“Like what?” Korik muttered, looking away. He could feel heat rising in his face, which only made him more embarrassed.
“Like you’re shocked I could ever imply that I made a mistake.”
“Iamshocked you’d imply you made a mistake,” he replied flatly. To his relief, Varen laughed. Tension that he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying in his shoulders drained away at the sound.
“I suppose it is rather shocking,” Varen sighed. He leaned back, grimacing as he laid down in a more comfortable position. He’d somehow set up his bedroll while Korik was gone. “Best enjoy rubbing it in my face while you can.”
Despite the gravity of their situation, and the joking manner Varen said it, some small part of Korik protested at the suggestion. “I don’t want to do that to you.”
Varen’s teasing expression softened. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did.”
“I don’t want to.”
The elf was silent for a moment, then said softly, “That’s kind of you.”
Korik didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t think it was especially kind; but maybe Varen had been expecting him to tease and poke at him, the same way Varen teased and poked at everyone and everything else. That wasn’t in Korik’s nature, though an occasional joke wasn’t off the table.
“Get some rest,” he said simply, deflecting. “If your body can heal itself as much as possible, that'll be less work for me to do tomorrow.”
Varen chuckled. “Yes, sir,” he sighed. That somehow made even more heat rush into Korik’s face, which he did his best to ignore.
Though he needed to rest, too, Korik didn’t want to waste the precious daylight they had. So once Varen was settled, Korik took stock of both their belongings, trying to think of everything they lacked that he could feasibly find or create.
Varen’s waterskin had been on his horse, so they had only the one between them, which would go quickly. Once he had replenished some magic, refilling it would be a tedious, but simple task. He could condense some water from the air, or draw it up from deep within the earth if there was no stream or river nearby; so while it was pressing, it wasn’t urgent. They had a few days’ worth of rations; if Korik could forage, and Varen could hunt, they could stretch what they had further. They would have to build their own shelter if the elements proved too difficult; so he set out again to find more branches to create a lean-to that they could rest under.
It had been a long time since Korik had lived in the wilderness, traveling with a clan; but as he made a mental list of what they needed while he walked through the trees, more and more of his memories of that period of his life came back to him. He remembered what was safe to eat in the mountains, what had medicinal uses, and what should be avoided entirely. He remembered weaving branches together to make strong panels to bolster their tents, so that they held up better against snowfall and could be cleared more easily. He remembered piling their bedrolls with dry leaves to help insulate them better against the cold. He remembered his father meticulously drying every piece of clothing that had grown damp with the day's travel, using his magic to force the moisture out. When Korik had shown signs of magical ability, too, that had been one of the firsts tasks his father had assigned him: wet clothes could kill.
Korik gathered branches and leaves, and a few more round rocks, to feed the fire and create a shelter in case it started to snow—already thinking of how he would insulate their blankets if he couldn’t muster the magic to heat the stones in the way Varen had shown him. When his bag and his arms were full, he went back to the camp and set to work, weaving together the branches he’d picked up. The elf watched him silently at first, but after a while, when Korik glanced back over at him, he’d fallen asleep.
The sight was a relief, knowing how much he needed the rest; but then he noticed that Varen’s hands still trembled where they lay on his belly, which seemed strange. It was cool, certainly, but not so cold that it would set him shivering, especially in the layers they both wore.
Korik had noticed a slight tremor in Varen’s hand earlier, too, but had thought it was just nerves. Now he was less sure, which worried him. But he didn’t want to interrupt his sleep either—and his breathing was even, his brow relaxed—so he left the other man alone for now. Still, he glanced over every so often to see if anything about him changed.
Varen slept, while Korik finished the first panel of branches, decided it was too small, and set out again to gather more to make another. He went a different direction this time and came across a berry bush with a few lingering red clusters that he recognized as edible, which he meticulously harvested into his rucksack.
When he arrived back at the camp, Varen had woken, but his hands still trembled as he sat up in his bedroll.
“How do you feel?” Korik asked, frowning with concern as he set down his new pile of branches. The elf grimaced.
“Worse,” he admitted, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “I feel shaky. And my head hurts.”
Korik’s frown deepened, as neither of those were typical reactions to being shot with an arrow. Was there something else happening? Maybe an allergy—but, no, Varen had mentioned that he’d been in these mountains before. Unless there was something here specifically that he’d never encountered before, but it seemed unlikely. Was he just tired from the teleportation draining him?
“My leg hurts worse, too,” Varen groaned as he placed a hand on his thigh. His touch was light, but he grimaced at the motion.
“Let me see,” Korik said, immediately kneeling beside him. The wound had been mostly closed; but he had been acting quickly, and his magic was already nearly depleted, so it was possible that part of it might not have healed with the rest. Varen turned slightly so Korik could better see the wound through the torn fabric of his trousers; despite Korik’s healing, the small puncture now looked red and inflamed.
Guilt gnawed at his insides. He must not have healed it correctly and allowed for infection to set in. Or—his stomach dropped at the thought—the arrows might have been tipped in poison, and his recklessness had trapped it within the flesh rather than expelled it.
He pressed his hand to Varen’s forehead, ignoring the way the elf stiffened in response. His skin was damp with sweat, but was warm beneath Korik’s hand—fever was setting in.
Where was the arrow? He remembered pulling it out, only to toss it to the side so he could use both his hands to send his magic into the wound. He looked around frantically, searching for the discarded bolt.
“It’s there,” Varen said, reading his intention. He pointed past the trees where they had set up camp, and Korik spotted the speckled brown fletching of the arrow, where it had fallen into a pile of dry pine needles.
Korik stood and retrieved it, examining the tip closely. He was familiar enough with the style of orc arrows to recognize a bolt intended to deliver poison, and this did not look like that: no grooves in the head for liquid to cling to, or reservoir near the point. So poison, while possible, seemed less likely, which was a miniscule relief.
But the arrow had been sitting in the dirt for hours, and the only liquid that might have once been on it was dried blood. He couldn’t completely rule it out.
