Archive of Our Own

"Stay safe," Ruby orders Max as she finishes plaiting the last strands of his hair and passes him his bag. He rolls his eyes dramatically as he gets to his feet, but he accepts the bag and slings it over his shoulder as he reaches back with his other hand to feel the finished braid. It's neat and tidy, which is exactly what he needs, this morning; normally, he'd let Broghini or Mister Wizard try their hand at it, but he's got work to do today. He doesn't want to go walk around the village with a messy braid.

Besides, Mister Wizard isn't feeling well. He's spent the entire morning so far sitting on the ground with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped around himself, eyes distant, hardly speaking, in a way that seemed particularly out of the ordinary for him. Ruby has decided to stay behind to care for him, and Broghini wants to search the forest for potential dangers before they set up camp, there.

That leaves Max.

"When am I not safe?" Max drawls in response to Ruby, flipping his braid with a hand and ignoring the way Ruby mutters something rude under her breath. He turns to Broghini, who tosses him a sword—not Max's sword, but one that he's fairly sure belongs to Bro himself. Max catches it and swiftly sticks it into the sheath at his hip. Really, he's not entirely sure what they're all so worried about. This village is certainly far calmer than the last one they visited, with Marchessa and the boar moss and all. If Max can handle that, he can certainly handle this little town with the perfectly manicured dirt paths lined on both sides with pleasant wooden shops and lively little merchants' booths. "I'm perfectly safe, thank you."

"Right. Naturally." Ruby sighs and shakes her head, and Max snickers at her clear exasperation. "Still. Stay safe. You remember what happened the last time, I'm sure."

Max waves her off. "Oh, all that. Simply coincidence. Won't happen again, I'm sure of it!" Lies, of course. Max doesn't believe in coincidences. He hasn't believed in coincidences ever since back at the circus. His mentor had told him a million times—more than that, perhaps, over the years—that nothing is by chance. The instant he'd met Marchessa, that claymore hanging on the wall had sent an odd shiver down his spine that should have told him to turn around then and there.

When he woke up today, he'd had that same strange feeling. His palms had been clammy and damp, and he'd been trembling with the force of the cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck, but his face had been flushed and hot, as if he stood too close too a fire. Ruby had even commented on his appearance—bad dreams? she'd asked, lifting an eyebrow as if she already knew the answer. Max didn't have an answer to give her; he couldn't remember his dream, at all. Still, the voices—which have been quieter, recently—were screaming at him.

He hasn't had that feeling in a long time. The last time he did—well. It wasn't particularly pretty, and Max is quite keen on never having to think about that day, again.

"Right, well, then, if that's all!" Max gestures dismissively, already sauntering away from his crew. "You all have fun hanging out around here, I'll go make sure we won't be attacked again if we try to visit the tavern!"

"If you get attacked, then you'll deserve it!" Ruby calls to him, fiddling furiously with her knife, as he turns towards the path leading to the village. It's not far away—a few hours, perhaps—but he'd certainly like to get a move on so he doesn't have to walk back in the dark. Especially alone. He plans to arrive around noon and leave around four, and hopefully return just around when the sun is setting on the horizon.

And, of course, he'll be out and about during the hottest hours of the day—of the hottest days of the year, mind you—when the sun on the back of his neck is enough to burn, and Max hates the feeling of being burned—

"Max," someone whispers, then more insistently, "Max."

A few months ago, perhaps, Max may have entirely ignored the sound of someone repeating his name in lieu of continuing onward. He's busy, after all; he's on a mission today. He's got hardly a few hours before the coolness of the morning changes into midday heat.

But the voice is one that he hasn't heard all morning, and it cuts easily through the voices in his head, so he sighs—long and drawn out as if irritated, though he really doesn't mind at all, and is in fact relieved that Mister Wizard is speaking again—and turns around.

Mister Wizard's eyes are wide and hazy, and there are dark circles smeared beneath them, as if he hardly slept. Despite their constant travels beneath the bright sun, his skin is remarkably pale, and his hands tremble almost imperceptibly as he reaches up and adjusts his hat.

He looks…afraid.

Max furrows his eyebrows. "Yes, Mister Wizard?" Any other day, he might have chosen a name on a whim to address the wizard, but…now doesn't seem the time.

Mister Wizard beckons for him to come closer. Max exchanges a confused glance with Ruby and Broghini, who seem to just as lost as he is where they're standing over near the remnants of last night's campfire, but he approaches Mister Wizard and crouches down beside him.

"Hey, there, Wiz," Max says quietly. Something tells him that there's no space for teasing or jokes in this moment. "You doin' alright?"

Mister Wizard shakes his head, but Max doesn't think it's in response to his question. Rather, he thinks it might be an attempt to gain a clearer head, but when Mister Wizard looks up at him again, his foggy eyes make it clear that the attempt was futile. He still doesn't respond.

Max purses his lips. He sets a hand on his friend's shoulder and repeats, "Mister Wizard? Are you alright?"

"I—be careful, Max," Mister Wizard breathes, and Max's blood runs cold. Broghini begins to say something loud and confused, but Ruby shushes him quickly. Her eyes are fixed on Mister Wizard. "I don't—I don't know what's wrong. But be careful."

"Mister Wizard…." Ruby whispers, but Max ignores her. He squeezes Mister Wizard's shoulder.

"Okay, mate," he murmurs. It's almost uncomfortable to speak so softly, to act so gentle. He hasn't done that in…a long time, admittedly. He's gotten quite used to the bluster and bravado that he often wears, like a comfortable jacket, or a pair of shoes that he's long-since broken in. It makes his scalp tingle and his skin itch to be so careful with Mister Wizard. It's worth it, he thinks. He doesn't know if Mister Wizard will be able to handle anything harsher. "I'll be careful. Don't you worry, at all." He pats Mister Wizard's shoulder. "You just stay here and rest."

Mister Wizard still seems uneasy. "Please be careful," he repeats, and Max exhales through his nose. He doesn't know what else he can possibly do to reassure the wizard. He glances helplessly over his shoulder at Ruby and Broghini. Bro shrugs. Ruby grimaces apologetically.

Max returns his focus to Mister Wizard himself. "I will," he says once again. He hesitates—stalls for a moment—then sighs and opens his bag. He digs through it for a moment, highly aware of Mister Wizard's eyes tracking his every movement, then closes his fingers around something small and round and cool. When he pulls it out of the bag, it jingles in his palm.

He offers it out to Mister Wizard. For a second, Mister Wizard just stares down at the little bell in Max's hand. Slowly, he reaches out to take it, and Max has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from snatching it back and stuffing it deep into his bag, or into a pocket where no one will be able to find it. As soon as it's not in his palm, one of the voices in his head—softer, more scared than usual—protests weakly. He brushes it off; he's gotten good at that.

"What's this?" Mister Wizard breathes. Max purses his lips.

"My—" Max isn't entirely sure how to describe Rufus. A teacher. A father, in a lot of ways. He can't say that, though. "—mentor," he settles on eventually, "gave it to me. As a little trinket. Keepsake, if you will." He's quiet for a moment. "I haven't seen him in a long time," he murmurs. "I'll come back for it. Promise."

Mister Wizard, impossibly, seems calmer. He curls his fingers around the bell and gives Max a weak smile. "Good," he whispers. "I—come back. You have to come back."

"I will," Max says for the third time. He clears his throat and stands, dusting himself off. "Well, I'd best be off, then. Unless there's anything else I'm required for…?" He keeps an eye on Mister Wizard, just in case, but Mister Wizard shakes his head. Ruby remains silent.

Broghini clears his throat. "Go, Max," he finally says for all of them. His voice is gruff, but kind. It's something Max has always liked about him; his ability to be strong and gentle at the same time. "We'll be here when you get back. And—" He coughs. "And be careful."

"Oh, you know me, Bro," Max yawns. He waves a hand aimlessly through the air. "I'm always careful."

//

As soon as Max is out of sight of all the others, he lets the swagger drop from his shoulders and blows out a long breath. His bag feels strangely light and strangely empty without the constant subtle jingling, and he often has to touch it to reassure himself that he hasn't left anything else behind. It's odd to be without the bell that Rufus gave him, all those years ago. He doesn't like it. The Circus of Wonders wasn't all good, but Rufus was kind. The bell that Max gave Mister Wizard to hold on to is the last remnant of him.

He tugs on his braid and forces himself to keep walking when he realizes that his pace has slowed.

As he continues down the path, alone, he whistles to himself. Before finding the others, the feeling of traveling by himself had been rather familiar. Until he was fifteen, he had no concept of loneliness. Either he was with his parents or he was with Rufus or he was with one of the other lovely members of the Circus of Wonders, but he was almost never truly on his own.

And then his world…went up in flames, so to speak. Max learned how to be alone; he didn't have much of a choice.

The first year hurt more than he was willing to admit—more than he's still willing to admit, even if Brodude or Ruby or Mister Wizard were to ask him. He made it through that time by doing the same thing he always has: wearing a mask of indifference and an air of flourish, and acting like his world didn't fall apart just a few short months ago.

He survived by hanging around villages as much as possible, spending his days in the taverns and his nights in the inns and talking to as many people as he could, because even the constant voices (which, at that point, were just starting to make their appearance) weren't enough to fill the void. Every time he tried to get someone's attention and they blatantly ignored him, he had to retreat to somewhere out of sight to force himself to calm down. It was too reminiscent of the people back at the circus, and he often found himself hiding on the roof of the closest building, wishing that Rufus were there to coax him down just like he used to.

It took him nearly two full years to get used to the fact that Rufus wouldn't be showing up to help. After that, Max learned how to do it himself. He didn't have much of a choice.

Doesn't mean he was always able to. There was a time just recently that Max found himself up in a tree with a concussion and at least one broken rib, and he had to be rescued by the others in his crew. It was…unfortunate.

Good thing that won't be happening again! Max has everything under control, now. He doesn't need help in those moments; he hasn't needed it in a long time.

But if he did need help—he doesn't think he'd mind accepting it from Ruby Nyx, Broghini Dudestone, and Mister Wizard. Something shifted after that day—a sort of understanding between all of them. Ruby hasn't changed her exasperated nature or her constant eye-rolling, but she's softer. Mister Wizard still irritates Max to no end with his constant lying and tall tales, but it's more teasing than annoying. Max has always gotten along rather well with Bro, but something feels more solid, there. Whenever Max is feeling unsteady, he moves to sit next to Broghini, and he feels better.

It's easier, now, and maybe that's why Max gave his bell to Mister Wizard. It felt like the only correct option, after everything.

Sometimes, Max still expects to wake alone. Sometimes, his nights are plagued with memories of fire and a deep, hollow emptiness in his chest. Sometimes he's convinced that the friends he's found—the people he's been traveling with for months, now—have gone up in smoke. There have been moments where Max finds himself in a haze of panic, as if he's fifteen years old, again, and he's standing alone, knee-deep in the ashes of his home.

But those moments are uncommon, now, and when he does awaken with a jolt, gasping and searching wildly for someone around him, he almost always ends up with someone sitting quietly by his side. Often, it's Ruby, who wakes up early enough to see his wide eyes and the way he clutches desperately at his chest, and she'll kneel in front of him and squeeze his clammy hands until he can breathe again. Sometimes, it's Broghini, and he'll speak to Max in his rumbling voice for as long as it takes to replace the voices in his head. Every once in a while—when he's lucky—Max will return to himself to the weight of Mister Wizard's familiar, Mrs Cat, sitting on his lap. They make him feel safe, and none of them mention it later, but they don't need to. All of them understand the importance of caring for each other.

It goes both ways, too. Max has woken up multiple times to find Ruby with her knees to her chest and her tail curled tightly around her, silent tears running down her face, and he knows to approach her slowly and carefully and remind her where she is until she looks up at him at last. He's found Broghini clutching his axe to his chest with a deathly pale face, and he knows that his first action is to speak softly until the dwarf's grip eases and Max can take the all-too-sharp weapon from his hands. When he comes across Mister Wizard staring blankly into space, unresponsive even to his familiar's constant mewling, he knows how to whistle a random, aimless tune until Mister Wizard is humming along, petting Mrs Cat once more.

They've all been hurt, but they have backup, now, and that's what counts. It means more to Max than he could ever—or would ever—express. Far too sappy for him, thank you very much. He's quite comfortable with this wordless agreement that they've come to. He thinks he might die on the spot if he ever has to discuss this with any of the others.

They've found a system, though. They've learned how to handle the hard moments. Max isn't alone, anymore.

Except for right now, because Ruby and Bro and Mister Wizard have all decided to stay back, today, so Max is traveling on his own, once again. Fantastic. This is exactly what he needs—especially when Mister Wizard begged him to be careful on his journey. Joy. This will be an absolute blast.

It takes him hours of walking and grumbling and wiping sweat from his brow and complaining back and forth with the voices before he makes it to the entrance of the village, marked by a wooden sign declaring that he's about to step into Driftwood Village. It's a peaceful place; if Max were any less suspicious that it may be more dangerous than it seems, he'd even call it cozy. But he's on high alert, whether that be from past experiences or from Mister Wizard's warnings or from the feeling of being on his own for the first time in ages, and he squints suspiciously at the smiling faces of the nearest villagers as he enters the village.

There's an odd sort of hum in the air. Max can't quite put a finger on it, but something feels…off. Maybe Mister Wizard's words or this blasted heat have been messing with his mind, but something isn't quite right. Maybe it won't be the tavernmaster this time—perhaps it will be the innkeeper, or the blacksmith. Brodude would be disappointed about that; he's been hoping to collect some new tools.

For the time being, Max steels himself and strides into the village, tossing his braid over his shoulder and lifting his chin like the performer he is. He gets a few odd looks from the villagers—perhaps wondering what someone dressed so extravagantly is doing in their perfect little town.

Max doesn't mind. He's gotten used to the attention, and besides, he likes when he has eyes on him. It makes it less likely that he'll disappear, and no one will notice.

The town is, to be fair, quite nice. Max thinks that it would be even better, were the grass lush and green and perfectly trimmed. Alas, this is not the first hot day of the year, and the grass is dead and dry. It crunches beneath Max's feet as he walks, not bothering to stay on the path despite the disgruntled looks he gets.

As he approaches the center of the village, he passes by a small, clear lake. There are quite a few children splashing in the shallow area, where the water only comes up to their ankles (and Max doesn't blame them, of course; if he had any less dignity, he might join them).

In the very middle, though, there's a duck swimming back and forth—escaping the heat, perhaps, in a way that only waterfowl can.

Max stares at it for a long, long moment, then tears his eyes away and moves on. He refuses to acknowledge the unnatural speed of his heartbeat or the whispers in his head. For a moment, he feels the absence of his bell more strongly than he has all morning, and he clutches onto his bag with a vice-like grip.

The sun has never felt so hot on his back.

Max grits his teeth and kicks a rock, scowling at the ground. He hates this place. He hates this village and the stupid people and the stupid blacksmith and the stupid duck. He wants to go home.

(Home. What a funny word. Max doesn't know when he started using it to refer to the people waiting for him back at camp. He doesn't know when he stopped using it for the circus.)

The blacksmith. He'll visit the blacksmith, then the inn, then the tavern, and then he'll make one more lap around the place to make sure it's safe and he'll leave. No use overstaying his welcome; he does that far too often as it is.

Bross, it's hot out. Max supposes that conjuring water would be frowned upon, at the moment—even if this village absolutely needs it.

He first enters the blacksmith's shop, where the blacksmith herself just seems confused why he's asking so many probing questions about the town and about her business. Then the inn, where the man at the counter tries several time to convince him to stay the night. Max can only stand a few minutes in there before he gives up on collecting any sort of information and walks just down the street, towards the last destination on his list.

When he enters the tavern, there are several customers lounging idly around the building, nursing a beer or a glass of wine and talking in easy, casual murmurs amongst themselves. It's far more cozy than the last tavern he was in, where there was a note of tension even before Marchessa proved herself to be as evil as Max had feared.

As Max approaches the bar, the tavernmaster gives him an appraising look. They lean forward—brace their forearms on the edge of the counter—and tilt their head. "Care for a drink?" they call, and Max tosses his braid.

"A glass of wine, if you will," he sighs boredly. "Your cheapest."

"Coming right up." They turn away from the counter to pour him a glass of wine, and Max takes a seat there at the bar. Behind the tavernmaster's back, Max squints suspiciously, eyes roving around the tavern itself. There's no claymore in sight, so…he supposes that's a step in the right direction.

"Here you are." The tavernmaster sets the glass in front of him, and Max thanks them with a brusque nod and a few gold coins, which they accept gratefully. Their hair is short, but it's just long enough to be tied into two thin braids, which Max can appreciate. They have a pair of round glasses perched on their nose, and they look rather young—perhaps a few years older than Max, but certainly younger than the last tavernmaster they came across. Younger than most tavernmasters Max has grown used to on his journey.

"So…." Max starts, dragging a finger around the rim of his glass. "You're the tavernmaster, here."

"That would be me. Arden's the name," they introduce themself, giving Max a pleasant smile, though they look slightly put off by his outfit and by the sword he carries in his sheath. "What brings you here, sir?" They hesitate, but add, "I don't think I recognize you."

"Oh, you know." Max yawns, waving a hand aimlessly through the air. He lifts his glass to his lips, though he doesn't drink, then sets it back down. "Just looking around. Thought I'd stop by the village." He lifts an eyebrow at them, carefully sculpting his face to look curious rather than distrustful; he's nothing if not a performer. "Say—you don't happen to know a Marchessa, do you? A tavernmaster, few towns over?"

"Marchessa? No, I can't say I do."

"Well." Max sniffs. "That's reassuring, I suppose." He narrows his eyes at them. "And, I have to ask—do you have any particularly strong feelings toward claymores?"

Arden blinks. "…Sir?"

Arden is, apparently, completely useless. So Max rolls his eyes and gestures dismissively, picking up his glass once again. "Oh, never mind. Just thought I would ask."

The tavernmaster laughs awkwardly. "Of course. Can I…get you anything else?"

"Oh, no, not at all." Max glances distrustfully around the room, then returns his gaze to Arden. "I'll just be here."

Arden still seems dubious, but they nod and turn to another customer, hanging around at the bar and waiting for Arden to attend to them. As soon as they're gone, Max releases a long exhale and tugs on his braid once again. He sets his wine glass down a few inches further from him than before; he's not particularly in the mood for alcohol.

It would be easy to simply dismiss Mister Wizard's earlier concerns. This town is, while pretty, entirely unremarkable. It's only noteworthy components are the nicely carved wooden buildings and the well-tended-to grass that, at some point, wilted in the summer heat and is now dry as dust. And that, at least, is no different from anywhere else Max has been in the past week or so.

But Mister Wizard was so insistent and so afraid, and Max truly doesn't think that the wizard would have been as terribly messed up as he had been if it wasn't for some sort of odd sixth sense. Maybe the blacksmith and the innkeeper and the tavernmaster are all innocent, but that doesn't mean that Max is safe here. After all, the circus—Bross—Rufus taught him to never believe in coincidences. And Rufus was always right.

Max dips a finger into his wine then sticks it into his mouth, savoring the taste on his tongue. He's about to stand up, thank Arden for their time, and go about his day. He's about to move on and fiercely tell himself that the village of Driftwood is perfectly safe, and whatever this feeling wracking his body is, it's simply a figment of his imagination.

But no—there's something in the air. At some point during Max’s conversation with Arden, it must have crept into the space, filling the corners and crawling along his skin, unnoticed until now. It’s thick and sweltering, and hot enough that Max’s lungs reject his attempts to breathe; he has to gasp, clutching onto the counter and digging his nails into the soft wood and shaking his head to get rid of the shrill voices in his head. 

And then, he sucks in a breath, and he freezes, because there’s a taste to the air that sours on his tongue and leaves him unable to move. Unable to do anything, save for sit here at the bar, head spinning and stomach churning with undeniable dread. 

Arden doesn’t seem to have noticed, yet, and neither has the customer they've been talking to. There’s a reason for this, Max knows. For most people, there’s no reason to be able to sniff out something so subtle, barely there at all save for a strange quality to the air. But Max? 

Max has become quite familiar with the smell of smoke. 

Dizzily, he recalls a day, a long time ago, with a failed attempt at a backflip and a broken leg. He remembers his mentor waving a hand and stitching his bones back together with practiced ease. He remembers the duck, and he remembers following it until he came across the tent, and he remembers the flames and Bross, it hurt, it hurt so bad, he can still feel the fire licking up his arms from when he tried to shield his face—

He remembers begging for help, voice cracking in rare fear, stumbling away from the fire and trying desperately to breathe with the smoke clogging his lungs. He remembers his eyes watering, his throat burning. He remembers the sickening realization of everyone who was in there—his family, and his friends, and the people he'd grown to know over his three years at the circus. He remembers lifting his hands as if water would form in his palms, and he remembers the terror mounting when he couldn't summon even a drop.

And he remembers—how could he forget?—being dragged away from the inferno by surprisingly strong arms, urgently saying something unintelligible in his ear as he sobbed. He remembers being forced to kneel on the ground, someone gripping his shoulders tightly but not harshly and telling him to stay put before leaving him there, dazed and alone. He remembers blinking the tears and smoke from his vision just in time to see Rufus charging into the tent.

He remembers the horrified scream he'd released when Rufus didn't come out. He remembers waiting through the night and through the day and through the night again for the flames to consume every last inch of the circus. He remembers stumbling through the still-smoldering remains when the fire finally died down, and collapsing to his knees when there wasn't a single living creature in sight.

He doesn't remember anything else.

While Max is still reeling, trying to drag himself out of the past and force himself to move, damn it, he can't just sit around, he has to hurry up and get out, Arden lifts their chin suddenly and sniffs, confusion wracking their expression. "Does anyone smell smoke?" they ask, and that must snap Max back to reality, because he's on his feet and out the door in an instant.

The sight is so breathtakingly familiar that he has to stop. For a moment, all he can do is stare.

In his head, the voices are silent.

The neat wooden buildings lining the street, and the dry grass that had crunched beneath Max's feet, and the sign that declared the entrance to Driftwood Village—all of it has caught fire. The flames reach towards the sky like tendrils, and the smoke blocks out the sky, and for a moment, Max thinks he's back at the circus.

He's shaken from his trance when someone gasps behind him, strangled and fearful. They choke out some desperate plea to a god that Max doesn't recognize, and when Max turns around—eyes wide, praying for his own god to do something, anything, please—he locks eyes with Arden, then with the customer from before.

They weren't the only ones in the tavern. Max had counted several other customers, waiting at tables and chatting amongst themselves.

A memory flashes in his mind: Rufus, forcing a young Max to stay as far back from the blaze as he could, then turning back to the fire. Entering the tent one last time, and never leaving it again.

Max grits his teeth. "Get out," he orders Arden and the customer, both of whom seem to be on the verge of panic. "Run as fast as you can. There's still—there's still time." Max knows how quickly fire spreads. He knows that these two will be able to make it out, if they're fast. "Get into the lake, if you can't make it all the way out."

"But—" the customer starts, but Max cuts them off.

"Go."

Max has seen enough people get hurt. He's seen enough people go up in flames. He's a cleric for a reason; if he has any say in it, every last person in this village will make it out alive. He's stronger, now. He has water at his fingertips and magic in his palms. This—it must be some sort of chance at redemption. Atonement.

"Now!" Max barks, and Arden grips the customer tightly by the arm and takes off.

Max turns around. He sends a final prayer to Bross—a final apology to his friends, just in case—then clenches his jaw and bursts back into the tavern.

//

One person, out.

//

Two people.

//

Three. Four. Friends or partners, it seems—they embrace each other as soon as they make it to the lake, where the rest of the villagers are congregating.

//

Five, six, seven, eight—perhaps a traveling group, just like Max and Ruby and Broghini and Mister Wizard.

Ruby and Broghini and Mister Wizard…they'll kill him, if he doesn't make it out alive. He promised he'd be safe.

//

Nine and ten, and Max can't find anyone else. His eyes are stinging and he can't stop hacking out his lungs—chest aching, shoulders wracked with the force of his coughs—and he thinks he's gotten everyone out. He has to have gotten everyone out. Please. He doesn't know what he'll do if he leaves someone behind.

Number nine clings to his arm. He's younger than Max is by a solid few years, perhaps only recently old enough to start drinking. Number ten is an older woman, face lined with wrinkles and streaked with soot, but set in determination nonetheless.

"Go," Max croaks, just like he has the past eight times, but the fire has grown too much, and it's towering before them, blocking the entrance of the tavern, and they can't go, because there's nowhere to go. And Max, for just a moment, goes still.

Images flicker rapidly before his eyes, and Max can't tell if he's hallucinating from the amount of smoke he must have breathed at this point, or if his god is trying to tell him something. A barrel, and a duck, and a circus that went up in flames—

Back at the circus, Max had a million different tricks and performances that he was supposed to learn. There's exactly one of them that can be used to douse a fire.

Max tears his arm free from number nine, the young man. He lifts both of his hands, and he closes his eyes, and under his breath—unable to be heard over the raging fire—he whispers, "Bross—I really need you to come through for me right now, fella."

There's a shift in the air. Something cool flickers between Max's fingers, though the heat of the fire is nearly unbearable, and he would sob in relief if he wasn't focused on using every drop of water for his cause.

A million tiny droplets spin into a web, then morph into one swirling globe of gleaming silvery spirals that spin faster and faster and faster, letting the pressure build and build until Max can't take it anymore—thinks his head might explode—and he releases it with a gasp.

The water crashes down on the fire before him, and Max—tugging his shirt up over his mouth and nose—grips number nine and number ten and drags them out of the tavern.

They meet with the rest of the villagers in the lake, where Arden and the first customer had herded everyone as soon as they left the tavern. In the shallowest waters, the villagers are standing, huddled together. Some of them are injured. Some of them are sobbing into each other's shoulders about the loss of their beautiful village. Max can feel no sympathy for them. All he feels is numb.

Everyone survived. That's…good. Max isn't sure why it hurts so much.

(Maybe, if he were stronger, he could have saved everyone back then, as well.)

(It hurts. More than the burns that are streaking up and down his skin. More than the scars that he wears as badges from that day.)

Max manages to heal exactly one person—burns, more severe than the others who escaped, but nowhere near fatal—before he has to stop out of fear that he'll collapse on the spot. Usually, he can manage to heal two people, at least. This time, though, he hardly makes it all the way through the spell before he gasps and staggers, unable to summon another modicum of magic to his fingertips.

Bross has already given Max all of the assistance possible, it seems. Max's reserves have completely run dry.

At this point, Arden attempts to help him sit on the ground, but he brushes them off, shaking his head.

"I have to—go," Max croaks, and his head is spinning, and this is all that he knows, right now. He can't find any other words; only these. He has to go. He can't be here, anymore.

Arden tries to catch onto his arm, and the villagers try to stop him, but Max doesn't pay attention to any of them. He's moving before his mind has caught up with the fact that he's left the fire behind him, at last.

(It's still there, he thinks. He isn't convinced that it's not on his heels with every step.)

Despite his insistence that he go, however, Max doesn't actually remember walking. He doesn't remember traveling at all, in fact. Part of him is convinced that he's still trapped in the burning tavern, watching as the rafters splinter above him, ashes on his tongue, smoke filling his mouth. Or, even further back—the circus, screaming until his throat was raw as if he'd be able to bring anyone back. Back then, he often forgot to address Bross unless it was for his own magic, or when Rufus would remind him. Throughout those nights, he spoke his god's name into the air more times than he could possibly count. He begged for mercy—if not for himself, then at least for the others.

He does the same, now, mumbling prayers under his breath just like Rufus taught him. His mind is hazy, as if the smoke from the fire hasn't yet cleared from his brain, and his skin feels simultaneously hot and cold. When he touches his cheek dazedly, searching for burns of the past that have long-since healed, his fingertips come away wet.

Throughout it all, his muttered prayers don't cease.

At some point—before Max realizes that he's been traveling, at all—he finds himself back at the camp, staring into the horrified faces of Ruby, Bro, and Mister Wizard.

"Max—" Broghini breathes, and Max crumples to the ground.

Ruby is at his side in an instant, dropping her dagger and shouting for bandages and ointment and wake up, Blunder, don't you dare pass out on me, now. Broghini has already bolted for Ruby's bag, where most of the first aid supplies are stored for the moments when Max has run out of power to heal anyone else. Mister Wizard is repeating—frantic, panicked, fumbling—over and over again, "Oh, no—oh, no, no—"

Ruby jostles Max's shoulders. "Hey. Hey."

Max blinks up at her blearily. "Ruby…." he whispers, and Ruby's eyes widen, then narrow. She drags him up into a seated position. He nearly slumps back over onto the ground, but her grip is firm, and she keeps him upright.

"I told you to stay safe, Blunder," Ruby says fiercely. "That was your one job."

"I'm not—" Max coughs. The smoke must not have fully made its way from his lungs. "Not hurt," he manages. It's…mostly true, at least. The burns he's collected are superficial at worst, and they hurt, but they're nothing Max won't be able to heal when he's able to call on his god once again.

Though, he's not sure when that will be. He thinks that Bross has given as much help as Max can handle, and any more will only serve to make things worse. Max has overused his magic, in the past—has pushed himself so hard that he found himself on the verge of death. Perhaps his god is trying to prevent this from happening by restricting the magic Max is able to use.

For a moment, almost deliriously, Max thinks he sees a duck flying overhead. It's gone in an instant.

Ruby scoffs, forcing Max out of his thoughts. "Not hurt, my tail." She whacks him lightly with the aforementioned tail, and Max grumbles a quiet complaint. "You're—Max, you're all messed up." She sounds almost devastated. "What happened?"

"Fire," Max croaks. Mister Wizard sucks in a breath. Broghini swears softly. Ruby's eyes fill with tears. "The—tavern. Ironic, isn't it?" He tries for a laugh, but his breath catches, and it quickly shifts into a hacking cough. Ruby curses in a language that Max doesn't recognize and thumps his back with her fist until the coughing fit dies down, at which point he continues, even weaker than before, "It—don't know what happened. The village—it was hot, and everything was dry—"

"The place was a tinderbox," Ruby whispers, horrified. She shakes her head rapidly, as if to clear her thoughts. "Doesn't matter. Heal yourself. Now."

Max doesn't laugh—he knows exactly what the result of that will be, based on the last time—but he gives Ruby a brittle smile. "Can't. Healed…someone else."

"That's not how that works," Mister Wizard interjects. His voice is trembling, and Mrs Cat purrs as she curls around his shoulders and anxiously flicks her tail. "You—if you've healed one person, you should have the energy for at least one more."

In most cases, this is true; Max and Mister Wizard have discussed their magic, before, and Max can't deny that Mister Wizard would normally be right. But he shakes his head wryly.

"Casted—uh, created water." He swallows, and it tastes like cinders. "The…tavern. Blocked by fire."

"Oh." Mister Wizard says nothing else, but Max continues, anyways.

"We couldn't get out." His eyes close against his will. "Had to…mm. Bross—I asked for help. Bross helped me." He's talking aimlessly, now, he realizes; the words are spilling from his lips unbidden. "He…didn't, last time. Didn't help, I mean. There was…the last fire." So many years ago. It feels like it was just yesterday. "He didn't help. Couldn't help? I…don't know. Don't know." Does it matter, anymore? Maybe Max wasn't strong enough to harness the magic, or maybe Bross didn't bother to help him, for whatever reason. Doesn't matter. Either way, the tent went up in flames, and the Circus of Wonders disappeared in a plume of smoke.

"What is he talking about?" Broghini whispers. Max doesn't have an answer.

"I don't know," Ruby murmurs back.

"He's used all his magic," Mister Wizard informs them quietly. "Uh—he can only heal a few people a day, before he needs to rest? Or I guess in his case, he can only handle so much power from his god before it would…I don't know. Mess him up, I suppose."

"His god. Which is…."

"Bross."

"Bross," Ruby echoes Mister Wizard's words softly. Even hearing the name of his god sends a shiver down Max's spine. "And his god can't help him."

"Would make things worse," Max croaks. He forces his eyes to flutter open and gives Ruby a weak smile. "Just need—sleep." He lifts his heavy arms, then lets them fall back to his sides. "And bandages. I think."

"Sleep and bandages," Broghini repeats, and he sets his jaw. "We can do that."

"We can do that," Ruby agrees. She tugs on Max's braid. "Hey. Stay awake, would you? I don't want to have to worry about you dying in your sleep. You're not allowed to pass out until we've given you a full check up."

"Full check up," Max whispers. "Okay."

He lets Ruby peel away the scorched remnants of his sleeves so she can smear ointment on his arms, and he hides a flinch when Bro gingerly touches the burn streaked across his face, and he pretends that he's not tearing up when Mister Wizard sits down behind him and unravels his braid—what's left of it, at least, since it's singed and on the verge of falling out completely—and clumsily weaves it back together. It's not nearly as neat as when Ruby did it this morning, and it's tangled and sooty, but it's far better than before.

"Sorry," Broghini apologizes when Max inhales sharply. The dwarf had dabbed some ointment on Max's cheek with a calloused finger, and it hurts so badly that Max has to take several deep breaths before he can even croak out a weak response. He's not even entirely sure what he says, but it must be enough to comfort Bro, because he returns to tending to Max's burns.

Once Mister Wizard has finished with Max's braid, he doesn't move. He continues to sit behind Max, hands drifting from his hair to his back, and Max breathes shakily as Mister Wizard's gentle fingers trail down his spine, rubbing soothingly, being mindful of the raw skin hidden beneath Max's clothes.

Max wants to sob. He settles for dipping his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

At some point, Ruby presses her hand to his chest. "Breathe," she orders, and Max does, deeply. "Again." He does. "One more time."

When he exhales, she moves her hand to his back. "Breathe," she repeats, and after a few more long breaths, she sighs and nods. "I…think you're okay." She narrows her eyes at him, and Max shifts anxiously. "Breathe one more time," she demands, but she's not touching his chest or back, and Max thinks that Ruby just wants to ensure that he doesn't hyperventilate.

He breathes. She nods again, satisfied.

"Can I go to sleep, now?" Max asks, voice hoarse and raspy and altogether pathetic. Really, can't he pull himself together? At this point, it's just embarrassing; Max is not particularly happy with the situation as a whole, but it's certainly made worse by his inability to perform like he normally does.

Ruby squeezes his arm. "You can sleep," she promises.

Even if she hadn't finally given him permission, Max couldn't have stopped himself if he tried.

— / — / —

Really, Max should have expected the resurgence of the dreams.

He had known, in a way. He'd known that the fire in the village would dredge up memories of another fire, a long time ago. He'd known exactly how much of a problem it was going to be.

He supposes he just…didn't think about it, before Mister Wizard stuffed his robe into Max's arms and told him shakily to get some rest. He didn't even consider the thought that he should try to stay awake when Ruby reached up to take his arm, and guided him to his sleeping roll. He was so exhausted that, when Broghini sat down beside him with Mister Wizard's spellbook and struggled through the complex words and sentences, he couldn't even bring himself to try to fight the pull of sleep. Despite Bro's obvious illiteracy, his rumbling voice was comforting in a way that Max will never admit, and he was asleep before Bro managed to battle his way through the first paragraph like the soldier he is.

Well—was.

Max should have forced himself to stay awake, but he didn't, and his dreams were consumed by fire and heat and panic and a million shouting voices—his own, but also his mentor's pained cries. And then, somehow, the agonized screams of Ruby and Broghini and Mister Wizard, begging for help, but Max couldn't help them. He can't help them, and the fire is slowly crawling up his limbs, now, and it burns—

And he can see Ruby and Bro and Mister Wizard, and they're dying. They're dying. They're being consumed by the flames, and Max releases a high-pitched whine from somewhere in the back of his throat. He doesn't want them to die. He can't lose more people he cares about to the fire. He can't.

"Max. Max." Someone is shaking him. Who's shaking him? "Please—wake up. You're okay, you're safe. Wake up."

The fire, the fire—it's everywhere. It's in his bones and his blood and he's choking on it. He can't breathe. He can't breathe.

"I don't—" The voice sounds scared. "I'm sorry, I don't know what to—Ruby? Ruby."

A second voice shouts, "What? Is he okay?" A pause, then, "Bro! Is he okay?"

"He's—it's a nightmare, I think, but—"

Ah. Yes, that would make sense, Max thinks detachedly. Broghini continues to speak, but his words is muffled behind the screaming voices in Max's head, and Max can't for the life of him make out what Bro is saying.

He can, however, make it out when Ruby says—sharp and loud and clear as a bell—"Up, Max. I don't want to make Mister Wizard hit you with his stick, but I will. Or I'll hit you with it. Get up."

Ruby shouldn't be alive. Bro and Mister Wizard shouldn't be alive. How are they here? Max had thought they were dead, stolen away by the same fire that consumed the circus and Rufus and everything Max used to love—

Broghini jostles his shoulder again, and Max remembers with a start, nightmare. Right. Of course.

But even still—even still. Rufus is dead, and the circus is gone, and Max couldn't save them. And his mind won't let up on the constant flashing images of flames eating at Mister Wizard's robe, or caressing Ruby's tail, or brushing threateningly against Bro's heels, and now Ruby is calling for Mister Wizard, but Max can't breathe—

There's a soft jingling, and Max freezes. The voices go quiet.

"Do you hear that, Max?" Mister Wizard's voice is steadier than it's been for days, before Max left for the village. "Listen."

Max listens.

The sound is familiar, after having it tucked in his bag or his pocket or braided into his hair for so long. He would know the sound of his bell anywhere.

Mister Wizard's gentle fingers carefully pry open Max's hands, which have been clenched into tight fists where he was clutching at his hair. Something small and round and cool is pressed into his palm, and it jingles quietly in Max's trembling hand.

"You said that your mentor gave this to you," Mister Wizard murmurs. "He's not here, but—we are. You're not there anymore. The fire is gone. You saved them; you're alive. You're okay."

Mister Wizard, of course, is talking about the most recent fire. He has no way of knowing about the circus—not when Max never mentioned it to him. He has no way of knowing that Max didn't save everyone. That he failed them.

That doesn't matter, right now. Max isn't there anymore, and he isn't alone, either, as odd as that feels.

Max curls his fingers around the bell. He remembers Rufus' calm, steady presence. He remembers the hundreds of times his mentor found him up in the rafters or in a tree or somewhere else, as long as it was off the ground. He remembers how Rufus would wait there with him until he could bring himself to come down, which was always quicker when Rufus was there.

He remembers how stable he felt with Rufus, and he breathes. The bell is cool against his skin.

It takes Max several more minutes before he manages to open his eyes and push himself off the ground until he's sitting up.

Mister Wizard is kneeling in front of him. Ruby and Broghini are on either side. And something about Mister Wizard's eyes—about the furrow in Ruby's brow—about Broghini's hand on his leg—reminds Max so painfully of Rufus, and a sob escapes him without his permission.

He crumples in on himself, arms wrapping around his stomach. Mister Wizard takes one look at him and pulls him into a tight hug.

The wizard is impossibly gentle, and even through his determination to hold Max as close as possible, he doesn't irritate Max's burns in the slightest. He just squeezes, and Max buries his face in Mister Wizard's shoulder, and even the fire raging just behind his eyelids can't fracture the strength in Mister Wizard's hold.

"I was burning," he chokes into Mister Wizard's shoulder, and Mister Wizard shushes him gently, a hand ghosting up and down his back. Max has never seen this side of Mister Wizard. He supposes he's seen a lot of new sides of the wizard, in recent times. "I was—everything was burning. You were burning."

"I was burning?" Mister Wizard sounds horrifyingly sad.

"You, and—and Ruby, and Bro, and—" Max gasps. "I was burning," he repeats, desperate for Mister Wizard to understand.

"He was dreaming," Broghini whispers. "Of us?"

"Of us." Ruby's voice is trembling, as if she's on the verge of panic, as well. "He—he really doesn't like fire. Does he?"

"No," Mister Wizard murmurs, subdued. "He doesn't." More circles being drawn on Max's back. "I—I don't know if it was just the fire at the tavern, or—"

"The circus," Max croaks, and Mister Wizard falls silent. "It—burned. Everything—it was all gone. Everything's gone." A shuddery breath. "Rufus, and—he's gone."

Max doesn't talk about the circus, often. It brings back painful memories, for one, but for another, he doesn't think he could discuss it without falling into that hazy sort of nostalgia, with his eyes lifting to the sky as if a picture will be shimmering among the clouds of what could have been, but wasn't. He can't talk about the circus without dropping his act, and under almost all circumstances, he's unwilling to do so.

Right now, though, Max couldn't summon the energy to hide behind an act if he tried. if he tried. He's a performer, true, but even performers have to take off the mask, every once in a while. And Max is tired, and he's scared. The voices are so loud.

"I don't—I don't want everything to burn, again," Max whispers. "Everything always burns. I don't—I don't want any of you to burn. Please."

"We won't," Mister Wizard promises, as if he could possibly know that for sure. "It's—it's okay. All of us are okay."

Max doesn't have the energy to argue. He doesn't have the energy to do anything except for squeeze his eyes shut (he can still see the flames flickering behind them) and clutch onto Mister Wizard as if he'll disappear if Max lets go.

He's still so exhausted, whether that be from the day before or from waking up so abruptly or from the subsequent fit of terror, and it takes all of his strength to keep himself from dozing off on Mister Wizard's shoulder. As it is, he buries his teeth in his lower lip to force himself to stay awake, as tempting as it is to sink into Mister Wizard's arms and let himself drop as Ruby and Broghini sit nearby, guarding the fragile peace.

He's not sure how long he stays there, but at some point, Mister Wizard begins talking, and he doesn't stop. Max learns of his travels with King Great the Legend, and of the trouble he's gotten himself into, and he only believes that about ten percent of it is true, but it's nice to hear. Like a lullaby or a bedtime story from when he was much smaller.

It's been a long time since anyone told him a bedtime story—Rufus wasn't the type, and his parents stopped bothering themselves with the task by the time he was old enough to start putting himself to sleep, which was long before he arrived at the circus. It's undeniably a nice feeling, and it makes Max's eyelids heavy, but there's something that builds in his chest, as well. A sort of pressure—something sharp and blunt and distinctly unpleasant.

Max hasn't been coaxed to sleep in a long time. He hasn't been held like this in a long time, either. Something about it makes him dizzy and nauseous, like when he used to do too many flips in a row and make himself sick. He used to find himself sitting dazedly on the ground, legs splayed out in front of him, blinking rapidly as he tried to get his bearings.

He feels like that now, even with Mister Wizard's arms to keep him steady. He feels like, if he's not careful, he might slip right through the ground and find himself suffocating in the dirt. He's not entirely sure he hasn't already suffocated in the dirt.

And his skin is itching, and he's still holding the bell in one hand, and he can hear it jingling every time he moves, and there's something oddly claustrophobic about Mister Wizard's arms, and this isn't right. This isn't right, because Max was never given this. Max didn't have this with his parents, and he didn't have it in the circus, and he certainly didn't have it after the circus. He was alone, after the circus burned down, and he realizes with a steady swelling of dread that it may be all he can handle, now. After so long being on his own, this kindness is foreign, and Max doesn't know how to deal with it. Max can't deal with it.

Mister Wizard is still talking, soft and constant, like waves on the beach. At some point, Ruby must have leaned up against Broghini's side, and she's now resting her head on his shoulder. His arm is curled around her back, and both of them are silent as they listen and watch.

It's peaceful and it's soft and it's gentle and throughout it all, Mister Wizard is still holding him. And Max can't take it.

"Get off," he says suddenly, and the voices in his head echo the sentiment. Mister Wizard makes a confused sound, and Max braces his palms against Mister Wizard's chest, shoving himself back. "Get off," he repeats, angrier, then forces his voice to ease into something that's still irritated and harsh but less sharp. Less defensive. It's comfortable; this is the mask he's grown so used to wearing. "I'm serious, Hank, let me go."

"Max?" Bro murmurs, worried, but Max purposefully ignores him. He pushes himself to his feet, blinking away the feeling of blood rushing from his head, and takes a few rapid steps away from Mister Wizard. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he feels lightheaded, but he doesn't know why. He's fine. He's fine.

(He tastes blood on his tongue. Has he bitten through his lip?)

"Max," Bro repeats, louder. Mister Wizard stands up, and Ruby does as well, and Max can't help but feel cornered. "Max, did something happen?"

"Nothing happened." Max's throat is tight, and it's hard to push words through it. "Nothing happened at all."

Nothing happened. So how can Max possibly explain just how sick he suddenly feels?

Ruby scoffs. "You realize that no one's going to believe that, right? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Ruby, stop." Mister Wizard's voice is quiet, and Ruby goes silent. "Max—what's wrong?" Mister Wizard sounds genuinely concerned for Max's well being, and Max hates it. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," Max snaps, and he tosses his braid over his shoulder, ignoring the twinge of pain in his arms as the bandages pull at the burns. "Bross above, you must think I'm incapable, or something." He waves a hand dismissively at Mister Wizard. "Buzz off, Harrison. I'm tired of your nagging."

"Oh." Max wants to sob at the sadness in Mister Wizard's voice, but then the wizard clears his throat, and when he speaks again, it's like he was never bothered at all. "Oh, well—hoo, hoo! Don't you worry, Mister Blander, I'll give you some space!"

Mister Wizard, it appears, is a performer, as well.

"Blunder," Max corrects sharply, forcing himself not to react to the flash of hurt in Mister Wizard's eyes, but then Ruby smacks him on the arm scoldingly.

Which would be fine, and Max absolutely deserves it, except that Max's arms are covered in burns, and for a moment, his vision goes white. He's left gasping and tearing up, stars flickering in his vision, clinging to the edges of consciousness.

His ears ring, but he can just make out Ruby's gasp and frazzled apology before he grits his teeth and curls his fingers into his clothes and forces himself to stay upright, because he absolutely refuses to pass out when he's trying to prove his point. He sways, but he doesn't crumple. After all, it's not like he's never been burned before. This pain isn't unfamiliar. He can fight through it.

"Oh, goodness—Max, are you—"

Max chokes on a breath, and it takes him a few minutes to recover, but he eventually manages to suck in a gulp of air and regain his stability. Part of him wants to set a hand on Mister Wizard's arm to steady himself. The rest of him rebels against the very idea, so he forces himself to stay still.

"I'm going to—" Max gags. Bile coats the inside of his throat, and it sours on his tongue. "I need a break," he manages, and it's more venomous than he'd intended, but he has no control over his tone, at the moment. "I need space. Don't—don't follow me."

"We won't follow you," Mister Wizard promises, and takes a step back, away from Max. "We won't. We promise."

"We promise," Broghini agrees, and Ruby confirms. Still, Max hesitates.

"Don't follow me," he repeats desperately, then turns to leave.

And Max climbs a tree.

— / — / —

From where Max is—far above, sitting on a branch, hidden by the leaves—he can see the others circling around below. They don't look up at him; Max isn't even entirely sure that they know he's there. When he squints, he thinks he sees Broghini pointing off into the forest, deep among the trees, as if that's the direction he went. Mercifully, they waited for him to be far enough before they started talking about where he might have gone.

Maybe they have no idea that he's closer than they think. Max likes it that way—for now, at least. He's spent half his life on a stage, performing for others, whether that was still at the circus or if it was in his time on his own or even in his time with the others. He's okay with being in the audience, for now. He's okay with just watching.

He doesn't think he'll get the chance to watch for much longer, though. As Broghini looks off into the forest, and Mister Wizard bends down to speak in the dwarf's ear, Ruby's sharp gaze drifts along the tops of the trees and—for just a second—locks with Max's eyes.

Max curses emphatically. He doesn't even care if they can hear him from all the way down there.

Ruby doesn't act on it instantly. In fact, it's not until the sun is high in the sky—and Broghini is off hunting for food, and Mister Wizard is making the trek to the village to see if there's anything salvageable from the wreckage—that Ruby finally turns towards the tree.

Max crosses one leg over the other and tugs on his braid. He lounges against the tree trunk, a picture-perfect image of indifference—far easier than dealing with the prospect of Ruby's incessant questions, in his opinion. It only barely aggravated his burns, and certainly not enough to be of any concern.

He watches with forced disinterest as Ruby scales the tree easily, her tail swishing behind her and her claws digging into the bark as if they were made for climbing.

She pulls herself up onto a branch beside him. He doesn't look at her.

Until she clears her throat, and Max can no longer ignore her, so he groans and rolls his eyes. "Yes, Emerald?"

"I know you know my name," Ruby comments amiably. "You said it earlier." She pauses for a moment, then adds, "Jerk."

Unfortunately, Ruby is right; Max did say her name earlier, shortly after returning from the village, when the flames were still imprinted on his skin and on the backs of his eyelids and. And then again, when he woke up screaming from the nightmare.

Damn it, he won't be able to use that, again, will he? Could this day possibly get any worse?

He doesn't respond to her. He just sniffs haughtily and looks away from her. He furiously refuses to meet her eyes. His left hand clutches onto the branch to keep himself steady. His right hand is curled around the bell that Rufus gave him.

Ruby whistles, something light and casual, akin to a birdsong. Part of Max wonders how she learned to mimic the sound so accurately—if she taught herself, or if she had someone to teach her. He wonders if Ruby had her own Rufus, or something similar.

Rufus never whistled, back at the circus, but he would hum, occasionally. This feels like that, somehow. It's not comforting to Max, just like it absolutely doesn't bring embarrassing tears to his eyes.

(He blinks them away before they can fully form.)

"So…." Ruby drawls a few minutes later, letting the birdsong cease for a moment. "You can heal yourself, now, can't you?" She gestures to him. Her legs swing in the air, and she doesn't seem the least bit bothered by how far up they are. "I think you should."

Max scrunches his nose and shakes his head, both in response to Ruby's comment and to clear it. "Not yet." Something feels wrong about erasing the burns so quickly and easily. Sacrilegious, almost—after all, he couldn't save anyone back at the circus. It wouldn't be right to wave a hand and use his god's power to make things better for himself, when he couldn't do the same all those years ago.

Ruby sighs through a closed mouth, and even though Max isn't looking at her, he can hear the frustration. Picture it, even—the annoyed twist to her lips, and the way she's squinting at him irritatedly. "Why," she huffs, "do you have to be so difficult?"

At this, Max looks over at her, baring his teeth in a sort of grin. "Difficult is my middle name," he declares proudly, and his grin softens into something a bit more real when Ruby snorts at this, tail flicking in amusement.

"Ain't that the truth," she mutters, and Max shrugs, unrepentant. For a moment, he thinks he might have made it out of the woods. Maybe Ruby will drop the topic. But she shifts, tilting her head and looking at him sideways. "So. The fire."

Against his will, Max tenses. "The fire," he agrees, and leaves it at that, hoping that Ruby is willing to do the same.

Apparently not, though.

"I get it, okay?" Ruby fiddles with the end of her tail, looking everywhere except at Max. "I have a thing with fire, too."

"I don't have a thing with fire," Max denies. Easier than giving her the explanation she's searching for, he figures. If he's careful, he can spin this off as if it's nothing of concern at all.

But Ruby just snorts again, more derisively this time. "Sure. Listen, though, okay? I have a thing with fire. And if you go around spreading this, I'll slit your throat," she threatens, and Max snickers quietly. "But I intend to make Wiz and Bro deal with any fire-related problems as much as I can." She shrugs. "And I guess you, too, if you really don't mind fire, like you've said."

Max's breath stutters. He pictures the flames licking at his skin, eating at his flesh, and he shudders. For a moment, his mind places him back in the middle of the inferno—at the tavern or at the circus, he's not sure, but does it really matter?—and he's positive that his lungs are full of smoke.

It's gone in an instant, but the sensation lingers, and Max finds himself breathing more shallowly than he should be. The voices are loud enough to make his head spin.

"However," Ruby continues, eyeying him knowingly, and Max pulls on his braid hard enough that his scalp stings. "If you do have a thing with fire. Then the two of us can team up, and we can make the others take care of it. Easy."

"What do you get out of this?" Max challenges. "I know thieves like you, Nyx. You don't do anything for free."

"Same as you. I don't like fire, you don't like fire—we can back each other up," Ruby reasons, and with anyone else, it wouldn't make sense at all. But Max acquiesces with a shallow nod. "Think about it. Think for just a moment."

Max thinks for a long, long moment, and as much as he hates even the idea of sharing this weakness with his group, it…really might be for the best. He'd be able to avoid the fire that's taken so much for him. He'd be able to help from afar, healing burns and conjuring water with the help of his god. And anyways, if he doesn't share this weakness with them, then who else?

But he can't bring himself to decide immediately, so he spends several long minutes in silence, collecting his thoughts one at a time. Ruby seems to understand, at least, and she waits patiently for him to get his bearings.

"I don't like fire," Max finally admits tightly. "I avoid it whenever possible."

Ruby hums. "Me, too. We can avoid it together, then."

Max moistens his lips with his tongue. "Okay. Whatever." Any indifference he tries to inject into his tone dissipates when his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, chest tight. "We…we let Gary and Brodude take care of the—the fire stuff, then. Right?"

"Right," Ruby confirms, softer than before, and Max hates the relief welling in his throat and behind his eyelashes. "You and I—we avoid the fire. We don't have to get near it at all." A pause, where Max is left reeling—vision blurred, breathing shakily—then Ruby adds, "But you've got to heal your burns. Okay?"

Max closes his eyes for a moment, letting the voices go quiet. He thinks of his god, Bross, who saw him on that day back at the circus and who saw him today, as well. He thinks of Rufus, and his kind eyes and gruff voice that was so much more comforting than it should have been. He thinks of Mister Wizard, and Broghini, and Ruby, and how much they've come to mean to him, although he refuses to admit it.

(He thinks of the bell clutched in his hand, and how much it symbolizes to him—the circus, and Rufus, and Bross. He thinks of how he gave it to Mister Wizard, earlier.)

"Ruby Nyx," he says at last, "I think you have yourself a deal."

And Ruby grins at him, teeth gleaming in the light.