#she sits and listens to her wife yap :3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

royal-writer · 6 years ago

Text

Love Was Her and I : Part 1

I’ve come to the conclusion that this portion of the story is taking too much out of me to write. Therefore, I will be cutting this au not into two parts; as originally planned, but three rather extensive pieces and two smaller, bonus pieces.

This first piece is 42 pages long, single spaced so... Enjoy that.

Part 1: Here Part 2: Click BONUS n1: Click Part 3: Click BONUS n2: Click

Day 1

It wasn’t going to be a good day.

He could tell from the sharp ache in his legs. The stairs already were proving a challenge so early in the morning even with a white-knuckled firm grasp to the banister.

One step at a time, he reminded himself. He could still do this-

A steady hand found his waist. It slipped around his frame to grasp him as he stood rigidly; aware of the way he wavered. His freed arm on his left side was tugged upward with encouragement.

Amon latched on to the supportive shoulder offered with a ragged breath. An apology already flickered in his eyes and fastened ahold to his features as he turned to look at the allure of a face so radiant it still gave his feeble old heart a flutter.

No mortal should be this impossibly angelic.

She was so sublime. The profile of her body still so delicate; thinness wrapped in warm tones off autumn skin marked with time. Years of hardship; scars from battles lost and won, dark marks from the sun on her skin as well as in black hair with shades lightened on top and sneaky strands of silver curling out here and there.

She wore only a plain pair of beige trousers and a simple blouse today. It was perfect of course; everything she put on looked lovely and grand on her. Paling in comparison to her luster; no dress, jewels, lingerie or simpleton clothing; not a single piece coming close to the scale of her divinity.

And her caramel colored eyes, holding the windows to a beautiful soul that held the key to his heart. The most lively shades of all in those eyes; never having changed a day even as age crept over laugh lines. Even as time defined the area beneath those eyes with puffiness and wear.

“You wouldn’t mind escorting an old woman down the stairs, would you?” she teased; her voice a musical gentle chime.

He scoffed softly, rubbing his fingers into her shoulder.

“If you’re old, my darling Essätha, then I must be prehistoric.”

She gave a noise of disagreement in the back of her throat. Leaning in just enough from her waist to avoid pressing weight into him, she kissed his cheek.

“I only see a rather dashing man beside me, m’lord Amon,” she purred all too sweetly. “A very handsome, very sweet, very lively gentleman who looks gorgeous; and whom still finds all the energy to chase me down the halls and raise his sexy commanding voice to gain control in a room full of bickering noblemen.”

His smile grew vaguely puzzled as she kissed his nose and reached up to brush some stray white hairs back from his forehead. What did she mean by raising his voice at noblemen?

There it was again. The look of dawning fear that faded in and out of view each day.

Amon smiled tightly, trying to find the answer to replace the pain in her eyes with the endearing look he longed for. But his thoughts, alas, continued rounding on her comment.

“T-That’s okay,” she breathed, urging him to take a step forward with her as she looked away. “It- It was a long day yesterday. I’d push it out of my thoughts, too. Those dukes; phew, they sure don’t know when to pick their fights but you had them just so under your heel.”

He… had?

“I mean one could hardly get a word in! Yapping on and on about the highland forests. They’re not up for negotiation; it’s not a good place to consider placing a trading post and building a town but do they listen, heavens no! Forget the fact there’s a peaceful fey population there living undisturbed. Forget the fact it’s inhabited by vicious wildlife that would surely tear apart any construction and scare away potential citizens.”

Essie gave a sniff as she finished her rant, looking to the opposite hand rail as they took a few more gradual steps down the stairs.

She was crying again.

He knew that sound. Knew it all too well, as of late. It wasn’t a breath of irritation from whatever incident she spoke of. It was a desperate, stuffy-nosed inhale to calm herself.

His hand dug into her shoulder blade. Agony sweeping through him; so desperate to console her, to make it better-

And then a different agony; splitting in his hip and stealing his strength.

A string of curses in various languages as his leg gave out and he slipped.

He should have fallen, really. She was much too small to hold him up but she was feisty and she was determined. His amazing wife; so gentle and so kind, locked her arm around him tightly. Holding him there at the waist against her side with labored breath as he tried to steady himself.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered, her voice broken.

He had this.

He could do this.

Amon gingerly rested his feet back on the stairs. Testing his weight, finding that there was only an ebb of pain now in his side. Most if it had radiated down to his ankles instead. Tolerable. He hurt much these days; this was nothing compared to… he lost his train of thought. Had he felt worse before?

“Miss,” Essätha’s voice cut into his muddled thoughts. “Would you mind fetching a chair?”

Coming to, the Illiad heir blinked tiredly as he spotted the young maiden walking down the hall ahead at the end of the stairwell. She curtsied respectfully, and stole away with haste.

“I’m so sorry my dear,” he muttered angrily, looking down at his feet to balance his steps as they followed their descent.

“That’s okay,” Essätha encouraged, her voice choked with emotion. “You’re doing just fine, my beloved. Let’s just focus on getting you off these stairs and sitting on something sturdy and comfortable.”

Comfortable. Nothing felt comfortable these days.

Nothing but the softness of her touch, so careful and unfaltering against his side. Nothing but her love, still so strong and true as it had ever been.

Much as he didn’t want to, Amon allowed himself a glance over to her. Hoping to catch her eye; praying to see her loving smile and nothing more. Please, nothing more than the happiness and caressing love that washed over him; bringing him strength where nothing else could. Nothing but her joy; the delight she deserved to have in her heart and written on her face.

She was mostly turned away from him. A vacancy in her gaze.

This was his fault.

Her pain was because of him.

Miserable; with nothing on his broken thoughts to better her wounds, he looked shamefully away.

Completely unaware of her, an opposite hand going to her chest and the stricken flash in her eyes as she held her breath with tormented pain.

Day 2

With the stairs having been such a challenge the other day, Essätha insisted on having breakfast upstairs in the sitting room to their chambers. The house staff was, of course, was willing to accommodate the request but Amon felt no less guilty. In turn, he could hear the fretting of his soft-hearted wife trying to help carry in anything and offer a hand.

What a blessing, that woman. Much too good for the likes of him.

She helped him to limp on his throbbing legs over to the couch. Murmured words of encouragement nestled close; her hand upon his side. Something about his medicine being prepared; sweet nothings going in and out of his ears that rang with his rapid heartbeat.

Medicine? He didn’t have medicine. Had there been a doctor here the other day? He couldn’t remember. So many comings and goings. He wondered if he’d recognize the individual.

They sat before the coffee table in content silence. A tray placed between them on the sofa topped with only some of the foodstuffs spread across the table before them.

He picked up a steamy fruit-stuffed pastry. Taking a bite first, then offering a delicate (albeit somewhat shaky) hand out to Essätha and watching the way the light played on her face as she caught his movement. A laugh; so real and so lovely as she leaned in to accept a bite. Playfully almost, raising her eyebrows before she’d pull away to go back to nibbling on a piece of bacon.

Amon found himself full before he even finished the pastry and managed to force down the horrid painkiller concoction. Funny, he could definitely recall eating more than this with ease some time ago. A full plate and then some when the day prior had been particularly taxing.

For a while, he closed his eyes. The clatter of shifting dishes resonating in his ears as his Essätha ate.

With a grunt, he reached out to paw for his mug of coffee between slit eyes. His back popped and creaked as he held his teeth firmly together to keep from moaning with pain. Taking hold of the handle, he leaned back gradually to shift his weight from his aching hip. Not so much as bothering to blow the steam from his cup; taking a lengthy drink of the harsh beverage.

He held his breath. Preparing himself to lean forward and return the mug to the table, when gentle fingers met his wrist.

The mug effortlessly was tugged from his grip as it loosened. A glimpse to a teasing smile and vibrant eyes; watching as the most beautiful woman in the world took a drink precisely on the spot he had in an indirect kiss.

His heart squeezed at the nonsense, flirty little act.

Without delay, he leaned over the edge of the tray.

Essätha placed the mug on the edge of the table as she mimicked the action. Pausing, her hand slid the tray to the side the closer they got. Holding it further and further out, just shy of the nearby table-

It fell to the ground in a soft clatter as they sat close. Mere inches apart, fanning soft breathes against each other’s cheeks.

Footsteps at the door.

“Is everything alright, Lord and Lady-”

“Bring more coffee, please,” Essätha stated, her voice only carrying just enough to be heard.

Neither of them turned to see the young handmaiden curtsy as their lips met. Gently, taking no wild rush or passionate craze into a wildfire but a softened, aged union. The biting acid of harsh coffee; the care of mirrored lips tracing over one another before molding in a faint sigh.

She still kissed him in a way that was mesmerizing. Different from any other; true and effortless, taking all the time in the world with such tender doting fondness.

Hands shaking, he reached up to take hold of her perfect face in his callused hands. Hearing the way her breath hitched. Just as responsive to his touch as she had always been. Bowing to him; leaning in to taste his lips and quiver in a manner that said what her voice did not but her body so clearly did: overcome with emotion, so totally and completely smitten with every bit of him.

His back hurt at this angle, but he would make due. Especially for this; especially for her.

And like she could read his very thoughts, she pressed closer to him. Sending him further and further back, until he rested flat against the sofa with her looming over him. Bright, pink cheeks and a brilliant grin curving on that flawless age-thinned mouth of hers as they parted ways.

“Mmm, doesn’t this just give you memories,” she laughed with embarrassment.

Finding his fingers into the loose wisps of her hair, Amon tucked them back behind her ears as he leaned forward just enough to kiss her brow.

“The very best,” he agreed. Pelor, the kaleidoscope of flashbacks felt like just yesterday…

She moved to slip away from him, then. His hands falling away, clutching for hers as a dejected look fell over his face.

“Oh don’t give me that face,” she giggled, reaching around to grab a pillow.

Taking hold of his legs, she helped bring them up on the sofa. A wince; holding back a hiss as rippled agony shot through him. Slowly adjusted, she rested each limb on the pillow for leverage.

“That should help with some of the swelling,” she muttered to herself, fluffing the edges.

Clearing his throat to keep the shaken edge off, Amon spoke up faintly: “You are too good to me.”

He very nearly could feel the tightness of his throat and the burn in his gaze as she regarded him. That unwavering love; all the confidence and support he never could have dreamed to see in someone’s eyes looking to him.

She was an unexpected part of his life. A plan not made, but one he couldn’t live without. Not anymore.

To consider how his life may have otherwise been; stuck in his house alone… Or worse yet, stuck with no house and still wandering uselessly like a ghost with the spirit of his step-kin residing here. Fontane’s fate hidden from him; the man’s soul still suffering in limbo.

Her unknown to him, still lost in the world.

The taste of a memory colored upon his thoughts. In the dancing firelight by the hearth, sitting across from him in the Boar’s Tusk tavern with fingers laced in front of her. A pint of ale before him; a pint before her, watching her smug confidence and teasing smile as she looked into his eyes. Her words had been vain and yet kind; offering her assistance in reclaiming his home on his behalf. A lost man spending days slipping further and further away from reality.

Her voice came out much like her eyes appeared; a deep amber of golden sweet honey awakening him: “I am your wife, my sweet. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Ignoring the flair of echoing fire that seared into him, Amon sat up quickly. His rough hands took hold of her waist, hearing her muffled squeal as he dropped back down with her sprawled out halfway on top of him. Suffocating slightly, but warm and soft.

“You are so incredibly beautiful, my darling Essätha.”

He cut off her startled protest with a kiss. A bit less sophisticated than the last; rasping his mostly-white salt and pepper beard against her chin and cheeks.

He pulled away. A roughness in his voice as he practically growled, “I love you.”

Another frantic kiss. Hands roaming; moving up her back to gently weave in the bouncy curls and waves of her hair. He liked it when her hair was down; the ability to hold the smooth locks between his fingers.

As they broke apart once more; only by centimeters, she laughed with surprise.

“I love you too, but would you give me a moment to respond!”

“Your lips are doing just fine at that.”

“Oh, you naughty old man.”

A wide, splitting grin, and he pressed another kiss over her mouth, sealing her in place.

For a moment, he wondered if he’d mistakenly been too forceful. Or perhaps his beard a bit too unkept, as she flinched and grew rigid.

Parting for a breath, he tried to find his words to inquire of her well-being, but she surged upon him. Shaking, an unexpected roughness to her greedy mouth. Less plump than it once was, no less wonderful to kiss.

The door to the room softly opened, and shut thereafter with a nervous giggle that went unheard.

This- this was all the life he needed. In the refuge of her presence where he found solace.

Day 5

Why was she giving that man such a dirty look?

“Thank you, Xanner,” Essätha coolly responded, “That will be all for the day though, I’m afraid.”

The vassal gave a polite bow in response. Low; almost kissing upon Essätha’s knees with one hand to his chest and the other behind his back.

“Any time you need me, my lady, I’ll be right here for you.”

Amon couldn’t say why, but he didn’t care for the man’s words. This Xanner fellow’s eyes were empty of depth as he righted himself to steal a glimpse into Essie’s eyes. A perfect posture; nicely tailored suit, his briefcase barely scuffed and a heavy scent of cologne lingering on him. Something harsh; befitting his uncaring face.

On a whim, the Illiad heir reached out to take his wife’s hand. Squeezing gently, feeling her returned gesture and the racing of her pulse beneath fingertips.

Xanner’s glimpse moved over to him next. He offered a slight bow, and nothing more. Now, his memory may be faulty, but Amon felt the gesture appeared to be lacking. There was usually more class and over exhilarated enthusiasm in all greetings and well-wishings to an heir of a noble bloodline. This man’s gesture seemed… far less invested in him than he had Essätha. Which; although she was clearly the far more beautiful and intriguing individual here, soured his thoughts immediately.

He simply did not care for the lacking respect.

He certainly did not care for the lasting gaze upon his wife.

As soon as the man left the room, Essie took a heavy seat beside him.

“You do not like him,” Amon commented, curiosity in his voice.

She tore her gaze from the door to him with some surprise.

Licking his lips nervously; aware of the place of humiliation this put him in, he spoke quietly: “Has that man done something to us that I do not remember?”

“Oh- no my beloved, Xanner is just… complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“Do not worry about it, my dear.”

His eyebrows knitted together. That was only going to worry on his thoughts more now. The man; whatever his name was (it was already slipping from grasp again), had held little to no respect to him. And the way he’d looked to Essätha; not with adoration or even respect but with an unspoken hunger…

His thoughts skipped. Jumping on the needle of a record-player, he could already feel his train of thought disappearing even as it formed. He hated it when that happened. Had that feeling happened already today? Is that why he was so frustrated?

He forgot entirely. It didn’t matter.

By the time he roused from his mind, he noted Essätha’s fingertips rubbing into her temples. A frustrated grumble from her mouth and she exhaled loudly through her nose. Tilting forward, her elbows rested upon her knees as she continued drawing circles over her the side of her head.

“Essie, my dear…?”

“Oooh this blasted headache.”

With a worried smile, he reached over to rub a hand against her back.

“It may be from the stressful conversation. Maybe I should go have a talk with him-”

A hand reached out to grab the one he still had resting on his leg.

“No. Please, he’s not worth it. I’d rather have you here.”

Her lips appeared pale as she smiled lightly. A dancing light in her stunning light brown eyes, looking straight into the core essence of his soul with profound love and longing.

A strange, unfamiliar glimmer traced over her face seconds later. She leaned over once more, groaning with agony.

Gently, Amon placed both hands on either side of her hips. He pulled her carefully, until her back was flushed completely on the back of sofa. His mouth pressed to the side of her face as he leaned over her, carefully reaching down to rock her flats a few times before they’d fall into his hand where he could drop them on the floor.

“M’lord Amon I’m fine-”

“Shhhh,” he whispered, pulling her against his side.

There wasn’t enough width to the sofa for two people to lay on it, so he held her to his chest while pulling them down. Groping for a pillow, he jammed the oversized cushioned pad beneath his shoulders and propped his head up.

He wasn’t as strong as he once was. But she was slim; and although the pressure on his chest wasn’t an ideal weight, he’d felt worse.

“You’re always taking care of me,” Amon murmured, kissing her cheek. “Let me take care of you.”

She gave him a smile once more. It was faint, as beads of sweat collected on her forehead.

That was no headache.

Giving a quiet hush, Amon placed a hand to the back of her head to encourage her to lay down. Her face nuzzled into his shirt with a shudder, fingers grasping the fabric of his clothes.

In response, he rested his chin against the top of her head and held her carefully. Rocking from side to side, feeling the way her frame grew limp against him as she relaxed.

Feeling the sweat from her face seep into his clothes.

He would need to remember to have a doctor hailed. He would need to… to remember…

Essätha’s breath came out a gasp, startling him.

“My dear?”

No response. He gave her a gentle shake.

A sleepy mumble this time, slurring.

The poor, graceful beauty, Amon thought with concern. He rubbed lightly against her backside as she drifted into a deeper sleep. His own eyelids began to fall just listening to her slowed breathing and heart rate, a sigh on his lips.

What was he supposed to do later? Ask… ask one of the servicewomen to… to do what again?

He’d think of it later. For now, he would allow himself to rest pleasantly, knowing his lovely wife was sleeping right there with him.

Day 6

From one person to the next, his dark encircled eyes moved. None of them looked the least bit familiar. None of them carried a thought in his head; a candle to guide his way through the murky depths of what remained of him.

It left him unable to focus on anything they were saying. He had to be sure when they directed their full attention to him that he could speak appropriately. Thus far, he’d been lucky. His doting wife took all the conversation with stride and elegance; her hands clasped before her knees and a polite smile on curved lips that colored her cheeks.

He knew he should remember them. He was the Lord of these lands, and he knew the people he served.

Or… Or he had, once.

The gentlest hand found his. Delicate fingers, so small and dainty weaving between the spaces of his own. It comforted him; soothed his thoughts to some degree. At just a glance to Essie, it elevated the dull ache in his chest. The sense that he was not good enough evaporated. His old heart felt lively once more in those seconds; and the edges around his eyes grew less deep as he’d smile fondly.

She cast him a tender smile. But the sadness in her eyes, it reminded him of himself all over again.

“How very kind of Otis and Elewys, right dear?” she hummed to him gently. “Bringing that bottle of syrinelle red you enjoy so much.

Oh, Pelor bless her considerate heart.

Nodding, he offered his first true glance to the pair’s eyes. His smile eloquent now; no longer straining as he inclined a respectful gesture to the couple.

“Thank you for your consideration as always, sir Otis and miss Elewys,” he managed; a bit panicked that he could not address them by their last names properly.

“Oh Amon!” the lady laughed’ her shroud of stained red lips opening wide with grating laughter. “You hardly need to thank us. After all, it was you who introduced us to it. Otis hardly enjoys drinking anything else these days. Isn’t that right, honey?”

It took every ounce for Amon not to wither beneath the stare of the man. He had a deep, balding hairline and scrutinizing eyes beneath the pair of spectacles he wore. Through them, his sharp green eyes seemed to be digging into skin. Crawling against him; trying to figure out what was amiss.

Not everyone was so blinded by his the masked disguise.

A sharp noise from Essätha rounded the man’s attention back to her; tearing his gaze free.

“You wouldn’t believe the conversation we had just a few days ago with some of the local counts,” she explained. “I’ve simply not been able to recover from the situation; it was so draining dealing with the scoundrels! You should have seen m’lord Amon though; such a fierce bear among deer. He had the gents quivering in their boots.”

For only a brief moment, the Illiad gentleman felt terrible in recalling none of this. Even worse, seeing her struggle through conversation to place a safe cushion for him to fall on. Trying to hide how far gone he truly was. Saving him the agony of admitting defeat and wounding his pride all the more by asking questions that he should already know the answer to.

But the feeling vanished rather quickly; forgotten from his disintegrating thoughts. It took only the squeeze of her palm to his, and the brightness of her eyes to leave him smiling in his forgetful state once again.

His thoughts were even more scattered than usual. A tiredness pulled at his eyes; willing them to close in slow-blinks. Just enough of his youthful training reminded him that it was rude to fall asleep in the presence of company, much as he wanted to.

“Oh honey, I can believe it,” the woman; whatever he name was, sang with laughter.

“Whatever were all of you talking about?” her husband inquired in a surprisingly light voice.

Instead of taking in the words, Amon listened more to the tone of voice from his dear wife. The rise and fall in her spinto timbre. The giggles she produced in the middle of her phrases that was so perfectly her. Gentle and airy; a melody more divine and softly played than any instrument he’d ever heard.

As she spoke, she leaned closer and closer into his side. The warmth of her curves against him, inviting him to rest.

Essätha reached over to him with a free hand, pressing against the side of his head as she murmured something he didn’t catch.

Whatever the case, he willingly allowed her to guide him. Nestling into the crook of her neck, inhaling the lovely scent of vanilla and rose on her delicate skin.

He should be feeling bad. Putting her in this position; covering for his exhaustion now as well as his fragments thoughts. Never quite recalling enough to be anything but a lost soul among conversation.

But her frame was hot. Flushed red; he guessed, with shyness or embarrassment.

An untrue assumption.

“You’ll have to pardon our exhaustion,” she guilty expressed to their guests. “We’ve spent many a nights griping and debating the damn meeting, you see.”

Was that a lie? He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it so.

He wanted to ask her to stop protecting him. He wanted to speak on his own behalf; but what could he say? What honor he still held; what desire in himself to still be recognized as a man and as the Lord of the Emerald Expanse, it still longed for respect. To admit his weakened state was to lower himself in the eyes of all who worked around and beneath him.

He didn’t want to be treated more like a half-wit then he already felt he was. Judging himself far more harshly than his worst critiques.

In that moment, too tired to care what they thought or said, he nuzzled a drowsy placement of his lips into the heat of Essätha’s neck. Feeling the burn of her skin. The rush of her pulse; a drum resounding in her. It didn’t quite sound as he believed it to when she was startled by his actions or warmed by his touch, but then again, who was to say he remembered?

A bit bitterly, he sank into a quiet doze. Lulled by the ebbing soft voice that sang to him; lilted in his ears and drugged him. Pulling him into a deeper sleep as she released his hand to stroke his face and hair.

Oh, no sweeter paradise compared to sleeping there, right next to her. Guests be damned, he was shortly and happily lost in heaven after only a few coaxing caresses of her hand.

All was right and well in the world with her there, his darling Essätha.

Day 7

He managed the stairs today, if for no other reason than to follow Essätha as she wandered the house with the maidens to clean. Hopelessly devoted, a follower to her ethereal light.

Listening to the laughter of the young women, it brought him a reason to smile. Even as he mostly dozed; placed in a chair upon each room. Here and there catching a glimpse of Essie’s eye as they caught each other staring, and would begin to laugh.

Oh, the way she turned a deep, shy red in the face as he’d catch her glimpsing his way. Such a twinkling gaze of warmth and love exuded from her. Absent were his worries and his concerns; hardly catching the way the girls giggled as they’d witness these longing glances.

He was an old fool; but he was the happiest, most devoted, most in love fool of them all.

It completely went missed; with his eyes closed, the way his dear would pause to clutch her chest with a trembling hand. A troubled light cast over hazy eyes. A gently murmured excuse to pardon herself to the bathroom, only to lean into a wash bin. Fingers clutching the edge as dizziness washed over her and subsided in crashing, unexpected waves. Drops of embers radiating into her lungs.

But she would return, a calming smile as she walked over to kiss his sleepy face and shuttered eyes.

Only, to be tricked into a stolen kiss. His hands would slip behind her head and through hair to hold her in place as he smiled against her mouth.

And whatever ailment either of them had, so briefly, simply did not exist as they’d laugh with fondness.

Day 8

Wasn’t he supposed to do something? He couldn’t remember. It was hard to remember, curled up against Essätha’s side.

She leaned over to brush her lips against the top of his head. The heat of her body burning like a fire against his side. Gentle fingers coming up; brushing through his thinned hair in slow, sweeping gestures.

A slurried mess of words grumbled out of him.

“What was that, m’lord Amon?” she teased, distractedly placing a kiss to his cheek.

“Are you almost done with that?”

Hoarse giggles echoed in her petite chest. The gentleness of her hand moved over the back of his head, working into the stiffness of his shoulder. Kneading carefully and slowly until a relieved sigh managed to work it’s way through him.

Pelor, she was too much. Much too thoughtful. Somehow, someway, she knew just where to touch him. Coaxing out another alleviated groan as she rubbed into the sore places on his side and down to his waist. Tender little circles both small and wide shifting over and over against him both high and low from waist to hip and back again.

“I can be, if you’d like.”

“Do you want help?” he murmured, more preoccupied with her hands than his words.

Her silence had his eyelids rising from their half-lidded bliss. With a tired sigh, he glanced up to her sweet face. She looked tired. Darkness sitting beneath her eyes; a thin smile that she leaned down to press into his temple warmly.

“If you wish to help, my beloved, I wouldn’t object.”

Grumbling, Amon reached out for the paperwork in her hand. He tried to concentrate on the scrawled writing in front of him. Much of the scratching he didn’t recognize, but the signatures already squiggled across a few pages in a curled slant he still recalled.

He forgot some of the phrasing as soon as he read it. Not because of his slipping mind, but because of how distracted he was by the gentleness of her touch. Moving from fingertips to palm; massaging into the most tender, aching spots of his body…

If he was a younger man, Pelor…

“I know just what to do with this,” he mumbled.

“Oh?” Amusement in her voice; drawn into her own distractions pampering him.

Giving a gruff noise in the back of his throat, Amon flicked the paper in the direction of the coffee table. It missed of course; rolling over a few times before settling on the floor.

Essie gave a faint snicker in response. He could feel her tense up to move and stand, but his arms reached around to hold her in place.

“M’feeling selfish,” he mumbled into her shoulder, “but I’m going to have to ask you to leave it and stay here, beside me.”

A content sigh escaped Essätha as Amon rubbed his cheek against her shoulder. Daring to inch closer; pressing a lazy kiss against her hot cheek and then to her toasty throat and neck. Breathing in the fragrance of her skin and breathing warm air back against her as she shivered with awareness.

“A rest would be nice,” she finally agreed, a bit breathless.

He placed another soft press of his rough lips to her jaw. Scrapping his beard to her tender skin; feeling the warmth of her seep into his cold as he lounged into her side. Delightfully warm and soft.

She shifted once more.

Instinctively, he clutched to her as she moved. Unwilling to loosen his grip until he became aware that she was only just moving to get more comfortable. Turning in to his body, her other arm squeezed between the cushions and him to grope both of her hands into his hips.

“Mmm, if I was only a little younger,” he taunted quietly, voice muffled against her shoulder.

“Tssh,” she hissed, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “This is perfect. You’re amazing, just the way you are. I love you, and I love holding you like this. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

A drawn out snort of disbelief reverberated in his chest. He was not the perfect one here.

Nevertheless, he cuddled up into her awaiting body further. Drinking in her heat; finding comfort in her angelic, careful hands and the sweetness that was all her. Drifting in and out as he rested his cheek to her collar, listening to the faint pulse beneath.

As he fell into a deep slumber, she shifted restlessly to sleep. A flushed tone to her face, gasping faintly for air as she slept.

Day 10

Amon reached out, groping for the warmth of a body that should be there.

With heavy eyes, he grunted as he forced his aching old body to shift around.

Only just a glimpse of bedhead dark hair, his shirt, and some loosely drawn sleep drawers from Essätha’s frame were visible as she exited the room on drifting feet.

Moving a hand to his face, he emitted a muffled groan. The nearby window was shuttered closed and curtains drawn, but even still some of the half-moons light managing to find a way in through the dark sky into their bedroom.

He got to his feet slowly. Pins and needles of sharp, brief, small flickers of pain wedged into his body like starbursts. Mumbling incoherently through a yawn, Amon shuffled after his wandering wife.

Her path lead out of their chambers, and out of the sitting area. With edged nerves Amon limped; occasionally placing a hand to the wall for support, as he picked up his pace.

This was very unlike her behavior.

Where was she going?

In the hall, no suggestion of which direction she had gone. Torn with indecisiveness, he took the route considered to be the one that would lead swiftly to both kitchen and staff off on the right. Maybe she had went to seek out something? Someone?

But he had been right there. Right there, at her side. Surely she could have; would have, sought him out first. He was there for everything with her… They’d seen it all, together. Walked through hell and back hand in hand. He had only been resting inches from her.

The library floor was cooler than the hallway. A glimpse throughout the room, and he spotted the slightly agape door that lead out to one of the upper level balconies.

Slowly; carefully, he made his way to the glass-paneled door. Even picking up his feet this time rather than shuffling; not daring to startle her if she was outside as he tried to silently pry out the cracked door.

Oh, she was…

His heart swelled in his chest. A short, faint, hardly-there gasp.

Simply, he was stricken. Sitting upon the granite surface of the bench pressed up against carved rows of stone that enclosed the space, Essätha lounged against the marble. Her face rested upon arms folded over the ledge like a dream.

Moonlight hugged her clothes and shaped her face softly. Reflecting in the sterling hues in inky hair, setting a starlit glow to her eyes that could barely catch from the angle he stood at. Her legs were tucked beneath her as a sigh dragged out from her lungs, followed closely be a wince.

The pained action was a slap to his gaping mouth. He’d been so captivated by her celestial pulchritude that for such a brief time, he’d forgotten how odd her actions had been to leave the bed in the middle of the night in such a manner. No comment, no softly-whispered words.

She’d just… left.

Clearing his throat, Amon tapped gently upon the edge of the door.

Essätha was quick to turn towards him, a hand to her chest.

“O-Oh, m’lord Amon…”

He shifted his weight from the wall to shuffle outside.

And like the darling, tender woman she was, Essie was instantly on her feet to offer him a hand.

“What are you doing out of bed,” she fretted, aiding him to the bench.

A raspy chuckle escaped him.

“Looking for you, my dear,” he replied, taking hold of her hand to bring it to his lips as they sat.

Her face was flush as he looked to her. At first, he had simply thought her to be embarrassed at being caught, but the sheen on her face, the void over her eyes-

He reached out to touch her face as she tried pushing his hands away.

He’d meant to call the doctor! That was the nagging sensation; that is what he’d been forgetting to do! But she’d been acting so fine, as of late, and it had fell away from his brainless head. Always forgetting- what sort of husband was he?

“I’m sorry,” Essätha drawled tiredly, half-closing her eyes as he felt along her feverish face with worried eyes.

“It was hot in the house; I just wanted to come get some cool air… You were sleeping so well… I didn’t want to wake you… I- I should have known you’d wake up without me there-”

“Shhh- shhh don’t apologize,” he muttered in a rush, carefully feeling along to her chest.

Pelor, she was warm all over.

“I didn’t mean to wake you-”

Amon pressed a finger over her trembling, colorless lips.

“None of that now,” he soothed. His hands were shaking, thumbs moving to stroke along her jaw and along her throat. No signs of lumps, no foreign shapes.

With a weak sigh, she leaned heavily and suddenly into his side. Making no objections as his anxious, shaky hands carefully felt along her chest and down to her sides and stomach.

Warmth spilled against him everywhere he touched. Slicked with sweat, her breath soft against his side-

She gave a wheezy gasp.

Cursing aloud for his careless, rough hands, Amon jerked his touch away.

��N-No it wasn’t you,” she rasped with exhaustion against his neck. “My chest aches.”

“I’m calling the doctor-”

“Don’t wake the maids, dear, it’s so late.”

A groan passed through him. Wrapping an arm around her side, he held her to him as she rested her face at the crook of his neck.

“You’re going to catch a chill out there,” she mumbled.

He snorted through his nose. He was going to get a chill inside then, because she was not in there with him. Warming his side; warming their home with her delightful glow.

“Why don’t you come back inside with me?” he requested gently. “I’ll fetch a basin of cool water and we’ll see about lowering that fever.”

A silent nod pressed into his shoulder.

Taking hold of her hand, Amon moved to his feat. Overhearing her mostly muted cry of protest; the feeling of her fingers digging into his hand as she held to him.

Without hesitation; without question, she followed him. To her feet, directly into his arms with a muffled whimper as he pulled her in close. The salty smell of sweat and sweet hint of lavender on soft, sticky skin.

He took a few steps back. Eyes meeting hers; fingers curled together as he encouraged her to move with him. Off the outlook, in the library, and through the house into adjacent the hall. Their steps careful treading.

His feet clipped against themselves, but he held steadfast to keep from falling over. A promising smile, guiding her through the passageway slowly.

Dragging out a shuddering breath, she leaned all of her weight into his side abruptly.

They stumbled and by the grace of Pelor, Amon found his long-lost strength.

Propping weight into one of his burning heels, he took hold of her tighter than he’d like. Grasping her to his chest; feeling the shivers race over her damp skin. He would waver and stagger before regaining his composure, an exhaled gasp of shock finally pulling out of his lungs.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice cracked.

Anchoring his weight to his assured leg baring the brunt of their load, he shifted. Unhinging gradually, he dragged the both of them back the short distance into the wall.

Her shoulders were shaking. A tearful inhale, clutching on to the front of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Shhhh, shhhh, don’t cry,” he soothed, rubbing his arms along hers as hands against her back.

“Don’t cry my love; my darling Essätha. Shhh, shhh. You’re fine here. It’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

Her sobs pressed into his shoulder. The ever-present heat turning into a radiating fire. She was only growing hotter; her strength disappearing more and more in wobbly legs.

He wasn’t sure at first if he could hold them both, but her sharp cries had him clutching her closer.

He would make do.

Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. He hated that sound. It did not belong in this strong woman. It was a foreigner, stealing into her kindness and good heart.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it harder on you-”

“You’ve made nothing harder for me, dear Essie.

“I could have made you fall-”

Pressing his legs out to trap her so she wouldn’t stumble, Amon leaned back and took hold of her face in his hands. His thumbs skimming; wiping away the tears that did not fit on those splotchy cheeks. Tears that should never be on such a lovely face of gentleness and beauty. Tears he loathed to see.

“I would never let you fall,” he swore, staring deep into her eyes. “Do you hear me? Never. I would be your cushion if it came down to it. I’ve got you. I have strength enough for the both of us; I will take care of you.”

A dry, pained rasp answered him. She looked away, a slight quiver from her lip.

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he pulled her into his body. Feeling her shivers; the rapid flickers of her heartbeat pressed so close to his.

“Let me help you,” he hoarsely added. “You work too hard, my darling Essätha. Let me look after you. Let me love you and care for you; as your partner and as your husband. I took an oath to stand beside you, in sickness and in health.”

He held her waist tightly whilst pushing off from the wall. A bit unsteady for a second; his limbs trying to function despite the pain and the added weight. But he steadied because, by all the gods, he would not falter now.

With the waver of his frame, she tried to pull away from him.

“Don’t run from me,” he urged in a whisper, holding her firmly to himself. “Don’t brush me off… Don’t… Don’t let me forget when you are hurting.”

She moaned, gripping tightly to his shirt as she drew in a breath.

“M’lord-”

“It’s no excuse!” he rasped, voice breaking as he clutched her closer. “Don’t… Don’t give me any excuses.”

“It’s not your fault-”

“I’m failing you-”

“No, my beloved, please-”

A frustrated exhale, smothering her shaking frame against himself as he breathed into her ear, “I’m sorry. I never meant to bare so many burdens upon your heart and soul; upon those perfect shoulders. I would never… have intended to cause you so much torment.”

“I’m a weaker man, growing less deserving of your gentleness by the day. Forgetting things, fumbling. But I love you; my sweet Essätha; and I know you love me. Of that, there’s no doubt in my mind. There will never be a doubt in my mind how much you care for me.”

“But when I took your hand and I looked into your eyes and I asked you to be mine, from that moment on it was no longer ‘should I, could I, would I’ it was an affirmative ‘I must and I will’. As your spouse, as your lover, as your eternal friend it was my duty and my privilege to care for and to love you, always.”

“You have never faltered from those promises we made that day. And although I have tried my best; with every bit inside of me, I know I have been failing you.”

Dry palms touched his face. Holding him steady, lips meeting his chin.

“You are not weak, and you are no burden,” Essätha rasped softly. “You are my Lord Amon Thomas Illiad, keeper of my heart. Nothing has changed. You are still have all of me; you still bring me all the happiness I had longed to touch all my life.”

“I am no one when I am so blinded by my wife’s ailments,” he countered bitterly.

“I do not blame you for things beyond your control.”

“Then do not blame me- but do not let me sit in the dark,” he pleaded. “If I could just- If only my mind still worked as it should-”

She collapsed fully and all at once into him in a fit of tears.

He was at a loss. Standing there; a statue of an imbecile with tears on his cheeks; wettening his beard.

“I-… I’m sorry this is… this is not the time for such talk,” his voice echoed.

He sounded old. Vastly old. And so far, far away.

“Promise you won’t forget me.”

Barely there; more a phantom’s illusion than words.

He clutched at her as the smallness of her thick voice met his ears.

“Never, my love. Never.”

A tortured sob dragged from her. So frail, so unbearably hot.

His cheek rested atop her head. A drainage bearing down upon him as tears slipped free of his eyes and into her already wet hair from sweat.

She was hurting so much, and it was all his fault.

She was sickly, and it was his absence that had allowed it to happen.

No amount of doctor visits, medications, clerics, or otherwise could mend him. He was broken. His carefully studied intellect from years of study gone. His memories washed away with the tide; returning only in short bursts and sometimes incorrectly or not fitting properly into place. His body aged; constantly humming on a pitched note of pain.

All he had left was her. His love for her. His undying devotion to her; the trust and loyalty placed in such compassionate hands holding him up and guiding him through. His spirit and resolve to be the best he could be for her.

It no longer felt like enough.

He loathed himself. Inflicting wounds upon the one who held the final fragments of who he was. The last star shining in his sky; the guiding northern light that brought him home. All of his happiness and love embraced in someone so understanding and patience of his irregular lapses in memory. The decayed mind, the slipping personality, the spectral remains of who he once was that she clung to so desperately and brought fragments of life still into what remained of him.

And here he was, asking even more of her. Requesting she hurt herself on behalf of his damaged mental state. Implying she be both his caretaker and his eyes; for he was clearly stupid and blind to allow this to have continued on to such a point of misery for her.

It was… too much to ask of her. Unfair to put so much on her shoulders already holding up so much. Arms holding together the last of him in such a delicate, gentle way. Hands keeping him afloat.

He didn’t deserve her. He was not worthy of all this consideration and faithful, never-ending care.

“Let me run you a bath,” a hoarse voice crawled forth from his depths. “A nice, cool bath.”

Between hiccuping sobs, she shook her head.

“Essätha-”

“Stairs.”

The single, muffled word riddled him with guilt. His own handicap once again kicking him down.

“Just the basin, then,” he murmured.

A vigorous shake of her head, pressed into his chest. “N-No please- please don’t leave me please don’t go- the stairs-”

“I-I won’t. I won’t.”

He was shaking. The water stored upstairs wouldn’t be very cool and not nearly as refreshing, but it would have to do.

She was hurting enough.

He didn’t want to add any further strain and stress upon her.

“Will you let me guide you to our bed, my love?” Amon inquired softly, painfully.

A small nod pressed against his torso.

Slipping into the nook of her side, he released one arm from around her. Waiting, patient as Essie gradually loosened her hold on his shirt to grab hold of it from behind instead. Much of her weight bore against him like a lean-post as she dragged out exhausted, stuffy breaths that shook her frail frame.

He gritted his teeth through the entire, agonizing walk. Feet dragging more than anything else; having to compensate for not just his own unsteadiness but hers as well. She would try regaining her composure for but a moment, and would soon after falter once more with ragged, gasping drags of air.

Pressing into his side, pressing away from him to try giving him room and strength to walk.

And he would pull her defiantly to him. Taking her instability in stride.

He could do this.

He would do this, for her.

Day 11 – part 1

To hell with these damn buttons!

Griping to himself, Amon felt with his stiff fingers along the holes of his shirt. His digits would shake as he relaxed them, making it just as impossible to jam the clasp where it belonged.

The bed creaked on the other side, making him freeze up. Clutching each side of his clothes, he turned his head (with his neck protesting in agony) to see a tangled mop of black hair pop up from the pillow.

Knotted and tangled in an unrecognizable mess, the nest covered over the face of it’s owner as they gave a huff.

He reached out instantly the moment the damp cloth still stuck to her face fell in her lap. Slipping fingers beneath the gnarled strands, he carefully knitted through sections to tuck the locks back from her face. They slid behind her ear and stuck to her face and mouth, covered in a mixture of sweat and warmed water.

She still felt somewhat feverish to the touch.

But she offered him the impression of a sweet smile as he plucked strands from her face and from her mouth tenderly, regardless.

“Did I wake you?” he murmured with shame, leaning in to press his lips over her forehead.

“I don’t know if I was really sleeping in the first place,” she admitted, reaching out for him.

Glancing down, he watched as she slowly buttoned up his shirt. One at a time, in delicate thin fingers.

His throat tightened on a reflex.

“I could have gotten it-”

“I know you could have.”

No doubt in her voice. No teasing. Completely serious in her conviction.

“I just wanted to help you,” she added once completing the final button, leaning forward to rest her forehead to his.

“You should be resting,” he disagreed in a throaty voice of anguish, kissing her cheek.

She mumbled something. Words he couldn’t distinguish even this close.

His hands followed the map of her body he knew by heart. It had changed and grown over the years in new ways, but still utterly, completely beautiful. Smoothing over the thin fabric of his own sweat-covered shirt clinging to her body; the soft material giving away all of her imperfections beneath his hands.

So gorgeous. So perfect.

Essätha gave an unexpected sensual moan in response. Immediately clamping her mouth shut, she laughed as she pulled away from his face.

“Goodness-” she giggled, finding no room to finish the thought as he pulled her back in for a sudden embrace.

Amon peppered light kisses to the underside of her throat. Each one moving a little further up; pressing lips against her chin and to the corners of her mouth and-

She stopped him there, placing a hand to his chest as she gave a breezy, faltering snicker.

“I wasn’t finished,” he complained, inching closer as he smiled, eyes upon those very kissable soft lips.

“Perhaps not the best idea, my beloved,” she reminded him, taking hold of an arm to pull it back around so she could press a kiss over his wrist.

The warmth surrounding her space reminded him of his own senselessness, and he immediately pulled free of her.

“I’ll see to getting you a doctor,” he decreed firmly.

“Mmm, yes m’lord Amon,” she breathed. “While you do that, I’m going to change… Do not wander far.”

Upon the last of her words, a trickling fear in her voice once more. Panic written in the glistening of her gaze locked upon his.

“I won’t be far,” he promised, worrying his eyebrows into a furrow.

Last night still sat heavily on his heart.

He had to do better.

He had to be better, for her.

Placing a hasty kiss to Essie’s knuckles, Amon slid off the edge of the bed. The knifing pain in his chest and fire in his bones instantly gave him awareness that he was indeed, alive and very aged now.

She murmured something; likely encouragement, but it was lost in his ears. The harsh beat of his heart in his eardrums as he hissed quietly, shuffling across the room. Every so lightly, using the door frame as a sturdy rest before he continued through the sitting area towards the far door.

Thankfully, with a hand to the wall, it didn’t take him terribly long to come across the first housemaiden. Already up and about, bustling around the house to spot him coming upon the door that lead to the gallery overlooking down upon the dining area.

“Lord Amon,” she greeted pleasantly, giving a curtsy.

What was her name again? He raked through his brain, but it didn’t come to him. Instead, he simply offered the most polite if not strained smile he could manage. Feeling it tug on his lips, pull at the wrinkles against his face.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but would you mind having the doctor… doctor…”

What was his name?

“Your physician, Lord Amon?”

“Mine? O-Or Essätha’s,” he muttered. Did they have different doctors? There was so many as of late…

There was a softened light of concern in the young woman’s eyes. He tried to pretend as though he didn’t recognize it, but he did. If it wasn’t that, it was almost always pity thrown in his face.

Except with Essätha. It was always love. Love, and tinges of fear when he had his slip-ups.

He tried not to took too deeply on that. It hurt too much.

Everything would be fine..

“Of course, Lord Amon,” the young maiden stated with professional courtesy, tilting her head forward. “Would that be all?”

Smiling faintly, he reached up to scratch his beard.

“Coffee. Black. Bring sugar for my darling, would you?”

“Certainly, Lord Amon.”

With a curt nod to the woman, he watched as she headed down the hall.

He hoped Essie was in the mood for something sweet in her coffee today. Even if she wasn’t, he had a feeling her eyes would still light up just the same. Adoring him; grateful for all these little things he still remembered. It always brightened her features when he recalled things with ease. So fondly his memories of her painting in his thoughts through elegant strokes of a brush that defined her every charm and signature.

Satisfied with himself, Amon carefully turned back for the bedroom. Shuffling along on with care on the floor, making his way through the lounge area.

Pausing, he picked up a few ledgers lying on the edge of the desk. Flipping through a few; finding the wonderful scrawling of his love’s hand placed upon some. Notes added to others in the margins of with a steady hand. Strokes of ink curling so wonderfully.

What would he do without her?

A scoff at the very thought. He couldn’t handle this house, all these finances without her. The words began to blur into nonsense before his eyes. Numbers made no sense; who was he paying, for what reason, what did that name mean, when did this request need finalizing.

She handled everything. The house, the maids, the work, him…

With a heavy sigh of guilt, he went to place the documents neatly back on the table.

A sharp curse from the other room.

It was followed by a crack, and sudden thud.

Thoroughly startled, he dropped the paperwork and turned swiftly. The rush of wind sent some reports scattering in the air and to the floor.

His body was unprepared for the range of motion and haste he pushed it through.

Dragging in a sharp gasp, he staggered. If not for the quick grip of his hand to the edge of the desk, he would have taken a fall for sure.

Pain stabbed through him. Starting in his hip, and blazing down into his leg and through his side.

“Essätha?”

No answer.

“Essätha, my darling?” Panicked this time, riddled with worry.

Silence.

He didn’t want to pull the card, he didn’t want to-

“My dear, could you… could you come help me?”

With a flinch; both from gritting pain and humiliation, he waited.

She did not come to him.

Grabbing the edge of the desk firmly, Amon worked his way around it. Finding the wall to lean against; shoulder and all, he shifted his weight forward. Aware of the way his leg was nearly limp with pain; refusing to take even the bare minimum of his size as it seized and gave with each step. Causing him to stumble; causing him to cry out hoarsely in pain.

He grabbed the edge of the door frame and pulled. Yanking himself forward; forcing his back to the structure. Each breath a harsh pant. His chest falling and rising quickly as perspiration dotted his neck and face.

His blood ran cold as ice despite this.

Leg forgotten, he lunged forward.

It buckled beneath his weight; sending him to the floor.

Growling with frustration, his knees rapidly swelling with bruises, Amon crawled the remaining distance over. An action once that would have been beyond mortifying now not even a second thought to his primary objective in front of him.

Oh Pelor, no.

No no no- this was his fault; this was all his fault he’d left her alone! She’d told him; asked of him only not to be left alone and what had he done! What had he done!

“My darling?” he cooed, his voice cracking as he reached for her.

Blood. Blood on the corner of the dresser; blood clotting in her hair in a dark, crimson flood. Collecting on the floor; running over her temple and down her cheek.

“Essätha my love.”

His voice broke a hundred different ways in only a few syllables.

Shaking vigorously, he ran a hand gingerly over her pale complexion and sweaty face.

In a knee-jerk reaction, he pulled away.

She was burning like fire.

“No no no no no no-”

Whimpering, his lips shaking, he looked around the room. Was- was there still health potions still stashed somewhere around here? Did he still have any of them around? Would they still be good-

She gasped for air, her breath coming out dry and wheezy.

He tried to stand. He had to get help; he had to get her off the floor, he had to look for something or someone to help her-

His legs slipped, and he crashed back down on his purple hued knees beneath thick trousers.

“Not now, please!” he begged, staring down with horror as the blood began to puddle on the floor.

He tried again. Failed; feet refusing to even move into the place his mind asked of him.

“Oh Pelor, someone help her please!” he cried out.

He was pathetic.

He could do nothing for her.

He couldn’t even do anything for himself.

She’d gotten hurt, and it was all his fault.

This was all his fault. He hadn’t been there. He wasn’t there for her. She wasn’t feeling well and he had just left her alone. She asked him not to leave her alone; she had been so frightened of him leaving her alone-

Falling to his angry, swollen hip throbbing with agony, he reached for her.

“Please! Someone!”

A raspy demand. A howling echo of pain and fear.

Shoes came flying through the sitting area moments later. A heavy, breathless voice before they even entered the room called out: “Lord Amon-?”

The maiden nearly tripped upon herself as she slammed into the room.

Upon his thigh, he gingerly rested Essätha’s head. His shirt half removed; buttons popped across the floor as he balled it up to press to her head wound.

His eyes shot up to the woman as she entered in a rush. The whites of his eyes now red through his gaze as he exhaled in a rush; his nose too stuffy to breathe through.

“Please-”

His voice broke. Lips shaking; the taste of his tears upon them.

A close-mouthed gasp escaped the maid. She pressed a hand to her throat, and rushed forward suddenly to kneel at his side.

Her fingers pressed to Essie’s throat as he leaned forward, listening to her raspy gasps.

“Her pulse seems strong, but very fast,” the young lady observed, meeting his gaze.

“Help her,” he pleaded, flickering his gaze back down to his shirt growing redder by the second against her head.

“Help her; help her please do something-”

His chest shook helplessly. The sound of her ragged gasps of air so unnatural. He knew he’d not heard such a sickly, horrendous sound… Not since-

On reaction, he snarled at the woman as she tried to wrap her arms around his Essätha.

“Lord Amon, we should get her off the floor,” the young lady remarked with fearful, wide eyes.

Yes… yes of course- she was right-

A groan of turmoil, his legs refusing to work.

“Let me go get more help,” the housemaid murmured, getting to her feet.

“Hurry.”

The woman was out of the door and racing through the lounge in seconds. Without hesitation, without delay.

Unable to take his eyes off of his darling, Amon hummed with encouragement. His tears, meanwhile, dripped down on the bloody shirt pressed firmly over her head.

“I’m so sorry my dear. I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you yet again.”

“Please forgive me,” he asked, shoulders rising and falling violently as a sob broke through him.

“Everything will be alright, love, I’m here. I’m here. I’ll take care of you I promise; I swear.”

Day 11 – part 2

There were doctors and clerics standing all around, making the room claustrophobic. All of them crowding around the bed. Huddled tightly together; a mass of professional coats and robes.

The bloody gash upon Essätha’s head was, thankfully, mended. She did not rouse from unconsciousness, however. No gentle shakes, no softly murmured honeyed words, no curious prods of the doctors of people shining lights in her eyes gave her reason to wake.

It made his skin crawl.

Like a wounded animal, he dared to snap at anyone who thought to remove him from the bedside.

Thus, the doctors were forced to try checking on his elevated legs between his furious rampages.

“Get your hands off of me-!”

“Lord Amon, we need to secure your position so that a cleric can try mending your hip bone. It’s fractured, and it won’t heal properly if you don’t let us work-”

“I didn’t call you here to take care of me! I called you all here to take care of her!”

He waved a hand to the stunning woman laboring for breath at his side.

“Lord Amon,” the doctor sighed, “Be reasonable. We’re only trying to help. It’s our duty to make sure-”

“You need to make sure she’s okay,” Amon rasped, taking hold of the man’s arm in a powerful grip as he worked his jaw.

“She needs to be okay.”

The doctor choked, trying to pull free his arm as the Briarton Lord dug his fingertips into flesh with an impressive grasp. Yellow-tinged bruises were already beginning to form upon the doctor’s skin.

“We can give him some drugs,” another doctor murmured from the safety behind others. “Knock him out; it’ll make the whole process easier-”

“You will do no such thing!” a housemaiden cut in sharply on his behalf, her face red with aggravation.

Faces in the room stared to the young woman. She appeared less confident, and more frazzled beneath all the sudden attention.

“He’s scared for his wife,” she stressed. “Can none of you see that?”

The room was silent. A grunt escaped Amon, grateful to the young woman who’s name he didn’t recall as she pushed past a pair of individuals to come beside the bed.

Her voice was one of conviction as she spoke to him: “Lord Amon, it is not my place to speak on Lady Essätha’s behalf and I apologize, but she would be very distraught knowing you were refusing treatment. Please, let these men and women help you.”

It was a low, wounding blow to his stubborn pride.

Mute, he only gave a nod.

He was too numb, filled to the very brim with shame to do anything else.

They were careful as they handled him. Like a fragile doll. But none were quite as tender and gentle as Essätha as they readjusted his posture and shifted the angle of his body. Poking and prodding; revealing the various bruises on his hips and legs as they exposed him by removing articles of clothing to better assess their patient.

It was humiliating.

Hopeless, he held to Essie’s hand the entire time. Comforting himself partly; the other half of him hoping that whatever strength remained in his fingers would awaken her back to reality. Bring her out of her comatose state, and back to him.

She could have his strength. She could have all of what was left of him.

Murmured incantations; more like hymns, were breathed by a pair of clerics as they pressed her hands lightly near his bruised, exposed skin.

Some of the stabbing pain began to free itself from his aged frame.

Then, more pain still ebbed away as the duo stepped away for two more to step up and continue on with another series of chanted words to their gods. Languages he didn’t know; words that held no meaning to him.

As these two stepped back, he found his weary voice of open fear again.

“And my Essätha?”

“We’ve done all we can for her, Lord Amon,” someone spoke up. “She’s… just going to need some time to rest.”

The darkness of his eyes bore into the man speaking. Slowly, forfeiting like a lesser animal to an alpha, the man turned his gaze away first to swallow nervously.

“What is wrong with my wife?”

The softness of his voice was a ploy, and they all knew it. Smelled the anger around him; the hurt, the fear.

“What is wrong with my wife?!” he repeated in a snarl, trying to push himself off from the bed.

“Lay back-”

“Lord Amon, please-”

“You’re going to hurt yourself-”

Aggravated, he tried to push away all the various arms and hands that encouraged him back into the bed.

Tearing his gaze from the swarm of people, Amon glimpsed over with alarm as the arm pressed against his side shook.

Convulsions raked down Essätha’s limp form. It illustrated her body in a way that was not meant to contort as a grating, jarring exhale raggedly fell from her lips.

Amon grabbed for her instantly. The burn of her body unfelt; the daggers of pain in his own forgotten.

She shook uncontrollably against his chest. Each breath gasping and faint. Drawing in oxygen through shallow rises of her chest and letting it out in suffering, heaving wheezes.

Someone’s hand reached out as though to touch her, and he swatted it away with a growl. Vision wobbling; finding it difficult to differentiate friend from foe.

“Careful, careful-!” someone nervously piped up.

He didn’t know whom this new voice was telling to be careful; him or the one who reached for him.

The shakes and shivers knotting in her muscles and seizing her up in cramping, unnatural forms slowly disappeared. All but the lightest quivers here and there; her breath labored as the movement behind her eyelids danced.

They were both covered in sweat.

His face was drenched in it. Dripping from his eyes even; strangely.

“What was that?” Amon muttered with quiet brokenness. “What just happened, why was she-”

“Those would be the manifestations of her illness,” an uneasy voice to his left reported. “One… we fear we have an inkling’s knowledge to; if all assumptions are correct.”

“It’s been dubbed the Graveshadow’s Disease. Samples would need to be taken and a better evaluation performed to confirm this; but it’s a sickness inflicted on generations of children born with inherited Shadowplane magic. The disorder has wiped out many family lines over the years as it only seems to pass from mother to child. It’s not infectious to anyone in this room.”

The concern that whatever was ailing his beautiful wife might drag him in didn’t even touch his thoughts. If he grew just as sickly, he wouldn’t care. It would not deter him from her side. All but too concerned for that sweat-drenched face of ethereal grace as her lips trembled and occasionally moved into wordless expressions and hitched gasps of pain.

“It… has no recovery. The mortality rate is…”

His eyes shot over to the woman who dared join in the conversation, with words that were bold-faced lies in his ears.

“She will be fine!” he threatened, pushing himself up further. “She will recover. None of you know her; none of you know the strength in this beautiful woman-”

A faint whimper captured his attention, and his words tapered off. Slipping his arms around her tighter, he cradled Essätha’s sweltering physique against his side protectively.

Clearing their throat, another medic spoke up: “The symptoms don’t positively id the problem. We… We could still be wrong.”

“What else could it be?” Amon asked numbly.

Uncomfortable glances sorted around the room, and back to him.

“It would be Filth Fever,” someone spoke quietly. “Weaver’s Fever, which affects magically-inclined folks, or Shiver’s disease.”

“It could be something non-lethal; something we’re missing” another medic cut in quietly, but there was… doubt in her voice.

The woman was quick to step back behind someone as Amon’s blazing eyes sought her out in the crowd.

“You dare-”

“There are alternatives, nothing is set in stone yet!” a cleric jumped in, a rush of smoke emitting from their draconian nostrils nervously.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Amon met some of the eyes looking upon him. Most turning away; intimidated or simply too pitying to look upon him. His arms holding his wife’s body with the utmost care against himself as she lay like a boneless silhouette in his grasp, gasping for air.

“What makes you so sure it’s-”

What had they called it? Damn his brain; why would it not function for him when he needed it the most!

“Graveshadow’s,” someone offered.

A singlular, thick grunt of agreement pressed out of Amon’s chest in answer. Moving his hand, brushing strands of hair delicately and shakily from her enchanting face slick and ashen with sickness.

“Her magic is a characteristic property of where she inherited it,” a medic stated.

“The ailment’s known to commonly be associated with Graveshadow’s is… present. Fevers, aches, body pains, headaches would all occur at some point or another. Sometimes nausea. A case-by-case basis of pus-like blisters forming on areas of the body. The… The body starts rejecting it’s hereditary magic. It begins to form a rot, on the inside of the victim. It festers; usually notably affecting someone for the majority of their life but becoming most obvious in the twenties or thirties. It begins in less prominent organs most often before attacking the more vital regions of the body; the heart, the lungs, the liver, and so on.”

“It may not be this at all, however,” a soft-spoken man added in. “I’ve never heard of such late signs progressively taking over a patient. Most cases involve years of the disease setting in.”

“Exactly,” another stated with relief. “You would have noticed the omens sooner than this, Lord Amon. It could be something else entirely.”

He would have noticed the signs.

Oh Pelor, what a goddamn useless cur he was!

How long had she been suffering these sweats, the outbreaks of headaches, the sudden dizzy spells?

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t remember.

No- no he was doing it again he was faltering and it was at her expense.

He couldn’t do this; he couldn’t do it again he had to be strong he had to focus.

Her life depended on it.

Her life in the balance, hanging by threads of doubt by everyone in the room.

Without a shred of doubt in his mind, he knew this- Grab… Gravel… Grading? Degrading?

Tears swam in his eyes with frustration like a child.

He couldn’t even remember what the fucking illness was called anymore. Only spoken seconds ago; already out of his mangled brain and tumbling somewhere in the black hole of his mind.

She’d been so strong and enduring for him. Quietly letting this pain slip beneath the cracks. Not to worry him; not to put added pressure on his fading thoughts.

It was eating at her, this decay. Ravenous on her beauty; trying to devour all the good and purity in the world through her.

How could she contract such a terrible fate? What would-

“My mother was a saint,” she had said with sadness in her voice. “I just wish she’d had more time… It took her, all at once. She didn’t show it to me, whatever it was. Not until her last days. Always putting on a brave, smiling face…”

They both knew.

The information had been sitting before them, all this time. Without their knowledge; without the thought to check or ask or inquire. No imploring questions; no thought to seek the truth of the matter.

And him; her husband, spotting none of her decline until she was succumbing to it’s horrors. Dragging her down, threatening to tear her from his grasp.

No. No, he would not allow that.

This illness would not take. Not his beautiful Essätha. Not his wife; not his closest confident, not the sun in her eyes that blazed through him and brought warmth and happiness back into his dead world. Not this woman, so courageous and brave; never bending or cracking no matter how much the world tried to break her.

It was one more fight.

They could do one more fight. The battlefield was different; just as the one in his aging mind, but they could do it.

She could get through this. His everything and more; so powerful and spunky and brave in every way.

“We need to find a cure,” Amon managed, his voice hardly a whisper.

“Lord Amon-”

He clutched to the quivering shape of his wife with resolve, stealing only a glimpse around the room.

“We are going to find a cure!” he snapped; tone wavering in and out.

“Send messengers and pigeons and ravens- I don’t give a damn what you have to say- just get people here. The greatest minds; scientists, scholars, physicians, alchemists, mages, clerics- anyone in a medical field, I don’t care what it is. They will be reimbursed for their time at a cost sum of their choosing.”

“Get in contact with-”

Faces. Faces without names.

He faltered.

“The- my companions-”

He struggled. Willing his damaged brain to work; trying to find the answers through a hazy buzz of exhaustion and fear.

Graveshadow’s Disease. Ah- yes! That was what it was called! But that wasn’t what he was looking for, what was it he was looking for…

“We can do that, Lord Amon,” a softened, feminine voice from one of the housemaids answered in knowing quiet.

“Do what?” he muttered, glancing only so briefly to see the tortured face of the young miss.

“… We’ll see to it that help is called,” another maiden slowly reminded him. “We’ll send the carriers straight away, Lord Amon.”

He’d… asked for carriers?

His eyes glanced down to Essätha.

Ah, y-yes. He… had.

All of the youthful young ladies that helped to upkeep the manor slipped out through the doors. Some needing to squeeze through the throng of individuals with apologetic whispers as they went.

Tiredly and with guilt eating at him, Amon leaned forward. His chest shaking, hands cupping each of those delicate hollowed cheeks in a tender grip. Caressing the sheen of sweat from her face as drops of tears fell from his face, landing upon her nose and forehead.

“It’s okay, my love,” he breathed, brushing his lips over hers.

Someone cleared their throat awkwardly.

Casting a venomous look to the crowd, the Illiad heir released a furious hiss through his teeth as they clenched firmly together.

“Leave us at once!” he shouted in a hoarse rasp.

Most gave a frightful jump at the harsh, bitterness of his voice. No longer sounding tired and aged, but filled with fury and rage. A carrying, strong voice of a man most didn’t believe existed anymore behind the fragile state of his aged appearance. Sunken in tired eyes; shadows and bags beneath them, dark spots and white hair with only remnants of gray-ish black still in his beard.

He looked much a shadow of his former self in some ways.

But in that moment, there was no denying he was Lord Amon; ruler over the Emerald Expanse, a force of nature all his own.

Fleeing the room in large flocks, only the most brave; or perhaps more stupid, lingered to gather supplies or stare with dumbfounded nervous energy.

“We’ll be back to conduct further tests and examinations later.”

Amon shot the speaker a despising sneer.

“Find out about this forsaken illness,” he growled. “I want every letter, every script, every mention of it ever breathed and written down in this room by tomorrow’s first light.”

Thoroughly spooked like frightened prey, the remaining individuals gave hasty, nervous murmurs he didn’t bother to make out as they fled. The thunder of boots moving into the lounge area and for most, quickly from there into the hall.

Lying on his painfully aching healed hip; still bruised and throbbing, Amon reached over the side of the bed to grab a damp cloth sitting in a bowl of ice water on the nightstand. Mostly dripping the chilled liquid on himself, the blankets, and the floor; he leaned over to rub the soothing coolness into Essätha’s skin. Washing the blots of sweat away. Wiping down her forehead, over her cheeks, against her mouth.

He leaned back to rinse the warmed cloth out with more cool water, and began drawing circles with it over her neck and beneath the collar of her shirt.

“I’m here for you, my love,” he encouraged in a soft coo, brushing a kiss over her forehead as more sweat began to bead up upon it. “You’re a strong, beautiful woman my Essätha and I know you can get through this. I believe in you. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

“I promise you.”

Day 12

“This is all of it?”

“Yes, Lord Amon.”

A frown appeared on his face with disbelief as he looked over the books and carefully folded pieces of paper.

“This can’t be all there is,” he muttered, staring up helplessly at the doctor and maiden’s face with dawning horror.

They could only stare at him in turn. The doctor unflinching and passive; the young lady a puffy-faced, red-eyed, broken complexion.

“Find me more,” he growled, slamming one of the books down on top of another. “There has to be more!”

His snarls of aggravation ripped through his throat, startling the pair as they hurried for the door.

The young lady’s eyes met his as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Catching her attention; catching the unshed tears glistening in her eyes as she stiffly slipped out of the room to leave the entrance slightly ajar in case he called for anything.

Slowly, he dragged a heavy sigh gruffly from his chest.

His gaze shifted over. Grazing over the thin sheet clinging to her sweaty hips and waist. Wrapping itself around her, with one arm thrown over the pillow and the other low; held in his rough hand.

Such harsh, pained little gasps escaped her.

What he would give to exchange them for his own. A replacement not perfect, but better than this.

Anything was better than this. Watching her unwakening face. Feeling her skipping pulse in her wrist. The heat that never let up and the unexpected quakes that shook the bed and kept him both from work and from rest.

Not that he expected rest. When it did try, however, to claim his old eyelids to fall he would find himself barely in a state of dreaming when something startled him. Reality setting in; ashamed he would allow himself to relax.

She was getting no rest. He could tell by the defining darkness that grew more and more by the hours beneath her eyes.

If she was getting no rest, then he shouldn’t either.

This was all his fault.

If only he’d caught this sooner. If only he’d been there; if only he’d noticed; remembered, spoke up, taken better care of her. Loved her as gently as she did him. Nurtured her as she should have been instead of depending so much on her. Allowing this to creep up upon her unnoticed by him. Working her spirit and health to the ground.

With numbed fingertips, he flipped open one of the notes laying atop the stack of documents and books.

Graveshadow’s Disease.

Ah, that was its name.

Just a name, nothing more.

Another villain to be vanquished.

Essätha wheezed beside him. Her arms straining; trying to pull away from him as she rocked to her left, and then to her right. A stiff back rising up from the bed as she gasped for oxygen.

In soothing murmurs, he reached for her. Murmured so softly; so gently on his chapped lips as he pulled her into him. Ignoring the way his legs burned and ached, settled atop pillows that he mostly managed to tug his appendages off of as he moved to follow her.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, please- please relax. Relax for me darling- please- please- please-”

A break fragmented his voice. A mirror into exactly what his heart felt like, seeing her struggle so. On such a simple, thoughtless task such as breathing.

When he finally managed to grapple his arms around her, laying on his side, he pulled her into his chest. Her body rigid; stretching out and then trying to curl in with simultaneous jerks and twitches. Spasms of muscles moving. Perspiration beginning to form in an all-over body sweat once again.

His lips pressed to her hot forehead, murmuring what he believed to be the words the clerics used. His memory was a bit fuzzy, but it sounded right.

Deep down, he knew it would do nothing for her.

Yet… she stilled. Slumping into his arms; her chest weakly, shakily moving in uneven intervals.

He didn’t dare question it. Divine intervention or a streak of luck; he was just glad to see her stop struggling.

“Thank you,” he lamented. To her, to any gods there might be listening and watching over her. A thousand gratitude’s would not be enough.

Anything but the struggle.

Anything but the agony stitched on her elegant features.

He pressed a firm kiss to either of her cheeks, stroking the tangled mess of dark hair from her face.

Everything was going to be fine.

She would be fine.

Day 15

Exhaustion pulled at him. He would not allow himself to embrace it. Willing himself awake; pinching at his skin and drinking his mug of coffee even as he trembled. Even as the hot beverage would slosh out and he’d curse as it would burn and leave red marks against his chest and stain his shirt.

In pausing moments, he would rest his head against her torso. Listening. Feeling the way her chest heaved in a way that his own echoed. Unnatural lengths of silence; even worse spells of quick gusts of breath never fully satisfying her. Dragging them in, dragging them out in bursts as her temperature skyrocketed.

They were both so tired.

Her struggles never quite allowing her either awareness nor sleep. Tossing and turning; her fingers clutching loosely to fresh sheets.

With dedication, with love; with all the loyalty he held for this stunning woman who enriched and enlightened, he solely took the responsibility with his shaky hands to wash and change her out of yet another day’s clothes.

He’d hoped his own would soothe her. It brought a sad, not fully there smile to his face as he’d recall so fondly her teasing. Mocking him in apparel much too large for her size; but insisting even as his pants would fall off her or his shirt ran low to her knees and fell more like a curtain than clothes that she enjoyed the feeling. Something about… something about how it always felt like he was holding her. Something about the smell of his clothes and how it comforted her.

They tried anything. Everything. Resulting to spoon-fed soup and drops of water. Praying to hydrate her as the fevers burned through her and dispersed, only to return within fractions of a minute later. Coming and going like a thief, stealing her will. Making her more and more feeble and fragile.

He stroked and dabbed at her face with a replenished bowl of ice water. Caressing the side of her face with the material stretched over his palm. Fearful his own cursed touch might bring another fever or bounty of twitching, muttering rolls of pain sweeping over her as she’d whine and clench her teeth. Tossing and turning, coughing weakly.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered.

The quiet stretched on, as it always did.

“Tell me what to do, my dear, and I’ll do it.”

Silence.

“I’ll do it all- I’ll do anything. Anything at all for you.”

When she gave him no answer, he leaned in to brush his mouth against her forehead. Pressing small, equally tender kisses along the side of her face, to her temples. His hands; still holding the cloth, stroking sentimental letters against her neck. Stringing together into words; phrases of his love for her as his lips trailed over the bridge of her nose and against her upper lip and over cheeks to her chin.

He stopped himself short of her lips. Slightly parted.

She gave a faint gasp.

“What do you want?” he pleaded. “What can I get you- what do you need?”

Her face turned away from him. Fingers gripping; weakly digging in to his palm.

“I’m here. I’m right here. You’re safe with me.”

He leaned away from her, taking hold of that delicate hand to press a kiss upon her fingers. The motion of his other hand never slowing; never ceasing in his task to massage the cool damp cloth against warm flesh as his vision went hazy.

Blinking his misty eyes, droplets of tears fell on Essätha’s face.

He dabbed them off slowly as even more of the unreasonable drops sprang forth to land on her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth, her chin, her forehead. All sliding over her features, collecting into her sweat.

“You’ll be better soon,” he choked.

“I promise.”

Day 19

Amon glimpsed over at Essätha as her fingers squeezed against his through their interlocked digits.

His mouth too parched to form words, a bare grunt shook his chest. Reaching across, his eyes flickered from her to the nightstand as he took the glass of water sitting nearby. Clutching it firmly this time, recalling not how many but vividly that he had dropped more than one glass on the floor recently.

Slowly, he drank from the cup before sliding it back on the turntable.

With another longing stare, he took in her complexion.

So ravishing. Beneath the perspiration, the color of her sepia skin now pale and lacking in pigment and depth was still lovely. Just as stunning as her thinned mouth; the silver kissed strands of midnight hair. Every freckle and dimple a spot he admired. Craved to touch, desired to kiss.

She was sweaty and she was unkept, and she still stole away his breath to look upon. The most captivating woman he’d ever seen. The most appealing and stunning of features; the shape of her hands fitting so nicely against his, the arches and curves still so enticing even as he worryingly watched the leanness grow rapidly.

She was a wordless beauty. Unmatched, unsurpassed.

He pulled her hand up to his mouth to press his upon it. Snaking his mouth over skin; trailing lips against her as he found her pulse and held a kiss there. Enduring her heat; lingering in a lasting gesture of softness and adoration.

The shifting of her eyelids stilled, and her lashes lifted.

Oh, Pelor, his Essätha! His Essätha; his darling Essätha and those eyes! Those eyes the color of toffee just barely, just barely visible as she blinked in mere slits to take in the ceiling from above.

Then to take in his face, as Amon leaned over her with breathless anticipation.

“Essie?”

Hopeful. His gaze pleading.

A breath escaped her, just as shaky as usual.

“Amon?”

Dry. Wheezing. A rasp of faded whispers.

It was stupid and it was thoughtless, but he cupped her chin with his free hand and kissed her sallow cheeks and then her quivering lips eagerly.

Her body shook beneath him. A weak cough pressed to his face.

Damn him and his foolishness.

He moved to pull away, finding her attempting to sit up and catch him.

Her strength failed her however, and she fell back into the mattress.

“Oh, my darling,” he mumbled, anxiously leaning in to press kisses along the shape of her nose.

His eyes ventured across to the side table. Taking hold of the cup half full, Amon snatched it up. Briefly, releasing her hand to aid his propping up his wife’s head so she could take a drink.

His hand had never felt so firm and steady. Careful not to allow a single drop to drip past as she polished off the beverage with the slightest incremental tilts of his wrist so not to drown her.

A shaky sigh drew from her lips; speaking faintly as he went to place the glass on the table: “What’s going on?”

“You’re sick my love, but I’m taking care of you.”

His hand held firmly to hers in an affirmation to his vow as he brushed his mouth to hers, cradling her face in one hand.

“You’ll feel better, soon.”

A hiss of pain drew through her teeth.

Ashamed of himself for pushing upon her, Amon leaned his weight from her side. Gently still, his fingers rubbing away the beads of sweat on her face.

“Everything hurts.”

A barely-there whisper.

Tears began to shine in those caramel eyes. Staring to him, so haunted with pain.

“Let me hail a doctor-”

The words faltered with confusion in his mouth as she reached for him. Taking in the written features of her face. Pain. Sadness. Concern. So many layers of careful consideration and worry as her trembling fingers brushed snow-white hairs from his forehead.

“You look so tired,” she acknowledged faintly; voice cracking. “You need… to sleep.”

His heart filled with a sharp ache.

“Don’t worry about me, my beautiful Essätha. Let me worry about you. Focus your attention on healing.”

“Sleep with me,” she insisted. “Lay back.”

“Essätha I- I can’t-”

“Please.”

He groaned.

“Please m’lord-”

It was impossible to say no to that voice. To those teary-eyed brown eyes. To the carved and sketched lines of affection written upon such a tired, wonderful face. Such a gorgeous, unearthly splendor.

He laid back until his body was flush with the bed. Her feverish frame pressed closer as their limbs shifted, until she placed her face against his chest and he was holding her side. His aged fingers running through matted hair, trying to detangle some of the knots that weaved in and out.

Goosebumps played out against his skin as she touched him. Such soft, delicate fingertips drawing circles against his hip. Drawing against the stinging pain that never seemed to leave him there.

“You’re bruised,” she gasped faintly, peering down at skin as she pulled at his shirt.

“I’m fine.”

“My beloved, what happened?”

He swallowed. A memory he couldn’t wipe away on the forefront of his thoughts. Unable to unsee the broken shape of his wife sprawled out on the floor, with blood trickling down her features. Helpless to her.

Of all the damn things he could not forget, why must that one persist?

“You need a cold compress,” Essätha muttered, more to herself than him.

Her weight shifted, rocking to the left as though to sit up.

A sharp whine drifted past her lips.

Exhaling roughly compared to her softened, short gasps, Amon reached over to pull her back. Smothering her against his chest as he rolled over to take hold of her. The weak, frailness of her thin body more starkly obvious to him than ever as he could pick out the shape of bones beneath her clammy skin.

He felt sick.

She shuddered all over, trying to pull away from him. When that didn’t work she bowed; back curving away as she whimpered and flung herself weakly around.

An elbow to his ribs. A hand to his chest. The heel of her feet kicking at his shin.

Amon held her, gently, through her struggles. Cooing softly; trying to reassure as his heart tore to pieces.

Quick, shallow, painful gasps. Dragging air in. A wobbly, hollow cry of agony that fired straight through him.

Never had he felt a sharper torment. One that was not his own, but he would drink it from her if only he could. Pelor, he would take it all. He would take her suffering and be grateful; never having to wick sweat off her pretty face again; never having to see her throw herself around like a limp doll trying to find comfort at any angle and only wrestling with herself in the process.

Tears swam in his vision as she sobbed. Loudly. Openly. Directly into his chest as she flipped partly on atop him as he clutched her.

This beautiful, cherished woman who hardly ever allowed herself to shed a tear, let alone be seen bawling.

Squeezing the burning liquid from his eyes, Amon rocked them gently back and forth. So flimsy her body; feebly trying to convulse but having none of the strength to do so. Instead, weakly jerking and twitching as Essie sucked in air desperately.

“Please, let her rest,” he pleaded to the unknown. “Give her peace. Please. Please. Please.”

It did not come.

He could only lay there and hold her. Praying; whispering sweet nothings, asking whatever gods there may be to help her.

There was nothing he could do.

This, the cruelest punishment of all in the whole, entirety of his life. Not the pain he’d lived with for years after murdering Fontane. Not the claw marks on his chest. Not the bruises, the welts, the infections and blades that cut him; not the magic that scorched and blasted him. Not the years of traveled hardship and not even the fading of himself; his mind, knowing he was less than half of who he once was; even if that once-was was hardly a worthy man to begin with.

No. This was his true punishment.

To love so deeply, so completely, with all of him. Everything in him. Every tiny bit; from the harsh edges, the coarse hands, the broken pieces to the gentle gaze of his eyes; the gentleness he could still find inside himself. Once so far away; almost withered to dust, until she came.

To love; feeling no pain at all, and have to suffer watching it all unfold on that sweet love. To sit and watch her eyes roll back; feel the burning fire of her silken skin now slick and wet and hear her cry out as the smell of sweat barely registered in his clogged throat and nose. To taste the salt of her tears and her flesh as he could only just kiss her sweetly upon her face and hold her to him. To hear those grating, unnatural, growling gasps for oxygen and the putter of her heart fade and rise with her breathes.

He would give up everything to take away her pain.

But no matter how much he begged for it to be gone; for it to be transferred on to him instead, nothing silenced her hoarse, wretched cries as she wept weakly into his chest for what seemed like an eternity, before exhaustion claimed them both. All but for a spell, before he would wake to her weak shaking frame and burning fever once again. So far away from him; in another realm, with wordless shapes of her lips moving.

No gods would help her. No one seemed capable of saving her.

But he would.

He would protect her; his fondest love and closest friend. His hands tightened with tenacity around her.

He would see to it, for her.

Day 21

It was raining outside. The windows left ajar, letting the coolness seep into the stuffy room and washing out the stale air of sweat with it.

Upon the edge of the bed sat a cleric. Words spun from her mouth in a chorus of hums and pretty unrecognizable tones. Even with the overcast sky outside, there was a glow in the room cast from the strange woman. It washed over her chocolate brown skin; radiating from golden strands of white-light upon Essätha’s chest where she barely rested her fingertips.

From the reaction upon Essie’s face, it appeared to be doing little to nothing for her. Still lost in the fog of pain. Her eyes moving behind her eyelids, a few unsteady gasps on pale lips as she wrung the sheets.

He hated being away from her. Even just a few inches felt like far too much, and these feet were torture.

But he had work to do.

Four doctors; three ladies to a gentleman, closely observed the healing preacher’s work. Two were scrawling out notes. Another occasionally leaned over to murmur changes in appearance, temperature, and so forth. The fourth was busily taking samples; stealing a few strands of hair, bloodletting from a small incision to collect, scrapping tissue of flaky skin and sweat off of various areas, and so on.

A man off in the other room came in. He scaled a few measurements and left abruptly to the room over. Murmuring softly to keep figures in his head, the man pressed by a robbed figure that moved in after him.

The shawl covered witch carried an astonishing array of herbs in a woven basket. She scooted carefully around those already hovering on one side of the bed with her bundle to nestle the a wrapped bundle beneath Essie’s neck.

No one dared step between the other side of the bed, though there was plenty of space.

Doing so was like moving between a pair of wolves. A great, disastrous sin committed only once by one of the scientists who no longer was allowed into the house. Amon’s fury had been too great; his mind too unraveled to think as he moved to protect. Unable to see her face. Only seeing the angular frame of a man, between him and his wife, and it was all it took for him to snap into a rage most unsettling and befitting of his once more sensible calm nature.

He was strung tight. A child’s toy wound to the point of straining; on the edge of breaking.

The chair he sat in was immensely uncomfortable on his back and rear, so he shifted in hopes of elevating some of the agony. It did not. Thus, he grumbled, trying to place focus back on the table in front of him and the two alchemists moving between his workdesk pressed near the bed and theirs, only feet away.

His vision blurred in and out of focus tiredly. Trying to absorb the words in front of him in the book, but finding it increasingly hard to do so. Had he added the mandrake root? A glimpse into the softly boiling concoction made it impossible to remember. It had been so long since he had tried brewing anything, and his wayward mind wouldn’t concentrate for more than a finite second…

Amon looked over to stunning figure struggling in the sheets.

Like the beacon of radiant light she was, she brought him home again. A sense of peace as the shores came into view, hugging to the contour of her silhouette and bringing him to steady ground.

He’d added the mandrake root, of course. He needed to dilute it with the purified water now, that was it.

A gruff noise in his chest, and he tore his eyes from Essätha. It was worse to do so. Even when it pained him to see her so weak and fragile, it was disorienting. Turning him from man to hollow shell in seconds.

His liver spotted hands, wrinkled with time, sought out the jug of water on the far side of the work desk. The angle was terrible on his back as he refused to stand. Straining, a ripping pain scorching into his side-

He jerked forward, feeling the sear of the fire briefly sweep across his hand from the burner.

Cursing, Amon jerked his hand back.

He’d hardly managed to sit back when the cleric was part of the way around the bed, and the alchemists moving to his side.

“I’m fine-”

“It’ll only take a second,” the cleric disagreed. “Hold still, Lord Amon.”

Mumbling, he reached up to rub the edge of his palm into his face. His fingers scratched along his scraggly beard in desperate need of a trim as the healer took hold of his wrist.

The handful of faces in the room watched him. The creeping tiredness in his eyes; the way he wavered where he sat.

A delightful memory steeped in his thoughts. Soft chest pressed to his. The concentration in those eyes he adored. Nurturing him; shaving his face with elegantly gentle strokes. She never smiled; not until she finished. Always so focused, careful not to nick him. So kind and thoughtful, his beautiful Essätha…

He was shaken back to reality, grunting.

The burner to his rapidly boiling elixir was turned down by one of the alchemists. The other alchemist was adding in the cleansed water to his potion.

No, it wasn’t them. It was one of the housemaids shaking him.

When did she get there? A glimpse, and he spotted the cleric already situating themselves on the other side of the bed once again.

“Lord Amon,” the woman spoke carefully. “You need to sleep.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“My lord, I… I must insist. You are practically asleep as you are. Please; everyone could use some time to reflect on their work. Let them continue later. The cleric is spent, the rest have most of the experiments and novels worth of notes to share with scholars and collect over the books. The decline in your health would not add to the situation; it only hinders you and Lady Essätha.”

“She needs you, my lord,” the young maiden stated carefully. “Should you let your wellness decline, it would trouble her greatly. Go; rest, slumber for a while. Everyone is doing their best, but their best can not be achieved if they’re stressed and tired.”

Fleeting glimpses around the room, and he could clearly see the bags beneath the eyes of his hired hands. The circles of black. The eyelids dragged partially down.

He too, was tired.

And the empty space on the bed; his spot on the bed, looked increasingly comforting. Not because of how it shaped to him or how it felt; Pelor knew there was no real relief there anywhere, but because of that captivating shape.

Amon was itching to hold her. A desperate pang echoing in his chest. Taking in her slumped over, sprawled out shape. She was only shivering now. It wasn’t any easier for him to accept than her convulsions, knowing that she was only in this state because she was too fatigued in her body to do any further tossing and turning.

Impulsively, he moved to stand and go to her.

The muscles in his legs were stiff, and he knocked into the poor miss. She grabbed at him as he did her, a startled gasp as most everyone in the room raced over to his side.

“I’ve got this!” he snarled viciously, humiliated.

“Amon?”

Eyes turned to the tired voice.

Shoving away the gentleman on one side as the servicewomen released him from the other, Amon hurriedly shuffled the last section of space to the bed with surprising ease. Feeling none of the needles of pain darting through him, his swollen knees hitting the edge of the bed he practically jumped to climb in. Leaning over her; hovering just above her enchanting frame.

“Ess’?”

A pained sigh on parted lips, her eyes closed.

“M’lord…”

“I’ll get her some water,” the maiden’s carrying voice stated, darting out of the room.

Like flies, the entire team moved in to swarm.

The Illiad heir struck the first hand to dare coming towards her, leaving the individual to gasp.

“Lord Amon,” a firm disapproval in the tone of the lady physician. “You can not expect us to sit back and not evaluate her condition. In this state, we can ask questions and gain new levels of information previously-”

“Do. Not. Touch. Her.”

“My lord-”

A sharp clearing of a voice called everyone to attention.

“Please leave the room immediately and with haste,” the youthful maiden snipped, holding a pitcher and glass in her hand.

“Gather your materials, turn off all equipment, and leave. Lord and Lady Illiad need their rest.”

A man pointed a threatening digit to the house maid, inhaling sharply as he spoke: “Young lady-”

“You will leave,” the young woman spoke firmly. “Lady Essätha is in no condition for questions. She is ill and you have all spent the day poking and prodding her with Lord Amon’s anxious consent on behalf of his wife. That consent is now revoked. Now please leave, and do not make me request you do so again.”

No one seemed capable of finding a place of argument. The carefully poised confidence; the tone of authority and resolute, it made all eyes uncomfortably stare from the young lady and to the floor.

In a silent shamble, the entourage began to collect their things and make for the door.

With his eyes still resting on the delicate, shivering frame resting beneath his hovering silhouette, Amon could only offer his gratitude in a far-away murmur to the woman: “Thank you.”

“You’re… welcome, Lord Amon.”

The maiden sounded faded and grief-stricken with worry. Even as she stepped closer, placing down the pitcher of water and empty glass on the nightstand, she sounded distant.

Nevertheless, there was no dispute or altercations between anyone as the room emptied of all but two occupants. The door left open with just a crack, and the whispers of the chilled breeze fluttering in as rumbling echoes of thunder rolled in the distance. Billowing the curtains; washing the frigid air over them.

She was still shiny with perspiration. A thin veil of it coating over ghastly skin.

“Essätha, my dear, my fondest desire,” Amon breathed, carefully taking hold of her cheeks in a gentle grasp.

Panted, shaky breathes raggedly escaped her parted lips. The blazing heat of her internal struggle with the sweltering fire coating his fingers along with sweat as he held her softly, stroking hair from her forehead.

“My love,” he hardly managed in a warbling voice. “My sweet, my beauty, my darling Essätha. The keeper to my heart. The apple of my eye. The light of my soul.”

“What can I do for you, sweetheart? I heard you, calling for me. You know I’m right here, don’t you? I’m always near. I’ll never leave your side again, I promise.”

Deafening silence. Her labored breathing his only company. Rattling, whining; shaking in a way that wasn’t natural.

He placed a kiss to her brow. Tasting sweat; tasting the salt of his own tears.

He shouldn’t be crying. It wasn’t his pain, it was hers. It was selfish to cry.

Weak, sudden bursts of her pulse fluttered against his palms held close to her neck. It plunged into nothingness, and quickly elevated under his shaky touch.

“s’burning,” she managed; her voice broken and frail.

“Ess-”

Mouth opening, she drew in a slow grasp for air.

The most unholy scream tore through Essätha seconds later, and split him in two.

He grabbed her. Roughly; a bit too inconsiderate in his haste. Terror in his face as Amon slipped a hand through the midnight locks of the back of her head to support her as he pushed her face into his shoulder. Feeling her lifelessness; the limp lack of response as she dangled in his grasp.

Another, sickening howl into his skin. Goosebumps breaking out over him from the notes it held; dry and scratchy. His other arm anchoring to her back, cradling her to his chest.

“No no no no please. Please, please, please. Please don’t scream; please don’t cry please- please relax it’s okay. It’s okay, I have you. I’ve got you Essätha. I have you you’re safe; you’re safe here in my arms please, please, please-”

As she muffled another cry into his shoulder, he wept. An unforeseen set of tears spilling over the dam and out of his eyes as he squeezed them shut. His own heart hammering against hers, the sound of his breathes growing short and pained.

He was powerless. He could do nothing. No amount of years spent in the heat of battle prepared him for this. No training with his mind; no carefully placed blow to take out this demon.

“Please I’ll do anything you ask,” he begged, choking on tears. “I’ll do anything if you only just help her. Anyone at all, please. Please she doesn’t deserve this.”

Her weak sobs droned against him. Disturbingly fragile, just as her body.

All the good and gentleness in the world she offered, and it still took from her.

Amon swayed them slowly, back and forth. His chest quietly shaking with his bawling, disgusting sobs. Shattered moans dragging through him from her; puncturing his sanity and piercing his heart. Equally broken up whimpers obstructing his throat; suffocating just as much as the tightness that enclosed and restricted his breathing.

He kissed the top of her head as she coughed and keened. Lurching in his grasp faintly, with her form shaking against him desperately. Mumbling incoherent slurs at times; other times the muffled remains of his name dragging from her in frightened, agonized, fractured whimpers.

Still, he rocked them slowly. Blind and silent, as his vision grew obscured by the tears clouding over them and spilling over his weathered face into her hair.

He would not fail her.

She would be better, soon.

Day 23

He faked sleep. Curled around the trembling, thin frame of his wife; with arms and legs wound around her to try steadying her shakes. The sound of his own sleepless breathing; far from lax, was easily masked by her own, frantic gasps. His eyes closed, nestled into the crook of her neck where one of the many cold, wet cloths lay; scented with rosemary and lavender.

The sound of the doctors was hard to pick up against her dreadfully painful breathes. Through it all, Amon’s hands held to hers. Their fingers locked together even as her own set twitched as though to escape his careful, loving grasp.

“… the progression of the rot is swift.”

“And the countermeasures?”

“None are taking hold long.”

A drained exhale from one of the physicians. A nearly inaudible grunt of gratitude as the sound of a pair of glasses temples were folded.

“In every article I read, I’ve never heard of Graveshadow’s taking hold this suddenly, and this late in life.”

“Radulf has a theory on that; though there will be no proving it, most likely. The disease is going extinct with the rest of the people that carried its strange origin in the first place.”

“What’s the theory?”

Another sigh, and the clip of temples reopening as shoes fidgeted against the floor.

“He suggests that due to Essätha’s lifestyle; the years spent harnessing and using her magic constantly, that it kept the illness in check. Whether it was active until now, we’ll probably never know. However, Randulf believes that she expended enough from her core source of magic flow; however that anchors to the body, to keep the disease from festering up until later in life. When she had no reason to use her Shadowplane gifts with frequency anymore, it gave the infection all the energy it needed to feed on to grow, from her dark magic.”

A pause.

“It’s too late now to test the theory.”

“Agreed. She’s much too weak and… hardly lucid and stable enough to work with.”

The sound of their footsteps carried towards the door.

“I wouldn’t give it much longer.”

“Hush,” the other scolded. “If one of the damn maids hear you, they’ll chew us out for sure.”

The creak of the hinges as the door was pulled to an almost-closed stop.

“He really thinks she’s going to get better, doesn’t he?”

Amon raised a shaky arm, pressing his hand over Essätha’s ear in an effort to block her from their foul language.

“Seems that way,” sighed the other. “Delirious old chap.”

His chest shook with emotion, but no tears came.

There was no longer time left for tears.

If they would not put their belief in action; into trying to save her, he would do it all himself.

Day 24

The witch offered out a handful of ingredients as he gestured with a silent curl of his fingers. The odor of some of the herbs and spices proved delightful; while others were closer to offensive carcass meat than anything else.

He placed them neatly upon the table without comment. Pulling leaves from steams, Amon dropped them into the beaker of gently rolling liquid carefully. Leaning over his seat, watching the rise of colored smoke move from the top of the hissing liquid to swirl around his head like a wreath.

“Not too much,” a hesitant voice urged.

His jaw tightened. Grinding his teeth painfully, the Illiad lord took hold of the next plant in the pile to begin defiling it of it’s leaves and nettles as well to add to the concoction. It frothed and bubbled from the additional ingredients, crackling and popping.

Clicking off the small burner, he wrapped a thick cloth around the bottle and moved it into a flat pan of cool water. Steam blossomed instantaneously from around the water and the glass. It rose around him in thin tendrils as he quickly dripped in a few drops of the red adamant algae oil. One hand clutched to the other hand; knowing too many drops of the rare liquid would be toxic.

The hue from the potion began to turn a satisfying shade of purple.

Dropping in the dried petals, crushed roots, and pulverized steams of the other plants, Amon scrapped them in and added a dash of the gold-tinted powder offered to him by the hovering alchemist. The contents disappeared into the rich hues that grew darker and darker; almost a state of twilight in the vile now.

“You’ll want to drain it now of impurities,” the man urged. “Slowly; the liquid will still be hot.”

“I remember what I read,” Amon snapped with annoyance, placing the thin strainer over the larger container meant to catch the liquid.

Lifting the bottle carefully from its tempered bath, he tilted it over the screen to allow it to catch all the steams and roots that had not fully dissolved. The precious liquid drained out below into the clean bottle in cascading waterfalls. It smelled awful, but looked like a starry night sky.

As soon as the last drops of liquid fell, the alchemist pulled off the screen and offered him a cork.

“It’ll need to-”

“- sit for at least twelve hours, I am aware,” he muttered, stuffing the cork in.

“Twenty-four, actually.”

An irate grumble worked its way through Amon. He barely resisted the urge to argue out of fatigue. His eyes longed to drift shut in rest and his posture ached. Every shift he made on the cushioned seat was nothing short of anguish. With pillows and added blankets, his rear and cracking spine were not gratified in the least by the aid of such soft things.

Leaning back with a wince, his gaze looked upon the other chemist in the room. They were swirling the contents of vile thoughtfully, musing upon it in the light. It’s contents caught in the sun; a dark maroon section of blood no more than a few milliliters swishing around with a clear substance and upon that, an orange liquid displaced.

The top came off of the thin glass with a loud pop. Most of the people in the room flinched, staring as the blood clotted into a thick mass along the edges of the cylinder. The other liquids fizzled out around the edges, dripping on to the table now tinged an unsettling red.

“Dear gods man, what have you done?” the man before him cried out. “Do not move, we need to decontaminate the area now.”

For half a second, Amon had a recollection of displeasure that he was actually paying these people a salary.

And one of them was actively creating a venom much in the likeness of a snake as it coagulated blood.

Immediately, he ruled out any desire to have that man’s items tested on any human being without first going through a rigorous screening on any other life forms. They could start with organic plant life first. Anything, anyone but his wife would be trying that before he allowed it anywhere near her.

By Pelor’s name, what a disaster.

His eyes were brought to the figure on the bed. Her shallow breathes and scarlet face gasping for air as she otherwise lay motionless.

A lurch in his heart reached for her. Clawing his fingers into the arm of his seat, he refrained himself from going to her. Longing to nuzzle his face into her throat; listen to the charming peels of laughter that she would give to him as she threw her head back and ran her fingers through his hair. The softness of her smooth skin; the taste of her as he’d kiss her and she would squeal and giggle and wriggle against him. Taking in her elegance; absorbing the aroma of her hair and bodywash. Light and floral, with the occasional hints of vanilla or mint mixed in.

If he allowed himself to bury his grief and sorrows, all of his concerns, into her failing body now he would not save her.

He had to focus.

“Lord Amon?” a shy voice called out, tapping against the frame of the doorway.

Gritting his teeth to the supernova of pain that rippled through his spine, he turned his attention to the maiden calling his name.

What was her name again? Isabelle? No that… that wasn’t right…

“You have visitors,” the young miss stated calmly with eyes void of life.

“Who are they, and what do they want?”

“It’s miss Cackle and miss Adela, my lord. You sent for them and your other comrades a few weeks ago, as well as the help of these people.”

Cackle? What sort of name was Cackle? He didn’t recall asking for anyone with that sort of affiliation. And Adela… that name seemed incorrect. Didn’t he knew someone by the name Adison? Or was it Aeowyn?

Grunting, he raised his hand in the air. Fingers trembling with age, he gave a short wave.

“Send them in.”

A small curtsy, and the servicewomen was gone.

Exasperated and exhausted, Amon brought his hand on top of his face. Sighing deeply into the flesh of his rough palm, he dragged it down to drop in front of his lap. Blankly staring over to the pale appearance of his wife as she stretched out beneath the thin sheets, her hands wrapping into the fabric as she shivered and mumbled nonsense strings of words that were not words.

The tonic he had crafted would need to be tested first; just to be safe, but he sent an internal prayer to Pelor that it would work. No spells or potions thus far had halted the grotesque decomposition feeding on her insides. If he was lucky…

Lord Amon Thomas Illiad, you are a cursed man.

No- no he couldn’t think like that. It didn’t matter that his elixir might save the lives of people with horrendous gangrene infections. It didn’t matter that the beginning of zombie-infliction might be cured with whatever the market price of his brew could offer.

He didn’t need the fame and fortune, then or now.

He just needed her.

A startling caw jolted the elder nobleman in his seat so that he cursed and jumped. His knees hit the table, jarring him and causing an entirely different set of pain in his creaking old bones and aching muscles.

He shot the molting avian that hopped slowly at his side a look.

Who was this specimen? It looked like a rather aged raven with plumage not nearly as shiny and lustrous as a young birds may appear. Black little eyes moved over him beneath a hood that concealed much of the creature’s face, and a massive beak clicked close to his face.

“Lord looks ready to sleep,” the bird noted. “Years have not been kind. Some time since last saw Lord.”

Something in the back of his head nagged at him. Giggle? No. Chortle? No… It was right there, on the tip of his tongue…

With confusion, he looked to Essätha for answers.

Her state of being hit him like a brick wall all over again. But something in her face jogged his memory…

“Cackle?”

The bird looked faintly amused, and nodded slowly.

A strained smile, and he muttered, “What are you doing here?”

All clatter and noise in the room ground to a stand still. Ominously silent.

“Lord does not remember,” Cackle sneered. “Broken mind. Cackle is cleric, Lord Amon. Powerful cleric. Essätha is old friend that Cackle would be happy to help save. Gold not necessary. You paid Cackle back… well over the years.”

There was a sorrowful note in the bird’s mixed voices and tones there in the end. She appeared for a moment to be lost in time. Even though it was harder to read her expressions than a humans, it was obvious there was a shard of sadness in that comment.

She continued; her voice carrying strong: “Sully is out in search of Fire Flower elixir Lord requested. He brought Pen, Rava, Aylin. Cackle has brought Devil’s Bloodleaf, and Adela. Adela talking to wait staff.”

On a slip, he vaguely recalled just enough to dare ask: “What of sir… Abraham?”

A deadened, empty look.

“Dad?” Cackle spoke with unease. “Abernathy is… gone, Lord. Funeral years ago. Do not… remember attending?”

He hadn’t the foggest idea of going to a funeral since Fontane and Marie’s.

Abernathy… Abernathy… The name sounded wrong. He couldn’t place a face to it, but he could vaguely recall white hair. It had been such a contrast compared to Essie’s; more like his own now.

There was no avoiding the looks around the room. An icy cold shame running into his veins from their uncomfortable gazes. Naked and vulnerable were his inadequacies; his disconnected thoughts and shattered memories lying out for all the view. What remained of his brain and of himself was all in question now.

Nothing could salvage his self-respect. What they thought of him would… would simply have to do.

“You said you brought a Devil’s Bloodleaf?” he echoed faintly. “And what; by the name of the Gods, is a Fire Flower?”

“Devil’s Bloodleaf good for vitality. If used properly,” Cackle explained while ruffling her feathers.

“Cackle use in potion to rejuvenate weak-” she made an odd noise; like rattling bones and mist, while nodding to his wife’s form. “-Essie. Fire Flower liquid is Lord’s request. Herb Lord discovered in books. Book’s good friend to Lord and Cackle.”

With that statement, the raven tapped a slightly worn looking bible resting on her hip.

Exhaling through his nose loudly, Amon pressed his thumb on one side of the bridge of his nose, and his pointer and middle against the other side. Stalling for a moment to regain his thoughts and steady the flare of his temper that dared to lash out.

It wasn’t Cacciatore’s fault his intelligence was in shambles.

“Why did I request the elixir of this herb?” he invited in a soft-spoken murmur.

Patiently (far more patiently then she may have offered thirty some-odd years ago) the bird explained: “Fire Flower elixir is ten-year process. Flower blooms every ten-years. Supremely rare. Single drop of aged liquid said to cure all things. Never fail. Has cured all ailments and sickness. Only has not regrown limbs, which Cackle find reasonable. Not every species like lizardfolk.”

A hopeful shiver passed through Amon’s aged frame. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall reading up on such a powerful plant.

But at this rate, he was willing to try anything.

“Where did S… Sul go to find this?”

“Rumors say that far-Lord has concoction, according to Aylin sources. Rest when to seek truth, and bargin for a few drops from vile.”

Amon dare not hope to wide or too large. He stood on unsteady ground; unsure if he could trust the ability of others to help his Essie. After what he’d overheard, he wasn’t sure anyone was daring or as convinced they’d be able to help her at all.

If word came that this Lord had the Fire Flower nectar, even without knowing the results, he would lay down all that he had for the chance. Anything for hope. Anything to bring back her smile; to bring the laughter back into her gaze and the sweet sound of her voice calling to him. Anything to take away her discomfort. Anything at all.

“What will you be needing for your Devil’s…” he faltered, waving his hand slightly in the air towards her as his mind tried to grab at any functional breeze of thought moving through him.

“Cackle will find remaining supplies for antidote,” the cleric offered reaching out to touch his shoulder with thin digits. There was a sad bit of perception in the way she looked him over. Erudite of his condition through some means as small eyes glinted beneath the crisp folds of her hood upon him.

“Now, Lord should get some food and rest. Speak with Adela later. We see to friend-Essätha now. Lord can give himself moment to breathe.”

“I do not need to rest; I need to work.”

Clicking her beak, the avian shook her head. “Overworked mind makes mistakes. Does Amon wish to make mistake on Ess’?”

Little to his knowing, his already pale complexion only grew more paper-white.

“Thought not,” Cackle stated firmly. “Take advise, Lord. Eat and nap, and discussions later on next measures. Appropriate steps to take.”

Amon swallowed roughly. His hand; shaking, raked through his thinned hair a moment. Every other word felt scrambled. Melded into a soup of his thought process so that crafting a single sentence felt like such a frustration.

Why couldn’t anyone understand? He could not rest. He was not hungry. Stopping for anything took precious, precious time away from his goal.

Each day she grew thinner. Weaker. More delicate. Further away from him; the sound of her voice drifting to unknown places as she would call to him rarer and rarer. Lapsed into silence; sinking into this state of paralysis.

“I will eat and have something to drink,” he relented; hoping it would both warm him and aid in his concentration. “But after that, I will be going back to my studies.”

Solemnly, the Kenku nodded with understanding.

“As Lord wishes,” she crooned.

Little to his knowledge, the bird dropped her clawed fingers from his shoulder to clutch something behind her back.

He would be sleeping after nibbling on his meal. A sleep potion slipped into his beverage, and he was carefully escorted’ groggily, to the bed by those on hand to sleep. Curving into the slender edge of Essie’s body, with an arm placed over her waist.

His hip and spine would be in immense pain later for sleeping on his side.

But it would be worth it, being so close to her.

All of this would be worth it, for her.

#eci artz #essamon ship #Essie rw #amon illiad #i'm nowhere near being done with this au but i need to be done with this doc and start a fresh one #it's too painful looking over this massive textwall of agony every time i go to work on this again i'm hurt

3 notes · View notes