Chapter 51: Part I-2

Sam and Tristan traded glances. “Did he hit his head during the battle last night?” Tristan asked out of the corner of his mouth. “Not that I’m aware of,” said Sam. “I’m not deaf,” Braeden said, loud enough to draw outside attention. “My hearing is fine, as is the rest of me.” Sam pinched her lips tightly. Something was definitely not right with Braeden. His behavior was erratic and his usually muted voice was several decibels higher than it should be. As her concern grew and bubbled over, Sam started to say as much, but Tristan interrupted her. “We believe you,” he placated. “Isn’t that right, Sam?” “But--” “Right, Sam?” She sighed. “Right, Tristan.” She didn’t understand why she couldn’t point out the plainly obvious—Braeden was not ‘fine’, no matter what he insisted. “Let’s finish our food, and then I think we would all benefit from a midday repose,” Tristan said. Braeden nodded distractedly and picked at his mutton. Juice dribbled down his chin as he chewed slowly on the meat. “Watch him,” Tristan mouthed while Braeden’s head was ducked. So Tristan wasn’t entirely oblivious, then. They finished their meal quickly, none of them enjoying it. Braeden clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut each time a piece of meat traveled down his throat. Sam alternated between sneaking worried glances at him and glaring at Tristan. She and Tristan seemed to be in sync on that front. Braeden pushed away from the table hard, sending his chair tottering on its back legs. He lurched upwards “I’m done,” he announced, swaying slightly on his feet. “I think I’ll to bed, now.” He staggered towards the tavern’s exit. “Braeden,” Tristan called after him, “you need a key!” Tristan grabbed Sam’s wrist from across the table. “Follow him upstairs, and don’t let him leave your sight for a second. Something’s wrong.” Sam yanked her hand away. “You think I didn’t notice?” Tristan didn’t rise to the bait. “Sam,” he said softly. “Braeden is not the sort to ask for help, or complain about his aches and pains. If he’s hurt or sick, you’ll need to tread carefully. He won’t want you to interfere, even if he’s seriously ill.” “He’s a fool, then.” “Men are fools all, Sam, ourselves included. Follow him, and fetch me if it’s serious.” Tristan held out the room key to her. Sam grabbed it and bolted out of the tavern after Braeden. Sam took the stairs two steps at a time. When she made it to the third floor of the inn, Braeden was already sprawled out against the wall next to their shared room, panting as though he’d just run for miles. Sam stepped over his legs and unlocked the door. She extended her hand to him, but Braeden batted it away. “I told you, I’m fine,” he said, struggling to his feet. Sam folded her arms over her chest, watching Braeden stumble into the room and then pitch face-forward into his pallet. “You’re fine,” she said flatly. Braeden’s head moved up and down against his pallet. “Fine,” he said, his voice muffled. “Just ti--” He gasped as his body spasmed and jerked. “Tired,” he finished lamely. “You’re being an arse,” Sam informed him. She kneeled on the pallet beside him. “Turn over.” “Pushy,” he mumbled, but did as she bade, flipping onto his back. His face was chalky white and his slit eyes were glassy, shifting from clear to pink to red and back to clear again. Sam brushed sweat-dampened hair from his temples. Braeden’s eyes went wide at the physical contact and he tried to lift his head from the pallet. “Be still,” she said, pressing him back down. She rested the back of her hand against his forehead and drew it away sharply. She rubbed her scorched hand. “You’re burning up.” “I don’t get sick.” “Braeden, if you’re not sick, then I’m a man.” “That’s not so farfetched,” Braeden said. “I’ve never been sick in my life. Another rare gift from my father.” “Well, your humanity is showing. You’re sick.” Sam pointed a finger at him. “Untie your robes.” Braeden’s silver eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, and Sam blushed. “I want to see your shoulder, you idiot!” Braeden hugged his injured shoulder protectively. “No.” Sam glowered at him. “If you’re concerned about offending my delicate sensibilities, don’t be.” Braeden’s watery eyes found hers. “Don’t worry, I get it. You’re neither delicate nor sensible.” “Apparently a side effect of your illness is an unfortunate sense of humor.” “I’m not ill, and I’ve always had an unfortunate sense of humor.” “So show me your shoulder, then. What’s the harm?” “No,” Braeden repeated stubbornly. Sam sighed. “I didn’t want to have to resort to this.” She leaned over his torso and grasped the tattered black cloth by his shoulder.  She tugged at the frayed fabric until it ripped at the seams, revealing Braeden’s skin from elbow to collarbone. Sam shot back onto her heels and covered her mouth with both hands. “Shite, Braeden.”