well this is the last chapter. sorry it's a couple weeks late; been a busy lately. my cousin graduated from her graduate forensics program, which is pretty awesome and a half. i haven't even looked at my writing in the past two weeks, i've been so busy. you'd think i was the one graduating. -laughs-

anyway. actually contemplating a move across country, likely to happen before september if it does, so i'll be a bit scarce around here i guess. not that that's much of a change, yeah?

hope you guys enjoy the ending of this one, at the very least. your reviews have all been made of wintasticness. yes.

sunday, 19 may, 2013. 7:07pm.

Late spring was a busy time for the monastery, when planting began and outdoor activities were abundantly varied. The monastery was completely self-sufficient, raising and butchering its own animals, growing its food and brewing ales. The brothers were all tasked in various areas, some more laborious and some scholarly.

I was given leave to visit the library at any time, though I rarely had cause for such, given how little use I had for most of the philosophical or historical texts they prized above others.

Mostly, I forced myself into the various exercises Greg had developed to help me gain strength where I could; I still required crutches, but was not half as slow as I'd been just a few months past.

This mid-morning, I was sitting out in one of the three meditation gardens, despite the lack of flowers I'd been told would be coming up by the thousands in just a few weeks hence. Almost six months, I've been holed up within the stone walls, recuperating and planning a revenge for my lad's unjust death that didn't involve my having the ability to run in and blast people with my rifle. Couldn't even hold the damn thing and be able to walk at the same time.

Fucking cannon made everything thrice damned difficult.

"Master Ash?"

A boy's young voice pulled me from my frustrated musings, looking over to see a familiar lad wearing the robes of a monk in training, his posture respectful yet earnest.

"Yes, Liam?"

"Brother Greg asked me to inform you that some of the brothers found a man on one of the lower trails and had him brought up to the infirmary."

I frowned; "What sort of man?"

He gave a helpless little shrug; "I'm sorry, I do not know. I was just told to inform you, and to assist you to the infirmary should you require it."

I waved him over and he patiently helped me stand from the stone bench, handing me one crutch after the other and waiting for me to set the pace before leading the way to a room I'd not had need visit since I'd been brought in myself. It was not the room I'd woken up within; however, they'd moved me once they were certain I was not going to die from my injurious state.

The room was further than I thought, my shirt and hair quickly drenched in sweat, and the lad paused a moment, not wanting to insult me but unable to help himself in asking if I wanted to rest.

"I'm fine."

My curtness made him look away, overly solemn, and I reached out and touched his shoulder, briefly squeezing.

"Forgive me, lad, but I really must see this man for myself."

He nodded, warmer now; "Perhaps so, but straining yourself does nobody good, least of all you. A rest of a few minutes has lost you little, Master Ash."

I smirked a bit; "Wise words. You're a good lad, Liam, and will no doubt make a fine brother. I've rested enough, though."

My words had him beaming, enough so that he did not argue further, nor point out the trembles in my frame from pushing myself on past exhaustion.

The infirmary was an open room of maybe five or six beds, the fireplace lit despite the warmth already in the room; the bed closest to the fire was the only one occupied, two monks working on the still figure beneath the white sheet. Liam left me at the door, and I belabored across the room until Greg glanced up from his work and hurried over, directing me in no-nonsense motions to sit upon one of the empty beds.

I practically collapsed, and he snorted, handing me a cool cloth from a water bin, pressing it against my neck and face for me when I sat in numbed exhaustion.

"Is it him?"

"A man with a scar here and here?"

He indicated his cheek and throat, and my heart rose to the back of my mouth, my hand grasping his to anchor myself.

"Is he okay, what's wrong with him? Why is he in the infirmary, is he dying?"

He chuckled, disengaging his hand; "He is not dying, but he is not well. …Do not take so! Just minor exhaustion coupled with malnutrition and lack of water. Much as you were when we found you on that same path those many months ago."

"Is he…can I see him?"

"We gave him something to make him sleep, so he'll be out for a few hours yet. If I'd known you'd have nearly killed yourself getting here, I would have sent Liam for you later. Rest up, and let us finish our work, Ash."

His gently sardonic tone soothed my worries more than sweet kindness, and I nodded, allowing him to return to the bed. I couldn't see much of the man beneath the sheet, and part of me still refused that it could be Grace.

…I'd been convinced he was dead. I saw his ghost. Grace saved my life at the expense of his own.

...

I had to wait quite some time before the monks finished their work, and I didn't wait for permission before pushing to my feet and walking closer, my breath thin in my chest from the uncertain anticipation.

The man lying in the bed was not the Grace I knew, not the one from the bathhouse, nor the one hardened by blood and death. This one was whittled to nearly-nothing, all muscle and bone and lingering illness and possible starvation. From what I could see of his upper chest, severe burns had healed not too long ago, the flesh shiny and discolored. Still, his chest rose and fell in steady breaths, the beat of his heart strong beneath my hand.

Nothing else mattered, not anymore.

Settling myself more comfortably in the wood chair someone had placed at his bedside, I waited for my lad to wake up.

...

Eyes slivered open after a time, taking things in with little outward expression until they finally landed upon my own, staring for a very long time.

"…Did I die?"

I snorted softly, reaching out and brushing lank hair from his face; "I dunno, lad, but you're not dead now."

"…Debatable."

"Melodrama. Here, if you're up for it, chew this to put some moisture in your mouth."

He looked like he'd rather not accept the bit of leaf I held to his lips, but opened without complaint and even managed to lick my thumb in faint suggestion. I chuckled, warmed down to my toes in ways I'd thought long since dead.

"Not fair, lad."

A ghost of a smirk pulled at his mouth, twisted by his scar but still just as lovely.

...

It was nearly a week before Grace was strong enough to walk about unaided, though he complained plenty by the second day, his temper returned with a vengeance once he had solid food down his gullet. He spat words of acid, his vitriol not aimed at any one person; he had the grace enough for that, though it still made being around him difficult.

At his worst though, he still managed to make me smile, glad that for all the physical torment he'd undergone, for everything that made him thrash awake gasping and sobbing, it hadn't broken him.

The day he stubbornly paraded the length of the infirmary three times, I took him to the meditation garden where I'd been the day he was brought to the monastery. The two of us were a right mess, me going slow and him hard-pressed to even keep up that pace, but we made it in one piece. I directed him toward a bench and gratefully sank down, stowing my crutches nearby with an experienced ease.

We sat there in silence for a while, enjoying the gentle tufting breeze and dim sunlight of an overcast afternoon.

"Really thought you were dead, you know. If not for my back, my legs, I'd have gone back and avenged you. Still might."

He snorted, soft and darkly amused; "No need, Ash. I let them take me because I knew there was a coup being planned, knew it wouldn't be much longer. Just had to survive until then."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He looked at the green-growing things, mind somewhere else, and I thought he'd never answer until he finally did. "Didn' know if I would make it. Maybe I'd break before it happen'd. I almost did, many times, almost broke into pieces and told them everything. The man in charge of torture…he was good. Knew weaknesses like a farmer knows the earth."

Thinking back to the scars I knew he now carried, I couldn't help but guess, "Fire?"

He chuckled, self-consciously rubbing a hand over the worst through his shirt, mind perhaps on the burns on the soles of his feet, the raised lines on his inner thighs.

"You'd think tha', but those came first. The darkness didn' break me, nor beatings or…well, everythin' else. Fire hurts, but at its worst it sent me floating off to a point where nothing could touch me. I could bear it."

I didn't want to ask, couldn't bear to ask; simply reached over and carded fingers through the long length of lank hair at the nape of his neck.

He ducked his head, allowing me my touch, until he found the strength to admit; "Water."

I paused, and he chuckled, dark and full of bitterness.

"I know. But they smothered me wi' water and I couldn' leave. Couldn' breathe, couldn' move. Drownin'."

Words failing me, I rubbed my thumb and palm along the back of his neck, squeezing gently until he suddenly sniffed, one wrist rising to rub at his face.

"Help an old man up," I said, and he immediately rose, still wiping away the evidence of his tears even as he helped haul me to my feet.

The walk to my room was relatively short, though it taxed whatever strength he'd gained from our brief respite in the garden, his steps weak as he wobbled toward the bed and sat with a sigh.

"Read my mind," I teased, and he smirked, tired as he was.

I began the cumbersome process of laying on the bed, his gaze searing as he watched every awkward movement until I was on my back and situated. I flicked my fingers in invitation and he pulled off his boots, bent spine sharp beneath his thin shirt as he dipped and swayed before finally twisting, moving his body to slide along my own, laying on me the way he used to in camp.

He was thin, so painfully thin, but the weight he put back into my middle was worth it.

...

"You do know you are welcome to stay. Both of you."

Greg and I watched Grayson helping a few of the younger brothers; they were roughly the same age, but Grace was already aged beyond men thrice his years. Still, they managed to make him grin a bit, my mind supplying the accompanying chuckle I knew was there.

"No need for us here. Monsters, Grace an' me. We'll travel some, get our feet. Love each other a little."

Greg snorted, and I grinned, not denying the knowing expression on his face, though he was probably one of the few who would never offer censure; which, considering the things some of these monks get up to, is vastly hypocritical of most of them.

"We will come back, though. Ever' now an' then."

He gave a sage nod, killing me with a dry; "Pity."

...

"I hate cities. I really do."

Grayson snorted, causing me to push him a few paces away from the nag I rode over roughly hewn stone streets. He grinned, pulling out of reach and readjusting the sword at his hip with absent thought.

Only two months on the road since leaving the mountains, and already he was moving like a merc.

He'd sold his arm a time or two to keep us fed, nothing that required killing; escort work, primarily, or guarding a shipment of valuables from one place to another. Not the best of work, but nothing shabby for a country neighboring one going through political upheaval following a long civil war.

The further we traveled from the mountains the more Grace began to stick out, his light colorings attracting vague attentions and mine less so. If we traveled even further, half a year maybe, we'd find the small coastal village I once called home.

I used to stop in every few years, when I was younger, until the time I went back and the faces I'd known were gone, blown to the winds or planted in dirt. It's the people, really, what make a home, and ever since, I've never been back.

"Oi, if yer done wool-gatherin', what say you for supper and a pint afore beddin' down someplace."

"I could do."

My thoughts turned to the last we'd shared a decent bed, the way I'd drunk in his moans as my fingers brought him to climax, his grin crooked before he'd returned the favor with his mouth.

I shifted on the nag and Grace laughed, his hand finding my leg and squeezing to let me know I wasn't alone in my thoughts.

…Who am I kidding. The lad was always a hair's breadth away from tossing his clothes and throwing me down somewhere, working around my awkward legs to fuck me deeper and better than any man I ever let do before.

I squirmed again, frowning at his laughter but not ashamed to amend; "Bed first, repast second."

Eyes sharp, he nodded; "I could do."

a/n: end.