Gilded Serpent

nearly crushed, that hurt worst of all. It ached when he spoke. When he swallowed. When he breathed.
Ignoring the wash water, he lay down on the side that hurt less, staring at the knuckles on his bruised hand, which had been split in the fight and were now crusted with scabs.
And his head. His head felt like it was being crushed between the hands of a giant, every beat of his heart thunder in his ears.
Just go to sleep.
Except everything hurt and his mind kept flipping from problem to problem, refusing to settle. Refusing to give him any peace.
Reaching across to Teriana’s belongings, he retrieved a small silk sachet sitting on top. A ship had arrived today from the island where the Quincense was anchored, and they’d had a parcel of clothing that her aunt Yedda had sent. Pressing the sachet to his nose, he inhaled cedar and orange blossoms and sea. Scents he associated with Teriana.
But the reminder of her only made him feel worse.
Could he trust her? Or was Felix right that she was only manipulating his emotions to achieve her own ends? Was any of what he believed was between them real?
Tossing the sachet back on the pile of her clothes, he squeezed his eyes shut, running through the myriad of exercises he’d been taught to fall asleep, even in the worst of conditions.
But his mind refused to be silenced.
Rolling, he flinched as pain lanced up his side, but then his gaze latched on his pile of weapons, his belt twisted through the mess of metal. He reached out an arm and caught hold of it, unbuckling his belt pouch, fingers moving through the contents until they found a small glass vial at the bottom.
He stared at the foggy contents that he’d had no use for in a long time. Narcotics for pain, which he’d gotten in the habit of keeping on him when the Thirty-Seventh was in Bardeen. When they’d been finishing their training under the guidance of the Twenty-Ninth Legion and its legatus, Hostus.
Old hatred and fear twisted through his guts at the memory of the older legatus. “You’re not sixteen anymore,” he muttered at himself. “And the Twenty-Ninth is on the far side of the world.” Shoving the thoughts away, he unscrewed the top of the vial. Racker kept tight control over his narcotics, particularly this one, but there were certain advantages to being in command, and if Marcus wanted more, he could get it.
Rolling onto his back, Marcus measured two drops onto his tongue, hesitated, then added a third. He’d barely managed to return the vial to his belt pouch when his vision split into two. And then into three.
Curling in on himself, Marcus let out a slow breath, his body relaxing as the pain of his injuries faded, as a haze flowed over his thoughts, slowly silencing the prattle, dulling the emotions. But as he slipped from consciousness, one thought remained, loud and desperate.
Please let it be real.

 9TERIANA
They set up for the division of the treasure in a field just beyond the ridge overlooking Aracam. The same field where Marcus had defeated Urcon’s mercenary army as it had tried to attack him from the rear.
Slaughtered was probably a better word.
Though days had passed, piles of dead still smoldered, the rain making it difficult to burn the thousands of bodies, and the stench of rotting meat hung heavily in the air. The mud beneath Teriana’s boots was stained a dark red from all the blood that was spilled, and every which way she looked, there were pieces that had been missed. Decaying fingers and bits of flesh mixed in with arrowheads and broken weapons, all of it sinking into the damp earth.
It was a place that should be razed and then avoided until the land erased the evidence of the horror, but instead, Marcus had ordered his men to set up a tent in the middle of the field, under which they’d placed a long table. Seven chairs on one side, a singular chair on the other. The treasure she’d helped value sat to the side of the table, stacks of gold and silver bricks, open chests full of glittering jewels, and pieces of artwork wrapped in waxed cloth to protect them from endless rain.
She, Marcus, and Servius stood under the cover of the tent, and behind them were another fifty of the Thirty-Seventh. The legionnaires stood in neat rows, spears upright and shields held just so. Beneath their helmets, their faces were devoid of expression, and though Teriana knew most of their names, they no longer seemed the young men she’d sat around a fire with, but rather fifty killing machines.
“Thank you,” Marcus said to both her and Servius, “for accomplishing this task so swiftly.”
This was the first time she’d seen him since he’d left her in the treasure vaults with Servius, and she noted the shadows under his eyes were worse than before, his golden skin blanched and waxy. Has he slept at all?
“What’s the plan?” Servius asked, and there was a slight edge to his voice. As though, improbable as it was, he knew even less about what was going on than she did.
“We agree to the division of the wealth,” Marcus answered. “And then, hopefully, everyone takes their cut and returns to their lands.”
And then what? she wanted to ask, but before she could, Servius jerked his chin outwards. “Here they come.”
From across the field, Teriana saw flickers of motion as the Arinoquian imperators stepped from the trees, each followed by fifty of their own warriors. Ereni was the first to reach the table, the older woman’s green eyes fixed on Marcus rather than the gleaming treasure.
The same could not be said of the others, though Teriana could hardly blame them. This was their wealth. Wealth that had been stolen from them during the long years of Urcon’s tyranny and which they’d fought to get back. It would change the lives of everyone within the clans, allowing them both