Ashe and Caspar, and some of their friends, defend Felix's journey to Leicester. Caspar is injured, but handily healed so he can simply relax in bed while he and Ashe discuss Ashe's fears and their plans for the future.
Text of image below the cut.
[ID: A photo of two people laying side by side. The person on the right is wearing a beige tee shirt and the person on the left is wearing a grey tee shirt. The person on the left has an arm cradled across the chest of the person on the right who is softly touching their arm. The image is overlaid with a dark shade and white text. End ID]
“You worried me today.”
“‘Mm, worry you every day,” Caspar grumbled, half asleep and content.
Ashe pressed his forehead to Caspar’s and earned a grunt of disappointment from the tired fighter. He hummed in amusement as he pulled away, and felt himself melt when he noticed that Caspar smelled of perfumes from his bath — a rarity, when Caspar often just wanted to be clean and practical. Ashe wondered if it said something about his injuries, or whether it meant anything at all. Caspar had opened his eyes, and Ashe rolled his own as he skipped over him to find room on the opposite side of the bed.
“We should have let Felix and his men—” Ashe began again.
“They would’ve held back. Too many soldiers,” Caspar said as he rolled on his side to face Ashe, the longer curls atop his head fanning out on the pillow around him. “You looked good in that rich, teal cloak anyway.”
“Even if it had just been the two of us,” Caspar went on, and Ashe scoffed at that, “we could take an army together. Or just me,” he teased, “if you’re so delicate.”
