Leslan’s gaze followed Athelia as she left, before returning to him. Puzzlement, suspicion, and concern fought for prominence in his eyes. Arioch pretended not to notice. Using his elbows, he propped himself up. Leslan reacted then.

"No you don’t."

"Moment...Les."

The Healer’s hand withdrew, but the dark frown on his face did not. Arioch pushed and struggled with elbows and hands, until he curled up on his side. The angle and position would be all too familiar to a Healer, as Leslan’s reaction attested. "I see this has happened to you before."

"Aye," he rasped.

The blanket tugged free. A thin sheet replaced it, enough to protect him from bruises, but not from the cold air. He shivered, grimacing, but did not resist.

"How long ago?"

Leslan’s fingers traveled down his spine. Trying to distract me. "Two...months."

The hand stilled. "I meant the first time."

"A year."

"Sandstorm?"

Arioch shook his head. Leslan muttered under his breath, in that blasted Lodear dialect, before he started giving him "love taps." Thankfully, Leslan stopped after a moment. "Huff."

Arioch obeyed. A little bit of the weight in his chest eased. Leslan cupped strong arms under him and shifted his position. Flat on his back, Arioch looked up into a mane of hair, outlined in gold by the lamplight. The Healer poked and prodded, making him open his mouth, breathe heavy, and even going so far as laying his head on his chest, before straightening with a frown. He rested his fingers over his ribs as he spoke.

"You’re breathing clear here." he nudged his left side. His hand shifted to the right. "But not on this side. It sounds blocked completely."

The salve again, slathered across him until he hated the stuff. Leslan moved him to his stomach, head hanging over the edge of the bed and feet propped on pillows. If he stayed in this position long, the blood would rush to his head. He doubted he would have much worry of that.

"If not a sandstorm, than how?"

Arioch blinked. "Pardon?"

"Something irritated your lungs badly. If not a sandstorm, than I must wonder. Not that Eastar is known for their sandstorms, but it is doubtful you’ve seen enough rain to cause this."

"Different...things caused it."

Leslan chuckled. "Which you obviously don’t want to share, even to me." His hands rested on his back. Arioch bit back a groan. The relief outweighed the struggle to get there. "Were you a deserter?"

Arioch stiffened, but Leslan had already resumed his work, forbidding an answer. All he could do was fume. A deserter? How dare he! He was soon to raise a child that he had not fathered, and the man claimed him to be a coward?

Arioch clenched his teeth and waited for his chance. As soon as Leslan paused, he snapped hotly, "A deserter? Bloody...crescent-blinded, Eyrie-spawned—" A hand clamped over his mouth.

Leslan grinned at him. "That’s a no, I take it? Though..." his smiled faltered. "You should be speaking clearer." He pushed him down again. Hands on his shoulders and hips changed his position again, the downward angle steeper than before. "But two months ago, you were suffering this malady, while serving on the battlefield?"

That sounded incredulous, even to him. Arioch winced. "I...when the things happened...duties changed."

"I see. You know I’ll get to the bottom of it eventually."

"I hope...not," he muttered.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

Leslan’s muffled chuckle suggested he had heard, but rather than commenting, he smacked him. Arioch popped up, surprised at the force. The Healer’s firm hold on the back of his neck shoved him down again, pinning him. Not gentle taps these. He squirmed and cursed, wiggling against the oppressive hold. Leslan had strength to match him.

"The more you struggle, the longer it will take."

"Bloody...blasted...thorla…" he panted, rising again, only to be forced down. "Crescent-blinded, Vantay-bred..."

The burn sizzled in his chest by the time Leslan relented. "Huff."

"N-no." The ache spiraling across his ribs only increased his frustration. Like a cross child, he wanted to lash out at Leslan, Athelia, and anyone else that came within reach. "Leave...m-me...alone."

"Huff."

With a growl, Arioch huffed once, quickly, just enough to satisfy the Healer. But the instant shift in his chest forced a cough instead. The hacking wheeze worsened. "What did...did—" he couldn’t squeeze a word between the racking coughs.

Leslan held a cloth over his mouth, patted his back, and waited for the coughing fit to subside. It left him spent and shaking.

The Healer moved him onto his back again, resting a head on his chest. This time, he straightened with a brighter look on his face. "There. Much better."

"Better? I’m about to break a rib, and you call that better?"

"Are you listening to yourself?"

Arioch blinked. The heaviness draped over his chest had eased. The nagging pain gnawing in his ribs had disappeared altogether. That he could speak a sentence without panting for air was a marvel. "What did you do?"

"Helped you clear your lungs." Leslan stepped back, cocking his head. "Feel like talking?"

His eyes narrowed. "About what?"

The Healer chuckled. "I didn’t think so. You have me very curious, Arioch of Eastar."

Arioch frowned at him. With a smirk, Leslan stepped out of the room. When he returned, Leslan brought Athelia with him. Arioch’s cheeks warmed as he scrambled for the blanket. "Are you mad?" he snapped.

Leslan gave him another penetrating look. "To bring your wife to your bedside?"

Arioch flicked a glance at Athelia and then back to him. He forced a smile. "Right. Tired...just tired. Wasn’t thinking." Rubbing his temples wearily, he chanced a peek at the Healer. Leslan did not look convinced, but at least he did not press the matter.

"Now then," he said, "You’re going to stay in bed for a week."

"A week!"

"Do it or I’ll hog-tie you myself. Clear?"

He couldn’t keep the sullen tone out of his voice. "Aye."

"Good." He rested his hands on his shoulders. "Athelia, make sure he takes the herbs I left." The Healer gave him one gruff nod. "You rest," he said, and followed her out the door.

Arioch slumped back on the pillows, and sighed. A week—one whole week—in bed. It would drive him mad.