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Davion is tired of not knowing what’s going on. More than that, he’s tired of embarrassing himself. This amnesia is doing a very thorough job of destroying his reputation.
“You’ve certainly done a helluva number on yourself,” Mirana grumbles in agreement, grunting under the massive deadweight currently slumped over her shoulders. At least he’s wearing clothes this time.
Davion groans in response, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as they make their way up the creaking staircase. His head is foggy and his stomach still feels uneasy. He thought perhaps a few pints of ale, (or several), might help to dull the sick feeling of malaise that he hasn’t been able to escape since he woke in that godforsaken forest.
But Mirana was right. There’s something wrong with him. And drinking was probably not the brightest idea. But he’s never claimed to have good ones, either.
And now he has another problem to worry about - the evidence of which lies stowed away in his pocket. He should’ve just let the villager keep the damned thing.
“I should’ve let Marci carry you,” Mirana gripes. But Marci is still downstairs helping the innkeeper clean up the mess Davion made. She falters under his weight before regaining her balance. Davion does his best to help, but he can barely see straight.
He trips over the next step and his knee catches on the landing. He can practically feel Mirana’s eyes rolling back into her skull as she squats down to readjust her hold and hoist him back onto his feet. Her hair spills over her shoulder and falls in a luxurious chestnut wave directly into his face. His head spins as she steadies him. Davion feels like he’s floating.
She smells so nice. Like lavender and tree bark and just a hint of peppermint. A wonderfully unique, soothing scent. He might like to drown in it, sometime.
“Excuse me?”
Oh, no. Did he say that out loud? Mirana is glaring at him like he’s just sprouted horns.
Before his brain has a chance to catch up with his tongue he’s slurring it out again, “You smell nice.”
She huffs and hauls him the last few feet into the roach-infested room, an angry flush rising high on her cheekbones. The little creatures skitter back into the safety of the shadows as they stumble inside. Mirana grimaces in revulsion, lifting her boot to shake off one of the rogue insects.
“You shouldn’t say things like that. If you hadn’t already had the shit beaten out of you, I might feel inclined to rearrange your facial structure right about now.” She deposits him on the pathetic excuse for a mattress, which practically folds in half as Davion’s full weight sinks down on to it.
“Sorry.” He wilts in on himself, pressing the back of his fist against his lips to stifle a belch. He bows his large frame over his knees, resting his head in his hands. Mirana raises an eyebrow.
“Are you going to be all right?” She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring down at him. “You do realize this is your own fault?” She can’t seem to decide between scolding or concern.
“Mm,” Davion gulps and nods his head, slowly, to ensure it doesn’t roll off his shoulders. He’s not sure which question he’s answering. “Thought it might help.”
“When have monstrous quantities of alcohol ever solved any situation?”
Davion whimpers, head sinking lower between his shoulders as the scenery swims around him.
She takes pity and her voice softens a bit when she admits, “But you certainly get points for trying.” She kneels down beside him. “Here, let me take a look at that.”
She carefully pulls his hand away and lifts his chin, brushing her thumb lightly over the bloodied lump protruding from his eyebrow. The split skin is still oozing, dripping fluid into his line of sight. Mirana spots a wash cloth next to a basin resting in the corner. A quick glance under the shirt of his tunic reveals an ugly mottled patchwork of dark purple bruises across his chest and stomach. He’s probably cracked a rib or two. She wets the mostly clean cloth and begins dabbing away the worst of the mess caked to his forehead. Davion’s eyelashes flutter and he winces at the contact.
“Is this all right?” she asks, a flash of uncertainty creasing her brow.
He swallows hard, offering the barest fraction of a nod. “Yes.”
Mirana frowns, pausing her ministrations to rest the back of her hand against his forehead, then his cheek. “Still running a temperature, hm?” She wrings out the cloth, then rewets it and positions it at the base of his neck, pressing gently.
Davion pulls away, suddenly, the muscles in his shoulders tensing as he perches on the edge of the mattress. He swallows again, then once more, and his skin prickles all over with cold sweat.
“What is it?” she asks, holding up her hands as if to placate him. “You’ve gone pale.”
“Princess,” his labored breaths begin hitching in panic, “I—“ his words are cut off by a wet gurgle, the only warning either of them receive before Davion pitches forward to retch over his boots.
Mirana whirls around so quickly that Davion barely registers the movement before she’s shoving a chamber pot between his feet. He slides off the bed, sinking into a crouch as the rest of the ale and the meagre remnants of his breakfast make a violent reappearance. Mirana keeps a steadying hand on his shoulder, but eventually has to turn her head away for the encore.
“You certainly don’t give a girl much warning, do you?”
It goes on for a while, Davion coughing and belching over the pot as his stomach scrapes up the dregs. Finally, he pushes away and slumps against the wooden bed frame, panting and exhausted. Mirana shakes her head, awkwardly patting his back a few times before kneeling down, cloth in hand, to wipe away the bile and saliva clinging to his chin.
“Feeling better?” She uses the clean side of the cloth to dab at his forehead.
Something rumbles low in Davion’s throat and his cheeks puff out, almost comically, before he turns his head away from her to release the noxious air with a sick groan. “I might be dying,” he moans. “If I don’t wake up tomorrow, it was nice knowing you.”
“Nonsense,” Mirana stifles a smile, “You just need a bit of rest.” With a little effort, she maneuvers him back on to the bed. “Perhaps a schooling in holding your liquor,” she adds under her breath, sparing a disgusted glance at the overly full chamber pot.
“Oh, hi,” Davion slurs, glassy eyes attempting to focus on a spot over her shoulder.
Mirana turns to see Marci staring at both of them, forehead wrinkling in sympathetic amusement. She waves her hand back at Davion.
“Marci,” Mirana settles him back against the single straw pillow. “Do you mind fetching Davion a pitcher of water? I’m afraid he’s not feeling very well.”
Marci nods and retreats back the way she came.
“Thank you,” Davion breathes, eyelids drooping as his body succumbs to the pull of sleep.
“Don’t get used to it,” Mirana clears her throat and rises to her feet. “I do not make a habit of playing nursemaid to drunken fools.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs, turning his head away to hide the nearly imperceptible grin. Mirana watches as his features smooth and his mouth goes slack. She pulls the thread-bare blanket up around his shoulders.
He’s peaceful for the few minutes it takes her to tidy up the room and clean out the chamber pot, then the twitching starts and she knows he’s already trapped in the nightmare — the same one he has every night, at least whenever he manages to sleep.
Mirana hesitantly reaches out a hand. Her touch seemed to soothe him, earlier. She carefully massages her thumb over the stress lines between his forehead. He mutters something in his sleep, before relaxing once more. His breathing slows, eventually evening out.
She wonders, not for the first time since meeting this strange man, what the hell she’s gotten herself in to.
“Sleep well, Dragon Knight.”