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“Dragan, please, you have to get out of here!” Roland’s voice cracked through the stormy night like thunder, making Dragan flinch harder than any blow could have. Roland still hadn’t managed to pick himself up from the ground, despite his best efforts and apparent distress. He must have gotten injured after all when he had fallen off his steed. All the more reason Dragan couldn’t back down now; if he did, he’d leave him defenseless!
Dragan tried to keep the bandits at a distance with his fire spells, though it was hard to keep up when he was plainly outnumbered. He couldn’t quite tell how many there were through the thick veil of rain. He counted at least three shadows, maybe more. The downpour did a fine job dousing his fire to make matters worse.
“Damn it,” Dragan hissed beneath his breath. Just when he managed to force one bandit to back off with a focused blast, another took his place. The magic cracked around his fingertips, lighting sparks in the air as he forced another wave of fire forward. His fingers went numb in the aftermath, trembling so heavily he nearly dropped his spellbook. This wouldn’t do much longer.
Dragan’s gaze caught onto Roland’s spear, still half buried in the mud, when the prince reached for it. Roland’s breathing tore, his arm giving out from under him. Dragan snatched the weapon before he could grasp it either way, trading his spellbook for the close combat option. He couldn’t sustain his magic much longer. At least the spear would give him an option to defend himself. “Let me borrow that for a moment.”
“Please, you’re going to get hurt.” Roland’s voice broke around the words, like they somehow ached more than his wounds. Dragan didn’t have the luxury of acknowledging them; when the next bandit closed in, Dragan raised the spear to block his blade, one hand clutched around either end of the shaft. The blow nearly knocked Dragan off his feet. He stumbled, feet skidding over the mud.
The next strike landed before Dragan could so much as regain his balance, sliding across the steel of the spear until it caught onto his hand. The blade cut clean through his flesh. Dragan swallowed a cry, biting his lip until he tasted iron. He pushed his weight back against the blade, trying to gain some room to work with. His hand shook. Blood flowed freely, mixing with the rain before dripping onto the ground. Drip. Drip.
Next thing he knew, the spear was knocked clean out of his hands. Dragan froze on the spot, a chill blooming inside him like ice crystals.
If he fell back now, he’d be putting Roland in harm’s way. Dragan had to stand his ground. His hand patted for his spellbook, numb and uncooperative. By the time the blade whirred towards him once more, he had no choice left but to brace for impact.
Dragan pulled up his arms in a desperate attempt to shield himself, ducking his head. He managed to catch the brunt of the strike, biting his tongue as the steel cut down to the bone. The sharp tang of iron hit his tongue. Steadying himself was near impossible when the pain bled out into staggering dread. Once his defense was broken down, the blade pierced his abdomen without resistance.
Dragan’s knees hit the mud the moment the bandit tore his sword from his gut. His chest heaved with coughs. Something didn’t let him breathe – the shock, the metallic stench of blood, the dizzying ache taking root.
Was someone calling out for him? Dragan was lightheaded with too much panic and too little air. He tried to focus, but the sounds melted into a blurred rush of blood in his ears and rain pelting against the ground.
Dragan braced himself against the earth, slipped. He clutched at the gash, trying to keep the life from bleeding out of him. His hand was coated in slick, hot wetness in an instant.
Damn it all, he couldn’t fall now! If he didn’t keep fighting, Roland would be as good as dead.
Dragan glanced up, bracing for a blow that didn’t come. The rain streamed across his face, blurring his vision. For a moment, he just knew that the shadow in front of him had frozen. It was only when the bandit collapsed that Dragan could get his vision to focus on the arrow buried in his chest.
Reinforcements. Thank the stars.
Dragan let his body curl up against the ground, trying to force his chest to draw air. Each breath made his insides burn as if a searing blade was yet buried in his gut. His hands trembled like leaves in a storm. He clenched his fist, trying to subdue the quiver. Not a chance. How bothersome.
“Roland…” Dragan’s hand slipped on the mud as he pushed himself up. His arm quaked under the strain, nearly giving out on him again.
He found Roland through the gray haze in an instant, frozen in what he assumed to be lingering shock. For once, part of Dragan was grateful that damned mask was hiding the prince’s expression. How selfish of him.
Roland dragged himself towards him, his breath hitching when he finally collapsed at his side. “Dragan… Gods, you’re bleeding.”
“So I’ve noticed…” Dragan tried to smile, though the pain twisted it into a grimace. He gave up on dignity when his limbs went numb, rolling onto his back beside the prince. A little dirt was the least of his worries right now.
Were they still under attack? There had been so many enemies. The picture of a blade pinning Roland to the ground forced itself onto Dragan’s inner eye. He blinked it away.
Roland’s hand patted at Dragan’s side. It found his chest, clumsily settling over the wound. His fingers shook. His breath wavered. Dragan allowed his hand to settle atop Roland’s in a weak attempt to add pressure. The blood kept soaking across his chest, utterly unbothered by their efforts.
“I told you to retreat.” The words tore out of Roland’s throat, breaking around a choked sob. “I told you… Gods, what am I supposed to do if I lose you too?”
Roland’s shoulders shook. One hitched breath tore from his throat at a time. Any tears Roland might have spilled blended with the rain running over his features, half hidden behind that mask. Dragan didn’t need to see in order to know. He couldn’t look away from it.
Roland was crying. Roland was crying for him. Dragan’s heart didn’t know what to make of that, bursting with adoration and sorrow alike.
“Roland, please… Don’t cry.” Dragan knew it was selfish to ask, but he couldn’t take another torn breath or trembling touch. He couldn’t focus on anything else when Roland was choking on tears, not on the heavy downpour, or the distant noise of battle, or footsteps falling on the wet mud. Dragan’s chest squeezed. His fingers closed around Roland’s like a vice. “Please don’t…”
Dragan couldn’t breathe. His throat tied up as if he was getting choked, his chest burning with each labored breath.
The hot tears were obvious against his cold cheeks. He couldn’t hold them back, couldn’t hide them either when the fight drained from him as freely as the blood.
If only he had shown Roland sooner how much he had come to care. Dragan would have given anything for just a day at his side – without the masks and pretense.
The last thing Dragan felt before slipping under was a cold hand against his cheek, wiping the tears and leaving a smear of blood in its trails.
Dragan blinked against the glow. Specks of light hit his lids, dim and scattered. It was enough to make his eyes burn. The ache seeped into his skull, making him groan and curl back against – something. Warmth wrapped around him, nothing like the chilling grip of rain and mud.
The memory hit him like the strike of a sword, making his eyes fly wide open after all. He patted at the sheets around him as if to assure himself they were real.
“Dragan…”
He perked up at the sound of his name, finding the blue of Roland’s eyes in an instant. The prince was awkwardly curled up beside the bedding on the ground with only a blanket to provide him any comfort. His golden locks shimmered in the dim light that peeked in through the tent flap, framing his face in an unusually wild pattern. His eyes were red-rimmed. They clouded the moment he met Dragan’s gaze.
“Thank the gods, you’re awake.” Each of Roland’s words trembled on the way out. He haphazardly wiped at his eyes when the first tear slipped free, a watery smile on his lips. Dragan only noticed now that Roland’s other arm was wrapped in a sling, revealing the marks the battle had left on him too.
Dragan didn’t dare breathe. The world around him was soft like a lingering dream, hazy at the edges. If Dragan looked too closely, would the illusion break?
A sharp pang hit his chest on the next inhale, leaving him curling back into the sheets with a groan. Now that was all too real.
“I didn’t…” Dragan paused. I didn’t think I’d make it out alive. Saying that would hardly bring the prince any comfort, now would it? What a pointless thing to utter. He had obviously made it out just fine.
“I didn’t think you’d stay,” Dragan completed instead.
Was that much better? Part of him was curious, in all honesty. It was hard to tell what time of day it was with just the fragmented light making its way in, but it was a stark difference from the pitch-black night Dragan had slipped into in any case. Roland didn’t look like he had gotten much sleep, sitting with his head resting on his knees and a blanket thrown over his shoulders. Had he been curled up beside Dragan the entire night?
“I…” Roland dipped his head, strands of hair draping over his eyes. Dragan wanted to reach out and brush them aside. It was only thanks to the ache and exhaustion pinning him down that he didn’t. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to crowd you.”
“You’re not crowding me,” Dragan insisted, “I’m happy to see you.”
Dragan would have preferred to look less pitiful with the prince watching him so closely, but that was secondary to the relief of seeing him at all.
“I could say the same.” Roland’s breath shook on the way out, the tears trickling freely over his cheeks. “I was certain I had lost you for a moment. I… I don’t think I could have borne it.”
Dragan’s chest tightened, even as the pain numbed. He hadn’t expected Roland to repeat the sentiment this plainly, not without the rush of panic spurring him on. Neither had he anticipated to see the prince’s tears fall without resistance. With the veil of rain lifted – and the mask gone, now that Dragan thought about it – there was nothing left to conceal the raw emotion behind them. Dragan wanted to squirm out of his own skin just thinking about whether Roland had noticed his own slip in composure back there, and yet, he wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by the sight. All that was left was a deep, aching affection.
“I… don’t think I could have borne to lose you either.” Dragan’s fingers twisted the hem of his blanket, stilling a moment later when he caught the restless gesture. “Obviously. I wouldn't have been so intent on shielding you otherwise, now would I?”
Dragan’s words only broke loose a fresh wave of tears, pattering onto Roland’s sleeves and legs.
“I can see that.” Roland’s voice was thick with tears, catching in his throat. “I just wish it hadn’t come to this. It wasn’t my intention to get you hurt. Far from it.”
Roland rested his good hand on the edge of Dragan’s bedding, palm up, as if to offer it. The way Roland looked at him was completely unguarded, direct and still raw around the edges.
Dragan let his hand slip into Roland’s. The prince’s fingers were cool against his, though when they closed around Dragan’s, they made a deep warmth bloom within his chest all the same.
“I know.” Dragan kept his voice soft, still afraid to break the moment. “Just don’t frighten me like that again.”
“You have my word.”
The smile came easily to Dragan after that. He doubted that Roland’s recklessness could be tamed quite so easily, or that they’d never face hardship again. When Roland’s tears finally stilled and his breathing evened out, even that looming threat couldn’t shake Dragan anymore.