A temporary camp is set up in the forest. With the supplies taken from the ruins of the Castle of the Moon, there's enough to sustain the hundreds of people for a couple weeks while everyone heals and regains their strength. Clementine leaves Isla briefly in charge as she goes to find Erikur. Isla organizes everything and the atmosphere continues to calm.

Aodhan and Tove work their asses off, running back and forth across camp, snapping orders at anyone who is well enough to go find more herbs or alcohol or any number of various components. Patrick sees Aodhan go by every once and a while, glad to know he's alive. He doesn't go to him, not yet. Aodhan's busy with others and they can have their time together later.

Patrick's whole body aches something terrible and moving at all is a trial. This, he knows, is the consequence of using so much magic at once when he's not trained to do so. Other than that, his injuries aren't grave and he could tend to them himself if he were so inclined to move. As it is, he's fine sharing a bottle of drink with Brynjar. He's not sure what it is, just that it burns on the way down and offers a decent distraction. After drinking half the bottle, he's fit to pass out, which he does.

When he wakes up, Brynjar is still at his side, whittling away at a piece of wood. He's still tucked in his bedroll and even upon waking, his head feels much clearer. He rolls onto his back, wincing as the cut on his leg is bumped. He rubs his eyes, a yawn forcing its way out. The sky above him is blue, by all appearances still the middle of the day.

"How long was I out?" he mumbles.

"A whole day," Brynajr answers. "Out like a light."

Patrick groans as he pushes himself up. He goes off to the side to make water, then walks to the nearest fire pit to get any left over rations from the last meal. His stomach feels empty, particularly ravenous.

Patrick finds a crust of bread and water to eat. A nearby soldier offers him a bit of mush and a couple pieces of dried fruit, which he takes gratefully and devours. The thick oatmeal sticks to his throat as it goes down and he chugs some water to wash it down.

"Patrick?"

He looks up, meeting the eyes of a young soldier he doesn't recognize, but he's dressed in greens, so he must be one of Rozenn's.

"Aye, that's me."

"The healer's asking for you," the boy informs. "Lady Rozenn's one."

"Ah. Uh, do you know where he is?"

The boy points at a tent on the far side of camp. Patrick thanks him, then starts toward there, Ivo at his heels. Tove walks by carrying a cauldron of boiling water. He smiles at her and she returns it, albeit wearily.

He's unsure whether to just walk in or not, so he lingers outside the tent for an awkward period of time before going in. Aodhan's grinding up herbs for a poultice, a pot of boiling cloth next to him. For once, he's alone, no injured, desperately in need of his help.

"Oh, Patrick," Aodhan sighs. "There you are."

He abruptly drops the pestle he's holding and moves to gather Patrick in his arms, fingers suddenly alight with arcane energy.

"I'm okay," Patrick assures, watching as Aodhan immediately begins gathering premade remedies and a cup, which he pours some sort of inky liquid into. He whispers something into the top of the cup and the drink glows green before returning to its previous state.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Aodhan tells him, hands fluttering as if he wants to touch him.

"I'm glad you're okay," Patrick returns.

Aodhan's eyes soften as he presses the elixir into Patrick's hand, smiling faintly. His face is worn, clearly spent, but he's alive and that's enough.

"Drink that. Let me see your leg."

Patrick tries not to make a face as he drinks whatever concoction Aodhan made up. Judging by the amused smile Aodhan sends him, his efforts are in vain.

"Gross," he says for added effect.

"Oh, hush up."

He strips down to his underpants, which are decidedly filthy, but he has nothing to change into, so his battle worn clothes will have to do. Aodhan rubs his wounds with some sort of sharp smelling juice that stings, then places a cream on the burns on his upper arm. He heals the cut on Patrick's leg, which thankfully doesn't need stitches to help it along. The rest of the injuries remain, although thoroughly tended to.

Patrick slips his clothes back on and Aodhan sinks into a chair, cheek resting on his hand.

"That's all I can do for now," he says.

"Thank you."

"You never have to thank me."

Patrick yawns and Aodhan nods to the bedroll on the floor.

"Go ahead and sleep," Aodhan urges. "You need the rest."

"Brynjar says I slept all day."

"And you did a lot of fighting and a lot of magic. Isla told me about what you did and you could have gotten really hurt. You shouldn't be doing that much at once." Aodhan frowns. "Do you feel cold? Or floating?"

Isla wouldn't have mentioned the pendant, would she?

"Not really. Just tired. It's not like before."

Aodhan seems to relax at this. "Good. If you feel poorly, you tell me. Now, get some sleep. I'll be here unless I get called out."

Patrick doubts he could sleep more, but as soon as his body hits the bedroll he's out again, drifting into a sleep mercifully free of nightmares. His dreams are vague and when he wakes up, he only remembers traces of them: soft touches, the smell of the sea, laughter.

Upon waking, he's disappointed to realize the sweetness enveloping him wasn't real. Reality is fire and his sword cutting through skin like butter and pain and screaming. That much is true, but it's also true that reality is warm blankets wrapped around him, the flicker of candlelight, and Aodhan's hand carding through his hair.

Patrick hums, shifting. The tent is dark, so it must be the middle of the night. The sounds of camp always stills when nightfall hits and it's so quiet. All the infinitesimal sounds become large, such as whispers or the rustle of blankets.

"Why are you still up?"

Aodhan's hand doesn't still, but it falters in its rhythmic pattern. "I had trouble sleeping. Tove needed my help and I couldn't get back to dreaming. Too many sour things on my mind."

"You can have whatever you gave me that made me have good dreams. I could try to make you one."

"You noticed that?"

"Hm. Yeah." He wants to drift off again, but he has a pressing issue in front of him and he can't afford to do so.

Patrick shifts into a sitting position and pats his lap. Aodhan shoots him a questioning glance, face bathed in candlelight. His hair looks golden- a gold Patrick doesn't loathe.

When Aodhan doesn't move, Patrick reaches out to pull him closer and Aodhan allows himself to be moved around until his head is resting on Patrick's thighs. A laugh bubbles out of him as he says, "What are you doing?"

"Helping you sleep," Patrick answers, fingers sliding into Aodhan's golden hair. The strands are soft and slide through his fingers like silk. He's always wondered. In the night, drunk off good sleep, he can be bold. "You'd do it for me," he adds.

Aodhan settles into Patrick's lap, smile on his lips, eyes overbright with an emotion Patrick is a bit too tentative to name. "All right. Go on."

Patrick's fingers move through Aodhan's hair almost on their own accord. His movements are reverent and his heart flutters like a butterfly's wings. With Aodhan slowly drifting off in his lap, it's hard to think of anything but him.

I suppose leaving Vertbank wasn't for nothing, he thinks, resisting the urge to trace his fingers along Aodhan's cheekbones or jaw. He's so close.

Even amid the tender feelings, Patrick longs. He wants to get back to Chourmondeley, because that's where Signe is, where William is (where Lena should be). The anger is set aside, maybe, Patrick's not sure. The one thing he's sure of now is that it feels good to have Aodhan so close.

He goes into a meditative state, only stopping his ministrations once he's completely sure Aodhan has fallen asleep. His arm comes to rest around him. Aodhan's lashes flutter and he sighs in his sleep. He looks peaceful and ever so lovely.

Tove's arrival ends the period of calm and quiet. Her eyes flick between the two of them commenting, "I didn't know you two were together."

"Uh," Patrick stutters. "We're uh..."

Tove chuckles. "Working things out? Well, I'd leave you to it, but we need to make our rounds. Wake him for me, would you?"

Patrick nods, calling out before she goes, "Tove? Um, I don't think I ever thanked you for helping me. You know, back after I died."

"You're welcome," she says. "It's my job."

Once Tove leaves, Patrick gently nudges Aodhan's shoulder, as loathe as he is to do it. He wakes in an instant, tensing before seeming to realize there's no danger. Unconsciously, Patrick's hand falls to Aodhan's hair. When Aodhan leads into his touch, he can't help but be pleased.

"Tove said she needs help making the rounds," he informs.

Aodhan hums, sliding out of Patrick's lap. He stretches. "I guess I better go then."

"Or you could stay," Patrick says, knowing he couldn't possibly do so.

Aodhan smiles, straightening his clothes before picking up a basket of remedies to take out. Patrick stands, yawning. He goes to follow Aodhan out and is stopped by a hand on his arm. Patrick shoots Aodhan a questioning look and Aodhan smiles, then leans forward to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you," Aodhan murmurs, lips just brushing Patrick's skin.

That wasn't friendly, Patrick thinks, watching as Aodhan leaves, a blush rising high on his cheeks.

A soft meep from behind draws his attention to Ivo, sitting on the discarded pile of blankets. He stares innocently and Patrick narrows his eyes in a faux serious glare.

"What are you looking at?"

Ivo cocks his head to the side and Patrick leaves Aodhan's tent, his familiar draped around his neck- a perfectly fashionable scarf. On his way to Brynjar, he scans the sky for dragons and finds none. They must have gone off, maybe with Morwenna's changeling girl. With Morwenna declared dead, she would be free.

Over in a copse of trees, a group of soldiers in blue have gathered. Patrick grabs the attention of one and nods to the group asking, "What's going on?"

"You haven't heard? The Lady's back."

"Oh!"

"She's giving news."

Patrick joins the gathering, spotting Clementine at the front, looking elegant in a blue gown strewn with reflective beads. Her hair hangs long down her back and her face gleams with satisfaction.

"Ser Erikur has dealt with the last of the problems here, so plan to get back to the ships in a couple of days. Rozenn has told me her soldiers are set to stay here. Fixing Vaenyth is her problem, not ours. For now, rest easy. We'll be back at the Hoarfrost in less than a month, provided we don't encounter any complications."

The men shout their assent and leave to spread the news. A couple more days of rest is better than none and Patrick would gladly never return to this part of Vaenyth again. He's done his part and it's forward for him.

As Patrick begins to leave, Clementine calls out to him, "You're in a good mood today."

Patrick smiles at her, now used to the keenness in her eyes and the quirk of her brow, the sharpness of her tongue. "Aye, suppose I am."

Clementine's look turns calculating and she nods. She's judging something and he can't pin down the why or the what. Patrick thinks that she cares about him, at least a little. Maybe she's glad to see him less morose than he has been. The thought is thrilling.

"Is something the matter?" he queries.

"No," she says. "Not at all."

She briskly walks off, leaving him more confused than he was previously. If she didn't tell him, then it's probably none of his business (but it could be).

Patrick's next order of business is to get breakfast, so he lurks around camp until he finds the day's cooks and gets a serving of sweet beans and cheese melt. He tries to eat slowly, though he still ends up hungry afterward. Plants in Vaenyth are different than in Wiceliwen, but the dandelions are the same, so he walks the forest until he gathers enough of the leaves and flowers to make a salad.

He eats half of it himself, then gets the idea he should give the rest to Aodhan. Once he gets the idea in his head, he can't get it out. He's never been one to act on any impulses he may have- never- but Lena's always said he should be more daring.

He finds Aodhan seated against a tree, eating a late breakfast- or an early lunch- finally done with checking on the injured. Across the way from him, Isla and Tove are engaged in deep conversation. Patrick figures Tove is giving her a run down of the state of her patients.

Patrick bounces over to Aodhan and unceremoniously thrusts the handful of dandelion salad out, brightly announcing, "I brought you some dandelions."

Aodhan glances at the dandelions then at Patrick, then back at the dandelions before taking them, laughing softly. "Why thank you. I'll put them in some water."

"They're for eating."

"Oh!" Aodhan's lips quirk into a grin and he pulls Patrick down beside him. "You didn't get any for yourself?"

"I did. Those are for you. I thought you'd like them."

"I do."

The embarrassment of gifting Aodhan a handful of crumpled dandelions creeps up on him and Patrick has half a mind to leave and never return. He goes into such a state that he doesn't realize Aodhan is talking until he feels his cheek get pinched.

"Hey!"

Aodhan laughs, the sound a thousand rays of sunlight. "You got this almost mortified look on your face just then. It was darling."

"Let's forget about that," Patrick says quickly.

"Let's not."

Aodhan's still grinning when he bestows a second kiss upon Patrick's flushed cheek, still grinning as he pops a dandelion flower into his mouth. Equal parts embarrassment and pleasure coarse through him at an intensity he's never felt before. He feels like someone's watching him and he looks sharply up to see Isla staring, one eyebrow arched.

"What?" he demands of her.

Isla shrugs.

"What?" he repeats as she walks away, no explanation offered.

"Staring is rude, you know!" That, at least, earns him a chuckle, which isn't any more helpful than the silence.

"Don't worry about it," Aodhan says.

"I'm not worried about it."

Aodhan hums noncommittally and reaches out to tuck Patrick's hair behind his ear. The gods of the day are good enough to make Brynjar call out across the camp in a half-irritated yell, "Patrick! Come help with these fucking crates."

"I've got to go."

Even as he weaves his way over to Brynjar, he catches the tail end of Aodhan's laughter.

"We've got to start loading the ships," Brynjar says, shoving a create in Patrick's arms. His muscles strain, but not badly enough that he has to stop. "The Lady wants us up and out without delay."

"Got it."

Brynjar pats him on the back. For once, he doesn't think of pain or blood or death or Lena or regrets- he has to take the good where he can find it. He knows there's still more to come. There always is. If there's anything he's learned, it's that- for better or worse.