Notes: Thanks so much for the encouragement with this. I would be remiss if I didn't thank CrazyBeaver for the original beta and support.
The scene Obelix walked into would haunt him in his nightmares for the rest of his days.
It had been so stupidly hard to find Asterix, so hard to find the prison, so hard to find anything. And yet, Obelix had never entertained the notion that Asterix would be anything but all right. Asterix was always all right, fighting the Romans was always just a game, slightly harder at times than others but as long as there was a good punch-up and plenty of wild boar, it was always fun, and everything was always all right.
Not today.
For a moment he couldn't even comprehend what he was seeing. A lot of Romans gathered around, and then some poor devil with a lot of blood splattered around him on the ground, and a Roman standing over him with a whip, and Asterix would have to wait for him for a few minutes, because if Asterix were here he'd tell Obelix to help the Gaul being hurt by the Romans first and then come and get him out of prison.
As Obelix moved towards the men clustered round the whipping-post, the legionary doing the scourging raised the whip high into the air, and brought it down, burying it deep into the victim's bloody flesh, between his ribs. As he jerked it out, the man screamed.
Obelix knew that voice. Knew that scream, although he had never before heard that voice cry out in agony.
It was as though Obelix had never known pain before this moment.
It wasn't true, it couldn't be, he was hearing wrong, it was some kind of mistake. He was running into the throng of Romans before he realized it, fists flying like windmills, knocking Romans right and left, sending them flying into the skies, but there was no pleasure in it, no joy, because he had to see who that Gaul was who had screamed like—who was short like—who was blond like—no, it couldn't possibly be, never, never, he thought as he dispatched the Commander up into the clouds with an uppercut and grabbed the torturer, spinning him around and bodily flinging him over the walls, never.
Then the Romans were gone and it was all quiet and Obelix tiptoed towards the whipping-block, tears already beginning to spill. There was a circle of blood on the flagstones around it. "As…Asterix?" he whispered. "It's not you, tell me it isn't you."
The limp, bloodied figure made no reply.
Obelix snapped out of his shocked trance and rushed to Asterix's side, falling to his knees (in the blood so much blood) facing him. For a terrible, endless moment, he thought he was dead. (not dead not dead never dead he can't be dead) But then, Asterix's eyelids fluttered, (oh thank Toutatis) slitting open to reveal bleary blue eyes, pupils dilated, lashes – oh, Asterix – drenched with tears of pain.
Obelix was already reaching out, ignoring the tears that spilled steadily down his own face, delicately snapping the iron manacles around Asterix's wrists with his fingers. But as soon as the shackles were removed, Asterix started to slide down: Obelix realized they had been the only thing keeping him upright. Choking on his own tears, he knelt closer and supported Asterix with one hand while he broke the leg-irons around his friend's ankles with the other. With a soft groan, Asterix slumped against the whipping-post, then fell forward past it, landing against Obelix's chest.
Obelix almost, almost embraced him; but his hands stopped in mid-air. The reality of Asterix leaning there against him, shaking hard with shock and pain, struck Obelix once again, and he realized he, too, was shaking. Oh Toutatis, oh, Asterix, oh gods what do I do? Asterix, how do I help you? He gulped down a sob. He'd give his life to help Asterix, but he didn't know what to do!
"Obelix…" It was a breath, no more than a sigh, but the sound of Asterix whispering his name jolted Obelix from his panic. This was no time to break down. So many times Asterix had been Obelix's strength: he'd made plans, taken risks, shouldered the responsibility for Obelix, for the village, for Gaul, and now that Asterix had fallen, it was Obelix's turn to step up, to be strong for him.
He hastily looked away from the torn, oozing flesh of Asterix's destroyed back; he couldn't look at that now, not and do what needed to be done. He reached out, gently cupping Asterix's elbows in his hands, wondering how to lift him, praying that he wasn't causing his friend any more pain.
"Obelix?" Asterix's raw voice whispered again. His head had sunk down to rest on Obelix's shoulder; Obelix could feel his tears on his skin. The knowledge that Asterix had been crying from the pain made his heart hurt. He shuddered convulsively as the memory of that scream pierced his heart again.
"I'm here, Asterix," he murmured softly, choking back his own tears. "I'm here and – and I'll take care of everything." Without thought, he shifted closer and slipped an arm beneath Asterix's thighs, so that his forearm formed a seat for his friend. Asterix slumped forward against Obelix, tremors of pain and shock running through his slight body. Obelix brought his other arm round and cupped the back of Asterix's head, soft blond hair all drenched and matted with dirt and sweat. The thought that Asterix had been sweating from pain and torment made Obelix's blood boil, but he controlled himself sternly. Slowly, he rose to his feet, holding Asterix: they ended up with Obelix carrying Asterix against his stomach as a mother would carry her child on her hip, Asterix's chest flush against Obelix's upper body, his head pillowed on Obelix's shoulder, and nothing at all touching his poor back.
There was a whisper of breath against Obelix's shoulder as he turned to go, and he realized Asterix was speaking to him. "Yes, Asterix," he said softly. "What is it?"
"…bag…" Asterix breathed, his voice raspy.
"Don't you worry. I'll get it," Obelix said, swallowing down his tears. He had to be strong for Asterix. As he scooped up the discarded shopping bag containing their treasures, he saw his friend's sword lying on the flagstone, and noticed, for the first time, that the blond head resting on his shoulder was bare. Although he wanted nothing more than to get out of this place, Obelix forced himself to look around, and was rewarded with his friend's helmet, wings dragging forlornly in the dirt. Lying near it was a flat, nearly empty gourd of potion – the one that had hung at Asterix's side. Obelix knelt, still carefully holding Asterix, and scooped up his friend's things, tucking them safely into his own broad belt. Then he wrapped the shopping bag around his elbow, brought his free hand back up to support Asterix's head, and swallowed down his tears as he carried his friend out of the barracks and into the city.