#boys......

He rolls over to face Guydelot, eager to see his bard again. He's felt as though a part of himself was missing, during his weeks of captivity - he and Guydelot haven't spent so much time apart since... well. Since they'd parted ways in Tailfeather. Since their reunion in the Sea of Clouds, they've been nigh inseparable: apart only when their duties demanded it, and seeking one another out the instant they were free. Only luck kept Guydelot from following him when he set out to answer Nourval's second note, for if he had, he would have been-

But no, best not to dwell on it; the whole unfortunate affair is over now, and may be safely left in the past.

Sanson focuses instead on the present. More pleasant by far. Guydelot sleeps deeply - the dark circles beneath the man's eyes are a testament to how little he's been sleeping, and Sanson wouldn't be surprised if Guydelot could sleep through the end of the world, so long as Sanson stayed here beside him. Fondly, he runs a hand through the bard's tousled hair, letting it drift down his neck, over his shoulder-

Guydelot winces, jarred out of sleep. Sanson sharply withdraws his hand, alarmed. "Guydelot? Are you-"

"It's nothing." Almost guiltily, Guydelot rolls onto his back, tucking the offending shoulder out of sight. "Mornin', Chief."

He'll not be shrugged off so easily. "Guydelot, your shoulder."

"It's nothing," Guydelot repeats, soothing, lifting a hand to stroke Sanson's cheek. "Don't start the day off fussing."

Sanson sits up. "Let me see it."

The bard's lips press into a stubborn frown. "Sanson-"

"You were wounded in the battle against Nourval, weren't you?" He'd wondered why Guydelot wandered off while he was being tended to by the healers! The man was having his own wounds seen to! "Guydelot, you should have said something-"

"Aye, well, it's nothing worth fretting over. I'm all patched up, anyhow - just some bruises left." He grimaces. "Say what you will about Nourval, the bastard fights like a cornered tiger."

"Let me see." Guydelot was wounded on his account...

After a moment's stubborn reluctance, the bard rolls over onto his stomach, muttering. "Bossy little..."

It's true, the worst of the wounds are healed - Guydelot's body is a patchwork of bruises; how Sanson hadn't noticed the night before, he can't guess. Weariness and relief, he supposes. Too eager to be home again, too eager to feel whole again; he'd not thought to look for bruises... or perhaps the worst of them had simply blossomed overnight, as bruises are wont to do.

By far the worst is the shoulder, where a red-and-violet bruise is neatly bisected by a fresh scar - a conjurer's work, no doubt. The wound itself must have been a hideous thing, but the scar is clean: when the bruise heals, the scar will be all but invisible. Sanson rests a hand over it, gentler this time. The skin is warm, healing.

"Guydelot..."

The bard rests his head on his arms, peering up at Sanson. "It's just a bruise, Chief."

"If I'd been less careless-"

"You wanted to help Eve. I'd've done the same." Guydelot smiles, eyes closing. "I'd suffer a lot worse than this to save your hide, Chief. Now get back down here, eh? It's getting cold."