The thick fog clung to the horses' hooves and the hems of their cloaks, as if trying to keep the travelers in its domain, but soon the trees began to thin out.
Anastas's condition was grave. Eist had stopped the bleeding, stitched the wound, and applied a tight bandage. He was trembling all over, sweat broke out on his forehead and covered his whole body, his shoulder burned, and every step of the horse echoed with a sharp pulsation. It took a great deal of effort for him to stay in the saddle.
He remained silent the whole way, boring a hole with his gaze into the back of Eist, who was riding ahead. Their new acquaintance swayed lazily in the saddle, whistling some melody, and seemed completely carefree. But Anastas knew that a man like him was actually always on his guard.
He recognized my fighting style, he pondered.
Eist is no ordinary vagabond. You can't relax with him for a second. He knows something.
His thoughts were tangled.
A quiet sigh was heard from the side.
"How are you?" Thomas asked quietly, urging his horse closer. There was anxiety in his voice. "You're very pale and trembling all over, Anastas. Maybe we should make camp?"
"I'm fine, Tom," he answered calmly, though his vision was blurring. "We shouldn't stop in the open. We'll rest when we rent rooms."
Thomas frowned; he was worried but didn't argue. His fair hair was tousled. Anastas froze, catching a glimpse of his profile. A thought surfaced in his clouded mind:
Athit...
He had tried so hard to push this thought away, but it stirred up everything inside him again.
Anastas peered into his friend's face. Could he really be his love? Was this feeling of recognition that flared up by the river a trick of the mind or a sign of destiny?
"Hey, Tommy!"
Eist turned around. He slowed his horse, drawing level with them. All his attention was focused on the fair-haired young man.
"Don't worry so much! Our friend will recover quickly, I patched him up perfectly," Eist smiled widely, disarmingly. "Better tell me, have you ever been to London?"
Thomas blinked, slightly flustered by the studying gaze of the gray eyes.
"No. We... I hardly ever traveled outside my home."
"Then you're lucky to have me," Eist winked at him.
Anastas clenched his teeth even harder. He was already on edge, and he absolutely did not like the way Eist looked at Thomas. There was a sort of predatory interest in that gaze. He was clearly testing the boundaries.
They rode up to the city gates. The din of voices and the clatter of carts on the cobblestones sounded all around. When they passed through the gates and entered the city, Thomas eagerly turned his head, examining the narrow streets, stone houses, and crowds of people of all sorts—from sailors in tarred jackets to merchants in bright clothes. Anastas, however, looked only forward. The pain in his shoulder was intensifying, and an entirely different, new feeling was flaring up in his chest.
He realized that in this city he would have to figure out exactly who Thomas was to him—a friend or a lover from a past life.
Inside the inn, it smelled of sour ale, fried fish, and damp wool. The port folk drank, argued, and shouted over each other through the tobacco smoke.
Eist confidently paved the way for them to the counter, tossing a few coins to the innkeeper.
"Three rooms," he ordered, leaning on the counter.
"Two." Anastas walked around Thomas and, stepping closer, returned some of the coins to Eist and put down his own.
Thomas blinked in surprise, shifting his gaze from Eist to Anastas.
"But why not three? Stas, you need rest."
"We don't separate in an unfamiliar city," he cut him off wearily.
The mercenary merely chuckled, taking the keys from the innkeeper.
"Whatever you say, commander. If you get lonely at night, Tommy—knock on my door."
Thomas smiled awkwardly at the joke, not noticing how Anastas's eyes darkened.
Their room turned out to be small—probably like all the others—right under the roof. A sloped ceiling, a tiny window, and two narrow beds separated by a wooden table. As soon as the heavy oak door closed behind them, Anastas allowed himself to relax. He walked slowly to the nearest bed and sank heavily onto the mattress.
"You need to take off your cloak," Thomas was immediately at his side, placing the luggage on the adjacent bed.
"I'll do it myself," Anastas tried to reach for the clasp with his good hand, but his fingers barely obeyed, and he had no strength left.
"Don't be stubborn," the young man said softly but firmly, moving his hand away.
Thomas stood very close. His fingers deftly dealt with the stubborn buckle.
Anastas froze. He looked at his friend's bowed head, at how the golden strands fell on his forehead, at the crease between his tense eyebrows, and his amber eyes.
"Thomas," Anastas's voice sounded hoarse; his throat was parched from blood loss.
"Yes?" the young man looked up at him with worried eyes, pulling the fabric off his shoulders.
Anastas opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. What would he say?
Do you remember me?
"Nothing. Just... thank you."
There was a short, rhythmic knock, and the door swung open without an invitation. Eist stood on the threshold. In his hands, he held a pitcher and a basin of hot water.
"Thought you might need this," Eist walked into the room, setting his burden on the table.
Anastas tensed; he did not like Eist invading their space.
"We could have managed ourselves," Anastas threw out coldly and wearily.
"I don't doubt it," Eist smirked, paying not the slightest attention to his displeasure. He turned to Thomas, who was just folding Anastas's cloak onto a chair.
"As you wish. I won't disturb your peace any further."
He headed for the door but turned around on the threshold and looked at Thomas.
"Good night, Tommy. If anything... you know where to find me."
The door closed quietly behind him.
Silence hung in the room. Thomas, slightly bewildered by Anastas's harshness, approached the basin of water.
"He just wants to help us," the young man said quietly, wetting a clean cloth he had taken from his bag in the water.
"He's a mercenary. He can't be trusted," Anastas gritted out, overcoming the pain.
Thomas approached him to wash the scrape on Anastas's good arm.
"I'm not a fool, I see he has his own agenda. But he saved our lives. And... he's funny."
That "funny" grated on his ears. Anastas looked up at Thomas.
Thoughts raced in his head, but he couldn't voice a single one of them. Because then he would have to admit why it hurt him so much. He would have to admit that he was jealous.
"Just stay away from him," Anastas said. "I strongly advise it."
Thomas froze for a second.
"Whatever you say," he answered, but a slight, inexplicable resentment slipped into his words.