Daine found herself thankful she had been allowed some time to physically recover in Carthak before their return journey because there had been no rest since. Unsurprisingly, word of Ozorne's dethronement and the fate of the Imperial Palace had reached Corus—and every other capital in the Eastern Lands, Myles had been sure to inform her with poorly disguised amusement—before they had, despite the speed with which their chartered ship had returned them home.
They'd arrived in Corus three days prior, where the delegation was immediately escorted to a closed chamber of the Council of Lords for questioning and debriefing. Daine had expected to have to explain herself, what with the fuss she caused considering she'd only been there to heal some birds, but had assumed she would speak to the King and perhaps Myles directly. She'd not been prepared for the formality that greeted them, or for the fact that the first two days had consisted of one-on-one interviews where she was separated from the rest of the group—Numair included.
Ultimately, it proved more exhausting than anything. Kaddar, proving himself a friend once more, had sent ahead an Imperial pardon for herself and Numair which had eased the Council's nerves considerably. Convincing the Nobles that she wasn't embellishing the story was a challenge, of course, and she swore she had seen Jon hide a smile when she insisted what she'd done was needful since the gods were taking too long.
On the final afternoon, the delegation convened with the Council as a group to debrief. They were formally reprimanded for causing an international incident and informally commended for establishing a new Carthaki Emperor who, to date, showed considerably more favor towards Tortall. To Daine's surprise, Duke Gareth credited Daine with laying the groundwork for a relationship with Kaddar, though he recommended she not be invited on future peace missions. To no one's surprise, Lord Martin credited her with nothing and recommended she be disinvited from everything.
So it was on her fourth day returned—after her first true night of good sleep—that she finally found herself with a moment to spare and time to be where she wanted: the barracks with her friends; two-leggers and people alike. Since their travels were of international import and the results a matter of national secrecy, everyone naturally knew the broad strokes and she was saved from doing much more than affirm whatever version they had heard. Those who were really owed an explanation were close enough to her to accept a rain check and a promise of a conversation when she was ready.
With that, all that was left was to try and return to her life: breakfast in the mess, mount checks, tending to Cloud—who demanded extra treats to make up for her absence—and the comforts of well-worn breeches and her own room.
Autumn dusk was falling when she returned to the barracks. She skipped dinner, more tired than hungry, and was on her way to her room when she noticed Sarge's door open. She knocked on the frame, leaning against it.
"Hullo."
"Daine!" Sarge beamed, dropping the tattered remains of a tunic he had been working to untangle, and giving her a signature, too-tight hug. "I heard you were back." He stood back with his hands on her shoulders, looking her over. "You know, when Onua told me about you she said you were a sweet girl but when I met you I told her you were trouble," he winked, "so you just won me a bet."
Daine laughed, "I'm glad someone is profiting."
"Sounds to me like you've made some changes that will benefit all of us." He cocked his head, looking at her more closely, and his voice dropped to take on a softer cadence. "How are you?"
She waved him off and he dropped his hands from her shoulder. "Oh, fine. A little tired, still, but a few nights sleep will have me fit."
"Good," He nodded but didn't look convinced. "We've just returned from the Swoop not a fortnight back and we haven't initiated the class yet. Still plenty of new recruits to terrorize." He flashed a grin that earned another laugh.
"That will certainly make me feel at home." She pushed herself upright, turning to leave. Another thought occurred to her, though, and she paused. "Sarge," she hesitated, unsure of her place in the conversation she was about to begin, "could I ask you a favor?"
"Anything for you, my pet." He grinned again, pulling another—still torn—tunic from his drawer.
"I—" her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. Sarge had turned his full attention to her again, motioning her to step in and closing the door so that it was only open a sliver. He waited for her to find her voice.
"It's Numair." She sighed, gesturing vaguely. He'd been on her mind almost constantly since they'd left Carthak and she still wasn't sure how to speak to her concerns. "He's just—I don't think he's alright."
"That's hardly surprising. Going back at all after what happened there was hard on him. And then all of this." Sarge leaned against his dresser. Though his attention was on his young friend, one large hand had wrapped around his wrist to trace the scars there.
"Of course." She sighed again and feared she had sounded stupid. "I suppose it's not that he's not okay—that's fair understandable. It's that I don't know how to help him."
That was it, after all. He was somewhere that she couldn't reach and that scared her. Before Carthak she'd been naïve to think she understood all of him, and then they'd arrived and she'd glimpsed a whole life removed from her understanding. His comradery and respect for Lindhall. The intensity of his history with Ozorne. Varice. She'd no true notion of any of it.
"Have you talked to him?" With a flex of his hand, Sarge folded his arms across his chest, as if realizing what he had been doing.
"Of course. But some of it—" She shook her head. "You, and Onua, and Alanna—you all know him better than I do—"
"Longer." He interrupted.
"I'm sorry?"
"We've known him longer, Daine. I'm not sure anyone knows him better than you." There was no teasing in his voice and Daine found herself surprisingly pleased with the remark.
"Still, you've known him the longest and—" Here she faltered. It was no secret that Sarge had been a Carthaki slave, but just how he escaped and how he was connected with Numair was neither common knowledge nor something he had shared with her himself.
"We both have roots in Carthak." There was venom in his voice and she realized she'd never heard him say the country's name before.
"Numair—" She felt that she owed him an explanation but he raised a hand to stop her.
"I assumed you knew. He wouldn't have been able to share his story without sharing some of mine as well."
She nodded, relieved. "I could ask Lindhall, but I think it's different."
"Yes, I heard he came with you. They were close, but you're right. Lindhall is just leaving and, as far as I know, they haven't been in touch these years."
Daine shook her head, thinking of the two mages' excitement at reconnecting. There was true affection there, but also the awkwardness of learning to know someone once again. "I think," her voice caught in her throat, "I think you're the only one who knew Arram and knows Numair."
Sarge's expression softened and it occurred to her that they had never spoken so openly before. There was plenty of friendly affection between the two of them, to be sure, but never so much vulnerability.
"I can't make him talk." He said, finally, and she nodded.
"I know, but if you could just make sure he knows you're there if he wants to."
"Of course."
"Thank you."
"No thanks needed," he waved her off. "I should have thought to reach out already. He's fortunate to have you looking out for him."
"He looks out for me plenty in return." She smiled even though she didn't quite feel it. Sarge nodded, inspecting her with the same concern as earlier.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He asked again and she nodded at the same time she burst into tears.
Sarge pulled her into a hug—it wasn't the sweeping gesture she'd become accustomed to from Numair, but a gentle embrace that cradled her in his immense frame as she sobbed.
It was true that Numair looked out for her, but he'd been so broken going to Carthak in the first place and with everything that happened there it hardly seemed fair to add her feelings to his list of worries. And Alanna had enough to deal with as well, with all of the politics and being away from her family. As for everyone else on the trip, well, she hardly could have confided in Lord Martin although the thought nearly made her laugh.
"It's okay, pet, just take your time." Sarge hushed her, rubbing her back, when she tried to pull away with another sob. Daine relented and accepted the comfort. An hour ago she had believed it when she said she was fine, and now all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and sleep for days.
He was true to his word and let her cry for a long while. When the tears stopped, he ripped a square of fabric from the already ruined tunic and handed it to her. She blew her nose, thankful that her rooms were just around the corner.
"Thank you."
"That, sweetling, is called the Carthaki Cry," he winked. "You're part of a very exclusive club now."
She laughed, wetly, and was interrupted from replying by a knock at the door.
"Sarge, have you seen—Daine, what happened?" Numair, who had just poked his head around the door, stepped fully into the room to place a long finger under her chin and inspect her tear-stained face.
"I'm fine." She swatted him away gently and wiped at her face. "I just missed Sarge so much." She elaborated when Numair looked unconvinced and earned a booming laugh from Sarge.
"She just needs some sleep is all. Off you go." He patted her shoulder with a squeeze, nudging her towards the door before turning to the mage. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me for dinner."
Daine slipped into the hall, feeling Numair's eyes follow her, and listened to the sound of their voices fade as she retreated to her own room. Sarge wasn't wrong about needing sleep: she was exhausted and even the thought of changing to her shift felt like more work than she could manage. She did the bare minimum in terms of preparing for bed, only just remembering to unlatch the window so Kitten could crawl back in when she tired of frolicking with the ponies.
She unlocked the window and opened the pane a sliver, pausing when she saw two figures—both uncommonly tall, but one thick and muscled and the other lanky—walking along the far end of the pasture. A shaggy mountain pony and a small dragon trailed behind them.
She crawled into bed, content, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
She woke to the sound of knocking and sat up, trying to determine if the sound had been a dream or reality when it came again. It was patient, but firm, and she stumbled from bed.
Rude, a displaced mink grumbled as it scrambled back out her window.
There was just enough time to register that the hallway torches had already been put out when she opened the door and was swept into a crushing hug.
"Thank you," Numair said, face pressed against her curls. His voice was hoarse and he released a long, shaky breath when she returned the embrace. He held her for a long moment, releasing her when she started to shiver in the cold night air, and stepped back to place a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Get some sleep."
She picked up Kit, who had been scrambling at her feet to be included, and watched him go. They were going to be okay.