, Obelix and the Numidian friend of Obelix's fiancée. "But what kind of magic is this?" Vitalstatistix asked, staring mesmerized. Before his eyes, bruises were forming on Obelix's bare arms and shoulders, black and blue blossoming beneath the skin. Here and there, blood welled from the places where the impact of knuckles or leather had broken skin—Asterix's skin.
It was the Roman actress who responded. "It is the ancient art of the shaman," she lilted, unable to tear her eyes from the spectacle, "born in Africa, and I hear lands farther still. Our—friend," she doubted he would mind the use of that word, now, "Caius, is a shaman. He takes injuries from others, and takes them on himself. Then he makes them disappear."
"By Belisama…" whispered Cacofonix. Asterix's torso was hidden beneath his tattered tunic and the dust he had been kicked around in, but even beneath the dust, it was clear that the bruises on his arms were fading. Already, his eyes were less swollen, his jawline no longer misshapen. The clear handprint on his face was gone, the blistered finger-marks instead decorating Obelix's cheek. But most importantly, his breathing was no longer the labored wheeze of a dying man, but soft and regular.
"Wait. But shouldn't the shaman have the injuries?" Cacofonix asked, still leaning on Fulliautomatix. "Why are they transferring to Obelix?"
"They were too severe for our Roman friend," explained Getafix. "He was unable to take them on lest they kill him. Obelix volunteered," he met the chief's eyes, "to take Asterix's injuries into himself."
"But he's not a shaman!"
"No. But he volunteered to take them, if our friend Caius managed to make the transfer."
Vitalstatistix was silent, for a long moment. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Yes." Getafix pitched his voice to carry. "He was warned it could kill him. But he was willing to die so that Asterix would live."
The villagers murmured.
Obelix wasn't used to pain. He wasn't used to writhing helplessly as he was laid into by savage opponents. The last time it had happened could not compare: childhood bullies were poor preparation for well-trained soldiers dealing blows with lethal force. And Asterix had been gravely injured even before this beating.
Injured even before the beating. Obelix thought of his friend suffering so, all alone, calling for him and never coming.
His heart twisted and ached. Asterix had been singled out for punishment. Because Asterix was a hero, and because he, Obelix, liked smashing up Roman camps and hadn't been there when they'd wanted revenge. So Asterix had paid for it. For both of them.
Asterix had a huge personality. It made their rambunctious friends shut up and listen, had settled a feud between Corsican clans, and won over Julius Caesar himself. But his personality often made people forget just how tiny he was, physically. True, Asterix's strength of character was unparalleled, and he trained hard to make up for what he lacked in brute strength: his speed and agility had won him many fights without the potion. But there were limits. Obelix had seen Asterix captured before, more than once. He knew that without the magic potion, and without him around, Asterix could be in danger. And this time… this time, Obelix had abandoned him, like the false friend he now knew himself to be. And Asterix had been captured, humiliated, and beaten to the point of death.
And so Obelix threw himself into the memory in Asterix's place, and reveled in the beating he deserved. Every kick and blow felt like justice. He deserved this for abandoning his friend, he thought as he was kicked in the stomach. He deserved this for letting Asterix suffer, he thought as he was kicked in the ribs. He deserved it for everything he'd ever done to Asterix, and most particularly for abandoning him to this fate. Why, a few moments later and Asterix would have died. That Roman spy really had been his conscience. The things he had said were true: Obelix was a terrible friend, and he brought Asterix more pain than joy.
And so Obelix the Gaul took pleasure in being hurt, embraced it as penance. The kicks and punches to his body—Asterix's body—felt likeexpiation, even though the word was outside the simple Gaul's vocabulary. The blood that dripped from his/Asterix's broken skin felt like justice, the tears of pain well-deserved. Obelix didn't know which was worse, the brutal beating, or the knowledge that Asterix had suffered it. He let the pain burn through him, bitter and gravel-rough, pulling it into his core, wanting more and worse.
Caius.
Mater?
I sense guilt and grief. This is no place for them.
What do you mean?
It will hamper the healing. Focusing on love breeds healing. Focusing on hurt hampers it. They must banish these emotions from their mental space, or risk blocking it.
He was finally getting what he deserved. A particularly hard kick to the injured leg made him yell out—
"No! No more." Asterix, strong enough to stop him now, shouldered him out of the way. "No more, Obelix. That's enough. I'm not dying any more, I can feel it. That's quite enough. Stop this!"
O Toutatis, Obelix thought in agony, 'not dying any more.' They nearly killed him. They nearly killed him because I left him to be hurt this badly. I haven't been punished enough yet. He shoved Asterix's spirit-form aside, crowding past him into the memory-punches and kicks as Asterix tried vainly to stop him. Even as Asterix yelled, Obelix was reaching out, not knowing how he was doing it, and grasped the last terrible blow the Roman had dealt Asterix's shattered leg and gathered it into himself. "You already had this once, if you think I'm letting you go through it a second time…"
Pain sharpened Obelix's senses, broken shards of bone cutting through to who he was, to who Asterix was. He was inside Asterix—he was Asterix.
Obelix always saw the world through a great 'I.' I feel… I need… I want… I am. It blindsided him to see through Asterix's eyes. Asterix's focus was directed outward, not inward. The village. New knowledge. New battles. New fun. It was so odd to take it in: If Obelix had been taken off the way Asterix had, all he would have thought about was his own sacrifice, how he felt, how it proved who he was, how he would be remembered. Asterix? All his friend had thought about was Must get the key and Can't let Vitalstatistix get hurt and technical things such as Roll with the falls.
It made Obelix realize what a self-centered pig he was, unworthy of Asterix's friendship. Unworthy to even be in the same room with him. All he thought about was his own useless self, as though he was the hero in some epic tale, when he was just in a fantasy. He was nothing.
He reached for the pain, welcomed it.
"Obelix, NO!"
The metal buckle of the legionary's sandal drove hard into Asterix's swollen leg, and Obelix was there to take it. Blood spurted as the pressure was released, and the bone, already broken, shattered.
Both Gauls and the Roman were twitching and making tiny movements, as if in a nightmare. Asterix's face, thank all the gods, was all but healed. His chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm. Vitalstatistix stared at Obelix's face, now black and blue and blistered. "But the injuries aren't disappearing," he said slowly. "Obelix still has them. Shouldn't they be dissipating?"
"Yes. Our Roman friend is untrained," Getafix explained, "and—"
"Look!" yelled Unhygienix, interrupting him.
As they watched, one of Obelix's stubby legs swelled, and began to bleed.
Obelix screamed. As he cried out, he thought of Asterix suffering this same pain, all alone, and sobbed, not with the pain of the blows, but of the thought of his friend, his Asterix, in such torment. It should have been his, it should always have been his.
"That's quite enough—" Asterix's energy rammed into him, shoving him aside. Obelix pushed back, and he and Asterix matched wills, each seeking to take the injury from the other.
"Both of you!" Caius yelled. "Listen to me! If you don't want to hurt each other, listen to me!" Twin Gaulish heads turned to look at him.
"Listen," said Caius. He knew this was right. "Focusing on the pain won't get you anywhere. You must concentrate on the healing. Obelix, you start. Concentrate on where Asterix's healing is. The places that aren't hurt anymore."
Obelix didn't understand. Caius didn't know how he could tell – the silhouettes had no facial expressions – but the amber light-figure didn't get it. He turned to Asterix. He couldn't see the small warrior's eyes either, but there was clear inquisitiveness in the figure of bright pale gold.
Caius opened his mouth to speak to Asterix, but stopped, overwhelmed. Asterix was offering him his trust, only because his friend trusted him. His eagerness for knowledge was palpable in the way his mind was reaching out. And Caius was ashamed. By Jupiter, how had he ever plotted to destroy this man? From the moment he'd opened Asterix's dossier and turned the first slab, the Gaul had earned Caius' respect and admiration. In every incident in the files, the warrior had always shown himself a solid, dependable ally, a staunch friend, and a forgiving, charitable and honorable enemy.
He did whatever the equivalent was here of taking a deep breath. "A… Asterix." The name fell haltingly from his lips after all this time conspiring against the man. He was sure the Gaulish warrior could sense his shame. "Tell Obelix to look at the places where your wounds have healed. Just as he took the pain, the healing will transfer itself to him."
The figure nodded with luminous grace, and Caius could have sworn Asterix was thanking him. Then he turned to his friend's image, and reached out to take Obelix's ethereal hand and bring it up to touch his face. Both figures glowed brighter. The tatters in the head area of the amber silhouette shrank, almost disappearing. Asterix reached for Obelix's other hand, pressing both of his big friend's hands to his cheeks, bringing them up to cup his face. The brightness became almost blinding. Tears burned in Caius' eyes as he felt the strength of their love for each other.
"Look," Latraviata whispered in awe. The clear handprint on Obelix's face, transferred there from Asterix's, was fading. Asterix's puffy, swollen-shut eyes were healed completely, and the black eyes transferred to Obelix had subsided to the point where he'd be able to open them when he woke. Both Gauls' cheekbones were unbroken now, both their jawlines intact and healed. As they watched, the bruises on Obelix's chest and arms faded from black and blue to green and yellow.
Getafix half-smiled. "Looks as though our Roman friend has found his feet."
"It is quite a feat," said Vitalstatistix, "but what do you mean by that?"
"Well," said Getafix, "he wasn't sure he'd be able to dissipate the injuries after Obelix took them on."
"What? Then why did he go in?" asked Cacofonix.
"To transfer the injuries to Obelix instead of Asterix."
"Without knowing if he could make them go away?"
"Yes."
"He… You mean," Cacofonix said, still leaning on Fulliautomatix's arm, "You mean Obelix was just planning to take the injuries without knowing if… I mean, Asterix's leg, that could… he might never walk again."
Getafix the druid looked at the sleeping pair and their Roman shaman. "Asterix was dying," he said. "Considering that Obelix was willing to give his life so that Asterix would recover, I doubt he considered being crippled too high a price to pay. For his friend."
"By Belenos," Fulliautomatix whispered.
There was a long silence. Finally, Chief Vitalstatistix spoke for all of them when he said, "Well, I suppose this proves he isn't a fair-weather friend after all."
As Caius watched, the pair began to take on solidity and strength as they shared their healing. Asterix guided his friend to lay his hands on the healed places on his ribcage. Amber hands of light rested tenderly on the small golden form, and Caius saw the holes and wounds in the big man's torso closing up as he did. "How is this working, Asterix?" Obelix asked, trusting as a child.
"You took on all the things that were wrong with me because you could feel them, although I'm not all that happy about it," Asterix said matter-of-factly, "so now you can feel I'm nice and healthy, you're taking on that too."
The amber form flickered, but only Caius could see it. The next touch was to Asterix's damaged leg. "Feel that?" Asterix's smile was so tender, his aura so filled with affection, that Caius could only give thanks to the gods he had not destroyed this friendship. "You fixed it."
Obelix felt Asterix's leg—and jerked away. "I don't deserve this."
"What? What is it, Obelix?"
"I'll hurt you."
"What? Obelix, you healed me!"
"I didn't. He did." Obelix gestured at Caius. "O Roman! I'm afraid I'll hurt him again. Take us back!"
"Again? Obelix, you didn't hurt me the first time…"
But the dismissal had broken Caius' grip. He fell backwards out of the trance, landing with a thump on the dewy grass.