The Sun Guardian

by T. S. Cleveland

  Merric faced him, not quite managing to hide the lifting of his eyebrows at the sight of Scorch in a towel.

  “Like what you see?” Scorch joked, but his attempt at levity fell in shatters to the floor. He dragged a hand over his newly cut hair. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” Merric’s expression was a puzzle. “I need clothes,” he said, trying to ignore the blush in his cheeks. “Can we go to my room?”

  “I had some sent down,” replied Merric, and sure enough, clean clothes were waiting for Scorch outside the bathhouse. Merric fetched them and handed them over bashfully before turning around to examine the floor tile.

  Scorch dressed in the simple clothing, the trousers and shirt given to all incoming apprentices, light brown, soft, and loose. He’d not worn similar for several years. Merric had also thought to have lambskin slippers sent, and Scorch stepped into them gratefully, but with a pang for the red boots he’d lost in the fortress.

  Washed, dressed, and yearning to return to Etheridge’s tent, Scorch let Merric lead the way. They walked in silence and it was the least antagonistic time the two had ever shared with one another. When Scorch’s head had room for thoughts other than Vivid, he would ask Merric why he was being so kind, but for now, his focus was singular, and all that mattered was the man lying on Etheridge’s cot.

  He’d been gone no longer than half an hour, but Etheridge looked unsurprised to see him back so soon. She motioned to the jugs stacked at the entrance of the tent and ordered him to fill them up. He was eager to help however he could, so he gathered them up and made for the river.

  The day was cold and clear, and the river was colder and clearer. He dipped the mouth of a jug beneath the water, staring at the ripples as it slowly filled. Merric helped.

  “You’re an elemental,” Merric said softly, after their jugs were halfway filled. “I didn’t know.”

  “Master McClintock didn’t tell you?” Scorch asked.

  Merric shook his head, and Scorch noticed, for the first time, a heat in his eyes. “No. He said you died during your guardianship.”

  Scorch rolled his eyes. He had thought Axum and the Guild Master so different, but in the end, they were largely the same: liars and schemers, the both of them. “Wishful thinking on his part, I suppose.”

  Merric set his filled jug aside and reached for another. “I didn’t know,” he said again. “If I had known what he intended when he sent you,” he looked up at Scorch with a pained expression, “I would have warned you. I would have spoken with him.”

  “But you don’t like me,” Scorch said, perplexed.

  “I don’t like you,” Merric agreed. “But I don’t hate you. And I don’t believe being an elemental is enough to deserve hate. For what it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth a lot.”

  They finished filling the jugs in silence, Scorch pondering whether he’d ever had the right idea about anyone. When they returned to the tent, balancing the jugs in their arms, Scorch nearly dropped his. Etheridge had removed Vivid’s cuirass.

  “Wet some cloths with water,” Etheridge ordered. “He’s already feverish.”

  Scorch set the jugs down with minimal spillage and dunked a handful of rags in the water, wringing out the excess before rushing to Vivid’s side. He tried to keep from staring at the expanse of skin before him, but it was nearly impossible, especially when Etheridge instructed he begin dabbing at his neck and chest with the cool cloths.

  Other than the time Vivid had trounced around the inn room topless in order to dress his wounds, Scorch had only ever seen snatches of his skin: his shoulder and collarbone when he’d been injured, the column of his spine at the waterfall. Now, his chest was bared and Scorch had legitimate reasons to touch and look, but it felt wrong. It wasn’t the way he wanted to see him.

  Vivid’s pallor was still a lifeless grey, but his skin, as Etheridge said, was warming. Perspiration shone at his temples and Scorch wiped it away with the cloth. Besides the color and circumstance, his body was very much how Scorch remembered it, all lean muscle and silver scars, his stomach flat and defined. He was beautiful. And he was sweaty. What began as a light perspiration evolved into a profuse sweat.

  “This is good,” Etheridge said. “His body is purging the poison. The Luna seed is working.”

  Scorch kept dabbing at his feverish skin while Merric handed him fresh cloths and Etheridge kept track of his pulse. When she announced, an hour later, that his color was beginning to change, Scorch could have wept, because it was true. His cheeks were losing their lifeless tint. Splotches on his chest were fading from grey to chalky white.

  After another hour of the same, Etheridge tried to get Vivid to accept a drink of water. Scorch watched closely as she held the cup to his lips. When Vivid’s throat bobbed in a swallow, they all sighed in relief, and, for a few moments, Scorch allowed the fire in his chest to flicker with hope.

  Then Vivid began to seize.

  “Hold him down!” Etheridge yelled.

  Scorch and Merric grasped Vivid’s shoulders as his body quaked. Etheridge rubbed a black salve over his forehead, the hollow of his throat, and his sternum.

  “What’s happening to him?” Scorch asked frantically. Vivid’s face was flushed and he was gasping and moaning. His hands were clenched into fists.

  “This is the dangerous part,” Etheridge said, holding Vivid’s head in her hands as he shook. “He’s expunging the last of the toxins. If he survives the next hour, he should live.”

  Time seemed to stretch on forever as Vivid fought Kio’s poison. His body was in a state of constant jolts, as if he was being electrocuted from the inside out, and it took all Scorch’s strength to hold him to the cot. He became nothing more than an anchor for Vivid’s storm as he gasped and shook, his body as hot as Scorch’s when he was about to combust. It was such an intense series of minutes that Scorch found himself hoping it would never end, because as long as Vivid kept convulsing, he would never die.

  He was so hypnotized by the drama of the scene that Etheridge had to peel his hands off Vivid once the seizures finally ebbed. Scorch blinked, and though the world was shaking around him, Vivid had grown peaceful.

  “It’s over,” Etheridge told him. “His pulse is steady.” Scorch nodded, numb. “Merric, take him for some fresh air.”

  Merric took Scorch by the arm and strolled him down the riverbank. They walked for several minutes before he came back to himself. He stopped walking and stared back at the tent.

  “Scorch, it’s okay,” Merric said. “He’s resting now. Here.” He handed Scorch a canteen with a fixed look on his face, like he’d been offering it for a while.

  Scorch accepted the drink and ended up drinking all of it, but Merric didn’t seem to mind.

  “What happened to you?” he asked when he took back the canteen.

  “What do you mean?” Scorch’s head was fuzzy. The sun was too bright. He wanted to go back to the tent.

  Merric looked at him with those green, green eyes, trying to suss him out. “You’re not who I remember.” Scorch shrugged, supposing Merric was right, and they both looked back toward the tent. “Who is he to you?”

  Scorch inhaled, exhaled. “Vivid.”

  “Scorch!” called a voice attached to a breathless young flautist. Felix jogged up to them and stopped, panting. The bright sun revealed previously unnoticed freckles dusting the bridge of his nose.

  “You stayed?” Scorch asked. He’d never looked back after he leapt from the wagon, not even to thank Felix and Rex for their kindness.

  “Of course,” Felix breathed with a smile. “Rex had to go on account of his deliveries, but I wanted to make sure you and your cargo were okay.” His eyes darted to Merric for a second, then to Scorch, then back to Merric. “Hi,” he said bashfully.

  Merric returned Felix’s slow smile with one of his own, reserved as it was.

  “Felix, this is Guardian Merric,” Scorch said.

  “I’m only an apprentice,” Merric was quick to
correct, but he took a step forward and extended his hand, which Felix grasped eagerly. “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Felix,” Scorch interrupted. “You were running. Are you alright?”

  “Oh!” Felix jumped, snapping his hand out of Merric’s. “Your friend is awake. The herbalist sent me to tell you.”

  Scorch grabbed Felix and tugged him into a brief, intense hug, and then he was nothing but wind as he ran full speed for the tent. He burst through its white hanging flaps, kicking over the last remaining jug of water. Etheridge cursed him as it spilled all over the floor, but Scorch didn’t hear her voice, and he didn’t feel the water soaking into his trousers as he knelt beside the cot, because Vivid’s eyes were open and clear and looking right at him.

  Alive and Swell

  20

  The small assassin looked worn and dehydrated, and his hair was a sweaty tangle, but he was breathing, and Scorch reached out and took his hand before he could remind himself how stupid it would make him feel. It did make him feel stupid, but it made him feel other things, too, things that were more encompassing than embarrassment. Vivid’s hand felt cool in his, and fragile, and though he glared at the liberties Scorch took in demanding the connection, he didn’t pull away.

  Scorch had a million things to say, had rehearsed half a million of those things in his head, but now that Vivid’s eyes were on him, he couldn’t think of a single one, so he didn’t speak at all. He looked. He looked at the amethyst gleam of his eyes in their thick frame of lashes, the beads of sweat resting on the soft slope of his nose, the ragged chop of his hair, where Kio had cut the sweep from his eyes.

  When Vivid finally spoke, the long-missed sound made Scorch gasp. He realized, with a jab of discontent, he’d not heard Vivid’s voice in several weeks, and though it was weak and raspy, it still clapped like thunder in his ears and he found himself levitating closer. The words themselves were predictably venomous. “I told you not to follow me.”

  Scorch found his voice at the same time he found himself squeezing Vivid’s hand. “Audrey made me.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Vivid how happy he was that he was alive, confess how miserable he’d been when they were separated, how he should have followed him that night, no matter what threats Vivid made. But the way Vivid began pulling back his hand weakened Scorch’s resolve. He surrendered his grip and the contact between them was stymied.

  A wrinkle formed between Vivid’s eyebrows and he crossed his arms over his chest, still exposed. Scorch grabbed a shorn half of Vivid’s cuirass, which Etheridge had tossed to the ground hours before, and handed it to Vivid so he could hold it to his chest for privacy. Vivid, apparently disheartened by the gesture, threw the leather back to the ground. He coughed, his lips pale, and stared up at the ceiling, away from Scorch’s probing gaze.

  “Audrey made you,” Vivid said.

  “She came to me when—” Scorch looked over his shoulder. Etheridge was watching with a curious expression, and Merric and Felix were lingering by the tent flaps. He turned back to Vivid with a sigh. “We should speak in private. I have so much to tell you.”

  Vivid’s eyes flashed. “You think I want to hear the story of the brave guardian who saved the damsel in distress, but I don’t.”

  “How about the story of a charming, roguish, handsome ex-guardian who rescued an ungrateful, short damsel in distress?”

  Color painted Vivid’s cheeks and sent Scorch’s heart into eurhythmics. “You are not charming,” he said with a heated rumble. “Or roguish.”

  “But I’m handsome?”

  “I would rather be dead than look at you,” Vivid spat, and Scorch laughed.

  “Alright, alright,” Etheridge intervened, settling a hand on Scorch’s shoulder. “Touching as this is, your friend needs to rest.”

  “He is not my friend,” Vivid snapped.

  Etheridge smirked at him. Scorch knew that smirk. “That much is obvious,” she said. “All the same, get out, Scorch. The boy needs rest.”

  “I’m not a boy,” Vivid protested irritably. He tried to lift up on his elbows, but his arms collapsed beneath him, and he fell back to the cot with a defeated huff.

  “Boy, girl, what do I care?” Etheridge said with a pointed finger. “You have been damn near dead for days, and your body needs rest.” Scorch grinned down at Vivid, until Etheridge rounded on him and grabbed his ear. “And you need to go see the Master and let your boyfriend sleep.”

  Vivid groaned and Scorch felt his entire body blush. He leaned closer to Etheridge and whispered, “I don’t want to leave him.”

  Etheridge patted Scorch’s cheek. “He’ll be safe with me.” And when he looked doubtful, she patted it again, harder, and joined him in a whisper. “If you think I would let anyone come into this tent and hurt one of my patients, you don’t know me very well.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Scorch nodded, blinking away a grateful tear, and then he looked at Vivid. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Vivid grumbled.

  “Scorch?” Felix tapped him on the shoulder. “I can stay with him, if you’d like.”

  He turned to the flautist. Merric stood beside him. “It’s better he not accompany us to see the Master,” Merric reasoned.

  And since it was obvious that Felix would be remaining in close proximity, one way or another, Scorch shrugged his approval. When he caught Vivid’s darkening expression, a brilliant idea came to mind. “Felix, you should play Vivid your song about the Sun Guardian. I think he would really like it.”

  Felix’s excitability was tangible, and he pulled his flute from a fold in his trousers with flourish. “It w-would be an honor to entertain your friend, Scorch.”

  Etheridge shooed Scorch and Merric from the healing tent, but not before Scorch stole a final glance at Vivid. He looked furious and alive and wonderful.

  The feeling of joy sparked in Scorch’s chest the entire walk from the tent to Master McClintock’s door, but it was abruptly snuffed out when he remembered he was about to either be killed by the Guild Master, sentenced to death by the Guild Master, or thrown out on his ass by the Guild Master. Beside him, Merric’s energy was buzzing equally, and Scorch resigned himself to the fact that it would be an interesting meeting, no matter the outcome.

  The door opened and the afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass, filling the room with rainbow light. Smoke from the Guild Master’s pipe made the air thick and sweet, and Scorch stepped inside with a deep inhale, filling his nose with nostalgia. Master McClintock was pacing the floor in front of his desk. At their entrance, he came to a standstill, his fingers frozen in mid-scratch upon his beard.

  “Your friend lives, I hope,” he said.

  “He’s an elemental,” Scorch replied. “Do you truly care whether he lives or dies?”

  The Guild Master’s hand left his beard to reach for the pipe on his desk. Scorch noticed it was freshly packed with purple herb. The Master patted down his pockets for his flint striker, and then, unsuccessful, his eyes roamed over his messy desk. Scorch couldn’t resist. He stepped forward, snapped his fingers, and the herbs within the pipe began to singe and crackle. The Master nearly dropped the pipe.

  “Your guardianship proved to be more than a death sentence, Master,” Scorch said. “I can control it now.” He looked askance at Merric. “And I’ve not set anyone’s underclothes on fire in quite some time. I’ve set other clothes on fire, of course. But that was on purpose.”

  Merric and his father never looked more different. It was almost as if their roles had reversed. Usually, it was Merric scowling at Scorch in disapproval while the Guild Master smiled indulgently at the wily apprentice. And though Scorch liked the way Merric was finally smiling at him, he disliked more the Guild Master’s sour expression. It made him feel every bit the monster the world supposed him to be, a dangerous thing that needed erasing. Once, he might have agreed. But he was no longer the only
elemental he knew, and so he could no longer stand for the assault, silent or screaming, of their character. He wasn’t a monster. Audrey wasn’t. Vivid wasn’t.

  “You’ve called me away from the herbalist’s tent to speak with me, yet all you do is stare and ignore your pipe. I promise the smoke won’t be any worse for you, because it was lit by me.” Scorch straightened his shoulders and kept his chin lifted proudly.

  Master McClintock returned his pipe to the desk and leaned against it. He did not look, to Scorch, like a man worth respecting. Not anymore. “Merric, wait outside,” he ordered, but his son remained at Scorch’s side, unflinching.

  “I will stay, Guild Master,” Merric declared. “I don’t believe this conversation should rely solely on your retelling.”

  The Guild Master sighed and took up his pipe, already forgetting his previous hesitance. He pulled the smoke into his mouth and exhaled through his nose. “There really was a missive from the Queen,” he said, eyes glassy. “She had heard rumors that some wished the High Priestess dead. She did not, however, request that the Guild send protection.” He paused to suck on his pipe and rub at his temple. “As you know, the High Priestess has her own protection.”

  “Had,” Scorch corrected.

  The Guild Master choked on a drag of smoke. “Had is correct. Word has spread that the High Priestess is dead.”

  “Word will spread soon that her leftover monks are dead, too,” Scorch provided helpfully. “They seem to have gone up in flames without their Priestess.”

  The Guild Master stared at Scorch. “I sent you on your guardianship as a mercy, to allow you the chance to die honorably, as a guardian, instead of in shame, as an elemental. And you repay my kindness by—”

  “By living,” Scorch said, anger escaping his body through the heat of his words instead of fire at his fingertips. “As I said before, you should have killed me yourself if you wanted me dead.”

  “Father.” Merric stepped between Scorch and the Guild Master. Scorch’s ears perked in interest at the title; he had never heard Merric refer to his father as such. “Is this true? Did you send Scorch on a suicide mission?”