I'm too tired to bother.
"Seems I'm always fishing blades out of you." Hrolf grumbles and grips the hilt with both hands. "Right then. This is going to hurt."
Together they work to extract the blade. Red positions himself to catch me when I fall. Hrolf braces his feet against the wall for leverage, muscles bunching in his thick arms.
"On three," Hrolf says. "One. Two—"
He pulls on two, the lying bastard.
The blade slides free leaving a wide gaping wound in my chest. Fresh blood flows freely before my vampire healing kicks in.
My legs go out and the floor comes up fast.
Red catches me before I can collapse, hauling me back against the wall until I can hold myself upright. He drags a chair over with his foot and shoves me into it.
"Look at this edge. Still sharp and true," Hrolf grumbles, examining the blood-covered blade. "They don't make them like this anymore."
He produces a cloth from somewhere and begins cleaning it with careful strokes.
“Aelfric was out of his mind when he did this," Red says quietly, crouching beside me. "You have to understand, he lost her sister before. Aerin was more than just his mentor. She was everything to him."
"I know," I rasp.
"I don't think he'll survive if anything happens to her." Red's voice drops to something barely meant for me.
At least when this is over Eyepatch can die. I have to suffer this for eternity.
There's no fight left in me. I slump against the wall, letting the wound knit itself closed slowly.
I've never treated her right. Protected her, yes. Fought for her, certainly. But I've never cared or loved her the way she deserved. The girl believed I was disgusted with her for months. She thought I found her repulsive when the truth was I was terrified of hurting her.
The thought of wading through this endless existence without her is eating me from the inside out.
"How bad is she?" Hrolf asks quietly. There's genuine concern in his gruff voice.
"They stopped the bleeding," Red says carefully. "But she lost too much blood."
"So give her more," Hrolf says, frowning. "Surely you have a reputable healing house here."
"She has a rare type. Loran-Sylphvein. Maybe one in ten thousand elves carry it." Red runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration and helplessness. "Her uncle kept reserves stored at the capital for emergencies. Self-Blood rite, they call it. Using her own blood that was drawn and saved earlier."
"Get the reserves then."
"The capital is in ruins. A missive was sent, but the healing house has crumbled."
The silence that follows is heavy.
Hrolf lifts his head. "I carry Loran-Sylphvein."
Both Red and I turn to stare at him.
"All due respect Master Hrolf, but you're a dwarf," Red says slowly. "Dwarven blood and elven blood, they're not—"
"Are we not all children of Wildermar?" Hrolf interrupts. His voice carries the weight of mountains and ancient knowledge carved in stone. "Before your people forgot the old ways and started worshipping the Seventy-seven as gods, we came fromthe same place. The stone remembers what the forest chooses to forget."
"What are you saying?" I ask. My voice comes out hoarse, desperate.
"Before Casimir conquered the interior of this continent, before your precious Aelfheim even existed, elves and dwarves were one people." Hrolf's eyes are distant, seeing something beyond the prison walls. "We came from the same land, far across the sea. Wildermar shaped us both. Then came the separation and war. Different paths, same roots and destination. Same blood."
