Quickburned

Circles

Now...

Lysistrata listened to her one-time lover's narrative trail off, and was grateful the lamps had burned low enough that neither of them could see much of the other's expressions. The colored shades painted him in orange and gold and blue, smoothing the lines of pain and exhaustion from his face.

Caleb stopped talking. She heard the pistol grip groan as his knuckles tightened on them. "I couldn't save 'em, Lys. Got a lot of 'em, all from that camp, but there were others... still..."

"They'd all be dead if you hadn't helped, cowboy, stop cheating yourself. Drink." She felt the chest beside her for the cup, filled it and helped him sit up to drink, as she had been every time he paused in his story. Once he'd drained it, she refilled it and made him drink again, along with a dose of the medicine Sophiastrata had left.

"Enough t'make my teeth float," he said, handing back the cup and shifting restlessly, half-leaning on her.

"In plain Flametongue, please." Caleb's collection of idioms and turns of phrase occasionally mystified even her, despite a childhood and a significant percentage of her adulthood spent in the South.

"Means I gotta piss." He swung his legs over the edge of the large camp bed and swayed, a ragged edge to his voice that could either be irritation or exhaustion. Given the way he shook his head, probably both, and he probably regretted the terse phrase. Caleb had very few mean bones in him, and none of them he liked showing. She left him briefly to retrieve the pot from its corner and set the earthenware utensil within reach.

"Do you need help?"

"No, thanks, I think I c'n handle myself." He said it without looking up at her, and she could feel his struggle to remain flippant and cheerful. Pobrecito. She judged him able, barely, and left the tent so he could manage his pride in peace.

It was almost brighter outside than under canvas; the Pole of Fire flickered off to the south, and brilliant streamers of essence danced in green and violet and gold light from there across the dark skies to the east and west, bounding in Creation against the Wyld which beat against it like a rocky shore. Luna was waxing full, her silver light drowning out the stars and bathing the oasis of their shelter in shades of blue.

Dirt and her camel stood nose-to-tail in the small corral, not even flicking an ear as she approached. The poor buckskin's ribs were still showing far too much; it was clear he'd been through as much an ordeal as his rider.

She summoned a pattern spider out of essence and stardust, stroking the creature's spindly limbs as it materialized. It raised the first pair in question and she murmured to it. The creature dipped in acquiescence and dropped off her hand, vanishing in spun threads of starlight and fate to carry out her commands.

Caleb was already half-asleep and slumping by the time she got back and had dealt with the utensil. Lys tucked the blanket around him and smoothed the hair away from his face. He was still too pale under the freckles and tan; she could tell even in the low light. And he burned so, under her hand.

Today's lucidity had been welcome reassurance from the half-conscious delirium he'd been in since she'd found him. The green streaks of infection had not yet retreated, inching up from his collarbone, and she had no hopes the days to follow would be so good. Not until this battle of illness was decided. And this was a battlefield she, Chosen of Battles, could not influence more than any other mortal. It was infuriating.

"Rest, sunshine," she murmured when he stirred.

"...better if you're here," he said, slurring the words and groping for her hand. Lys let the smile touch her expression briefly and slipped into bed beside him (it was her tent, after all, her and the Veils'; the bed was plenty large enough for two). He slung an arm over her hip, buried his face in her shoulder, and slept.