One minute her eyes are slitting open, cloudy with pain and fever, lips cracked and whispering my name like it’s the only anchor she’s got. The next, she’s gone again—head lolling against my chest, breath shallow, too damn light to hear unless I lean in close.
I sit on the forest floor with her curled in my lap, arms wrapped around her like a shield. The others have taken watch—Charen somewhere in the treetops, snoring between mouthfuls of moonlight. Bruce’s massive form slumped near the ridge, his tail twitching every time something rustles. Harriet’s coils stretch through the ferns, six heads dozing like cats with one eye open.
Me?
I can’t sleep.
Won’t.
Her blood’s still warm, but it’s thinner than it should be. Poison has a rhythm. A cruel one. It eats in waves—pain, nausea, cold sweat, then nothing. Then pain again. Then worse.
I’ve fought monsters, gods, things with too many legs and teeth.
None of them scare me like this.
I stroke her hair back from her face with fingers that feel too big, too clumsy for something this soft. It’s damp with fever sweat. Strands stick to her temples. Her skin burns under my touch, and every instinct in me screams to fix it, to fight it, to tear something apart and make it right.
But there’s nothing to kill.
Just time.
Just waiting.
So I do what my mother used to do, back when I was small enough to fit in a crook of her arm. Back before the world taught me that softness was weakness and quiet was dangerous.
I hum.
It’s low, off-key, rough from disuse. But the tune’s old. Older than me. A lullaby from the caves. Troll mothers sang it in guttural tones, slow and deep, like the earth whispering to itself in the dark.
River stirs.
Her fingers twitch in mine. Her breath catches.
Then… a sigh.
I don’t stop.
I hum another verse, mouth close to her temple, thumb tracing lazy circles over her knuckles. Her hand’s so small in mine. It always has been, but now… it feels fragile.
I hate that.
I’d take the arrow if I could. I’d rip out my own thigh and shove it into hers if it’d keep her breathing easy.
I’ve never felt like this.
Not for anyone.
Not even my own blood.
The fire’s low, embers crackling in lazy pulses. I feed it a few sticks, careful not to wake her. The glow paints her skin in shades of bronze and copper. Even sick, even wrecked, she’s still the most defiant thing I’ve ever seen.
Still herself.
Still fighting.
“You’re not allowed to die,” I murmur, barely audible. “You hear me?”
Her head shifts slightly, like she’s listening from somewhere far off.
