#when i could be galloping across the great plains and roughing it in the country

[southislandwren]

i want to milk twice a day in the summer months and once a day in the fall when the grass gets bad and i want to ride a mule out to get the livestock in with my cow dogs running alongside me and i want to watch the sunset and i want to make dairy products and i want to stargaze and i want to share my love for dairy with the world. but that will never happen because (censored) is prone to droughts and you'll never guess how many gallons of water a lactating holstein drinks in 1 (one) day

[popsicletheduck]

secrets written in our blood

A Sanders Sides Fantasy AU

chapter two: the road is never empty in which our prince continues his journey and deals with the consequences of heroic action, and a village healer makes a decision he may regret 

pairings: none chapter warnings: on screen violence, blood, injury, lots of discussion of death, and cliffhanger words: 2576 check reblogs for link to AO3

The thing about the tales of adventures that the bards told, Roman decided as he huddled close to a sputtering fire after his eighth day on the road in a futile attempt to dry himself, was that they always skipped over just how awful traveling was. He’d left the Great Eastern Road five days ago, turning off it as soon as possible. It was too well traveled to be entirely safe for him, so he’d be sticking to smaller roads as much as possible. Even then, he pulled his hood up any time he heard someone approaching. Despite the fact that he’d only been twelve when he’d been forced out of his home, Roman had been told more than once since then that he bore some resemblance to the former king. The fewer people saw his face, the better.

But sometimes full days would go by without the sight of another soul. Just him and Stormheart, the name he’d gifted his horse, and the vast empty miles. It was maddening.

Roman sang every song he knew and a few he didn’t. He told all the tales he knew of great heroes and kings and ancient days where magic ran through the world like rain. He made up stories, and if all of them were a little close to ideas of magic amulets and princes without thrones, at least there was no one there to judge him.

The road he was on had turned into country far more hilly and barren than the green plains near the River Ohda. It twisted through rocky terrain and small brown hillocks dotted occasionally with the first hints of spring green and the rare wind bent tree. The wind blew fierce and cold and constant, kicking up swirls of dust that coated every surface. It had rained for nearly two days straight, a consistent chill drizzle that soaked everything and turned dust to mud. As the ninth day dawned thankfully clear and less thankfully damp, Roman found himself wishing desperately for someone, anyone, to share the journey with. Even just someone to complain to, he thought, would make everything more bearable. Stormheart didn’t count, since her only response to his grumblings was a flick of her ears. Roman wanted some actual comfort, or a good old fashioned argument, he wasn’t picky. 

But this day crawled by just as lonesome as the days before, the sun slowly drying the mud into a crackling coating that flaked off with every movement. He’d almost resigned himself to the permanent silence when, as the sun began to dip towards the west, the wind brought the sound of voices from up ahead.

Roman strained to hear what was being said, but the distance muddled the words. But then, clear and distinct, a cry of pain.

Roman nudged Stormheart a little faster. An accident, perhaps? He’d help if he could, of course. He was, after all, on a quest, and the stories tended to be pretty clear about the responsibilities of a hero when meeting other travelers in need.

But as he drew nearer, the voices clarified into words and Roman realized he’d misjudged the situation.

“Now, surely this is all a bit unreasonable? I can give you half of my money, but I-ghk!”

‘You talk too much.”

“Sorry, sorry, but it’s what I do, you see-”

Roman threw Stormheart into a gallop as he drew his father’s sword from its scabbard, wrapped now in spare cloth to hide the distinctive crest. The blade flashed like lightning under the sun. No poor traveler was getting robbed while he was around to do a spot of rescue.

Flying around the bend, Roman tried to take in the scene as quickly as possible.

Roughly half a dozen men, bandits by their patchwork armor and collection of rusted weaponry, clustered around another man on the ground. He was dressed well for this part of the kingdom, in a light blue vest and matching blue striped breeches, a soft grey cloak draped across his shoulders. Those nice clothes were covered in dust as he knelt on hands and knees in the middle of the road. The lute case across his back identified him as a bard, the second and clearly less used shortsword one of the bandits held identified him as unarmed. Every face turned to Roman as he charged, sword held high. And then, taking advantage of the distraction, the apparently unarmed bard drew one, no two knives from seemingly nowhere and practically lept onto one of the bandits.  

Then the rush of a fight took him, and Roman was far too concerned with trying to remember combat lessons from almost a decade and a half ago to pay attention to much else. Luckily the bandits weren’t particularly adept warriors, and the horse and surprise gave him an advantage. But Stormheart wasn’t combat trained and as men screamed and gurgled final breaths she started to panic. Roman did his best to soothe her while staying in control of the situation, but the moment of distraction was more than enough for one of the bandits to catch him just below the hip with a makeshift spear, cutting deep but not quite managing to embed itself in the soft flesh.

The pain was muted, distant under battle adrenaline but there. Already he could feel the blood starting to soak through his pants, the promise of pain to come. Roman grit his teeth and tried to determine a method of attack to take down his opponent, but the spear had a better reach than his sword and he couldn’t-

His attacker was suddenly on the ground, the bard he’d come to rescue standing in his place, already tucking away his crimson stained knife. Roman blinked, glancing around for more enemies, but all that were left were bodies.

“You alright there, kiddo?” the man asked, drawing Roman’s gaze back to him. His voice was gentle with concern. “Seems like he got you pretty good.”

Roman blinked again. Carefully he slid off Stormheart, trying to keep the weight off his injured leg. “It’s not that bad, truly. Are you alright?”

The bard smiled, entirely genuine. He was nothing but contradictions, it seemed. Despite the nickname he looked a few years younger than Roman, youth still edging his cheeks and his wide blue eyes. His honeyed hair was tousled by the wind, his fine clothes splattered with blood, his graceful hands familiar with the weight of a weapon. “Just grateful for the rescue! Seemed like a sticky situation for a moment there, but then you showed up! The name’s Patton, bard extraordinaire.”

He tried for a bow, sweeping and low, but halfway through he stumbled, pitching towards the ground. Roman lunged to catch him, but as he did his injury protested and his leg folded beneath him. The two of them ended in a tangle in the dirt, breathing hard.

“Well that didn’t work out,” Roman grumbled around the pain, trying to carefully extract himself from the pile and right the other man at the same time. But as his fingers brushed skin he found it cold and clammy to the touch. “Patton?”

Patton’s face was a sickly grey, over bright eyes darting without settling. Very quietly, he said, “Maybe something is wrong.” With shaking hands he tugged aside his cloak where it had wrapped around him. 

Blood, bright crimson against blue and white, stained his entire side. Roman felt his own breath catch in the back of his throat. A long slash across his ribs, deep enough Roman could almost believe he saw a flash of bone, extending past the ribcage into his gut. How Patton had failed to notice it before was a terrible miracle.

“Oh,” Patton said, fingers brushing lightly against the stain, and then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed against Roman, limp and still.

Roman wasn’t a healer. He did know a bit of basic first aid, since the Winking Fish had been somewhat isolated and accidents happened.

He also knew the kinds of wounds that people survived. And the kinds they didn’t.

The road had fallen back into emptiness, the bodies of the bandits long left behind where they lay. Roman hadn’t cared to give them any sort of burial. Nor had he had the time. Patton was slumped against him in the saddle, Roman’s arms tight around him to keep him from sliding off. Pressed so close, Roman could also feel each small rise and fall of his chest, each shallow breath.

He didn’t want Patton to die.

He’d barely said a dozen words to the man, he barely knew his name, but Roman didn’t want him to die. He’d seen too much of death, and Patton had smiled so brightly before he collapsed. Roman wanted to see him smile again. He wanted to hear him play his lute and sing. He wanted to know how he wielded his weapons with such causal grace.

He didn’t want more memories of blood on his hands and cold bodies left behind.

But the road was empty, and there was nothing and no one and Roman had no idea where the next town was. It could be days ahead, or just around the next corner. All he could do was push Stormheart as hard as he dared and count every one of Patton’s breaths and hope.

And then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the world in shades of red and gold and lengthened shadows, his hopes are answered. And the answer is just as twisted as he’s come to expect.

Clustered near the bottom of one of the larger hills is a tiny village, no more than two handfuls of rough stone and sod buildings interspersed with a number of gnarled looking trees. Even in the forgiving light of sunset it was dusty and bleak, overlapping shades of brown and grey with only the barest hints of green. 

Roman felt his lungs seize. Even if a village this small had a healer, it was bound to be some ineffectual herb witch with abilities that barely surpassed his own. Patton needed someone far better than that to even have a chance. Still, he couldn’t give up now.

“I need a healer!” he cried. “Please, this man is seriously wounded!”

A door opened, a woman in a grey headscarf peeking out, her face lined with years in the sun and wind but her eyes sharp as they scanned him. “Last house on the left, the one with the sign painted on the door.” Sticking her head back inside, she called, “Florrie! Go run along to aid, then. And you come right home when you’re done, hear?”

A young girl, no more than eleven, darted out from the small home, dark unruly curls peeking out from behind her own headscarf. She barely spared them a second glance. “Come on then, no sense in lollygagging.”

Roman urged Stormheart forward and tried to hold the flicker of dying hope in his chest.

The last few rays of sunlight shone beneath the shutters, already barred against the wind. He’d have to light the candles soon, but there was no need to waste them yet. Even now Logan still found an odd comfort sometimes in the dim. He was safer if he couldn’t be seen. It was irrational, he knew, but ultimately harmless. The odds of anyone coming to look for him here were infinitesimal and even then he had contingency plans in place. 

But that was not now. Now was dinner, a bit sparse to be entirely honest, but spring had arrived late, and winter food storage stretched farther than typical. It would be a lean month before the spring crops came in. Nothing he hadn’t survived before.

His quiet, solitary meal was suddenly interrupted by a loud “Master Logan!”

Florrie, his occasional assistant. The girl was still young, true, but she showed promise- a keen mind and a steady hand. If she was here at this hour, then patients had just arrived as well. Likely a kitchen accident, a slip of a knife deep enough to require stitches.

That was not what he found on his doorstep.

A great grey mare, dirt coated and weary, carrying two men. The first was clearly unconscious, blood soaking through messy bandages. And familiar. The bard that had passed through the night before. Dalton, perhaps? The second man Logan hadn’t seen before, although there was something unsettlingly familiar there too. He stared at Logan with an odd expression. Shock, perhaps? Questions for another time. 

“What happened?” he asked, already moving to carry the injured man inside. Luckily he was on the smaller side, and Logan was no longer the shut in he had once been. “Florrie, run inside and light the candles, then stoke the fire and put water on to heat.”

She was already moving to complete the tasks before he’d finished saying them. Excellent.

“Bandits,” the one still conscious said. “I don’t- I just heard a commotion and rode in to help, I didn’t…” He tried to swing off his horse to assist, but stumbled and only just caught himself against the saddle.

Logan raised an eyebrow. There was plenty of blood across his skin and clothing, but it was difficult to determine if any of it was his. “Are you also injured?”

“A little, it’s not really a problem, he’s the one who really needs help.”

“You seem unable to stand or walk unassisted, so clearly there is a problem, but you aren’t wrong that your companion is in more dire straits. If you wait here a moment, Florrie will be back out to assist you inside.”

By the time he stepped in, Florrie had the candles lit, the fire going, and a clean cloth on his worktable. Logan nodded his thanks before setting his patient down.

That was when he knew for certain.

Lead settled in Logan’s abdomen as he took in the greyed skin, the shallow breathing, the wash of scarlet. Near fatal blood loss, along with possible internal bleeding or organ damage where the cut extended into the stomach. Treated with the best of Logan’s surgical skills and medicinal knowledge, he would still die. It wouldn’t be the first time he lost a patient. It happened. But Logan looked at the young man’s face, and he knew. He didn’t want him to die.

He realized his hands were clenched white knuckled on the edge of the table. A breath didn’t ease the iron bands around his lungs. Logan knew what he was about to do made no logical sense. But he did it anyway.

“Florrie,” he called, the same composure in his face and voice as before. When the girl stopped in front of him, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “The man outside is also injured. Take my bag by the door and take him back to your mother’s house. Treat him there. Don’t come back here until I come fetch you.”

She looked up at him with bright eyes. He admired her curiosity, it was why he took her as his assistant. But today it was dangerous.

“For once, please. Don’t ask any questions. Just do as I say.”

“I’ve seen death afore,” she retorted, all young hubris. But she took his bag and left.

Logan let out the sigh he’d been holding back. “So have I.”

It did not stop the pain every time.