Chapter Six A Blanket Bought With Hunger #2
Ivor leaned closer. “One more thing,” he whispered. “If she is ill, she will draw attention. Keep her quiet.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “I will.”
Ivor leaned back again, comfortable. “Then we have a deal.”
Caelan rose and moved back to Morna’s corner. She watched him approach, reading his posture, the set of his shoulders.
“What did you do,” she murmured.
Caelan’s voice was low. “One day of my portion. He brings a blanket tonight.”
Morna’s eyes tightened. “That is too much.”
“It is enough,” Caelan replied.
Morna’s mouth pressed into a line. “You will weaken.”
“I am already weak,” Caelan said, fully aware of the honesty because it sounded like surrender.
Morna’s gaze softened, then hardened again. “If you collapse, I cannot carry you.”
Caelan managed a brief, grim smile. “Then do not let me collapse.”
Morna’s eyes held his. “That is not how bodies work.”
Caelan swallowed. “Then I will ration myself.”
Morna’s hand lifted, then fell back into her lap. “You cannot ration hunger.”
Caelan had no answer.
Night fell early. The barrack filled with damp breath and muted murmurs. Guards made rounds outside. Somewhere a man shouted in pain, then fell silent. The camp swallowed the sound.
Morna’s fever rose as darkness deepened.
Caelan noticed because she stopped shifting on the straw. She lay too still, breath shallow, eyes half lidded. When he pressed his fingers to her forehead, heat pulsed against his skin.
“You are burning,” he whispered.
Morna’s eyes fluttered open. “Do not,” she murmured, voice thin. “Do not look at me like that.”
“Like what.”
“Like I am a problem you cannot solve,” she whispered.
Caelan’s chest tightened. “You are not a problem,” he said. “You are a person.”
Morna’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, then she coughed softly. The cough hurt her, he could hear it.
Caelan glanced toward Elara and Ewan nearby. Ewan watched with frightened eyes. Elara’s hands were clenched around her knees, face pale.
Caelan forced his voice steady. “Morna needs quiet,” he murmured to them. “If anyone asks, she is resting from long work.”
Ewan nodded quickly. Elara nodded too, eyes wide with fear and loyalty.
Caelan pulled a strip of cloth from his sleeve, dampened it with water from the skin, and pressed it to Morna’s forehead. Her skin was too hot.
Morna’s eyes closed. “You should not waste water,” she murmured.
“You are worth water,” Caelan replied.
Morna’s eyes opened again, glassy. “Do not,” she whispered again, softer.
Caelan frowned. “Do not what.”
Morna’s voice was faint. “Do not make me want,” she said. “Wanting makes you foolish.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. He understood more than he wanted to. She meant love. She meant dependence. She meant the kind of need that made survival less practical.
Caelan swallowed. “We already want,” he murmured. “We want to live.”
Morna’s breath hitched, then eased. She closed her eyes again.
Caelan sat beside her, listening to her breathing, listening for the guards’ boots, listening for any shift in the barrack that meant attention had turned their way.
Time crawled.
At last the late watch changed. Caelan heard the platform creak, heard a laugh, heard the slur in a guard’s voice. The drunk archer, Ivor had said.
Caelan’s muscles tightened with tension.
Ivor rose quietly and slipped toward the door with the ease of a man who had done this before. He moved like smoke, not fast, but confident.
Caelan kept his face still. He could not watch too openly. Watching was suspicion.
Minutes passed.
Morna’s breath came shallow. Caelan pressed the damp cloth to her forehead again and forced himself to keep his hands from shaking.
Then the door creaked open a fraction, and Ivor slipped inside with a bundle under his arm.
He moved like a rat carrying stolen grain.
He crouched near Caelan without looking at him directly. “Here,” Ivor whispered.
Caelan took the bundle. It was a thin wool blanket, worn and smelling faintly of smoke, but it was real.
Caelan’s throat tightened. “Where did you get it.”
Ivor’s grin flashed in the dark. “From someone who will miss it,” he whispered. “That is what theft is.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched.
Ivor’s eyes flicked to Morna, then back to Caelan. “Pay me tomorrow,” he murmured. “No delays.”
Caelan nodded once.
Ivor slipped away again, melting back into the barrack’s shadows as if he had never moved.
Caelan unfolded the blanket and eased it over Morna’s body, tucking it around her shoulders. The wool caught heat, trapping it. Morna’s shiver eased.
Morna’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at the blanket as if it were a dream. “Where.”
“Do not ask,” Caelan murmured.
Morna stared at him, understanding settling in her gaze.
Her voice came out rough. “You did it.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. “Aye.”
Morna’s eyes filled with something sharp, not tears, but emotion held too tight. “You should not,” she whispered.
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “Stop telling me that.”
Morna’s lips pressed together. She swallowed, then said, “This will cost you.”
Caelan’s voice went low. “Everything costs.”
Morna’s gaze held his. “And you always pay,” she whispered, as if that frightened her more than the fever.
Caelan looked away because he could not bear the weight in her eyes.
He kept the cloth on her forehead, kept her covered, kept his posture calm while his mind ran through consequences.
If guards noticed the blanket, they would ask where it came from. If they asked Morna, she might not be able to lie through fever. If they asked Caelan, he would have to choose between truth and punishment.
Truth meant Ivor punished. Punishment meant Morna loses her knife. Perhaps worse. Perhaps Valerius decides Morna is not worth keeping.
Caelan’s stomach tightened. Every mercy came chained to risk.
Ewan shifted closer and whispered, “Will she die.”
Caelan swallowed. “Not if I can help it.”
Ewan’s eyes shone. “You always say that.”
Caelan glanced at him, and the words caught in his throat. Because Ewan was right. Caelan always said it. It was his promise to himself, his defense against helplessness.
Now that promise felt like a weight.
Elara leaned in too, voice trembling. “What do we do.”
Caelan lowered his voice. “We keep her warm. We keep her quiet. We keep her from being taken.”
Elara nodded, biting her lip.
Morna’s breathing steadied under the blanket, but the fever did not break quickly. It held, stubborn as the camp itself.
Caelan sat through the night in half wakefulness, listening for guards, pressing cloth to Morna’s forehead, counting breaths like he once counted sacks of grain.
In the darkest stretch before dawn, Morna stirred and whispered, “My sister.”
Caelan leaned closer. “What.”
Morna’s eyes were closed. Her voice was thin. “I could not,” she murmured. “I could not pull her back.”
Caelan’s chest tightened. He had heard the story before, but hearing it now, in fever, made it feel like a wound reopening.
“You are not losing again,” Caelan whispered.
Morna’s lips moved, almost a smile, almost despair. “You cannot promise,” she murmured.
Caelan swallowed hard. “Then I will do what I can,” he said.
Morna’s eyes opened, glassy. “That is the promise,” she whispered.
Caelan stared at her, breath tight. He realized she was giving him a way to live with failure if failure came. Not absolution, not comfort, but a kind of brutal mercy.
He pressed the cloth to her forehead and sat through the last hours of night.
When the barrack door scraped open at dawn, Caelan had not slept. His body felt heavy, his mind sharper than it should be, as if exhaustion had peeled away soft edges and left only bone.
The guards shouted numbers. Prisoners rose. Morna tried to sit up and swayed, eyes unfocused.
Caelan moved quickly, supporting her elbow. “Stay down,” he murmured.
Morna swallowed. “If I stay down, they take my knife.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “If you stand, you collapse.”
Morna’s lips pressed together. She tried to push herself upright anyway, stubborn even in fever.
Caelan made a decision.
He leaned close to her ear. “Lie still,” he whispered. “Let them think you are tending someone.”
Morna’s eyes narrowed, even in fever. “A lie.”
Caelan swallowed. “A necessary one.”
Morna stared at him for a long moment, and Caelan saw the conflict there. She had built her life on tangible truths. Lies were slippery. Lies were danger.
Yet she was also pragmatic. She understood necessity.
She nodded once, reluctant.
Caelan rose and stepped toward the door as the guards entered, blocking their view of Morna’s blanket with his body. He kept his posture calm, eyes down.
A guard’s gaze swept the barrack and landed on Morna’s corner.
Caelan’s pulse tightened.
The guard barked, “Healer. Up.”
Caelan moved before Morna could. He crouched near the feverish boy, the one Morna had tended, and lifted the boy’s hand as if checking the bandage.