“Tsk,” Wethe clicked her tongue as she tilted Ry’s head.It was a bad injury, sure enough.She’d seen enough to know that recovery was unlikely.
Aramal returned with a basin and towels, and with his help Wethe dressed the wound again.Together, they settled Rye in the bed.She watched as Aramal fussed with the blankets, pulling them up over Rye’s shoulders.It struck her, as it always did, that hands so rough and worn with work could be so gentle.
“Now we wait,” she said.“The hardest part.”
Aramal nodded, never taking his eyes off the man in the bed.
“Aramal, you need to clean up and eat something,” she chided him.“I’ll sit with him.”
Aramal stood, shoulders slumped, his face etched with sorrow.“I can’t,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken.“He didn’t rouse when we washed him, his eyes, his hands, his feet, nothing twitched…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the wounded man’s face as if waiting for a miracle.
“He breathes,” Wethe reassured him.“And the bleeding has stopped.In the morning, we will see if he can swallow liquids.”She fumbled in her satchel for a sleeping draft.“I offer no promises, Aramal.Head blows are difficult to predict.”She pressed the bottle into his hands.“Is there another place you can sleep?For tonight?”
“Leeda’s room,” Aramal took the bottle, but still watching Rye’s face, so pale and still in the candlelight.“Leeda had to leave…to go…”
There was a tale there, Wethe thought, but not for the moment.She met Aramal’s gaze with a steady one of her own.Rye was not her only patient.
“Even if he can swallow, he’ll waste away.”Despair was thick in his voice.“I will do anything, care for him.”He looked at her.“If there is any chance—” he broke off with a sob.
“It may be a long, hard road,” she set a gentle hand on his shoulder.
He nodded through his tears.“I would still walk it.”He looked back at the bed.“We had such a short time,” he whispered.“But it was…perfect.”
Wethe felt the all-to-familiar pang of trying to heal the pain of the heart.So much easier to deal with the body.
She tugged at Aramal’s arm.“Eat, then take that tincture.It’s mild enough, trust me.I will watch over him tonight.Mind you, I am bolting this door.Don’t even think to return until you have slept and bathed and eaten.”
“Yes, yes,” he turned toward the door, giving in to her urging.“But if he wakes or stirs—”
“I will call you.”Wethe gently pushed him out the door.
“Thank you,” Aramal said.“Thank you for—”
“Doing my craft?”She smiled at him to take the bite from the words.“You are welcome.Now go.”With that, she shut the door and threw the bolt.She heard him sigh, then his footsteps as he slowly walked away.
There came the sounds of a wagon and a goat cart pulling up outside.She heard Amari calling for Orval, and him calling her name in response.Other voices chimed in.They’d be busy for a while, talking over events.
Wethe returned to Rye’s bedside, but her patient hadn’t stirred.Of course, one never knew what the unconscious heard or remembered.The blankets were up tight around his neck; he’d be warm enough.She went to the window and opened the shutters.
Cool air flowed in, swirling around her ankles.Wethe sat on the chair by the bed and stared out at the sky.
The setting sun and the rising moon shared the sky as the twilight deepened.The old stories told of the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter dancing together, the stars the jewels on their clothing.
She pulled her chair around so she could both watch her patient and see the moon and stars, and settled in.She’d a bit of mending in her bag, always did for times like these.For the moment, in the quiet of the night, she’d let herself breathe.
Aramal’s pain lingered with her, like a bad taste at the back of her throat.Such pain, and the gossip was that they’d only been together for since the Summer Solstice, after pining after each other for years.Such a short time.
Still.The moon would rise and the sun would set and it would be as it would be.As it always was.
She heard a scratching sound from outside before the ugly barn cat leaped up on the sill.It sat, curling its tail around its feet, its watery green gaze fixed on her.
Wethe narrowed her eyes at it, then looked back at the moon, which appeared brighter now, glowing white.It paused, hanging there, as if to ask a question.
Or make a request.
“It’s a risk,” she whispered.“One I am not sure it is wise to take.”She waited, listening to her own heartbeat, as the moon glowed.
The cat started to wash its face, uncaring, as cats can be.
