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When Brennan found himself standing before the Navarrian camp at Aretia, he knew at once what it was—another night of self-inflicted torture dressed as a dream. As a mender, he could name every cause with clinical precision: trauma, regret, overstimulation, or shame. However, knowing had never meant control. He still could not quiet his mind, could not mend the rot buried deep inside himself, could not become the steadier man both of them needed after that day. Instead, he drowned again, as he always did, in the same relentless memory—clear, sharp, inescapable. Like a man who knew the blade would cut and still pressed it to his own skin. Like a man who knew he would drown and stepped into the water anyway.
He lowered his head and stared at his hands. They were shaking—just as they had that day—because he had already been half burned-out from treating too many wounded riders and infantry. If only he had been at full strength. Such a small difference, and yet it might have changed everything. But even here, in a dream he controlled, he never allowed himself that mercy-- never granted himself a different ending, as if he feared forgetting even a single detail of that cursed day or the debt he owed his foolish, noble lover.
He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to relive the misstep. Didn’t want to see what he already knew would follow.
His body moved anyway.
He drifted between himself and something outside of himself—sometimes in his body, sometimes beside it, like a cursed wandering soul that could not rest in Malek’s land, doomed to repeat his own death.
Even after these repeated nights, he still couldn’t explain why he had the urge to find Naolin that day.
It had been just another normal day—they had been stationed in Aretia for a week by then, long enough to fall into separate routines. Brennan remained in the camp with the healers, tending the wounded, while Naolin was with the main suppression force. And with his signet, Naolin had been the least likely to die of anyone in the Navarrian force.
And yet, he still thought he must find Naolin.
He must have been possessed by some god’s will. This thought had haunted him ever since.
He felt it once again now—that urgency, sharp and insistent, driving him toward the gates. Maybe that was the gods’ kindness, maybe it was their whim to see what the so-called hero would do when his love was broken, or maybe it was simply a punishment for a mortal who had been named as one who might step into the gods’ realm.
He walked quickly, heart pounding with a strange, heavy insistence. As if he would be too late.
And when he reached the gate, fate was both merciful and merciless enough to let him see the duke drawing his bow, and the arrow aiming squarely at Naolin’s back.
He had never been reckless, had never done foolish things, and never had the intention to be a hero. He hadn’t meant to sacrifice himself or trade his life for Naolin’s in that moment.
He just simply forgotten to consider the fever burning through him. Forgotten the weakness in his limbs. Forgotten that his body would not obey cleanly.
That miscalculation was the start of the chain-- he shoved Naolin aside, and the arrow struck him in the abdomen.
And his first thought was not fear, nor pain, nor even Naolin.
It was precise. Clinical.
He would not live.
That must be a curse. This was the conclusion he reached after reliving the moment again and again. If the arrow had struck his heart or head, it would have been a clean death. If it had pierced his thigh, leg, or even his back, he might have survived with his own magic and the healers’ help. But no—he must have been just late enough, just weak enough, and yet still steady enough to try to dodge. Enough to ensure a slow but certain death, and enough time for Naolin to come up with his terrible idea.
His past self had already sunk to his knees, and he drifted beside Naolin. His lover’s emerald eyes widened, and his magic spiraled out of control, draining the duke and several nearby Tyrrish soldiers at once, leaving them unconscious or even half-dead. Their comrades must have felt the deadly dread and dragged the wounded clumsily with them—at least, that was how he reconstructed it afterward, because at the time, his vision had already blurred with pain and tears. He hadn’t even been able to see his lover clearly.
Tairn landed seconds later, which was what he gathered from the ground-shaking impact and a roar. He remembered the light dimming and the near-vibrating warmth, which led him to recreate the scene as Tairn shielding them with his body while he was in Naolin’s arms.
And then Naolin said, almost coaxing, for what must have been the fortieth time in these dreams, “Brennan, you need to mend yourself.”
That plea broke him—then, and every time since. The simple command dragged him out of the fog of pain and dizziness and forced clarity on him. He realized two things at once then: first, he was going to die and leave him; second, he didn’t want to die.
There was nothing wrong with wanting to live. It was instinct. It was natural. It was human. And yet, even now, he couldn’t help but wonder whether that desperation had shown on his face—whether he had, in that moment, pushed Naolin further.
He was suddenly pulled back into his body, and he could feel himself struggling to gather what strength he had left. He drew a shaky breath and said, “After I die, they probably won’t assign you another mender. You can’t keep acting like this—do you hear me? You need to take care of yourself.”
He knew it was futile. Naolin always took on too much, always burned himself too easily, and the army would keep using him whether Brennan was there or not. Still, he had to try. It was the last time he would speak to him. And maybe—just maybe—Naolin would listen, if only to remember him. So at least he could leave the world without this worry.
Naolin didn’t reply at all. Instead, he only repeated in a very gentle voice, “Come on, mend yourself.”
The familiar warmth of energy flowed into his cooling body, and he dragged in a full breath like a drowning man suddenly given air. It was only prolonging his suffering, he thought, but his hand still pressed over the fatal wound, his mind still analyzed the injury mechanically, and his signet still flared as he mended the vein enough to slow the bleeding. He would not live, but he could remain a little longer, if only to give Naolin somewhere to direct the energy he had just drained from those men. Otherwise, he would burn himself out badly, and there would be no mender left to tend the fever that would follow.
“See? The bleeding is going to stop, isn’t it? Brennan, just keep mending, all right? I can give you the energy you need,” his lover said. His tone was so gentle and soothing, almost the same one he used with Violet.
Right. Violet. He could use family responsibility to ensure Naolin would live as long as possible. Because for his noble lover, responsibility, obligation, and vows were all sacred promises.
And in hindsight, that was the seal of Naolin’s fate, and the bind that tied him to this world.
Brennan heard himself breathe out, “Take care of my sisters for me, and my parents.”
Naolin fell silent again. He felt the same thick, deadly, and ominous quiet press down once more, waiting to unfold the most painful part.
Brennan blinked away tears, drew in a ragged breath, and tried to move his fingers. Fingertips, toes, eyes—every small part to wake. But no, he was locked in the waking dream, in the pain, in the body, waiting to speak his greatest mistake once again.
He heard his own unsteady voice once more. “The wound is fatal. I’m not lying. It’s my judgment as a mender. Even if you drain Tairn, the power still won’t be enough. Most of the energy you just gave me was gone before I could even use it.”
At the time, the plain truth had been meant to force his lover to face reality and stop. But after the first night, he began to see it differently—like a lure placed before Naolin by some god who wanted to ruin them both.
I’m a mender. Tairn’s power isn’t enough.
He had meant only to tell the truth, and yet those words became the final thread Naolin needed to reach his terrible idea.
Through blurred vision, Brennan could see only the serene curve of his lover’s smile and hear that calm yet frantic voice, like an oracle speaking revelation.
“I can make you live. I will make you live. That was my vow, love, remember?”
He was drowning in the heat, the pain, the dizzy blackness, and the strange tearing between the warmth of the poured-in energy and the cold numbness of a dying man. It always felt unbearably painful, like a man burning with fever thrown into icy water.
And yet his hand and signet had kept moving. He hadn’t known where Naolin had siphoned that much energy from, and at the time, he had no room left in his mind to wonder. All he had clung to were bare survival instinct and the training etched into him like instinct: mend the organ, pull the arrow out a little more, mend the muscle, mend, stop the bleeding, mend. It had almost felt like a fever hallucination. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried so hard. Maybe, if he stopped, Naolin would understand it was useless and finally stop too. But maybe that would be worse compared to now—because if he had died there on that spot, then Naolin would have sacrificed himself for nothing.
He was devoured by that heat again now. Maybe that was how being ignited felt. That suffocating flood of endless energy had meant his lover was burning himself out as well, and he wondered whether he would ever forget it for the rest of his life; whether he would ever forget or forgive the fact that he hadn’t even tried to stop him, not even once.
The heat built and built, and his breath grew thinner and thinner. He opened his mouth for more air, and then jerked awake.
The first thing he did was cover his mouth, stifling the rough sound of his breathing so he wouldn’t wake Naolin. Then he counted his breaths, forcing his racing heart and lungs to slow as he carefully lay back down. He turned toward the window. A sliver of moonlight lay across the floor and over his lover’s face, making him look paler, while the fever-reddened flush in his cheeks stood out all the more sharply.
Brennan exhaled slowly and reached out to check his temperature. Still a low fever. He hated that Naolin could still kill venin even now, broken as he was, and he hated even more that he himself had been the one who broke him.
He swallowed back a shaky breath and cooled him gently before brushing the damp hair away from his forehead.
Naolin made a small sound but didn’t open his unchanged emerald eyes. Half-asleep, he reached up and touched Brennan’s cheek before settling again.
I will make you live no matter what.
Naolin had fulfilled his vow. So now it was Brennan’s turn to keep his own.
I will mend you every time you break yourself.
He covered Naolin’s hand lightly with his own and closed his eyes.