Bastion of Darkness by R. A. Salvatore

nudge.
    Bryan opened a sleepy eye. His blurry vision gradually sharpened, focusing at first on the image of the blackened logs, patches of orange, smoldering glow evident here and there. His smile slowly faded as he came to realize where he was, the talon camp, and that the morning had found him there, and that Rhiannon, standing before him, had found him there, and that they had not spent the night in each other’s arms. That was just a dream, just a dream.
    Just a dream.
    “Bryan?”
    “I am here,” he replied groggily, rolling to the side a bit to shift his weight, and stretching his sore back.
    “Are ye hurt then?” the witch asked.
    He spent a moment considering that possibility, replayed the events of the previous night—the actual events and not his fantasies—and shook his head. “No. Not hurt. I haven’t a scratch.”
    Her reaction caught him off guard, for she moved beside him, crouched low, and punched him hard in the gut. “Ye fool,” she scolded, and her anger was not feigned. “How dare ye take me vision from me and put it to yer own stupid use?”
    “I did … What do you mean?” Bryan stammered, balling up defensively as Rhiannon punched at him again.
    “Who’s telling ye to go off alone then?” the fieryyoung witch went on. “Who said to ye that this was yer own fight? Yer own fight alone?”
    “You were worried about me,” Bryan responded, that boyish smile flashing bright, its undeniable charm stealing some of Rhiannon’s ire.
    “Of course I …” the witch began, but she stopped, caught by surprise as to where this conversation might be leading.
    “Ha!” Bryan laughed into the morning light, clapping his hands together and leaping nimbly to his feet. “And so you care, daughter of Brielle,” he accused poking a finger at her. “You care, and there will be no denying it!”
    “Ye’re me friend,” the witch replied seriously, calmly. “I’d not deny that.”
    Bryan’s eyes focused on her intently. “Just a friend?” he asked with a snicker.
    Rhiannon’s cold look stole the mirth from the young man, and told him without a doubt that he had pushed her too far too quickly.
    “Ye’re me friend,” she said again. “And we been fighting together, a powerful team, and for ye to go off without a word o’ explaining, for ye to take such a chance without even giving me the option o’ telling ye ye’re right or ye’re wrong …” Her voice trailed off and she looked away, chewing her bottom lip, her blue eyes growing suddenly misty.
    “I did not mean it like that,” Bryan began, rushing over and dropping to a crouch beside her. He draped an arm across her shoulders. “This fight was not for you,” he tried to explain.
    “That choice is me own to make,” the witch said firmly, avoiding his gaze.
    “No,” Bryan disagreed, and the bluntness of his tone did draw her gaze, a look of both curiosity and budding anger. “You have no choice. You would have joined mein this fight, however weak, however weary you might have been. You would have joined me because you see that as your duty. You would have aided me with your magic, despite the obvious price, because you feel you have to, though this fight was not so difficult a task for my sword alone.”
    The young witch started to look away again, but Bryan caught her chin in hand and turned with her, forcing her to look at him.
    “You would have sought to protect me, as I would protect you, but that exertion, that call to magic, would have wounded you more than these pitiful talons could ever wound me.” He let go and brushed his fingers gently across her cheek, and Rhiannon made no further move to turn away.
    “Do you not understand, my Rhiannon,” he said quietly past the lump welling in his throat. “By preventing you from protecting me, I protected you.”
    She stared at him hard.
    “Would you not have done the same?” he asked gently.
    “This is not about me, Bryan of Corning,” the witch said suddenly,