Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The weight of him presses into me as I guide him to the bedchamber—power and muscle made fragile by pain. Together we manage the short distance, his pride heavier than his body. I ease him down, lift his legs, tug off his boots, and pull the blanket over him.
“It’s not in my nature to let someone tend to me so,” he murmurs, voice still resonant even in defeat. “I must truly be battered.”
I smile faintly at the humor, adjusting his pillow, though every fracture in his composure reveals pain.
I find myself more concerned with his comfort and mending than with the fact that a stranger lies in the bed I’ve called my own these months.
I look anywhere but at him, the nearness disarming, and withdraw from the room.
“Rest now. I have things to tend to. I’ll check on you soon.” My hand lingers at the threshold, aching to stay, before I force myself to turn away. Was it concern that held me there, or something else? Thoughts I dare not linger on.
Standing at the center of the main room, I take stock of what needs doing.
The stillness is a marked contrast to the triage of his arrival.
The cottage is small, but to me it is abundance.
Even leaving the harshness of winter behind, there is much to do.
Tonight, though, only the essentials: water, fire, food.
I fetch two buckets and step into the dusk.
The evening air prickles against my skin; I don’t bother with my cloak for so quick a task.
The rain barrels are low, but I know that will soon rectify itself.
Brushing aside leaves, I lift the cistern’s lid and lower each bucket into the dark pool.
Grateful I haven’t stopped to face the shift I noticed behind my eyes, my reflection ripples then vanishes.
The frigid wetness of the damp rope stings my hands.
I carry the first bucket to the trough outside.
By the time I return with a bundle of hay, the stallion has raised his head, water trailing from his muzzle.
He presses into my hand when I stroke his mane, the warmth of him grounding me.
“Good evening, friend,” I murmur to soothe us both.
I give one last pat before I leave him to his rest.
Inside, I set the other bucket by the hearth and coax the fire higher. I peer into the dim bedchamber to check once on Vale, lingering just within the doorway, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest until my fear eases. I light the lantern before leaving him to the dark.
Back in the main room, the fire glows gentle.
Hunger gnaws at me as I fix a modest plate; I’ve had little more than broth for some time now.
The first quiet bite in what feels like an eternity makes the fatigue crash through me.
When I finish, I rinse the dish and wring out the rags I left soaking.
They hang limp above the hearth, stained with the faint rust of blood, swaying like withered herbs.
How close had he truly been to death’s door?
A shiver runs through me despite the warmth.
When at last I step back into the bedchamber, his eyes are open.
“You look as though you’ve been to war,” he says, then softens. “I can see how weary you are. You need rest as much as I.” There is a gentleness in the command despite the rasp in his voice.
I hurry forward as he tries to push himself up.
“Are you mad? You’ll tear those stitches—lie back.
I’ve kept you from bleeding out once already; don’t make me do it again!
” He relents, though the conflict in his gaze is plain.
He catches my hand as I move to pull the blanket over him, stopping me mid-movement.
“You need rest,” he insists, his grip both gentle and strained.
I still him in kind when I feel him start to move again.
“And I should stand guard. We do not know what threats may linger. I could take the chair by the hearth, keep watch.” His stubbornness strikes against my own in a way that only makes me dig my heels in more.
I shake my head as I turn away. “You can scarcely stand. You’d collapse before any intruder.”
His gaze steadies me when I look back, even through his pain.
“Then stay here,” he says, the words reaching farther than any hand might.
“Where I can see you. Where I know you’re safe.
That alone will give me peace.” The soft surrender and gentle plea in his voice pull at something inside me.
If this is the only way to get him to rest, I consider conceding.
“I’ll take the chair,” I try weakly. “You’ll have the bed.”
“Mira.” His voice deepens, a command wrapped in care. “I would find no rest knowing you sat in vigil while I lay in comfort. Only if you lie beside me will my body believe it is safe enough to heal.”
A stalemate between two willful, tired souls. He strains to tug down the far edge of the blanket in silent offering—and command.
Reluctantly, I cross to the other side of the bed and lower myself onto it, exhaustion pulling me down at once.
A low chuckle catches me off guard. “You’ll have yourself falling to the floor the way you cling to the edge like that.”
It’s true—I’ve left as wide a distance as I can manage. I’ve already been nearer to him than I have been to another in ages, and only out of necessity.
“In my state,” he adds, lips quirking, “I am hardly a threat to your virtue. And even if I weren’t—” His gaze holds me, steady and unyielding. “I am a man of honor. Rest easy in that.”
With a sigh, I allow myself to sink closer, though a breadth still separates us. The weight of him across the mattress is enough to anchor me. I lie flat, staring at the ceiling, blanket clutched to my chest, until my eyes—heavy from near two days without sleep—surrender at last.
The first thing I feel is warmth. Not the heat of the fire—now only banked embers—but a deeper warmth that holds me close. My cheek rests against something solid, steady, rising and falling with breath. Safety wraps around me like a second blanket.
My eyes flutter open. For a heartbeat, I bask in it—then still. I am not alone. The arm curved around me is not my own.
The memories rush back—his wounds, his aching laughter as I clung to the bed’s edge, my headstrong vow to keep to myself. Yet here I am, drawn against him in sleep as though my body has chosen what my mind refused.
Shock washes through me, colliding with the undeniable peace of his hold. I should not be here. By virtue alone, I should have risen before dawn and set distance between us. And still… I have never felt so safe.
Before I can move, before apology or retreat can form, his voice rumbles softly beneath my ear. “Good morning.”
No accusation. No jest. Only calm assurance—like sunlight breaking the horizon.
I sit up slowly, not fully pulling away, reluctant to lose the peace. “Good morning,” I echo, a soft smile betraying my hesitation. “How are you feeling?” My hands hover where bandages are no longer needed—over the smaller wounds that have mended.
He groans, shifting. I slip a pillow behind him to ease the effort. “Still healing,” he admits, pride bruised as much as his body.
I pull a linen shirt from the basket tucked beneath the chair—a simple garment left by the cottage’s last keeper.
My fingers linger in the weave. “If you’re strong enough,” I say, letting the pause linger, “I suspect Eryndor would prefer you take this rather than stay in that tattered, bloody mess.” I set it beside him with care. “I’ll bring you something to eat—”
“You don’t need to fuss over me so,” he interrupts.
“Bit used to being the mighty warrior?” I tease gently. “That may be true, but I doubt you’re often healing from injuries such as these.”
He gives a weary shake of his head. “I’ve fought battles, led men in war… and nothing has felled me like this.” His hand rests over the gravest lesion, clutching as much at memory as at the moment. My mind drifts to what he may have endured before arriving here.
“Porridge or broth?” I ask, breaking the silence before it grows too heavy. “Do you think you can stomach more today?”
His laugh fills the small room. “I could eat a horse.”
The sound startles a laugh from me too, hand flying to my mouth. “Speaking of—your horse outside doesn’t look intended as a meal…”
“Bracken.” His spirit lifts. “He’s outside?”
I nod.
“That horse has carried me through more than I can name, and still he stayed.” His smile dazzles despite the weariness. “He’s more fit for knighthood than the spit.”
Our laughter meets and mingles, light spilling into the small space like morning sun through the shutters.
I move into the rhythm of morning—coaxing the fire to warm porridge, returning with a tray and fruit gathered days before.
Buckets fetched from the cistern. An armful of hay laid in the trough.
I bow with a smile to the waiting stallion.
“Something better this afternoon, Sir Bracken—an apple, perhaps. The least you deserve.”
The day feels lighter for it. Fruit tastes sweeter, the sun warmer, the air scented as though in celebration.
When I check midmorning, Vale has returned to sleep—a welcome sight. But by afternoon, his voice meets me as I rustle about. “Do you ever slow down?”
“I suppose not.”
“Please. Stay. I’ll go mad if all I hear is you fussing with chores.”
I claim a leather-bound book from the shelf and settle in the chair beside the bed, sunlight spilling across the page, my thumb brushing the cover in quiet anticipation—pages upon pages in my grasp.
“What do you have there?”
“It was Eryndor’s.” It’s not the more intimate journals, which have remained untouched, but rather a more practical ledger of the cottage’s keepings.
An almanac of wisdom that has served me well.
“Most of it in his hand, but the margins…” I turn the book toward him, showing the delicate script beside the firm calligraphy.
“Awynn,” Vale says, reverence threading through his voice. “His wife.”
“He spoke of her,” I whisper. “A mortal. The grief when he…” The memory of his words draws a deep ache—to have loved so deeply and lost so much. I trail my fingers across the mingled hands preserved in ink.
“It was rare,” Vale says quietly. “A love so true. He left it all for her—the safety of court, the eternity of his kind—all for a mortal lifetime.”
His words pierce. How small I must seem beside centuries.
He must sense the shift in me. “It isn’t unheard of,” he adds. “Immortal and mortal finding one another. But as the lines between our worlds grew sharper, most found there was no place for them in either.”
He leans back, gaze distant. “He always knew he was destined for great love. We both did. We were touched by old magic, when prophecy was birthright. Some clung to it as gospel. Others rebelled. Eryn was both.”
“What did his say?” I ask, drawn in despite myself.
“A link to love that would last lifetimes.” Vale’s brow furrows.
“Not singular. That is where I suspect his heart rebelled the most.” The fondness in his voice stills me as I listen.
“But as magic faded, fewer understood what those words meant. Much was left open to interpretation. Many at court believed he would return once his mortal love had passed—to fulfill what was written, love beyond a sole lifetime. They waited for him as though prophecy were a summons, not a choice.”
My fingers run across the edge of the page and the words scrawled across the margins over the years. “And they never had children?” The question hangs in the air before I even realize I asked it, or why.
Vale’s breath leaves him slow, as if the answer has weight.
“No.” His gaze drifts to the window—past the glass, past the cottage, as if he can set the truth down somewhere other than between us.
Then he looks back. “Our two kinds can share a bed. A life.” A pause, quiet and final.
“But not blood. That is the cost. Part of what is lost.”
Something in me tightens. Not because I’ve been dreaming of cradles—I haven’t. I long ago accepted that I may never have a family of my own, and I’ve built a life I can bear inside that truth.
It tightens because his words are a boundary. A line drawn clean and final between his world and mine. For a moment, I’d forgotten what he is. Comfort turns traitor… the memory hits: him bleeding on my floor, my hands slick with it, my fear a living thing. And now—miraculously—he lies here mended.
We are not the same.
Perhaps sensing the shift, he continues—of their marriage, of Awynn’s mortal years, of visiting once when time’s touch was etched upon her face…
His pauses stretch, weighted by years between memories. “When he said he’d never love another, I believed him. Nothing would compare to what they had.”
His words strike deep. How small and fleeting my own life feels beside such devotion. Who am I beside lifetimes, prophecies, courts, and crowns? A mortal woman—no great destiny—only the solitude I chose because it was safe. Because it was mine.
I shift away from my own thoughts. “And you?” I ask before I can stop myself. “What does your prophecy say?”
His mouth curves, but his eyes do not soften. “Standard promises: battles fought, steel forged in trials…” A pause. “And love.”
The word hangs between us like an ember refusing to die.
“That is the one part of my destiny yet unfulfilled.” His gaze lingers, steady, unreadable. “I’ve waited. Longer than most, I think. For someone at my side—equal in every measure. I’ve not found her yet.”
I shrink inside, my mortal skin suddenly feeling like armor two sizes too thin. How could I compare?
“If the interpretation holds true,” he adds quietly, “I will know it without doubt when spark becomes flame.”
“What of you?” His question lands like a challenge. “Any tales of great love?”
I laugh too sharply, the sound fracturing the moment.
“Me? No.” My head shakes with defiance. “It’s not meant for me.
” I hesitate, the truth pulling against my stubbornness.
There have been flirtations, fleeting warmths—but love?
No. Never. “I will be perfectly content here. My days, quiet. My life, my own.”
Even as I say it, the contradiction unsettles me. The woman who claimed peace in solitude speaking from a place where a love so sacred once lived.
“I should go prepare supper.” The words escape like retreat.
“Mira…” His voice stops me before I can rise. His eyes hold mine, steady as stone. “It’s worth it. Love. Even if I’ve not lived it, I know. It’s worth it.”
I turn to the hearth, stirring embers that refuse to die.
Still, my thoughts linger on the man in the other room—so close in body, and yet anchored in a world beyond my knowing.