A/N: Another fic, courtesy of the Dancing Dove and its challenges. This takes place about ten years after the Trickster books, after Owen has married Lord Wyldon's youngest daughter. Special thanks go to Tammy, for informing us of this delightful arrangement (squee!) and Akai, who writes such a delightful Owen that I can't resist putting him in my story.

Heartache

"Neal!"

A shout drew Sir Nealan of Queenscove from the bedside of a foot soldier. "Just get some rest while you can," he told the young man before heading out of the healing tent.

"It's Lord Wyldon," Owen of Jesslaw said. It was quite unnecessary, since he was supporting his father-in-law's weight as they struggled toward the tent.

"What happened?" Neal asked, evaluating his commanding officer's injuries. His arm hung limply at his side, certainly injured. Blood trickled down one side of his face: a gash ran across his bald scalp.

"He took a squad into the enemy camp. But we were caught--his arm was hit with the blunt end of a war hammer." Owen explained. "I think he hurt his leg, too."

Wyldon opened his eyes a crack to look at Neal. "The foot is broken," he said through clenched teeth.

Neal swore under his breath, supporting his former training master from the opposite side. "What were you doing in the enemy territory?"

"Surveying. With ten of my men. For Mithros's sake, just get me to a cot and collect the rest of the injured soldiers."

Neal looked over the top of Lord Wyldon's hunched body to meet Owen's eyes

"Sir," the younger knight began softly, "there are no other injured soldiers. We're the only ones who made it out."

Wyldon's eyes clamped shut again and he pressed his lips together in a thin line.

"I've got him now," Neal said calmly to Owen. "Tell the rest of the troops to fall back. Have one of the mages contact the forces downriver."

Owen rushed to the camp headquarters while Neal led Lord Wyldon to the infirmary, and a cot.

"Surveying?" Neal asked sharply as he washed the blood from Wyldon's face.

"They have a new explosive device. It's not magical. It's not flour-based. It's a black powder."

Neal numbed the gash in Wyldon's forehead and slowed his pulse, ignoring the knight commander's protestations. "So you investigated, rather than asking one of Daine's spies to manage it," he said with a scowl. "You went yourself instead sending another knight or soldier. You figured you would be invincible, while a less-experienced man would not be. Are you going senile all ready, my lord?" He pulled out his needle and thread. "This shouldn't hurt, but I apologize if it does. I'm saving the last of my Gift for your foot and arm."

"Save it for someone else." It was common knowledge that the knight-commander did not like healings. It made it all the more pleasurable for Neal when he needed one.

"Be good or I'll put you to sleep," Neal drawled lazily, threading the needle. "Should I have Owen send word to your family?"

This time it was Wyldon's turn to scowl. "Why in Mithros's name would you do that? Do you want five women coming out here to cluck over everything I do?"

Neal raised one eyebrow. "Five women? That could be nice."

"Watch it, Queenscove."

Neal laughed as he began to stitch the long gash. "Sometimes one isn't enough," he joked. "Perhaps if you would allow my wife to come to the camp, I could keep my hands off of your wife and daughters."

Lord Wyldon's response was a low growl.

"Fair enough. I won't have Owen write home." He shrugged. "You know, some of the soldiers like to flaunt their battle wounds. Not that you've ever been the flaunting type."

Wyldon snorted indignantly, his good arm clutching his chest.

The young mage grinned. "Wouldn't I give ten gold nobles to see my Lord of Cavall bragging!"

"And wouldn't I brag," Wyldon rasped, "if I could shut your impertinent mouth? Just tell me, Queenscove, why you're stitching up this scratch when my arm and foot are more bothersome."

"Head wounds bleed more," Neal answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "Normally I'd use my gift and close the gash all together, but I can't under these circumstances. My Gift has beentapped all day with light wounds by the dozens--I'm stopping the bleeding this way before I deal with anything else. The foot will have to be reset. I'll look at the arm after that. We can't actually heal the bones completely until tomorrow or later."

He finished the stitching, cutting the thread with a flourish, and forced Lord Wyldon to look him in the eye. "I'm much more concerned about this problem you're having with your chest, my lord."

Wyldon's brown eyes were severe. "Battle fervor," he answered. "As a rarely combating soldier, you would hardly understand the heightened physiological affects of going into an enemy camp."

Neal set aside the needle and thread, shaking his head. "I never honestly thought the day would come that I'd see you tell a lie, my lord. I have two options, though. I can contact one of the mages at headquarters and tell Kel that she owes me one hundred gold nobles, or I can look you in the eye and point out how many combatants I've healed in the last two months, and how many men I've seen with ailing hearts. Which would you prefer?"

"I would prefer it if you just reset my foot and let me get back to winning this campaign."

Neal sighed. "I can fix this, Lord Wyldon. I've healed worse." He removed the knight's breastplate, thankful that he never opted to wear full armor in these combat conditions. As he brushed over the heart and lungs, he let his Gift leak through his fingertips, assessing the damage in Wyldon's chest. "Have you had any chest pains today?"

"No."

Neal didn't believe him. "Before you engaged in fighting, did you notice your arm tingling at all?"

"No." Wyldon glared up at him. "I was sneaking into an enemy encampment. Even if I had felt anything, I would not have noticed it."

"Which means you quite possibly did." Neal sighed again. "You're not making this easier, Lord Wyldon. If you want to live through this war--or at least live long enough to die in glorious combat--you're going to have to work with me."

"Just look to the arm and the foot, Queenscove. That's all I need right now." Wyldon closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillows with a heavy sigh.

Neal bit his lip, wondering how long this kind of condition could last. Yes, he had healed people with worse damage, but his father had always been helping. And he was downriver with Kel's forces, facing more of the action against the Tyrans. And none of the healers here had the kind of knowledge to handle such precise magic. Could Duke Baird be spared? Certainly for Lord Wyldon, exceptions could be made.

It had been a strange campaign. Unlike the Scanran war twelve years before, Lord Wyldon was not with the front line troops. He had assigned that role to the realm's prominent Lady Knight--some suspected she was being groomed as his successor, especially after he had suggested, albeit unsuccessfully, that the king give her the recently vacated post of knight commander of the King's Own. While Kel managed the front lines of defense at the delta, Lord Wyldon's men were upriver, covering her back.

But the truth was simple: Kel didn't have what it took to win this war without Lord Wyldon's guidance. Neal didn't think this as an insult to Keladry, of course, but a mere fact. Ten years of combat experience and brilliant tactics was worth only so much when compared to forty years of strategic service to the crown. Lord Wyldon had been designing hypothetical battle plans for the king even when he was the training master.

With the touch of his hand, Neal put the man into a deep sleep. Though he still wore an expression of pain, his breathing became less labored. Neal honestly wasn't sure how long he could last, with his heart in such bad shape. No matter, he had to get as much done as he could before his father was called north.

"Is he all right?" Owen asked from the doorway.

"It depends on what you mean by all right," Neal replied darkly. "His limbs will heal, and I can have them repaired entirely by tomorrow, if it's worth draining my entire staff."

"Is it?"

"No." He removed the knight-commander's boot and sock and rolled up the leg of his breeches. "This wasn't from the attack, was it?" He asked calmly.

"No," Owen replied. "It was during the retreat. His men forced him back out of the combat after his head was smashed, but things were out of control. Horses were running loose, some were hitched to cargo wagons. I think his foot was crushed by one of them."

Neal nodded. "Whatever it was, it was bad." Cupping Wyldon's foot, he sent threads of his dark green magic to realign the bones. "Can you give me some bandages?" He noticed that the roll of bandages Owen had chosen were not spelled for healing. Knowing Lord Wyldon, and the needs of the other soldiers, this was a good decision.

Once the bones were set, he took the time to begin the muscle and ligament healing that would normally take a month and a half. He had learned that healing broken bones was the most draining thing to do in a war infirmary, but it was usually worthwhile to speed the early stages of the process. Lord Wyldon could be back on his foot in four weeks if he didn't have any more healings.

"Should I contact Lady Vivenne?" Owen asked quietly, standing beside his father-in-law.

Neal shook his head, bandaging the foot tightly. "He said not to. I'm not too sure, though." He briskly rolled the breeches back down and moved to check on the damaged arm. He cut the blood-soaked shirt away, swearing at the sight of Wyldon's mangled arm.

"Mithros!" Owen exclaimed, stepping away from the bed. He clamped his hand over his mouth, staring at the bone fragments poking through the tear in Wyldon's skin.

"If the man would complain, I would've known to treat this first," Neal growled. He was angrier at himself for not thinking to check it before the broken foot. As horrible as broken feet were, there were too many important arteries in the arm to justify ignoring it.

Neal's Gift was low, but he would need to use all of it if the arteries or veins were damaged. He began to wash the wound, using his Gift to simultaneously reset the bones. "They're not going to knit without help," he told Owen, "but I really don't have enough magic to do that tonight. My healers are all as drained as me, and I can't justify using every last bit of power on one person."

Owen nodded, his grey eyes wide. "How can I help?"

Together they made a splint to support the arm, and Owen tied it down with bandages while Neal explored the veins and arteries with his magic. There was damage, but not so much that he would need to call in another healer. Grasping the tiniest thread of his Gift, he stitched up a torn vein, reinforcing it with a magical green bandage.

"You look weak," Owen said, wiping the sweat from Neal's brow. "Can you handle this?"

"I have to." He forced a bit more of his Gift into the bones, starting the re-knitting process. A wave of dizziness came over him and he gripped the edge of the cot. Seeing Owen's alarmed face, he scowled. "I'm fine. But I need more clean bandages and fresh water."

The younger man promptly fetched the bandages; he took the bowl of bloody water and cloths from Neal and left the tent. When he returned, he had not only a fresh bowl of water, but a mug for Neal as well.

Neal took it gratefully, gulping it quickly before turning back to sew the rents in Lord Wyldon's arm. "Has he ever mentioned chest pains to you?" he asked Owen, his voice low.

"No. He's never complained of any pain to me for as long as I've known him."

"His heart is in bad shape," Neal said, not looking at his friend. "If I can get my father here tomorrow, we can fix it. We've healed worse. But I don't know if he'll be able to make it."

"Your father?" Owen asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Neal frowned and looked up at his friend. "Either of them." He went back to his stitches, not wanting to see the grief on Owen's face. "Do you think we should contact his wife? You would know better than I do if that's the right thing to do."

"I think we should get your father first," Owen answered. "And if--if that doesn't work, I'll send a courier to Cavall."

Owen left the tent, leaving Neal with the sleeping patients. There wasn't a lot he could do. He didn't have the strength to manage it alone, and he didn't have the skill to guide the other healers if they worked together. Years of working with healers like the Lioness and his father taught him how to do things on his own, but he didn't have the temperament to instruct people. And he knew that it wasn't worth risking Wyldon's life even more to attempt it.

He pulled a stool over to the knight's bedside and sat next to him. "You couldn't have told someone that you were having trouble, could you?" he sighed. As much as he admired the everyday stoicism he saw in warriors like Wyldon and Kel and Owen, it aggravated him to see common sense thrown out the window.

He took Lord Wyldon's good hand in his, pressing two fingers over his wrist. The pulse was weak. Too weak.

"Come on," he urged, standing up. He probed Wyldon with the last of strains of his magic, strengthening the arteries and walls of his heart, but it was useless. He didn't have enough. The Stump I know wouldn't take this lying down, he thought angrily. Fight it. Just hold out until tomorrow--twelve more hours and I can get father here to fix this! He could feel the life slipping away from Lord Wyldon, but he fought it with all he could. Neal placed the meager remains of his Gift into a jolt, straight into his heart. He slumped to the floor, too weak to hold himself upright.

Owen will be here any second, Neal thought, trying to stand. I'll have to tell him… which letter to send.

The world went black.

"Come on, Neal," a frantic voice swam into his head, and Neal felt water on his face. When he opened his eyes, he saw Owen's tear-filled eyes.

"He's gone," Neal mumbled, grabbing Owen's hand. "I tried to help him."

"I-I know," Owen said, helping Neal sit up.

Another arm supported Neal, and he felt the coolness of healing magic entering his body. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bright shimmer of emerald. "It's too late," he whispered, leaning against his father.

The End

A/N: The challenge, for the record, was to kill of our favorite character.