Archive of Our Own

Clutching Genarog’s neck with one hand, with the ground receding quickly below him, Cormag reached into his saddlebag and realized with a sinking heart that he had made a mistake.

He had assumed there was still a vulnerary or two remaining in his bags, and he had rushed in to rescue a group of travelers from a pack of bandits thinking that even if something went horribly wrong, he would at least be able to patch himself up temporarily before finding a town where he could resupply. But digging past spare shirts, a handful of whetstones, two sheathed knives, and the other sundry contents of his saddlebags, Cormag’s reaching fingers touched on nothing resembling a glass bottle or even a bunch of herbs.

The travelers had fled as soon as Cormag had given them the opportunity to do so, and he didn’t blame them. They had been wildly outmatched, and Cormag hadn’t needed their help anyway, not to dispatch some bandits. It would have been a trivial fight if the leader of the gang hadn’t been wielding a sharper axe than Cormag had been expecting, and if he hadn’t snuck around into Cormag’s blind spot while Cormag was checking to see that the travelers had escaped to safety.

Cormag’s counterattack had been swift and merciless, but that had done nothing to close the bloody wound in his side. He finished the fight one-handedly, the other clamped over the injury in a feeble attempt to staunch the bleeding, and eventually staggered back to Genarog, who lifted him away from the scene before Cormag could even think to check the bodies for vulneraries.

Blessedly, Genarog was uninjured. Cormag groaned and abandoned his futile search of his saddle bags, deciding he would be better off focusing on staying upright. The landscape below was endless trees and mountains—they were near the border of Renais, he thought, but not along any of the usual travel routes.

Alone and bleeding out over all his worldly possessions was not the way Cormag had expected to die, but he supposed it wasn't the most undignified way to go. At least he had Genarog to keep him company.

Pressing a cloth to the wound, he arranged himself as comfortably as he could in the saddle, let his eyes fall closed, and entrusted his fate to his wyvern.

† † †

Genarog landed so smoothly that Cormag wasn’t certain at first what it was that shook him out of his doze. But there was no longer a rushing of wind in his ears, and the lulling motions of flight had been replaced by the sway of the wyvern’s ambling walk, so Cormag cracked his eyes open to see that Genarog had somehow, miraculously, found a village in the borderland wilderness.

His vision was too blurry to determine their location in any more detail, but he could hear voices now, raised in alarm and confusion as people gathered around Genarog.

“A wyvern? Grado?”

“—he’s hurt! Someone—!”

“Get him down from there—”

If Cormag had had any strength remaining, he would have warned the well-meaning villagers before they reached for Genarog’s bridle. As it was, Genarog gave a fierce snarl and quickly changed their minds.

Bad wyvern, Cormag scolded internally. He would bleed out for sure at this rate.

But Genarog seemed to be on a mission, because he accelerated as he moved through the town center, and the rocking of the wyvern’s back combined with blood loss was almost enough to make Cormag faint. Finally, Genarog slowed to a halt, and among the babble of the concerned villagers, one voice cut above the rest.

Clear and bright, airy with astonishment, and so familiar—

“Genarog???”

And then, after a beat—

“Sir Cormag!?!?”

† † †

Cormag woke in a dim room. There was a fire crackling somewhere off to his left, the flames painting the wooden ceiling beams with flickers of orange. A thick quilt was tucked over his chest, there was a warm weight resting on his forehead—a compress of some kind?—and the air was heavy with the scent of herbs and fire smoke.

He shifted slightly and groaned as his side pulsed with pain. But it wasn’t bleeding anymore, he could tell that much. Even so, he expected the wound to be sore for a few days, even after a magical healing.

“Genarog…” he murmured. His wyvern had carried him to safety—Cormag hoped he was being treated well. If they hadn’t landed in Grado, then the people might not know—

“He’s in the garden,” said a voice, and suddenly Cormag remembered what he had heard in the moments before he lost consciousness. He turned his head as much as he could, and sure enough, he recognized the pale, orange-haired man stepping up to his bedside.

Artur smiled gently, set a tray down on a small table, and settled into a chair next to the bed.

“I brought him some fresh chickens from the butcher,” he continued, “and I think he’s sleeping now. It must have been a long flight.”

“You spoil him,” Cormag murmured. “He wouldn’t let anyone help me when I landed here.”

 Artur raised an eyebrow and frowned a little. “Cormag…he brought you directly to my door. I think he was about to knock it down, if I’d been a little slower coming outside.”

At that, Cormag wasn’t sure what to say. “…oh.”

“So, I think he deserves some spoiling,” Artur added, with a small smile. “Anyway, how are you feeling?”

Cormag drew a breath, considering the question. “Sore. But not bad, otherwise.”

Artur reached out to take the lukewarm compress from his forehead, replacing it with his palm. “You’re not feverish, surprisingly. You should rest a bit longer, though. You lost a great deal of blood.”

“Mm.” Artur’s hand was warm on his forehead—Cormag missed it, a little bit, when he pulled away.

“But since you’re awake now,” Artur added. “…what happened? I’m delighted to see you, of course, but I had hoped to be reunited under slightly less alarming circumstances.”

“Bandits,” Cormag grumbled, and explained the encounter as briefly as he could. There was an admonishing wrinkle in Artur’s brow by the time he finished.

“Sir Cormag,” he began, gently but with unmistakable firmness, “you should not be so reckless.”

“Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson,” Cormag sighed.

“I hope so,” Artur said sternly, before turning to the tray next to him. “Are you hungry?”

As soon as he thought about it, Cormag found that he was ravenous. He started to sit up, then hissed through his teeth as his side twinged with pain.

“Stay still,” Artur chided. “Like I said, it will take a little longer to heal fully.” He held out a spoonful of fragrant soup. “Here.”

Cormag narrowed his eyes. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself,” he countered, but when he tried sitting up again, he only met with the same result: a stabbing pain in his side, and this time, a bout of lightheadedness as well. Artur frowned at him, and, swallowing his pride, Cormag accepted the spoonful of soup.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” Artur assured him between spoonfuls. He smiled slightly, and there was a touch of wryness in the expression. “Rest overnight, and then you can go out and thank Genarog for bringing you here.”

“He’s probably forgotten all about me now that you’re around,” Cormag grumbled. “Always figured he liked you better.”

Artur chuckled. “Nonsense. He’s been sulking all day since I told him he wouldn’t fit inside, and he’s been hissing at anyone who approaches the house.” Artur set the empty bowl back on the bedside table. “The whole town will be relieved when you recover. They aren’t used to wyverns here, you know.”

“They don’t share your fascination?” Cormag asked, glancing at him. Artur ducked his head, a faint blush rising to his cheeks.

“Ah…apparently not. I had to shoo away a few of the braver village children, though.”

Cormag chuckled, and the motion only made his injury hurt a little bit. “Thanks for looking after him. And…for looking after me. You saved my life. Though not for the first time, I daresay.”

Artur smiled, but his eyes were dark. “I’m just glad Genarog found me here. I shudder to think what might have happened otherwise. I’m always telling myself that you must be safe out there, because I know how skilled you are, but I still…” He shivered. “I am so thankful that you are alright, Sir Cormag. Truly.”

His hand found Cormag’s on top of the blanket and pressed it gently. Their hands were so different—Cormag’s were calloused and battle-scarred, tanned from the sun above the clouds, while Artur’s were soft and pale, unblemished save a thin red line that Cormag thought might be a papercut.

Cormag looked at their joined hands for a moment, before lifting his head to meet Artur’s eyes. “It’s really good to see you, Artur,” he said earnestly, suddenly overcome by that sentiment, like he hadn’t realized until just now exactly how much he had missed him. “It’s been too long.”

Artur smiled in return, squeezing Cormag’s hand and then releasing it. “It has,” he agreed, “but that just means we will have plenty to talk about.” He pushed back his chair and stood, taking the tray from the bedside table. “But there will be time for that tomorrow. For now: rest.”

Cormag watched him carry the tray away with half-closed eyes, and he focused his vision again only slightly when Artur returned with a fresh compress for his forehead. The cloth smelled of lavender and chamomile, and Cormag’s eyelids drooped even further, until he finally fell asleep again to the sensation of Artur’s fingers brushing softly through his bangs.

† † †

Cormag stirred to half-wakefulness at some point during the night, cracking open his eyes to the glow of the fire and the figure silhouetted against the hearth. Artur was adding a log to the fire—flames sprang to life from the embers, and the firelight caught in his hair, turning the locks to flames themselves. As he bent down to rearrange the logs, an object swung out from his chest, something small and round which seemed to spark with a light of its own, and when Artur straightened and turned, he struck an almost surreal figure, something nearly divine with his hair alight and a fire burning on his chest, and the image lingered in Cormag’s dreams as he sank back into sleep.

† † †

“Do you still have the wyvern stone?”

Cormag asked the question over breakfast the next morning—having convinced Artur that he could get up without too much pain, they were sharing a meal at the small table in the corner of the house, which seemed to double as an extra workbench when Artur needed the space, as he had cleared away a stack of spellbooks to make room for their tea and toast.

Artur blinked. “Of course I do.” He tugged on a leather cord around his neck and drew the stone out from the folds of his robe. “It was a precious gift from you and Genarog, I would never part with it.”

“And you always wear it like that?” Cormag asked.

“Oh, yes. I move around fairly frequently, and I couldn’t bear if anything happened to it while I was traveling.”

“I see. Uh. Good.” The thought of his gift resting right against Artur’s heart at all times was making him feel strangely warm, so Cormag took a sip of his tea, wondering if he was developing a belated fever after all. He considered asking Artur to check for him, but he decided against it.

They went out to see Genarog after breakfast. The wyvern was curled next to the garden wall, crushing a good three-quarters of what looked like it had once been a well-tended plot of herbs and flowers, but Artur didn’t seem to mind the destruction; he practically skipped to Genarog’s side, waking him with a scratch right at Genarog’s favorite spot under his horns. Genarog stirred languidly, and his yellow eyes remained half-lidded as he noticed Artur and bumped his nose into his chest.

Cormag followed more slowly, unable to keep himself from smiling at the sight of Genarog so at ease around another person. Artur was cooing something to Genarog as he rubbed at his scales, and as Cormag got closer he heard:

“Now be careful around Sir Cormag, he still isn’t fully healed, okay? You want Sir Cormag to get better, right? Yes, of course you do, you’re a good wyvern aren’t you? Yes you are, yes you are…”

Cormag stifled a laugh from behind him, and Artur’s head shot up.

“I swear, I have never known him to tolerate that from anyone but you,” Cormag said, stepping up beside Artur. “Are you sure you aren’t hiding some wyrm-mint somewhere?”

Artur looked affronted. “You know it doesn’t grow around here.”

The crease in his brow, paired with the embarrassed flush on his cheeks, drew another laugh from Cormag’s chest as he reached out to scratch Genarog’s nose.

“Alright, old boy, ready to go out and stretch your wings?” Cormag asked the wyvern. But before he could take another step, Artur moved in front of him.

“Not yet,” he said. “You still need to heal.”

Cormag frowned. “I’m just a little sore.”

“You should still wait. And besides, your saddle is covered in blood. It will need to be cleaned or replaced first.”

“Replaced? There’s nowhere to get wyvern tack in Renais, though.” Cormag sighed. “But very well. Guess you’re on your own today, Genarog.”

The wyvern huffed and stood, stomping on at least three more herb bushes as he did so, before nosing the side of Artur’s face with a questioning rumble.

Cormag chuckled. “He wants to take you instead,” he told Artur, and Artur’s eyes widened.

“R-right now? I…I couldn’t, I mean—”

“Certainly not without a saddle,” Cormag agreed, laughing. “Later, maybe. We did promise you a ride, after all.”

“Y-yes, later…” He paused. “Not just me, though, right?”

Cormag turned to his wyvern with an exaggerated shake of his head. “You hear that, Genarog? Artur here doesn’t trust you.”

“Ah! That’s not it! I just—”

Cormag chuckled. “Just kidding. We’ll take you out together as soon as you say I’m healed enough.” He gave Genarog one last pat, then stepped aside. “But he still needs exercise. Go on,” he added to Genarog. “And no hunting.”

Genarog shook out his wings and huffed in response, then tensed his back legs and launched himself skyward, his wings snapping down in powerful strokes that buffeted the few remaining plants in the garden remaining upright. Artur watched the wyvern, open-mouthed with wonder, until he was out of sight.

“That never gets any less impressive,” he said. “They’re such amazing creatures.”

“Just wait until you see it from the other side,” Cormag said, and he smiled at Artur’s ensuing shiver of excitement.

Cormag started to make a feeble effort to salvage some of the plants Genarog had crushed, but Artur shooed him back to the house before he could make much progress, insisting that Cormag needed more rest before he could even think about landscaping. Inside, Artur all but shoved Cormag into the rocking chair by the fire before settling himself at the workbench that ran along half of one wall of the small house. The workbench was a sturdy wooden table, surrounded by overflowing bookshelves and bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and crowded with a mixed assortment of magical and medicinal equipment, from delicate scales and heavy mortars to faceted gemstones and arcane tomes. Artur set about measuring out medicines, sometimes imbuing them with magic, and while it was fascinating to watch the meticulous process, interspersed with occasional flashes of light and sparks, after an hour, Cormag grew terribly restless, and when Artur announced that he was going out to make his rounds, Cormag insisted on joining him.

He felt a little silly following Artur around town—especially when Artur wouldn’t even let him help carry anything—and the townspeople were clearly unsure how to react to the tall man with the unmistakable posture of a soldier trailing behind their beloved monk. Most of them didn’t comment on it, however, save one.

“Mister Artur!” cried the boy who answered the door at the last house on Artur’s route. He couldn’t be any older than eight, with a mop of brown hair and one chipped tooth and, Cormag noticed after a moment, one leg missing below the knee. He balanced on a well-made wooden crutch, but none of this seemed to slow him down as he hopped aside to let Artur and Cormag inside.

“Brother Artur,” corrected a weary female voice from deeper inside the house, but the boy paid her no mind as he grinned up at Artur, then turned a curious stare on Cormag.

“Who’s that? He looks scary.”

Artur chuckled. “He’s not scary. Jared, this is Sir Cormag. He’s a hero from the war, and a dear friend of mine.”

“A hero? Like you?”

“Ahah, far more heroic than me.” He knelt down to the boy’s level before continuing. “Sir Cormag and his mighty wyvern were the scourge of the skies! Monsters didn’t stand a chance against his fearsome lance.”

“What?!” the boy said indignantly. “But you’re the best hero, Mister Artur! The way you got rid of those spiders!” The boy struck a dramatic pose, one arm outstretched as though casting a spell. “Like, blam! Blam! Whoosh.” He looked back up at Artur with shining eyes. “I want to be a mage just like you someday.”

Artur laughed and straightened up. “And so you shall be, if you study hard. How are you feeling today?”

“Just fine!” the boy insisted. “Can you show me some magic now?”

“Any fevers?” This question was directed to the boy’s mother, who had appeared in the doorway to an adjoining room. She shook her head.

“Nothing lately. And he’s sleeping more soundly since you brought us that tea. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It is my pleasure.” Off to the side, Jared was still casting imaginary spells around the kitchen, accompanied by creative sound effects. Artur turned back to him. “Jared, what did you want to see today?”

Jared gave the question serious consideration, his chin resting against his fist, before pronouncing, “Light!”

“Light it is, then.” Artur knelt down and held out his hand, and a moment later, an orb of white light blossomed to life in his palm. Jared’s eyes went huge.

“Wow…” he gasped, and Artur closed his fingers over the light, extinguishing it. “You’re going to teach me soon, right?”

“Yes, now that it seems your strength is back,” Artur told him. “Your mother and I will talk about it next time I come, alright?”

“Alright!” the boy chirped, and went back to careening around the room, aiming spells at the houseplants. Artur bid farewell to the mother, and they let themselves back out onto the street.

“You have quite the passionate fan, Mister Artur,” Cormag observed with a smile as they left the house behind and started in the direction of Artur’s home. But when he turned to Artur, the monk’s expression was dim. “What’s wrong?”

Artur let out a breath. “There was a pack of monsters terrorizing this town when I first arrived. I cleared most of them out, but…Jared’s leg. It was poisoned, and I couldn’t save it. Even with the power of the wyvern stone, it just wasn’t enough.” He clutched his chest, where the stone pendant hung under his robes.

“If it was between his life and his leg, I’d say you’re still a hero,” Cormag argued. “Much more so than I am,” he added, in a softer voice.

“Nonsense.”

“Monsters didn’t stand a chance against his fearsome lance,” Cormag echoed, hollowly. “But it wasn’t just monsters. More often than not…those were just soldiers. My countrymen and comrades.”

Artur caught his eye. “It was war, Cormag. My hands are bloody too, you know that.”

Cormag couldn’t help but look at Artur’s hands, one still holding the pendant at his chest, the same hands he had watched all day dressing wounds, handing out medicines, pressing against feverish foreheads. “You’ve more than made up for it.”

Artur’s eyes sharpened. “That isn’t how it works. One life saved does not erase one taken.”

Cormag blinked, taken aback by the vehemence in his voice. “I…you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe there’s no such thing, really, as a war hero,” Artur went on. “But what we’re doing now, your work in Grado, and mine, here…isn’t that what matters more? We cannot truly atone, but…we can do what we can to make the world a better place.”

Cormag could find no words to argue with the fierceness in Artur’s gaze, so he let the subject drop.

Artur started to unpack his bag when they returned to his house, and, unwilling to spend another couple of hours sitting in a rocking chair twiddling his thumbs, Cormag went out to the small shed behind the cottage to inspect his saddle. Artur had been correct: the leather was caked in dried blood—nearly all of it his own—and it would take some dedicated cleaning to make it usable again. Retrieving a bucket of water, a brush, and some polish, Cormag set himself to the task, and by the time he emerged from the shed, long shadows were starting to fall across the garden, but the saddle was glistening like new.

His side was aching a little after the exertion of scrubbing at awkward angles for the better part of the afternoon, but he decided he wouldn’t let Artur know as much.

The cottage smelled of cooking when Cormag returned, and he inhaled deeply to catch the scent of stewing meat and herbs. It was the wrong move—his wound twinged when he breathed in, and Artur, who had turned away from the fire to greet him, immediately narrowed his eyes.

He was beside Cormag in an instant, his hands probing over Cormag’s side.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Uh—”

Cormag wasn’t able to answer, because as soon as his eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light indoors, he had become distracted by something else entirely.

Artur had shed his robes to cook. He was clad in a loose linen shirt tucked into his pants, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the laces at the collar tied only loosely, so the wyvern stone had slipped out from the fabric and was resting against his chest. The firelight tangled in his hair, illuminated the fine bones of his face, the line of his throat—and Cormag’s mouth was suddenly very, very dry.

Cormag had always known that Artur was beautiful. Tethys had constantly been cooing over him, and even Joshua had remarked on it once or twice during the war. Cormag had noticed too, but never like this, never with the force of a lance to his chest.

He placed a hand on Artur’s shoulder and, as gently and politely as he could manage, pushed him just far enough away that Artur’s hands—soft, skillful hands—fell away from Cormag’s side.

“I’m fine,” Cormag told him, after clearing his throat. “Just a little sore, still. Uh. What’s cooking?”

He lifted his hand from Artur’s shoulder with extreme reluctance and squeezed his fingers into a fist by his side, willing himself not to let his eyes wander. Had he ever seen Artur not wearing his monk’s robes during the war? Maybe once or twice, but it had never affected him like this. And then there was the wyvern stone, hanging just beside his heart, sometimes slipping back beneath the fabric to rest against bare skin—

Gods, he has freckles on his chest.

Cormag tore his eyes away to look at anything else, and realized he hadn’t even heard Artur’s answer to his question.

“It smells good,” he said vaguely, because whatever it was, at least that was true.

And, blessedly, Artur’s cooking was more than good enough to hold Cormag’s full attention for at least the duration of the meal.  When they finished dinner, they relocated to the chairs beside the fire, and Artur started asking him about what he had been up to since the end of the war. They both had so much to tell that Cormag only found himself intermittently distracted by irrelevant things, like the bow of Artur’s lips as he smiled as he spoke, or the way he sometimes twisted a strand of his hair around his finger when he got self-conscious.

They talked for hours, and it was only when Artur was starting to yawn in between words that Cormag realized something critical.

“Er, Artur,” he began, “where am I going to sleep?”

Artur blinked at him. “The bed, of course. You’re still recovering.”

“Then where will you sleep?”

“This chair is comfortable enough. I was fine last night.”

“But—”

“Cormag, you need good rest right now. No arguing.”

“I have a bedroll—”

“No, you don’t. It was absolutely soaked with blood, and it wouldn’t be as easy to clean as the saddle. I threw it out.” He met Cormag’s eyes with an expression that brooked no argument. “The bed is yours.”

Although Cormag had slept in the same bed the night before, he hadn’t exactly had a say in the matter, since he had apparently fallen unconscious at Artur’s doorstep. Now he felt strangely self-conscious as he pulled back the covers, glancing back at Artur, who was arranging a blanket over himself in the rocking chair. Swallowing the odd tingling sensation in his chest, Cormag climbed into bed.

He shifted around a little to get comfortable, eventually settling on his uninjured side, and with his face against the pillow—

It smells like him.

He wasn’t even sure when, over the course of the last day, he had come to recognize the scent, something just a little separate from the fragrance of herbs and smoke and magic that hung around the house, a little more human. Cormag breathed in, and a warm feeling swirled in his chest and curled down his limbs.

“Goodnight, Cormag,” Artur called from his chair, and Cormag couldn’t help but flinch, feeling himself flush as though Artur could have possibly noticed something amiss.

“Goodnight, Artur,” he returned, and closed his eyes.

† † †

Sometimes, the monsters just felt endless.

Cormag preferred them to the soldiers, of course. He didn’t like fighting his former brothers in arms, as necessary as it was in this accursed war, but at least the soldiers had limits. Even reinforcements would eventually run out, and troops would need to regroup, but these creatures, spawning constantly from the shadows, intercepting their army at every forest and bog and mountainside…they were a constant reminder of how wrong everything had gone in Cormag’s beloved homeland, and some days, he just grew so weary.

Perhaps it was selfish, then, to be so relieved that Artur was by his side. The monsters didn’t stand a chance against him; watching them dissolve into crumbling shadows in the face of Artur’s light magic made Cormag feel like there was some hope against the seemingly endless onslaught of darkness.

And Artur was always in best form when fighting monsters. There was no guilt to be had here, no lives to mourn, and the shadow that weighed on his features whenever he was forced to kill enemy soldiers was absent. He lit up like a star, so brilliant that Cormag wondered how the creatures didn’t perish from the sight alone, and his motions were swift and sure as he cast spell after spell at the hordes of spiders and wolves, leaving Cormag to catch the strays fleeing their blinding executioner.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Cormag said, yanking his lance from a mogall’s bloodshot eye with an unpleasant squelch.

Artur nodded and slumped against a tree, breathing heavily, and Cormag narrowed his eyes.

“Are you hurt? I have a vulnerary…”

But Artur waved him off. “I’m fine, just tired.” He looked up. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Back towards the ruins, I think. We left them behind when we went after that tarvos.”

“Ah. Right.” Artur sighed. “Well. They’ll be alright without us for a minute, I think.”

He settled back against the tree and closed his eyes. Cormag let himself relax too, setting his lance against another tree and stepping around the pools of rancid blood to join Artur.

“Ah, you’ve got a little…” he began, reaching out to wipe a blob of unidentifiable fluid from Artur’s cheek. Artur’s eyes fluttered open as he did so, and the citrine of his irises glowed for just an instant with residual magic, before settling back to warm amber.

“You’re one to talk,” Artur laughed, and Cormag realized somewhat belatedly that he was in far worse shape than Artur, splattered all over with various monster residues. Artur pulled the sleeve of his robe—still miraculously unsoiled—over his hand and reached up to wipe Cormag’s face.

This close, there was a still a faint scent of ozone clinging to him, and his hand was usually warm, even through the fabric. Cormag edged backward in protest—there was no need for Artur to dirty his clothes for what was probably a lost cause anyway—but Artur stubbornly followed after him, frowning a little as he picked a clump of fur from Cormag’s shoulder, so focused on his task that he didn’t notice the mogall tentacle under his feet until it was too late.

Cormag caught him when he tripped, sort of—Artur fell against his chest, and Cormag reflexively wrapped his arms around the mage to steady him.

When Artur looked up, they were no longer in the forest.

The close darkness around them was heavy with herbs and candle smoke. Cormag’s bloody armor and Artur’s white robes were gone, and Cormag could feel the warmth of Artur’s body through the fabric of their tunics.

He started to apologize, but when he looked down, Artur’s eyes locked with his, and any thought of putting space between the two of them quickly left his head.

Firelight ringed Artur’s dark pupils. He met Cormag’s gaze with quiet intensity, his lips slightly parted, and he slipped his hands up Cormag’s chest to circle behind his neck. The wyvernstone burned between them—or maybe it was Cormag’s heart that was aflame, churning sparks through his veins as he pulled Artur more tightly to his chest, leaned closer, and—

Cormag woke with a start.

Pale pre-dawn light lit the house with a bluish glow. The fire smoldered, and Cormag instinctively pulled his blankets more tightly around himself as he rolled onto his side. He remembered his wound a moment too late—there was a pang in his ribs as he moved, but the pain subsided after a moment, and he let out a breath and sank into the mattress. It had been a while since he’d had such comfortable accommodations, and he had almost forgotten how luxurious it was to wake up to a chilly morning, insulated from the cold with warm quilts and featherdown.

He was close to slipping back into a doze when he noticed Artur, sleeping soundly in the rocking chair by the fire, and his dreams came rushing back to him. Suddenly he felt wide awake, and a little too warm.

He had always been fond of Artur—it was impossible not to be, when he had first approached Genarog with such enthusiasm, practically bouncing with excitement and entirely unfazed the wyvern’s imposing stature or Cormag’s none-too-friendly resting expression. Meeting him had been an unexpected bright point amidst the dismal events of the war, and growing closer to him had been surprisingly effortless, as Artur always seemed to make a point of sidling up to him while he brushed down Genarog’s scales, or finding him in the camp for a meal, or backing him up in battle. Cormag hadn’t thought much of it—there was so much on his mind to begin with—but he had always been grateful for the monk’s grounding, soothing presence, and the way Artur lit up with childlike glee around Genarog was one of the few things to bring a smile to Cormag’s face in what had otherwise been the darkest period of his life.

He wasn’t sure when that gratefulness had developed into something more, or if these feelings welling up in his chest had always been there, just buried under grief and exhaustion. Either way, Cormag had a suspicion that he would have a hard time ignoring them now, especially if he was going to be staying here for any length of time.

Across the room, Artur was hunched in the chair, his head listing to one side and his blanket starting to slip down his chest. With a slight grunt of discomfort, Cormag kicked off his own blankets, gathering up the quilt from the top and crossing the room on soft steps.

Gingerly, he placed the blanket across Artur’s chest. Artur stirred but didn’t wake, scrunching up his nose a little as he snuggled down into the newfound warmth.

Cormag smiled fondly, then turned to stoke the fire back to life before pulling on his boots and slipping out to the garden.

It was early enough that the garden was still wet with dew, and Cormag’s boots left a trail of footprints in the grass as he crossed to where Genarog was just starting to stir. He scratched under the wyvern’s horns, leaning against him to share his warmth and smiling as Genarog curled towards him.

“You like it here, huh?”

Genarog rumbled contentedly, then nudged his nose under Cormag’s chin.

“Yes, I do, too,” Cormag agreed. He let out a breath, then rested his forehead against his wyvern’s, staying like that for a moment before asking, “How long do you think I’ve been in love with him?”

Genarog huffed air out through his nostrils, a sound Cormag had learned to associate with amusement, and Cormag leaned back to glare at him.

“Oh, so you knew, did you?”

Genarog just blinked back at him, slowly, and Cormag sighed. “Yeah, maybe I knew, too. But after the war…well, we had our paths to walk, you know? But now…ah, I don’t know. If I’m just flying around and getting beaten up by bandits, maybe it’s time for something else.”

Genarog only looked at him, his gaze steady and challenging, and Cormag smiled in resignation.

“Yeah, I suppose I do need to decide for myself,” he said. Genarog huffed and closed his eyes again, apparently satisfied with this answer.

Hearing movement from behind him, Cormag turned to see Artur appear at the corner of the garden, wrapped up in a blanket against the morning chill. His hair was more disarrayed than usual, and Cormag had to suppress a sudden desperate urge to brush a hand through it—whether to smooth it down or to muss it up further, he wasn’t sure.

“Good morning,” Artur greeted him, his voice still raspy from sleep. He stepped up beside Cormag and stroked Genarog’s snout. “Morning, Genarog.”

“Are you going to let me take him out today?” Cormag asked, watching Artur run his finger up and down the length of the wyvern’s nose. He wondered if sleepy Artur might be a little more lenient, but his optimism vanished when a crease immediately formed between Artur’s brows.

“I have to check how you’re healing, first,” he said, “but I still think you need more rest.” He nodded towards the house. “Breakfast?”

“Do you have more rounds to do today?” Cormag asked when they were back inside. Artur handed him a cup of tea then settled at the table.

“No, none of my patients need daily visits right now,” he replied. “I was thinking of doing some gardening.”

“I think Genarog has that covered,” Cormag remarked. “…literally.”

Artur let out a snort of laughter and almost spilled the tea he was pouring, setting the pot down with a clatter. “Cormag.”

Cormag chuckled. “Sorry about that, by the way. I meant to tell you he would be fine in a stable, if you want your garden back.”

Artur resumed pouring his tea. “No, no, he seems comfortable there. I had been thinking of replanting a few of those shrubs, anyway.”

Cormag raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Artur blushed.

“A-anyway, there are a few things you could help me with in the garden, if you’d like.” He smiled a little. “Nothing too strenuous, of course.”

So Cormag spent the morning repairing a trellis that had fallen victim to Genarog, while Artur did some weeding along the wall. He was wearing that loose tunic again, and a wide-brimmed hat to block the sun; every so often he sat back on his knees with a satisfied sigh and pushed the hat back to wipe his brow, letting the sun catch in his hair and pick out the freckles on his cheeks.

On one such occasion, Cormag was so captivated for a moment that he nearly hammered his thumb to the trellis.

But he survived the morning without any major injuries to explain away, and when Genarog returned from his morning flight, the wyvern found a patch of dry hay and a trough of water waiting for him. The accommodations had largely been Artur’s idea—Cormag had assured him that Genarog wasn’t picky about his sleeping arrangements, but Artur had insisted, and Cormag hadn’t had it in him to dampen his enthusiasm. He couldn’t refuse later, either, when Artur selected some of the more expensive cuts of beef at the butcher while they were out in town for groceries.

“Don’t get used to this,” he warned Genarog as the wyvern gleefully scarfed down the meat, but a small part of him wondered, maybe we could.

That night, Cormag again lost his argument to give Artur his bed back, although he did convince Artur to at least take an additional blanket for himself.

The next morning, Artur enlisted Cormag’s help with preparing some of the medicines for his patients, but they both quickly realized that Cormag did not have the touch for it, so Artur permitted him to run through some training exercises in the garden, provided he used a broomstick handle instead of his lance. It felt good to move around a bit, even if the broomstick made him feel a little foolish, and he spun and jabbed his way through the Grado army’s routine lance training regimen with ease, and with hardly any pain.

He had been at it for nearly an hour, by which point he had shed his tunic and was starting to work up a sweat, when he felt eyes on him. He tensed at first, until remembering that he was in Artur’s garden and not on a battlefield, and when he turned, he expected to find some of those village kids Artur had mentioned.

But it was Artur himself, leaning against the corner of the house and watching him. His expression was strangely intent, and, catching his eye, Cormag felt a spark like a stray thunder spell trickle down his spine.

Artur straightened up and smiled a moment later, and Cormag wondered if he had imagined the heat in his gaze.

“How are you feeling?” Artur asked, glancing down at the gauze covering Cormag’s injury.

Cormag set down the broomstick and stretched his arms over his head. “Just fine,” he said. “I must be fully healed by now.”

“I’ll have to check,” Artur said, a little distractedly, his eyes still on Cormag’s torso. He lifted one hand towards the wound, then dropped it, before looking up. “It’s…probably better if you lie down.”

Inside, Cormag stretched out on the bed, and Artur pulled up a chair beside him and started untying the bandages. Then he rubbed his hands together, grimacing apologetically.

“My hands might be a bit cold,” he said, before touching his fingertips lightly to Cormag’s skin, right beside the thin scar that was all that remained of his axe wound. His fingers were just a little cool, but nonetheless Cormag was relieved to have an excuse for his quick intake of breath.

“Does this hurt at all?” Artur asked, pressing a little more firmly against the scar.

“A…little,” Cormag admitted reluctantly. Artur released the pressure, and the pain was suddenly replaced by a peculiar shivering warmth. After a moment, Cormag realized there was healing magic flowing off Artur’s palms and settling into his flesh, and he looked at Artur in surprise. “Don’t you need a staff for that?”

“For major healing, yes. But the wyvern stone actually helps with this.” He smiled. “Your skin is fine, but the muscles might take a little longer to fully heal. Would you like me to bandage it back up again?”

“I think I’ll be alright,” Cormag decided. The scar certainly wasn’t in danger of opening up anymore.

“Then you’re all set,” Artur said. He ran his fingers along the scar again, almost absently, before catching himself and withdrawing his hand, although his eyes lingered on the puckered skin, and flickered over the other scars scattered across Cormag’s torso. Cormag resisted the wild, irrational impulse to snatch his wrist and pull his hand back, already missing Artur’s touch.

 Artur went to start preparing dinner, and Cormag shook himself and sat up, pulling his shirt back on.

After they ate, they retired to the chairs by the fire, Artur with a book, and Cormag with a knife and a chunk of wood. He had come across the lopsided block of pine in the shed the day before, and after asking Artur if it was needed for anything, had started idly whittling it down with the knife he kept in his pack.

“What are you making?” Artur asked after a while, lifting his eyes from his book to watch the flakes of wood drift to the floor.

“It’s a surprise,” Cormag told him, closing his fingers over the half-formed carving. “A memento to remember me and Genarog by.”

But at that, Artur’s expression immediately dimmed, and he dropped his gaze back to his book. Cormag’s brow creased.

“Artur? Is something wrong?”

“Ah, just tired,” Artur said, with a thin smile, although the yawn that followed seemed a little forced.

“In that case, you take the bed,” Cormag said, resolutely settling into his chair.

“But—”

Cormag raised an eyebrow. “I’m perfectly fine, Artur. After three days of sleeping in that chair, your back is probably worse off than my injury.”

Artur pursed his lips. “Well, maybe, but…”

“Does the saint of Renais have so little faith in his own healing abilities?”

“I…” Artur looked down, a pale flush spreading across his cheeks. He worried at the pages of his book for a moment, and when he looked up, misery was painted across his features.

Cormag straightened up in alarm. “…Artur?”

“I’m sorry, Cormag,” Artur said after a moment, his voice nearly a whisper. “You’re right. You should be fully healed by now.”

“That’s great. But...what’s wrong?”

Artur avoided his gaze. “I was just so happy to see you again, I…”

Cormag stared at him, the pieces coming together. “…you told me I wasn’t healed so I would stay longer?”

Artur grimaced, his expression growing more wretched by the second. “Terrible, I know. Not fitting behavior for a monk at all, let alone a saint.”

“Artur…why didn’t you just say so?”

“I…I know how important it was for you to go back to Grado after the war. I thought…you wouldn’t want to be away for very long.” He clutched at his chest, tugging nervously at the wyvern stone. “I just felt so lucky to be able to see you again, and I…” He sighed. “But you’re right. You’re perfectly fine. You could leave now, if you wished, and be back in Grado by morning.”

Cormag blinked at him. “Who said I wanted to leave?”

“Well…” Artur gestured vaguely at the carving in Cormag’s hands. “And you seemed so eager to ride Genarog again, I just…”

“Did you think I would hop on his back and fly away without another word?” Cormag asked, laughing a little, but his expression sobered when he saw that Artur didn’t seem particularly comforted. “I couldn’t just assume you wanted us to stay,” he pointed out. “Since we got here, Genarog and I have done nothing but inconvenience you.”

“You haven’t…” Artur bit his lip and looked down. “Can you forgive me, Sir Cormag?”

“Enough with the ‘Sir Cormag,’” Cormag sighed. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

But Artur looked unconvinced, worrying at the corner of a page with two fingers, so Cormag set down his whittling and stood, crossing to Artur’s chair to place a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t know what to say to assure Artur that he wasn’t upset—he was the furthest thing from it, in fact, and the fact that Artur had gone to such lengths just to keep him close was making something warm swell in his chest—but he did know what he could do to get the monk to smile again.

“If I am all healed,” he said, “maybe we should go on that ride I promised you.”

“…right now?”

“I’ve always thought you haven’t truly lived until you’ve seen the stars from the back of a wyvern.”

Despite the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes, Artur’s face lit up.

They pulled on their boots and cloaks and went out to the garden, where Genarog was curled up in a mass of dark scales, his head tucked under one wing.

“Aw,” Artur whispered. “But he’s asleep…”

“Don’t worry about that. Watch.” Cormag leaned close to Genarog’s ear. “Evening, Genarog,” he murmured. “Artur here says he wants to go for a ride—”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Genarog’s head popped up, his yellow eyes zeroing in on Artur, who jumped a little at the attention.

“See?” Cormag patted the wyvern’s neck. “Let’s get you saddled up, old boy.”

Genarog was unusually cooperative during the saddling process, practically vibrating with anticipation while Cormag tightened straps and fastened buckles. When Cormag finished, he turned to Artur, holding out a hand.

“You first,” he said. “Put your foot in the stirrup here, then swing your leg over.”

With Cormag’s hand to balance him, Artur was soon seated astride Genarog’s back, his face bright with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Cormag climbed up behind him and reached around him on either side to take the reins.

“All set?” Cormag asked, and Artur gave a mute nod and grasped the horn of the saddle.

Cormag smiled. “Then here we go.”

At barely a twitch of the reins, Genarog launched himself into the air. Artur immediately stiffened, his knuckles going white, but to his credit, he kept his eyes wide open as the ground fell away beneath them, the lights below reflecting in his pupils as the village grew smaller and smaller.

Genarog quickly left the wispy clouds behind. A clear sky arced above them, with only a sliver of a moon to diminish the brilliance of a thousand stars. It was a familiar sight to Cormag, but he couldn’t help but gaze upwards in awe anyway, basking for a moment in the dreamlike sensation of hanging suspended in the dark and silent sky.

Artur had been silent for the entire ascent, his mouth hanging open and his head swiveling all around as he watched the ground disappear and the sky unfold around them. Genarog leveled out into a glide, and tentatively, Artur relaxed his grip on the saddle.

“Corma–ah!” he started to say, then yelped as Genarog gave one last lazy flap of his wings to keep them aloft.

“I’ve got you,” Cormag promised, wrapping one arm around Artur’s middle. Artur relaxed against his chest, his head nestled against Cormag’s shoulder as he looked up at the sky. “You were saying something?” Cormag prompted.

“Oh, yes…you were right about the stars. They’re breathtaking.”

“Told you,” Cormag murmured, but the stars were the last thing on his mind, with Artur’s hair tickling his neck, his face close enough to see every freckle even by the starlight, and his body warm against Cormag’s chest. Cormag felt almost drunk on the proximity, and he wondered faintly how he would ever let go, now that he knew the shape Artur took while wrapped in his arms.

“Cormag,” Artur said again, eyes still fixed on the sky. “You know…I don’t think it was a coincidence that Genarog found me here.”

“…no?”

“I’ve been studying the wyvern stone a long time,” Artur went on. “I think it has a…connection, with Genarog. The same way birds can always find their way south, I think Genarog can navigate by the wyvern stone.”

“So…you’re saying he flew me here on purpose?”

“On purpose or on instinct, yes.” He stared pensively at the spines of Genarog’s neck. “Somehow, he knew I was close, and he brought you to me.”

Cormag was quiet for a moment. “…ah, blast it all,” he muttered at last.

“…what’s wrong?”

Cormag scowled at Genarog’s horns. “I still owe him for saving my life. I’m going to have to clear out a small farm to reward him for all this.”

Artur giggled. “I don’t think Genarog is doing it for the reward.”

“Ah, don’t be fooled, he knows exactly what he’s doing,” Cormag warned him. At that, the wyvern tilted his wings, spinning them into a dizzying spiral. Artur gasped and grabbed Cormag’s arm.

“Oi! Don’t—” Cormag reached for the reins, but by the time he got hold of them, Genarog had straightened out again, and Artur was shaking with exhilarated laughter.

“So,” Cormag said, once Artur had caught his breath, “you’re saying that as long as you have the stone, Genarog and I can find you anywhere?”

Artur nodded. He was still holding Cormag’s arm, like he trusted it more than the saddle horn to keep him steady. “I believe so, yes.”

“So why are you so worried about me leaving? If I had known I could have just pointed Genarog towards Renais and told him to fly, I would have visited a long time ago.” Cormag scratched his head with his free hand. “Maybe that’s why I felt like I kept drifting north…”

Artur chuckled but didn’t answer, and when Cormag looked down, his expression was still distant and thoughtful.

“That said,” Cormag added, “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere just yet. If that’s alright with you.”

Artur’s eyes widened and he turned his head, his expression full of hopeful astonishment. “You…really?”

“I think Grado will be alright without me for a little while,” Cormag replied. “And Genarog probably won’t let me—well, no,” he amended, exhaling. “I always use him as an excuse. I don’t want to leave yet, either.”

Suddenly, Genarog huffed, his breath puffing out in a cloud in the cool night air. Artur glanced at the wyvern, a crease forming in his brow, but Cormag understood his steed loud and clear.

And…??? Genarog seemed to say.

Cormag sighed. I know, I know.

“Artur,” he said aloud, and Artur’s eyes snapped back to his. But as soon as he began, he realized he had no idea what to say. The past few days felt as though they were surrounded in a warm glow—so different from what his life had become in recent years, the constant traveling, laboring, atoning. He was willing to give every last drop of his blood and sweat to see Grado heal and become prosperous again…but he knew that now, when he returned to his homeland, he would always long for this handful of peaceful days with Artur.

After everything, did he even deserve to linger here any longer?

“Cormag,” Artur said, breaking into his thoughts. “I won’t ask you not to go back. I just…well. I hope you will consider taking me with you.”

For a moment, Cormag just stared at him, until Genarog flapped his wings—rather unnecessarily, as they were gliding at a significant altitude at this point—and startled him out of his daze. “You…want to come with me?”

“Didn’t I tell you, back during the war? You made one of my dreams come true.” He lifted a hand to the wyvern stone dangling from his neck. “I want to help do what I can to make yours come true, too.”

“R-right,” Cormag stammered. “But what about your house, and Jared…”

“I already travel around Renais quite a bit,” Artur reminded him. “In fact, Jared is the one who usually watches the cottage while I’m gone. He won’t miss me too terribly, and I’ll still be back to teach him eventually.

“But your dream…that’s not the only reason I want to go,” Artur added, dropping his gaze. “I confess I have a somewhat more…selfish motivation. The same one that drove me to lie about your condition for the last few days.”

Cormag wasn’t sure he was breathing. “Oh?” he choked out.

“Yes. Cormag, I—”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words welled up before Cormag could stop them. He clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late.

“Yes, I—oh!” Artur blinked up at him. “You…you, too?”

 “Er. Yes.” Genarog snorted, but Cormag didn’t bother glaring at him. “So you…?”

A smile broke out across Artur’s face, and his eyes shone in a way that put the stars to shame.

“I love you, too,” he said simply. And Cormag had been holding him close for far too long now to think of anything else to do but kiss him.

Artur met the kiss with soft eagerness, tilting his head to slot their lips together. Releasing Genarog’s reins, Cormag wrapped both his arms around Artur in a tight hug, relishing the little sound Artur made when he did so.

Genarog, for his part, kept them perfectly steady. With the wind in his wings and his two favorite people safe on his back, one would be hard-pressed to find a more content wyvern in all of Magvel.

† † †

That night, there was no argument over who would take the bed, as it turned out they both fit perfectly when Artur curled up against Cormag’s chest. With his arms wrapped around Artur’s middle, Cormag turned the wyvern stone over idly in his fingers, watching the play of red and orange dancing in its depths and contemplating what Artur had said about Genarog and the stone. It was almost unbelievable, to imagine that such a small object exerted such a powerful force—but then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange. Even after a few short days, Cormag already felt as though something in his heart had realigned, like a compass needle swinging around to point irresistibly towards the man nestled in his arms. He had lived with such vague purpose for so long that to find something he truly wanted was almost disorienting, but the feeling wasn’t as terrifying as Cormag might have expected.

If there was anyone he could trust to guide his heart, it was Artur. Dropping the wyvern stone, Cormag pulled him closer and sank into a peaceful sleep.