SAVE POINT 25

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Rosabella

"That purple asshole," Joy storms from somewhere above me. I hear the sound of her spitting, but the world is black.

Am I...

...Dead?

...Fucking again?

My body hurts like hell and little dots of gray and black pepper my vision in a dancing jumble that confuses me for a minute. I blink my eyes open slowly—they're so heavy!—and trees come into blurred view overhead.

Then, Dormouse's face—whoa.

Too close.

His nose juts into my vision looking far too large, and his dark hair nearly brushes my forehead. His eyes widen in excitement, "Guys! She's awake!"

Footsteps on packed earth.

Louder than they should be. My ears hurt.

Crunching grass. More faces crowd into my vision, blotting out the view of the treetops.

The whole crew's here except...

Sparo.

Anger and panic sock me in the stomach at the same time.

That stupid dragon.

That stupid, stupid dragon. I should have never trusted him—

I sit bolt upright in alarm—

"He stole the magic, didn't he?" I blurt.

I mean Sparo. I mean the creator magic. Did he cheap out on the end of his deal even after all the machine gun and grenade launcher help?

My agitated eyes dart to Callen's face as he shakes his head. His expression creases with confusion, "No, Sparo's here."

"—Just over in the woods for a piss," Rainer tells me gruffly. He nods his head at the trees behind him. And I wince because that was a lot of information and a picture I didn't need.

But, also, finally relax.

Because everything's okay—everything's really okay.

"That piece-of-work dragon tried to eat us though," Joy grumbles from the back.

Dormouse raises a slender finger and a dark eyebrow, interrupting (per usual), "I believe her exact words were 'after all that action, a breakfast snack is in order'".

"Like we were a fucking breakfast burrito," Joy huffs, "Can you believe it? I would have killed her too if you dorks hadn't gotten in the way." Annoyance seeps into both the girl's voice and eyes.

—Why do all of their voices sound so loud?

—Why do I have this terrible headache? My head feels split open at the seam. I try to move the blankets over my legs to the side, but my hands blur from the movement and my head jogs painfully. I grab at it, "Ouch."

"Hey—" Rainer reaches down for me. His brown eyes are deep and kind, even foggy from my vision and this close, "Take it slow there, soldier. With your health bar this low, your next fight might just be standing up."

I wince, trying to turn over onto hands and feet. Rocks and dirt spear my palms. The grass smells like dew and morning. How long have I been asleep? Shakily—and leaning heavily on Rainer's stout form—I heave myself upwards, to my feet.

"There she is," Rainer says cheerfully, smiling like I did something grand instead of something pretty much everyone over the age of one has mastered. He keeps a supporting hand on my arm as I try a few steps.

But Callen sweeps towards me with the easy grace he always has. He ducks his head low by my ear so only I can hear, "You were right to trust the dragon, kid."

That makes me smile a little to myself.

Of course, I was right—sometimes, I get it right.

...But Sparo had been more than helpful; he'd been a savior. If it wasn't for him and his quick thinking, there was no way I'd be breathing at this moment.

"Can I talk to Sparo when he's back?" I choke out; my throat feels brand-new and raspy after not having spoken for a while, "Alone—to thank him?"

Callen nods.

And Rainer smiles.

And, as I look at them, I wonder if they see me differently, after that zombie fight.

...Because I see myself differently. I even...feel different. A quick look down shows a summary of the battle without words. The front of my body armor is smeared with dirt and grime. Blood blotches over patches of the exposed skin of my hands, and pieces of my hair hang limp and dirty near my chin. A waterfall of dried red extends down the side of my left shoulder.

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That's when I feel the pain again.

My neck! The wound in my neck from the Darken biting me!

I reach up but find in surprise that it's padded with fabric. ...A makeshift bandage.

"One bit me"—I can't help it as terror rides into my voice and my eyes flash to Callen's face—"One of those things bit me. Does that mean I'll turn Darken—"

Before the man can answer, Joy sidles up to us, a devilish, bemused look raising her right eyebrow. "You think this is The Walking Dead or something?" she sneers, "Cool your jets, Michonne." And she claps a hand down on the wound.

So hard that I wince.

"That's enough," Callen warns the pink-haired girl, slapping her away. "Sparo!" he calls behind him, "Rosabella wants to talk to you."

And the group parts.

And the dark-skinned dragon-non-dragon walks through.

He looks at the ground—his shoulders slumped forward, kinda sheepish. It almost looks like he's shy to see me.

"And she made it to another day," he sings as he gets closer, that brilliant grin sliding onto his face.

It makes me smile.

"Thanks to you," I say as he switches with Rainer so I can lean on him while the group wanders back to mess with things in camp.

And it's just me.

And Mr. Machine-gun-magic.

And I don't feel like I need to put a show on anymore; all my defenses drop.

"You saved my life," I say, putting the emphasis that's deserved in every syllable.

But the man just ducks his head away from me, bashful again, "Shucks, no one's ever thanked me for anything before. I'm usually just a royal pain in the—"

"Thank you," I insist.

And I look up.

And Sparo looks down.

And we're so close in that moment—our faces. His wide chest, heaving up and down under his burlap shirt. And the look in his eyes sweeps any breath I have straight out of my lungs.

Gone.

...Because there's no barrier between us. No bullshit. Just...

Skin.

Nose.

Eyes.

...Lips.

My eyes linger there as I wet my own—

What is this—NO.

I push it down.

I watch him shove it down too.

He clears his throat.

Awkwardly.

Or maybe that's just a reflection I have because I suddenly feel awkward—suddenly notice every place that my body is touching his as I lean heavily on his form.

And, suddenly, I need to stand on my own.

I try to do so, wobbling dangerously.

"Hey there," he calls, reaching out to help, "Damn women always trying to be so independent when they can barely stand—"

...And there's his joking facade again, smoothing right over everything—replacing it like it never even happened—

I grit my teeth. Why does the pulling away feel so familiar?

"I need to do this on my own," I tell him, resisting his fingers even though I feel the weakness taking me under its waves. And I wonder for a minute what it would be like not to have to do it on my own...to have help. To have...someone.

Him.

To have him.

I swallow.

"Listen, I know you want to help," I start, "And I appreciate everything you've done for me, really, but I have to be able to at least stand and walk. I need to be able to absorb your creator magic and fix the world here."

I say it so confidently, but I can see that the man sees through it. His forehead creases in worry, "What you need is a health pack and, even with this creator magic, that's the one thing I can't make you—"

"Then, screw it. I'll have to go without," I tell him firmly.

But I can't even stand firmly. My feet teeter on the hard earth below me—feeling like Jell-O compared to it.

I try to disguise the movement as I reach to steady myself on a nearby sapling, but Sparo's eyes flicker to catch my hand on the peeling bark.

...It's almost like he can see the nausea crashing over my head.

See the way the world is blurring and churning around me.

How much blood have I lost?

"You can't do magic like this," he complains, "Do you even know what you're doing?"

"I—"I sputter, suddenly feeling attacked and more defensive than I would like, "I'll figure it out."

"Seriously, and girls say men are the ones who don't ask for directions!" he quips, folding his arms.

And I look at him.

I try to keep my face still and solid. Think tree. Think impenetrable, fucking unmoving tree.

...But I'm positive my expression is sliding into pale white. Whatever poker face I never had is long out the window.

"I—" I try again, but falter. "I...so don't got this," I admit.

That's when my knees collapse.

I brace myself for the jarring dirt and rock below—

But I don't hit the ground.

Because Sparo's hands are there.

And he lifts my whole body up, swinging my legs into his grasp like I'm the weight of a child.

"What—"

"You so do got this," he tell me quietly. I can nearly hear the beat of his heart through his shirt, but I try harder not to notice.

"You negotiated with a dragon"—he shifts my weight in his arms, grunting softly—I take back the weight of a child thing—"fought an entire horde of Darken...killed a dragon—"

He watches me closely as shock crosses my face. "How—" I falter, feeling my cheeks turning scarlet with mortification.

He squints sarcastically at me, "Oh, word gets around in the dragon world, you know?"

I don't.

I can barely feel my limbs.

"Here," he carefully helps sit me down on the log of a fallen tree just inside the shelter of the forest. The shadows of the leaves overhead slide over my face with a coolness that I didn't know I was longing for. The smell of lush greenery fills my nostrils...and a hefty slice of silence fills my ears.

More wonderful than anything I can describe.

Sparo's huge hands prop me up. "Sit up," he prods. His voice is gentle, but, for some reason, I still want to fight him—fight the concept that I need someone else in this minute.

"Why?" I hold onto the stubbornness as I blink at him, my lids heavy.

I feel like I'm going to keel over.

—Like my vision is going to fade and I'm going to slump over again.

But Sparo's there, leaning into my weary face, prodding me on. "I'm going to teach you how to do magic"—his voice is like honey...or gold...I can't think clearly to determine which—"You want to fix the world, don't you? I can show you how, okay?"

I nod but, per usual, doubt stands like a brick wall in my way.

And fatigue is there too.

How can someone win against those two, burly soldiers?