Conquering The Unbroken

Chapter 53

The flames rising between Bren and me were not created through the strike of flint on steel. Mere minutes ago, I watched him bend over the pile of sticks, twigs, dry brush, and leaves to bring this fire to life. I watched his hand, covered in fresh cuts and scars of old, birth flame at his fingertips. He winced while he did it, one hand clutched over the bandage on his side while his good hand, free of stifling pain, had access to his magic reserve.

Starting a fire is a risk, but clouds cast over the night sky and the moon doesn't shine on us. It's as difficult to see smoke as it is to spot looming eyes watching us through rows and rows of thick trees.

Bren leans against a fallen long, his arm draped over his abdomen and his head thrown back against the trunk. He doesn't move; his breathing is shallow and his eyes, unblinking, flicker with the fire before us. The sight of Bren exhausted is no stranger. After long days of cutting down trees or helping my father construct cottages for the new refugees, he fell into a similar trance. His eyes droop, his lips part, and his entire body slouches as if he's melting before me.

Tonight is perfect evidence of that. His legs are spread out before him, boots so near the fire I wonder if the flame will catch—then I remember the fire can't harm him. The flames are a craft of his own design and Bren controls that life whether they'll catch onto a foreign object or not.

Shadows darken his pale features, eyelashes painted along his eyelids and the ride of his nose, a second presence on his cheek. The flame is natural on Bren's face; I've seen nothing more of my best friend than the flickers of a bright orange flame. And when that's paired with his own shade of fire, that being the hairs on his head, he's ignited further.

I don't know how to thank him for taking that arrow for me. I've allowed him to sit and rest his wounds while I gathered firewood and Renit climbed a tree to keep watch. He sits above us now; the whetstone dragging along his sword being the only sign he's awake and watching the skies.

Bren hasn't objected to our coddling He slumped down against the fallen trunk and spread his legs out; it hadn't lasted long as he took it upon himself to start the flames as I pulled out my flint and steel from the pack slung across my shoulder. He can't render himself useless, apparently. Possibly one of the reasons Alaric pushes him as hard as he does. Bren's status as a rebel became high quickly. It was impossible for him to relax, to sit, and Alaric caught on to that resilience.

The flames put me in a trance, and Bren leans forward, reaching for a log off to the side. He grunts, his hand still braced against the bandage, and I place my hand on his target before he can reach it. "I got it," I say.

Bren frowns and leans back slowly. He attempts to curl his legs in front of him, bending at the knee, but it's too close of a confinement for pressure against the healing process in his side. To think that arrow might've killed me...I can't imagine that happening. Death is no stranger, it has shown its horrid face many times. And the fact that I'm alive and sitting across from Bren is a miracle. Both of us, through all that has happened, are still breathing.

I throw the long on the fire and flames spark, embers dancing and spitting from the ash. Smoke rises as the existing flames spot their new victim and devour the dry wood. The heat is restored and I lean back slightly to avoid the stifling burn against my face.

"How are you feeling?" I ask quietly. The fire, raging, attempts to drown out my voice but Bren raises his eyes to me as an indication that he heard. They're not blue against the orange flame—they're molten red with specks of a summer sky swimming within.

He shifts one last time, lips curling inward in discomfort, and settles for an uncomfortable position against the log. "I feel as good as I can," he mutters. "With a wound like this, I can't expect more."