45. Saige
Saige
Idon’t know how long it lasts. Hours? Days?
I can feel the sweat beading at my hairline; I can feel the pierce of my fingernails through the fabric of my bedsheets into my bruised skin beneath.
How did I get here? The pain takes over everything, all of my senses getting confused.
Is this what pain at a level ten feels like?
It has to be. I am delirious with it. At times, I can hear colors, and taste the cries that are poised on my tongue, I can see music dancing around Archer as he paces my flat upstairs in the silence.
Sometimes, I feel the warm weight of Grim curled up at the end of my bed. I hear Raven and Yevna talking in hushed voices, and sifting through my things for my medications. Not just the smelling herbs, but the strong stuff, for when things are dire. Which means they are.
For me, the passage of time is not marked by the rise and fall of the sun, or the fall of the grains in an hourglass, but by the frequency I find myself without pain medication.
A constant loop of obtaining it, rationing it, and then having to refill it all over again, all the while wondering how did I get here again so soon? Am I truly here again already?
Distantly, I can hear Archer talking to someone.
But when there is no murmur of a response, I peel my eyes open to see him standing in front of my dead plants, conferring with Grim who stands at his side.
For once, the wolfhound isn’t growling and Archer is speaking in soft, gentle tones, pointing to the shriveled up remains of Leo’s greenery.
The sight makes my chest warm, and I try to stay awake to watch as they move from pot to pot, but sleep drags me under once more.
I think I’m dreaming when someone gently pulls the pin from the bird’s nest of hair atop my head, setting it down somewhere nearby.
Strong fingers lace through the strands and begin to massage the tightness from my scalp.
Perfect pressure and luxurious circular motions take over, easing the tension, soothing the aches that have formed there in response to the rest of my rigid, pain-addled body.
At the masterful touch, everything relaxes.
My jaw, my neck, my whole body becomes liquid, and I think I cry from the relief.
After a while, the sweeping motion of fingertips is replaced by the gentlest of tugs at the roots of my hair and I distantly understand that someone is combing the knots from my curls.
The soft scrape of the comb’s teeth against my head lulls me back into a dream where soft lips murmur comforting words against my skin.
Someone makes a noise, a hum. I think it’s me. But the sound is one of peace, one of contentment.
Later, those same strong fingers part my hair into sections—three, if I can still count.
I leave my eyes closed, as my guardian weaves the strands together ever so carefully, crossing the outer pieces over the middle.
The scent of home surrounds me. Only it’s not beeswax and parchment, but earthy—agarwood and amber, with a hint of orange blossom.
When my braid is finished, gently placed over my shoulder, I breathe that scent in so deeply it’s like I need it more than air.
I wake to the gentle pressure of a cool compress on my brow. It feels nice against my sticky, heated skin.
“I used to do this when you were little,” Yevna’s gravelly tone greets me.
I want to open my eyes, to push her hand away and insist that I’m fine, that I can take care of myself.
But I don’t have the energy to lie, not today.
I hear the sound of water as she dips the cloth back into the bucket nearby and wrings it out, placing it back on my forehead.
“You and Raven used to get sick at the same time, just to test my sanity. It was a lot for someone who didn’t want her own kids, but somehow you both weaseled your way in.
And by some miracle, it worked. You beautiful, trouble making girls.
Always up to mischief. Always needing to be rescued from yourselves.
I’ll deny it if you ever bring it up, but…
I miss those days. Much less back chat for one. And you needed me, both of you.”
I feel a small smile tug at my lips, but I’m too exhausted to open my eyes. “We still need you, Yev,” I say hoarsely.
“Nonsense. You haven’t needed me in decades.” She reapplies the compress with fresh water.
“What do you call this then?”
“A capable young woman humoring an old crone,” Yevna quips. “Besides, I had to practically fight the Azkari for the honor.”
“What?” I groan.
“Your General has been nothing but a snarling, foul-mouthed overprotective ass.” Her voice is fading, but I don’t mistake the note of fondness that wasn’t there before.
“I bet Raven loves that,” I reply groggily.
“Actually, Raven’s let him do most of the caring. I think she sees what I see.”
A dull ache flares in my side and I grimace against the pain. “Which is?”
“You’re different with him Saige, you’re you. You don’t hide yourself like you did with Reid. Like you do when you’re on your own. You’re not constantly worrying about everyone else. I think you know he’s strong enough to handle you, and you let him. It’s magnificent to see.”
I let Yevna’s words wash over me like a tide in the shallows, where the water’s warm and gentle.
I don’t know how long she stays mopping my sweaty brow or bringing spoonfuls of broth to my lips, but the next thing I know is that the mattress dips beside me and Archer’s voice soothes every ache in my bones. “I’ve got it from here.”
The rise and fall of a large body breathing against mine stirs me.
I crack one eye open to see the pillow crease that spans from Archer’s temple down his jaw.
It feels incredibly intimate. He looks sleep-ruffled, softer in the morning light, and I have to stop myself from tracing the slope of his nose.
As he sleeps beside me, my mind unfurls with the rhythm of each breath and slowly, my thoughts quieten.
There is silence in a space that is so often filled with noise.
My lungs fill in time with his.
Each of our chests shifting up and down.
The pain is more distant than before.
“What’s on your mind, Grayson?” he murmurs, not opening his eyes.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger, hoarse and broken.
“If you must.”
“What are you afraid of?”
His body shifts with a deep breath before he answers.
“To see war blanket the realm again. I’m afraid to repeat the mistakes of my past and see us all in chains or worse.
I’m afraid to be ripped from my body again.
To watch someone I care for suffer the same fate.
To have no corporeal form except to take pain and is a form of torture I’d never wish on anyone.
” His voice cracks as he utters the rest of his confession.
“I would sooner die than go back to that. If he manages to capture me again, Grayson… I’ll end my life before I’m bound by his chains again.
And if I’m unable, I’d ask you to do me the honor. ”
“I think you’re overestimating my abilities.”
“I suspect your abilities are far greater than either of us know.”
I don’t agree to his request, but it hangs between us as I slide my fingers through his and nestle closer. “It’s not so bad,” I murmur. “Being bound to you…”
He doesn’t reply for a moment, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand squeezes mine. “I wasn’t made for this you know,” he mutters sleepily, folding his arms around me. “I have 500 years of evidence to prove it…”
I ignore the comment and inhale his scent; the Azkari who taught me how to breathe again.
What I don’t say is what I’ve been thinking for a while now: You were made for me.
There is no one in my flat when I open my eyes this time, but it’s daylight, and I can hear voices coming from somewhere. Slowly, carefully, I force myself to sit up, testing my movements for any sign of the pain that had ripped through me previously.
Nothing.
I’m stiff, and a little achy from being bedridden, but I’m myself again.
A flood of gratitude washes through me. I feel safe.
I feel cared for. My family, and Archer…
they saw me at my worst, and they didn’t run.
For the first time, I’m not sinking into a pit of shame, instead, I feel lighter.
My gaze lands on the trunk at the foot of my bed, the one containing all my failed bookbinding attempts from my apprentice days.
I don’t know what prompts me, but I take out a notebook for myself.
One of the most imperfect ones. Whatever I used to trim and align the signatures wasn’t sharp enough so some of the pages are ripped, the material meant for the cover wasn’t enough to fold properly inside.
It was before I fully understood the importance of measuring.
Still, I open its pages, and my hand drifts to a quill and the inkpot.
My fingers itch to move across the parchment, to capture this feeling somehow.
I’m no artist like Archer, but I can read and write.
I can jot things down, just for me. Perhaps that’s just as worthy as perfection.
A familiar deep voice draws me to the grimy attic window, and placing the notebook on the bed, I look down to see Archer on the high street.
What in the realms? Pulling my threadbare robe over my nightshirt, I trudge down the bindery stairs and tip-toe to the front of the shop.
There are signs of Yevna and Grim—a gin bottle by the wood burner, a wolfhound-shaped indent in one of the armchairs, along with a healthy dose of dog hair.
Raven’s been here too—she’s left the notebook I gave her tucked down the side of the other armchair, a feathered quill marking her place.
But they’re not here right now. The only one who’s here is the Azkari outside on the high street. From here, I have a better view.