6 Blushrose
Blushrose
When Vaelira awoke, she was struck by a strange warmth. She should be cold, of that much she was certain, so why did she feel such extraordinary comfort?
The pillow beneath her cheek was soft, the weight of the blanket cocooning her like a second skin. Light glowed faintly behind her closed eyelids, and for a moment, everything was still. Peaceful.
She sighed, and the movement sent a tug of pain down her arm. Across her ribs.
Vaelira jolted upright and the warmth vanished. Blinking around the room, she found herself in a bed twice the size of her own.
Afternoon light poured through tall windows to her left and a fire burned low at the foot of the bed. A wardrobe stood against the far wall near the door. Beside her, a plush armchair sat empty.
Where was she?
As if in answer, the door opened, and Kili bustled in with a tray.
“She lives,” said the old woman. She set the tray on the dresser and turned, one hand on her hip.
“What happened?” Vaelira asked, frowning at the unfamiliar bedlinen.
Kili shook her head, tutting to herself. “So terrible, and after everything. You’ve been through enough.” She straightened and took a mug from the tray, crossing the room. “Drink,” she said, tipping the mug to Vaelira lips.
The taste was bitter, and her stomach twisted. Gods, she was hungry. “Where am I?”
“No space in the San, love. I would have preferred you in there myself, but you’re not so badly hurt. Not physically anyway.”
The matron shook her head again and poured water from a pitcher to refill the mug. Vaelira took it, but she didn’t drink.
“Kili.” Vaelira waited until the woman looked at her. “Where am I?”
The woman sighed. “He didn’t want me to tell you. Thought it might make you uncomfortable.” She considered a moment and flicked her wrist dismissively. “Pah! What does it matter? You’re in Eli’s room. He insisted. Said you shouldn’t have to wake up in your cottage after everything.”
Vaelira frowned, scanning the space again. There was nothing here that marked it as his. No boots by the hearth, no clothing, no personal belongings. Still, beneath the herbs and woodsmoke, something lingered. She hadn’t realised she knew his scent until it found her.
“Whoever bandaged your arm is a ha’fwit,” Kili said.
Vaelira nodded, not really listening. Her gaze had dropped to the white wrappings around her forearm.
A flash of a blade. Cold hands.
Her brother—no, not him.
A cold sweat broke out along the back of her neck. Her chest tightened with a sharp lancing pain. She needed air. She couldn’t get enough air.
Gentle, worn hands found hers. Kili’s voice cut through the rising panic. “Hush, child. I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”
Vaelira focused on her voice, on the rough thumb brushing gentle circles over her knuckles. Her pulse slowed, her lungs finally loosening enough to take a full breath.
“Good,” said Kili. “Now lie back down. Keep breathing just like that. Very good. I’ll fetch you something to eat.”
Vaelira lay back, steadying her breaths, forcing her mind clear until sleep tugged her under and her eyes drifted shut.
She woke to darkness, her vision narrowed and blurred through heavy lids. A figure sat next to the bed. It shifted slightly. Terror tried to surface, but exhaustion kept her down. Her eyes shut, the scent of leather and pine enveloping her as her mind drifted back into blissful nothingness.
Rain tapped against the window, dragging her from the horrors of sleep, from cold hands at her throat, her mother’s dark curls, and the scent of burning timber.
She rolled onto her side and stared at the empty chair. Had she imagined the figure in the night, or had someone been watching her sleep? She shuddered at the thought.
She sat up stiffly. Her body had needs apparently, even after everything, but movement felt wrong.
Her limbs ached and her throat was dry. Each sensation was a quiet, insistent reminder that something inside her refused to give up.
The world had not ended and her body knew this, even if her mind didn’t.
The washroom was across the hall. When she returned, the bedroom door stood ajar. She pushed it open and found Freya inside, her freckled face frowning in mock disgust.
“This room is revolting, Lira. I don’t know how you can stand it.” She grinned, but it lacked its usual bluster.
Freya was propped in bed, crutches resting against the chair, her splinted leg stretched out in front of her. The sight nearly took Vaelira off her feet.
She crossed the room in seconds, arms wrapping around Freya’s neck, her face buried in her friend’s hair. Sobs rocked her, sudden and violent. Each one a release of the agony that burned at her sternum, that threatened to swallow her whole.
Vaelira pulled away, wiping her eyes, then sat on the edge of the bed. She glanced down at the splinted leg. “How is it?”
“Hurts like the Abyss but I’m fine.” Freya leaned forward slightly, resting a hand over Vaelira’s. “It’s you I’m worried about. You haven’t eaten?” Her gaze drifted to the untouched tray on the dresser.
“I’m not hungry.”
Freya sighed. “Right,” she said, swinging one leg off the bed. “If you won’t eat it, I will.”
Vaelira jumped to her feet. “Don’t you dare.”
She crossed to the dresser and picked up the cold bowl. A spoon stuck up at an angle in the thick porridge. “Here.” She held it out.
Freya shrugged. “Now you’ve got it, you might as well eat it.”
“I’m not—” Her stomach protested loudly.
“Sit. Now.”
Vaelira sank into the armchair, the bowl heavy as stone in her hands.
A stone.
Where was the moonstone?
She blinked down at the bowl. It’s just a rock. She told herself. I don’t care.
“They’ve been holding off on the funeral.” Freya spoke softly.
The spoon slipped from Vaelira’s fingers and clinked loudly against the edge of the bowl.
Freya shifted slightly, leaning back. “Alright,” she said. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
A long pause.
“The way I see it, you’ve got two options,” she continued.
Vaelira raised a brow, not looking up.
“Stay here, and deal with what’s happened. Try to get on with your life the best you can. Maybe you can help Loklan shovel horseshit.”
Vaelira’s throat worked around a knot. “What’s option number two?”
“Leave.”
It landed like a kick to the gut. “What?”
“Leave and get some space,” Freya continued. “Let yourself come to terms with all of this, without having to pass by the place where it happened every morning.”
“I—” Vaelira faltered. “I don’t even know where I’d go.”
Freya snorted. “Don’t play dumb. You go to Caerthalyn.”
Vaelira stared into the bowl. For a moment, she saw tall palace spires rising stark against a mountainside, their stone catching the light like something from a children’s story.
“But you’re not bound to the Guard anymore,” Freya added, more gently. “Not if you walk away from it. They can’t order you to the capital if you’re not one of them. But if you go, you’d be going because you chose to.”
Vaelira struggled to wrap her head around the idea.
Leave the guard. Had it truly come to that?
The guard was all she had ever known, all she had ever wanted. Now Freya was putting an impossible decision before her.
“Besides,” Freya went on, “there’s what, fifteen books in this whole town? Ten of them about farming.”
Vaelira looked up slowly.
Freya’s gaze was steady. “You want answers? What better place to start than the Royal Library?”
“I didn’t say I wanted answers.”
“No,” Freya said. “But you’re thinking about them.”
The clatter of blunted swords rang through the training room. Light angled through the high windows, catching dust in the air and the sheen of sweat on bare shoulders.
Eli stood shirtless at the centre of the room, skilfully parrying a blow before countering. His form was efficient, more control than brute force, but no less dangerous. The soldier he faced stumbled back, breathing hard.
She let her gaze linger. He was stronger than she had first thought, lean muscle coiled beneath slick skin, each movement precise and fluid.
A murmur passed through the group and Eli turned, his expression as unreadable as ever. He handed off his blade to a nearby guard and strode towards her, grabbing his shirt from a bench pushed against the wall.
“Didn’t expect you down here,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head. He took a step closer, pushing his damp hair from his face. The smell of leather and sweat, and a hint of something else reached her.
Somewhere, deep behind her ribcage, she acknowledged that he was attractive, but the usual sensation that came with it didn’t surface. Freya was right. All she wanted was answers.
“That night, you told me it was a moonstone. You didn’t ask how I found it.”
He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “Not here.”
“Eli—”
“I’ll come to you. Tonight. My room.” A pause. “Well, your room now I suppose.”
He turned, moving back into the sparring circle, rejoining the match. He was so much faster than the others, each move sharper than his opponents. He knew things, and tonight, she would find out what they were.
Someone brought dinner to her room, but her stomach objected, the aromas of meat and cheese making her nauseous.
After trying out several seating positions, none of them seemed right. Every time she sat still, memories of that night surged.
Dark veins, pale skin, the slice of a blade.
She waited, watching the night grow darker beyond the window. She climbed down from her seat in the middle of the bed and closed the curtains.
The fire cracked.
Two quiet knocks sounded.
Vaelira jumped, banging her toe on the leg of the bed. She swore loudly.
The door opened and Eli entered. He looked down at her, head tilted as she hopped around on one foot. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed in front of him. He huffed a quiet laugh and walked to the hearth, glancing briefly at the untouched tray.
“You didn’t eat.”
“Not hungry,” she said, returning to her seat on the bed.
He moved to the armchair, sinking down slowly.