Flare Animo

It's a sunny spring afternoon. You can't see it, but you can feel it. The way the sun is warm, but no longer uncomfortable; the smell of grass and sea coming through the open windows; the sounds of evening birds, not buzzing bugs. You can almost hear the villagers below, the sounds of life going on (without you.)

Behind you, the door creaks open, then snaps shut. Several footsteps later, the squares of warm sunlight on your body go cool, and you turn your head towards Garroth. It feels strangely light and loose without your waist-length dreadlocks. You recognized his heavier footsteps, and when he talks, there's no mistaking his low voice—smooth but rough, like a good whiskey.

"Laurance."

"Garroth," you reply, mimicking his stiffness.

That gets a chuckle from him. It feels good, in a way not many things do for you these days. "I was hoping your ordeal would have tempered you, but it appears I was wrong."

You can't help but laugh at his attempt at a jab. He's been a good friend to you as you've recovered, and after the initial awkwardness, he's opened up to you. Not about his past, of course—you've had to pick the pieces of that story up from Cadenza and Aphmau. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, bro. What is it?"

He turns away, seeming to arrange something on the table to your left. ". . . I'm here to check your wounds. Well, the physical ones."

"You?"

"I do know basic wound care, Laurance." He touches your upper arm and gently teases off the bandages. It hurts, but it's nothing compared to what you experienced in the Nether. Nothing in this realm ever will.

"How bad are they?"

He hesitates, pouring water over a deep cut on your bicep. "It's. . . it's disgusting, to be perfectly honest. Various oozing fluids. Not the worst injuries I have seen, by far, but certainly extensive." He pats it dry. "This one should air out for a few hours, let it scab, but this one." He unwinds the linens around the burn on your arm. "It's dry, which is. . . well, not ideal for a burn this deep. It's not too deep, or else it would not hurt, but. . . it will certainly scar," he explains as he smears honey and herbs on, and rewraps it. He washes and bandages the stitches on your other arm, humming softly. You don't recognize the tune, but it sounds like a waltz. He's so weird.

"I'm going to touch your face now," he says, breaking the silence. He dabs at the bruises on your cheek, and you hold very, very still as he checks your eyes. Still as blank as before.

When his thumb lingers on your split lip, you ask him what he's doing. You make sure to drop your gaze to his thumb, then back up at where you guess his eyes are, for maximum effect.

"N-nothing," he says, pulling his hand away. (There's still honey on it, you can taste it.) "Nothing." He clears his throat. "Could. . . could you remove your shirt, please?"

You smirk a bit, and pull it off, dropping it on the floor. He presses the back of your neck. "Lean forward, I need to see your back." He traces the outline of the peeling burn on your back, occasionally picking off flakes of dead skin. It feels so good when he wipes the cool wet sponge across your heated skin. You sigh in relief.

All too soon, he moves to your front, checking the progress of the cuts on your torso, he examines the stitches across your stomach, the ones that run from the lowest rib to your hip—from a slice that followed a seam in your armor. His calluses feel like a cat's tongue on the flushed skin.

Apparently satisfied, Garroth hands you your shirt. As you pull it on, he asks: "Ah, Laurance?"

"Yes?"