Notes: Sort of a continuation of the previous...

Gods!

Asterix opened his mouth in a silent gasp, boiling water scalding his back—He clamped his jaw shut, trapping his shout of pain inside his mouth. He couldn't stop it escaping in a groan. But gods—Asterix writhed, he was a warrior but he couldn't take this, he would die from the pain—

"He's awake!"

-O Toutatis, the pain—His body was boiling. Boiling oil—bubbling over his back, blistering and lifting his skin off the flesh—he couldn't—no—stop the pain, please—

"O Druid, hurry up! He's—he seems…"

A hand gripped his, and Asterix, flailing, grasped it desperately. "Hold on, Asterix," a deep voice rumbled. "Potion's coming… just hang on…"

Asterix gritted his teeth against the liquid fire in his back, but a stifled sound forced its way out from between his clenched teeth. The deep voice bellowed some sort of instruction, ragged with panic, but Asterix was too lost in the flames eating him alive—all he could do was gasp for breath and clutch at the hand holding his, illogically seeming like a lifeline that could maybe pull him out—

"Here, Asterix. Here you are—go on..." It took Asterix a moment to register the cool, smooth glass pressed against his lips, the new sensation cutting a path through the searing pain—he managed to focus on it, obeying the strong voice that softly repeated, "Drink. Drink…" He was hardly in control of his own faculties, but he managed to force his mouth to open, his throat to swallow.

Suddenly he could breathe. "Yes, yes, go on, Asterix, that's it," the deep voice coaxed. Asterix drank, soft fingers massaging his throat, helping him swallow. Little by little the fog cleared. The wall of flame under his skin cooled and died, leaving him dizzy and trembling with the memory of pain, limp and drained against the surface he lay on.

Slowly he registered a hand carding through his hair, soft words rumbling against his ear. His vision focused, revealing the inside of – he was hesitant, his fuzzy brain taking a moment to place it – a hut. His cheek rested against smooth cotton, which covered a soft, pliant surface with a gentle rise and fall. A red braid swung before his eyes.

"Obelix," Asterix said out loud. Now he'd thought it, his mind caught up with his senses, cataloguing the timbre of the rumbling voice, still murmuring comfort, the scent of his friend's lightly freckled, perpetually sunburnt skin. Asterix took in a breath to say more, but wet phlegm clotted his breath, and he choked, the involuntary jerk of his body sending lightning-bolts of pain through his back.

"That's enough of that. Quiet down, now," came a stern voice over Obelix's shoulder. Asterix, gasping for breath after clearing the clot blocking his throat, forced his eyes open for an instant. Strange Gaulish man in a multicolored tunic, adorned with beads and flowers and Toutatis knew what else. Then Asterix clamped his eyes shut and wheezed loudly as the fluid in his lungs bubbled up again.

"He can't breathe!" Obelix cried out in panic, body vibrating beneath him. A strong hand clasped Asterix's, and he gripped it tightly, trying to brace himself as he fought for air.

"Keep him upright," said the new, unfamiliar voice. "I need to get…" the voice receded, becoming unintelligible. "Here we are." The man's voice was close by again, in front of Asterix, another gourd at his lips. "Try to take a sip of this."

Coughing out another glob of phlegm, Asterix gasped in some delicious air, then took an obedient sip. The obstruction in his chest seemed to reduce in size. An unfamiliar hand, he noted – druid? – was smearing a strong-smelling salve on his throat and air passage. And he could breathe, Gods, he could breathe! Air, delicious air, thank all the gods, air…

"Now this." Another gourd, another potion – a tiny sip this time. Obediently, Asterix drank. The taste was familiar. Wasn't this…

Almost immediately, bolts of lightning pounded down Asterix's veins, and he shuddered and stiffened as the magic potion took effect. Wait, magic potion? Wasn't it all spilt in the Roman barracks…?

The mental image of the Roman barracks—flagstones splattered with his blood, manacles, agony—blindsided him, and he flinched, startling and burying his face into Obelix's shoulder. "There, there," Obelix soothed immediately. A gentle hand came round to cradle the back of his head, stroking his hair softly, and Asterix leaned into Obelix, savouring the feeling of safety and comfort. It's over, he said to himself, it's over.

The timbre of Obelix's voice had changed: he was clearly speaking to someone else. "I thought you said the potion would stop his pain!"

"It has," said the –druid's? – voice soothingly. "He's a man, not a menhir. He's had a terrible shock…"

As the strange man explained to Obelix, Asterix opened his eyes and looked around again. Things were pleasantly clearer, his vision not so blurred, the fog mostly cleared from his brain. "You're… the druid…? Did I catch your name?"

"Beatnix the druid, at your service."

"Thank you, O Beatnix…" Speaking was a great effort, and Asterix, suddenly dizzy, laid his head back down on Obelix's shoulder. Immediately, his best friend's big, warm hand was back, cupping his head tenderly. Asterix tried to extend proper thanks, for the druid had surely saved his life, but found he could not. He was panting as though he had been running for miles, and although his mind was clear, a great weakness was overtaking him. "Forgive me, O Druid, I seem to…"

The strange druid chuckled cheerfully. "O Asterix of Armorica, I hereby forgive you for almost dying. You've only just joined the land of the living. Now just rest and let your friend take care of you, hmm? That's all I ask."

Obelix's fingers were gentle, parting the roots of his hair, thumb massaging the base of his skull, and Asterix sighed with contentment. It was odd, but he felt as though strength were somehow pumping into him, making him less ill, less feeble. As he drifted into restful sleep, he heard the druid's voice fading into the soft blackness: "Save your strength. I'll be asking you to eat later."

It was much later, at night, when Beatnix and Obelix were performing the nightly wound care for a sleeping Asterix, Obelix with his chair pulled up to the bed, gently salving the wrists rubbed raw by the iron cuffs, that Obelix murmured, "I can't help thinking… this reminds me…"

"Reminds you?" Beatnix looked questioningly at Obelix, who cleared his throat uncomfortably, bending to wrap a bandage around his friend's right arm.

"Yes, well. When we were little, about five… before I fell into the magic potion…" The big man seemed to be embarrassed. "Well, I got… picked on a lot. The other boys liked to thump me."

"You?!"

Obelix lightly tied off the linen, laid down Asterix's arm, and scooted his stool around the bed to take up the other. "Yes, well… I was a bit of an Amita Sara in those days. And Asterix – he always stood up for me. He was always defending me from them. He didn't manage it very well – it was just the two of us against all the village boys, well, just him, really, I didn't like to fight – and I still ended up getting thumped, but…" He trailed off, focusing very hard on the salve he was spreading over Asterix's left wrist.

"But just having someone on your side was enough to make you feel better," the druid said quietly.

The dark eyes snapped up to meet Beatnix's. "How did you…"

The druid smiled. "It's common enough. Go on."

"He'd end up black and blue most times, defending me." Obelix took a deep breath, audibly swallowing a lump in his throat. "He always said he liked a good punch-up, so long as no-one was really hurt. But there was this one time…" Obelix finished salving and started wrapping, "they decided to pretend I was a large body of Roman troops, and they were the Gauls fighting me. I got thumped pretty badly, and I got a split lip and a black eye." Beatnix frowned, but Obelix was already continuing. "I didn't mind them having a bit of fun, but, well, Asterix was furious. When they were finished with me, he picked me up, took me to the stream and washed my face. Then he took my handkerchief and his and made a cold compress for my eye."

The druid listened, knowing that there was more.

"Things changed after that, but I never forgot that time, him taking care of me. It's odd. I can't seem to explain it…" Obelix tied off the bandage, then sighed, and stared out of the window at a stray dog trotting by.

"Your pet?" asked Beatnix.

"Hm? No." Obelix turned back to the druid. "I… It… When Asterix did that, it felt as though he was a grown-up. He was only little, same as me, but he was so…"

"Authoritative?"

Obelix nodded. "Yes. As though he'd take care of everything. And it wasn't just that, he was so…" he took a moment to search for words, "kind to me. He acted… not like someone my age. It was like being taken care of by my Mum. I've always," the man's plump fingers traced patterns on the sheet, "always trusted him to, um, to take care of things. Afterwards. After that day, I mean."

Beatnix smiled, warmed by the thought of this giant pledging himself to the tiny warrior for life over a childhood act of kindness. But the big man wasn't finished. "I've always felt he was the grown-up," Obelix said, sorrow seeping into his voice. "I've never had to be the grown-up." Obelix raised his head, but kept his eyes studiously on his hands, fingers twisting awkwardly together. "Until now."

Beatnix thought for a moment. "It's not easy with the roles reversed, is it?" he finally prompted gently.

"Hm?"

"It's hard to see him helpless."

Obelix nodded vehemently.

"He'll get better. You know that. And it's thanks to you."

"Don't care about that," the big man shrugged. "Just as long as he's all right."