Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

7.6.

All three of them lived, which seemed a miracle.

Ithildin was the first to be up and about again, only two days after they had been brought to Ujjay.

"You blood is free of poison," the oracle said without moving his lips, and the elf realized he heard the voice right inside his mind.

The mind-to-mind speech was nothing exceptional; it was a skill that many elves and human wizards possessed. The elf was confused before only because he heard the words not in his native language, as he should have, but in the Common Tongue. He had probably long before started to think in his beloved's language. The oracle, of course, had no difficulties understanding any language he was addressed in.

Chevalier Ahayrre had been hurt less than the others, but he succumbed to a bad fever. His burned face and hands became inflamed, and the burns took a long time to skin over. He looked like a shadow of his previous self − thin, hollow-cheeked. When he regained consciousness he demanded a mirror, and it took Ithildin a lot of effort to persuade him to wait until his burns would start to heal.

The one who got the worst of it was Kintaro. His right forearm had been broken, and the fingers on his right hand stuck out at unnatural angles, with bone splinters protruding through skin. He had three broken ribs, his left leg had been slashed to the bone, and that's not counting various bruises and shallow wounds. The nomad had lost a lot of blood, and for a few days it was touch and go as to whether he would live. But his sturdy body finally won over that battle.

Ithildin's own wounds healed quickly, without any scars, as was normal for a one of the Ancient Race. Barely out of bed, he took over nursing the wounded: gave them sponge baths, spoon-fed them, carried the chamber-pot out, tirelessly ground medicinal herbs for portions and ointments. When he had time to spare (which wasn't often), he would talk to the old oracle.

"You have saved our lives. How can we repay you?"

Dshetra, that's was the oracle's name, answered, "There is nothing to repay. We had broken our duty as hosts when we let you go to the jungle alone, to be attacked by the ashwasthas. Your blood is on our hands. We, the villagers of Ujjay, are sorry."

Ithildin was so surprised he didn't know what to say at first. Finally, he managed, "It's not your fault, it's ours. We should have been more cautious."

"You are noble and brave warriors. There are few in Ujjay who can boast of killing an ashwastha. And you have killed four."

"Those ashwasthas, what are they?"

"They are man-panthers. Very evil. They live in the jungle. The full moon is the Ashwastha Moon, when the jungle is their domain. No one in Ujjay would go outside the enchanted fence during the Ashwastha Moon. At full moon they are almost impossible to kill, even with a silver weapon."

The elf shuddered, imagining all too vividly how their journey through the jungle would have ended at full moon. He and Lielle might have lived, but not Kintaro.

"My big warrior friend, how is he doing?" Ithildin asked.

"He is badly hurt," the old man answered, clearly holding something back.

"But he will heal, won't he?"

Dshetra kept quiet. Ithildin patiently waited for his answer.

"He has been bitten many times by the ashwasthas. Their saliva is poisonous, and the poison got into his blood."

"But you will cure him, as you have cured me, right?"

"You are not human, you are immune to the ashwastha poison," the old man said and rose showing the conversation was over.

Ithildin remained seated, hiding his face in his hands. His heart was heavy. Why did they have no Scroll of Magic Portal! Were Ithildin sure that the mages of Fanneshtou could cure Alva and Kintaro, he would have taken a boat and gone alone to the nearest town − Nishapour, Kimdiss, to the very ends of the earth, to get the scroll. But he wasn't sure. The civilized world considered shapeshifters a myth, a fiction. As it did the oracles of Jinnjarat, though. But the oracles obviously had lived alongside ashwasthas for many years, they should know how to deal with them. It was Ithildin's only hope.

The very first words from Kintaro's mouth when he was finally able to speak, were, "I ordered you to leave, why the hell didn't you listen?"

"Order your tribesmen around, chief." Ithildin smiled and feather-kissed him on the lips. "Welcome back."

"There is the redhead?"

"He doesn't want to show his face, until his burns have healed. He thinks you won't love him scarred."

"Rubbish, there are always kerchiefs to drape over his face," Kintaro smiled crookedly. "You were right. We shouldn't have gone to this hellhole."

"What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger," the elf whispered and brought the cup of broth to Kintaro's lips. "Now sleep, you need your strength."

Of course, Alva visited the Essanti chief, after he had wound a piece of cloth around his head and face, leaving only his eyes visible, in the manner of desert dwellers of Arislan. He chirped happily, holding Kintaro's hand, and Kintaro smiled, wincing from pain. Looking at them, Ithildin breathed freely for the first time.

Too early, as it turned out.

One morning Dshetra unwound the bandage on Kintaro's hand and said, "It's infected."

The elf too saw the ominous black spots on Kintaro's fingers.

"We should amputate the hand as soon as possible."

"He is a warrior, he can't lose his right hand!" Ithildin said. And froze in terror realizing he was talking aloud, unlike Dshetra with his mind-speech, and Kintaro had heard him.

"Then he will die," the oracle's dispassionate voice said inside his mind.

Unable to look Kintaro in the eye, the elf turned his face away. The barbarian grabbed his hand with his healthy one and squeezed so hard, the elf almost yelped in pain.

"Don't let him do it!" Kintaro kept saying in heated whisper. "I prefer to die! Finish me off yourself!" He was already running a fever.

In the evening his fever got worse, and his hand swelled and turned black. The barbarian raved, mixing words of the Common Tongue and his own Essanti speech, even putting in an odd Faris word. He constantly called for the redhead and the doll-face and didn't recognize them when they kneeled by his bed and called his name. Alva couldn't stop crying, even though the salty tears made his burns stung.

"If we delay any longer, he will lose his whole arm, not only his hand," Dshetra said.

Ithildin bit his lip and wiped his eyes. "Let's hurry then."

They gave Kintaro a herbal potion, and he fell into a deep slumber, not able to feel any pain. But Ithildin felt the pain like his own.

The day after the operation Kintaro got better. He came around, but never said a word. He just lay there, looking at the ceiling.

The elf sat beside him, took his other hand, and Kintaro didn't pull away.

"You will learn to hold a sword with this one," Ithildin said, just to fill the silence.

The barbarian said nothing. Had he told him to go to hell, Ithildin would have felt better.

"The villagers have brought your atarink. And what's left of our gear. Good thing we didn't take our bows with us. They would have been lost with the runaway horse. Not that they would have been any good in the jungle."

Kintaro still was quiet.

The elf tried another approach. "You know, they worship you. You are a great warrior. No one has ever killed so many shapeshifters."

"Shapeshifters ought to have killed me," Kintaro said quietly and closed his eyes.

"The dead are dead. But you could still save the living. It's you who said that!"

The nomad sighed and answered nothing.