Notes: So many thanks for the reviews and love! The previous was short, but they seemed to work better as separate chapters, hence the division. By the way, if anyone can suggest a title better than this, which has been my working title since I thought of the story, I'd welcome the help!

Everything was hazy for Asterix.

There had been nothing but pain – his spine felt like it was ready to break, his kidneys lacerated, his sides ripped and torn open, ribs flayed to the bone – his body had been beyond his control, the pain crushing him, reducing him to twitching and jerking as his muscles and nerves shut down. He'd been alone, in a harsh place void of compassion, among people who hated him, who hurt him and enjoyed it, who laughed at his suffering.

And then, there had been thumps and shouts, and the pain had—well, not stopped but at least the blows had ceased – and then, there'd been gentle hands releasing him, kind, comforting touches, a warm, soft surface welcoming Asterix's exhausted and tortured body. He'd lain against that warmth and rested, found peace. He'd laid his head on his friend's shoulder, and although he was in so much pain that he barely knew his own name, he knew who the tender hands belonged to, knew who the person was who responded to him with compassion, and sympathy, and affection. He'd whispered "Obelix" and been rewarded with kind words, reassurances, and the knowledge that his best friend had come for him at last.

Asterix ought to stay awake, this much he knew: a warrior must always be alert, even when injured. But it was such a relief not to be chained up and hurt anymore, so comforting to be cradled in gentle arms instead of manacled to a whipping-block, so wonderful to be picked up and carried away from the torture, that despite the pain, he relaxed into the warm softness of Obelix's embrace. It felt like water after thirst, like food after hunger: it almost seemed to leach away the fiercest of the pain, making him feel a little less like his body was being eaten alive by flame.

Asterix tried, he really tried, to tell Obelix about his sword, and about the shopping bag filled with Gaulish delicacies, the prize they'd been fighting for. He knew that he was supposed to be the one taking care of things, that he was supposed to be the one who made the plans. But he was exhausted, and he couldn't think, and the gentle embrace was easing his pain, and Obelix was here now. His best friend had made him a promise, Asterix had heard the words through the pounding of the blood in his ears. Asterix could stop fighting now. Obelix would take care of everything. He couldn't walk, could barely move, and it was shameful, he knew – but his friend was here, and he could just rest, and let Obelix carry him, for a while.

With a sigh, Asterix let his eyes close.

Away from the barracks, the streets of Divodurum were narrow, flanked by low, welcoming-looking houses. But doors slammed on either side as Obelix hurried down the alleyways. Asterix had stopped answering him after they had emerged from the Roman barracks, and that silence, that stillness, was clamping a cold hand around his heart.

The minute they'd stepped outside, Asterix had gone limp, the breath sighing out of him. The sensation of Asterix giving up the fight had sent a chill through Obelix. Asterix, always so full of energy, slumped cold and lifeless against his chest… Toutatis, it had been the worst thing in his life. Obelix had gone half-mad at first, calling Asterix's name over and over, afraid to shake him, afraid to touch him, afraid that—that—He couldn't even let himself think it. Instead, he had shifted Asterix's head on his shoulder until it was facing his neck, coaxed Asterix's nose and mouth closer to him, and then stood perfectly still, every particle of his skin on alert, listening, waiting, willing the wind to stop blowing—until, finally, thank all the gods, Obelix had felt a faint whisper of warm breath against his neck. Breathing. Breathing, thank all the gods. Alive.

Alive. And he would keep him that way.

His instincts were calling to him to run to the forest, but he ignored them steadfastly. He and Asterix had always made the forest their home on their voyages, sleeping on the lush grass, with no cover but the gentle summer sky, the drone of forest insects their lullaby and the woodland birds standing in for the village cockerel, but that was out of the question now. He had to find shelter for Asterix, shelter and warmth and a druid. His injured friend needed to be in a soft bed, somewhere warm and dry and clean. How Obelix wished they were back in the village, with their kindly druid Getafix, and the ladies of the village providing fresh linens and water and… He blinked, hard. He wasn't in the village, and there was no time for idle dreams. Asterix's blood, flowing from the open wounds in his back and slipping steadily down over Obelix's arm, was an urgent reminder. Asterix's breath, warm against his skin, was growing slower, harsher. Obelix could feel it.

And so, now, he forged through the streets of the garrison town, the fearful inhabitants closing their doors against him, unable to locate an inn or a place of refuge, and Obelix was fast growing used to the unfamiliar sensation of fear.

An old man slammed his door before Obelix could get to him – he could have run, he could have smashed in the door, but he couldn't now, not with Asterix in his arms, and he was afraid to jostle him, to hurt him more – there was a child playing at the end of the street, but before Obelix could get to him the mother had snatched her inside and slammed the door – There! A young Gaulish woman, sweeping in front of her hut.

She flung her broom down and bolted for the door, but Obelix took a few hurried steps forward and stuck his hand in between the door and the frame just before it could slam in his face.

The girl stared, wide-eyed, as the heavy wooden door bounced off the fleshy part of Obelix's palm and rebounded to swing wide open. She clutched her shawl around her, terrified, taking a step back.

"Miss," Obelix said, standing quite still. He saw her eyes flit to Asterix, saw her hand fly up to her mouth. "I need a druid," he said baldly. "My friend—" Obelix saw the terror on her face, but wasn't really in a position to care all that much— "my friend needs a druid."

She stared at Asterix, not meeting Obelix's eyes. "We don't have one, except for…" She paused for an instant, then shook her head. "We don't have a druid."

Obelix shuddered. "How can you not have a druid?" he blurted. Asterix would live, of course he would, and he would be well, of course he would, but he was so badly hurt, and without a druid… "Every Gaulish village has a druid! Every—"

"We don't!" she cried. "We haven't had one since the Romans—"

"Who are you talking to, Xenophobia?" called the voice of an older woman from inside the house. "I thought I told you not to talk to strange men!"

"It's… Mother, there's a man who's injured…"

There was the sound of a stick clomping against the floor, and a homely, middle-aged woman stepped up behind the girl. Suspicious grey eyes met Obelix's first, then dropped to Asterix. At the sight of him, her whole aspect changed from suspicion to outright animosity. "And you thought you'd bring the Romans down on our doorstep, did you! Dripping a trail of blood, in front of our house!" She glared at Obelix. "I'll thank you to take your – your friend, or whatever he is, elsewhere. We're law-abiding folk, we are, and we don't want to be seen with outlaws!"

And she slammed the door in his face.

Obelix blinked, over and over. He had never been in charge of making plans before, and his first instinct was to ask Asterix what to do. But Asterix was lying against his shoulder, unconscious, grievously injured, and there was nothing Obelix could do but try to help him. And that meant trying to ask this woman politely, one more time, if there was a druid… He looked up at the door, and knocked.

"Breaking down our doors! Help! Help!" screeched the older woman. "My neighbours, help! I'm being attacked! Call a patrol!"

Obelix looked from the smashed-in door to the people trickling out of the neighboring huts. Normally he would love this, love the chance of a punch-up. Fists flying, he would dispatch any threat and enjoy it too.

He carefully adjusted the small body in his arms, lowered his head and spoke humbly. "I need a druid," he said. "It's," he had to swallow hard, "urgent."

The Divodurum Gauls' faces softened as their eyes fell on Asterix. Some stared at him with pity, others recoiled in horror. Obelix half-turned away, shielding Asterix from their eyes. "Don't stare at him like that," he grunted, but had to stop as his tears choked him.

Some of the assembled men and women averted their eyes, and murmuring broke out among them. Finally, a short man with dark hair stepped forward. "Our druid was taken by the Romans to heal their prefect in another city," a short man said, not harshly. "We don't have one anymore, unless they return him."

"There's Beatnix, out in the forest," somebody's voice piped up.

"That quack?" The dark-haired man turned on him. "There's a reason he's banished to the forest! You call him a druid?"

"He healed my daughter Rubella," somebody else said.

"She just had a fever, she would have healed anyway!" snapped a third Gaul.

"What about Anaesthesix? They said he wouldn't survive!"

"Pure chance!"

"You know what they say about the practitioners of Roman medicine! Once an undertaker, always an undertaker!"

"He was never an…"

Obliex blinked. The girl who had opened the door to her hut was pressing something into his hand – a scrap of parchment, with a small drawing on it. "Here," she whispered. "This will show you how to get to him." She looked up at Asterix, sudden tears in her eyes. "Go."

And for the first time in his life, Obelix turned away from a fight, and headed out towards the forest.