David rouses to the sound of sobs, and odd, mumbled chants. “Please,” a voice whispers. “Please, work.”

When the bard finally recalls what happened before he passed out, and where he is, his first instinct is to check on the state of his hands—after all, without them, he would be as useful as a rock trying to play the lute.

His brows furrow.

Strange, the bard thinks to himself, for the injury he was persuaded was real, is gone.

Desperate cries and whimpers grow louder across the dark cavern. Before David can think twice about it, he finds himself turning to face the pained voice, that belongs to none other than Alexander himself.

The young enchanter has submerged both his palms in a bucket of water, and is bent over the round, silver object. Tears have marked the sides of his face a slightly darker color.

“W-what—” David rises to his feet. At first, he reaches for the young enchanter, however, after a few seconds of consideration, the bard finally decides against it. They are not close enough for that.

His arm falls back down to his side. “What’s going on?” he asks Alexander, in the calmest tone he can muster, despite the urge to come to the young enchanter’s aid, that bubbles within his veins. “What happened to—”

“You don’t have to know.” Alexander gasps. A sniffle escapes him again. He curses under his breath. “Gods, please,” he begs the water, or his skin; David is not sure which it is. “Please—”

“Can I help?”

Maybe it’s true that this isn’t any of his business, but something tells David he may be partially responsible for Alexander’s state. Because he could have sworn his own body had been burned, before he awoke once more, a few minutes ago.

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David kneels down, next to Alexander. He tilts his head to look at the young enchanter’s twisted features. “It’s because you healed me, isn’t it?” he says. And it seems Alexander cannot find it within himself to deny his claims.

The young enchanter shivers. “Does it even matter now?” he asks David. “It is too late anyway.”

“No, it’s not!” David grasps Alexander’s wrist for real this time. “It never is,” he echoes, his voice now a tad quieter.

For the first time since their exchange, Alexander glances upward, into the bard’s eyes. There is something intense, yet rather hopeful swimming in his gaze—most of all though, there is surprise, of the purest kind.

Alexander’s lips part. “Food,” he tells David.

His tone is softer than before; perhaps, David thinks, that Alexander may finally believe in the fact that the bard only wishes to aid him, and nothing else—at least, a tad more than he did, days before, if not entirely.

“Just like tired men cannot lift heavy weights, or run, I cannot heal myself if I am not in good shape,” Alexander mumbles, as his chin retreats back into his chest.

“Okay,” David nods with a hum, whilst he listens closely to the young enchanter’s words. His palm finds its final place of resting against Alexander’s trembling back. He expects to be pushed away, yet, his newest comrade leans into his touch. “So, you want me to cook for you, then?”

Alexander averts his gaze. “Y-you don’t have to if you don’t want to—”

“I do!” David pauses. He frowns, then pulls away to scratch the back of his head. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to shout,” he tells his new-found comrade. “B-but I’ll do it, okay? It’s really…” The bard glances down to both their feet. “Not much in comparison to what you did for me”—David motions at his hands—“but I’ll do my best. You have my word!” He smiles at the young enchanter, who finally meets his gaze again. “I promise.”

Whilst David rises to his feet once more, he is intrigued as to how Alexander—despite his very visible distress—is able to withstand such high amounts of pain. The bard vividly remembers how it had felt to have the entirety of his hand’s skin peeled off, before his world went black hours ago, and, despite all the hits he’d taken on the battlefield in what he now considers to be an existence he is tied to no longer, the feel of the young enchanter’s wrath boiling beneath his skin, had been by far the worst experience of David’s life.

As the bard begins to cook for Alexander, under the young enchanter’s orders and instructions, he wonders with bittersweet heartache, about how many times Alexander has been burned before.