“Well,” Hadrian said, getting up. “I think it is safe to say that I do not want to hit you with lightning—even if I could—and you do not want to make me wash your dishes against my will, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He drew the blanket up over Dorian’s chest. “Rest. I will let you know when I am ready.”
4
Dorian’s fever came on slowly. He had been asleep less than an hour when Hadrian noticed him shifting restlessly under his blanket. He wasn’t worried, but he decided not to sleep himself just in case. An hour later Dorian kicked off his blanket in his fitful tossing. When Hadrian went to replace it, Dorian muttered angrily about being too hot. Even with the one broken window covered and the door barred, the small house was drafty and, with no fire, it was far from warm.
Hadrian sat next to the bed for a time, just watching. Dorian’s soft brown cheeks didn’t look flushed, and his brow was not overly warm to the touch. He didn’t try to examine him under the shirt he had replaced earlier for fear of waking him. It could just be the fatigue from the harrowing days of battle and hiding making him restless.
Then he started to shiver, and Hadrian knew he would have to intervene. It wasn’t surprising with the extent of his injuries. There was no telling how long Dorian had lain in the cold dirt of that field before he found him. Healing a fever would be simple, but it would take even more of his strength and Dorian’s. It would delay the full healing even more. Hadrian was worried about how Dorian would feel about that. He was unsure how he felt about that. He was frightened about their situation and what was to come, but facing it alone would be even worse.
But those thoughts only made him feel selfish. He had dragged this man into this situation—albeit with noble intent—and he wasn’t going to rely on him to ease his own fears about the problems his choices had caused.
“Dorian,” he whispered softly. When the sleeping man didn’t answer, he shook him gently. “Hey—”
Dorian’s eyes shot open. He looked around the room quickly, then focused on Hadrian. “What? Have people returned?” He put a hand over his dagger and started to sit up but groaned and shut his eyes before he got far.
“No,” Hadrian said gently and put a hand on his shoulder. Dorian lay back down without much encouragement. “No one is here. But I think you have a fever. I’m going to have to work on that.”
Dorian’s eyes shot open again, and this time he searched Hadrian’s face. “A fever?”
“Yes,” Hadrian sighed. He got up and poured them each a cup of water from the side table. “It will be easy enough to take care of, but it will mean putting off your full healing for another day.” He knelt down to hand a cup to Dorian and was shocked to see his face painted with fear.
“You do not have to lie to me,” Dorian said quietly.
“What? I am not lying. You really do have a fever. I can maybe rest up and heal you in less than a day after this, but I can’t really say how long until I see how much it takes to—”
“I’m going to die,” Dorian said. There was a bite to his words, but he was fighting back tears.
“No,” Hadrian said, then more softly, “No, Dorian. You are not going to die.”
Dorian nodded, but the fear remained. This man was a soldier. He must have seen horrors enough to last a lifetime. He had been grievously injured, faced death, and woke up with an enemy standing over him, and Hadrian had seen little in the way of fear from him until this moment.
“Here,” Hadrian said, handing him the water cup. “Drink a little and I’ll get started. It’s probably nothing, but even if it is something, I am very good at what I do. Maybe the best. I’m not just saying that either. I didn’t get put on General Valen’s force for nothing, you know? I had healed twenty-seven men before I found you the other night. Twenty-seven. Your archers do nasty work.”
“You shoot lightning at us,” Dorian said.
“Fair point.” Hadrian took a drink of his own water before sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Sorry. I know I talk too much. This isn’t really the time—”
“It’s alright,” Dorian said. He had gone very still. “I… I don’t mind. You don’t have to stop.”
Hadrian chuckled. “I don’t think you understand what you are inviting.” He reached out to touch Dorian’s head, but he flinched away. Hadrian stopped, but didn’t pull back.
“You know,” Hadrian said. “Being healed feels a little different for everyone. Everyone being healed, I mean. For the magic user it feels the same every time. Well, at least it does for me. It might be different for other healers. We don’t really talk about it.”
“Why not?” Dorian hadn’t relaxed, but he wasn’t watching his hand warily anymore.
“Well, there’s not much need to discuss nuance anymore, I guess. If you can heal people, it doesn’t matter how or why as long as you can do it well. War took away any curiosity about the magic itself or how other people experience it. Maybe we are afraid to find out what other people feel because we are all afraid to feel anything anymore.”
Dorian lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He still flinched when Hadrian touched his forehead, but he didn’t move away.
“Anyway,” Hadrian said. “Being healed feels different for everyone. Some people say it feels warm and tingly, some say cool and soft. Others say it feels like being in a bath. I’ve never had anyone say it hurts though.”
“Does it hurt you?” Dorian whispered. He didn’t seem to be in pain, but he still looked so scared. It broke Hadrian’s heart to know it was him he was so afraid of.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt at all. It feels… natural. Like putting things the way they are supposed to be. Like rain on soil after a long drought, or a cleansing fire on an overgrown forest. No, not the fire. Forget I said that. Think about the rain and growing things. Nice green forests.”
