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None of this worked, though Oliver tucked the cloak around him and nestled the carved wooden charm into a fabric-fold. Might help. Another kind of anchor. Being loved.
He made sure to tell Tir about the giver of each gift.
On the eighth afternoon, he was—without real expectation, but with determination—telling a story about the time Tir’d learned knife-throwing tricks from a retired mercenary in a pub. It’d just been the next story that’d occurred to him, something else ordinary, everyday. Another day in which Tir had rescued him, back then.
Tir had been sixteen at the time, and had in fact ended up in the Queen’s Crown looking for Oliver, who at eighteen had decided he was adult enough to get drunk, had brought Tir along—as if his fairy would’ve left him, ever—and had gone to find a privy and then couldn’t remember which pub he’d come out of.
He’d ended up in a completely different place. Tir waited, had guessed what might’ve happened, had very patiently explored multiple pubs, had discovered the Crown Prince emptying his stomach upon a large man’s boots, and then placated said man with honest interest in the knives.
Oliver, in the present, finished that story with, “And Mother was horrified because, well, you were sixteen and a drunk mercenary gave you this incredibly expensive set of throwing knives, and you said, and I quote, yes, he was a very nice man. And you sounded so perfectly innocent—and also not at all even tipsy, which is still unfair—and then you told her he said you reminded him of his son.” He stopped, breathed, finished with what he most remembered. “She knew I’d been out getting into trouble and she knew you brought me back—by the way, she lectured me not so much for the drinking but for what could’ve happened to you—and you never told her the part where you went into, what was it, eight pubs looking for me.”
Because Tirian had forever been looking out for him. Because Tir had been forever here. For him.
One of those knives had become a twisted molten shard of metal. Ollie had brought it home.
He said, “I don’t even know how to say thank you, I mean not just for that, I mean for—all of you, everything, everything you ever—” and then had to put his head down on the side of Tir’s bed, in folded-up arms.
He didn’t cry much. His eyes hurt. Sore from tears and terrible emotion. He just let a few bits of water escape and then stayed there, hiding in the dark.
When he looked up he wasn’t anticipating any response. Anything at all.
Tir’s eyelashes fluttered.
Sunlight glowed on the edge of the bed: a brittle thin wintry sun, but fighting hard, and present. The air tasted dry and medicinal. The bed was firm under Oliver’s elbows when he leaned forward. Every detail stood out, sharp-edged and fine-etched and poised.
Tir sighed softly, and opened both eyes.
“Thank you,” Ollie said, crying freely now, “thank you.”
Tir tried to say something, coughed, closed his eyes again. Oliver’s heart stuttered. “Don’t move, don’t try to talk, don’t—just rest, please, just—”
Tir, eyes still shut, whispered, “Oliver?”
“I’m here.” He grabbed the closest hand. Overeager. Enthusiastic. He tried not to crush it in his. “I’m right here.”
“Are you all right,” Tir asked, between ragged breaths, “and where are we?”
“I’m fine, I’m great, everybody’s fine, we’re just worried about you.” He held on more tightly. Reprieve and dismay battled each other in his chest. “We’re home. In the infirmary. You, um…you’ve been asleep for a while.”
Tir opened those eyes again. Cool not-quite-human grey, grey like sea spray and wood smoke, like oceans under rain. “We’re home?”
“Yeah.” He bit a lip, plunged into the question: “Do you…recognize me? This place?”
“I know you.” Tir’s eyebrows tugged together. “I…think I know where we are. I don’t know…I can’t remember how we got here. What happened?”
I love you, Oliver nearly blurted out. The words failed on his tongue. Derailed by the obvious confusion in those eyes.
Tir had just come back. And was missing some memories. And plainly knew Oliver wasn’t telling him something.
And Tir didn’t need more to deal with. Not Oliver’s emotions heaped atop everything else.
Oliver loved him. That was true. He knew it was.
But he didn’t know what Tir would say, if he said the words. He didn’t know.
Despite his own recently-discovered aching longing, despite sisterly speculation, Tir had never said anything, done anything, to indicate the same feelings on the other side.
And Tir was hurt, and confused. Familiar, Fadi had said. Remind him of what he knows. An anchor.
