"Theron...fuck, Theron, don't you dare die on me, not now, and not in my fucking bed, you inconsiderate bastard." Brenon tried splashing the other man with cold water, but only received a faint grunt for his efforts. His friend was still alarmingly pale and distressingly still on the tiny cot he'd set up.

There was an impression of dampness along Theron's side, and Brenon cursed again when blood began to seep onto the cot. He wasn't a doctor of any sort, but he was a weaver; the lightest touch to the seams, and Theron's coat and shirt fell away, revealing a gash that opened his ribs to the air, and enough blood to float a raft.

Brenon gagged at the sight of it and whistled unsteadily for his parakeet. The round little yellow bird flitted through the partly closed tent panels, and then away as Brenon whistled his instructions.

"Theron, you bastard, you trouble-making bastard- I'll kill you if you die, I swear it. Feather and Flame! I let you out of my sight for five years and you come back half dead and an Omnismith!" He was talking to keep himself from thinking about the wound, and what he would have to do to treat it. He was a weaver, and he was proud of his skills, proud enough to boast that he could do anything a smith could do, and a few things they couldn't. It was all in the technique, after all. Weaving together flesh and muscle and artery wouldn't be much different than weaving cloth and earth and fire.

But he wasn't a doctor, and Theron was bleeding to death very quickly. He wasn't a smith; he couldn't create blood from air or water the way Theron could if he were awake. Now wasn't the time to worry about it.

His parakeet returned with Mihonil in tow, ready with her bag of supplies. She stopped short when she saw Theron and the blood. "Brenon! The Voyance will have our heads- you know he's been blacklisted."

Brenon ignored her, running through patterns in his head. "Needle. Thread. Silk thread, nothing coarse. Silk gauze, too, the stuff Whimsy gave us. Now, Mih."

She stood in the entranceway, torn between the sight of the blood and the sight of Theron's Black Mark on his too-thin chest, and finally settled on the sight of her brother, sharp and impatient and willing to die for his friend. "I've a steadier hand than you, Bren, and I know earth and water better. Bring me a flame and boil the gauze."

They traded places with the ease of a lifetime of practice. Brenon settled back to assist her with a feeling of sharp relief; Mih would know what to do. She'd always taken care of him, and he'd always taken care ofTheron, so everything would be all right.

Mihonil always hummed when she wove, and Brenon joined her, following her stitches with his hands and humming a countermelody to weave the torn flesh even tighter. When it was done, they were both covered in blood, but Theron's skin no longer wept red. The stitches were angry and harsh, but they would hold.

A soft trilling came from his pocket and Brenon retrieved Theron's bird-thing with a grimace. It shrieked its displeasure at being manhandled and fluttered to perch on Theron's chest where it began to preen its beautiful, shimmering wings with an injured air.

"Bren, where did that come from?" Mih offered a hand to the creature, sighing softly as it rubbed her thumb with its beak before returning to preening.

"Theron made it. Out of a cabbage. In front of the whole damn street, the idiot. Then he collapsed and I brought him back here. There'll be people tearing down the tent looking for the Omnimancer by sunset."

Mih shook her head and chuckled. "The two of you...still thick as thieves, even when you've been apart for five years. We're going to die for this, you know."

Brenon squeezed her and in his and watched the bird begin preening Theron's hair. "Yeah. I know."
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The suffix -on to a name denotes a craftsperson rank; -onil is a registered magicrafter. Theron got blacklisted before being reclassified after getting his crafter's license, but by this point his name should be Theronilwai, which technically puts him at an equal rank with the Voyance.

This universe is ruled by the dead, although the living are currently the majority; by the time it reaches Stella Matin's time (maybe a thousand years in the future), the living are simply slaves.

Next post will explain a bit more, since I'm tired of using this keyboard.