His return to consciousness this time was gentler, awareness lapping softly at the edges of his senses. There was still some pain, but none of the agony that had greeted him to the waking world before, and the pins-and-needles sensation was gone from his left leg. He seemed to be lying on his side now, his cheek resting on some soft fabric. There was light, but he didn't want to open his eyes just yet.

"I passed out again, didn't I?" His voice sounded as weak as he felt.

He heard a shifting sound nearby; Chris was still there. "Are you awake this time, Salome?" she asked wearily.

"This time?" Salome risked opening his eyes. The light was thin and yellow, but plenty to see by. There was a blurry shape, too close to his face to focus on, so he blinked and let his gaze roam towards his feet as his eyes slowly worked themselves into focus. A field of purple on the edge of his vision resolved itself into his folded coat, which was pillowing his head. Past his feet and a short ways away were two heaps of armor.

He returned to the blurry shape – Chris's knee. His lady captain was sitting next to his head, slumped against the sheer side of the hole. She'd removed her plate armor, and the wool under-jacket and leathers she still wore were dusty.

Her eyes were turned on him, watching him closely. Salome was mildly surprised to see how dirty her face was, to see the rivulets in the dust from dried tears. There was a vivid brown smear across her forehead, like war paint. His own face felt strangely clean by contrast, if in need of a shave.

She nodded an answer to his question. "You wavered in and out of it for several hours. It's morning now; the sun came up a while ago."

"I passed out." He fought to recall exactly what had transpired in the darkness. "Is that why you turned me on my side?" That was basic treatment for an unconscious shock victim; he vaguely remembered nausea, and wondered if Chris had guessed.

She seemed to catch his train of thought and smiled apologetically. "Yes. And I'm afraid your scarf is ruined. I used it to clean your face afterwards."

Well, at least he was spared that humiliating question. "...did I scream?"

Chris closed her eyes, as if recalling something unpleasant. "Yes. You did." She looked at him again, the traces of the memory lurking in the corners of her eyes like shadows. "How are you feeling?"

Salome shifted slightly, and winced as pain shot through his shin. "Leg's still broken, I think. But it's much better."

"I thought it might be," Chris said with evident fatigue. "I did the best I could, but towards the end I couldn't quite... keep the magic up.

"I'm fairly certain it's set properly, and the skin's healed over. I splinted it once there was enough light to see properly." She paused. "I took off some of your armor, too, to make it easier for you to breathe. The cuirass and everything I could from your arms. I left your mail coat on. I didn't think your ribs were broken, but I didn't want to take chances, and it would have jostled your leg too much anyway."

"Thank you." He tried to convey the gratitude he felt in his voice, his eyes – she'd clearly exhausted herself trying to heal him with the rune, and still found the strength to make him more comfortable, to clean him up.

She shook her head, dismissing it. "I... sorry I couldn't do more, Salome."

"I don't see how you possibly could have, milady." She'd done everything and then some, and then berated herself for it. That was just like her.

"You can try sitting up, I think, if you feel up to it. Your pulse was back to normal hours ago. Do you want to try?"

Salome rolled carefully onto his back, and, with her help, rose slowly to a sitting position. His arms immediately felt shaky, but to his relief, light-headedness did not accompany the action.

Sitting up, he could see more of their surroundings. The canvas from the tent was close overhead, slanting downwards. It seemed to have caught high above near the earthen wall, with enough room for a short person to stand. The table was upended near the piles of armor, and immediately to his left was Chris's heavy wooden trunk.

As if in response, his leg twinged, and he looked away, swallowing dryly. "Is there any water? I believe I recall that you had some earlier."

Chris smiled wanly. "Certainly." She shifted stiffly so that she was squatting by his side, and cupped her bare hands. "Here." There was a soft blue glow, and water began welling up in her cupped hands. The dark circles of the rune's mark on her palm wavered and shifted under the water.

"That's a useful trick," Salome commented before leaning forward to drink.

"It's an easy one. I think the rune likes creating water."

As he drank, it struck him that the image they made was very like one he had seen in a tapestry once of the Goddess Loa offering water from her hands to the couchant stag of Zexen. Chris and the Goddess could not have looked more different – the divinely beautiful Goddess in her unwrinkled finery, eyes gentle and peaceful; the mostly-mortal Chris with her dirty face and clothes, tired but fierce eyes, chapped and calloused hands. Their bearing held the same nobility, though, even as Chris's shoulders sagged. And he, he was her subordinate, her shield, as Zexen was the supplicant of the Goddesses. That he would never change.

The distance that had vanished in the darkness returned with the light, and Salome, overcome with sudden embarrassment and shame, looked away.

From the sound of it, he guessed Chris was now taking a drink of water herself, and washing her own face; when he let himself look at her again he saw her face was indeed clean, damp and pink from the cold water. He could also see the dark rings under her eyes, and a taughtness the dirt had hidden.

"Ugh." She made a face, sitting back on her heels. "I wish I could get it to make warmer water."

This was so characteristic of his captain that Salome felt a smile rise on his face. "I'll be certain to instruct the attendant to fill your bath with hot water once we return to Brass Castle, Lady Chris."

"Returning to formality already, Salome?" Chris raised her eyebrows and returned the smile, although the pinched look did not quite leave her face. "You must be feeling better. I suppose if we ever want to loosen you up, we'll have to break your leg again. Don't look at me like that, Salome, I was only joking."

He eyed her reproachfully. "You've been spending too much time with Percival, if you're joking like that."

"And if he were here, he'd say you were being a mother hen again," Chris returned easily. Then her expression changed, and she turned her head, looking at him sideways. "Father rooster, I mean."

"I'm not your father."

Chris did not answer; she was still watching him with that strangely careful, shifted look. It was not until she exhaled that he realized she'd been holding her breath.

"Have I said something like that before?" he guessed warily, recollection rising, and with it, chagrin.

"Yes, you did. When I was setting your leg." Her words were measured, her tone carefully neutral, but there was disappointment in her eyes.

How much had he said? How much had he revealed? His memory of that time was still hazy towards the end – all he could recall was a great deal of pain, a breeze on his cheek, and something holding him down against the tree.

Tree? That was absurd; they were underground. Salome looked around, frowning; he'd been more disoriented last night than he'd realized.

Chris caught his puzzlement. "Looking for something?"

He nodded. "Last night, I was propped up against something. I thought it was a tree at the time."

"Oh." Chris scrubbed at her face for a moment with her right hand; the skin was pink again when it came away, although there had been no glow from the rune. "That would have been me. I'm sorry, but I couldn't think of any other way to hold you still, besides sitting on you." She looked away.

"Which would have been ill-advised. I understand." So the bar across his chest, the breeze on his face...

For one most irrational moment, Salome wished they were back in the timeless, placeless darkness, where all but that last distance were as absent as the light. Then he chided himself; those were thoughts for a romantic, or someone like Borus. He was a pragmatist, a realist, and had always chosen to remain so.

And it was time he started living up to that choice. "Do you have an idea of how deep this hole is?" he asked her, turning the conversation to business. "Will we be able to get out on our own?"

Chris ducked her head in embarrassment. "I haven't really looked around. After so long in the dark, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find you again." She started to yawn, then caught herself.

"You should rest, milady," he chided her. "You didn't sleep much either, did you?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine." One traitorous yawn escaped; she clamped her mouth shut and swallowed. "I'm fine," she repeated defensively, and he knew that she hadn't slept at all.

He opened his mouth to remind her that overtiring herself was perhaps not the wisest course of action, but the worry in her eyes stopped him. He knew how frantic he would have been, alone in the choking silence with his captain unconscious and badly injured. Salome's heart constricted painfully. Her fear had not seemed quite real, in the darkness; he'd thought somehow that she'd been merely giving voice to his own panic. Now in the light, separated by borders and edges, he realized with a pang those emotions had been her own.

She had been afraid for him. Afraid he was going to die. That was why she didn't leave the tent, why she hadn't slept – she'd feared he would be gone when she returned.

His failure galled him. He'd always tried to reassure her, support her, taking care never to add to her burdens. And yet here...

"Lady Chris," he said, gently taking her right hand by the wrist. She blinked in surprise at this breach of manners, but didn't resist. He smiled reassuringly. "I'm still here. I'm not going to go anywhere." He placed her hand over his heart, so that she could feel it beating. "See?"

Her eyes met his, vivid and intense, softened by her smile. "I know." Then a shadow crossed her face, and she briefly closed her eyes. "When I tried to staunch the bleeding... I could feel it beating with the blood."

Salome's gaze fell to the hand he held to his chest. The rough edge of her cuff scratched against his hand; it was stiff and darker than the rest of the sleeve. He shuddered, realizing why. The artery in his leg had been severed by the shattered bone, and in the choking darkness Chris had literally felt his lifeblood draining away, hot and pulsing beneath her hands. His hand tightened around her wrist. "Forgive me."

Chris shook her head. "There's nothing to forgive, Salome. You hardly chose to break your leg. Besides..." Her eyes flickered, from his eyes to his mouth to her hand on his heart, then back again. She leaned closer. "Salome..."

Salome could feel her breath against his face, and under his fingers, the pulse in her wrist. He looked back up, into her eyes, and found he couldn't look away.

"I'm not your daughter, Salome," she whispered, and kissed him.

He closed his eyes, and they were back in the darkness.

Voices, too muffled to tell if they were friend or foe, intruded rudely on the moment. The couple stiffened; Chris drew her hand back and snatched up her sword. They exchanged glances, and he nodded, carefully sliding himself back, closer to the wall.

Soon enough the sounds of people had reached the hole they were in; Salome could hear them clearly as they slid down into the pit and tossed about wreckage, but whoever they were, they'd stopped speaking. Chris stood before him, facing the sloping canvas of the tent, her sword raised defensively. It was only a matter of time.

Chris glanced back at him, briefly. Her expression transformed as she caught his gaze, holding the tenderness and the fierceness of one who has something infinitely precious to protect. He knew that expression; it was the one he wore when riding out to battle at her side.

And as he watched, she squared her shoulders and adjusted her grip on her sword as if with renewed purpose, just as he had so often done.

There was perhaps the space of a breath. Then the cloth tore, parting to reveal the silhouette of a knight against the sudden daylight. Once his eyes adjusted, Salome saw the dusty, unshaven, and unmistakably grinning face of Percival.

"Fancy meeting you two down here!" He looked back. "Louis," he called over his shoulder, "Louis, I've found them. Get Borus. Were you two stuck here all night?" Percival asked, turning back to his stunned superior officers. "That must have really been the pits."