"Dizziness? Weakness?"
"Only from being in bed so long."
The healer nodded, continuing her examination. When she pressed against Briar's ribs, checking for tenderness, Eliam shifted in his chair.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Her lungs are clear. No fluid retention. No fever. Bruising is healing normally." The healer straightened. "She's recovered, my lord."
"It's only been a week."
"A week of consistent care, proper nutrition, and adequate rest." The healer's tone was carefully neutral. "Human bodies are fragile, but they heal. Hers has healed."
"Perhaps another day or two of rest would be—"
"Unnecessary, my lord. Extended bed rest could actually weaken her muscles further." The healer began packing her instruments. "She should resume normal activities."
Eliam stood abruptly. "Define normal."
"Walking. Eating in the dining hall. Bathing—"
"Supervised bathing."
The healer paused. "If my lord insists. Though I see no medical necessity for it."
"The medical necessity is that she's nearly drowned twice."
"That's not a medical issue, my lord. That's a behavioral one." The healer turned to Briar with what might have been sympathy. "Avoid large bodies of water for your own sake, child. Your lord seems particularly concerned about them."
"I'll be careful," Briar promised.
The healer inclined her head. "Will that be all, my lord?"
Eliam looked reluctant. "Yes."
She offered a bow of her head and left quietly. The silence that followed felt heavy.
"So," Briar said carefully once they were alone again. "I'm recovered."
Eliam stared at the closed door for a moment longer, then turned to the window. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched.
"You can get up."
The words hung in the air between them. After a week of being told to stay still, to rest, to not even think about leaving the bed, the simple permission felt surreal. Briar stared at him, waiting for the addition of conditions, restrictions, supervised walking schedules. But he remained silent, rigid at the window.
Freedom. The word whispered through her mind, though freedom was relative when you belonged to the Forest King. Her muscles ached with disuse, practically screaming to move, to stretch, to remember what it felt like to be more than a carefully monitored invalid.
She swung her legs out of bed experimentally, half-expecting him to materialize at her side with warnings about taking things slowly. But he remained at the window, gripping the sill with enough force to make the wood creak.
"Are you alright?"
"Fine." The word came out clipped. "Get dressed. You'll want to... walk. Or whatever it is you do when not actively drowning."
Something was wrong. After a week of mother-henning, checking her temperature every few hours, personally delivering every meal, he was suddenly distant. Cold.
No, not cold. Struggling.
She rose carefully, grateful that her legs were steadier than she'd expected after a week in bed. The simple pleasure of standing without him hovering, without immediate commands to sit back down, was almost dizzying.
