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Oli has issues being injured. He’d like to think it’s nothing a normal man wouldn’t struggle with, but the speed at which he’s all but chewed through his blankets and cataloged every crack in the wood of the walls and ceiling is… worrying. By day three, he’d win a game of I-Spy in a tie between “pickle” and “crocodile” – and he’s also convinced himself that both of those are legitimate colors.
He needs distraction. Stimulation. Something to avoid his brain going wonky and something that, preferably, doesn’t come in the form of the books Eddie keeps bringing him.
Don’t get him wrong; Eddie’s an angel, so Oli gave the books a fair shot. But the words blur in front of his eyes before he even gets to the end of the second page. The sentences are long-winded and boring; the kind of writing that happens when storytellers forget that myths like these are meant to be transported orally and passed on in the forms of hymns around roaring fires. There’s no dynamic in writing. No concern for the audience. Oli hates it. Give him the gossip, the sailor’s yarn, the whispered spine-chiller in the sweet dark safety of a shared blanket fort any day.
Consequently, the most interesting thing about Eddie bringing him books is Eddie being in the room with him. He takes up all the space from the floor to the ceiling, broad and tall as he is. It makes Oli’s insides squirm like a jar of eels every time – and when has that become a thing?
He smells good, too. Like freshly baked bread in the morning and more pumpkin pie in the afternoon, which Oli hasn’t seen a crumb of so far, unfortunately. Other days, he’s surrounded by the scents of hot metal or hay, both of them allowing just a hint of his tantalizing natural musk. It never fails to remind Oli that he hasn’t washed in weeks.
He’s beyond stinky. He’s reeking. He can smell himself.
It’s unbearable and can’t go on.
There’s a bowl of water by door. Eddie or one of his apprentices replaces it every morning at breakfast, like clockwork.
It’s day four. He’s probably recovered at least a little bit. Which means motive, opportunity and means are all here and Oli’s now officially yeeting caution out the window. He throws back the blanket and rolls to the edge of the mattress.
Pain shoots up his leg immediately; the squid-sucker bites – or whatever it was – still as sore as they were on the day he tried standing up the first time. Day one.
Oli is nothing if not a man who learns from his mistakes. This time, he puts a hand over his mouth to muffle his scream before his foot hits the floor. His teeth clamp down on his palm so hard it hurts.
‘Fucking fire shark plant jellyfish squid,’ he hisses.
At least his good foot is able to hold most of his weight. Using his arms, he maneuvers himself into a standing position. Then he does a couple of hops in place, bandaged leg in the air. When the universe doesn’t immediately karma him into the dust, he sets his sights on the door.
He’s barely made it halfway across the room when he notices the first gaping hole in his plan. After his stay in the goblin dungeons, his legs are all bone and no muscle, despite the high protein pork diet. Which probably isn’t surprising: if hunting rats provided adequate exercise, someone would have made it an official sport by now.
Or maybe his body just wants to remind him in no uncertain terms that it’s not up for any bullcrap in general. Like it suddenly spawned sentience or something. But he’s already made it this far… Oli considers the distance. Five hops, if he had to guess. Five hops and then he can run a wet cloth over his face. And his neck. And his pits. And… other parts. Point is, the effort will be worth it. He takes a deep breath, gives himself a push and hops for his life. Or at least his cleanliness.
‘Uh-wah! Uh-wah!’
His body aches. His muscles creak under the weight of his own skeleton. He flings his hand out for the table, grabs it as soon as he gets in range.
It’s quite small, up close. It wobbles when he leans on it. Then it tips over, catapulting the bowl into Oli’s face and drenching him in icy water from his head to his toes. He loses his balance and crashes to the ground, and the double shock of the cold and the explosion of pain drives all the air from his lungs. He can’t even cry out.
Tears shoot into his eyes. On instinct, he fumbles for his aching thighs. Pressing against the bandage only makes it hurt more. He pants through gritted teeth. Fuck. How the shit can something sting so much–
The door flies open. Oli doesn’t notice until it hits the wall, making it rattle.
‘Oli!’
He whimpers.
‘Shh, shh. It’s alright. I got you.’
Hands find his elbows and pull him up. Oli flinches. ‘No!’
The grip immediately loosens, but doesn’t draw away completely. Warmth seeps through his skin. The air smells of woodsmoke and hot iron.
‘E-Eddie?’
‘Yeah,’ says Eddie, voice low and soothing. ‘I’m here.’
Oli lifts a shaking hand. Flutters his eyelids. ‘Tell… Tell my friends I– I love them.’
He peeks through his unruly blond bangs just in time to watch the other’s expression shift from worry to exasperation. A thick finger taps him on the nose. ‘You idiot. You had me worried!’
Oli snickers. ‘Sorry. I had to, you know? Because when will I ever get this opportunity again?’
Strong arms slide under his body, jostling him slightly. He yelps. Eddie ignores him and straightens, picking him up bridal style like he weighs nothing at all. The harengon’s broad chest feels as solid as a mountain. It rises and falls with his breath.
Heat floods Oli’s face, sluicing down his spine. ‘U-uh?’
Covering the distance between the door and the bed, which cost Oli five hops of valuable energy, takes Eddie three long strides. Unceremoniously, he deposits Oli on top of the blanket. Then he leans in until they’re eye to eye.
‘I considered you smarter than this, you know. You’re not well enough to be out of bed anytime soon.’
‘I’m fine,’ Oli says, puffing up like a drowned rat. ‘Look! I can use my arms and my head and, most of all, my nose. I stink!’
Eddie’s whiskers twitch. ‘That’s–’
‘– the truth,’ Oli finishes. ‘Don’t tell me it doesn’t bother you. You and your apprentices’ olfactory organs are way better than a human’s.’
He crosses his arms in front of his chest. It’s getting kind of cold now, actually, drenched as he is.
Eddie holds up his hands. They’re mostly human. Maybe a bit more paw-shaped around the palm and the tips of his fingers, and those are definitely not human nails, but they have the standard three joints and a thumb.
‘You really are a sweet one, aren’t you?’
The heat in Oli’s cheeks goes ballistic. ‘W-what does that have to do with–?’
‘Tell you what,’ says Eddie. ‘If you promise you’ll stay in bed for now, I’ll find a way to get you a bath as soon as possible.’
‘That’s a bad deal if I ever heard one.’ Oli pouts. ‘I guess the lack of definition of time frame was what you were aiming for in the first place?’
Eddie’s mouth curls. ‘Too smart by half. Will you agree if I amend my statement to “within the next few days”?’
The other’s face is way too close for Oli to be able to think about this clearly. He has to look away so he can breathe. ‘O-okay. Not sure what you’d want me to do here in the meantime, but fine.’
Eddie’s gaze snaps to the nightstand. ‘What about the books? Wait. You can read, right?’
Oli snorts. ‘Yeah, but…,’ he trails off. His shoulders slump in resignation. ‘Yeah.’
Eddie considers him for another moment. Then he jumps to his feet. ‘Oh! I almost forgot. Wait here.’
He whirls on his heels and runs out of the room, leaving Oli to scowl after him.
‘Where the heck would I go?’
No reply. The footsteps in the hallway fade to silence, interspersed with the sounds of clanking porcelain and glassware in the distance. There’s not much going on in the house right now; things only tend to pick up after nightfall. Except on some days, where it’s just weirdly quiet and an aura of impenetrable zen seems to lie over the entire building.
That’s not today, though. The footsteps return and then Eddie bursts through the door, carrying… yet another book. Oli deflates.
‘Uh. Thanks?’
‘I think you might like this one better,’ says Eddie, still grinning, and places it carefully on Oli’s knees.
‘Sure,’ says Oli. ‘I like books.’
He picks it up to put it on top of the stack on the nightstand.
Eddie’s ears rotate. ‘Open it.’
Oli hesitates. He traces his finger along the edge, then lifts up the cover. His eyes widen.
He’d expected carefully printed paragraphs of letters, maybe a couple of illuminated initials. Sprawled out before him, black on parchment yellow, are notes. Chords. Music.
Eddie reaches into a pocket of his apron and produces a handful of items. ‘These were the only ones I could find on short notice. Maybe you can tell me which one you usually like best and I could try to find it for you?’
He tips his bounty into Oli’s hands: a silver harmonica, an ocarina, a tin whistle, a rattle shaped like an egg. Oli gapes at him.
Eddie’s grin wavers. ‘Do you… not like it?’
‘Yes! Yes, I do!’ That came out louder than necessary. Oli clutches the items to his chest like a lifeline. ‘I just– How did you–?’
‘Easy. This!’
Laughing, Eddie pulls out–
‘My horn!’
Oli shifts his new instruments to one arm, still cradling them close, and makes grabby hands for the horn. The weight and heft of it feel achingly familiar. It’s the genuine thing; Gem’s Horn of Dawn. He brings it to his lips and blows into it.
The sound wraps around him like a wave rising from below, buoying him upwards. It’s a deep bass note. Contrast, Oli thinks, and fumbles for the tin whistle. His fingers fit over the holes along its slim body; two hands, that’s enough variety for complex melodies. Its high, screeching trill is a little off key, but maybe he can–
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Eddie whispers, somewhere at the edge of Oli’s consciousness. He gives an absent nod, caught on a new tune spinning through his mind – any thought of boredom far, far away.