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Can these hills get any steeper?
It’s far from the first and far from the last hike these broad legs have taken, that’s for sure. In truth, the walk itself isn’t even half the concern and surely, Erador’s seasoned enough of a fighter and a person to withstand a trip this brief back to the camp from their latest scuffle—but facing the facts: the sun’s beating down on him like he could melt as ice does through the cracks and crevices of the ground. His armor’s adding a million little weights to his muscles, and at his age, his legs just aren’t as spry as they once were.
Perhaps if he were back in his tender, spring chicken years like a certain little lord or his betrothed magic-wielding companion, Erador would be able to do thrice this trek in his sleep. But right now? He’s looking to regroup atop the hillside where Anna and Benedict were said to have rendezvoused and get his arse home to a cold helping of Hossabara’s sweet ale down his throat as soon as physically possible.
The heat of the sun’s blanket of warmth is driving him mad, but he figures it’d be even worse traversing upwards in rainfall. At least mudslides and slicked grass aren’t sending them all tumbling back towards the earth in messy heaps. That’s exactly the kinda thing that could make a man twist his ankle in some kinda horrid way, and that’s exactly the kinda thing that could make this hike even more miserable to manage.
And, hey—At least it’s almost over.
Coming into view at the apex of the hill, Erador can make out two distinct figures convening in the grass. One of them seated, the other standing over the first with craned posture and intense focus. He recognizes the standing stranger immediately as no stranger at all; the near snow-white blonde hair atop her head, strands dancing in the gentle breeze giving her up as their treasured scout, Anna. Her eyes are always intense, glare always hardened and serious, but something seems to be giving her even more concern than usual.
(Don’t ask how Erador knows. There’s just something different about the look in those emerald eyes today—a glint of fear. A glimmer of worry, perhaps? But Anna was never one to be too upfront with her emotions, so good luck getting her to admit it…)
“Anna!” he barks, “Say, what’s all the fuss about?” And as he asks this, he’s already closing in enough to finally make out the seated figure in the grass. His eyes meet theirs, greeting those glacial irises through polished glass lenses. Instantly, it’s clear what the fuss had all been about;
Benedict’s got a hand around his left ankle, his shoe removed and discarded aside in the greenery. His foot pauses, having been in the middle of testing its mobility with a few light rotations and movements at the joint. A test of pain; an evaluation of injury. The reaction doesn’t show in Benedict’s face. He isn’t one to too easily lose his temper or rile, but Erador can note the hesitation in his moving when it does hurt, and the hitching of Benedict’s breath.
So. Turns out even without the mudslides and slickened grass sending them all tumbling down the hillsides, a man could twist his ankle anyways.
Anna opens her mouth to formally respond, yet Benedict beats her to it before she can get out a single syllable.
“I’m fine, ” He sighs, through nearly grit teeth— clearly not fine at all, whatsoever —
“He slipped,” Anna resumes where she’d intended to speak sooner. Her voice is so quick-to-the-point and analytical, so precise and serious, but if you look closely enough you can see how her eyes are struggling not to dart back to Benedict from Erador’s gaze.
You can see her struggle to keep her worried breaths down in her diaphragm; her shoulders are almost trembling. You’d need a keen eye to make that out, yes, but Erador’s known the girl since before she could articulate every consonant of his name, so he knows her tells.
She’s worried. She isn’t going to say it, but she’s worried.
“I took hold of his arm and pulled him back before he could fall all the way to the bottom, but he hasn’t been able to stand since then,” she says.
Benedict is nearly stubborn enough to try rising again, but just a few seconds into putting weight back onto his foot is enough to immediately make him seat himself back down. Might be worse than just a twist at this rate.
It’s been a while since Erador’s seen his face contort and writhe in this much pain, and Benedict’s taken some pretty tough hits in their time. He doesn’t let it show unless it’s bad. And right now? Benedict’s got his brows tightly knit at his forehead, nose wrinkled and crinkled up like balled parchment, grunting as he settles back onto his bottom.
Oh, boy. It’s bad.
Noting this reaction, Anna’s the first to speak again—
“Wait–! Let me—” Panicked nearly, then tries to stifle her tone down to some semblance of monotone— “L-Let me go find Geela first, and let her know you need her aid. You shouldn’t move a muscle right now.”
Erador sighs. He motions back over towards the end of the hill he’d just emerged from, his thumb gesturing over his shoulder, “No can do this second. ‘M afraid she’s patching up a few of her own wounds right now, and Piccoletta’s got a few new bruises that need some attention too.”
He watches the disbelief flash to frustration, then pained resignment in her eyes when she sighs. Yeah, it’s only natural that a child would receive priority in care here, really. She knows that, as much as she loathes the thought of delaying aid to Benedict too.
Thankfully his situation is nothing dire or lethal, after all it isn’t like the man’s bleeding to death right before their very eyes—but a twisted (or is it fractured? Or is it broken??? ) ankle is still a concern nonetheless.
… But wait—
—An idea strikes.
If they can’t bring Geela up to Benedict, then why not just bring Benedict down to Geela?
… The near-crazed grin that blossoms and flourishes like perennials in Spring on Erador’s face is enough to make a man think a literal lightbulb had just gone off inside of his brain.
Anna’s eyes flicker back to him. One of her brows raise; suspicious. Intrigued? He has an idea—but it’s Erador we’re talking about here —it’ll either fix every problem or cause fifty more, yet she’s not exactly in a position to deny herself any options to help her father figure out right now.
Benedict takes note of this spark of inspiration too. His eyes narrow from behind those polished lenses he always wears. This, however, is certainly not the same intrigue. It’s concern.
“Erador,” He starts, tone already warning and cautious, “Whatever you’re about to do—”
“ Aaaat- atatatat, Benedict,” Erador interrupts, that grin in a full-on mischievous, toothy beam, “We’ve gotta get that ankle taken care of! So!”
“Wait— don’t— ” Benedict protests—to no avail.
Those broad mitts of Erador’s swoop in like trained palms, one arm hooking underneath Benedict’s legs and the other under his back. In one swift motion, breaking through the air, he lifts the lensed-man up into a full-on bridal carry.
Erador’s certainly built like a truck for a man, muscles upon muscles stacked on his frame. It’s no surprise how easy and seamless it seems, for him to so effortlessly nip Benedict off the ground and into an amused embrace. From his perspective, it takes no more strength than plucking stray lint off the man’s sleeves or picking a helpless dandelion out of the grass.
By now, Anna’s been rendered absolutely speechless. She gawks, mouth-agape, nearly bug-eyed, blinking once and then twice in disbelief at the absolute disheveled mess of a man Benedict is, struggling to fix his glasses atop the bridge of his nose once more from their movement. In fact, he’s stuttering, just a bumbling mess of jumbled sounds and mumbles as he struggles to regain his own composure.
“Now!—” Erador hollers, “Let’s get you down to the doc!”
And before Benedict can even think of the words to say, before he can even fathom the thought to speak, Erador’s taken off charging back down the hill in the direction he’d come from.
He moves freely down the rocky, grass-dusted earth. Like a wolf charging with its pack, like bulls running through the streets when they see red, like a carriage yanked through the streets by a horse’s whizzing gallops—dirt and dust are left kicked up in their wake. The wind dances in Erador’s hair, teasing every strand and loc of sandy blonde with each hasty step downwards.
The sun doesn’t feel too hot anymore. The wind is kissing their cheeks with coolness and welcomed chill, the rush of air surging against their skin. And hey, the distance between the apex and bottom of that hillside is a lot shorter when you’ve got gravity working with you rather than against you.
Erador can almost hear Anna behind them. He hears her voice, can’t quite process just what sounds may be coming out. Perhaps his name, more than likely, perhaps protests or begging him to slow down with Benedict in his arms, but he doesn’t hear a lick of that.
Benedict’s resided to holding onto the man like a teddy bear, or a child grasping the pole of their horse on a carousel—or, more accurately, gripping the railing of a rollercoaster for dear life as he surges at sudden, unbelievable speeds. There aren’t any words he can say now that could deter Erador from his path. A man in motion stays in motion, especially when it’s Erador.
This rush is wonderful, though. There’s a sudden surge in his steps, a sudden energy strike in his soul—it’s invigorating! It’s exciting!
It makes him feel young again, and gods, is it wonderful to feel young and needed again. It’s wonderful to be able to help, especially when so many of their battles and politics these days make Erador feel so helpless and endlessly worked.
He can’t end wars in a day. Can’t protect everyone from everything all the time.
But he can get Benedict to Geela. He can help. He is needed right now, and gods…
It is wonderful to feel needed.