Chapter 24 Desperation
Desperation
He ran back into the room and stood there, staring down at her in front of the fire.
Her body rested on the furs, her skin pale and clammy and her eyes sunken.
Her lips were cracked, dry from fever and lack of drink.
How long had she been unconscious, how long without water?
Fetching his cup from the table beside the bed, Niel filled it with clean water, cold from the pitcher, and approached where the lady lay.
“You have to sit up,” he told her, hoping she could hear him even if she didn’t answer. “And I need you to wake up, enough to drink.”
He sat and pulled her carefully up against him, leaning her sweat-damp back against his chest to keep her upright.
“Come, Ayla. I need you awake. Come back.”
She stirred again, her head turning against his sternum, and made a small sound.
“Stay with me.” Niel's heart thundered. “I just need you to take a sip. You can do that, can’t you?”
Lifting the cup to her lips, Niel held her head in place with his other hand and tipped it against her lips, letting a thin stream of water dribble into her mouth. He pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for her swallow, terrified she wouldn’t. Her throat moved.
“Beautifully done,” he praised softly in a voice that shook.
“Can you drink again for me?” For a frantic and foolish second it blazed through his mind that it was too intimate, pressing a cup to her lips and giving her drink.
It was part of how they wed, in Enar, and perhaps she would not want him to hold the cup for her, as a new husband did to his new wife in a traditional ceremony.
But he was being an idiot. This was not a matter of romance. It was Ayla’s life, and nothing beyond that mattered. He wasn’t imitating a wedding ceremony. He was trying to make sure she fucking survived.
“Mercy.” Larkin stood in the doorway, his dark brow furrowed. The healer approached and knelt beside Niel, who looked helplessly at the lithe man, Ayla still propped up against him and encircled by his arms. Her body felt far too chilled against his.
“She was alone,” Niel said, his voice shaking with suppressed fury, at himself most of all. “In the cold. No fire. No water.”
“How long?” Larkin asked, reaching forward to place his hands on either side of her neck. Niel felt himself tense all through his body as Larkin touched Ayla. He shoved down the emotion. He knew Larkin was trustworthy. But he didn’t like seeing anyone else’s hands on her.
“I don’t know. Perhaps as long as last night. But she’s better than Cademund was, isn’t she? She’ll be alright?”
“Perhaps.” Larkin said. “Her heart seems slow.” The healer removed his hands from her neck and pressed a palm to Ayla’s forehead.
“Perhaps?” His hands tightened around her, one arm below her breasts, the other across her clavicle. “Heal her. Do something.”
“Nobody else froze like she did. That's dangerous all on its own. She hasn’t woken at all?”
“She’s here. A little, at least.”
Larkin peeled up one of her eyelids. Ayla turned her head to the side away from the healer, who removed his hands.
“Don’t hurt her,” Niel said tersely.
“I’m just trying to get a sense of her state,” Larkin said, holding his hands up.
He needed, desperately, for Larkin to tell him all was well. That Ayla merely needed rest; that she’d be fine in a day or two.
“She needs dry clothes,” the healer said. “I can help—”
“If anyone has to do that, it’ll be me,” Niel said, his voice practically a growl. “Don’t you have medicine?”
“I can give her tea for pain, and fever. But I’m not sure what she needs beyond that.”
“You’re a fucking healer. Heal.” He wanted to shake Larkin by the shoulders until the man worked magic. But Larkin was a soldier-healer, a man like any other. He didn’t have the old blood healing gift.
“I’m trained for battlefield wounds, my lord,” Larkin reminded him softly. “The precious ingredients are limited. We used the last of the quickheal when you were poisoned. And everything else, we must save in case—”
“No. You give her what you have, now.”
“If you’re certain,” Larkin said with a frown, as if surprised that Niel would use the best medicines on a hostage instead of saving them for himself. “I’ll see. I don’t think they had silverroot, or unicorn’s—”
“I have unicorn hair,” Niel interrupted desperately. “She can have it.”
“Your cloak won’t help. It’s the horn that’s healing,” Larkin told him, the man’s mouth flat and his eyes distant, as if Ayla was already gone. “I know you did not want to ransom her, my lord, but the army outside might be better equipped to care—”
A chill passed over Niel at the thought of handing Ayla back to her husband.
“No,” he growled. “Absolutely not. Not until we are out of all other options.”
“I’ll see what I can find. It may be all she needs is warmth and rest, lordship. Get her into dry clothes, keep her warm, and see if she’ll drink more. I’ll be back.”
Larkin left. The room was silent except for the fire. Niel’s lips trembled as he stared down at her. He couldn’t save her from her husband just to lose her to his own carelessness.
She couldn’t succumb to a grippe. That was all. It was simple, really, when put like that. He wasn’t going to let her die, and he wasn't going to give her up. So he had to act, instead of clinging to her like that would stop her from slipping away.
“Are you awake, Ayla?” he asked quietly. She didn’t stir.
He waited a moment longer, reluctant, but not daring to delay.
“Larkin says you need dry clothes to get warm,” he whispered.
“Maker forgive me. I know it’s my fault you’re sick at all.
But there aren’t any women left here, Ayla, so if you can’t wake I’ll have to be the one.
I won’t take any liberties. I only hope you won’t hate me.
” He laid her carefully down again, long enough to grab one of his clean shirts and a pair of braies, the knee-length pants most men wore under their trousers.
“If you do hate me, that’s alright, too.
I don’t know how I’ll bear it, but better that than…
” he couldn’t finish the thought, not even to her unconscious body.
It was unthinkable. “You need to get better,” he finished instead, firmly. “You will get better.”
She made a soft sound, in the back of her throat. His eyes were instantly on her face, but there was no more reaction. Just silence, and sleep.
Shifting the blanket off her body, he drew a deep breath and started with the braies, to give her at least what little modesty he could.
He guided one of her bare, clammy feet through the pant leg of the under garment, then the other.
He worked them up her thighs, peeling her dress back and trying desperately not to think about the soft skin of her long thighs as his hand accidentally grazed against her cool flesh.
When he caught a glimpse of a patch of dark hair, he looked away and lifted her with a hand beneath her back, tugging the braies up over her loins.
Now he could push her shift higher, baring the smooth skin of her narrow midriff.
He tugged the ties of the braies tight enough that the undergarment would stay on her, despite being tailored for his larger frame.
Even with her ill and his mind focused on saving her, it was impossible not to notice the curves of her hips and how low the braies sat over her pelvis. The pale yellow-green marks of old bruises filled him with cold rage.
“I don’t know how to put a shirt on under a dress,” he admitted. “I’m going to have to take yours off. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
He sat again and pulled her limp body up against him.
It worried him terribly that he could handle her so much without her eyes opening, but worrying wasn’t going to get her in dry clothes or put the color back in her lips.
He pulled the dress off over her head, working it over her arms and trying to keep her cold, clammy back balanced against his chest so he wouldn’t need to catch her around the bare narrowing of her waist.
She’d been dressed for sleep, with no stays or brassier beneath her shift.
He didn’t look; in fact, did everything he could not to look, but it was impossible to navigate her arms into the sleeves of his shirt without seeing the soft swell of her supple breasts or their surprisingly dark peaks from the corner of his eyes.
And once he’d spotted that, it was nearly impossible to keep his gaze off her, no matter how hard he tried. He did not want to take liberties. He did not want to be the cause of more pain.
But Mercy, if she had invited him to look, he’d have stared slack-jawed for hours. And he’d have gladly used his hands to make her warm.
“—there,” Niel said, finally, as he pulled her damp black waves out from the neck of the large gray shirt he'd managed to get over her head. “You’re all covered. And you’re dry.
Except your hair, but the fire will fix that.
” The wide neck gaped over her collar, the sleeves so large they came down to the tips of her fingers, but she was clothed, and more importantly, she was dry.
He didn’t want to lay her back down. That would mean letting her go.
And Larkin had said she needed to drink.
He kept her against him and lifted the cup back to her mouth, his hand steady even though he felt anything but.
Speaking softly, he coaxed water into her mouth, small sips that sometimes ended in light coughing fits but not always. He rubbed one of her arms, hoping to warm her.
Larkin was silent as he entered, his boots padding against the floor. The healer carried a cup in his hands.
“Here. I found Caladrius tears.”
“You found what?”
“It’s a type of healing bird. From Cirancia. Is there any change?”
“No,” Niel said stiffly. He set down the water and accepted the cup from Larkin. The tonic inside looked thick, shimmering gold and scented with a tangy smell. He pressed the cup to Ayla’s lips and carefully tipped a little of the fluid into her mouth.
“She’s been drinking water?” Larkin wanted to know.
“Some. Half the cup. Here, my lady, I need you to drink again.” He tilted another bit of tonic into her mouth.
“Good. I’ve set up a bed in the infirmary. Let’s get her down there.”
“No.”
“My lord…”
Niel's hand was around Ayla’s shoulders, her head resting on his collar. Despite the fact that it was more physical contact than Niel had allowed for years, she felt oddly natural there. He did not want to stop holding her.
“No. I’ll care for her. You may go.”
“If you’re certain.” Larkin frowned, but he left.
Niel reluctantly lay her back on the furs when she’d finished the tonic, and started the process of warming the bed, where she’d be further from the fire but more comfortable otherwise.
With tongs he pulled embers from the fire into the metal warming pan, then stuck it beneath the blankets to heat the space where she’d lay.
When he at last judged the bed warm enough for her, he removed the pan, and the knife he kept beneath his pillow.
He picked Ayla up in his arms, then deposited her beneath the blankets and tucked them tight around her.
“I’ll be right here,” Niel informed her. “There’s water beside you.”
She made a small noise again, and turned her head flat against the pillow.
His breath caught, and he waited for her to make some other sign of life, but she went on sleeping.
Tentatively, certain it was wrong of him to take such liberties, he reached forward and tucked back a lock of her hair.
Then Niel took a seat on the room’s chair and braced his hands on his knees.
He tried to convince himself it would be well.
That it was only a little sickness, and she’d be fine now that he had her.
It was only early evening, but he was still exhausted himself. Some fifteen minutes after he’d laid her in the bed he got up to check on her, pressing a palm to her forehead. She felt hot, but not blisteringly so, and she wasn’t sweating.
“Could you drink more?” he asked.
Her eyes flickered slowly open and met his, her gaze glassy and distant. It was the first time she’d opened her eyes since he’d found her, and he felt a surge of protective joy. Her eyes fell back shut.
“I hope that’s a yes. I’m going to take it as one,” he warned her. “Hold on. Let me get you sitting up again.”
He didn’t brace her against him again, much as he wanted to climb onto the bed and pull her body tight to his.
Instead he piled the bed’s pillows up against the headboard, then lifted her up to sit against them.
Holding her steady, he sat on the inch of bed beside her and held the cup to her lips, coaxing her through another few sips of water.
When she turned her head subtly away from the ceramic lip of the cup, he set it down and helped her lie flat again.
The bed was wide, and he was exhausted. But he settled into the chair beside her, crossed his arms, let his eyes drift slowly shut. As Ayla fell back to sleep, Niel listened, and marked every shallow breath she drew.