Warsworn

provide warmth.
    Marcus had curled up on a pallet at the foot of the bed, exhausted. I checked on him as the hours wore on, to make sure that he was sleeping easily, and that no sweat formed on the scarred forehead. I'd everything I needed close at hand, thanks to him, including a pitcher of kav-age as thick as mud. All that was left to do was wait and watch.
    Watch and worry.
    What would happen if Keir died?
    What would happen to my life? The others were pledged to see me home, to the safety of the castle at Water's Fall. In the face of Iften's threats, I knew that Keir's dream of uniting our peoples would die with him.
    But, Goddess forgive me, my concern was not for our people. For Keir's death would shatter the very heart in my breast. It would die, or the largest part of it would. As I looked ahead to that future, I knew for an instant Isdra's pain, and the release that she sought. I flushed, ashamed for what I'd asked of her. The priests of the God, Lord of the Sun, condemn suicide. But my own pain showed me this very truth—that it wouldn't be far from my thoughts if Keir took his last breath.
    Yet, as another hour passed, Keir's breaths came steadily, one after another. And I gave thanks to the Goddess for each and every one.
    I was trying to remember what Keir had told me, about balancing the elements in the body using touch, the night he'd comforted me after Xymund had burned my books. Keir's skin still felt cool to me, but perhaps it was more my fear than truth. I cradled his right hand in both of mine and started caressing it, tracing each finger slowly, and moving my fingertips over his palm. I tried to remember what Keir had said when he had done this to me. "The breath is made of air, and sits within the right hand." I whispered, continuing my movements until the warmth returned to his hand.
    I reached over, to take his left hand, and did the same thing until the flesh was warm and pink.
    "The soul is made of fire, and sits within the left hand."
    Keir seemed to be breathing easier. I tucked his hands back under the bedding, and then went to the foot of the bed, reaching under to feel his toes. "The flesh is made of earth and sits within the left—"
    "No… wrong."
    The sound was faint but I looked at Keir to see blue eyes looking back at me.
    "Keir?" I scrambled up onto the bed to lean over him, and cup his face in my hand. My hair fell around us. His cheeks were bristly under my fingers, but there was no trace of excess heat. I smiled at him, calling. "Keir?"
    His lips moved, forming a faint smile.
    "Keir." I whispered softly, my heart full of joy. The worst had passed. My warlord would survive.
    Keir smiled softly, and turned his head just enough to brush his lips over my palm. With a soft sigh, he fell back to sleep.
    If there is a universal truth, among both our cultures, it is that men of the sword have no patience with their healing bodies. They always seem to think that the body's humors should balance quickly. But a body heals in its own time, and there is no rushing it. Keir's chest was big and muscular. It took more force and longer periods of drumming to clear his lungs of the water within. So the warriors were the ones that had to drum for him as he hung over the side of the bed, coughing. I didn't have the strength to be effective, but I was the only one that could bully him into cooperating. At one point in the process, Keir had swivelled around and glared at Gils. "You're enjoying this too much."
    "Keir," I admonished, and he turned back around to let Gils continue.
    "Me? Enjoy beating on my Warlord and helping him?" Gils asked cheerfully as he thumped on Keir's back. "Not I, Warlord."
    Keir coughed, then spat to clear his throat. "Say that to the naked sky?"
    "Well, looks like we are done for now." Gils backed off, smiling and moving toward the exit.
    "I's chores and patients to see, yes I's have." He bolted out of the tent, grabbing his satchel by the strap.
    I snorted back a laugh.
    Keir pulled himself up, and gave me his best glare, but I shook my head. "Oh no, my Warlord. I seem to remember someone insisting that I do this. Fair is fair." Keir was a horrible patient. Whiny as a babe, cranky as a grandfather—he wanted this and needed that and why couldn't he get up out of that bed? We tried letting him care for Meara, or giving him small tasks, like sharpening blades, but his strength just wasn't up to it. Keir's mind was racing, but his body could not follow.
    When Marcus