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“This way.”
Nur leads him back to the tents one halting step at a time. In the middle of the day the area is empty, to Arsene’s relief—he’s not ready to see or speak to anyone except Nur. His soul is fragile. He needs rest.
Nur stops in front of his own tent. “In here.”
Inside is sun-warmed and quiet, the noise of the camp cut off all at once as he enters. It’s only an illusion, but Arsene falls into Nur’s bedroll in grateful exhaustion.
“I’ll be back,” Nur says.
“Wait—”
But his mate is gone. Arsene sighs, pushing himself upright so he can unlace his boots. As he sets them in the corner he registers that actually, this isn’t Nur’s bedroll.
It’s his.
He looks around. There’s his bag at the head of the bed, the broken pieces of his sword glinting in its depths. He pulls out a jagged shard of steel and holds it up to the light, his heart heavy.
Is this the last piece of his life as a rapier gone? Though he has no desire to go back, wielding this sword was once as familiar to him as breathing. But the sight of it broken doesn’t feel like the loss he would have expected.
He tucks the shard away. As he closes the bag up, a flash of familiar color catches his eye. A corner of velvet dyed a gentle, periwinkle blue sticks out from under Nur’s pillow. He pushes the pillow aside and lifts the garment, his throat suddenly tight. It’s his coat, the one he draped over Nur’s shoulders their first night in the Deadlands.
The coat is dusty and rumpled. Nur’s scent mingles with his, embedded deep into its fibers. Arsene presses his nose to it instinctively.
“Oh.” The tent flap rustles behind him.
He turns.
“I meant to give that back.”
Nur is inscrutable on the other side of the bond. Arsene hates that he can do that—hide his emotions, hide his true self behind a wall. But what is Nur’s true self? Maybe he doesn’t even know himself. Arsene doesn’t have a right to demand in.
He smoothes the fabric out. “You’ve been sleeping with it. It smells like you.”
Nur’s shoulders drop. “Too much like me,” he grumbles, ducking inside. He kicks off his boots and hands Arsene a small loaf of bread and a strip of jerky. “Eat this.”
Arsene’s stomach rumbles. “You got me food?”
“It’s nothing special. Just scraps.”
He devours the meal. He’s been hungry on long marches before, surviving off rations doled out every three days, but this hunger is shocking. Nur hands him a flask and he gulps down water between bites of the tough jerky.
“How is the camp?”
Nur’s brow furrows. “Ready to leave. There’s not much else for them to find here. Some scraps to patch up the water purifier. A bit of salvage for the settlement. But they’re ready to move on and out of the Deadlands.”
He nods. It’s hard to accept that they’ll be separated.
“You’ll go with them all the way to the western shore?” he presses.
Nur draws his legs up. “Maybe.”
“Go where I can find you.” He falls back into the blankets, exhaustion overtaking him. “Don’t wander the wastes alone. The humans will welcome you.”
Nur reaches for him. Arsene opens his arms, Nur’s solid weight reassuring. He shifts, grumbling, until they’re flush and all their pieces fit together. “The bond will tell you where to go. You can follow it across the continent, if it hasn’t broken.”
“It won’t break,” he says confidently.
His eyes drift shut. Nur is hot as a coal, his muscles coiled like he’s not ready to settle down. He squirms against Arsene again, sighing loudly in his ear. From the bond there’s a flicker, a familiar prickle of intent. In spite of his weariness, an answering spark ignites in the pit of Arsene’s stomach, and he lets his hand wander down Nur’s spine.
