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“I hurt you,” Oliver said, “then.” That might’ve been the first time he’d said it aloud, those exact words, even over a decade later.
Tir looked away, at his own toes beneath the blanket. “You didn’t.”
“You got hurt because of me. Because I made you try to do something you couldn’t.”
“You didn’t make me,” Tir said, looking back up. “I chose to try. Or—as much as I could. I knew what I was doing. And I stopped trying before I—I stopped when I thought I had to.”
Oliver saw that moment again, painted across the night the way he’d seen it in the dream. A series of moments, more accurately. Himself at nearly seventeen years old, Tir only fourteen. A burning-copper summer afternoon, no reprieve. Fever and stillness and his father’s shallow breaths. The incongruous taste of ham and sharp cheese because his mother had made them all eat something, midday. The mint-and-willow scents of the infirmary, battling sickness.
Himself shouting at Tir out in the hall: You helped Cedric, why won’t you save my father?
Tir answering shakily, I’m not that powerful—I’m meant to be saving my power for—
For what?
I’m here to protect you—Tir’s face had gone pale, at that. He’d put a hand up, touched his temple, as if it hurt.
Then protect me! Oliver had shouted back. My father’s dying, and it hurts, and you can help, so help me!
Tir had taken a step back, white-faced, hand on the wall for support. Oliver had spun away. Slammed the infirmary door behind himself, stomping up the stairs, fleeing the betrayal.
He’d regretted it twenty minutes later, and had come out of his room to nearly collide with a running Cedric. Commotion. Distress. Something wrong.
The old palace physician had been fussing over Tirian when Ollie and Cedric had bolted through the door, falling over each other’s elbows and feet and desperation. The doctors had put Tir on the closest bed, right beside King Henry’s—Ollie had heard later that they’d found him on the floor there, where he’d collapsed.
By the time Oliver and Cedric had arrived, Tir had been awake, sitting up but propped up by pillows. He’d tried, he’d said, but he wasn’t strong enough. He glanced down, at his own hands, when he said I’m sorry.
Oliver had realized, then, what Tir had tried to do. To touch, to rescue, at the brink of death. For him. Because he’d demanded it. He’d been horrified at himself, at the pain visible in Tir’s face. His best friend.
He’d felt the tears burn, mostly from shame, but then Tir had reached out and held him and been strong for him, and he’d leaned into that strength because he’d needed it.
Thirteen years ago, they’d both been younger. But he was still leaning on Tir. Literally, at the moment.
Tir said, in the present, “Are you worried about the Quest?”
“What? No. I mean—some. Yeah. It’ll…change things.” He didn’t know how to phrase what he wanted to ask. A Quest, he thought. And so much would change. His entire life. “Are you…you said you’d come with me.”
“Of course I will.”
“You know you—you don’t have to, right?” He swallowed. The emotions burned, old and new. “It’s up to you. Your choice.”
Surprise, and then visible hurt, flared across Tir’s expression, outlined by candle glow. “Are you saying you’d rather I didn’t?”
“No! No, nothing like that. I want you with me. You know I do. I just…I don’t know.” He flailed, gave up, looked away. Into the dark, the spaces of night, where shadows folded once-known bed-posts and rugs into dim strange shapes. “I ask you for too much, I think.”
“No.” Tir had stopped wearing that startled hurt, which was good, and outright thumped him on the shoulder, but gently. “No, you don’t. You barely ask for anything. And I know why I’m here. That is why I’m here: to help.”
“Don’t tell me,” Ollie said, “I know you can’t talk about it, don’t even get close, I’m not asking—”
“That much is safe enough.” Tir poked him again, in the same spot. “It’s obvious, in any case. Folkloric precedent. You’ll need me. Your companion. I’m helping.”
“By giving me bruises? Ow.”
“That wasn’t even that hard. Go back to sleep, Oliver.” Tir tucked a strand of onyx silk back behind his ear, when it threatened to slide into his face. “You’re tired and it’s late. And I know you’re worried, and I do understand—we’ve never done anything this serious before, you and me, and it’s a real Quest—but I also know you. You’re loyal, and kind, and braver than you think. At every audience, every public proclamation. I see you. And I know you’d never let your family, your royal tradition, down. You never would. And I’ll be right there with you. We’ve done it for those audiences, those proclamations. So we’ll manage this too. I promise. Together.”
“I don’t want to let anyone down.” True. That anyone included Tir, he realized, astonished.
He wanted Tir to think he was strong enough, good enough. Brave enough. Everything Tir had just said, which wasn’t true, not really. The loyalty, maybe. The commitment. Ollie did try. But the rest, versus his big feet and lack of heroic deeds and comfort with his life the way it was…
