Chapter nine: An Unlikely Pair

Freya regained consciousness slowly. Was it all a dream? It must have been. . . it was so strange. But as she noticed a strangely pleasant sensation in her mind that she recognized from her last remembered moment, she realized that it might have been real after all. When she opened her eyes, she saw that she was in a fair-sized circular cavern roughly fifty feet in diameter with a short, sloped passageway to her left that she could see led to the surface. About a dozen feet away from her feet was a small fire, the smoke curling up the passageway outside. Looking to her right, she saw a few things leaning up against the same wall as she was, a foot or two away: her retracted triblade spear; the pack that they had found aboard the launch; and Freya's own coat, now torn and bloodstained. Nowhere in the cavern was Crimson to be found. Freya wondered how well his injuries had healed thus far; judging from his absence, it was obvious that he was at least still mobile.

With some trepidation, she fought back a wave of nausea and decided to take stock of her own injuries. Looking down at herself, she saw that the short orange pants and shirt that were now her only clothes had bloodstains as well. Unsurprisingly, the shirt was badly torn on her right side, which was where most of the pain was. Freya could not, however, tell how bad her injury was; a white cloth was tied around her middle. Its extended from just below her chest all the way to the belt that still held her own small pack to her waist. Perhaps it is better that I not see what lies beneath it.

She noticed sharp pains in her back and left arm as well. Oddly enough, though, her left sleeve was neither torn nor bloodied. And though the intensity of it varied, it did not seem to vary with her movement. Like the pain in her back, it had an odd sensation to it. Almost as though the pain she was feeling was not her own.

It's true, then. It really did happen. If she concentrated, she found that she could sense Crimson's presence nearby. And it was coming closer. Not a moment later, the demon framed the doorway and saw that she was awake.

As he entered, he smiled and said, "Freya! It is good to see your eyes open and clear again!" He approached the fire, and Freya could see him clearly.

"Crimson, you're injured!" she announced with some concern. Virtually his entire left torso looked like a bloodied bruise; a scabbed-over scrape on his left arm, half of his right horn broken off, his entire left wing missing, and a slight limp. Favoring his left side, naturally.

"'Tis but a flesh wound," he assured her. "I heal very quickly; in a few more days, the only remaining sign of my collision with the launch will be the conspicuous absence of one of my wings."

"A few more days? How long was I. . . "

"I am uncertain, for I lost consciousness at times, as well – perhaps four or five days."

It's a wonder I'm not starving and parched. "And your horn?"

Frowning, Crimson reached up to feel of his horns. When he felt the remains of the right one, he "hmph"ed in mild surprise. "It seems to have broken. The impact that accomplished that must also have provided me with my headache." His complete nonchalance almost made Freya want to laugh in spite of her tender right side. "However, I am not particularly concerned about that; I am much more concerned about your wounds. I know little about healing such a gash as yours. All Choran knights were given basic first aid; being a commander of knights I received more, but still I fear that my treatments may prove to be inadequate."

"How did you treat me?"

"The first task I set for myself was to remove the splinters. Besides being a tricky business," he made a grimace, "It was painful enough even for me that I deemed your unconsciousness fortunate, for your sake. After that, I held it as tightly as I could bear while I poured tonic on it to seal it. Again, pain ensured imperfection in my work. I then washed and cleansed it as best I could with what little rainwater I could catch in my remaining wing, and I also cleaned the blood from the fur surrounding your wound. So the, ah, bandage would not stick to it."

Skeptical that he could look so terrible, yet feel so fine, Freya retorted, "Crimson, you look like hell." He winced, then chuckled softly, looking appreciatively at Freya as though she had just done something quite amusing. "What?" she asked in confusion. "What is it?"

"Do you habitually say clever things on accident?" he inquired, still smiling. The dragoon needed only a second to realize what the demon knight was referring to.

She mirrored his earlier wince and replied, "I do seem to have a penchant for producing punishing puns, don't I?"

"I find your puns quite witty, all the more so for their unintentional nature."

"Gods, Crimson, please don't make me laugh!" she pleaded.

"I would enjoy it but for the fact that I can honestly say that it pains me almost as much as it pains you. Thus, I shall not make such a reply next time."

"Besides puns, I also seem to be good at making you forget your injuries. They look even worse close-up. Hold on a moment." Closing her eyes, she cast a simple regeneration spell on him to speed healing, a common dragoon technique. Because of her weakened condition, the spell scarcely had an effect; but that mattered little to Crimson.

"That is part of what I admire about you, Freya: your strength and selflessness." She began to protest, but he cut her off. "Please, allow me to finish. After I had done all that I could for your wounds and mine, I had little left to do but think. Which is something I have been told I spend entirely too much time doing. . . but with the prospect of your death weighing heavily on me, I thought of you. And I realized that you have, in the past week, done more for me than any individual has in many years. Though I have little to offer, that which I have, I give to you." He switched his position from crouching to kneeling and drew the Phoenix. Laying it across his open palms, he bowed to her. "My life and my sword are yours."

Freya could only stare openmouthed at the profound display of complete humility, devotion, and self-sacrifice that was normally reserved for a knight's liege lord. Between two elite knights, such an act held deep meaning indeed. Why is he doing this? Why does he feel I deserve such a gift? Is it because of the bond we now share? Her curiosity overcoming (momentarily) the emotional impact of the moment, she slowly, gingerly put a foot beneath herself and rose to one knee. "Look at me," she quietly ordered. He hesitated, for to do so would be to breach the etiquette of his action. But only for a second, for he had felt the pain of her rising to one knee and wondered what her response was. They locked eyes and Freya struggled, trying to see herself as he saw her, that she might understand. Sensing her wish, Crimson opened his mind to her, and she saw her deeds through his eyes.

When she had offered him a position as her man-at-arms, he had seen it not as a job to be done, but a duty to be fulfilled. Duty was almost like air to him; he needed it to live. And when she had formed the bond, she hadn't seen herself as having a choice; she could never have lived with herself if she had sacrificed Crimson. But he had seen her as choosing probable death, and a poorer life – at least, for a time - if she succeeded in forming the bond.

It was at that moment, looking through his eyes and into his mind, that Freya at last saw him as he was: a kind and earnest man doing what he believed to be just and right, giving to the one that had saved him all that he had to give: himself. Freya decided in that instant the reply she wished to make. As slowly and carefully as she had risen, and without moving her eyes from his, she reached for her triblade. She extended it smoothly and laid it across her palms in a perfect imitation of Crimson's position. His eyes widened in surprise at her as she softly but firmly told him, "I can do no less. My life and my spear are yours."