A Choice, Not Pride

The grove measured time in breaths.

Rishi woke Maeril to the same questions. Sometimes she answered before he finished; sometimes her lips moved while she searched for a word. Once, she stared at the roots until he told her where they were and watched recognition return.

“How does your head feel?”

“Loud.”

“Louder than before?”

Maeril swallowed. “Yes.”

He shifted the folded cloth beneath her head and stayed beside her through the nausea. By the third round of questions, her shoulders stopped tightening at his voice. Her answers still took time, but they came.

Seamwarden kept warm water and clean cloths within reach, working with their burned foot clear of the stone. When Maeril shivered, they warmed the moss beneath her blankets.

While she slept between checks, Rishi began to feel his own body again.

Burns stung beneath his sleeves. Bruises tightened across his ribs and shoulders. The magic that had kept him standing had repaired the worst damage, not erased the fight from his joints.

He stretched his hands. The sleeve pulled at his forearm, and he stopped.

Seamwarden brought a wet cloth.

“That has dried against the burn.”

“I did not feel it until now.”

“Let me.”

Rishi held out his arm. Seamwarden laid the cloth against the sleeve and waited for it to soften.

“What about your hand? Does it hurt?”

“The burned wood does. The rest feels empty. I need time.”

Rishi folded a clean cloth beneath their wrist so they could rest it beside his arm.

“There is water here, and more cloth. Let us use those while we can.”

“Then hold still while I clean this.”

He let them work. Their fingers were careful around the burned edges of his sleeve.

“You brought me back in that room. I haven’t thanked you.”

Seamwarden glanced toward Maeril.

“I couldn’t leave either of you there.”

Rishi looked down at their hand beneath his arm. He stayed still until they had finished the dressing.

The grove dimmed by degrees. The Ever-Tree’s shimmer withdrew into its roots, and the drip of water became a voice in the dark.

Maeril slept more deeply.

Her brow remained drawn. Each breath caught before it left her, as though her lungs still expected pain to stop them. One hand stayed closed around two of Rishi’s fingers.

He checked her again, resting his newly dressed arm beside her head.

Seamwarden knelt at the foot of the moss bed.

“I’ll take the first watch.”

Rishi looked at Maeril’s hand around his.

“Wake me if she vomits. If she doesn’t answer. If her breathing changes.”

“I will.”

“If the heat spreads beyond the dressings—”

“Rishi.”

He stopped.

Seamwarden’s seed-crystal eyes held a low green light. “I will call you.”

Rishi eased his fingers from Maeril’s hand and settled against a broad root within reach of her wrist. He adjusted the cloth shielding her from the pool and closed his eyes.

Breath did not become rest at once.

He saw Maeril on the grate each time the dark gathered. He felt the weight of her head in his hands and the absence beneath his fingers. His jaw tightened. He released it. His shoulders rose. He lowered them.

For a few breaths, his body returned to the grove.

Sleep took him by fragments.

Maeril woke before he knew how much night had passed. Nausea shook her before she could speak. Seamwarden held a cloth beneath her mouth while Rishi supported her head.

Nothing came up.

Maeril rested against Rishi’s hand, eyes watering.

“I hate being a body.”

She tried to lift herself onto one elbow. Pain stopped her before Rishi could.

“I can’t even sit up to drink.”

“Let me do that part. Tell me when you want the cup taken away.”

He lifted her enough to ease the pull across her ribs and waited until she settled against him.

“A sip?”

She managed a glare. “If you say small, I will cast something.”

“You won’t.”

“I know.”

Rishi gave her a sip too small to argue with. She swallowed it and fell asleep before she could complain.

Seamwarden resumed their place.

Rishi dozed beside her and woke at every change in breath. Each time, he checked. Each time, the fragile pattern remained.

By morning, used cloth had been bundled away from the clean water. Fresh dressings waited on the stone. The moss held the shapes of knees and hands.

Rishi woke Maeril with his voice.

“Maeril.”

Her open eye found him.

“Morning,” she said, then winced. “No. A bright headache pretending to be morning.”

He moved one finger across her sight. Her gaze followed more smoothly than it had during the night, though light still hurt.

Rishi spoke each decision aloud.

“No fighting. No difficult spellwork. Short conversations. Sleep when you can.”

Maeril lifted one hand as if to count objections and let it fall.

“I’m going to be unbearable.”

“You already are.”

Her mouth moved into half a smile. “Kind.”

Rishi changed the dressings with Seamwarden’s help. The burns remained hot, but the redness had not spread. Her injured eye was still swollen. He replaced the patch and checked the splint before settling her leg on a folded cushion.

“No walking.”

His fingers remained at her ankle a moment after the check was done.

Maeril’s ready answer stopped behind her teeth.

“Fine. I want our bed. I want to be left alone long enough to sleep in it.”

Rishi took her hand.

“I want that too. The burns will still need daily care. The leg will take time, and work after it heals.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Footsteps entered the grove.

Sirael appeared first, already reading the arrangement around the pool. Thiarel followed with bearers from the Moonglade.

They carried a woven stretcher padded with furs, along with bundles of fresh cloth and blankets.

Sirael buckled the scabbards that had served as Maeril’s first splint back onto her belt and sheathed her recovered swords. One of the bearers wrapped Maeril’s staff and secured it beneath the stretcher’s right rail.

Sirael spoke in Elvish. The bearers lowered the stretcher beside Maeril without striking it against root or stone.

Thiarel turned to Rishi.

“We are taking her to the Root-House. The healers have been called. They will be waiting.”

Sirael knelt behind Maeril’s head. The bearers supported Maeril’s hips and splinted leg under Thiarel’s direction, with the stretcher and padding ready beside her.

Rishi slid one arm behind Maeril’s shoulders.

“Look at me.”

Her eye found his.

“We lift once. No twisting.”

“I wasn’t planning to dance.”

“Breathe.”

Thiarel checked their holds, then nodded. Together, they lifted.

They settled Maeril onto the padded weave. Thiarel secured the splinted leg while the bearers arranged cushions to keep pressure off the burns. Straps held her steady beneath the warm blankets.

Rishi kept his hand beside hers.

Thiarel bent close.

“No more holding yourself up. Let the forest carry you.”

“I am not good at that.”

“I know. Let go.”

Thiarel drew a short piece of carved wood from her pouch. Pale fiber wound around it, carrying the scent of dried flowers and resin.

She passed her thumb along the carving and whispered in Druidic.

The tightness around Maeril’s eye eased. Her breathing slowed.

“No. If you make me—”

“Sleep,” Thiarel said. “You need it.”

Maeril reached blindly until her hand found Rishi’s.

He closed his fingers around hers.

“Only for the journey.”

She held his gaze. Her grip stayed hard around his fingers even as her eyelid sagged.

“Fine,” she whispered.

Her eye closed.

The fight went out of her face by degrees. Sleep took her without a jolt.

Sirael gave the bearers a quiet word.

The bearers lifted together. The rails stayed level as they carried Maeril toward the passage.

Thiarel stopped at the grove’s edge and looked back.

“Coming?”

Rishi reached for the Living Staff. The movement pulled across his ribs, and he stopped with his hand around the wood.

“In a few minutes. I need to sit for a little while.”

Thiarel looked at him, then at Seamwarden.

“We will look after her.”

She waited for his nod before following the stretcher.

The last footfalls faded into the tunnel.

Rishi eased himself back against the root where he had slept. He laid the staff beside his leg and let his hands rest open on his thighs. His shoulders ached as he lowered them. For a moment he could not find a comfortable place for his dressed arm; then he turned it a little, palm upward, and the pull eased.

Seamwarden sat beside him, their burned foot stretched out on the moss. They rested their head against the wood. Their blackened fingers lay still in their lap.

Water dripped into the pool. Rishi watched the rings spread through the reflected light. He tried a deeper breath, felt the ache beneath his ribs, and let it out slowly. Beside him, Seamwarden had turned their face toward the water.

He closed his eyes. The root was firm against his back. His legs lay heavy on the moss, and for several minutes he left them where they were. Once, Seamwarden shifted beside him. A little bark scraped against the root, then settled.

When Rishi opened his eyes, the pool had gone smooth between the falling drops. He sat a little longer, listening.

At last he drew his feet beneath him and reached for the staff.

“Ready?”

Seamwarden nodded.

Rishi gathered his things and rose carefully. Seamwarden took longer to find a footing that spared the burn. He waited beside the root until they were steady, then they left the grove together.