Thatwas interesting.
To experiment, Oliver reached back into his pocket, and curled his hand around the pendant. The second the amethyst touched his palm, his skin cooled, as though the stone was pushing the fever back up through his fingers, his wrist. He stood, and clutched it, and that wonderful cooling sensation traveled slowly up his arm.
He'd tried the same thing with the sapphire he carried, but without this result. He wondered: if he held it long enough, if he dared to wear it properly, as he was meant to, if the emperor’s gift would suppress his fever completely.
“Ollie.”
When Erik’s voice sounded behind him, he snatched his hand from his pocket and whirled around. It proved a mistake: the landscape tilted around him, and he staggered where he stood.
Strong hands gripped his arms, and though Erik said something in a low, concerned tone, a sudden ringing in Oliver’s ears meant he couldn’t make out the words themselves.
“…Ollie.Oliver.”
The Between beckoned, soothing cool and gray, a place where he would feel steady, and fever free, more tempting than it had ever been. But Erik shook him lightly, and Oliver blinked until his vision settled. Until the dizziness receded—but not completely.
When Erik’s face came into focus, Oliver found it deeply creased with worry. “Oliver,” he said, an urgent hiss. “What is it? You look terrible.”
Oliver attempted to smile, his face so stiff he didn’t know if he managed. “That’s a…lovely…compliment. Just what a…a paramour…wants to hear.” Was he slurring? He thought he was slurring.
Erik’s brows knitted together so tightly the sight of the lines on his forehead made Oliver want to laugh. “Don’t call yourself that,” Erik said, lip curling unhappily, and Oliver thought that wasn’t what he’d meant to say; it was an automatic reaction to Oliver’s slurred self-deprecation.
Oliver wanted—heought—to offer a reassuring smile, claim once again that he was “fine,” and be convincing enough that Erik went off to check on some other part of their procession. But he was dizzy, and drunk-feeling, andstupid, so he said, “But that’s what I am. I’m your who—”
“Donotsay that,” Erik snapped, face coloring. “What’s gotten into you? You look sick. You look…” Erik’s eyes widened as he trailed off. As quickly as blood had flushed his cheeks, it drained away, leaving him pale and startled. “You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question, nor was the palm he pressed to Oliver’s forehead.
Oliver ducked away from his touch, but too late.
“Gods,” Erik said. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m—”
“You’re notfine,” Erik said, teeth gritted. “Don’t sayfine, because you’re not! You’re feverish! Look at you: you can barely stand!”
In their time together, Oliver thought they’d done more arguing than lovemaking. He’d enjoyed their banter, but lately it had been the bad sort of arguing: tense, out of sync, increasingly hostile. He wanted to argue now, to stand up for himself, but lacked the energy.
“Fine,” he said, “I’m notfine. But that doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.” Erik gripped him by both arms, and Oliver was grateful for the support, just as he was furious that he needed it in the first place. “You can’t…” Erik frowned, brows reknitting. “You should—youmust…”
“Take to my bed?” Oliver suggested. “Heap myself with blankets, and sip broth, and call for the physician? Erik.” He spread his arms, wobbled, and caught a fistful of Erik’s sleeve to stay upright. His head felt like a jug of sloshing water, and his clothes chafed against his too-hot, too-sensitive skin. “We’re at war. We’re on the road. There’s nothing for me to do but press on.”
Percy sent a pulse of unhappiness through their bond, and vocalized it with a growl for good measure.
Erik flicked a glance toward the drake, and then returned his attention to Oliver. He touched his forehead again, but carefully this time; cupped his hand there and let the heat of Oliver’s skin bleed into his palm, which felt cool and soothing and welcome to Oliver.
Bollocks. He was sick. He was perhapsverysick.
Erik’s jaw worked, gaze dark with unhappiness. With helplessness. “Come with me through the tunnels. If you can’t mange to ride yourself, ride with me.”
It was a plea rather than a command, and a desperate one at that.
I’m not a child. I can make my own decisions, Oliver thought—but distantly. His back didn’t bristle up catlike the way it normally did in the face of Erik’s overbearing tendencies. More than anything, he was tired, dragged lower and lower by the minute as the fever intensified. He shivered, and wiped at his nose, and nearly caved to the overwhelming urge to reach back into his pocket and grip the pendant.
He allowed himself to consider it. The cool of the metal, the angular facets of the stone. Could so perfectly envision theway it would ease the heat in his palm, and his arm, and his chest. He thought of the alluring, gray tug of the Between that came with it—and was horrified. When he thought of the Between, he thought of the white sky, and the waving ashen grasses of the field, yes. But he thought mostly of the solarium, and the way Romanus managed to smile without moving his lips, the amusement clear in his pale eyes.
Oliver closed his own eyes, and then pressed his hands over them for good measure; did not respond to Percy’s trilling question, nor Erik’s careful shake of his shoulder. Perhaps it was because he felt so near to collapse, but he was overcome by a wave of self-loathing. He was with Erik. He loved Erik, and didn’t feel anything like lust for anyone else.
But though he’d told himself, and Náli, that he was gathering intelligence on Romans, and his troops, and his motives, that he was being practical, and savvy, and deceptive, what he’d been was dishonest. Because Romanus Tyrsbane was infatuated with him. Waswooinghim, with wine, and conversation, and pretty trinkets.
