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The field was ash and ruin. Cinders danced in the air, the aftermath of Messmer’s flame still simmering in the broken earth. Another siege on Shadow Keep. The battle had been won, barely.
Messmer stood tall at the center of the wreckage, red serpents coiled at his back. Armor scorched and cracked but still standing.
Cain stood too, some distance behind him. Upright, but pale, more so than normal. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Messmer turned to him, at first to ensure he was near. But something in Cain’s stance; the rigid posture, the way his right arm hung just slightly too still.
“Cain,” he said, walking towards him.
Cain didn't answer. His gaze flickered up, offering a tired, thin-lipped smile. “I’m fine,” he tried to reassure, "It's nothing.”
That was the first mistake. Messmer’s eye narrowed.
He closed the distance. Cain took a step back, as if that might hide it. But the stench of blood hit Messmer’s senses before he even reached him. Sharp, coppered, and wrong. Cain’s robes were dark at the hip, the stain growing.
And he was trembling. Messmer reached for him. Cain tried to wave him off, “It shall pass. I would not dare burden thee mid-battle.”
That did it. With more urgency than Cain had ever seen from him, Messmer caught his arm. Gently but unyielding. “Show me.”
“Mess-”
“Now.”
The command was not cruel. It was frantic under its calm.
Cain swallowed, jaw tight. He reluctantly shifted his robes aside to reveal the wound. A deep gash across his lower side, half-clotted, the edge blackened with some lingering venom or dark magic. Cain hissed as the magic began to spread.
Messmer stared. Not at the wound itself, but the fact that it had been hidden from him. That Cain had chosen to carry this alone. He dropped to one knee.
Not in weakness, but to reach him, to hold Cain steady. One hand braced at Cain’s lower back, the other hovering, shaking. Not quite touching the wound yet. His serpents hissed low with unease.
“I would have shielded thee,” he said softly, voice tight. “Why didst thou keep this from me?”
Cain was barely still standing, “I knew thee wouldst falter. Thou shield me as if i were glass. I yearned to stand beside thee, just once.”
Messmer looked up at him. His single eye blazing not with anger, but with something far heavier.
“I would rather bear a thousand wounds,” he said, “than see thee take one for mine sake.”
Cain sagged, the pain rising as the adrenaline ebbed. The venom like magic continued to spread, making Cain weaker still. Messmer caught him before he could fall, arms wrapping around him with terrifying gentleness.
“Hold still,” the panic in Messmer’s voice made itself known, “Let me…Let me fix this.”
Cain, half-conscious now, leaned against his chest. He wanted to crack a joke about Messmer scolding him for his haphazardness, but he did not bear the strength to speak.
Messmer looked at the wound once more, seeing dark tendrils spread from the gash. Cain breathing turned laboured. He knew there was nothing he could do on the battlefield, amidst all the ruin. He must get back to Shadow Keep. Surely the healers and scholars could fix his beloved.
The road to Shadow Keep was long, but Messmer moves as if born by fire itself.
Cain lay cradled in his arms, limp save for the occasional twitch. Small, frightened things, like dreaming of falling. His breath came shallow. Each inhale a whisper, each exhale a warning.
The battlefield had already begun to cool behind them, its ruin settling into silence. But within Messmer, nothing was still. His serpents stirred restlessly, flicking tongues toward Cain’s wound as if to ward it off. Though their efforts were in vain. Their hissing filled the silence around him.
The venom had taken hold almost too quickly. Not even his flame could cauterize it without risk. Every attempt had caused Cain to seize. His body rejecting both poison and purging.
Messmer’s jaw clenched. His eye fixed forward, but his mind raced in dark spirals.
“This cannot be how it ends.”
Cain’s head lolled weakly against his shoulder. His skin, usually pale, had gone gray at the edges. Lips cracked. Fingers cold. Messmer pressed him closer, trying to will his own warmth into the scholar's frail form.
There was no entourage. No banners. Just him, striding through blackened fields with the weight of the one soul that mattered in his arms.
He dared a glance down.
Cain’s eyes fluttered open, but stayed unfocused and clouded. There was no spark now, only ache. His mouth moved, trying to form something. A name. Maybe a plea.
Messmer bowed his head, his forehead brushing Cain’s temple.
“I hear thee,” he whispered, whether Cain spoke or not. “And I shall carry thee home.”
For a moment, a flicker of flame curled around his shoulders. Reflective. Protective. But even the fire knew this was not a battle it could win. Not with fury. Not with force.
Messmer staggered once, the weight of grief catching his footing. His knees nearly buckled from realization; he might not make it in time.
He lowered himself to one knee in the ash stained grass. Not in surrender, but desperation. Cain’s pulse fluttered against his palm fair too faintly.
The silence of the field closed around them. For the first time in centuries, Messmer feared the quiet. He pressed his face to Cain’s crown, inhaling the scent of blood and dust and something faintly familiar; old parchment and fresh lavender. The remnants of Cain’s room, of whispered evenings and ink-stained fingers.
“Do not leave me.” he breathed. Not a command. A beg.
“Do not make me bear this alone.”
No serpents stirred now. No wind. No voice answered him. Only Cain breathing, barely. Messmer lifted him again. Fire coiled at his feet and surged beneath his stirred, lifting him far faster than before.
Toward Shadow Keep. Toward salvation
The wound festered still.
By the time Messmer reached the upper halls of Shadow Keep, Cain was half-lucid in his arms. Sweat clinging to his brow, breath shallow. The venom in the gash had not only resisted the Lord’s attempts to burn it away - it had thrived beneath his touch. Threading dark tendrils through blood and spirit.
“Open the doors,” Messmer commanded, voice too calm to be anything but dangerous. His serpent companions coiled around Cain as if to provide another barrier of protection.
Two of the Keep’s flameward clerics stood outside the old infirmary chambers. They bowed hastily at their Lord’s approach, but their eyes winded when they saw the limp figure in his arms.
“My Lord-” one began.
“Now.” Messmer snapped. Urgency getting the best of him.
The doors flew open. Messmer moved through like a storm held back only by will. Cain’s weight was nothing to him. But the way his body convulsed faintly, the twitch of fingers seeking anchor; that nearly undid him.
He laid Cain down on the stone bed, brushing aside old blankets with trembling fingers. One of his serpents around him hissed with distress.
“Fetch whatever wardcraft is needed,” Messmer growled to the clerics, “Scour the Keep if thou must. He breathes not steady.”
Cain stirred, eyes barely cracked open, “Messmer…”
“Hush.”
He gently brushed away the hair that clung to Cain’s face, then removed his armor while the clerics gathered their sorceries. He knelt beside the bed, taking Cain’s hand in both of his, and whispered something. Not a prayer, not a spell, just a sound that might’ve once been a cry.
The healers went to work. They peeled back the blood-slicked robe. Wincing at the way the wound pulsed with dark energy, like in water. One lit a soft blue flame, another traced sigils over Cain’s abdomen. Messmer didn't flinch, just kept hold of Cain’s hand.
The hours passed. Shadow Keep’s walls shuddered in the wind. And still, Messmer didn’t move.
Two days later…
Cain awoke to quiet.
A real, almost sacred quiet. Broken only by the soft crackle of flame in the corner and the subtle rasp of breath beside him.
He turned his head. His body ached, heavy to move. But the burning pain was gone. The dark magic having been drawn out. The wound had been wrapped carefully. Everything smelled faintly of clean linens, ash…and Messmer.
The flame lord sat beside him in a chair clearly not meant for someone of his size. His knees were curled awkwardly, one hand in his lap, the other still holding Cain’s. His head rested against the wall behind him. His armor was gone, just red robes. His hair was messier than normal. His eye opened the moment Cain shifted.
“You’re still here,” Cain said hoarsely.
“Thou speakest as though I ever left,” Messmer straightened, raising without a sound, “Stay still, beloved. Let the mending take root.”
Cain tried to push himself up regardless. He flinched and couldn't help but hiss at the sharp pain at his side. Messmer was there to help in a heartbeat, knowing Cain would not listen to him. Stubborn as he always is. He placed one hand at his back, the other gripping his wrist to stabilize him. “Easy," he reiterated, “thou art still healing.”
Cain let out a soft exhale and looked up at him. The dark circles beneath Messmer’s eye. The creases between his brows, like they had never smoothed in sleep.
“You haven't rested,” Cain said. Messmer gave no answer.
“Messmer-”
“I feared thou wouldst die.” The words spilled out, “Not from battle. Not from blade. From thine own recklessness. Thou art the one wound I could never heal…if I lost.” He did not sound angry. He sounded wounded.
Cain dropped his gaze. The guilt hit harder than any spell, “I yearned to stand beside thee, not to linger in thy shadow.”
Messmer crouched beside the bed, eye level now, “Of what value is the shared flame, if but one soul remains to bear its burden?”
Cain opened his mouth, but no reply came. The weight of Messmer’s fear settled heavy across the room. Messmer reached up and gently, ever so gently, brushed a strand of hair from Cain’s face.
“I am no god,” he whispered. “But thou art my beloved. If I lose thee, I lose what anchor I have left. And I cannot-” his voice caught, barely audible, “-I cannot burn alone again.”
Cain reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. His hand dwarfed in comparison.
“I am sorry,” he said. “For concealing it. For deeming myself in need of proving. I was foolish. I... I was blind to the doom it wouldst bring upon thee.”
Messmer bent forward and pressed his forehead against Cain’s, “Be foolish no longer,” he whispered. “Let me worry, if it means thou art safe.”
“I shall be safe. I swear it.”
Messmer’s breath shook, “Again.”
Cain closed his eyes, brow against his, “I swear it.”
That night, Cain drifted in and out of sleep, the medicine pulling at him. But every time he stirred, Messmer was still there. Now seated at the edge of the bed, cloak draped over both of them. One arm resting lightly atop the blankets, hand brushing Cain’s.
Cain smiled faintly in the dark, “Thou can rest now.” he murmured.
Messmer’s voice was low, calm, “Only when thou breathest steady. Only then.”
Cain’s fingers gently around his wrist, pulling him in closer. And perhaps, for the first time since the battle, Messmer closed his eye not in fear, but relief.