“Yeah, yeah,” the man growled. “Could have been something though.”
Hadrian listened to them argue until their voices were swallowed by the night. Only then did he release the soldier with a weary sigh. The soldier hummed softly, rolled over, and immediately went to sleep.
2
Dorian Blackwood woke to the sound of rain pattering softly and the familiar smell of sweet spices. He snuggled deeper into his warm blankets and sighed. Maybe his mother was making apple crisps for breakfast. He loved apple crisps. Especially with the big, tart apples from the farm. They would harvest soon. But not yet. Not until his father said he could smell the snow.
No, that wasn’t right.
His mother and father had died of the fever before the harvest. He would have to do it alone. How was he going to manage alone? He was too small.
No, that wasn’t right either.
They had died over a hundred years ago now. Before the farms were all abandoned. He didn’t harvest. He wasn’t big enough to do it alone. He was big enough to fight, though. They all had to fight. How long had it been since he had apple crisps?
Memories flooded his groggy mind with visions of war and death. Year upon year of fighting the brutal mages. Then, more recent, a frantic run with his men. Almost to the neutral ground. The farm looked like his father's. They could hide there. Then pain. Searing pain, and the cold ground. But he wasn’t on the field anymore. Or cold. Was he dead? Maybe it was his mother making apple crisps.
Dorian opened his eyes and was disturbed by how much effort that took. His eyes felt grainy and his body far too heavy.There was some pain, but nothing compared to what it had been. The thin blanket covering him looked worn and strange. The bed was hard and unfamiliar. Above him a window showed muted grey light through dusty panes. A noise in the next room drew his attention. He turned his head and saw a man standing over a small stove.
The man’s back was to him, but his golden hair and loose green tunic felt familiar. The elegant line of his pale neck tickled a memory he couldn’t hold. When he turned slightly to take something from the window, the dim light glinted off a medallion chained to his chest.
“Mage.” That was what he meant to say as he tried to sit up. It came out more of a harsh croak, and his sitting up failed halfway to anything useful. It was enough to get the man’s attention, though. He turned from what he was doing and started toward Dorian.
“No,” he tried again. It came out a little more human this time, at least.
“It’s alright. You’re safe.” The mage held up his hands, and Dorian flinched, waiting for the pain that was sure to come. But the mage only sighed and knelt beside him. “Here.” He picked up a dented metal cup from the floor. “Water. It’ll help. There’s a well just off the kitchen, and the water is still clear and clean. I’m making something to eat as well. Not much, but enough to get us through. You’ll need it. We both do, really. I’m Hadrian.”
Dorian just watched him, torn between confusion and fear until he pressed the cup closer and he tried to scoot away.
“It’s just water,” the mage said with a crooked smile.
“Water from a mage,” Dorian spat as best he could. He struggled again to sit up, and the mage put a hand on his shoulder when he nearly fell off the side of the bed. “Don’t touch me.”
“Fine. I get it,” he said, sitting the cup down beside the bed again and walking away. He stopped and leaned one hip against an old dresser across the room. “I’m a magic user and you’re a rebel, and we can’t be nice. But I didn’t heal you and then drag you across half the plains just to see you die of thirst. Drink the water.”
“You…” Dorian stopped and shook his head. He wanted to close his eyes and lay back down. But this was a mage. If he closed his eyes, he’d end up dead. “You healed me?”
“Yes, I did.”
That had to be a lie. No mage would help him. But Dorian remembered the pain of the fire on the field. The screams of the other men around him as he fell. He saw the archers take the mage that had killed him as his men ran to safety.
“Why?” Dorian asked.
“What do you mean, why?” He huffed. “Because you were dying. That’s why. Because I’m a healer, it’s what I do. Because I’m not a monster.” He shook his golden head. “Just drink the water and I’ll bring the food. Then I can finish the healing, and we can be done. I won’t hurt you.”
“That is rich coming from one of the Black Butchers' men.”
He turned back to look at him. “The…what?”
“I know who you fight for.”
“You mean General Valen?” The mage wrinkled his nose. “Is that really what you call him?”
“As if he would not enjoy knowing it,” Dorian sneered.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t really think he would.”
“What—” Dorian had to stop as a coughing fit took him.
