Penelo's confidence had begun to wane not ten minutes after they had breached the outer edge of the jungle. She had expected a sultry heat within the shelter of the canopy, reminiscent of the Golmore jungle, but this…this was different. Despite the insulation of the thickly woven network of leaves and branches high overhead, the jungle was cool – almost chilly. Mere minutes into their trek, the bright spots of sunlight glimmering through the treetops had been eradicated entirely, until she felt like they had been entombed in a dense thicket of vines and branches. With so little light, she could hardly see more than ten feet in front of her, and the lush greenery of the jungle took on a darker, more sinister appearance.
Worse than that, the noises emanating from the deep reaches of the jungle were worrisome to say the least. Branches snapping as if beneath an overwhelming weight, the heavy, slick slide of what she was certain were scales slipping over the smooth jungle vines. Unbidden, her mind conjured up imagines of the death adders that Old Rohan had warned of. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled; the uncomfortable feeling of being observed pervaded her senses.
A scratching sound followed by the acrid scent of something burning startled a screech out of her; she heard a furious scrabbling on the ground to her left, as if some low creature had gone skittering away.
A flicker of light turned into a flare – a faint halo of light encompassed her, and within the dim circle of it Balthier stared at her with raised brows. He'd lit a torch; the steadily-deepening darkness had proved too difficult for them to proceed without a light source.
"All right, there?" he asked.
The smoke from the freshly-lit torch hung in the stagnant air; the only thing that stirred it was his breath. It curled around his face in thick grey whorls, pressing in as if it, too, sought to avoid the encroaching shadows.
She cleared her throat, grateful that the flame was weak enough not to reveal the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms. "Yes," she managed. "Sorry." Good gods, three years wasted had turned her into a coward, starting at every little noise.
From his vest pocket, Balthier retrieved a small, silver compass. He squinted at it in the low light, holding it close to his face to read it, then gestured to the left, between a pair of shadow-shrouded trees, their trunks fuzzy with moss. "To the northeast," he said. "Step carefully – the vines are growing thicker."
Penelo took point, armed with a lightweight sword honed to a razor's edge. With the torch lighting their way, they progressed slowly, pausing intermittently so that Penelo could hack away at the vines that had grown across the path. They were profoundly unsettling, those clinging vines – each one she sliced through seemed to fall to the jungle floor and flop around as if rooting for something new to entangle. One or two of them had caught at her boots, curling around them like tentacles, until she kicked them away in disgust.
It shouldn't have been possible, but she had the sinking feeling that even the light from the torch was shrinking away from this place in fear. The flame burned low and soft; she'd been in dank caves that hadn't repelled the light so much. Even the trees seemed to be pressing in, and she took a deep breath and choked back the panic that threatened to rise to the forefront.
"Steady, there." Balthier's hand closed over her shoulder. His voice seemed muted, as if a bit of it had been stolen away by the oppressive darkness, but what threads of it reached her ears suggested that even he was not immune to the unease the jungle evoked.
It was simultaneously reassuring that she was not the only one to feel it and concerning – because if Balthier experienced it as well, it hardly boded well for their journey. She swallowed down her nerves and tried to tell herself that it would be all right; she had a backpack full of various cure-alls; potions, antidotes, elixirs. They'd come armed to the teeth just to be on the right side of preparation. But even that knowledge was cold comfort when the whispers of unseen beastsmoving in the jungle echoed around them.
The faint hiss and sizzle of the torch seared her ears, which strained to pick out and identify foreign sounds. It was only the knowledge that Balthier was close behind that gave her any sort of comfort whatsoever.
There was a flurry of movement to her right, the nerve-wracking crack-crack-crack of branches under what must have been a tremendous weight. She froze mid-slash, every muscle clenched in an agony of tension.
"Balthier…"
"Shh," he whispered back. "Let's not borrow trouble. Hold a moment."
Beyond their tiny circle of light the jungle was black as pitch, an inky, all-encompassing nothingness. There could be myriad ferocious beasts lingering in the trees, surrounding them, and she would never know. The thought produced a vicious shiver, from the roots of her hair down to the soles of her feet. Balthier's hand settled again on her shoulder, squeezing with firm, grounding pressure.
After interminable moments fraught with apprehension, at last there was a rumble of sound, like some massive beast had scraped the trees as it lumbered away – but it came more distantly, and she heaved a sigh of intense relief.
"I think…I think perhaps we ought to have listened to Old Rohan," she whispered. "I've just got this feeling –"
"Foreboding," he said in a deep monotone. "Like we've trespassed where we ought not to have done."
"Yes," she said on a shuddering breath. "That's exactly it." She turned towards him. "We should turn back while we're able."
His expression was unreadable in the low light, but she heard the tightness in his voice when he responded, "We cannot."
A chill slid down her spine, like a bucket of icy water had been dumped over her head. "What do you mean?" she asked, wincing at the high, tinny sound of her voice climbing in panic.
"The way is barred. The vines have been closing in behind us for more than an hour now." He gestured with the torch behind him, revealing the wall of vines that had interlocked, weaving a thick net between the trees that they had just crossed between. They were scored from the slashes she'd cut through them, weeping a thick purple-black ooze, but they were steadily repairing the damage, creeping up along the trees before her very eyes.
"No," she whispered. "That's not….that's not possible. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't wish to alarm you."
Alarmed was not quite the right word. She'd skipped right past it and gone straight on to terrified out of her wits. She felt her breath hitching in her chest, her throat tightening, her bloodless fingers clenching upon the leather-wrapped hilt of her sword. Mechanically she brushed past Balthier, jerked the sword over her head and swung it at the vines with all of her might. The force of the impact ricocheted up her arms, singing painfully through taut muscles and tendons.
She hadn't made so much as a dent. Not even a scratch; it was as if the vines – vines she had only moments agosliced clean through with the very same blade – had reinforced themselves with steel.
Trapped.
She couldn't uncurl her fingers, and her knuckles creaked beneath the strain. Every muscle felt pulled and stretched to its limit. Her breathing was labored, each breath small and shallow, and her lungs burned with the effort to draw in air. A high-pitched buzz rang in her ears, piercing her brain and blotting out rational thought. She was reduced to primal instinct; she felt only the frantic pounding of her heart in her chest, the prickle of a nervous sweat breaking out upon her forehead. Her vision blurred, faded. Dizziness assailed her, and she swayed on her feet.
Dimly she heard Balthier call her name, felt the palm of his hand against her sweat-soaked back. There was firm pressure on her fingers – the sword was pried from them, dropping uselessly to the mossy jungle floor, and she made a pitiful sound, a fearful whimper dredged up from the dark and quiet place her mind had retreated to.
His hand moved in soothing circles at the small of her back, then traced up her spine to the nape of her neck, fingers searching out the tight, corded muscles. There was a muttered oath, and then his hand cupped the back of her head and tugged, and then her cheek was pressed against the front of his shirt, her hands trapped between them. His heart thudded beneath her ear, a firm, steady beat.
She heard his voice rumbling in his chest, and the even cadence pierced the fog that had enshrouded her mind at last. "Darling, breathe."
As if the order had somehow compelled her cooperation, she opened her mouth and desperately sucked in a lungful of air. The blackness at the edge of her vision receded; the buzzing in her ears softened. With each harsh, ragged breath, her tension ebbed like a tide pulling out to sea, her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. With some effort, she matched her breaths to the rise and fall of his chest, and her dizziness at last abated.
He murmured at her ear, "That's my brave girl."
She forced her hands flat against his chest and shoved away, her face burning with humiliation. "I'm not brave," she snapped, and cringed anew at how weak her voice had sounded even to her own ears. She made a disgusted noise deep in her throat, turning away from the light of the torch, the better to conceal herself.
Balthier heaved a sigh, bending to retrieve the sword he'd relieved her of, and busying himself with wiping the clinging moss from the handle to provide her a few extra moments to collect herself once again. He watched her surreptitiously as she balled up her fists and swiped at her forehead and then her cheeks, sponging away sweat and what he suspected were tears.
"We've got to keep moving," he said at last. "We cannot go back, so we must continue on."
She accepted the sword when he offered it to her, squaring her shoulders resolutely – but her lower lip quivered, just a bit. Poor girl; with no avenue of escape, she was struggling to stave off the instinctual panic that threatened.
She turned away, hacking viciously at the scraggly vines barring their progression, stomping on them as she proceeded past. He followed close on her heels, and staged a minor stumble as he crossed the vines that were already stretching themselves across the path. His muttered oath brought her to a halt, jerking around to face him.
"What's wrong?" she inquired, her voice carefully modulated to disguise her disquiet.
"I tripped, blast it all," he grumbled. "I've got to hold the torch where you can use the light, but I can hardly see my own feet." He gave a remarkable impression of a long-suffering sigh. "There's no help for it; you're going to have to guide me." And he held out his hand to her.
Naïve she might be, but stupid she was not. He stepped just as nimbly over the fallen vines as she did; he didn't need a guide. Still, every time her fingers tightened fractionally on his, he stroked his thumb across her knuckles in silent reassurance until she eased her death-grip on his hand.
She could almost resent him for his machinations…if he hadn't been the only thing standing between her and a complete and total breakdown.
She had never felt so ashamed of herself. For all that he gave decent lip-service to understanding her limitations, how could he help but to judge her lacking? So it had to be pity, then, that had motivated his actions.
He should have left her behind.
Another swipe of his thumb across her knuckles. He said, "Stop that."
She risked a glance over her shoulder as she sawed through a proliferation of vines. "Stop what?" she asked.
"Brooding. It doesn't become you."
"I am not–" She paused to jam forward the blade, neatly bisecting the creeping tendril of vine that had begun to wind around it, "–brooding." She jerked the blade free, and a bit of the ominous-looking sap weeping from the severed vines flew up with it, splattering against her wrist. There was a curious warmth to it, a sticky-sweet smell that permeated the air. She tried to rub it off onto her blouse, but only succeeded in coating her wrist with the stuff.
She was clutching his fingers again; she made a concentrated effort to relax her grip, swallowing down her annoyance.
He snorted. "You are brooding. What I don't understand is why."
She dragged her sleeve across her forehead, wiping away the dirt and sweat that had accumulated there. "You should have left me," she muttered.
He stumbled, and their hands pulled, and damned if she didn't tighten her grip in response. "What?" he bit off.
"You should have left me!" The bitter cry, loud as it was, was quickly swallowed up by the dense jungle. "I'm not brave," she snarled. "I'm weak. Terrified." These things she spat out as if they were curses, sour on her tongue.
"Do you think I am without fear?" He posed the question blandly.
She averted her face, squared her jaw and continued swinging blindly at the foliage, carving a path through. "You weren't the one that…that embarrassed yourself."
"I've never found myself in a situation that I could not escape from," he said. "If I had, then I very well might have been. Courage cannot exist without fear – he who knows no fear is a fool. Courage is persistence when faced with that which one fears." He cleared his throat. "Might I point out that you are persisting?"
She made a scathing sound deep in her throat. "What other choice do I have?"
"There is always a choice. What does it matter if you should fall, so long as you pick yourself up again?" He eased through the path she'd cleared, careful to keep her within the torch's circle of light. "I've known many a man to fall to lesser pressures. Men who have accepted fate and sat meekly down to await death. Be a fighter, Penelo – it's not he with the greatest strength who triumphs, but he with the greatest strength of will."
She'd heard such platitudes before and had dismissed them as trite nonsense designed to bolster flagging spirits, but there was such a wealth of sincerity in his voice. As harshly as she had judged herself, she got the impression that he had not judged her at all. Perhaps she had rushed to judgment too quickly herself; perhaps she had assumed pity where none existed.
"I just…I don't want to be responsible for getting us killed," she said. "You shouldn't risk your safety for mine."
She aimed a whack at a particularly thick vine, and was surprised by the spray of hot liquid that burst forth, coating her arms and face. It tainted the air with the thick, coppery tang of blood. A bestial hiss rent the silence, echoing from high overhead. There was the creak and cry of overloaded branches, a shower of leaves that were plucked from their stems by the weight of a massive body moving through the trees.
"Balthier," she whispered, "I think I've gone and killed us after all."
The light of the torch was insufficient, but what it did reveal was a horrifying sight. The dull shine of a scaly black snake hanging in the boughs of the trees, practically invisible when immobile, but now – now its thick body wended its way through a maze of treetops, surrounding them on all sides. Penelo had inadvertently sliced through its tail, and it was furious.
He supposed their luck could not have held forever, but he had hoped to find that Old Rohan had at least exaggerated something. If anything, he had undersold – the wildsnakes populating the Giza Plains had nothing on this great hulking beast. Boughs snapped under the strain of supporting the reptile, raining down stinging shards of mangled wood upon their heads.
Balthier dropped Penelo's hand and grabbed for his pistol, hoping against hope that there would be time to fire before the beast had a chance to strike. Surely a body that massive must be cumbersome? He would have to make the shot count; a body that immense could likely shake off a poorly-aimed shot with little to show for it but renewed fury.
Penelo, too, had brandished her sword, peering into the surrounding darkness as far as the paltry light would permit.
Fangs twice over again as long as fingers. Dear gods, he certainly hoped not.
Like the snap of a whip, a mutilated tail lashed out from the cover of darkness, catching Penelo in the midsection with enough force to send her flying backwards. She hit a tree hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, and there was the unmistakable crunch of breaking glass followed by the sweet peppermint scent of potions. Gods, their entire supply had been in her backpack – they might very well all be ruined.
Penelo sank to her knees, groaning with exertion as she struggled to reclaim the breath that had been stolen from her. He strode forward to assist her to her feet, unwilling to let her remain unguarded on the jungle floor.
He'd taken only two steps when a huge, scaly coil unfurled from the trees, suspended in the air between he and Penelo. The snake's head was three feet wide, pointing sharply at the nose. Its forked tongue slithered out, scenting the air. Sickly yellow eyes with their vertical slitted pupils glowed with malice as it stared at Balthier. It drew back a short distance and rose up, unhinging its jaw to frightening effect, and letting out a sound that was more growl than hiss. Its rank breath singed the air between them, its fangs gleaming in the cavernous maw of its open mouth.
If he moved, it would strike – and it had already proved itself faster than he would have believed.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Penelo crawling on her stomach, her sword clenched in her teeth, positioning herself beneath the beast, and he clenched his jaw against the instinct to shout at her. Foolish girl, she was going to get herself killed!
But the adder had eyes only for Balthier; it had failed to notice Penelo creeping up beneath it. Gingerly she rolled onto her back, fisting her sword in her hands, bracing herself for the kill strike. A second later, she thrust the sword up, jamming the blade straight through the snake's unprotected throat. Blood sprayed forth, coating the sword, her hands, her chest – she tightened her grip, sawing brutally through the scaly flesh.
There was a fierce hiss; the snake's body trembled and shook, thrashing in the trees and rattling branches like the very earth had quaked. In its death throes it slumped, the writhing slack of its body pulling loose from the nearest tree, threatening to bury Penelo beneath it.
He moved faster than he would have thought possible, grabbing for her arm to pull her from beneath the crushing weight. But the blood slicking her arms made it difficult to keep his hold; he had to toss the torch to the mossy ground and reach for her with both arms.
Too close. The snake's head lashed out, the spike of one dagger-sharp fang pierced the flesh of Balthier's arm, and then its head at last lolled to the side, the spark of life extinguished.
Searing pain blossomed, surging through his veins like fire. He felt the wet gush of blood and gritted his teeth against the agony that threatened to tear a shout from his lungs.
Penelo scrambled up to her knees, her chest heaving with each sharp, ragged breath.
"I hope," he wheezed, "that there's at least one antidote…that survived that little mishap."
She stilled, her eyes searching the pained tautness of his face, widening in horrified recognition. She grappled for the dying torch that lay beside them, righting it to jam the end into the dirt to hold it stable. "Oh…oh, no." Her voice trembled with fear, her hands reached for her backpack, yanking the togs to open the flap. "Please, please, please, please…"
She winced as bits of shattered glass sliced into the delicate flesh of her hands, carefully sorting through the ruined remnants of their essential medicines in the hopes of locating one – just one godsdamned bottle – that hadn't broken.
Balthier had collapsed onto his side, his breaths faltering to an awkward, unsteady rhythm. Sweat beaded upon his forehead, and his jaw clenched so tightly she could hear his teeth grinding together. His back arched, as if each beat of his heart brought a fresh surge of torment.
At last her fingers curled around a bottle that seemed intact; she lifted it carefully from the depths of the bag, holding it close to the dim light of the torch. The liquid within was an opaque green – an antidote. She wiped her bloody hands on her pants and slid her arm beneath Balthier's neck, supporting his head while she tugged at the cork stopper with her teeth. She tilted the tiny bottle carefully against his lower lip, and he managed enough strength to open his mouth at her urging and swallow down the liquid she poured within.
Almost at once, the terrifying contortions that had stretched tight his muscles eased. He sucked in a great lungful of air, gasping harshly. His head fell back against the cradle of her arm, but the tension that had wracked him had drained away.
"Still hurts…like the bloody devil," he muttered, and promptly succumbed to unconsciousness.
Carefully she threaded his arms through the straps of his own backpack, pushing it aside to lay him on his back so that she could press her ear to his chest. Beneath her ear, his heart beat, slow but steady.
She curled in on herself and sobbed with relief.
Balthier roused some hours later, feeling rather like he'd come out the loser in a fistfight against a behemoth. Everything hurt. His skin felt inflamed, sweat coated his limbs, and his arm throbbed with a vengeance. The mere act of trying to rise made his head spin, and he collapsed back onto his back with a groan.
"Don't move." Penelo's voice was low, quiet. "You're ill."
"It's hot as hell," he grumbled irritably. He turned his head to the side, seeking her out. She'd managed to gather together enough kindling and wood to start up a small fire, which cast up a warm golden glow. In its soft light, he could see that she'd managed to cleanse her skin of the death adder's blood. Her clothes, however, would never be the same – they bore rusty bloodstains which had dried into the fabric, turning it stiff. He knew a moment's satisfaction over it; surely, she'd have to replace the garments. This time with something more suitable than those pauper's clothes she'd been so insistent upon.
"It's really quite cool. You're just feverish." Over the fire, she'd constructed a rudimentary spit, upon which a hunk of meat was roasting, which she carefully turned to ensure it cooked evenly. Her movements were slow and deliberately delicate; her hands were wrapped in bandages. His brow furrowed in confusion, until he realized that she must've cut herself while hunting for an antidote amongst the shattered bottles.
After a moment she unfolded herself from her position by the fire and rooted through his backpack, from which she retrieved a small bottle of blue liquid, a canteen of water, and a length of cloth.
He made a weak gesture toward the bottle. "Some potions survived, then?"
"A few. I separated them from the broken glass after you passed out." She popped off the cork, slipped her arm beneath his neck, and pressed the bottle to his lips. Minty and sweet, the potion instantly eased the worst of his aches, bringing a blessed, cooling relief.
"You ought to take one for yourself," he said, nodding to indicate her wounded hands.
"Already did." But her eyes slid away, and he knew she'd lied. Had she been so worried that she had suffered her own wounds rather than take a potion she might otherwise save for him?
She eased her arm out from beneath him, unscrewed the lid from the canteen, and liberally soaked the linen cloth, pressing it to his forehead. He relaxed beneath the gentle strokes of her hands wiping away the sweat, cooling his overheated skin.
"Dinner ought to be ready soon," she said. "You should eat, if you're able."
"What is it?" He hadn't remembered packing anything that required cooking.
"What else?" She flashed him a feral grin. "Snake."
A laugh rumbled in his chest, but even that small amount of exertion hurt. "You're incorrigible."
"I killed that snake fair and square," she said, defensively. "And I'm taking a strip of its hide with me. I'm going to turn it into a new pair of pants as a warning to other creatures that might want to test their mettle against mine."
He caught her hand in his using only the lightest pressure so as not to aggravate her wounds, and drew her fingers to his lips to brush a kiss across her knuckles. "Brave girl," he murmured, his eyes sliding closed. "I told you so. Took years off my life, seeing you crawling underneath that monstrous beast."
Carefully she extracted her hand from his, expression pensive. "You're still feverish," she said. "You should go back to sleep. I'll wake you when there's food."
She skittered away, all ruffled feathers and befuddlement, retreating to the fireside to check the progress of the meat sizzling away. He observed her for long minutes in silence, from beneath his lashes lest she chance a glance back at him. She'd doused the torch in favor of the fire, and had managed to heave the massive snake away from the small area she'd cleared. True to her claim, a large strip of the snake's skin had been carefully peeled away and reserved, and the thought of her in a pair of honestly-earned snakeskin trousers brought a satisfied smile to his face.
She had her demons still to conquer, but he hoped she had proven to herself that bravery was not a quality that she lacked.
When she had deemed the meat cooked through, she pulled the stick from the spit and collected another potion from among the ones remaining in the bag. As she settled beside him once again, he managed a reasonable approximation of having been roused from a light slumber.
He made to rise once again, but she pressed him back down. "Don't you dare," she said. "You need to rest."
She plucked tender morsels of meat from the spit, hand-feeding him until she was satisfied he'd ingested enough to sustain him. Then she set aside the spit and grabbed for the potion, popping off the cork.
He grabbed her wrist when she would have pressed it on him. "Are there more?"
"A few," she said. "Three, I think. Not ideal, but better than nothing."
"Take one for yourself," he said.
"I told you, I already –"
"No, you didn't. You're a poor liar." He squeezed her trapped wrist gently. "If I take this one, you will take one yourself. Agreed?"
"I really don't need –"
"It's not open for debate," he said firmly. "I will be well enough, given a bit more rest. But you must be in fighting condition as well."
She blew out an aggravated breath. "Fine," she snapped. "I'll take one."
He released her wrist, took the potion from it, tossed it back, and handed back the spent bottle. She traded that out for the canteen, but he lost patience when she attempted to help him drink that, too.
"I assure you," he said as he made a grab for it, "I am no longer so weak as all that."
"You've been sick for hours," she replied. "You should be sleeping, not…not pushing your limits."
"Penelo –"
"No! I won't let you injure yourself further –" But she subsided into silence as he hoisted himself upright, snatching the canteen straight from her hands. He took a deep drink and handed it back to her, curling her fingers around the cool metal. Her lower lip was thrust out in a petulant pout at his refusal to heed her advice.
He curved his palm around the back of her neck and drew her close before she could do more than take a swift breath. He heard her fingernails scrabble along the metal canteen, felt her muscles tense beneath the gentle pressure of his fingers. His cheek brushed hers; he felt the soft warmth of her breath against his chin. That tension wound tighter and tighter, until he imagined he could hear her muscles straining beneath his hand.
He could wait her out. His fingers tunneled into the hair at the nape of her neck, stroking through the soft blond strands, carefully combing out the tangles. He felt more than heard the shuddery sigh that escaped her, felt the tension ebb and her shoulders settle to a more natural slope.
He nipped her lower lip. She jerked, gasping, and he gave a low chuckle as he cupped her chin, tilting her head up. His lips brushed hers with soft, light pressure, until at last her lips parted beneath his, lulled into complacency by the gentle caress. She made a curious sound in her throat, what might've been a whimper, but was certainly not a rejection. He stroked the apple of her cheek with his thumb, and her eyes slid shut. She leaned in, a hint of invitation.
She started again at the first touch of his tongue, as if each foray were new and unexpected, and he could have happily strung up her former lover by his neck for having failed her so spectacularly on so many levels. She wasn't cold; she was merely untutored – because the selfish bastard hadn't given a single thought to her enjoyment.
And it had taken so little to coax it out of her – she made sweet sounds in her throat, tipped her head to find a better angle, tentatively sought out his tongue with hers, making her own shy overtures. Her hands lifted to settle on his shoulders, lightly at first, as if she were unsure if it was the proper thing to do. Her fingers flexed and curled, her nails prickling the starched linen of his shirt.
And then she pulled away abruptly, gasping, "Oh – the canteen!"
He smothered a chuckle; she'd dropped the damned thing in her lap without bothering to secure the lid, and a small stream of water had poured itself upon her lap.
He let her fumble with the cap; her hands trembled as she struggled to replace the lid, and she worried her lower lip between her teeth.
And then she was rising to her feet, clearly seeking escape. She studiously avoided facing him, and he wondered whether or not she would be blushing – if he would even be able to tell in the low light of the fire.
He caught her wrist before she could flee. "You're not cold," he said. "You deserved to know."
She stilled at once; from this position he could see only the tautness of her jaw, the sharp edge of her chin. "Am I supposed to thank you?" she asked, in a cutting voice.
Well, if she could snap, she couldn't be too terribly shaken up. "If you feel so called," he replied, in a patently arrogant tone.
A growl of fury gurgled up between her lips. She wrenched the lid from the canteen and dumped what water remained straight over his head.
Another man might have been angry. He tossed back his head and laughed. Then he removed his vest, jerked his sodden shirt over his head, and tossed it over a low-hanging branch to dry. He sighed, folded his vest up carefully, and shoved it beneath his head. His fever had gone; there was only a lingering soreness left to attest to their battle with the death adder. He really would be well enough recovered in the morning.
She stalked back toward the fire, settling in for what looked to be an inspired sulk.
"Take a potion, darling," he called. "We had a deal."
Without so much as turning in his direction, she extended her hand toward him and made a rude gesture.
And he chuckled as he settled in for the night. Snake bite and envenoming notwithstanding, he couldn't recall the last time he had had such fun.
AN: There is a lovely group of writers to be found on the Fanfiction subreddit! We even have our own discord channel, for anyone who might want to bounce ideas around and talk with other writers. All are welcome!