The battle finally ended. The field was drenched in blood and guts, and smelled saccharine and sickening all at once. The noise settled, too, and there were no more enemies to be seen, heard, or dealt with. As this was all established, Gaius felt a large part of himself go blank, as his body moved on pure adrenaline and disparity, now. He was much too injured to be precise or thoughtful, and the weight of survival for both him and Henry rested on his sole efforts.
Every part of him screamed and begged for rest, sleep, or relief of any kind. But he forcibly ignored such ideas, and focused on the unconscious boy in front of him. Wordlessly, Gaius moved and hoisted the other on his back, balancing and shifting his weight as much as possible, and snaking his arms through his legs in order to keep him upright. A head of white hair settled on Gaius' neck and shoulder, but he suppressed the itchiness that threatened to throw him off balance, as well as the extra weight added onto his body.
It was here he realized that he couldn't carry both Henry and his belongings at once. He had a large, burlap sack that was practically a part of him. It held all the essential (and inessential) things needed for thievery, but for common survival, as well. Gaius only had time to retrieve a single sword and some mints before leaving it behind. As much as it hurt him to abandon his belongings (and all the keepsakes and sweets that stayed hidden inside), he knew that he could only save either Henry or the inanimate objects.
There was no question about it.
So Gaius pressed on, and the world around him was silent. The only thing that assured him that he was still alive was the sound of Henry's dull heartbeat against his back, and the soft breathing that escaped through his nose.
.
.
.
Time passed. The sky overhead changed colors, from a sunset orange to a deep purple, and finally to a pitch black. The clouds rolled in afterward, and obscured the bright moon with its thick, gray mass. Each step forward was like walking through coals, although Gaius had no choice but to disregard the burning sensation in his calves, as well as the shaking exhaustion that threatened to topple him—and Henry, consequently—over.
He had to ignore it all, because if he gave into the pain for even a second, then he would crumple over like a paper doll. And then it would truly be the end for them both.
By some miracle in and of itself, Gaius eventually stumbled off the forest path, and found the hard surface of the stone road underneath his feet. The towering trees lessened in number as a clearing came up ahead, and the intensity of the moonlight was lost in comparison to the bright torches and campfires of civilization.
Ahead of him was the Shepherds' camp, and he could see the countless beige and white tents lined up like eggs in a carton. Someone broke through from the monotony of it all—approaching the two of them with worried steps—and judging from the frantic voice, Gaius guessed it was Robin. Anything the tactician said was lost, however, as Gaius slowly forced himself to keep walking, and to ignore anything else as his feet dragged on listlessly.
It was to no avail as he felt a lasting spike of warmth rush through his body, surging from his feet upward, before he fell over face-first into the stone cold ground below.
He was unconscious.
.
.
.
Dark figures loom over and surround him. Blood leaks from his nose and from a freshly cut wound festering forth on his face. He throws another punch, but his fist meets the wall and he hears his knuckles crack open. A loud noise erupts around him, one that sounds like screaming and laughing all at once. Everything smells like blood and iron. Larger hands than his hold his own arms behind him, and there is a taunting voice hissing in his ear.
"Snitch, that's what you get. Goody two shoes. Couldn't have the guts to betray that dastard, well look where it fuckin' got you." The voice is rough, and tears holes in his ears as he grinds on his teeth in discomfort. "Listen, kid. In this world you ain't got nothin' but your own hide. You have your blood, sweat, and tears. But you're so worthless, I don't even think you got that to begin with!" They release his arms, and shove his head into the wall before he can protest. It hurts so much, and he swears that he feels his face breaking into tiny pieces. It mortifies him to know that he's still whole.
Then, before he can save himself, or even try to think of the thought, they make it cruel on him again. They push the sleeve of his shirt upward —ever so upward—to reveal a black, hideous mark. It is less of a tattoo and more of a brand. It is a smear on an otherwise unmarked body. It is an everlasting reminder of his mistakes.
Of his sins.
He bites his tongue back. Those voices taunt him again, and again, and again. Those hands pull at his hair. They claw at him, drawing blood and demanding more from each drop. They love the smell of fresh meat, don't they? They must be hungry for it, because they are relentless, desperate, and unending. When he feels like he is nothing but bones left, that harsh voice from before comes to torment him once more, and turns his will to dust as he speaks so sordidly.
"Remember this. Remember the burdens you carry on your back. Let it break your spine in half, you half wit. Let it break you to pieces. Mark my words, Gaius, you'll wish that you died in this gods-forsaken cell. Do you understand, Gaius? Do you hear me?"
"Gaius...?"
"Gaius...?"
He stirred, the voices of dreams' past ringing loudly in his mind, but then fading away. He felt a gentle hand touch his own, and realized the clammy sweat building up in the palm of his hand. Their voice was so calm, sweet, and comforting, though, that he felt bad for ignoring it this long. But waking up was such a hard thing to do, especially when everything about him begged for sleep. He tried to open his eyes, at least, even though they felt glued shut. When they finally did open, though, his eyes stung and fresh tears fell from their corners in salty streams. Gaius knew better, and understood that it was out of sheer exhaustion that the tears fell, and not because he was saddened by recent events.
Although he would be lying if he said he wanted to experience all that chaos a second time.
He tried to sit up straight, now that he was awake, but was met with fiery protest as his legs seared and burned with ungodly pain. The more he tried to adjust to it, the more it hurt him, and so he attempted to lie back down the same way he almost got up. Unable to control the worst of it from affecting him, he yelped out in pain when he felt some part of him loosen.
"I think you just undid your bandages," the voice from before said. This time, he could put a name to the sound, and realized it was none other than his wonderful tactician friend, Robin.
He might have been extremely annoyed otherwise.
"No kidding," he replied dryly. "Gods, damn, this hurts."
"Sorry about that. I'll do my best to re-apply them, okay?"
"Please," he asked kindly. "Tell me I didn't wake up from a coma just now."
Robin laughed hollowly. "You didn't. It's only been a day."
"Whew! What a relief."
"Still, it's my fault that you're even in here, anyway. It was foolish of me to send you and Henry into the fray by yourselves. Look what happened!" At their request, Gaius glanced over, and saw his own legs—his own flesh—burn and bleed scarlet in the same movement. He felt a strange, simultaneous sensation of both hot and cold at the same time, and seeing the injury sustained in full made him shudder.
"Bubbles, listen, it's not your fault—"
"Of course it is," they insisted. "But we can talk about everything later. I need to take care of this, and I'm not going to lie to you." They turned soft at this new realization, and stared deeply into Gaius' eyes with utmost sincerity and caution. "It's going to hurt. Please brace yourself."
He watched as the other pulled out a tub of some unknown substance, although they slathered some of it into their hands. It smelled of alcohol and licorice, the latter which made him nostalgic and sorrowful. He wished he had some licorice—or any sweet thing, for that matter—with him right now. That would make everything ten times better than it was.
"Are you ready? I'm about to do this," they said in a careful voice.
"Bubbles, you're killing me," Gaius groaned. "Just do it already."
"Alright, then. Here goes nothing."
They moved as quickly as possible, and slathered the raw injury with the remedy. Gaius wanted to scream or thrash against them, because the healing substance felt like acid against his fresh wounds, and clung like fat to every inch of his skin. It was only through his incredible self-control that he managed to hold back his screeches, although he was unable to suppress a pained yelp or two.
Each second that continued was spent in agony. He became grateful enough when Robin stopped applying it, and wrapped his legs in clean, new bandages once more. He felt immediate relief.
Robin seemed impressed. "You didn't scream!"
"You thought I would?"
"You looked like you wanted to."
Gaius chuckled in spite of himself, and conceded in full. "To be honest, I was holding back on you. It felt like you were branding me, Bubbles. What kind of medicine was that, anyway?"
"It's a new salve recently made by the army's doctors. It's painful, but fast-acting, and saves us a lot of time and effort from using staves, instead."
"How fast is 'fast-acting', though?"
"See for yourself. Why don't you try moving your legs again?"
He hesitated at first, recalling the terrible pain that ran through him when he moved his legs before. But then he managed to bend his knee without so much as a sting of pain, and he smiled widely at the revelation. In fact, he moved his legs back and forth freely, and it was like nothing even happened in the first place. "Wow, this stuff actually works. Before it hurt to move 'em just a little."
"Medicine works wonders, if this is any indication of such." They shrugged, and stuffed their hands back into the pockets of their robes. "But you can go back to sleep now. I wanted to wake you because I was worried. You seemed really pained in your sleep. Tortured, almost."
"You worry too much," he scolded lightly. "But alright." Gaius lowered himself into the cot as much as possible, and tried to get comfortable. His eyes fell onto his exposed arm, which was wrapped in bandages like most other parts of him. There was gauze over the whole length of the limb, including where his mark should be.
He did a double take.
"Bubbles, wait."
His friend paused mid-step, turning back around after getting ready to leave. "Yes?"
"Did anyone see it? My mark, I mean."
"Oh, don't worry about that. I was extra careful to make sure no one would. Maribelle was here earlier, and she offered to change your bandages, but I took over for her. I promised to keep your secret, remember? Just as you promised to stop acting so ridiculous about me knowing it…"
He laughed fondly at that memory, but then became serious, once again. "Yeah, yeah. You mentioned Maribelle, though? Twinkles dropped by here tonight?"
"Yes, that's right. She was initially the one in charge of you. She also recommended the new salve to be used on your burn marks."
Gaius scoffed. Of course she was the one to use the most painful medicine that the army had to offer. He could see the look of ill-content on her noble little face when making the decision on what to use. Although he caused her several grievances from before (and although some part of him really did deserve this back-biting pain), he still felt it unfair, so as such, he didn't do anything to hide his displeasure.
"Of course she did. I wouldn't put it past her!"
"Be nice to her," Robin insisted. "Of course, you have your personal differences, so that can't be helped, although that does seem to be a common occurrence with you…"
A derisive snort sounded as he rolled his eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Naturally, not everyone can get along. You and Maribelle have your problems, but I was also referring to the conflict before between you and Henry."
Ah, Henry. Just the single word was enough to irritate Gaius. Even though it was their petty fight that caused their struggles in battle in the first place, Gaius was still unhappy about their arrangement. Some part of him eased up once he thought about how Henry was also in a healer's tent somewhere in camp, and how he was going through almost the exact same thing.
So I'll cut him some slack, Gaius thought to himself. For now.
"Well, you said we'll talk afterwards, right? I've got a choice word or two about that kid, for starters."
"Yes, yes, I'll hear everything and anything once you fully recover. Although it might do you good to think about how you view yourself, and how you view Henry. But most importantly, there's something else I want you to think about, too." Robin paused again, and turned around to fully face Gaius as the tent flaps fluttered open with the breeze. The tactician was set against a backdrop of the night sky behind the other uniformed tents, and the dark night enveloping it all. Their milk-white hair tousled in the same wind that freed the entrance, their dark eyes glittering with the possibilities of today and tomorrow—and in that singular moment in time, Gaius swore that they looked eternal.
"I want you to remember that there's always two sides to every story."
.
.
.
It sounded like death. Or, more accurately, it sounded like blood dripping down slowly and carefully, which almost always signified death. It was a sound he was very familiar with, because he caused death on a frequent basis, but was also near death as often as a single person possibly could.
For a long time, Henry toed the line between life and death. Maybe this time, the latter would swallow him whole. If it meant that he could die along with the stupidity of his fight with Gaius—and the pain that resulted from a decision that never should have gone through—then he would take it. The world was too much for him, at times, and he much preferred this gray area of in-between existence to anything else life had to offer him.
Still, Henry supposed he wasn't entirely dead. At some point, he felt weightless, like something swept him up in a careful embrace. The air breezed by his dangling feet, and his head collapsed against a strong surface. But more so than that, a stronger heartbeat than his resounded loudly—pulsating with life and rhythm that he could never quite match. Then the sound of heels clicking against the floor echoed, and Henry swore he could hear Ricken shouting at him.
He lifted his head where it was with slight energy, and managed to eke out a small, pathetic smile at whoever faced him. Then his head leaned forward, and he sunk deeper and deeper into the inky black abyss of his mind. Wherever he went after that, he didn't know, but all he understood was that it was a quiet place. A colorless place, too.
It was like a paradise in his mind.
.
.
.
He is scared. They always scare him like this. They bring down ragged hands and broken bottles upon his skin like hail, and his sensitive body displays the colors of it all like a mural. Yellow, blue, and violet bruises are made to match the crimson, black, and bloody gashes preceding them. Pure white ivory bones are made to match the spotted blackening of a rotting heart. Those are the colors of his body, and the bearers of his life.
Eyes stare down at him, eyes that he never remembers the color or shape of. But he always remembers the intensity in those eyes, such that he can not stare any longer without catching fire. They are hateful, rueful eyes that want his existence to be wiped clean on the ledger of life.
They are his parents' eyes.
"You're worthless," the higher voice of the two assures him of his non-status by stamping their foot into his back, and smothering his body into the floor with each step. "You're worthless and useless and everything else with a less. You are less."
"You sick, ugly, and twisted boy." The deeper voice of the two adds on extra insult to injury. "We are sending you away. Far, far, far away. We are taking you to a place where the wretched likes of children like you can rot in harmony. Rot, rot, rot."
He feels a hand this time, one that grabs him by the scruff of his neck and forces his small body to dangle in the air. He meets those intense yet forgettable eyes in a heated stare. He feels transparent and vulnerable and can smell his own fear radiating off of his own body like a flash flare. The parents do not care. They are cruel and incite this cruelty further than they can even understand. He feels a cool, long, sharp fingernail dig into his cheek and run down. They are drawing blood from him slowly yet methodically, like a practiced surgeon.
As if they ever saved a life other than their own.
"Do you hear me, Henry? May your life ever be miserable for as long as you so shall live. I am sure that in that time, no one on this planet could learn to love a monstrous child like you. No one will ever love you, Henry. Do you understand me, Henry?"
"Henry..."
"Henry..."
A voice cajoled him into waking, but the thrall of sleep was too strong for it to take effect. He stirred ever so slightly at the sound of someone else, but the colorless world in his mind and soul expanded beyond belief, and he never could deny that overwhelming existence.
"Henry, please wake up."
He stopped listening, though. He stopped listening and they had no idea. The shores of sleep called out to him long ago, leaving the lighthouse of lucidity far out of reach. That beacon of light could no longer save him now.
"Henry? Henry, wake up!"
Exasperated, tired, exhausted, he found no energy within him. Instead, he answered in kind.
"Five more minutes," he slurred quietly. "I promise…"
And he fell back into sleep, without missing a beat, losing all but himself in his bleak unconsciousness.