“And ye were the one who accepted.”
A fair point.
Archer moved toward the fireplace slowly, lowering himself into the chair beside it with a small wince he clearly hoped she would not notice—but River noticed immediately. Without thinking, she crossed the room and knelt beside him.
His brows lifted slightly in question when she approached him, kneeling like that next to him.
“Ye’re hurt.”
“I noticed.”
“I mean apart from yer head,” she said. “Ye’re hurt elsewhere.”
“I’m bruised.”
“Ye’re injured,” River insisted. “This looks like more than simple bruisin’.”
“I’ve been informed repeatedly.”
It didn’t seem like a topic Archer wanted to discuss, and yet it was difficult for River to let go. Now that she had allowed herself to feel this worry, now that she recognized it for what it was, how could she talk about anything else other than this? How could she reassure herself that everything would be fine, that there wouldn’t soon be another attack?
She carefully reached toward the bandage near his temple, though her fingers stayed hovering over it.
“Does it still hurt?”
Archer watched her quietly as her fingers brushed near the edge of the wound.
“Nae as much.”
She gazed into his dark eyes, the irises lit up by the fire in the hearth. He was lying, she could tell. The wound was severe and so was the damage behind it, though Acher wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even to her.
Perhaps not even to himself.
And yet, he was exhausted. The attack had tired him out more than he wanted anyone to know. River softened instinctively when she noticed just how tired he looked, just how haggard in the soft light of the fire. In the morning, he could hide it, especially when he was surrounded by people, but here, in the dark, in a private room, he gave up on trying to appear indestructible.
Archer leaned back slightly in the chair with a sigh “I remembered somethin',” he said after a long silence.
River’s hand stilled over the wound. “What?”
“Fragments.” His gaze drifted toward the fire. “From when I was younger.”
River stayed quiet, letting him continue at his own pace, though she itched to know more. Had he only remembered his childhood? Had he remembered anything about their marriage, about the way he was treating her before? Nothing seemed to have changed now, so she doubted it, but that pang of fear sent her heart racing.
“There were other attempts before this one,” Archer said flatly. “I daenae have many memories. Just...pieces.” His jaw tightened slightly in thinly concealed anger, and River didn’t know whether he was angry at whoever had attacked him or at himself for not being able to remember more. “Enough to ken this isnae new.”
Something heavy coiled in her stomach as she listened to Archer’s memories—the few he had regained. She could imagine him as a child in these halls, living in fear after an attack. She could imagine him wondering why anyone would try to harm him.
“A bairn shouldnae have to survive things like that,” she said, her mind drifting back to Arya and Colby. They, too, had survived too much, and though they had lived through it, like Archer, it had ruined something vital deep within them.
A humorless smile touched his mouth. “A future Laird should probably expect it.”
River hated how casually he said it, as though violence had become so normal to him he no longer knew how monstrous it truly was.
“Ye were just a laddie,” she said softly.
Archer shrugged, though the movement lacked conviction. “I survived.”
“That doesnae make it acceptable.”
