48 lines
No EOL
3.5 KiB
Markdown
48 lines
No EOL
3.5 KiB
Markdown
The chamber might have once belonged to a captain or minor noble, back when Winter’s Edge had been a proper keep instead of a fractured refuge. Now it served as Ryn’s room, though it barely deserved the name. The stone walls leaked cold like a memory refused to die. The hearth flickered dimly, fed with what little dry wood remained. A cracked basin sat on a rickety table beside the bed. Frost curled in the corners of the windowpanes, whispering against the glass.
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Alisha sat on the edge of the narrow cot, her knees brushing against Ryn’s thigh. Between her hands, the cloth was already stained pink with old blood and melted snow. The bowl steamed faintly in the cold room, its water tinged with the coppery scent of healing delayed.
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Ryn sat still, half-armored, half-undone. One gauntlet lay discarded at her feet. Her tunic hung open at the shoulder, exposing a line of bruises that bloomed from clavicle to rib. She had neither asked for aid nor refused it. She had simply sat when Alisha guided her here—silent, eyes dull with weight that no sleep could lighten.
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Alisha dipped the cloth again. Her hands were steady now, though they had trembled earlier. Not from fear. Not from the cold. But from the aching closeness of it all—the ache of being needed and not quite wanted, of love kept quiet for too long.
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“Hold still,” she whispered.
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Ryn did, though a flicker of pain crossed her face as the cloth touched the gash below her ribs.
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Alisha worked gently, dabbing blood, cleaning dirt. She paused when she found a deeper cut at Ryn’s side—a long, inflamed welt where her armor had chafed through the skin. Without a word, she reached for a roll of linen, biting the corner as she cut a strip with her belt knife.
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“You should’ve said something,” she murmured. “This could fester.”
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Ryn didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on the hearth—on the waning flames that danced without warmth.
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Alisha swallowed. Her voice turned softer. “You don’t have to carry it all alone.”
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That earned a flick of Ryn’s eyes, but no more. There was a hollowness there, a grief still too fresh to name. Alisha could see it—the weight of Enric’s death, the burden of every sword that had turned to her when the king’s fell. And deeper still, something older: a dream of frost, a whisper in the blood. Ryn hadn’t spoken of it. Not since the shrine. Not since the ice traced their floor like a curse.
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Alisha wrapped the linen, knotting it with care. She rested her palm over the dressing, fingers lingering longer than needed. Still no protest. Still no return.
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The silence thickened.
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“I brought bread,” Alisha said. “And broth. From the kitchens. It’s not much, but it’s hot.”
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Ryn shook her head faintly. “Later.”
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“You haven’t eaten.”
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“I said later.”
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Alisha sat back, stung, but nodded. Her braid slipped over her shoulder, dark hair catching firelight for a moment before dimming again. She turned her face slightly away, hiding the worst of what showed in her eyes.
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She wanted to say, _You’re pushing me away again._
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She wanted to scream, _Let me in before you’re too far gone._
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But instead, she whispered, “Rest, then. I’ll stay till you sleep.”
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And she did.
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She sat at the foot of the cot, arms wrapped around her knees, watching as Ryn finally leaned back, muscles tight as drawn bowstring, and closed her eyes. Even in sleep, her brow furrowed. Even in sleep, she looked ready to bleed.
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Alisha watched the candle burn low.
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Watched the rise and fall of breath she feared would change before she could catch it. |