Chapter 12 All This for Her
twelve
All This for Her
Zydar
Ten days she had been like this, and still the sky wept as it always did. Rain traced the windows in those familiar restless patterns, lightning split the clouds at every turn—the Thunder Court unchanged, indifferent to suffering, while the healers bled her.
They took the crimson thread from her veins and sifted it down to its pale heart, steeping that marrow-water into draughts they swore would slow the rot. And each night, after they finished, the girl collapsed into sleep like she was suffocating in it.
I watched her fight it, those first few days, as though sheer will could hold her upright, until the blood loss pulled her under. She would drag herself to the training grounds in the morning, stubborn as a wounded hawk, and in the afternoons she buried herself in the old tongue.
Even then, I saw the slip in her balance, the faint tremor when she reached for her cup, the way her eyes would glaze and blink back into focus as though she had been wandering far from the present.
The healers claimed it was nothing unexpected — the weakness would pass, they said, when the body learned to live with what was taken from it. But I could see how each measure they drew left her thinner, her color dulled. By the end of the second week, she barely held a spoon.
She sat at the edge of the low couch in my chambers, a shallow bowl of broth in her hands.
The steam curled against her face, catching in the loose strands of her hair.
She lifted the spoon once, twice, her wrist trembling under the weight, and each time more of it dripped back into the bowl than reached her mouth.
"Miralyte."
Her head snapped up. There was something defiant in her eyes, but the rest of her expression was shuttered. It was the look of someone who had learned to keep her secrets close.
I knelt before her. "Let me."
The soup sloshed as she gripped the bowl tighter, her knuckles white. "I can do it."
Her stubbornness was admirable, but I knew better than anyone how pride could only take you so far.
"Let me," I said again, softer this time.
Her eyes searched mine for a long moment. Then she set the bowl on the low table beside her and leaned back against the cushions. "Fine."
I dipped the spoon into the broth, watching the steam rise in lazy circles from the surface. Then I offered it to her.
She stared at me, and for a moment I thought she'd refuse. But then her lips parted and she took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. The color rose in her cheeks, but whether it was from the heat of the broth or something else, I couldn't say.
"Better?" I asked.
She nodded.
I dipped the spoon again and lifted it to her lips, slowly this time, savoring the moment. Her mouth closed over the edge of the spoon, and I felt the heat of her breath against my fingers.
She swallowed, her throat moving in a graceful arch. She held my gaze the whole time.
My eyes slid to the bowl. "Is it helping?"
She glanced down, as if surprised to see the broth still there. "I think so."
I raised an eyebrow. "You think so?"
"Well, I'm not dead yet. That's something." She gave me a faint smile.
I wanted to smile back, but I didn't. "Are you in pain?"
She shook her head. "No more than usual."
I watched her face for any sign of a lie, but found nothing but honesty there. She was a mystery, this girl. Every time I thought I'd found the truth, she showed me another side.
"We must take a break from the bloodletting."
Her eyes widened. "Why?"
"You're too weak."
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
She pushed herself upright. "It's too soon to stop. We haven't made enough of the compound for everyone yet."
The remedy bought time, nothing more. It slowed the fever, eased the convulsions, kept the sickness from devouring them whole in a matter of days. But it did not cure.
"There isn't enough for anyone if you die."
Her jaw tightened. "I'm not going to die."
I set the bowl aside and leaned forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "You're mortal, Miralyte."
She sat back, folding her arms over her chest. "The last time I checked, you faeries are just as mortal as we are. The disease could kill any of you just as easily."
I held her stare a moment longer, letting the words settle between us like dust after a storm. “Not as easily,” I said at last. “We are not immune, but the years harden us. A fae’s body can endure far more than yours before it breaks.”
Her chin lifted. "Then it's even more important for us to keep trying to find a cure."
I sighed. "Your loyalty is admirable, but—"
"It's not just about loyalty. It's about being responsible." Her hands clenched into fists. "These people are counting on us. They're depending on us to save them. I can't just sit here and let them die."
"You will not," I said. "But you can't help anyone if you're too weak to stand."
"I'll get stronger. I’ll eat more." Defiant, she snatched the spoon to scoop more soup into her mouth.
"No. You'll take a rest. We'll continue the bloodletting when you're healed."
"But—" Her defiance fell flat against the pallor of her face.
"For once, can you just do what I say without arguing?"
Her eyes flashed. "Just... Just for a couple days. Then we'll start again."
"We'll see."
She narrowed her eyes at me, and I was half certain she was plotting my death in that mind of hers.
I set the bowl down, then stood. "I'm going to get some work done. Do you want me to move you back to the bed, or are you fine where you are?"
"I'm fine here."
"Alright. Call for me if you need anything."
"I won't."
I shook my head as I walked off. There were times when her maturity surprised me. But today, she was just like a petulant toddler. I left her there, sprawled out on the cushions and returned to my desk. The pile of papers looked as daunting as ever, but I forced myself to focus.
An hour passed, then two. The rain fell in endless sheets, drumming against the windowpanes. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the floor.
I'd been reading the same report for the last twenty minutes when I heard a sound.
It was faint, almost lost beneath the rain, but I recognized it instantly.
I pushed away from the desk and stood. The next time it came, I was halfway across the room.
She was curled up on the cushions where I'd left her, the blanket draped around her like a shawl. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deep.
I leaned closer and realized the sound wasn't a cry. It was a plea.
"Ciradyl," she said. "Forgive me, Ciradyl. I didn't know, I didn't mean to... Don't die. Please don't die."
A tear ran down her cheek, and I caught it with my thumb. She shivered. I pulled the blanket up around her and brushed her hair away from her face.
The feeling was so unfamiliar that I could barely name it. But as I sat by her side and watched her sleep, one word rose up from the storm inside me.
Protect.
I wanted to protect her.
An instinct, forged deep in the hidden marrow of my bones.
Now, as I sat beside her and gazed down at her sleeping face, I understood why.
The word protect had been forged into me long before I could name it, tempered in the night the storm took my mother.
Her face in sleep blurred, and another face rose in its place.
The chamber had been too warm, the air thick with steam from the basins the healers kept refilling, as though hot water could staunch what poured from her.
Sheets were heaped under her hips, sodden and heavy, the pale linen blooming gold where the light caught it. The smell of her blood filled the room.
"There has to be something you can do!" My father rasped, staring up at the elder healer as he rose from checking her. "What use are you, then, if you can’t help her get my child out!"
Another pulse of blood escaped her, spreading faster than they could mop it up. The elder looked at him, a cold, slithering gleam in his eyes. "Perhaps, my lord, you should pray for the mercy of the Mother above."
I wanted to grab the healer by the collar and shake the words out of him, but something stronger held me in place. Helplessness. Fury. Horror.
My mother shifted in the sheets, and his words faded into the muffled murmurs between us. I leaned close to hear her over them.
"Zydar."
Her fingers groped, unseeing, and curled about my wrist, the hold weak, but the urge in the pull powerful.
"Come nearer."
I did. The heat rising from her made my skin prickle. Beneath her bronze skin, every drop of blood seemed to glow bright, like liquid gold flowing through her.
"Look at me, dear heart," she breathed. "You must listen well."
I grasped her fingers in mine and clung to the fumbling touch. Not the hold of a king, but the grasp of a child who wanted his mother.
"Mother, are you dying?" The question shook free without leaving my lips.
She gave the smallest of chuckles. A soft, tinkling sound, as faint as a wind chime in a summer storm, but no less noble, no less hers.
"Someday, we all must taste the fields of the earth and mingle with the winds."
Some distant part of me noted how the light glanced off her black curls spread around her face. It lent an otherworldly sheen, as though she was gilded like a goddess.
"Take care of your sibling," she whispered. "Will you, Zydar?"
I held her hand tighter and bowed my head to kiss the skin. "I will. I promise."
She rested her head back, exhaustion making her eyes drift shut. "That's my son. My warrior. One day, the lightning will roar for you as it does for the mountains. You'll be the greatest thunder lord to ever live."
The storm threw itself against the windows with a sudden, angry gust. A wind strong enough to make the stones shudder in their foundations.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she went still. "Mother? Mother?"
She didn't answer.
"We must cut the baby out, my lord. Or they both will die."
I looked over at my father, his hands folded into a fist against his lips.
"Do it."
"Father—"
"Do it," he bellowed.
"Father, no! I beg of you!"
The healer gestured to the others. Two moved in to hold her down, while the third drew a silver blade. He placed his hand flat on her stomach and drew a deep breath. Then, with a quick, smooth motion, he brought the blade to her skin and sliced a straight line down.
The sound she made was so horrible I could not believe it was her. Her body bucked against their hold, but the healers held her down, their faces impassive.
"Get away from her," I roared.
They ignored me. One of the healers grabbed a fistful of the sheets and pushed them into her mouth, stifling the cries. My mother thrashed against him, her eyes rolling white.
"Stop it," I shouted. "Let her go!"
My father seized my shoulders, his hands like iron. "You must let them finish."
"You're killing her! Let her go, let her—"
"She's already dead! Can't you see?"
I didn't. Couldn't. She had to be alive. Had to be.
My mother went still. Her eyes were fixed, sightless, her cheeks wet with tears and blood.
"No," I gasped.
The healers stepped back. The elder, the one who had spoken, turned to my father. They were holding a bundle, swaddled tight in pale cloth.
"What is it?" My father's voice was raw. "Tell me."
The healer glanced at me, then back at my father. "It is a girl, Your Majesty."
A heartbeat passed, and then another. No one spoke, or breathed. All sound seemed to flee from the room.
Finally, my father lifted his eyes, fixing the healer with a look that was more growl than glance.
"All this," he said, gesturing to my mother's body on the bed, "for a girl?"
He left without another word. The sound of his feet striking stone faded slowly into silence, and one by one, the healers followed, abandoning their mop and bucket of water.
I stood alone in the bedchamber, surrounded by shadows. I stared at the shape of my mother's body lying on the sheets and fought the urge to walk over to her and shake her awake, as if this were all just another dream, as if it hadn't happened.
I wasn't sure how long I stood there, but the storm had quieted and the candles had burned low before I was finally able to force myself to move. "Forgive me, Mother."
The air in my chambers felt no different now — heavy, too warm, scented faintly of rain-soaked stone — yet when I blinked, the shadows no longer held her outline. They held another.
Miralyte lay where I had left her, the blanket drawn up to her collarbone, her hair fanned over the pillow like a spill of ink. Her breathing was slow, uneven, the kind of breath that seemed to weigh more than it gave. I reached out without thinking, brushing a stray strand from her cheek.
I drew the blanket higher, tucking it beneath her shoulder so no draft could reach her.
Then I turned, walked out of the room, and didn't look back.