Page 33 of Chained to the Horned God
I sit beside him, cold stone beneath me, bandaged hands poised but resting. His shoulder presses against mine, warm despite the wound. The chaos in the infirmary hums around uslike a hive, but here—close to his skin and his pulse—I find an impossible bit of peace.
I trace a line over the dried blood, past the bruises, across the new scar. When my fingers brush the old ones, I feel a tremor beneath the surface. He doesn’t pull away.
We don’t need to speak.
In the stillness, I realize I trust him more than I ever thought possible—not because he’s unbreakable, but because he keeps getting up anyway.
I rest my head against his ribs. His breath smooths. The ache of exhaustion pulls me close.
I don’t close my eyes.
The infirmary isa furnace of scents—blood, oil, herbs, and fear mingled into a thick haze that sticks to everything. I work through the dawn’s first light, knotting gauze and wiping sweat from my temples as Durk grips Barsok’s shoulders with steel in his arms. Barsok’s delirious, caught between rage and pain—a wild thing pinned to a stone slab by chains and steel.
I loosen the tourniquet and gather fresh cloths while Durk steadies his head. Barsok’s breath comes ragged between snarls. His eyes are glazed with something feral, something I don’t recognize. Not Barsok—not the man I’ve come to trust—just an echo of fury soaked in bloodlust and survival instinct.
“Hold him,” I whisper to Durk. My voice is steady despite the tremble in my fingers as I draw the needle. When I bring the blade close to the gash along Barsok’s side, he lashes out, wraps his arms around the chains over his head, tears at the slack, roaring in frustration and terror. Durk grips tighter, growls something I can’t catch.
I drag my palm across my cheek to clear away tears I didn’t know I’d shed. I lean in closer, breath tickling his ear with thescent of herbs and copper. The wound throbs beneath the salve. I thrust the needle into flesh. Blood beads at the tip of the thread almost instantly. I work fast, knotting as I go, trying to shut the rage behind his eyelids even as I close his wound from the outside.
He snarls again, as if he smells betrayal in the cloth, in the hands pressing him into the slab. I pull the needle free, press gauze into the cut, and shift my weight so Durk can hold tighter.
I look into Barsok’s face. His eyes flicker with recognition—or maybe it’s the heat leaving his body. “Don’t give in,” I say. My voice rises, thick with something fierce I’ve never allowed myself to use on him before. “You will not die in that pit.”
He jerks, hurts me with his sudden movement, and I grit my teeth through my own stab of agony. I see the red thread of pain trace across his shoulder. Then I shout: “Not before I get to kiss you again.”
The words burn out of me hot, raw, and the shift is instantaneous.
His face snaps into focus, eyes sharpening through the haze. His jaw twitches—and then he grips my wrist. Not too tight. Not possessive. Just tethered, tethering himself back to air and awareness. His grip grounds him in the moment until his roar becomes a ragged breath. Then he closes his eyes, chest rising and falling slower, heavier with relief.
The silence that crashes into the room feels louder than any roar ever did. Durk releases his grip and steps back, bruises white from the tension breaking all at once. He stands beside me, arms folded in silent solidarity. I don’t let go of Barsok’s wrist, though my fingers ache and burn, smeared with blood and ointment.
I press my palm flat against his shoulder, tracing the line of torn muscle I’ve just stitched closed. His skin is warm and slickbeneath my palm, a living scar made whole again. My other hand rests over his. Not soothing. Not pity. Just presence.
He doesn’t speak. He curls one finger around the edge of my hand, just enough to anchor himself in the real world again.
We sit like that for long minutes, framed by candles guttering on the wall, the moisture of his labored breath brushing against my temple. The other wounded men are silent now. Merciful, in their exhaustion. Durk moves to let us have a moment, alone, while I close the rest of his wounds.
When it’s done, I lean back, letting my hands drop. Barsok still holds one of my hands. His face is pale. His breathing steady, but for the faint tremor in his jaw.
“You should rest,” I murmur, voice barely loud enough to carry.
His eyes open. They’re clearer now—not entirely what they were before, but they’re there. I see unfinished battles behind them. But I also see someone who recognizes that I didn’t leave him in the dark.
“I said no,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say. “Progress.”
He squeezes my hand and then releases it slowly. When he finally pushes himself upright—unceasing, undefeated—I hold out the cloth that’s soaked with disinfectant. He takes it and dabs at his face before looking at me.
“It hurts,” he says quietly.
I brush a strand of hair from his forehead, the motion slow, gentle. “Let it,” I whisper. “Because if you were a broken man, you’d be bleeding inside more than out.”
He doesn’t respond. He just stands. Carefully flexes every limb. Tests the turns of his spine. Then, as if learning he can move again, he steps off the slab awkwardly, both hands knotted around the edge. I stand too, keeping close.
“You saved me twice,” he says slowly. “First from death in the pit. Now… from becoming it.”
“I hope that’s true,” I answer. “Because I can’t stand losing you.”
