For the next hour, they trudged deeper into the moss-choked swamp, boots squelching in the muck, vines tugging at their ankles like greedy hands. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, streaks of gold slicing through the gloom and catching on the sheen of damp silk across Aelorian’s shoulders. His hair glittered as though the swamp itself had decided to crown him, though the effect was ruined every time he shrieked and flailed dramatically at a gnat.

Along with that, every few paces was interrupted by the elf stopping to torment himself with the local flora.

“This smells like feet,” he announced, holding up a bulbous purple root with the disgust of a man forced to touch commoner food. 

“Put it down,” Thorne said flatly, eyes fixed on the trail ahead. 

“And this one’s hissing.” He bent low to examine a swollen green pod, which indeed let out a faint, angry hiss like a tea kettle possessed.

“Put it down faster, before it takes your godsdamned hand off.”

Aelorian yelped and dropped it as though scalded when the pod snapped at the air like a snapping turtle before wriggling back into the muck. “I hate this swamp,” Aelorian hissed, clutching his chest, “It’s unnatural! And actively trying to murder me!”

Thorne trudged forward, the picture of a man whose patience was bleeding out through his ears. “You’re the one who insisted on coming.”

‘I didn’t insist,” Aelorian huffed, stalking after him, “I was lured. Tricked. Baited with berries and lies.”

“You could have stayed in the cave.” 

“Oh, yes, marvelous suggestion! Sit alone with your sad little firepit and damp rocks for conversation, while you traipse daintily into certain death. And miss out on the glamorous experience of dying by swamp root and mystery mushrooms? Perish the thought. Truly, your selfishness astounds me.”

Thorne stopped so abruptly that Aelorian smacked into his back with a squeak. The ogre shut his eyes, face tilting toward the heavens--a man silently begging for lightning to strike him down. “Gods help me. You are the loudest, most dramatic, most catastrophically high-maintenance creature I have ever had the misfortune of dragging through a swamp.”

Aelorian blinked, then sniffed primly. “Touchy,” he pouted, voice smooth as silk. “Clearly someone’s not accustomed to refined company.”

Thorne groaned and slammed a hand into a nearby branch to push himself forward, “Should’ve left you in the damn cave.”

Aelorian scoffed, hands on hips. “Ah! But then, who would provide the tragic poetry to this landscape? Who, I ask, would bring elegance to the horror of roots trying to impale me? You, Thorne, simply lumber and grumble. You lack artistry.”

“I grumble because your artistry will kill us both,” Thorne muttered, stepping over a gnarled root. “You have the survival instincts of a loaf of bread left in a rainstorm.”

“Rude,” Aelorian declared, flapping a sleeve to dislodge a rather large beetle. “I am a delicate flower navigating a cruel world. And you, ogre, are merely my reluctant gardener, cursing at the soil.”

His gaze flicked to the gardener in question as Thorne pushed through curtains of moss, then drifted lower, to the scraps of cloth tied around Thorne’s waist. A loincloth, hugging the curve of Thorne’s hips, taut muscle beneath it flexing with each step. It swayed with the rhythm of his powerful stride, rough-spun fabric frayed and stained by years of battle and captivity.

“Hope you like mushrooms,” Thorne said as he crouched by a cluster of glowing fungi. His loincloth shifted dangerously with the movement, but he didn’t notice–or care. He snapped a cap free, inspecting it with the same blunt disinterest he gave everything. “This’ll keep us alive. Until I can kill something worth eating. The swamp rabbits grow pretty big out here, but they’re a bitch to catch.”

His loincloth brushed against his thigh as he bent down, riding high enough to leave little to the imagination. Upper-thigh, hip, and a tattoo, some kind of knotwork, thorns sprawling and dark, wrapping around the curve of his thigh and vanishing into the shadows, as if it had grown into his skin, as if it were a part of him and his secrets, begging to be revealed.

 “Alive, yes. Thriving? Hardly,” Aelorian murmured, and turned his head. “I suppose I should just resign myself to wasting away in this damp hellscape, nourished only by the joyless scraps you toss my way, ogre. Your generosity is overwhelming.”

“Or,” Thorne grunted, tossing the mushroom into his bag, “you could shut up and eat.”

Aelorian gasped in mock horror. “Such a romantic way with words! Such poetry! No wonder the maidens swoon!”

“I don’t need swooning,” Thorne muttered, reaching for another mushroom. “I need dinner.”

Aelorian sidled closer, feigning casual interest in a mossy root plucked from the ground, but his eyes kept drifting back to Thorne. The ogre, hands busy with the mushrooms, had no idea how dangerously close his broad shoulders and taut thighs were to scandalizing the elf, who had only read about men like Thorne in the novels he pawed over in secret.

Thorne didn’t comment on the closeness, but he didn’t move away either. He just continued inspecting a patch of wild garlic nestled beneath a split rock. “These’ll keep. Might be strong raw, though. Make your breath murder.”

“Oh, then definitely give me two bunches,” Aelorian said, with the flash of a mischievous grin. “Just in case you ever try to kiss me.”

That made Thorne pause, just for a heartbeat. One long, still second where he didn’t move or breathe. And then he shook his head. “Gods above, you’re like a splinter I can’t dig out.”

Aelorian leaned in with a lazy, delighted smile, “Keep talking like that and I’ll swoon right here in the mud, ogre.”

Thorne looked at him, and for a flicker of a moment, no teasing cut between them, no growling or sarcasm. It was just a look. Quiet. Open. Like maybe he liked the way Aelorian’s presence filled the forest with color and noise. Like maybe it was something he wouldn’t name, but he didn’t want to chase off either.

“Pain in the ass,” Thorne finally muttered, voice rough and low. Then, with the barest smile, he turned away.

The forest seemed almost peaceful for a heartbeat, sunlight filtering through leaves, the scent of moss and earth heavy in the air after the rain last night. But Lori, ever the curious brat prince, wasn’t about to be tethered by subtle forest etiquette. 

Branches rustled as he wandered off, drawn by a sudden glint deeper in the thicket–a cluster of wildflowers, maybe, or a strange shimmer on a leaf. He crouched, fingers twitching to poke and prod, to explore whatever secret the woods were hiding.

“Elf,” Thorne’s voice rumbled from behind, rough with caution, “don’t wander too far.”

But Aelorian was already halfway into the thicket. Leaves crunched under his feet as he prowled deeper, ignoring the warning growl in Thorne’s voice. “Don’t wander too far,” the ogre had said, as though Aelorian had ever obeyed such rules in his life. No, curiosity was a crown he wore proudly—besides, what harm could a glimmer in the thicket cause?

He crouched, reaching for the source of the shimmer. At first, it was a delicate golden sheen clinging to a hollowed tree trunk. Lovely, mysterious, promising treasure.

Then the tree hummed.

The hive cracked open with a ripple of angry movement, bees boiling out like a storm of wings and fury. The first sting struck the back of his hand like a branding iron.

Aelorian shrieked. Not delicately, or in the way of a dainty prince affronted by a rude dinner guest–but a full-bodied, wild, indigent howl of pain and betrayal.

“THORNE!”

From somewhere behind the trees, Thorne, large and swearing, came crashing through the underbrush. “What the FUCK did you do?”

“They came at me!” Aelorian yelped, bolting back toward the clearing, silk flying, hair tangled in twigs and panic. “They declared war!”

“They were fine until you stuck your damn fingers in their house!” Thorne was running now, long strides pounding through the moss, but it was too late. The bees were on them–dozens of them--hundreds, an angry buzzing cloud of vengeance. Aelorian darted one way, Thorne the other, but in three staggering heartbeats they slammed into each other mid-sprint. 

The impact sent them both sprawling, Aelorian half-on top of Thorne, limbs tangled in a mess of fabric and flailing limbs. 

“DO SOMETHING!” Aelorian shrieked as he scrambled to his feet again, batting bees out of his hair, “THEY KNOW I’M BEAUTIFUL AND THEY’RE JEALOUS–AHH, IT’S IN MY HAIR!”

“Just run, you idiot!” Thorne bellowed, grabbing his arm and dragging him through the underbrush like a sack of very indignant potatoes. 

They bolted through the thicket, crashing downhill through vines and low-hanging branches, the forest roaring around them with wind and bees and Aelorian’s breathless sobbing. While Thorne thundered ahead of him, one arm tucked useless at his side, the other dragging Aelorian.

Then the ground disappeared. 

“Shit–!” Thorne snarled, and with a single, catastrophic misstep, the ogre’s foot hit moss-slick stone, and he slipped. Reached out and snatched at the closest thing to catch his fall–Aelorian’s tangle of long hair and elven braids. 

The elf let out a noise so high-pitched it startled three nearby raccoons out of a tree. “MY HAIR!”  

The elf plunged over the edge, yelped, spun, and flapped his arms in a tangle of limbs, silk, and curses. Thorne’s massive body twisted mid-air to shield Aelorian, to take the brunt of the drop. A branch slapped Aelorian across the ass so hard it left him howling in indignation, another cracked against Thorne’s broad back, and a third tore half the ribbons from Aelorian’s hair, sending them fluttering like surrender flags. 

They hit the bottom in a spectacular tangle, right into a patch of nettles. 

A burst of dirt exploded, leaves rustled, and Thorne’s shoulder slammed hard against a jut of rock, followed by a sound so raw and deep it wasn’t even a scream–just a groan, torn out of his chest like something unwilling. 

Aelorian lay dazed, breath caught in his lungs, skirts twisted around his thighs, hair in his mouth. Then the stinging began. The nettles bit viciously, sharp little daggers stabbing at every bare inch of skin they could find–wrists, neck, ass–setting Aelorian’s nerves on fire. He twisted, flinching, trying to pull free from the relentless prick of green flames. “What is this?” He screamed, “It’s stabbing me with fire!”

“Nettles,” Thorne wheezed, “Fell into a godsdamned pile of nettles.”

“It’s in my thighs! It’s in my everything!” The elf wailed.

“Stop moving,” Thorne hissed through his teeth, “You're just grinding them in–“Fuck—” He hissed, face contorted, pain slicing across it like lightning. “Shit.”

Aelorian blinked, startled. “What… what was that?”

“My shoulder,” Thorne groaned, voice raw now. “Still dislocated. From catching the ceiling. To keep you from being turned into wall art.”

Aelorian paused long enough to turn and see him. Thorne wasn’t just grimacing; he was gritting his teeth, jaw clenched so hard it trembled. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, and his right arm hung limp at his side, his big hand curled in on itself like it had forgotten how to unclench. Beneath his vest, a dark red patch bloomed sluggishly over the fabric. 

Aelorian blinked again. His eyes grew wide.

“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “you’ve had your shoulder out of socket this entire time? Through the swamp? Through the screaming? Through the nipples?!”

Thorne didn’t answer. He just leaned forward and braced his forehead on the moss-covered rock, breathing hard.

“Oh my gods,” Aelorian whispered. “You were going to ravish me one-handed.”

“I wasn't going to ravish you,” Thorne snapped.

“You were.” Aelorian’s voice dropped an octave, lips twitching. “You were going to manhandle me against a boulder with a dislocated shoulder and the power of rage and lust alone.”

Thorne groaned like the forest itself offended him.

Aelorian bit his lip, eyes flicking to the ruined arm. “Do you want me to fix it?”

“I don’t need–” Thorne started to protest.

“I wasn’t asking, you stubborn fool,” Aelorian hissed at him.

That startled Thorne just enough for him to stop resisting. He sank down again, grumbling under his breath, but there was no real heat in it now. Just pain. Old, angry pain flaring with new fire.

“I swear to the gods, I can’t believe you’ve been in this condition the whole time!” Aelorian’s fingers trembled as he tore more fabric from his hem, the once pristine silk muddied and torn from Thorne’s earlier aggression. "Stupid noble idiot!” He muttered under his breath as he worked. 

Thorne said nothing, head lowered, eyes slitted shut against the pain. Aelorian didn’t like the way he was breathing–shallow, with those barely-there gasps, as if he let himself inhale too deeply, it would shatter something inside him.

“Alright,” Aelorian said quietly, kneeling beside him. “We’re going to sit you up. It’s going to be awful, but try not to pass out and crush me.”

“Not…that heavy,” Thorne muttered hoarsely.

“You’re the size of a horse and weigh just as much,” Aelorian said, and slid his arms behind Thorne. “Ready?”

Thorne wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.

The groan that came out of him when they moved was guttural, but he stayed conscious. Aelorian knelt beside him, tore another strip of fabric from his sleeve with his teeth, and began to bind the arm close to Thorne’s chest with careful, looping movements. His hands were deft despite the tremor in his fingers, and he managed to tie a knot just below Thorne’s collarbone.

“There,” Aelorian finally whispered, “Better than nothing.”

Thorne cracked an eye open, sweat clinging to his brow, “Guess those damned frilly robes came in handy, huh?”

Aelorian laughed breathlessly. “You owe me a new outfit.” He said, and then placed his palm gently over the injury, just above the swelling, where the skin was darkening with bruise and blood. His magic, when it came, was soft. Not flashy, not fire or light. Just a warmth, barely perceptible, like standing in late spring sun after too long in the shadows.

Thorne shivered as the ache in his shoulder dulled just a fraction, as if something unseen had wrapped cool hands around the worst of the pain and eased it back into submission.

“It won’t fix it,” Aelorian murmured, voice distant with concentration. “Not all the way. But it’ll keep the pain from roaring while we get you back to the cave.”

He drew his hand away, and the glow faded.

“You alright to walk?” Aelorian asked him.

Thorne nodded. “Just don’t let me fall on you again, elf.”

“Oh gods, no,” Aelorian snorted. “You’d snap me like a twig, ogre.”

They started the slow climb back up, one step at a time, two battered silhouettes rising from the nettles, heading for shelter. There would be time for healing and bickering later, along with aches, barbs in skin, and Aelorian voicing his complaints to the wind about the extent of his suffering. But for now, the focus was on getting Thorne back to the cave in one piece.