Dusan walked into the cave, carrying water in the hollow, dish-sized stone he had found by the nearby creak. This wasn’t much, but Reijo could drink it when he woke up, or Dusan could use it to clean his wound when changing the bandages. Not having the most basic tools with him was beyond frustrating. He needed cups, blankets, rags—but everything he possessed was in the village, and he couldn’t go there now.

At least he had his knife. He’d used it to remove the arrow from Reijo’s shoulder, breaking the shaft and pulling the rest out, and then doing his best to clean the wound, extracting the tiny pieces of cloth that the arrow had pushed inside. It there had been anything that could be considered lucky about this day, it had been Reijo’s being unconscious throughout the procedure. It had been tricky enough to do with just one knife and without anyone’s assistance, and if Reijo resisted, it would have been impossible.

Dusan put the water down and stood over Reijo’s unmoving body. Blood stained Reijo’s neck and chest, and some of it had trickled down to soak the fabric of his pants. Dusan could distinguish amongst the stains his own bloody fingerprints from the bandaging process.

The bandages were already soaked. He had cut Reijo’s tunic to make them and used the rest of it to cover him up a bit. The fabric felt strange, made of fibers thin as hairs, yet so strong he couldn’t tear it. With the help of his knife he’d eventually managed to reduce it to a bunch of rags, by now red and wet and in need of replacement.

Given how much blood Reijo had lost, it was worrying that he was still asleep. On the other hand, Dusan wasn’t too eager to hear what he would say once he woke up and realized that he had lost much more than just blood.

Dusan touched Reijo’s forehead. There was no fever yet, but he knew it would come. The arrow’s broadhead had done some damage. There were healers in the village, inaccessible to him now—but even if he could turn to them, they hadn’t been of much use when his own wound had festered. It had been Reijo’s magic that had healed him.

Perhaps there would be no fever. He had cleaned the wound. Perhaps Reijo would survive, and then…

They have no place in this world after they lose their magic.

A moan pulled Dusan out of his thoughts. Reijo’s eyelashes fluttered a bit, and then, his eyes opened. He blinked, his gaze wandering around before fixing on Dusan. Uncomprehending at first, it slowly filled with recognition. Reijo’s green eyes looked different now—puffy, the white of them darkened by the broken blood vessels. Everything about him seemed tainted and broken, and it was all Dusan’s fault. If only he had realized that Mirche had suspected something. If only he had been more careful…

“Bad,” Reijo whispered. His lips looked dry and cracked, and Dusan considered offering him water, but he would need to sit up to drink, and that would hurt. “I feel… bad.”

“You’re probably not too familiar with pain. It gets better.”

“An arrow.” Reijo’s wide-eyed gaze shifted towards his own shoulder.

“I removed it. There’s a bandage. Don’t touch it.”

“Where are they?”

“Who?”

“Those who did it.” Surprising Dusan, Reijo sat up, before gasping and moaning in pain.

“Don’t,” Dusan said. “Try to move as little as you can.”

“Where are they?” Reijo repeated, regaining his breath. “I’ll kill them.”

“They’re gone. Here, drink some water.”

“Tell me where they are.”

“What for? They’re not here.”

“I’ll get them. I’ll send the river to drown them. I’ll make the wind crush them.”

“I don’t know where they are.” They were probably back in the village, celebrating their success. “I don’t think you can do any of those things anymore.”

“I can! What do you mean?” Reijo’s distracted gaze focused on him, turning furious. “Look!” He raised both hands, palms up, before wincing in pain again. He paused, then glared in the direction of the cave’s entrance. “Look there!”

Dusan looked, yet whatever force of nature Reijo was trying to summon, no visible effect could be observed. The air in the cave stood still, and so did the visible parts of the trees outside. Dusan felt chilled, but not because of an actual change in temperature. He hated to watch the realization slowly dawn upon Reijo.

“I can,” Reijo said, changing the direction of his gaze and his raised hands. “Look!”

“Reijo…”

“I can! I just need to be outside for this. Help me get outside.”

“You got shot.”

“No.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I haven’t.”

“The arrow—you remember the arrow, right?” Dusan blinked, his eyes stinging. “I’m so sorry, Reijo.”

He waited for more protests, but none came. Slowly, Reijo’s hands went down to rest on his knees. Then, he did something that, to Dusan, was even worse than the arguing and the threats. He began to cry.

Dusan stood over him, lost. A human could probably benefit from a hug in such a state but touching Reijo would only hurt him more. Also, Reijo was an airie. Hugging wasn’t their thing.

Was he still an airie, though? If the only difference between the two species was their magic abilities, then Reijo was merely another human now, and a broken one at that.

“I’m sorry,” Dusan said, watching helplessly as Reijo hid his face in his palms. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

The fever stared at night, and when Dusan got up in the morning, Reijo wasn’t responding. His skin was hot, and his wound didn’t look too good under the soiled bandages. Dusan cleaned it again and changed the bandages to the ones he’d washed in the evening, even though they were still damp. He took the dirty ones to the creek to wash them, and then tried to fish, all the while hoping that when he came back to the cave, things would get better.

That didn’t happen. He found Reijo on the floor, unconscious and delirious, and his repetitive attempts to wake him up failed.

He made a small fire in the afternoon, allowing it to burn for only long enough to heat the stones and roast on them the fish he had caught in the creak. He ate a half of it, and then, with Reijo still irresponsive, finished a half of what was left. He kept the last small piece of fish on the flat slab of rock he used as a plate. He could smell it. Cold and hungry as he was, it was beckoning to him, yet Reijo needed it more—if only Dusan could wake him up and make him eat.

The second night was too chilly to sleep. Dusan couldn’t start another fire, fearing that gray smoke against the black sky would draw attention. It was unlikely that someone would look for him in the middle of the night, yet it had been his carelessness that had brought this whole disaster about in the first place, and he didn’t want to repeat his mistakes.

Reijo hadn’t drunk water since the fever had begun, and that worried Dusan. Reijo had spent most of this day muttering in his sleep, trying to curve into a ball to keep warm. Dusan hoped that the night’s cold would pull some of the heat out of his body, yet it pained him to see him shaking, and not have a blanket to give him.

Slowly, he got to his feet and went to Reijo who was shivering in his sleep. The sight made Dusan’s heart swell with pity and regret. Mirche and Borwin believed that Reijo had cast a spell to make Dusan like him, yet now there was no magic between them, and Dusan still cared about him. Did that mean there had never been a spell?

Carefully, trying not to disturb Reijo’s wound, Dusan lay down beside him. He put his hand on Reijo’s waist and lay still, warmed by the unhealthy heat emanating from his body. Under his hand, the shivers gradually subsided. After a few moments, Reijo let out a sight. For a while, there was no sound and no movement, and then, unexpectedly, Reijo spoke.

“I’m no one now.”

“What do you mean?” Dusan said, wishing he could see his face.

“I can’t do things now,” Reijo whispered, “that made me who I was.”

“This doesn’t mean that you’re ‘no one’. It just means you’re different from what you used to be.”

“It’s not different. It’s less. I’m like you now.”

Dusan blinked in the dark. Reijo was basically confirming the conclusion Dusan had already reached, that they weren’t all that different now.

“It’s not the worst thing to be,” Dusan said cautiously. “I quite enjoy being me, most of the time.”

“Sure,” said Reijo in that same musing voice. “It might seem enough to you, because you knew no other way to exist. You don’t feel the world around you, you’re not a part of it, you’re just moving through it like a dumb log carried by a stream, bumping into things. You can’t know what it’s like to lose the abilities that you never had. Imagine that you’ve lost your sight, and hearing, and speech—would you be content with what you have left?”

“It’s not as bad as you describe it. You didn’t lose your sight or anything like that.”

“What I have left is a fraction of what I had.”

“I do well with that fraction. You could, too. It might not seem like much to you right now, but it’s still better than dying, no?”

There was a pause, and then Reijo whispered, “I’m not sure about that.”

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