The mushrooms catching fire drew a surprised gasp out of Tenth. He sat up straight, ready to help but unsure how, and watched Liraeth for a few moments as the man struggled to save his attempt at dinner. It was strange, watching someone else work while Tenth’s own hands were free and no orders came his way. Then, when the meal was rescued and his companion went about preparing the rest of the meal, it was almost pleasant, the idleness comforting rather than concerning.

He carefully set the stoppered jar of medicine aside and ate, not because he was ordered to but because he liked the sound of Liraeth’s gentle suggestion. Hunger has been planting seeds of pain in his stomach for a while now. It might have been crossing a line, accepting the other man’s generosity so readily, eating from his own supplies, what he cooked with his own hands. But Tenth needed energy, even if the thought of what he may soon be using that energy for sent a shiver down his spine.

He chewed on a mushroom, suddenly surprised by how hot it was in his mouth. It tasted earthy and slightly bitter, gentle notes matching subtle scents. It… tasted.

Tenth ate quickly, as was his habit, but a shy grin blossomed on his face as he marveled at the variety of flavors. He liked the bread most of all, as it lacked both the distracting bitterness of campfire heat and the slight saltiness that served to keep the cheese fresh. He knew foods – understood them in a practical way, storage, maintaining supply, even a few recipes – but he couldn’t remember anything ever tasting so perfect that he’d finish his portion and secretly wish for seconds.

Then he asked Liraeth to apply medicine to his burned hand, like the man had said he would.

That was surely a transgression, but, his belly full and his eyelids heavy, Tenth hasn’t found the energy to care. He picked up the salve-filled jar, passed it to the mage in the way of a polite request, and held his palm open for as long as it took. Then, holding the hand close to his chest so he wouldn’t accidentally move it in a way that would graze the burn, he lay on his back, shut his eyes, and slept, trusting Liraeth to wake him at midnight, or whenever he wished for it to be Tenth’s turn to keep watch.

He slept poorly. All sorts of things roused him. Once, the moonlight was so bright he had to hide his face in the crook of his elbow. Then the stream was too loud again, making him wince even before his eyes opened a crack, glanced sideways at the fire, and slipped closed. Then he was cold, but there was nothing to be done but nestle closer to the flames, though he was mindful not to frighten Liraeth with another burn. Twice, his mind played tricks on him and woke him for no reason at all, when the moon was obscured by a cloud and the water in the creek ran pleasantly quiet.

When it was finally his turn to stand guard, he sat up with a start, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off the feeling that was so disturbingly similar to the dull weightlessness that came with executing orders. He’d learn to distinguish it from sleep eventually, he was sure, but it’d take time. All he could do for now was let out a resigned sigh and thank fate that a cold gust of wind cleared his head quicker than panic took hold of his heart.

He was tense at first, looking around sharply, straining his ears for sounds of approaching footsteps. Soon, though, it became clear to him that “keeping watch” in this woods on such a bright night amounted to little more than tossing a dry twig into the fire every now and then. So he sat back, crossing his legs, making himself a little more comfortable, and listened instead to the now peaceful stream and the trill of crickets in the distance. And the more he listened, the gentler the sounds became, as though his ears slowly but surely got used to the unfamiliar but harmless noise.

He didn’t know if Liraeth expected to be woken up at dawn. He had no time to think about such things, and no choice in the matter – a small feathered flock just above their little camp started up a performance once the sunlight was bright enough to pierce through the morning fog. Tenth’s eyes widened as he listened to the birdsong – a cacophony, really, but he had nothing to compare it to but the melody Liraeth hummed the evening prior, and they were nothing alike. The mage would wake up to find him sitting straight, still with his legs crossed, his hands clasped over his knees, with his face to the tree crowns, where the noisy little creatures hid their nests.