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Oliver’s sisters had said Tir loved him. But they couldn’t know.
Tir had died for him—but that could as easily be a loyal sibling type of love. Worse: a compulsion. If that was why Tir’d been sent out of Fairyland in the first place: to die for him.
Tir’s eyes were beginning to sharpen, hazy but alarmed at the lack of reply. Oliver babbled, cursing his slowness, “It’s okay, everything’s okay, sorry, just—thinking. It’s a lot.” He rubbed cold fingers with his. Heat, comfort, protection. “We—you—killed a dragon. And, um. You. You sort of. Died.”
Tir looked down at himself, then up at Oliver.
“Yeah, well…you came back. In dreams—you don’t remember—?”
Tir shook his head.
“Oh. Oh—okay. That’s…that’s fine. But you were there. You told me you weren’t dead. You told me to find you.”
“So you did.”
“And then you wouldn’t wake up. I thought—” His voice cracked. Gave way. Bones breaking in two.
“Oliver.” Tir pushed himself into a sitting position, gripping Ollie’s hand. “Oliver. I’m here. You didn’t lose me. I don’t remember anything after—after the dragon—but I’m still here.”
“Still taking care of me…”
“That’s what a good companion does,” Tir told him gravely. “Also…when did you grow a beard? How long has it been?”
And Oliver laughed, or cried, or both, because it hurt like sun-sparks, like a flare of light, so brilliant and hot it burned, as it lit up all his dark corners. One of the nurses must have seen this development, because motion rustled, and more people were coming in, running, thrilled: family, physicians, everyone needing to know that this was real.
It was. For a given value of real.
They learned that, over the next days and weeks. Real: but not easy, and not quick.
Tirian was essentially all right, in the sense of being able to get up and move around and function, and simultaneously not all right at all, in a few nebulous ill-defined ways. Exhaustion. Headaches. No energy.
Oliver gritted his teeth and held back his guilt. Must be his fault. Had to be. He’d been clumsy enough to have Tir die for him; he’d left Tir dead for too long. He hadn’t heard, hadn’t known, right away. He should’ve done better.
Sometimes, when he looked at Tir’s face, white from exertion after climbing a flight of stairs, he had to look away. Guilt gnawed at his heart. Pointy relentless nibbles. Chipping away flesh.
The tiredness wasn’t the only problem. Tir had lost that indefinable graceful poise, that fluid ease of motion and comfort that Ollie’d always envied; no one knew whether this was a consequence of the overall weariness, or simply another loss, like appetite and the ability to stay awake and alert without a struggle. Tir tripped over a flat carpet-edge in the hall, clumsiness Ollie’d never witnessed in all the years they’d known each other; the shock in those beloved eyes nearly broke him.
That awkwardness might’ve even been funny, once. Under other circumstances. Like an elegant sleek feline slipping off a bed. Like Tir purchasing too many books to physically carry, a lifetime ago, and somehow managing to make even that flailing seem intentional. Cedric said cheerfully, “It’s like you’re learning how we live for once, and anyway it is sort of like that, right, like you’re being reborn or something?” and emanated gladness at him with the weightless heart of a younger brother miraculously given back an older sibling. Tir conjured up a smile to give him in turn.
Ollie couldn’t laugh. He wanted to, in an odd painful way, but the emotion got stuck in his throat. In his chest. Nibbled away.
Tir did improve, though not quickly enough for anyone’s liking. He remained easily worn out and got headaches that required willow tea and dim cool rooms and sleep. He couldn’t recall anything from the point at which he’d stepped between Oliver and a dragon to waking up in the infirmary.
He moved painstakingly, relearning balance and testing footing, but that much was getting better: he explored and extended newfound limits very gingerly around the castle and out in the green dry grass of the Home Guard practice yard under the supervision of Fadi and several ferociously protective footmen. He still had excellent aim and a good sense of timing. That was true.
That was all physical. Oliver knew there was more. He saw it, felt it.
Tir was quieter. More intent, as if needing to focus, needing to push himself. Less quick with humor, teasing, playfulness. That’d been stripped down, polished away, leaving raw bone.
He was less demonstrative—or Oliver thought so until the day he caught Tir successfully running across the practice yard and back, and then hugging both Fadi and Miriam the younger weapons-master, who’d been supervising. Tir ran up to Fadi and stumbled and let himself be caught, eased to a bench, patted on the back; his hair fell into his eyes, and his expression held exhaustion but also triumph, elation, determination, like sunshine.
Ollie didn’t think he himself had made a sound, passing along the open corridor above and drawn like a bumblebee to sweetness, clinging to the sight below; but Tir glanced up and their eyes caught.
Oliver had applauded. Tir had nodded his direction, registering the response, but then turned back to his assistants and said something, hand sketching a motion in the air.
He did not try to hug Oliver. Not then, not when they met up in the hall.
Sometimes, when Ollie looked at him, he flinched. As if affection from that direction hurt.
