His gaze, usually so guarded, lingered for a beat too long, a silent question in the depths of his unreadable eyes. Yet, his mere presence was a steadying anchor against the rush of my racing pulse.
I gathered what I needed quickly: a sun leaf, a strip of pine bark, a brittle twist of root I prayed was feverroot. My hands moved automatically, sorting, preparing. My breath hitched with each painful throb, a desperate struggle for composure as fear clamped its icy tendrils tighter around my chest.
The fire burned low in the center of the shelter, casting gold and amber light across the stone walls. I dropped to my knees beside it, arranging the herbs on a flat rock, and began grinding them together with the butt of my knife. The scent was sharp, bitter, and piney, with the faint sweetness of sun leaf.
I poured water into the blackened tin kettle and set it over the fire. As it warmed up, I scraped the herb paste into the bottom of a cup. The bark needed longer, so I added it to the boiling water first, letting the scent fill the air.
Oily steam enveloped my face, its humid warmth a sticky caress that promised the slow burn of healing. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the rhythm, the careful measure of each motion, the ancient practice of tending to someone you love.
From behind, a choked sound tore from Jasira's throat, a tiny, broken noise that barely reached the ears over the wind.
When the tea was finally ready, I knelt beside her again. Her lips were parted, skin slick with sweat, but her lashes fluttered as I touched her shoulder.
“Jasi,” I whispered, gently sliding an arm beneath her shoulders. She was burning. “Try and take small sips,” I said softly as I propped her against me, tilting the cup to her lips.
Her throat worked slowly. She didn’t swallow easily, but she drank.
I whispered to her while she did; nonsense things, comforting things, stories about when we were little, about garden games and secret rooms behind the library shelves. The first time we tried to make soup without help, we nearly burned down the kitchen as a result.
She smiled weakly and lopsidedly.
“I remember,” she mumbled.
“So do I,” I whispered, brushing damp curls from her temple. “Stay with me, Jasi.”
Her eyes, clouded with pain, fluttered to stay open. “I’m trying,” she rasped,
And, gods help me, she was.
…
The shelter had gone still. Jasira’s breathing had settled. Alaric dozed beside Bran, and Gideon’s soft snores filtered in from the far side of the fire. The smoke drifted in soft spirals.
I sat curled against the stone wall, wrapped in my blanket, but sleep would not come.
Across the fire, Erindor sat quietly, his sword across his knees. His eyes flicked to mine briefly, then away.
I hesitated, then reached into my satchel and pulled out a small bit of honey bread I’d kept hidden since Greymere. I crossed the fire and held it out to him.
“Thanks.” He looked surprised but took it with a nod, murmuring, “Are you alright?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.
He nodded again. “Me neither.”
We sat like that for a while, two shadows in the firelight. Then he spoke, voice low.
He turned the bread over in his hands, then broke it in half and held a piece out to me. I took it without hesitation, grateful for the gesture.
“My mother used to make sweet rolls like this,” he said, his voice softer now, almost distant. “She’d use whatever she had: dried cherries, flower syrup, even crushed mint once. She claimed sweetness mattered more when the world turned bitter.”
There was something raw in his voice. I didn’t press, but I didn’t leave it either.
“She sounds kind,” I whispered.
“She was.”
Hestaredinto the flames, as if each flickering dance was a silent echo of a forgotten past.
