Chapter Text
Rosch swore as he crashed through the brush of the forest just behind Stocke, chasing the fleeing Granorg scout. The surprise attack would be no surprise at all if he escaped to bring word of Alistel’s movements to their leaders, but chasing at breakneck speed carried its own risk, especially if the scout knew the woods here, had companions up ahead...
Rosch had nearly caught up with Stocke when the deer path widened into a small clearing. Their quarry was flanked by three more men, one with a crossbow, the others with drawn swords.
Stocke wasted no time, veering left to engage the two swordsmen. One fell to his flashing blade in seconds, but the second was a better match.
Rosch went for the scout, striking hard and fast with his gauntlet and sending the man flying. He landed heavily on the ground. Two strides would take Rosch close enough for a killing blow.
“Burn him,” the scout shouted, trying to scramble back as Rosch brought his metal claw down. Rosch heard the low, sharp hum of a crossbow, the thud of a bolt landing in a tree just past him. He turned towards the shooter. Rosch saw the weapon fall from the man’s hand and everything… slowed down.
Every detail was clear and bright and sharp as the mage brought his hands up with what seemed exaggerated slowness, his lips already moving to chant the spell. Rosch tried to run, but his knees were locked for what seemed like seconds (later, he’d realize it was scarcely more than a heartbeat), and when he could move it was like dragging his whole body through water. There was no way he’d be able to get out of range in time; even throwing himself on the ground would do little at this range.
This is going to hurt, Rosch thought, but there was no time for fear.
Then, against all reason, Stocke was throwing himself at the enemy mage, his broken sword gripped like a knife. Rosch saw his friend’s path before he even landed, but there was already light sparking between the mage’s fingers, it was too late, too late, and Stocke would be immolated …
But there was no fire, no smoke, not even a scream as Stocke landed heavily on the mage, his momentum crashing them both down to the ground.
There was silence, the pulse pounding in Rosch’s ears more a thing of sensation than sound. Then Stocke struggled to his feet, breathing heavily. When he turned to face Rosch, there was blood on the front of his chest, dark against the bright Alistel blue.
“Are you all right?” he asked around ragged breaths.
Rosch stared. “Are you crazy?” he croaked when he could manage words. “You almost took a fireball point-blank!”
Stocke shrugged, or Rosch thought he did -- it was hard to tell when the man’s shoulders were still heaving with every breath. “Calculated risk. Would’ve been bad if he hit you. I was close enough.”
Calculated risk? Was the man mad? “You could have been killed! A hair slower and we wouldn’t have even needed to make a pyre for you!”
“You could have been, if I hadn’t done anything.” Stocke staggered over to a tree and braced himself on a low-hanging branch.
Rosch crossed the clearing to join him by the tree. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said gruffly, checking his friend for injury. “But you didn’t have to risk yourself like that!” The blood-soaked patch worried him still, but up close it looked more like it came from outside than within -- the mage, not Stocke, then.
Stocke blinked slowly up at him, his green eyes a little glassy. “You’re angry with me. For saving your life.”
“For being so reckless with your own!”
Stocke stared back, pale face uncomprehending, and Rosch wondered if he’d knocked his head when he’d tackled the mage.
“Why does it matter? As soldiers we risk our lives every day.”
“How can you even ask that!” Rosch growled. “Of course you matter, you idiot! I… you…” Prophet’s Tears, how could he explain the difference between patriotism and martyrdom? “You’re a soldier of Alistel, you’re one of Sgt. Dessel’s, you know he’d be furious if you got yourself killed foolishly.”
Stocke closed his eyes, shook his head. He was breathing more easily now. “We both know he’s grooming you for command. I’m just cannon fodder.” He really seemed to mean it. “You’re more important.”
Rosch’s heart was a tangle of fury and pity. He wanted to grab Stocke by the shoulders and shake sense into him, wanted to crush his friend in a hug and never let go, wanted to… to do something, the man was here, and so close, and had so little regard for his own welfare. But if Stocke really was concussed, none of that was a good idea.
Instead, he leaned forward, eyes closing, and gently pressing his forehead against Stocke’s. “Never, ever say you’re not important.”
Stocke was silent, and when Rosch opened his eyes, he saw his friend was pale and trembling, his pupils noticeably different sizes. Definitely a bad sign. “Let’s get you to the camp healer. Lean on my shoulder.”