Notes: For the person who restored my faith in myself - you know who you are. Thank you.
They settled into a routine. Every day Obelix would go out and hunt, and Beatnix would cook. He had never been so well-fed, Beatnix thought as he salted and cured some of the meat to see him through when the two men had gone on their way. He'd stored Obelix's precious shopping bag in a hollow near a subterranean stream that kept things ice-cold, assuring him that their food would still be in good condition when they finally went on their way: he was fortunate in having this cold storage, as it made an excellent larder.
Beatnix also got into the habit of setting aside a bone for the little stray dog they had seen that last night: it had trotted around the house several times before settling into a spot on the doorstep sometime around the second day. The druid privately thought that the dog, as dogs did, had sensed the pair's soul-bond and quietly decided to stay within its aura. It wouldn't have been the first time a pet had claimed its master, although that was more the province of cats. The little fellow seemed to have taken a shine to Obelix, following him about when he was outside. Obelix sometimes smiled to see him. In fact, the only times the big Gaul had smiled, so far, were when he petted the dog, or spoke to Asterix. Obelix had even taken to giving the dog food, although the big man didn't tend to leave many leftovers.
Asterix was an entirely different story, though, lacking in appetite, and still unable to feed himself. The patient was out of immediate danger, but still very poorly, and weaker than a wild boar piglet. Although his pulped back remained uninfected, which boded well, his wounds were constantly leaking clear fluid mingled with blood. His torso was one solid bruise, and he was still incapacitated by his crippling agony. He couldn't move; his friend had to sit him up, lay him down, even turn him from one side to the other. Beatnix handed over the job of feeding him to Obelix, who did it only too willingly. He sat by his friend on the bed several times a day, feeding him with his own hands and coaxing him to eat, persuading him to take another bite of boar, or one more sip of broth. Mesmerized, Beatnix watched the infinite care with which this man with the strength of forty oxen handled his friend's broken body, how the hands that had smashed solid rock now tenderly cared for cracked bone and crushed flesh, with such love that, despite the pain, Asterix willingly gave himself over to his friend. Beatnix was glad, for he knew what the pair of them didn't: that with every touch, the big man gave his smaller friend an infusion of his own life-force as a loving gift, helping him heal just a hairsbreadth more.
And he was healing. Morning, noon and night Beatnix brought out the herbal paste, and Obelix salved Asterix's back and wrists, stroking the matted yellow hair and murmuring words of encouragement. It was obviously galling for the small warrior to be so helpless, but the man had the wisdom to know when to shelve his pride. And there were times, too, when he could see that Asterix needed it – not only the medicine, not only the healing energy, but the caring touch, the reminder that the torture was over, that he was among friends.
Sometimes, Asterix had nightmares. He would wake with a shout, or murmur in his sleep. Obelix always woke at Asterix's first sign of distress, jumped up and rushed to kneel at his bedside, then held his hand and soothed him until he quieted. Occasionally, Beatnix would have to look away as the big man thumbed away his friend's tears. "It's over, shh, Asterix, it's all over," Obelix would keep repeating, "I'm here, you're safe, it's all right, it's all right, Asterix, I'm here." More often than not, as he murmured comfort, he would kiss the crown of Asterix's head like a child, stroking his brow and holding his hand, carefully avoiding the salved and bandaged wrist, just running his thumb back and forth over his friend's fingers until he slipped back into a more peaceful sleep.
The patient slept for long, long hours during the daytime as well as in the night, which was to be expected following such terrible injuries. When Asterix was resting comfortably, and their larder was full, or when the soup was brewing, Obelix would go out, the little dog trotting at his heels, and work on Beatnix's chimney. It was almost all done now – the main thing slowing the works was the drying time needed for the clay. At first, Beatnix had worried because Obelix's powerful grip would routinely smash the rocks into smaller pieces than the chimney needed. But he made up for it in speed, carving out the bigger stones with great efficiency and fitting them precisely into place as though they weighed no more than a pebble. The powdered and smashed rock, mixed with the clay, made the chimney stronger, while the remaining loose shale was useful for spreading on damp areas, and making paths. Occasionally, Obelix would throw the dog a pebble and tell him to 'fetch.' The druid was glad to see him doing something to raise his spirits, for the purification of playing with an animal would fill him and reflect upon the aura he gave to the patient.
Sometimes, Beatnix would return from gathering herbs to find Obelix taking care of his and Asterix's belongings. He had borrowed a needle and thread to mend Asterix's torn tunic. Seeing what he was doing, and knowing that the patient would probably not be able to raise his arms for some time because of his wounds, Beatnix had told the big man to leave the tunic open from top to bottom like a woman's over-tunic, then showed him how to add a number of strings to fasten it closed. He had some black thread given to him by a traveling pedlar, and he gave it to Obelix. The man's sewing skills were impressive, even for a bachelor. It had come out surprisingly well, the straight edges of the rip making it look as though the garment had been designed that way. It did cause the druid to surmise that the Romans had split the tunic with a sword for easier access to the warrior's back, but he kept silent about that.
While Asterix slept, Obelix spent time regularly polishing the dirt and stains from Asterix's helmet, painstakingly cleaning the feathers on its wings, then moving on to caring for his friend's sword and scabbard, until all of these shone as though forged yesterday, bearing no trace of the blood that had stained them. No matter how many times he saw it, the sight of his friend's blood always seemed to make the big man shudder, and the cleaning was oftentimes accompanied by silent weeping. As the blood disappeared with washing and polishing, and Asterix's health improved, Obelix grew more cheerful while he cleaned and cared for the helmet and sword, such fondness on his face that Beatnix had a hard time not to stare. One time Beatnix had forgotten not to stare, and watched for a long time, until Obelix had looked up from his engrossment in the task. Beatnix had smiled, and Obelix's face had reddened. "For when he can use them again," he'd muttered shyly, looking down at the helmet in his hands.
With time and care, the warrior's grotesque bloating began to subside, and his mangled back began to grow fresh skin. Soon the druid began to set Obelix to helping his friend sit up for short periods, then longer ones. At first it was all Asterix could do to remain upright. His muscles would be trembling with fatigue, unable to support him, when Obelix finally lowered him to the mattress. And that was not even the worst of this stage. The thing that all of them hated the most was the coughing Asterix had to endure to clear the bloody phlegm out of his damaged lungs.
It was a horrifically painful process, and had to be repeated daily. Beatnix had told Obelix sternly that there was no sparing Asterix this, lest he drown in his own lungs. It didn't mean Beatnix didn't hate it: despite the pain-relieving potion, Asterix suffered terribly, and there were days when Beatnix thought that that alone would kill the patient. Sitting up in bed, chest supported by Obelix's inner elbow, cheek resting against Obelix's broad upper arm, Asterix would cough into a bowl Beatnix held over Obelix's shoulder – well, arm, really – to catch the detritus that came up, clots of mucus tinged with dried and fresh blood. Having suffered pneumonia once, Beatnix knew all too well the exquisite tortures of clearing diseased or injured lungs, the serrated knife that sliced across the chest from the inside and made you long for death. Beatnix couldn't even imagine the additional torment that came from jarring his patient's cracked ribs and mangled flesh. The injuries from the whipping not only caused the patient much suffering, they were harmful in other ways, for they prevented the traditional remedy of massage. Massaging the patient's back was supposed to help with at least the sensation of knives in the chest, but it would be a fool who attempted to touch Asterix's raw and healing back.
Thus it was that with every miserable, agonizing session, Asterix merely hung limp and helpless over his friend's massive arm, racked with coughing, weeping with pain, while Obelix bent over him and held fast to his hand as he convulsed and hacked. There were times when Beatnix sensed the flame of his patient's life flickering and fading, unable to stand the torment from within and without and breathe at the same time. But it was these times that awed him the most, for it was then that it became visible to Beatnix that the patient's big friend was pushing his life-force into Asterix, the aura-transfer pulsing and palpable in the enclosed space. He could almost hear Obelix's soul urging Here, take what you need, I beg of you, take all I have, no, that's not enough, take more, take more, through their touch; almost feel it through the tears the big man wept when his friend moaned, that slipped down his cheeks and soaked unnoticed into his friend's yellow hair. And every time, Asterix would cling to his friend's big arm as though his life depended upon it - which Beatnix knew it did - and shudder while Obelix held his hand and supported his head. There would be a flutter of light, invisible to the two warriors but clear to Beatnix's sight, and Asterix would breathe, his pain visibly abating and his lips less blue; then his life's flame would burn bright again. The permanent effects of the potion, combined with their size difference, made Obelix perfectly suited to his self-imposed task: the big fellow would turn a few shades paler, but seemed otherwise all right. Beatnix noticed that Obelix tended to eat more and be in greater need of a nap after these sessions, and he was glad that instinct guided the naïve fellow to replenish his own stores of energy so he could give more to his friend.
The problem of the necessary torture tore at the druid's heart, though, for he was pledged to do no harm, and he thought long and hard for a solution. Finally, Beatnix hit upon the idea of smearing the patient's chest with eucalyptus salve prior, then filling a gourd with hot water and placing it against his windpipe and lungs. This relieved much of his pain when he coughed, and allowed him to breathe more easily, until his lungs were no longer torn up from the inside. After some time of this, the cruel therapy bore fruit: at long last, the day came when Asterix coughed with pain that was bearable, and his lungs were clear, and well on the way to healing.
And so it grew better with food and medicine and loving care, until Asterix was able to step out of bed and stand, and then take his first, halting steps across the room with his friend's support. It was useful to Beatnix to have such a strong assistant: he didn't have to worry about rationing the patient's strength to allow him enough resources to make it back to bed on his own power, for Obelix could just pick his friend up and carry him back to bed when he'd had enough.
The next step was to be short walks outside. But he wanted to be sure the patient was ready, for his survival was enough of a miracle already, without pushing their luck. Every day, Beatnix watched, with an eagle eye, his patient shuffle back and forth within the hut, and examined his heart and lungs afterwards. And every day Asterix would ask, shuddering with fatigue as Obelix eased him down, "When can I go outside?"
"Not yet," Beatnix would answer regretfully. So far, his answer had always been "Not yet," for Beatnix could see how taxing it was for the patient to move at all. Although it had only been some double-handfuls of days, it clearly seemed like years to his dynamic patient, visibly chafing at the bonds of his own illness. It grew tiring, but thank the gods, the two Gauls were well aware that druids' orders came first.
But the small warrior was getting more and more depressed at the lack of fresh air, even though he exercised twice a day inside the hut. That was, until one day, Obelix took Beatnix's permission and brought the little dog inside. The sight made Asterix smile, and the druid remembered how many of the elders said that the presence of a pet could restore a patient's will to live. There was no shortage of the will to live in this man Asterix, but the presence of the small dog seemed to cheer him up, and lighten his hours of enforced inactivity. The patient's pain, though he hid it well, prevented him playing with the dog, but the little animal seemed to sense this, and frequently curled up to sleep in his lap, and Obelix would sit at the foot of the bed, a hand or arm instinctively resting on Asterix's knee, and smile.
The day Beatnix permitted Asterix to go out for the first time had marked the first full moon since he had been carried over Beatnix's doorstep, Succellus at his heels. Beatnix wasn't really one to count the days by the calendar, but it seemed a good moment to mark a step on the road to recovery: lungs almost clear, swelling much improved (although it would be a long, long time before it was back to normal), new, translucent skin growing over the raw flesh, beneath the scabs.
"O Druid, when can I go outside?" Asterix asked as usual, even his voice much stronger than before. It was clear that he was only asking pro forma, and leaned back, expecting the standard 'Not yet.'
Beatnix nodded, coming to a decision. "Tomorrow."
Then he'd outright laughed at the sight of the pair's identical jaw-dropped stares. "Wrap up warmly, mind. If you caught a cold it would set your recovery back another month, and you're the one who said you didn't have time for that."
It was Obelix who answered. "Don't worry, O Druid, I'll make sure he does." Asterix quirked a half-smile at him, one eyebrow raised, and let it slide.
As it turned out, Beatnix was the one to supervise the 'wrapping up': Asterix sat on the bed, grinning, enduring being draped – loosely, so as not to aggravate his wounds – with cotton fabric, and a woolen blanket over that, till he ended up looking a little bit like an Egyptian mummy. He was careful to leave his forearms and hands free, and Beatnix guessed he had a bit of a phobia about being restrained – hardly surprising, after what had been done to him. Obelix knelt and pulled his freshly washed trousers up over his knees, letting Asterix finish pulling them up and tie the drawstring as he, Obelix, put Asterix's shoes on and fastened them. The blood had cleaned off nicely, and they looked quite serviceable. Then Obelix smiled like a noble escort and bowed, taking Asterix by the arm and helping him, carefully, to rise. Beatnix flung the door open, smiling. His smile grew wider to hear the sound of joyful barking outside. "Only to the bottom of the garden and back!" he admonished, reminding himself of his own mother. "You don't want to overdo it on the first day."
"Yes, O Druid," Asterix beamed, unable to hide his delight at being allowed outside, even for a brief moment. The pair took a few paces towards the door.
"Wait!" Obelix carefully detached himself from Asterix's arm, and bolted – Beatnix was getting used to the fat man's unexpected speed – to the corner of the room where his and Asterix's things were kept. He rummaged in the small collection, and pulled out Asterix's helmet.
Asterix's eyes widened. He opened his slack-jawed mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
Obelix ran back to his friend, smiling. "Let me help, don't want to dislodge the blanket." He took a deep breath, as though preparing for some rite. His face grew serious as he gently lowered the helmet in both hands and set it on Asterix's head, half-holding his breath, like one arranging an offering to Belisama. He adjusted it just right, then stepped back, looking nervous. "Is that comfy?"
Asterix was still staring at his friend, speechless. He blinked hard a couple of times and cleared his throat. Then he broke into a blinding smile, and reached out to take Obelix's proffered arm. "Let's go for a walk, Obelix," he said.
And they stepped over the threshold together, both grinning like lunatics, the little dog bouncing excitedly behind them.