Wren set his jaw. If so simple an exercise as this would see him fit to stand under his own power again, then he’d not let himself fail, no matter how it tired him.
By the end of it, he felt as though he were back in the old warren watch-tower running up and down the stairs with the ambassador to train for the Summer Solstice duel. Everilda’s exercises, he thought, felt more gruelling and left him in a similar amount of pain, though he supposed the wound was to blame for that.
No sooner had Everilda announced he might cease than Shrike swooped in with lavender-water to bathe Wren’s sweat-streaked brow. Wren dearly appreciated it. Still, a pressing concern loomed in the forefront of his mind.
“Will I be well again by Ostara?” Wren gasped out.
Silence reigned in the wake of his enquiry. He rolled his head toward Shrike and beheld his brow knit in confusion and concern alike.
“Ostara?” Everilda echoed. She, at least, appeared to give the question serious consideration. “You ought to feel well enough to attend certain festivities by then. Though I would advise against dancing. We’ll see when the day draws nearer.”
Festivities were the least of Wren’s concerns. “But I’ll be able to tend the goats by then? See to the hens? The skeps?”
Everilda blinked at him. “You may tend them within the fortnight, if you feel called to do so.”
“You won’t have to,” Shrike added with atypical haste.
Wren shot him a startled look.
“All is in hand,” Shrike explained in a tone Wren supposed he meant to sound soothing. “Whatever I cannot do, our friends are more than willing to take up.”
For now, Wren thought. “And what happens when your antlers come in again?”
Shrike balked.
Wren turned to Everilda. “Have you seen anything of the like before? Fae growing antlers and the pain it causes?”
Everilda raised her brows. “Some. The hidden folk have their own methods of looking after it. Few other fae grow antlers. But those I have seen do well enough with a tonic and rest.” She glanced at Shrike. “Does it pain you greatly?”
Shrike looked as though he’d rather talk about anything else. “No.”
“He could hardly stand,” Wren countered. “The least light blinded him. He collapsed at his work-bench. They grew more than an inch a day and hollowed him out from within. It lasted a month.”
Shrike stared at him.
“Do you not remember?” Wren snapped. He regretted his sharp tone at once; Shrike didn’t deserve it, after all he’d done for him. But his denial of his own agony tried Wren’s patience to its limit.
Shrike seemed to take the outburst in stride. In solemn tones, he admitted, “I remember.”
“And who’s to look after you if it happens again this year?” Wren demanded.
“As I understand it,” Everilda cut in, “if antlers are seasonal, the first year is the worst, and the pain diminishes with each recurrence. I could return to take a look at them, if you’d like. Assuming I’m not still here already.”
Even in the midst of his frustration, Wren had to admit he liked the sound of that. “I’d appreciate it.”
Everilda looked to Shrike. Shrike assented with a nod.
“Still,” Wren couldn’t help but add. “You said I’d be well by then?”
Everilda hesitated. “To a point. You may carry light burdens. But I’d advise against anything heavy or strenuous. Nor ought you to stand over-long.”
“Until…?” Wren prompted.
“Three months, at least,” she replied. “Two years for a full recovery.”
Wren’s heart sank.
~
