"O Druid! Asterix isn't breathing!"

Obelix lay in the damp grass, Asterix still in his arms. The Roman was out cold, and so were the two friends. The battle seemed to be over, but the villagers hadn't yet returned. Latraviata was standing over the pair worriedly. She and the druid had been hovering anxiously, exchanging places, and she had happened to be closer to Asterix than Obelix, when suddenly, Asterix's breath hitched and stopped.

The druid fairly leapt to where Asterix lay. "No. No, Asterix, give them a chance…" He took his younger friend by the shoulders, gripping tight and shaking gently. "Asterix!"

Feebly, Asterix drew in air.

Tears sprang to the druid's eyes. "That's it. Come on, just hold on…"

The light was out. Asterix was dead.

He'd failed. Caius had failed. Asterix had died, and his blood was on Caius' hands.

Next to him, the amber ribbon of light flickered. Its edges seemed to fray. He turned to it, terrified. He was going to lose both of them—

Something behind him caught his eye. By all the gods, Asterix's light was shining again!

Caius glanced back at Obelix's ribbon.

It was no longer a ribbon—it was a meteor. It streaked past him, lunging for the feeble, golden light. It wrapped itself around it, enveloping it utterly.

Asterix. Asterix. Asterix.

It was all Obelix could think, all he could feel. He had no idea what he was doing or how he was doing it. All he knew was that he was here in this place and was not letting go of his friend, his friend whom he'd seen dying.

Whom he'd seen die.

The split-second when Asterix's light had winked out had been the worst moment of Obelix's life. He'd opened his eyes – his non-eyes – in a strange new world, soft like a dream, but urgent as life. He'd seen Asterix, instantly recognizing the frail, beautiful light as his best friend, instinctively knowing without knowing how that the light was suffering and damaged and hurt. He'd tried to go to him, but it had taken a moment without arms and legs or moving as he was used to. And in that moment, the light had gone out.

Eyeless, Obelix had stared, and soundlessly he'd screamed as he'd seen his last hope, the thing he'd been living for, disappear. He'd felt his own light fading, and he'd let it.

And then Asterix's light was back.

Obelix flew to Asterix, wrapped himself around him, held him tight enough to fuse them together. He wouldn't let him slip away. If one of them had to disappear, it wouldn't be Asterix, not again, never again. Obelix was with him now, and he was never letting go. "I'm never going to leave you again, ever," he muttered, not knowing how he was speaking. "I'm here and I'm going to take care of you." Fear filled Obelix, but he shoved it away violently. "I'm not leaving. I'm here and I'll get you all better, you'll see."

The frail, damaged light pulsed and flickered in Obelix's hold. Obelix concentrated and poured his light into the gaps and cracks in his friend's light-thread, filling them with his own essence, his own life, clinging urgently to Asterix, whispering broken promises never, ever to leave his side.

The scene shifted.

"Is anything happening?"

Latraviata looked anxiously at the druid, who was closely inspecting the sleeping pair of friends and their shaman. He paused for a long moment. "I do believe…" He spoke slowly, as though hardly daring to hope. "I do believe Asterix is breathing easier."

Caius Insidius concentrated. His job was to heal the small warrior by transferring his injuries. He reached blindly for guidance in the dark. He should have a spirit-guide as his mother had told him, but he had nothing… "O Mother," he closed his… well, whatever passed for eyes in this dream-space. "Help me. Hear my call."

I love you, my Caius. I love you.

His tears were cleansing, like a gentle rain. "I love you," he choked. "I miss you."

The voice smiled warmly. I am always with you. Always.

"Can you help? Help me help them?"

Help them find physical form. Their love will guide them through the rest.

He gathered his wits about him. "Help them find physical form." How could he do that? By thinking, probably. This dream-world was crazy. Visualizing Asterix's and Obelix's physical forms, he looked over at the two ribbons intertwined, and focused. Finding it hard, he tried to imagine the times he had seen them in the real world. Asterix's loving, pain-filled hazel eyes as he bid his friend goodbye rose to the forefront of his consciousness. Around them, Asterix's image took shape.

The ribbons dissolved. Golden images of the two Gauls blinked into existence, like silhouettes made of light, not shadow. The pair solidified, half-tangible figures made of light. Seeing them made it easier. Caius concentrated on their images, pouring more of his memories into them, making them more concrete. It helped.

"Asterix?"

"Obelix?"

The two Gauls recognized each other's images. The small one's light was still weak and faint, his injuries showing through as gaps of darkness in the light—not like something blocking the luminescence but as though the light itself was torn, like fabric. His head and face, his chest, his poor leg—everywhere that was injured showed as a great rip or hole in his light-silhouette.

As Caius watched, the big Gaul reached out and touched the injuries, one by one—and something shifted. Caius followed the light wherever it led…

Gods, no!

Obelix's view changed. The dream-world gave way to a scene that seemed like a memory, though it felt real enough: The village was captured. Asterix was being held by two Romans. Someone had threatened a child. Asterix had failed.

Obelix looked around. Everything around them was still, like a mosaic or like the statues he had seen in Rome. These Romans might be crazy, but they certainly made lifelike statues.

"Are these the memories of what happened to Asterix?" he wondered aloud.

Yes, came the voice of the Roman.

Obelix looked at the scene so still before him. Asterix's pain burned like a fever—the pain he, Obelix, had caused. The pain he was here to take. But how?

Would you rather it was you who was hurt? Caius asked.

"Yes, of course."

Then concentrate on that. This felt less like shamanic talent to Caius, and more just common sense. Keep thinking it, and open yourself to it.

Experimentally, Obelix opened his 'arms', whatever they were. Immediately, Asterix's chagrin and loneliness and misery echoed through Obelix. "Let me," Obelix said, folding it into himself and keeping it. The poisonous pains never made it back to Asterix. Obelix kept them in his heart, feeling them there like a dull ache.

Before his eyes, memory-Asterix blinked, feeling the burden lifted. Obelix couldn't see Asterix's light-silhouette anymore, so he couldn't see if it was brighter or healthier. Not that he was budging, whether it was or not. Meanwhile, memory-Asterix was looking around, clearly mystified as to why he suddenly felt better. Clearly, he couldn't sense Obelix yet.

A burly centurion – Callus by name, Obelix knew without knowing how he knew – approached Asterix, raising his hand to strike him across the face.

So this was how it had started.

"No!" Obelix yelled. Without thinking, he dived into Asterix's body.

Wait, what?

This is right, said the Roman. Continue.

The slap echoed through the forest. Asterix's humiliation and pain poured through Obelix. O Asterix. How his friend had suffered because of him, how he'd suffered without Obelix to protect him! Somewhere in his mind, he caressed Asterix's damaged spirit, watered it with his tears. I won't let you hurt. I'm here. I'm here, Asterix. Never again, Asterix, never leave you.

Asterix was dying. He was dying, he knew it. But then why did he feel… lighter? Why did he feel relief?

In the memory, Asterix had gathered the tattered shreds of his dignity about him like a cloak, hiding the shrinking pain and the degradation that made him want to shrivel up and disappear. Oh no, Asterix, no, Obelix thought tenderly. Let me take it. Give it to me… Obelix reached out into Asterix's pain, deeply, until he was Asterix, standing alone proudly displaying the mark of his shame, forced to appear strong although all he wanted to do was curl up and hide.

Obelix's heart ached. He'd always known his friend was proud and brave, but to feel it from the inside, to feel the pain he concealed, to see how he papered over it for the benefit of those who depended on him, was a burden that crushed his heart. Beneath the proud mask of the village warrior, the inspiration to all, lay the burden of never showing weakness, of always showing dignity. The weight of bearing it alone.

Not alone, Asterix. Not anymore.

Alone in the valley of the shadow of death, Asterix startled. He felt a warmth, a presence, wrapping round him. Enfolding him. The ache of loneliness eased.

No, Asterix. No. Not alone, not alone, never alone. Obelix reached into the clean perfect soul that was Asterix. He touched the humiliation, though it burned like a live coal. Let me take it. Give it to me. He scooped up the degradation and shame like so much mud, and pulled it into himself.

Caius stared, feeling Obelix's conviction. The question, What should I do? was answered by the Gaul's love. There was nothing but tenderness in him as he reached out to touch Asterix, frozen in memory, and caress his damaged soul. Soul full of trembling love, Obelix ghosted his incorporeal hands over his friend's bruised spirit, weeping tears of sympathy. "Not you, Asterix. Give it to me. Let me have it. Give it to me."

Failure and humiliation weighted Asterix's soul. He was alone, desolate, ashamed. But then he was lifted, cradled, comforted.

A touch soft as sunshine caressed him, told him he was valued, cherished, adored.

The valley of death receded as he was borne in gentle arms above it.

He floated in love and light.

Obelix felt Asterix's surprise as the unclean sensation was taken from him. It dragged Obelix's soul down, made him feel like a filthy worm, but that was right. Better him than Asterix. He could feel Asterix's soul made clean and pure once more. Without knowing how he did it, he caressed Asterix's spirit, soothing and calming it. I'm here. I won't let them hurt you. I'm here.

He inhabited Asterix's body as the Roman punched Asterix in the face. It hurt, and Obelix was glad of it. He'd caused this. All of it. He'd let them trick him into leaving Asterix, to protect him—and look what he'd done. If anyone deserved to be punched in the face and their jaw broken, it was him. Not Asterix. Never Asterix. "Not you, Asterix. You don't deserve this. You never deserved it." If anyone deserved it, it was Obelix: for Asterix had suffered, not just physical pain but loneliness, because of his abandonment. This was because I left you.

Obelix tensed as another hammer-blow struck him in the stomach. Then his body exploded.

At least, that was what it felt like. Around him, in Asterix's memory, Roman legionaries kicked him as he lay helpless on the ground. He writhed and jerked with what Asterix had gone through, taking it gladly. Be well, Asterix. Be healed. Be safe. Be comforted. Never hurt, never alone, never unhappy, just you, safe, happy, always.

Everything was swirling in Asterix's head. He was recalling his beating at the Romans' hands. But he felt no pain. Instead of the screaming, splintering sensation of fists breaking his bones, he was cushioned and rocked and held. The memory-blows were soft feather-pillow nudges, each pushing a pulse of warmth and strength into him—healing instead of hurting. There was only the memory, but no pain, no shame, only protection and caring and love.

What…?

The beating intensified. Obelix was racked with guilt. "No…" Obelix whispered, feeling tears on his cheeks as he jerked with the blows his friend had suffered. Lancinating pains spiked through his sides as his ribs cracked. His stomach felt crushed, his chest closed: he couldn't breathe. "No. No, O Asterix, no…" His friend had suffered this much, and he hadn't been there? These pains in his ribs, this cracking in his lungs, this excruciating cramping in his stomach? All this, Asterix had suffered alone?

Getafix watched the pair anxiously. Since Asterix's breathing had restarted, something had changed. The little warrior and his big friend had jerked and flinched once, then slumped again.

Now, though, both of them were moving, like dreamers in sleep… He stared at Asterix's face. Was it his imagination, or were the bruises fading? He looked up at Obelix. The big man's face was flushed, but that could just be from agitation.

Soft touches soothed Asterix's hurts. A gentle hand caressed his broken face, taking the pain away. More tender touches eased the aches in his bruised chest, replacing the cruel throbbing with blessed relief. Tears of relief sprang to his eyes; he felt rather than heard No, Asterix, don't cry. Don't cry. His tears were brushed away with a touch as soft as a kiss, with such a flood of love and affection that it made him dizzy.

His head spun. He rested in gentle comfort. Where was he? What was happening?

Asterix had to know.

Vitalstatistix led the villagers back into the clearing. They marched soberly, with few words. The battle had been easily won, but there was none of the customary rambunctious joy and rollicking merriment that usually followed a punch-up. This was still too serious, had been far too close. And all of them knew that it could still end in tragedy.

A figure detached itself from the group and ran to the dark shape huddled beneath the trees. "Cacofonix?" Fulliautomatix cried urgently as he knelt by him.

The bard's eyes fluttered. "Where are we?" He tried to move, but the heavy leather apron impeded his movements. "What's going on?"

"Hold up, you'll do yourself an injury." Fulliautomatix began to carefully unwrap the human mummy as the villagers returned. "Can you breathe? How are you feeling?"

"I feel fine."

"I'll be the judge of that…" As Fulliautomatix triaged Cacofonix again, checking and rechecking where his stab wound had been, the villagers flowed into the clearing, coming to cluster around the small group of druid and injured Gauls and Roman allies. "Easy. Just take it easy." Having slipped his apron back on, the blacksmith sat on the ground and propped the bard to a sitting position against his chest and shoulder. "You were hurt pretty badly," he murmured. The chief had never heard Fulliautomatix use quite that tone before, had not thought the man had it in him to speak with this much affection.

"I was? I don't remember."

"Stupid self-sacrificing idiot. The druid gave you some of his elixir and said it might cause some memory loss. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Well…"

As the pair conversed in murmurs, Vitalstatistix turned to the deep shadows under the tree, where he could just make out Asterix lying in Obelix's arms, faithful dog still at their feet. Now that the immediate crisis was past, Vitalstatistix allowed himself to admit that the mere sight of Obelix made his blood boil. False friend. Leaving Asterix when he needed him the most… He would forever be haunted by the warrior's broken voice calling his best friend's name just because he sensed an affectionate touch, knowing the person the dying man had called for was not there… it shattered Vitalstatistix's heart, and made him itch to banish Obelix then and there.

He strode up to Getafix. "What's he doing holding Asterix like that?"

Vitalstatistix jerked back in shock. As his eyes became accustomed to the shadow, he saw that the bruises and blisters that had marred Asterix's face had faded. On his friend's face, identical marks were swelling and darkening, down to the centurion's handprint. Asterix's breathing was easing, his deathly pallor receding.

Scattered gasps from the villagers behind him told Vitalstatistix that it wasn't a trick of the light. Some wizardry was happening here. "What's… going on?" he whispered to Getafix, afraid to break the spell.

Asterix's head was reeling.

He'd been dying. He had felt it, felt his life slipping away. He remembered wishing the village would be safe. Something had revived him for a brief instant and he'd felt the softness and comfort of his best friend's arms. He'd said all he could, all he had strength for.

He'd known Obelix would grieve. Getafix, the Chief, all of them. More to the point, Asterix didn't want to die. He'd wanted so badly to live, but sleep was stronger than he was, and there'd been a light calling him. He'd fought it, but his strength was drained. For a moment, the light had claimed him.

He had no clue what had happened next. He'd been jolted back in time, and around him rippled the memory of the Romans' incursion into the village. The first time they'd decided to use him as a punching bag. The time he'd caused the Chief to beg for his, Asterix's, life. That was odd. Humiliation should burn inside him – he felt the place where it ought to be – but instead he felt reassured and warm. It was a memory he didn't want to relive, but he was reliving it – without the pain.

Then he was knocked to the ground again, but it didn't hurt. The beating was happening again, only every blow felt like a warm pulse of healing, his body growing less painful with every kick and punch instead of more. He was swathed, cocooned, protected, by something soft and comforting. It didn't make any sense for the legionaries' blows to not hurt him, as if he was a ghost. Was he dead, then?

It was only when the Centurion smashed his leg that Asterix realized what was happening – and even then, he couldn't quite believe it.

"Obelix!" he gasped. "What are you doing?"

He had no clue where Asterix was. This place was funny. It was like being in a dream. Obelix gasped with pain as a particularly hard blow landed, then took a painful, cracked breath (O Asterix, was this pain yours? Was this hurting air yours?) and said, "I don't quite know. But we've got to save your life."

Caius was having a hard time keeping a grip on this, and that was putting it mildly. Scenes from what the Gauls had gone through alternated with his view of the ribbons of their spirits. The broad path of the amber ribbon had wrapped itself completely around Asterix's weak, torn tendril of light. Translucent, it shone through, allowing him to see both, intact amber superimposed on tattered pale gold. As he watched, the gashes and ruptures in Asterix's streak of light glowed amber, then healed gold. Slowly, corresponding gaps and gashes opened up in the amber ribbon, although of course they appeared much smaller in relation to the broader ribbon's size.

By all the gods, he needed to be more skilled at this! They were doing some soul-transfer on their own, but it could be dangerous without a trained shaman present. Yeah, and when you find one, have him tell me what in Jupiter's name I should be doing, he thought wryly.

You will do well, my Caius, his mother's voice echoes through his consciousness.

Yes, Mother. Caius rolls resigned eyes skywards. Ave, Mater. Those who are about to muddle through salute you.

A heavy foot landed on Asterix's knee. Obelix slipped easily into his place, and clenched his fists. They'd done that to Asterix? Better a thousand times he should take it instead. Even if he knew it would hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced.

As the Roman raised his leg, Asterix's voice echoed through the darkness for the first time. "Obelix! NO!"

Obelix threw himself fully into the blow as Asterix's knee was smashed. Their screams rang out together.

But Asterix's had not been a cry of pain. Now he knew what was going on. The centurion had smashed his knee, but he felt no pain, and now it was his friend who was screaming. It didn't take a genius to work out what was going on. By some magic, by some power, Obelix was shielding him.

And Asterix didn't want his friend suffering in his place. "Don't!" he snapped. "Obelix, don't!"

Caius could hear the Gaul speaking, though how, he knew not, for here there were no bodies, no physical entity. The amber ribbon was sporting not only a ragged hole, but many smaller ones. And the pale-gold streak glowed livid. "Don't do that!"

As Caius watched, the amber ribbon flowed into the gold one, caressing the place where the horrible tear had been. Caius felt its quiet joy as it sensed the healing. "You can't stop me."

Pale gold pulsed curious. "How are you doing this?"

"I don't really know. There's a Roman who's helping."

Anger flared. "A Roman?"

"No, no." The amber ribbon appeared placating. "He's a good Roman."

Caius staggered back. A good Roman? After all he'd done to Obelix, to be so easily forgiven? He'd crushed Obelix's self-regard, destroyed his self-respect—and he was 'a good Roman'? For one favor, for one instance of help? He could see why the Roman actress had taken the part of these Gauls. Their generosity of spirit gave him new life.

He felt his own energy flare.

"…can't I just thump them?" Obelix was saying.

"I'm afraid not," Asterix said sadly. "This is a memory."

"Of…" Obelix trembled. "Of what happened to you?"

Caius felt the pulse of shame that moved through Asterix. "Yes." Then he felt the swoop as Obelix's ribbon flung itself at the pulse of shame, laid itself over it, and absorbed it into itself.

Asterix barely had time to register the shame of having been captured before he was lifted, swathed in softness. Warm amber caressed the sore place, eased the pain of humiliation. The relief he felt was palpable—but no! He didn't want Obelix taking his hurts. He'd told him not to! But since when did that pigheaded great idiot listen to anything he said? And Asterix was too weak to stop him. No, he pushed back, afraid to have his friend take the near-fatal beating he had suffered tonight.

From his place on the ground, still holding Cacofonix, Fulliautomatix stared. "He's what?"

"Look." While Obelix's face was in shadow, his body was bathed in moonlight. Getafix gestured to where the big man's leg was swelling, Asterix's fearful injury subsiding. There were murmurs from the villagers, people nudging each other to see.

The soft dream-world had changed. It was night now, although in this dark there was no telling how he knew. The amber ribbon was torn, the last injury clearly taking its toll. This wasn't right. Caius knew from what his mother had told him of her village's ancient practice that an injury, once absorbed, should be dissipated. Perhaps the reason was that it was not Caius who had absorbed it, nor anyone trained, but merely a loving friend. But the act of sharing the injury, he had heard, even among the untrained, should mitigate it…

Obelix was seeing everything Asterix had gone through, and it made him feel lower than a worm. "I am ready, O Romans." Dragging Asterix away to beat him to death.

Desperately, Obelix reached for the beating, Asterix trying to push him away but far too weak to be effectual. First, Obelix gathered in the loneliness, the abandonment, the knowledge of certain death that Asterix had felt. He could sense Asterix's relief and surprise. He caressed the healed place, the relief. It seemed to give him strength.

Caius saw the light gold silhouette grow brighter, even as a hole opened up in the amber silhouette's heart. Then he saw the amber silhouette reach out and touch the healed spot where a hole had been. As it touched the place, the amber figure brightened, as though it was being healed by the touch in turn.

But he didn't have time to analyze it, as Caius watched Obelix take on Asterix's second beating, the one that had very nearly killed him.