Gareth followed the nurse deeper into the hospital. After ushering him into a barren room, she bade him sit while she moved to an old sink in the corner. It clanged and rattled when she turned it on, and the water ran red with rust before clearing. A moment later, she approached Gareth with a bowl of water and a cloth and cleaned the caked blood from off his face.

By the time she’d finished, the water in the bowl was a dusky red. The nurse left the room and returned minutes later with a small canvas bag in hand.

“Ice,” she explained with an encouraging smile. “For the swelling.”

“Thank you.” Gareth lifted the ice to his eye, sucking in a sharp breath at its first contact with skin.

Shortly after the nurse left a second time, the doctor swept in. “Mr. Ranulf? My name is Dr. Carthian. Can you tell me what happened?”

Gareth explained, leaving out the part where he’d just come from a secret Unity meeting. The doctor asked a series of questions about how Gareth was feeling, where he had been hit, if anything hurt, and how much he could remember. No, he felt fine aside from a few aches and pains. Yes, he could remember his name, the date, his address. No, he didn’t feel particularly groggy or dizzy.

“I don’t think you’re in shock. May I?” the doctor asked, holding his hand near Gareth’s face but not touching. Gareth frowned and nodded.

The doctor checked Gareth’s pupils, waved a finger back and forth in front of his eyes. He poked and prodded and all in all, it was over in under two minutes. “Hmm. Bruised ribs, a mild concussion, and swelling around your eye and nose, but nothing worse than that. Nothing that warrants immediate medical attention.”

Gareth blinks at him. “You can tell all that from just a few tests? I only mean…that wasn’t very thorough.”

The doctor smiled pleasantly. “I’m rosanin.”

“Oh,” Gareth said, still not understanding.

The rosanin were a class of individuals born with inexplicable abilities. Common superstition used to say they were blessed by the Guardians, and even with all the scientific advancements of the last several hundred years, experts had yet to come up with a better explanation. They tended to keep their abilities to themselves.

Gareth would do the same, if his kind had been persecuted since before the Great War.

The doctor smiled, used to this sort of confusion. “Our gifts vary, you know. Some have a knack for gambling, can see sound as color, read auras, or have perfect aim. Me, I find injuries—I can tell when something’s not as it should be in a body. A lot of hospitals have someone like me on staff, especially in areas with high intake—it speeds the process, saves everyone time.”

“It sounds like you’ve had to make that speech before.”

“Patients tend to be skeptical if I don’t,” the doctor said, expression tight. “As I said, none of your injuries require medical treatment, though I suggest that you look at changing your diet or exercise routine—there’s a slightly concerning plaque buildup in your arteries. Nothing that can’t be fixed with a lifestyle change. I recommend resting a few weeks until you’re healed. Ice your nose and eye for half an hour four times a day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before you go, I can give you medication for the pain, but it might impair your motor functions. It’ll feel like being drunk,” the doctor explained, seeing Gareth’s wary expression. “You should take it, Mr. Ranulf. I imagine you must be in a lot of pain right now.”

“Since you recommend it so strongly, Doctor, I would be remiss in ignoring you.”

The doctor moved to the room’s only cabinet, unlocked it, and grabbed a bottle of the top shelf. “Drink,” he ordered, passing a small cup of the thick, clear liquid to Gareth. Gareth nearly gagged when he caught a whiff.

“Revolting, I know,” the doctor said. Gareth steeled himself and drained the cup. Ignoring The doctor continued. “If you experience pain when this wears off, laudanum should do the trick.”

Gareth nodded.

“If you’re willing to wait in the foyer for a few minutes, I’ll have a nurse bring you a fresh bag of ice. Do you remember how to get back there from here?”

“I think so,” Gareth said, sliding off the cold metal table. “Thank you.”

When Gareth found his way back to the waiting room, he was relieved to see that Roman had indeed stayed. The young man sat near the door, picking at his nails, and didn’t notice Gareth until he dropped into the seat next to him.

“Your face is clean!” was the first thing he said.

“Yes, apparently the doctor needs to see the injury in order to be able to assess it,” Gareth said dryly.

Roman snorted. “Clean him up and suddenly he’s a comedian.”

Gareth huffed and sat. “Sorry. It’s just that this whole bloody visit has been a waste of time.”

“And that’s why we’re sitting here and not leaving, is it?”

“A nurse is bringing me a fresh bag of ice,” Gareth said, pulling the current bag away from his eye and shaking it so Roman could hear the slosh of water.

“Why was it a waste? It was fast, at least.”

“The doctor didn’t do anything, just told me to rest. Nothing I wouldn’t have figured out on my own. He did give me some medicine, though.”

“Laudanum?”

Gareth shook his head.

“No?” Roman asked, studying Gareth. His face fell. “Tell me it wasn’t Carujan Oil.”

“I don’t—,”

“Clear liquid. Kinda thick and sticky. Smells and tastes like goblin piss.”

“That sounds right,” Gareth said. His nose wrinkled at the memory. “Why is that bad? He’s the doctor, Mr. Hallisey. I believe he knows best.”

“Sure, but he didn’t give much thought to the poor bastard stuck walking you home. Carrying you home, rather.”

Gareth bit his lip. “He did say it might impair some motor functions.”

“That’s an understatement. Hopefully we can get you home before it starts working.”

Silence fell between them while they waited for the nurse. Eventually, Gareth asked, “Where are you from? Your accent is northern, right?”

“Yes, I was born in Troas.”

That made sense. They neared the end of a bright summer, and Gareth’s skin had tanned beyond its usual pasty white. Still, Roman’s skin was several shades darker than Gareth’s could ever be, no matter how much sunslight he caught. Paired with his accent, Gareth should have guessed Troas sooner.

The nurse arrived, then, replacing Gareth’s melted bag with a new one. When Gareth stood, the world tipped precariously forward, backward, and side-to-side. Funnily, Roman didn’t seem affected by the world’s shifting. He just gave Gareth a sidelong look and said, “Let’s go.”

Gareth was once again struck by how familiar Roman was. It wasn’t until they were out of the hospital and halfway across the street that he finally realized why. “Wait!” he cried.

Roman twirled to face Gareth faster than Gareth had ever seen anyone move, his sword appearing in his hand between one second and the next. “What?”

“I know who you are!”

Roman’s gaze landed on Gareth, and Gareth nearly staggered under the weight of it. Had he been entirely in his right mind, it would have felled him. It would have terrified him. As it was, Gareth only snickered. The sword disappeared and Roman grabbed Gareth’s arm, dragging him the rest of the way across the street. Gareth hadn’t even realized he’d stopped walking.

“Atiuh’s name, Gareth,” Roman growled, “I thought there was trouble.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Well?”

“Well what?”

“You said you know me. Who do you think I am?”

“Oh! We’ve met, sort of,” Gareth said, following Roman’s lead when Roman turned down a dark side street. The fact that he didn’t even question it distantly worried him. “I saw you at the play— the Rinehart one. The Egil story, with the Webhon Players. Do you remember?”

When Roman laughed, Gareth could see the tension leaving the young man’s body in tangible waves. “I’m there every day, Gareth, I don’t—,” Roman paused, then, and gave Gareth a strange look. “Wait, I do remember! You’re that old man I had a random staring contest with last week!”

Gareth pouted. “I’m not that old.”

Roman laughed again, the sound bright and youthful. Even though his mind’s haze, Gareth envied Roman. “No, you’re not. One of those encounters the memory exaggerates, I suppose. Must have been the shaved head.”

When Gareth kept pouting, Roman said, “Gareth, you’re not old, I swear. Please, though, walk faster. The medicine is taking effect.”

Gareth blinked up at the purple sky as he walked. One foot in front of the other. Step, step, step. They turned onto Main Street as a carriage rattled past, its side lanterns making Gareth squint and avert his eyes. “Remarkably fast, this stuff. And strong. I hardly feel a thing,” he said. Remembering the thread of their earlier conversation, he asked, “Are you one of the Webhon Players?”

Roman looked back at Gareth, trying and failing to hide his amusement. “I’m an honorary player, I suppose. I just do the opening.”

“I thought your opening was beautiful.”

“Hm. Maybe you should stop talking for a while, Gareth.”

“Okay.” Gareth had to rely on Roman more and more for balance as they walked. “How far away are we? My boots are getting dirty.”

Roman glanced at Gareth’s shoes. “Gareth, those boots were doomed the minute you set foot in Greysdale.”

“Set foot. I get it.” Gareth laughed. “How long until home?”

“Kramer Street, right? It’s about a ten minute walk from here. At the rate we’re going, forty.”

Gareth kicked a loose stone. To his credit, Roman managed to keep a straight face, even after looking over and seeing Gareth’s rather undignified pout. He asked, “So where are you from, if not Gallontea?”

“Adriat. Just outside of it.”

“Do you visit Gallontea often?”

“Once a year.” Gareth shrugged, pausing to look in the window of a ladies’ hat shop. He gawked at how big some of them were. How did the ladies not fall over, with those on their heads? Roman stifled a laugh, and Gareth realized he’d said that out loud. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was trying to figure out how someone like you ended up this far north of Main Street.”

“I was on my way back from a meeting.”

“A meeting?” Roman asked, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye. Under different circumstances, Gareth might have noticed the sharp interest in the young man’s voice. “What kind of meeting?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

“I understand. I was just trying to keep some conversation going. It’s not like I have anyone to tell, though,” he said, earnestness dripping from every word. “But if you want to keep our relationship strictly to the life-saving kind, that’s fine.”

Gareth worried at his lower lip.

Sensing weakness, Roman continued. “It’s Unity, right?”

“Yes,” Gareth admitted. Roman’s dark eyes made him itch, just beneath the skin, and soon the words poured out of him. “They’re sending a diplomatic team to Orean to negotiate the return of a hostage. I’ve been to Orean a few times, so they put me on the team.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “Diplomatic?” he said, tasting the word like he’d never heard it before. “Unity? You’re sure they said diplomatic?”

“Yes,” Gareth said. “I did just sit through the whole bloody long meeting.”

“Sorry, it just doesn’t seem like Unity’s style.”

“And how would you know?” Gareth asked, sounding for a moment very much like his father. Gareth hated himself for it, just a little.

Roman smiled and shrugged, and whatever sharpness Gareth had seen behind his eyes disappeared, like a sheathed knife— hidden, but no less dangerous. “I guess I wouldn’t. Did you just meet the team for the first time tonight?”

“Mhm.”

“Anyone stand out to you?”

“The Captain is very nice,” Gareth said, trying to chase away the ghost of his father with friendly conversation.

“No, I mean…was there anyone suspicious on the team? Anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”

Gareth frowned. Roman’s tone was urgent, but Gareth couldn’t wrap his mind around the question. “I shouldn’t have been there, I think. I do so wish Moira hadn’t put me on the team,” he said. “I hate being away from Isobel and Ofelia.”

Roman sighed, then forced a smile onto his face. “They’re your family?”

“Yes. Isobel’s my wife and Ofelia’s my daughter. Isobel’s the most beautiful woman in the world. You should meet her, Roman! Then you’ll see. She’s pregnant right now. I’m probably going to miss the birth of my second child.” Gareth stopped walking. “Oh, Atiuh. I hadn’t even realized that till just now.”

Roman tugged Gareth on again. “I’m sorry, Gareth. I’m sure it’s no great comfort, but with someone of your wit on the team, you’ll succeed and make it back in no time at all. And Orean is beautiful in the fall.”

“Have you been?” Gareth asked.

“Several times.”

“You should be on the team, then! Instead of me. You’re much charminger than I, and you know how to fight, and you’ve been to Orean.”

“Charminger, huh?” Roman asked.

“Yes. Would you go, if you could? Would you join the team? Hypo-hyperothetically.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t work with Unity.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t trust their motives, I don’t trust them to treat the orinians fairly, and I don’t want any part in that, even if it’s to rescue Amos.” Roman sighed. “I would have leapt at that sort of opportunity, once, when I was young. I did, in fact. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“I don’t understand.” Gareth frowned. He didn’t think he’d mentioned King Nochdvor. He’d been careful not to, in fact.

“No,” Roman said softly, “You wouldn’t. I’ve been down similar roads before, you see. You always lose something of yourself on the journey, even if everything seems fine in the end. Who I am is all I have anymore, so no, I wouldn’t join the team. I’m happy enough where I am.”

The word enough seemed to weigh heavier than the others. “You talk older than you look,” Gareth observed, the most cogent thought he was capable of forming at the moment.

“I’m fairly sure that doesn’t make sense, Mr. Ranulf.”

“It does.”

Roman smiled and shook his head. “If you insist. Hey, do you recognize where we are?”

Gareth looked around. Past the slight blur, he recognized Kramer Street. “Oh!”

“Do you need me to help you to your room, or can you handle it from here?”

“I can handle it. Thank you, Mr. Hallisey. I said I’d pay you—,”

“Don’t worry about it. Just promise you’ll be more careful next time you wander around at night.”

With that, Roman was gone, strolling down the street and out of Gareth’s life. Gareth lingered outside his flat, letting the crisp air slowly peel back the medicine’s haze. He didn’t want to be so out of it when he explained what happened to Isobel, so he stood and watched the people pass by on the street.

He noticed the orinians from the restaurant earlier that day returning to their hotel. One of them, a girl with curly blonde hair, made eye contact with Gareth from across the street. At his stare, the girl’s smile fell, and she hurried after her friends.

“Kieran! Íde!” she called, catching up to them just as the hotel doors swung shut.

Gareth worried at his bottom lip, watching the doors long after the orinians disappeared. Unbidden, Roman’s words came to mind. I don’t trust Unity to treat the orinians fairly. Gareth hoped Roman was wrong.

When Gareth’s clarity returned, pain along with it, he went upstairs to his family.